Burning Man 2018
Sept. 14, 2018
The months leading up to the burn were stressful, of course. Trying to scrape up enough funds, coordinate tickets, make sure all the applications were in, communicating with the ARTery, it was a lot, but at long last we made it.
My build crew arrived on the 22nd and 23rd, and the sturdy BRC heavy equipment operators came out to help put in the ground screws, and later to lift that ridiculously heavy roof. Starfish and Dale worked tirelessly as they always do, and the structure was done by the end of the day.
On Saturday, before Gate opening, Tony, Becca, and I got busy setting up all the interior displays and lights. It was pretty much solid whiteout all day. And yes, it sucked. But on the bright side, we had a sheltered space to work in, while all those other artists out there were sitting in the open. Even so, I came back to camp that evening filthier than I have ever been in my life. Even more than the days when I was doing field archaeology. EMBRACE THE SUCK.
Our strange little Museum, sitting out on the playa. The ARTery gave us amazing placement, just a few hundred feet from Esplanade right off of 7:45. We were only open to visitors from 6pm to midnight, simply because I needed to have Guardians on hand at all times, and I didn't have enough crew to cover a whole day. But if we come back to playa I hope to have more Guardians so we can stay open longer. People were kind of confused at seeing this weird little shed out there where you expect to see big shiny-flashy-blinky things, but many of them, once we explained what it was, what the mission was, they were thrilled to find such a meaningful piece.
Sitting a Guardian shift with Roycroft. The mural on the side is by Portland's own Simran Narmis
The left wall. On the far left, the two frames there, those were an amazing gift. The top frame holds a suicide letter. The person who donated was in a terrible place years ago, and just couldn't bear it anymore, the pain was too much. The bottom frame explains how they got to that place, what was happening in their life. And then it explains why they chose not to die, and how they found ways to handle and work with their mental illness, and how they are enjoying life more than they ever thought possible. That person brought their story to me on playa. They were there, at the burn, very much alive, and so happy they chose to keep going.
The back wall. That beautiful floral heart was sent by a burner in the Bay Area. The trunk was passed on by a Portland burner who wanted to share the story of a woman who had lost her battle with depression and substance abuse. Every story was powerful in its own way.
The right wall. Those headphones are connected to an MP3 player that was sent to us from a burner in the Mediterranean. It's a spoken word story about how their life was turned upside down not by their own illness, but by the illness of their partner.
We even appeared on the live feed! A friend who had to stay home this year messaged me a screenshot he grabbed while watching the camera scan the playa. I still laugh at how odd our little building looks out there.
BUT IT'S NOT BLINKY!! WHAT'S HAPPENING??
And a last look out on the playa as we prepare to take it all down again, pack up, and make our way home. The first part of the week was crappy and windy and dusty, but later in the week, and on take-down day, it was clear and beautiful and so very still. Thank you to everyone who helped make this journey, everyone who helped haul and build, who help serve as Guardians, and who came to see our stories and understood the mission. I think we will return to the playa. But we'll need more help. And yes, we will always have room to add more stories, more truths.
The Power of a Voice
March 19, 2018
As we prepare to start fundraising and expanding the Museum for SOAK 2018, and Burning Man 2018, I've been thinking about the stories that people have shared already, and the impact those stories had on everyone who saw them.
There was one item in particular that really affected people. I didn't intentionally place so it would be the first display visitors saw, it just ended up there in the mad dash to get set up, and in the end, I realized that it ended up exactly where it needed to be.
You can see the item at the top left of the photo I posted down below. It's a simple little pill minder, one of those plastic boxes with a little tray for each day of the week, a thing that many of us use to keep our medications straight and help remember what we need to take each day.
You can't read the label in the photo, but the text reads as follows:
"A number of years ago, while I was a crisis worker at a psychiatric crisis center, I worked with a woman with a long history of depression and an equally long history of sexual abuse, and significant alcohol and multiple drug dependence. I would see her repeatedly in the emergency room after yet another suicide attempt or an overdose, usually on a Monday night. After awhile, our crisis sessions began to turn into counseling sessions, because I was so familiar with her history and her interactions with her abusive partners and her dysfunctional and codependent family. I would see her almost weekly for the better part of a year, and I did everything I knew how to do at the time to work on helping her manage stress, get out of repeated domestic violent situations, and get her into detox and recovery programs.
I was the one who diagnosed her with Posttraumatic Stress Disorder, and one of few who didn't just dismiss her as a 'flaming borderline'. I advocated for her with other doctors and treatment programs, when almost everyone else had given up on her. She kept engaging in risky and impulsive behavior, because that was all she knew that would give her a brief respite from her life. She dropped out of all of the treatment programs I advocated for her to attend. She kept changing medications and psychiatrists, because nothing seemed to help. Her doctor would only give her a week of medication at a time for fear of overdose. She would contract with me, for a week at a time, to not attempt suicide, take her medicine as prescribed, and not use drugs. I think she knew I was doing everything I could, and that I was being real with her. One Monday night, she didn't come into the psychiatric crisis center. I called her psychiatrist Tuesday evening, and she hadn't picked up her weekly medications. I called the police and requested a wellness check. I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
They found her body Wednesday morning. I did not find out exactly how she died; the police would not tell me. They did give me her empty weekly pillminder, with the daily pill case for Monday missing. I've kept it for a long time, but it seems like the Museum of the Broken is a very appropriate place for it."
So.......yeah. Even after having read this story at least a dozen times, having spoken to the donor many times, and after typing it up on the label, it still punches me in the heart every time I read it, and I must take a moment to just breathe so I don't start crying. I am so grateful for that donor who gave us that simple little box, and gave us the story of someone who can no longer tell their story themselves.
Because the Museum is for all of us. Including the ones who lost the battle. Their voices deserve to be heard, too. They are still with us. I'm honored that we were able to give this woman a voice. Her story was one of two belonging to people who are no longer with us. I cannot say that I am "happy" to share their stories in the Museum, because there is nothing happy about it. But I am honored, and humbled, and hope that by sharing, we can maybe help someone else.
That's why we're doing this. The Museum of the Broken is not a sideshow or a freakshow, it's not something we do lightly. And it's not "art" in the typical Burning Man sense of the word. It's a service. And we hope it can help. People deserve to be heard, and seen, and loved.
What's Next
Dec. 26, 2017
So a few weeks back we sent in a Letter of Intent for the Burning Man 2018 Honoraria, and we got an invitation to submit an official application! We're working on some changes for next year, including an expanded footprint to make room for more artifacts and displays, we're working on a more formal entrance, and we're going to have a real roof! Obviously it needs to be both wind and rain resistant, and attractive but not too fluffy. We always aim to keep the structure as simple as possible, partly for ease of construction, and partly because it's what's inside that really matters.
We're working away at creating a more detailed budget, refining our blueprints, and spreading the word about the project. The more voices the Museum can hold, the more power we have, the more we stand against the stigmas and misunderstandings around mental illness and mental health.
SOAK: How it All Went
Sept. 20, 2017
Well, after a year of planning, fretting, designing, consulting, building, collecting, freaking out, and putting it all together, we
made it to SOAK, and the Museum was more than I had even dared hope for. Over the year or more that we've been
planning and designing the Museum we tried to account for every possible reaction, tried to shape it in ways that
might cause upset, might cause some heavy duty processing, but NOT cause harm. Do No Harm was the priority from
the first moment, and that fear stayed with me throughout the event, fear that someone would be traumatized,
pushed too far, triggered into a dangerous place. I did everything I could think of to reduce the risk, from granting contributors anonymity to the color of lighting to making the doorway large enough that no one would feel trapped.
I spent hours sitting outside the Museum trying to.........guard it I suppose? Or really to guard the visitors. To try, without being invasive, to gauge people's reactions, to check and see how everyone was doing in there, if anyone looked like they might be in crisis and in need of assistance. I was ready to call a Green Dot any time, but it seemed there was no need.
From all that I saw, from all the conversations I had with visitors, I saw that all of that planning worked. There were tears for sure. Some had to sit on the bench and be alone with their thoughts for a while. Some had to look at one or two artifacts and then leave for a bit so as not to get overwhelmed by it all, then return later to see a few more. Some even came by, read the carefully crafted warning sign posted outside, and said, thoughtfully "You know, I've really been wanting to see this but I think I should come back later when I'm in a better space". We tried to anticipate everything, and after seeing the finished product I think we did it very well. But the one thing I did not anticipate was how many people would come out of the Museum and approach me and just begin telling a piece of their story to me. I'd expected some folks to be inspired to share inside the Museum, and many did, but I truly did not expect them to come to me personally.
And please don't misunderstand: It was not, in any way, a negative thing for me. Quite the opposite. I did not feel burdened, or overwhelmed, or freaked out by it. I wasn't shocked or disturbed. I was actually honored that some people saw what I'd built and felt inspired to not just share with me, but see me as someone who's safe to share with in the first place. That was beautiful, to be trusted in that way. I worked hard to maintain this project as a safe thing, a safe place to let go of secrets. I just didn't realize that I would also be seen, by a few, as a safe space. The whole point of the project was to give people space to say the things that our society tells us must not be said, must be kept hidden, in some dark corner where shameful things are kept. I wanted to fight that narrative, break through stigmas and misunderstandings, stimulate difficult conversations, create lines of communication for those who have been struggling in silence. And I think I, we, succeeded. Everyone who lent their voice to the space gave it that much more power.
