You've never heard of the Trinity Matrix? She's the ship that made the Kesala run in less than 12 parsecs

[Originally published on Bloody Underrated]

One of the words most often used to describe me is "driven." I've always thought it was strange. Like, who's doing the driving here? It's right up there with "gifted." From whom am I receiving gifts? The implication is that it's somewhere inside of me: This drive, these gifts. Apparently I have the compulsion to go fast, passing others by, getting to places most people never reach, all in a vehicle presented to me by Fortune.

I imagine it with a huge red bow on top, like car commercials around the holidays.

In reality I do drive myself mostly, in my 2004 Toyota Matrix. Her name is Trinity. (She's a Matrix. She's very pretty. And I'm a SciFi nerd.) She's been my car for over 10 years and has taken me across the USA twice, up and down the West coast twice, and even to Forks and back once. (Because in addition to being a SciFi nerd, I also went through a Twihard stage. TEAM JACOB!!)

Trinity has been my runabout for lot of missions. I've driven her to Boise, where I toured a winter with the Idaho Shakespeare Festival, playing Rat in The Wind in the Willows. After 115 shows in 85 days, lots of Super 8 Motels, and some extremely precarious driving in the snow, Trinity and I survived the cold. I bought her new tires as a reward.

I've also driven her to San Francisco, where I performed Medea Knows Best, a mash-up of the Greek tragedy and Leave It to Beaver­-esque television shows. I stayed above a porn shop on Castro and 18th, the heart of the gay neighborhood, where you could tell time by the multiple bars' nightly 2am ear-splitting dump of glass beer bottles into the recycling containers. My billets hosted a weekly Pesto Party for the polyamorous community at large to meet new people. I was once mistaken for a newbie and learned quickly to stay away from home until very late on Thursday nights, sometimes taking Trinity for a drive down San Francisco streets and hoping there'd be a parking space when I returned. I bought her a bejeweled pink crown sticker for her window to remind us that we were queens among queens.

My first Canadian Fringe with one of my solo shows (The Ukrainian Dentist's Daughter) was the Victoria Fringe in 2011. I live in Seattle, so I just drove Trinity up the state of Washington and took a ferry to Victoria. I drove to my billet, introduced myself, and then threw on hot pink lipstick, gold eye shadow, and the awesomest retro prom dress ever.

Tight.

What I didn't take into account was that my dress for the 80s prom themed party was tight. Very tight. Which looked killer standing up, but made driving... difficult. When a new friend walked me to Trinity at the end of the evening, he very pleasantly chatted with me outside my vehicle, fully expecting me to give him the cue that I was leaving by getting inside the car. About 20 minutes later I told him, "I actually can't get inside until you leave because I physically cannot sit down without hiking my skirt up around my waist." To commemorate that trip, I bought her an antenna topper of the Canadian flag.

Trinity is my Millennium Falcon. She's badass, dependable, and you wish you had one.

This tour I am Trinity-free. I first performed in Chicago, then Orlando. Now I'm off Montreal and Winnipeg: all very far away from Seattle. I left Trinity in the care of my boyfriend Mark, a great driver who loves that I have a Starfleet Academy sticker on my car window professing my dream alma mater to the world. Last week Mark called me in the middle of the day saying he had bad news. He'd been in a car accident.

All I cared about was that he was okay. It's a bit overwhelming how that was all I cared about, how I was so ready to drop it all and fly back to Seattle if need be. And he was totally okay, thank our lucky stars. The other driver was totally okay. Trinity, though, was not.

I know that Trinity is a car. It's a hunk of metal and burning fossil fuel and a few nerdy stickers. I completely understand that I am personifying it throughout this entire blog and that liking your car is not "cool" or "green." That said, my car's potential demise sent a lump into my throat. It has been a constant in my life for over 10 years. I care for it, I invest in it, I trust it to get me and my passengers where we are going safely.

Trinity did her duty. She protected her pilot. She sacrificed her hood, her headlights, her bumper, and her radiator. Trinity has kept me safe on my journeys for 10 years. Now she kept Mark safe in an accident. I couldn't ask for anything more from my trusty runabout. Thank you, Trinity.

You know, it was never complete when it was just her and me. With the addition of my co-pilot Mark, we are three—we are Trinity. She's in car hospital now, getting a little work done. She'll be in there for a few weeks, but she'll come out good as new and ready for our next mission. This baby's got a few surprises left in her, sweetheart.

Listening to the Nag Inside my Soul

(Originally published on The Charlebois Post)

Photo by Charlie Ainslie

I Think My Heart Needs Glasses is my second solo play—my sophomore effort at writing, directing, producing, and performing. If you've heard anything about sophomore efforts, you know that oftentimes they... well... slump. Especially when the freshman effort rocked. Which mine did.

The Ukrainian Dentist's Daughter is an awesome solo show. It's charming and sweet, so sweet that you might even get a toothache and need a dentist (Get it? Get it?) That show, which I call TUDD in my head and amongst good friends, is based on my mother's life. I was inspired to write about her after making the decision that I was going to create a solo show for myself to star in and tour around the world. It seemed logical: one person to feed, house, pay—scheduling rehearsal was a breeze and golly, wasn't I just the ideal actress for the role! I had bounced around a lot of ideas in a little notebook about what I wanted my play to be about (An American gal's adventures in Australia? An actress' life on the road?) but settled on the stories that I always ended up telling people once they asked about my ethnic name, my peasant physique, and my uncanny ability to speak with a Slavic accent. Plus it didn't hurt that my parents' love story is so awesome that it almost seems made up.

And that decision was good. It was (and is!) a great show (you can see it at the Orlando Fringe this year if you're in that neck of the woods.) It surprised me how similar my mother's story and my story are—a woman trying to make her place in a world in which she doesn't easily fit. That story also seemed to resonate with many audience members. Not only did I receive heartfelt, loving messages from individuals, but I also won an award in each Festival in which I performed last year: Spirit of the Fringe in Montreal, Outstanding Female Performance in Winnipeg, and Audience Pick of Fringe in Seattle. Clearly I was doing something right.

The prize for the Spirit of the Fringe award in Montreal is a guaranteed spot in the next year's festival. So in June 2012 I knew that I would again be performing in June 2013. I had no intention of returning with TUDD, nor did I have any repertoire to pull from—so—it was back to the notebook of ideas for plays.

But deep down, I didn't need the notebook. I knew what I had to write about.

Photo by Charlie Ainslie

Nine months before my tour last year, the ground disappeared. The Earth continued to rotate normally while I was thrust into a stomach-turning spiral of sorrow where my good friend died and I questioned everything about how the world works—and whether it actually did work or just haphazardly went along, indiscriminately screwing good people along the way. Those events prompted me to edit and expand TUDD and tour it last year. Those events were the only thing in my mind about which I could write next.

My family and friends were supportive, but not thrilled. They were concerned it was too soon: did I really want to visit this pain again so quickly? One friend pointed out that writing about that time was asking everyone who was there to relive it: was that something I wanted to do to all of them? I asked myself: was I being completely selfish in even considering that this was appropriate material for a show? Would jumping back into the memories rip open the (slowly) healing wound? I didn't have answers to these questions. All I knew was that I needed a new show on its feet and ready to perform in the next 10 months, that my previous show had taken 2 years, and there was something nagging inside my soul that said that this was the next story to tell whether I liked it or not.

So I started writing. I thought about how I could keep myself safely distant from the material while still doing it justice. I wrote some more. In November 2012, eight months before the next Montreal Fringe, I had a rough draft. It told the story. I wrote it in the past tense so that I wouldn't be too close, so that I would be out of harm's way when I performed. I figured that was a logical compromise to all the concerns raised. 

Photo by Charlie Ainslie

But the script refused to go into my mouth and my brain. I had the worst time trying to memorize it, which was new since TUDD seemed to come out of me as if I'd, well, written it. Why was I having such a hard time learning this new piece since I'd written it as well?

Because I hadn't written it. My fear had.

Late March 2013, I showed the piece to a respected colleague of mine. It went badly. Really badly. I knew right away, like all performers know, when the audience isn't into it. It was just me up there. Performing my words. Sharing my story. And it was not being well received. I had the feeling that if I performed the script as it existed that day, I would not do justice to my subject matter, to my friend.

That was unacceptable to me.

So I rewrote it. Two and a half weeks before the world premiere in Seattle, I took my detached, past-tense, story-telling piece and removed the distance. I stuck myself back into the thick of it. I made it present tense. I took the vignettes and I went back to Acting 101: Show, don't tell. The trepidation that my friends, family, and I had about me going back to my pain—I looked it straight in the eye and said, "I am telling this story. Not you."

I surprised myself. The woman who confronted her fear (and 15 pages of rewrites) that day in March was not the woman of the summer before, too terrified to turn around and face the past. The summer before it was all I could do to tell my mother's story: close to me, but never really mine. Today I am strong enough (because of a path I elaborate upon in my show) to command my personal story—and to share it with an audience with nothing but the sincerest desire to connect with them over their own encounters with love, grief, and the search for peace.

Photo by Charlie Ainslie

So now, dear readers, I present my sophomore effort: I Think My Heart Needs Glasses. I look forward to sharing this tale with you.

 I Think My Heart Needs Glasses has its Canadian premiere at the Montreal Fringe June 13-23, 2013. It also plays at the Winnipeg Fringe June 18-28, 2013.

The Ukrainian Dentist's Daughter performs at the Orlando Fringe May 17-26, 2013. 

Yana's solo performance company, Radiant Moxie, distills theater into essentials and inspires hope with courageous, spirited storytelling that embraces the radiance of each individual's journey.

RadiantMoxie.com

facebook.com/RadiantMoxie

radiant[dot]moxie[at]gmail[dot]com

@YanaKesala

Fringe, the Final Frontier

You've probably figured out by now the overarching theme of my posts: I'm on a journey, not just to perform in various cities across Canada but to see how this Yana girl adapts to the solo, nomadic, on-the-road life. I should inform you that until about 5 years ago, I thought camping was staying at a Super 8 Motel. So to travel alone for 9 weeks, living out of a suitcase, batting my eyelashes to sway airport check-in employees to let me through with 14 extra pounds of baggage without extra fees (Fun Fact: Did you know that if you wear a shirt with sequins, you show up as a completely blank space in the scanning machine at airport security?) has been new and challenging. Each day I meet new people and situations that test what I think I know about myself and the world.

And then it struck me: My life is Star Trek.

Live long and prosper.

This revelation may have been slightly influenced by me finding an Original Series gold uniform on the clearance rack at a costume store in Toronto. The store employees jumped in response to my "SHUT UP!!!" exclamation at the discovery. It was sexy and pretty accurate (but it came with pips, which I thought was weird, and if you also know why that's weird then you have stolen my geek heart forever!) So I tried it on. And it fit! And I bought it!

But wait, it's gold. In the Original Series, that means commanding officer. On The Next Generation it means engineering, security, or ops. This got me asking: Which rank am I? What era am I in? Why is this skirt so short?

I'm on this crazy trek to explore strange new worlds because...well, because I can. Because I want to. I have the insane luck to possess the 24th century ability to better myself through exploration and interaction with cultures and beings different than myself (and though Canadians on the whole look very similar to me, believe me, it's a different planet here!). And thankfully I have wonders of technology on my side, like Skype and Facebook, that keep me connected to the people back home. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating aimlessly in space and those little interactions do wonders to put me back on course. And of course my Fringe Family, who are ever-ready to meet me at 10 Forward (aka the beer tent) to laugh, to reassure, and to play "Guess my Fringe Crush."

I remember in 8th grade the popular thing to write in someone's yearbook was, "Don't change!" I understood the intention--You're great, I like you, don't go to high school and become an asshole--but every time I saw it written down I was all, "But I want to change and grow! Change is the only constant and without it I'm dead! Are you writing in my yearbook that you want me to die?!?"

I was a precocious kid. But I knew even then that I wanted to push my boundaries and never be stagnant. That stopping meant the end. So maybe in this moment I'm not sure exactly where I belong on the Starship Life. Thankfully I still have some time to explore before I have to make that choice.

And why is the skirt so short? Easy access...to my phaser.

Time out, TO

I had heard that bashing Toronto is a cultural pastime in Canada--Toronto and the GTA (Greater Toronto Area) receive the brunt of the digs between cities, especially from Montreal. While I was in Montreal there were actually some people who made an "ICK" sound when I said I was going to visit Toronto in between performing in Fringes.

"Why would you want to go to Toronto? ICKKK, it's just awful there."

Any time people express something so extreme, I figured they had personally had a bad experience and that had colored their opinion in a negative way. I looked forward to seeing it myself and coming to my own conclusion.

Conclusion being: I have never visited a more unfriendly, rules-obsessed city in my life.

Toronto doesn't like me. Which surprised me. I'm very nice. As a matter of fact, I have won awards for being friendly and approachable and considerate. Customer service is a personal passion. And I enjoy rules: stop signs are awesome!

I first knew that Toronto hated me at the poster sprint. I'm not performing my show in this Fringe, but I have friends who are and I offered to help one of them put his posters up. It was supposed to start at 4:30. After 20 minutes of orientation speeches in the baking sun, the artists and their helpers literally line up to wait for the "Go!" as the staff encourage them to push, shove, and unabashedly plaster their posters up in the approved area as media wielding video recorders and cameras cover the event. (Yes, posters were allowed only in the approved area which, oddly enough, is nowhere near where anyone actually passes through the Fringe Alley, making this bizarre pitting of artists against each other even more upsetting.)

I'd been told that Toronto Fringe exists for Toronto artists, which I can appreciate, especially in a huge city where I imagine getting work produced can be a challenge. But taking that into consideration, shouldn't that create a comradeship, a commiseration between artists trying to get their work seen?

Okay, I thought, so maybe it's that the people I've met so far aren't representational of Toronto as a whole. So I ventured out to explore the city, with my map and my subway tokens and my smile to lead the way. The CN tower is so tall! Lake Ontario is so beautiful! And there are trams with bells in the road!

A little tip from me to you: ALWAYS HAVE A TRANSFER WITH YOU. If you miss your stop, your lovely tram driver will lecture you about the rules of public transportation and berate you with a guilt trip that makes Catholic school seem like sleep-away camp on the Big Rock Candy Mountain. He will imply you are stupid and make you cry. When you say that for a city that prides itself on diversity, it's not friendly at all, he will answer, "If you say so."

I do say so, Toronto. You don't like me. Fine. Go ahead, have your pigeons expel the entire contents of their bowels on my face, shirt, and pants as I have a beer at the Fringe Club. Thankfully I've surrounded myself with wonderful friends who will bring me wet paper towels, laugh with me, and give me hugs (after I've wiped all the excrement off myself, of course.)

Perhaps if I'd kept this poncho I would've been protected from the poo bomb.

And if you actually do pride yourself on diversity, I challenge you to put those open arms in action. You're giving the Canada I love a bad rap. 

A la prochaine, Montreal...

I honestly didn't expect to like Montreal. So many of my friends loved it SO MUCH, were so convinced that I was also going to love it SO MUCH. And I've been on enough blind dates that didn't live up to the hype that I've learned to keep my expectations low. And, of course, it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Ugh, I thought, it's just so French here, I don't understand what anyone is saying. And what's with the obsession with cheese- and gravy-covered fries?!?

I feel like I'd been on a couple dates with Montreal and wasn't sure how I felt...and then Montreal kissed me. Montreal and I spent the night together. It was hot, sweaty, and I woke up with an echo of a hangover and a big-ass smile.

How could I not love Montreal SO MUCH? I mean, first thing, there is something to be said about a city full of people who are just so stinking happy to be in Montreal. And it's really beautiful here--the buildings are old and there are lots of turrets (I feel like I'm in a fairy-tale!). And there is something delightfully quaint about a city named after a hill that everyone calls the Mountain (sorry guys, I love it too, but it's not a mountain.) But I think what I like best is the inner child of Montreal. I have never before been to a place that is so ready to say yes. I've heard it said that each city in the world can be summed up in a word. Rome is "Sex." New York is "Achieve." And for me, Montreal is "Play."

And no, not only because I performed my play here. The friends I have made have an energy of adventure and possibility. I feel like Montreal is my playground, full of awesome mates who constantly ask if I want to join them in their game. Everyone's invited! Jump right in! Let's go to Jazz Fest! Let's play on the Mountain! (Okay...maybe it IS a mountain!) Let's dress up like Circus Carnivale! Let's go to the Star Wars Exhibit! Let's drink sangria until our lips turn red!

The best relationships are the ones where you learn something. I learned that a diet of gyros, beer, and Diet Coke will sustain me...but only for 3 days. I learned that if you let your Nerd Flag fly you will attract amazing people (INFINITY FRIENDS!!!). I learned that "Poutine au legumes" does not mean "cheese and gravy-covered fries with peanuts" (I mean, it could, right? Because a peanut is not a pea nor a nut, but a legume? Anyone?).

Infinity Friends! Left to Right: Kathryne Radburn, Yana (me), Al Lafrance, Shane Adamczak.

Maybe it's just Montreal in the summer, where everyone is just so glad to not be stuck inside, combined with the post-coital glow of a successful Fringe that makes this city's pheromones irresistible. Or maybe, just maybe...this is something special.

Love always comes from the most unexpected places. And at the most unexpected times. So until next time, Montreal...

It's gonna be a bright, sunshiney day

My week dawned at Cirque du Soleil, whose headquarters are located here in Montreal. Having listened to French for the past 8 days, the meaning of their name suddenly springs into my mind: Circus of the Sun. I'm loving this. I'm also loving that as I'm taking a tour of their facilities, it is very clear that art is made here. It reminds me of the costume studio in my high school, but on a much larger (and more technically savvy) scale: The edges seem a little worn and there is lots of laughter.

                                                                      

I feel like I'm performing my very own Sun Circus in my venue during this heat wave. Without air-conditioning and under the lights, I start my show sweaty and end up soaking wet. The audience is pretty much the same. I start to worry about what I look like. After one show I looked in the mirror and a raccoon looked back at me--all my eye makeup was UNDERNEATH my eyes. Okay, no more makeup for the show. Also, the slip I wear under my costume has ripped up both the sides from sticking to my legs and staying there as I continue to move. This slip is dear to me--an heirloom from my mother when I performed in my first play. You know the saying, "Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue" for what you're supposed to wear at your wedding? Well since my play takes place on my mother's wedding day, an old blue slip seemed appropriate. But, okay, nothing that a needle and thread can't fix.

But I'm so hot that I start to feel sick, and I start to be concerned that I can't bring to the stage the emotions I need to tell my story. Are people still liking the show, or are they coming to simply gawk at me melting into a puddle on the floor? If I'm not doing the story justice then what the heck am I even doing here? The high-noon heat spirals in my brain and cooks the doubts so they expand like a souffle. I go to the beer tent and find a table of friends. And I crack. I let it all come out in a wave of tears and sweat.

And then I get my first 5 star review. The Link says, "In the boiler room known as Scene VOIR Stage, a quiet was present during this show that said, 'Everyone is listening.'" Perhaps my light shines brighter than I give myself credit for.

Me and my Fringe brother, Shane. See you in Montreal next year!

As the sun sets on this Fringe, everyone gathers at Caberet du Mile End for the Frankie Awards. The venue is filled to capacity, 600 people. My show wasn't nominated for anything, but it did get a shout-out from one of the jury members as a favorite of hers. And then at the end of the awards ceremony, when all the staff are on stage, the festival director surprises me and calls me up and says that I have been named runner-up for the Spirit of the Fringe Award. The staff decided that I embody what Fringe is about. And they offer me a guaranteed spot in next year's festival. My heart expands like a supernova. Perhaps that's why I needed to crack earlier in the week--to make room for all the wonderful to beam in.

So I will see another Montreal Fringe. With a new show, which I am so excited to start working on. But tonight, we are young. So let's set the world on fire, we can burn brighter than the sun.

Everyone's first time is a tad...awkward

Montreal is a city that's pretty easy to navigate, thank goodness--lots of nearby Metro stops and relatively perpendicular streets. And my billet is downtown, so that makes it extra simple. The Ukrainian area, though, is not conveniently off a Metro stop. And I am determined to hang posters in all things Ukrainian in Montreal. So that means: Bixi.

Bixi is the rent-a-bike system with stations all around town. For $15 I can rent a bike for 3 days, making sure I check it back into one of these stations every 30 minutes. It's super smart. All the accessibility and cardiovascular exercise of cycling, none of the hassles of bike ownership. But wait--I don't have a helmet. How am I going to stay safe and keep the cars from getting too close?

Legs.

I know: short skirts. Platform sandals. And my killer legs. Brilliant. So I postered the Ukrainian churches, nursing homes, scouting organizations, bank, and Federation. Yes, we have a Federation. Star Trek style.

Fast-forward to Saturday, opening night. I'm ready to show Montreal my box. And, like any first encounter in this vein, it's a little...awkward. For one it's stickingly hot, so much that I am extremely aware of the sheen of sweat that I'm leaving behind on the floor. But heck, if it's not sweaty then you're not doing it right. My audience was with me, I had them in the palm of my hand. You could hear a pin drop.

And then the lights stop changing three-quarters of the way through. A climactic spotlight continues (rather anti-climactically) as the only light for 10 minutes. Annoying, yes, but I could tell that I could still be seen on stage. Not the end of the world. And eventually the lights get back on track, with about 5 minutes left.

The final and most dramatic moments of my show come to the one and only sound cue in the whole piece--and instead of my sound cue, my pre-show music comes on. The technician quickly realizes the error and turns off "Fly Me to the Moon." But my sound cue still doesn't play.

There is a breathtaking moment when you realize that you are performing your heart and soul out, you've just begun the most important tour of your career, and the only option you have in this moment is to leave the stage. So I do, and the eternity that follows (in reality probably 10 seconds) comes to an end with my sound cue. And I reenter and finish the show with a slightly altered ending.

Afterwards I felt dazed, like I had just taken a blow to the head. I treated myself to an ice-cream cone and headed to the 13th Hour, which is the nightly party that starts at 1am. I wanted to go home and sleep opening night away but I was slotted to perform at the party. So I put on my fake-it-til-you-make-it face and prepared to play a game with the 13th Hour audience.

When my turn arrived, Kiki the host introduced me. She said that she was excited because she had had the good luck to see my show that evening. She said it was her first cry of the Fringe and that she was touched deeply by its simple storytelling. She recommended it highly.

I was floored, not only because I respect this woman's opinion (she is a Fringe favorite and a talented actress), but because--it turned out okay. Actually, even better than okay--I achieved my main goal in sharing this story. I touched an audience member's spirit.

Each time has just gotten better and better (again, as it usually goes with these things.) And I've actually received great reviews, both in written and verbal form. So I guess I'm learning to navigate not only the streets of Montreal, but the avenues of my play. The story is stronger than I gave it credit for. Sometimes I'll be able to use the Metro, sometimes a Bixi bike. But I will get my audience there, regardless of potholes or detours.

And they might even catch a little leg along the way.

If you come to my show, I'll show you my box

I'm now in Montreal, and of course I brought my box with me. I dragged it from Seattle to Philadelphia to New York to here. Sometimes I got asked if I needed assistance, but I told those helpful gentlemen that I only let very special people near my box. 

Horsing around on my box.
Photo by Charlie Ainslie.

At first my box was really stinky and I had to air it out on the back porch. It was also a bit tacky to the touch, but once I started working on it a couple of hours every day, it was just perfect--supported a ton of bouncing around while still looking fresh and clean.

I think my favorite thing about my box is how it blends into the background. At first you don't notice it. It doesn't make an impact until WHAM! All of a sudden you realize that my box has been there the entire time.

(Get your mind out of the gutter! I'm talking about my set.)

I have pet peeve about theater that is littered with set and props--I think it's a hindrance more than a help. Frustrated directors throw extraneous props at scenes that aren't working in a desperate attempt for something to be happening. Plus carrying a whole bunch of stuff on tour is illogical. So I designed my show to be performed in one costume with no props and a single black actor's block as the set. I let the audience use their imagination.

And audiences love to play. One of my favorite questions to ask people after they've seen the show is: What did the wedding dress look like? The protagonist of my show is dressed in a wedding gown for most of the show, but the costume I wear is a bright blue wrap dress. I've gotten such a wide variety of answers, from white strapless to cream silk to long-sleeved chiffon--and no one has ever said that they thought she was just wearing the blue dress. 

That blue dress is currently hanging my billet's living room magically having its wrinkles released by Montreal's humid, sweat-inducing climate. Good gravy, I haven't been this hot in years. I had heard that Montrealers spend their summers consistently sporting a sheen of sweat and I can report back that yes, that is a true statement. Thankfully there is beer. And today I learned that my venue, #4 Scene Voir, is next to the FRINGE beer tent. Like, literally next to it. WIN! How did I get so lucky? Seven shows, awesome venue, and best billet ever? No joke: there is a hamster at his place. A hamster named Vera. Yup, not only is Wonder Woman Ukrainian, but so is the hamster.

And no, I'm not letting that hamster anywhere near my box.

Oh, didn't you know? Wonder Woman is Ukrainian

Adventure is the word I use for what I'm taking on--an 8 week Canadian tour of my solo show The Ukrainian Dentist's Daughter. It's self-written, -produced, -directed, and -performed.

                                

(Clearly I like hyphens. And wearing a lot of different hats.)

I toured a shorter version of this show to the Victoria Fringe last August. I drove up from Seattle, took a ferry, and landed in a city I had never been to before and where I knew no one. When I approached the beer tent for the 80s themed welcome night, I actually felt shy. (You who know me scoff but YES, I can actually be shy!)

So I took a breath (a shallow one since I physically could not sit in the purple taffeta 80s Prom dress I was wearing) and decided to make some friends. And what friends they were. Not only were the next 2 weeks filled with spontaneous adventures like scooting about town on red Vespas and examining jellyfish off the breakwater (here's looking at you, Al Lafrance) but also with inspiring performances and epic dance nights (Victoria Laberge--you better get your dancing shoes on, sister!).

I knew I had really made it, though, when Rose Jang, who I thought didn't like me at all, said, "Yana, you're just the right amount of woman. I thought you'd be just be a pretty girl but you like Star Trek and tell dick jokes."

Young Maya from "The Ukrainian Dentist's Daughter"
Photo by Charlie Ainslie.

Oh, right, I also performed my show! I started calling it a "chick play" because the ladies, especially my mom's generation, just ate it up. My mother is actually the inspiration for my show. I'm the Ukrainian dentist's granddaughter. I got to chat with audience members after performing and I can't count the number of people who told me that my play resonated with them.

When Fringe was over I rode a giant wave of adrenaline and laughter home to Seattle and then...life hit me really hard. Nope, rephrase that: death hit me pretty hard. I lost my best friend 2 weeks after I got back.

Getting up in front of strangers and telling them a story seemed like the stupidest thing in the world in those first couple months. But then again, me just still being here seemed kinda ridiculous, too.

So I expanded my show. I added 15 minutes and what was left of my heart. And I remembered that I'm a storyteller and it's my job to tell the tales of what makes life...life.

And the Universe didn't forget me. I won the Montreal Fringe Lottery (a festival already full of the aforementioned friends) and the Winnipeg Fringe Lottery (where the largest population of Ukrainians in North America lives). And the sun began to break through the clouds.

My friends at home didn't forget me either--I am traveling simply dripping in talismen. There's the miniature cocoa pod from LC, a reminder of all my cherished friends at the job I left. The handmade turtle charm bracelet from LaChrista for good luck. The silver necklace from Carolyn and her mom for strength. The rose quartz necklace from Melinda for positive energy. And from Keira McDonald, the silver bracelet she wore when she toured her play The Bridesmaid across the Canadian Fringe in 2007.

I have magic jewelry. I am Wonder Woman.

I come to Montreal absolutely thrilled to explore the city, reunite with my friends, and tell the story that only I can tell. People have asked me, "Aren't you nervous to be doing this all alone?" And I tell them, "I'm not alone. I have an invisible jet full of my friends cheering me on."