Marty Pottenger

Part I: Unstucking

Early spring. 1996. 9 p.m. I’d been alone, working in my apartment for days, in the thick of “stuck.”

City Water Tunnel #3 is the performance project I’d been working on for the last three years, a solo performance where I play sixteen characters, all based on the actual people building New York City’s third water tunnel. It’s a total of sixty-four miles long and as deep in the ground as the Chrysler building is high. The tunnel was sixty years in the making, but I only have two more months to finish writing, rehearsing, designing, and directing it before it premieres. The three days of “stuck” is my trying to figure out how to bring to the stage the deep love that the sandhogs—the men working on the tunnel—have for each other. As a woman who was one of the first women in a construction union (1972), most of my twenty years had been with crews of men, so I’d seen the affection, the love firsthand, but only communicated in insults, jibes and teasing. What I wanted for CTW#3 was as-full-on-as-possible expression as I could get away with, in a way that the sandhogs in the audience could feel it.

And then, somehow, although I didn’t grow up knowing opera, I thought “aria” and something fell into place. Arias were passionate, full-on expressions of intense emotion which is just what I was looking for. My next challenge would be finding one that fit CWT#3 culture and a kind of tender, slow build I wanted.

Tower Records on Broadway was open till midnight back in the day. So I headed there and got their help locating the opera section in the back of the store and the older gay man who was in charge of it. I explained that I was looking for an aria that was sung by one man, didn’t have a lot of orchestration, started out slow, and built to a passionate ending that would plausibly communicate the love that working-class men working in construction had for each other. And Mr. Opera Genius said, “I’ve just the one, ‘Una Furtiva Lagrima’ from Donizetti’s L’elisir d’amore.” (See performance excerpt here).

I only had to hear the first thirty seconds on Tower’s listening station to know this was the one. Back home, I listened to the aria over and over again, still “stuck” but this time only “half-stuck.” Any Italian sandhogs in the audience would likely not only know opera but be able to pick up some of the words, but there were things that I wanted to be said that did not match the aria’s lyrics. Letting the aria’s passion guide me, I started writing down words that expressed the love I’d seen, and there it was, the idea I’d spent days searching for. I could false-translate the Italian into an Italian that a sandhog (who didn’t remember the Italian of his grandmother well), was going to sing on stage. (Aria 1:12:10).

The scene was near the end of the performance and brought many of the men in the audience to tears, good, cleansing tears. Over the next several years of performances, there were a few who started crying so hard they stood up and left.

For me, the “stuck” was scary as I didn’t know how to do what I knew I needed to do to create the performance and the impact I’d wanted from the start of the project. I find the best way to make use of “stuck” is to stop, stand still, and let whatever comes to you come to you. To not chase it. To listen with my ears if helpful, but with my whole self if possible. The same way I’ve figured out how to find my place again on stage when I’ve forgotten lines or when I can tell the audience and I are not connecting. To let the panic race through me if panic is there. To widen my mind to include the audience, the whole of them, to feel them, and rather than try to “create” a connection, to simply listen and let the connection come back in place.

Part II: Circumstantially Stuck

What ended up being a performance called home land security (2005) started out as a commission by Center for Cultural Exchange for me to write and stage a performance about the impact of a Border Patrol raid in downtown Portland in 2004: a raid that traumatized the entire city and resulted in a Governor’s Executive Order that forbid another one. I spent one week a month throughout 2005 interviewing those impacted in some way. They included members of the immigrant and refugee communities as well as the undocumented Latino/a community, faith leaders, elected officials, police officers, Border Patrol, school superintendent, former Governor Angus King, and many, many more.

The final core cast for two two-week runs (2005 and 2006) included then-Mayor Jill Duson, Billy Woolverton, unhoused writer living in a tent near 295, Latina organizer Reverend Virginia Marie Rincón, Sudanese elder Oliver Albino, Mi’kmaq USM student Heather Augustine, and Franco elder, fiddler, and union organizer Lucien Matthieu. Cast Radio Announcers were Hamid Karimian, Kurdish-born Deering HS student, and Amal Tahlil, Somali-born Portland HS student, plus Community Cameos by NAACP President Rachel Talbot Ross, Freeport Librarian and State Senate President Beth Edmonds, and Portland’s Fire Chief and Maine Director of Emergency Response Fred LaMontagne. All that plus a three-musician band live on stage: Greg Boardman, Harim Sheekey, and Juan Condori, who also played Border Patrol agents.

I take the time to list all of them because, as most readers might have thought reading the list, altogether they represent what I’ll call “Circumstance Stuck”: a vision for a performance that was increasingly unlikely to be realized. My goal was for the performance to have as seismic an impact as the raid itself, but in the direction of healing, not trauma. Having the actual community members impacted by the raid sharing their stories was essential.

None of them, except Lucien, had ever willingly taken the stage in any kind of performance. A theatrical performance bears almost no relationship to public speaking, especially when the stories shared are deeply personal, revealing, and from a very upsetting time in our local and national history. Several of them were public figures in Maine which meant there were real risks to sharing stories of the impact that 9/11 had on them and their communities. These were risks that could impact their livelihoods, their colleagues, their families and neighbors. Each of their decisions to perform required a courage that, when asked, came from the desire to make a meaningful difference to all those who went through the Border Patrol’s raid, as well as those who came and witnessed the performances.

On a Saturday, two weeks before opening night, there were only three confirmed cast members out of ten.

There was one absolute “No way,” and the rest were just starting to absorb the reality that they were being invited to be in an actual play with an audience on a stage. It was the first workshop in which we were all together, with many meeting each other for the first time. Previous to this workshop, their stories had only been shared in interviews with me over the past year. I gave everyone a copy of the rough script I’d drafted; we sat in a circle and started reading aloud, with pauses for changes whenever anyone asked for them.

By the end of that workshop, all five of the core cast had signed contracts, including “No way.” My understanding is that what made this possible was the rare opportunity to work with such a unique diverse group of Portlander’s. Diversity is described in many ways, but in my work, it’s proven the glue that holds people and projects together. There is a palpable joy in rooms of individuals that reflect the actual diversity of a community: class, age, race, sex, ethnicity, national origin, sexual identity, gender, ability—the whole spectrum. I am certain that if the breadth and depth of their unique experiences, wisdom, cultures, and opinions had not been present, we wouldn’t have been able to reflect such a profound, moving, wide-lens picture of 9/11’s impact on the people of Portland, Maine.

There are two other things (in regards to making art and ways to dissolve “stuck”) that I most want to share here. First, to repeat, is the power of offering individuals a chance to take a risk—which describes art making for most of us, a risk that might possibly make a meaningful difference to their community/ies. The third insight or encouragement brings us to dress rehearsal, the night before opening night. This one belongs in the “never give up (completely)” example of the “art of unsticking.”

One of the people I’d interviewed had a story that reached back elevent generations of Mainers. It was a story of discrimination, survival, and triumph, deeply moving and very personal. With all that needs to happen putting a show like this together, I somehow remembered to call this person on the afternoon of dress rehearsal. To date, they had steadfastly, and understandably, not replied to any of my voicemails inviting them to meet and discuss.

I try to never underestimate the necessary risk that theater contains. Years ago, I was in the audience during a particularly painful production. I tried to daydream, I tried to think about other things, anything to disconnect from the discomfort I was feeling. Nothing worked. It was then I realized that, for me and many others, theater has no “off” switch. It taps into some part of our being that, as far as I can tell, no other exchange, engages. Not a sermon, a lecture, a film, a concert . . . all containing transformative potential, but nothing beats the agony/experience of theater going badly. That realization (in regards to theater’s potential, and the risk shared by performers and audience members) helped spur my decision to redefine myself as a theater maker.

My message invited them to drop by for the dress rehearsal if they wanted to and see what we’d come up with. They came and after it ended, they came up and said they’d like to be in it. We met the next day at 1 p.m. and called their aunt for accurate genealogical info. I took notes and wrote a three-minute performance that included stories from our interview months ago. They then made some changes and agreed to show up that night. Their three-minute cameo that night—and every performance afterwards—ended up being an unforgettable part of a performance filled with powerful moments.

Part III: Childhood Traumas—When “Stuck” Turns Out to Be “Luck”

This part is likely to be the briefest, but it belongs here as much as the rest. I had one of those traumatic childhoods. All types of abuse. Multiple failed end-of-life experiences at the hands of others, as well as myself. Parents almost as scary as they come. And yet, both of them, outside of the home, able to participate and even lead in local organizations like PTA, Lion’s Club, Rotary, etc. I opened my TEDx talk by sharing that I didn’t speak at all till I was three because I didn’t know how to say, “Do you have child protective services in this country?” Looking back, my perspective is that I was gifted with a front row seat to the damage that our society does to individuals whether they are more situated in the oppressed or the oppressor roles. It made me who I am. And though love was not in the mix, my five siblings and I survived, and for that, I am grateful beyond measure. And I now understand that those early experiences have made it possible for me and others—known and just met—to connect deeply in ways that our lives these days make rare.

The current place where the damage that still lingers is evident is in the timeline of my project called MAINEUSA: The History of Maine from the Ice Age Till Now. The idea came to me over fifteen years ago: a big-tent seasonal community/professional performance running for eight summers for Mainers and visitors to come learn and celebrate Maine’s story as one that begins and continues with the indigenous Wabanaki people. We did a workshop production in 2019 that was a bit of a wonderful mess despite good efforts by all, but it was a start.

A full-size right whale puppet will be at the heart of the play along with 100 community members in song and dance numbers, a live band, and nine professional actors playing nine characters all based on actual Mainers. Puppets of endangered creatures in Maine reveal the fragility of this precious world, her creatures, and our own connections with nature and each other. It’s funny, moving, silly, with songs and stories and is hoped to inspire fierce determined actions of all kinds to prevent catastrophe. Three Wabanaki artists have been collaborators, as well as performers. One of the Maine characters is Lucien Matthieu who was in home land security and is now in heaven, I’m guessing. The budget was 1.4 million dollars five years ago, but income estimates indicate that sum being earned back within two years. Profits would be shared with environmental organizations and activists here in Maine with resources available to other states in the US to create their own version of the project.

So what’s stuck? I figured out years ago that one can still access love even when trust is still broken. But trust is essential to making the highly collaborative work of theater. I am still not able to collaborate to the degree wonderful big-scale theater requires. That’s not possible with MAINEUSA. And that’s a good thing whether or not I ever succeed in bringing it to life. That helps me make sense of my falling in love with a project that was/is beyond my current ability. I am still not able to attract or keep up with leading a team. And though I have a few dear theater friends who have offered to help, I haven’t been able to build much of a relationship with the theater community here other than admiring what they do. That, plus a left-over but still active fear of theater people, makes realizing MAINEUSA near impossible.

And what’s “the luck”? That fifteen-year timeline has prevented me from making all sorts of mistakes, many of which might have brought the project to an end. I’ve had the chance to learn more about Maine’s history, to deepen relationships that are key to the integrity of MAINEUSA, and to heal up another fifteen years worth. If I don’t expire before it comes to be, I’ll enjoy the work of creating it with others far more than I ever could have fifteen years ago. So stuck’ish but still trying.

Postscript: 2025 Stuck in the Firehose of Now

After almost twenty years of being an activist in many liberation movements—all of them punctuated by performances I had written and produced—I finally accepted the identity of “artist.” My resistance to claiming that identity was that I, like so many others, thought that calling myself an artist would separate me from the working class communities that had been my home. What cleared the way for me, now almost thirty years ago, was realizing something that history makes clear. The power of art can be seen in the fact that when dictators and tyrants seize power, their three primary targets are the military, organized opposition, and the artists. For well over twenty years, I had swallowed the lie that art was for a class of people whose culture and resources were quite different from most of the rest of us.

So, today, in what I’ve been calling “the firehose of now,” I am again standing still, listening, connecting, feeling the present. I don’t yet hear clearly enough to move in a direction or locate a yet-to-be-opened door, but I have understood for quite a while that dramatic change is necessary. That the system we have had for some time, has both allowed and promoted the brutal inequity and corruption that surrounds us. And that the systems’ collapse that we are more awarely experiencing has been in the making for a very long time. It was only a few weeks ago that I remembered that it was anticipating this collapse that spurred me to begin designing multi-year projects that used creativity as a tool for municipal governments and communities to tackle non-arts-based challenges of a scale and nature that such a collapse would generate. It was a decision that brought me to Portland twenty years ago to work in the City of Portland’s City Manager’s office for eight years (see Art at Work).

I am scared. I am excited. I know that there will be opportunities ahead that have not been visible or possible until now. My response to the climate/creature crisis has required me to deepen my capacity for thankfulness and appreciation of this living planet amidst grief and despair. I have also reclaimed a relish that I remember from childhood, a certain “nothing to lose” energy from fully engaging in a seemingly unwinnable battle.

Every human is born with an imagination and creative abilities that have all-to-rarely been an essential element in the work of social justice. My sense is that the culture of empires intentionally fosters an ignorance of power dynamics and an emphasis on particular versions of art and art making. It hobbles us in the way females (and males) have been hobbled for centuries by not having the word “sexism” to describe and dismantle a core oppression.

Whether we work “alone” or with others, in studios, basements, or communities, whatever our creative expression, we have the chance to make a meaningful difference in what happens in these next decades. Thrilling opportunities lie ahead, to imagine, explore, experiment, organize, create, continue. I imagine some of it will look like nothing we’ve seen before. As an old-time activist who joined two CR (consciousness-raising) groups in 1974, a key ingredient for sustainability, connection, and zesty enjoyment is to find others. To pod, to create a gang that meets regularly, that grows together, that has your back and you theirs. Not easy but essential. Whether they identify as artists or not, it can be a check-in, where you spend time together imagining what is possible beyond the systems we understandably have been operating inside of. A place to listen and be listened to. To enjoy each other. To imagine what meaningful, risky invitations to yourself and to those around you might look like. The work ahead will need leaders, not managers, and shepherding a small group is a solid way to practice leadership.

The one project that has been on my mind in light of the “firehose of now” is to gather individuals who are engaged in their communities, artists, town managers, tribal leaders, and elected officials to explore a statewide creative placemaking project that identifies a specific key issue that a project would be designed to shift. I asked a friend and union organizer here in Maine last year how they thought about organizing, and will never forget their reply. “I look for where things are going well and add resource.” So perhaps using that approach, we’d initiate a three year Maine-based creative placemaking project to do just that.

Thanks for reading through all (or some) of this. Thanks to the Maine Arts Journal for inviting me to write something on being “stuck.” And thank you, reader, for all you do as an artist and/or human to keep this ship afloat. I look forward to whatever you do, make, or imagine.

 

Links to the Projects Mentioned in This Essay

 Art At Work website.

City Water Tunnel #3 performance.

home land security performance.

TEDxDirigo talk (2014). 

MAINEUSA website.