26. Rituals – Priya Parker
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about collective rituals—how they shape us, how they mark time, how they help foster identity and belonging.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about collective rituals—how they shape us, how they mark time, how they help foster identity and belonging. I’ve been moved by the rise of collective clapping in New York and singing in Italy and conch-blowing in India to honor first responders. And this outburst of collective rituals has been bringing up memories of other collective rituals that have shaped me long after they passed.
One such ritual for me was playing softball throughout my childhood, particularly the chants from the dugout.
After a turn on the field, we’d rush into the dugout, and someone would start a chant. And we were “allowed” to be loud, to jeer, to scream, to chest-beat, to explicitly intimidate. Sometimes it was for your own team member.
Way to watch it, way to way to watch it, way to watch it, way to watch the ball. Other times is was braggadocio. We are the best. Better than all the rest. And sometimes, it was threatening. Went by the river. Had a little talk. Threw them in the river. Let them nearly drown. We’d take turns chanting, leading cheers and following cheers. We’d practice being loud and being soft. We’d laugh and we’d jeer and we’d use our voices in a thousand different ways – together. And often, the stronger the chants were, the better we’d do at bat.
It was the only place (in my life) where I could practice using my voice and be gritty and aggressive and brag—and do it collectively. It was only years later did I begin to realize how much shouting those chants—with my teammates, over and over again—shaped my voice and my deeper understanding of all the ways one can be a woman.
– Priya Parker
Prompt:
What’s a memory of a collective ritual, inherited or invented, that was meaningful or for formative to some part of your identity? Write about it. Who was there? What was the activity? What were the words that were used? What time of year was it? How did it make you feel? And years later, how might it have shaped you.
Anonymous
A few different ideas rapidly cycled through my head for this one, but I quickly and easily settled on running races, specifically all the rituals that happen before the gun goes off. There are post-race rituals too, but they are less collective because everyone staggers in and leaves at different times. And I’m happy/grateful for this prompt because as we near the end of this project, I feel I’ve covered most of the people, activities, and experiences that are important to me except for running, so I’m very excited to have this prompt as a lens for talking about my love of the sport.
The first race I participated in at the start of my adult racing stage with the NYC Half Marathon on March 16, 2014 - my 24th birthday. I ran it with Team in Training for Jamie. It was the first time I experienced the collective ritual of running races and everything was new and kind of scary. And talk about “collective” - maybe 20,000, 25,000 people ran that race and lined up at the start? I’m thankful I had my coaches there to talk me through, and also Maya to keep me company and run the whole race with. When you’re not experienced with racing, going through all those pre-race steps can be daunting, especially on such a large scale. There’s bag drop, portapotties, finding your wave and corral, the pump-up music, national anthem, and starting gun. I think Maya and I were so far back, I didn’t even hear the anthem or the gun for that first race. I was so nervous, and so focused on Jamie, that I don’t remember many of the details about that race ritual. But what I do remember is the energy, and excitement, and the fact that I couldn’t wipe a smile off my face even though it was 30 degrees at 6:00 in the morning. Two months later, Maya and I ran the Brooklyn Half together and PR’d again, and I remember much more about the pre-race collective ritual from that race because the stakes were so much lower - it was just for fun. I remember feeling calmer about the whole thing, and proud of the sense of familiarity I had, like - “yeah, I’ve run a half before! I know how this goes!” The Brooklyn Half has almost 50,000 runners, I think! Super collective!
Most of the races I’ve run since then have been on my own at the start, except for a recent couple with JG. When I’m running on my own, the collectiveness of everything has a more powerful impact on me. By nature, running is a relatively solo sport. Even if you’re training with a team, it’s not for every workout, and you still don’t have to coordinate strategies or run plays with other people like in most other team sports. For most of us, as adults not competing, there aren’t opportunities to perform your sport in front of a crowd who’s cheering for you; or even with other runners who have the same passion as you. So I think that’s what makes races so much more special than baseball games or football games or anything like that. Runners have a chance to just be around each other, and we don’t need to talk or interact to feel the presence, and the energy. For me, with the frequency that I run races, it’s regular enough to be familiar with the collective ritual of it, and feel comforted and “at home” participating in it, but not so often that it loses the electricity and excitement. Even when I’m running alone and have no one cheering for me on the course or waiting at the finish, it’s still an incredibly powerful experience to be one person among the collective. And it’s not just including the other runners.
For me, so much of the collective experience involves spectators, volunteers, SAG stations, signs, all of it. I love all of it. And I’m so lucky because even when I ran my COVID solo half on the 4th for Jamie, I have friends who helped create a slice of that collective experience for me, and make it feel special like a race, and not just any old long run. They had signs, and water I stashed, and cheers, and energy and excitement and it was so much fun. So here’s to the power of collective rituals. :-)
Danielle Leventhal
Location: Rye, NY
About: I'm a 26 year-old artist who procrastinates my painting practice by writing. My nostalgia for Halloween is unshakable.
Age: 26
Halloween on Taconic Road was an enchanted ritual in my life. In my old neighborhood, the residents used to decide whose turn it was to throw the annual Halloween party. Parents would walk their costumed kids to the chosen house of the year to kick off the night. They’d drink together, or do whatever adults do, while the kids would eat pumpkin stamped cookies and chocolate spiders, stretching our stomachs for the candy to come. After the party, my mom would go back to the house to prepare for trick or treaters, and my dad would usher my brother and me, clad in the creative costumes we’d pieced together (also very, very important to me and usually planned the summer before) out into the wild streets of Millwood, NY.
Our street was a circle, way up in the woods. It was the epitome of a chilling, dark, secluded Halloween neighborhood, with tall looming trees lining each step on the road. The houses were all hidden by hills of dense thicket, but we knew where the driveways began. Stories of the unlit houses always grew scarier by the year; we avoided them until one prankster had the guts to ring their doorbells and run away. My brother and I each had a flashlight and a bucket, which I usually found a way to disguise as part of my costume (a red-checkered lined basket for Little Red Riding Hood, a giant acorn when the squirrel, a top secret satchel for Nancy Drew). Walking in the crisp night with my neighbors, brother and dad, watching my steps on the pavement and marveling as I looked down at my carefully disguised identity is such a memory of pure, unadulterated joy.
When I was in 8th grade, I decided to venture out onto Random Farms for the holiday, a fancier street where all the “cool” kids and high schoolers went. Parties littered each giant house’s front lawn, kids jeering and drinking. I wanted to be with my friends that year—we dressed up together and I couldn’t stand the idea of ruining our group-themed costumes by straying—but I so missed Taconic Road. After about 20 minutes of avoiding mobs of monstrous teens in between each doorbell, I realized I was not comfortable there. My mom picked me up and I was home even before my brother and dad. Candy-less but still costumed, I sat in the stark lighting of my house while the trick or treaters continued to ring our bell.
That year marked the end of my ritual of trick or treating with my family in our own neighborhood. I still dressed up but tried to be with friends, always to find myself disappointed at a party with drunken, barely costumed teenagers. Finally, my junior year of high school, I decided to stay home and dress up as myself, answering the door for the little kids that were out living my dream. The neighborhood party had dwindled to a few families at that point, and I don’t think the party tradition lived beyond that year. Or at least, the kids on the block that I knew all grew up and moved away.
Each year I still have high hopes and daydreams leading up to my Halloween plans, but I always go home (wherever that may be) feeling defeated and empty. It wasn’t a ritual that I was old enough to consciously savor or even really remember distinctly each year, but it was one that’s engrained in my being. I wonder what type of Halloween as an adult could top Taconic Road. Perhaps becoming a parent myself and trick or treating with my own costumed kids one day. Why can’t there be an in between phase of young adults who dress up and take trick or treating very seriously? I’d invite myself to that party in a heartbeat, and I’d be there with bells, and ears, and face-paint on.
Kaitlyn Burrows
Location: Brooklyn, NY
About: My focus has drastically changed over the past couple months, shifting from self-care and introspection to public protesting and mass education of racial oppression. I chose to submit two entries from the early days of journaling because upon re-reading them, they felt so faraway and yet the prompts and words still held relevancy and truth. I find collective rituals even more fiercely affecting now, and photo reflection even more important.
Age: 31
Backstage
Growing up, I spent most weeknights in a dance studio, which had its own share of collective rituals, but the feeling of adrenaline and excitement experienced right before stepping on stage for a competitive team performance is unrivaled. A feeling of pure camaraderie. Each individual; an active and important participant; all for one, one for all.
The most recent memory of this event was my junior year of college, as captain of my school’s dance team, standing on the right side of the bandshell in Daytona Beach Florida for the National Dance Alliance competition. 18 years of dance experience behind me, all the hard work, late nights and early mornings training for this moment; yet none of that moment was about me. Standing in a circle, arms interlocked and hands clasped to keep our bodies physically planted on the ground as our combined energy was almost too much to contain, we were instantly reminded of our connection. Looking around the circle, meeting eyes with each young woman; some I had shared almost every meal with over the three years leading up to this point. Girls I complained to about school work; whispered to about boys on the 6th floor, and laughed with endlessly while adventuring around campus finding unique ways to entertain ourselves. Some girls I had barely known; girls with different tastes in music, girls who came from stabler homes, girls who preferred tea to tequila, girls who dreamt of having families when they graduated. A variety of beautiful young women, connected through dance. We were reminded of our shared hatred of running laps around the convocation center at 7am in the middle of winter and our shared love for off-the-clock improv while we waited for evening practices to start. We were bonded through our dehumanizing freshman initiation that we all loathed at the time but craved to cast on the next batch of unsuspecting dancers. Our beer-less tailgates before football game performances and one-dollar hotdogs before basketball game half-time shows. Together, we had supported the male-dominated, income-driving sports from the sidelines. Now it was our turn. None of our classmates made the trip to Florida and very few family members would be in the crowd cheering us on, but we didn’t need anyone to make us feel special, because we had each other. With all our differences, we built a family, an unlikely but unrelenting bond.
Seeing the eager, almost deliriously happy but nervous expressions on the faces of these girls that had transformed into nationally ranked performers was awe-inspiring. Older girls took turns shouting encouraging phrases and routine reminders. Inside jokes from our long practices were tossed about the circle, every word falling into the cauldron between our lived-in jazz shoes with heat rising from our growing jitters and a need to execute our long-practiced movements. I don’t remember the verbatim of what I said that day. It’s often harder to remember the specifics of impassioned words, versus those practiced. This was a stream of barely-consciousness. I’m sure it started with some mnemonic designed to calm the nerves and remind us that we knew exactly what we were doing; we were prepared. I’m sure it was spoken with vigor. And I’m positive that it ended with a message of love. I love you all more in this moment than I can understand. That’s the thing with rituals. They’re not just solemn; they’re deeply personal. They connect you at the core, at the unknown, the un-controlled.
That backstage ceremony was bigger than the performance. We did well, but the routine was quick and happening, with little time to take it all in. It was the exhale. The release of the amassed and perfected activities that brought us where we were. The chanting ritual before the performance was hunger. It was the recognition of our shared connection, our respect for each other and dreams for each other. We wanted everyone to succeed and to feel transcendent.
I’m realizing more as I grow, and particularly during this pandemic, how much this once-annual collective ritual shaped who I am. I’m not particularly extroverted and, in fact, have guiltily enjoyed some of the pleasures of not having to attend things I otherwise would have, but I yearn for the deep connection that is only felt through shared, impassioned goals. I look forward to the days when my adult softball team will rejoin to fight together for the summer-league championship and I hope that we’ll be able to sit around the decorated wooden table at my mom’s house this fall for our annual Thanksgiving binge.
But for now, I am at a loss for words each night on the steps of my rented Brooklyn brownstone at 7pm, breathing it all in. A small boy banging pots and pans to my right, claps and whistles and purposeful panic buttons to set off car alarms. Shouts from windows across the street and masked bikers giddily slapping their thighs. Crawling back into my apartment minutes later with wet eyes and a heavy chest, I feel so grateful that New York City has embraced a collective ritual of honoring our heroes. And until we can celebrate for them and with them, we will continue to hold our nightly ritual, feeling camaraderie and connection and inspiration.
Katlyn McGraw
Location: Louisville, Kentucky
About: Dumpster diving with my father brought me a lot of shame as a young person. Like most kids, I was extremely embarrassed by my parents. Now I recognize how dumpster diving helped form many of my own values and opinions.
Age: 34
This isn’t so much a collective ritual but a family ritual of dumpster diving. We dreaded the days my father would pick us up from school because that meant we had to ‘make stops’. These stops included about 5 to 7 big box or grocery stores for dumpster finding. Particularly produce and food past the sell by date. We used it to feed our livestock. Sometimes we used it to feed ourselves. Mostly we didn’t have to be bothered by the dumpster diving, but if there was something particularly hard to reach, one of us smaller kids would have to jump in. We would go from stop to stop gathering edible refuse. Sometimes the stops changed based on accessibility, like if my dad had been locked out of the dumpster. After our stops, we would return home to unload the truck. We would take large shovels and guide them down the rivets of the truck bed and out onto the ground where cows and horses and goats would feast. I recall this as a formative collective ritual. It was a formative ritual in so many ways because for one, it made me realize we were different. I saw every day the amount of food wasted by large corporations while people went hungry in the streets. I witnessed my father cheat the system and completely support his hobbies of farming. And because of this I saw capitalism at its best and worst.
