Rather than getting dressed up and walking around the neighborhood, blending with children of all ages, reveling in their delights, and soaking up vicarious thrills and chills, I was stuck in class last night. Monday is a school night for me and ditching class for Halloween is a no-no. Mostly because I’m a big nerd, but also because…well, really just because I’m a big nerd.
Driving home from Harvard Square, I passed several Trick-or-Treaters wandering aimlessly in a sugary daze. Their costumes were great. Silly, obvious, creative, esoteric, nonsensical, and beautiful. It reminded me of a class from a few weeks back. We were discussing Shakespeare (as one is wont to do in a class on Shakespeare). Specifically, we were discussing the concept of character in Shakespeare.
Characters, in Shakespeare’s time, were letters on a page. They were symbols and hieroglyphs. The Bard used the word character as a simile for handwriting. There was no concept of character as we know it, as a person, persona, or personality. There were plays, and there were parts. And there were actors to act them. It’s like that great scene stealing moment in Shakespeare in Love (yes, I am going to make a goofy but apropos pop culture reference) when Ben Afflect (yes, really, Ben Affleck) struts into the theatre and demands, “What is the play, and what is my part?” Plays and parts. “All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players.” (Shakespeare said that in As You Like It, Act II, Scene 7.)
Halloween is about parts and playing and costumes. That reminded me of a recent chat with a friend about her daughter playing dress up. We reminisced about our own childhood dress-up days. I remembered walking around in my mother’s high heels, pretending to strut in front of her tall mirror while throwing shawls over my shoulder and wrapping scarves around my neck.
And then we talked about my friend’s new volunteer position, the first formal work she’s done since having two kids. We talked about how strange it was for her to get dressed to go to the opening event in her official capacity. She wanted to make a good impression, one that screamed, “I’m not just a stay-at-home mom! I belong here!” She needed to look smart and artsy, professional but not boring, memorable for the right reasons. I could relate. Every morning I think, Who am I going to be today: artsy, professional, fun, silly, serious, an eclectic combination of those characteristics, or will jeans and a sweater do?
My friend and I talked as most of us talk about our jobs and our lives, our personalities and our roles in terms of the clothes we wear. We claim to put on different hats. They say, The clothes make the man. Dress for the job you want. We don costumes every day. Those costumes reflect our characters. For some people, this is a simple decision: same costume, different day. For others of us, the costume changes with a mood, our plans, with the weather. Some of us dress for whatever role is most important to us on a given day. With so many varying roles to choose from—sister, daughter, friend, neighbor, niece, wing-woman, wife, partner, consultant, designer, godmother, confidante, pal, athlete, scholar, professional—the changes in costume can be more dramatic. Each of these characters has its own wants and needs and ways of expressing itself, making these roles tough to balance in the best of times.
In tough times, when the push and pull of competing roles gets overwhelming, it’s helpful to have a sturdy shoulder to, hmmm, not cry on exactly, but rest on. I took advantage of a friend’s shoulder a few months back. (It was a four funerals and a wedding kind of summer.) The Shoulder I chose was very supportive. It allowed me to play my Needy Friend, Seeking Advice role. As the need passed, I shrugged off the empathy on offer. Summer turned to fall. The weather changed. My wardrobe changed, and so did my attitude. School started anew. When The Shoulder suggested (the very same evening of the lecture on character) that my stress was due to a “situation” that needed to be “resolved” so I could fix the “fragmented aspects” of my life, I realized suddenly that there was nothing to fret over. I thanked The Shoulder for his kindness and explained that I was okay. Better than okay, in fact. I was good. I wasn’t Humpty Dumpty. I didn’t need horses or men or glue to put me back together again. Because nothing was broken. Each role we play is a part of us. I can change my costume and still be me. I bet you can too.
I said to The Shoulder, perhaps it’s best to think of life this way. We are all men and women of parts. The parts are what make us whole.
Visualizing Shakespeare 