For context, here’s a brief painting of the moment -  the final examination, the ex went and what I took from it. I had chosen the writing centre where I am a tutor for the writers' workshops. I rearranged the chairs in a U shape with a couch conjoining them to resemble a table read. I invited friends and classmates—since I write for my own age demographic and, honestly, to distance myself from the tension. I made booklets and handouts. The crowd stackers showed up on time, and the examining board was delayed, so I had time to warm them up. While my friends and I waited, I gave them booklets—some of them paid, others promised to give them back after the reading and buy them from me later.

The aim of this reading was to illustrate my hero's journey as an editor, writer, teacher, and art student through the metaphor of the shoebox and the bird that I have laid out for you on this website. Guise, the vibes were off. I felt the room go tense before the examining committee filed in. And when I say tension, I mean collar-pulling, big gulp, thick drop of sweat on the forehead tense. I read. I talked until I felt it was too tense to speak. So I did what I usually do when this happens in my writing workshops or what I've seen my dance coach do. I called attention to the tension in a jokey way, but that didn’t help.

Suddenly, sitting on that couch, I was back in my third-year body being told my writing had no place in a visual language course or that I deserved to fail so hard my head spun to teach me work ethic because things come too easily for me. I was reduced to that second year who noticed a pattern that the powers that be were hell-bent on misinterpreting my art. I remember the feeling of 'it's happening again.' I kept talking. Truth be told, I don’t remember what I said, but from the feedback, it sounds like I retreated. From my friends' feedback, I did well. I read the readings, but honestly, I think what happened was subconsciously I thought, 'If they aren’t giving me grace now, then what are they going to do to my darling baby bird, Moyé?'

The second the examiners left, my friends lightened up. They told me the "why is the vibe so low" joke was pretty funny in my usual naked humour that resonates with my  Gen-Z target audience, and I read well. They made references to the parts they liked and wanted to laugh at but felt they couldn’t. I asked them where this energy was during the main reading, and the general consensus was, "Hey man, they make us just as tense as they make you." "They kinda scare me a little. If I was you, I honestly would've started crying, so good job." I thanked them still. If I had been alone in that room, I would have stopped speaking altogether.

My feedback was clear, fair, and honest. Strengths were highlighted, and my weaknesses were given structured ways to improve on. But I felt as if I was missing something that was right in front of my face that was keeping me from feeling a sense of resolve for this experiment. I felt like I couldn’t even absorb the feedback because I needed to understand this thing first before the feedback sunk in. It was something in the subtext of the feedback, something in the subtext of that room. So I took the feedback advice and went to a performer to gain some perspective, and it worked. Moyé's resident theatre performer, Theo, told me things I needed to hear. Amongst these things, he said, "When you're performing alone, you have all of the control; therefore, you feel like they have all the control." [paraphrased] "So your power can be taken away easily as well because you’re sensitive to the crowd, and you tend to make mistakes." It was that word he used: power. And by George, I think he got it. All this time I thought I was investigating the way my identities were operating, but really what I was investigating was power dynamics and, in turn, fear, and what effects they had on me.

Fear: Burned by past critique, I was afraid to give criticism to my staff until they asked, compromising my job as an editor. The same fear of being purposefully misunderstood or receiving tactless criticism again kept me from making Moyé my main practice and priority. Afraid of the same misinterpretation, I retreated in my performance. I find fruitfulness in power as well, the ability to manifest my thoughts, articulate them in the written word gives me an agency that I can not give up  .