If you ask most children what being a grown-up looks like, chances are most would say at least some of the following: job, marriage, family, house, car, dog/cat/goldfish… That’s what society trains us to believe from a young age, so it’s no surprise that if we don’t fit into that box, we’re deemed – by both others and ourselves – to have somehow failed.
This seems particularly true in relation to the marriage and babies part, and because of the idea of a “biological clock”, it’s almost always women who take the brunt of the judgment. At my friend’s wedding a couple of years ago, as the only single member of the wedding party, I fielded questions from no less than three people (all of whom I’d only just met) as to why I was there alone – and as a bonus, a helpful reminder from the bride’s mum that I should probably get a move on.
I feel like Jess, the character in Lydia Rynne’s Hear Me Howl, would sympathise with that experience. She’s about to turn 30, and has been in a relationship for years with a very lovable guy. So naturally she faces frequent pressure from family and friends to take the next step, whether that’s marriage or babies, because after all, she’s “not getting any younger”. The only problem is that Jess doesn’t really want to take that step, so it’s no surprise that when she discovers she’s pregnant, she freaks out quite dramatically. A week later, she’s joined a post-punk band, thrown out most of her clothes, attended her first protest and even appeared on the news – and all the while, she knows she has a huge, life-changing decision to make.
There’s plenty of humour in the one-woman show, which is beautifully performed with energy and unflinching conviction by Alice Pitt-Carter, but we’re also very aware that what we’re watching is much more than simply a woman having a meltdown. What we’re seeing is the dawning, liberating realisation not only that Jess doesn’t want to be a mother, but that she doesn’t need to be. She’s spent the last twelve years conforming to what society expects – boring job, nice boyfriend, rented flat, hair-free armpits – and is only now beginning to understand those are just a few of the options open to her.
This produces a conflicting set of emotions for the audience; it’s exhilarating to see Jess take her first steps towards figuring out who she really wants to be, but also depressing because it took a crisis – not to mention twelve years – for her to realise she even had that option. We see her grappling with the idea that not wanting a baby makes her selfish, or that she’s somehow failing in her womanly duty to continue the human race, even though she knows it wouldn’t make her happy – and to see another woman go through that turmoil is infuriating.
Throughout the 70-minute show, director Kay Michael ensures we’re always aware of the drum kit that sits centre stage, as Jess hovers around it, her hands never far from the drumsticks she’s clearly itching to use. And when she finally takes her place behind the kit at the end of the show, she’s drumming not only for herself, but for every woman who’s ever felt unable to live the life she wants for fear of judgment. You may at this point want to use the earplugs provided at the box office; personally I wanted to experience every beat of her performance.
Can’t see the map on iPhone? Try turning your phone to landscape and that should sort it. I don’t know why but I’m working on it… 😉