Don't Take Your Story Too Seriously

While working on getting my certification as a creativity coach, I’ve been reading The Art of Possibility by Rosamund Stone Zander & Benjamin Zander. In a chapter based around the idea of not taking yourself too seriously, an anecdote is shared that had this sentence: “She stopped taking herself and her story so seriously…” The inclusion of “story” stood out to me. I have heard many times not to take myself too seriously. But reading about not taking one’s story too seriously hit me in a more nuanced way.

First off, this is not to say that you should dismiss your story, whether it be your life story or the stories inside you bursting to be expressed. What I took from this phrase has more to do with the stories we tell ourselves that stop us from taking risks, going on adventures, chasing after the things we desire. Stories like “I’m too old,” or “I don’t have enough training,” or “I’m just not like that,” or “I’ve been too hurt by my past.” Each of these stories might hold truth, and there is something to accepting some of these realities. But each of these truths can then be weaponized against ourselves and our dreams. We can start to limit ourselves, turn down offers, delay getting started, because of the story we tell ourselves about any given situation.

But what if we realized that these stories are just that? Stories. And specifically, stories that we are telling ourselves. What if there was a different way to narrate that story? What if there is more to the story? “I’m too old” can become “I have experience that is an advantage over younger folks.” “I don’t have enough training” can become “I’m going to sign up for a class today!” “I’m just not like that” can become “My identity is plastic, so maybe there’s room for me to change here.” “I’ve been too hurt by my past” can become “And I can take a first step to healing, however small.”

Moving forward, I want to be mindful not just of the times when I’m taking myself too seriously, but also when I’m giving more credence to the stories I tell myself than they are due. Questioning my own stories could be the key I need to break free from stagnation and actually dare to push myself towards my desires and dream life.

What's in a name?

When I was younger, I hated my last name. Not in Korean, mind you. It flowed and made sense when spoken in the context of its home language. But in the mouths of non-Koreans, in particular those who had not a clue about how to pronounce Asian names in general (“it’s just so confusing!”), the name felt clunky. An intrusion. An interruption. An inconvenience. Or even worse, when it flowed too easily, it felt like an onomatopoeia. The kind people will use to disparage Asian names. Saying “My name is Min Kahng” felt like a punchline to a racist joke.

How to explain the pronunciation of 강? How to explain to non-linguists that that K is more like a G, but aspirated? That the “ah” is actually brighter than you think?

But it’s ok. I don’t need you to pronounce it 강. Kahng is an acceptable approximation. In English, it will *always* be mispronounced. My own attempts are colored by my American accent anyway.

I don’t even care if you get it wrong (once or twice) and make it rhyme with “hang.” Or if it’s misspelled (I get it. You’re used to seeing “Khan,” cuz... Genghis...? Star Trek, I guess? So that H gets tossed about. Sometimes even ending up on the tail of my first name. The most egregious spelling I’ve gotten? “Kahagn”). As long as you’re open to me correcting you, and I promise I’ll try to do so gracefully (for the first couple of times at least...), we’re good.

But give it an eye roll? Nuh-uh...
Talk about it like it’s ruining your day? No thank you.
Make it about you and turn my last name into an excuse to talk through all your insecurities around public speaking or name recollection? I’m a busy man, can I have my name back, please...?

강 is a river.
강 is strong.
강 is as complicated as my relationship with the man from whom I inherited it.
강 holds a history of dynasties and kingdoms that Kahng could never hold.

But Kahng has its own history too. A history of reclaiming something. Of finding confidence. Kahng is what I’ve got. In its imperfectly anglicized form.
Kahng rhymes with “song.”
Kahng is a needle. It slices into your comfortable tongue and causes you mild discomfort.
Kahng is a crowbar, wedging open space for itself to belong.

I wish I could give you a Pinterest quote about how proud I am now of Kahng. My levels of pride, love, frustration fluctuate every day. But at the very least, I no longer hate my last name. And I’ll be damned if I let you make me feel ashamed about it.

And this isn’t just about my name. But my name’s siblings and cousins and third cousins twice removed, distant relatives from other continents. Give any, any of them ‘tude, and you will see just how strong a river this 강 can be.

Revisiting, revising, and reviving MOUNTAIN

There was a time when I believed the 2014 production of Where the Mountain Meets the Moon: A Musical Adaptation would be the only time the story would make it to the stage. Not for a lack of trying, mind you. After the world premiere closed, I met with director Mina Morita (currently Artistic Director of Crowded Fire Theatre) and BACT Executive Artistic Director Nina Meehan to talk about where the show could go next. We looked at festivals and other submission opportunities. And then, it all came to a halt. There was a potential movie deal in the works, so any adaptations of the book were not to be produced. This was very sad to hear (and wouldn’t be the last time this would happen), and I came to terms with the idea that the show would only live on in a much-cherished memory.

Then, in 2017, news came that further productions of the show would be allowed by the publisher. BACT wanted to do a remount. And South Coast Rep wanted to include it in their Theatre for Young Audiences programming! So we went from zero chance to getting two productions in the 2019-2020 season. One of the biggest changes this time around is that, due to budget constraints, there won’t be live instruments. I took this opportunity to completely revisit the show, tightening and shoring up the previous script, and even penning a new reprise that hadn’t existed before. The BACT remount is in previews right now, and it has been poignant seeing the show return to the Osher Studio - where the world premiere occurred. This show that I had thought would never see the light of day again is getting its second go starting this weekend, and its third in February in SoCal.

All this, I suppose, is a lesson in “You never know.” That doesn’t mean I should have held out hope against the odds. I believe it was right for me to make peace with the idea that the world premiere would be the only production of Mountain. But you just never know how events might turn and surprise you as you make your writer's way.

Chelsea Wellott as Minli in the 2019 BACT Production. Photo by Roger Jones.

Hello, Old Friend

I haven’t opened this script in almost two years. After my post-production dramaturgical meeting, I decided to let The Four Immigrants rest on my bookshelf until the time for revisiting emerged. Thanks to the upcoming concert presentation at USC this fall, that time is now. And while I have thoughts about what I might want to revise, I find myself a tad overwhelmed. How do you even begin to approach something that has been such a huge part of your career? To focus in on the minutiae of something that consumed a large chunk of your time previously, and yielded such memorable and rewarding results? Where do you even start to deconstruct something that has felt so central to your sense of self?

I could learn a lesson here from Grace Lin’s Minli, who, as she gazes upon the Paper of Happiness reads the word that is meant for her: Thankfulness.

I am so thankful for the relationship I have had to The Four Immigrants, both Henry Kiyama’s original work and my adaptation. All of the people I have crossed paths with as a result. And the ways in which I grew.

And it turns out, with thankfulness acknowledged, the script allows itself to be revisited. And the work is no different than before. Bigger picture, specific moments, character arcs all come back when I put aside the idea of how daunting it all is and replace it with a sense of gratitude for what it has all meant. Time to get to work.

My First Mario Maker Level

This isn’t readily apparent in this blog, but I am a huge Nintendo fan. For a while, I’ve been considering how I might bring my love of video games into the conversation around writing and dramaturgy. In my mind, there’s a lot of connection between video games and storytelling. How a video game unfolds may require unique parameters, but it’s not so different from how a play or musical unfolds. What the audience experiences in real time is key for both artforms - and yes, I definitely consider video games an artform.

Enter Super Mario Maker 2. With its predecessor on the Wii U, I was fine simply playing the levels that people from around the world have created. But last night, I ventured to create my first level. This brought me back to younger days when I would make mazes for friends to solve. I loved making a puzzle and challenging others. So, naturally, my Mario level is a puzzle, a maze. I’m not sure how many more levels I’ll feel inclined to create, but it was fun considering once again how I would both hinder and help a player as they solve the puzzle I made. Some will find it tricky. Some will find it too easy. But, here’s my first Mario Maker level code, for those Switch owners who might want to try it:

94M-QR7-FDG