The Opposite of Fear

When I leave work the night before the new Bruce Lee exhibit opens, the sound for the interactive in the main gallery space still isn’t working. The tech guy has gone home, and people from the out-of-town design team are up on ladders, FaceTiming their tech-savvy friends, saying things like, “No, I’m seeing two wires here – one is labeled XYZ, the other is OD7.” It doesn’t seem like another clueless, exhausted cook in the kitchen will do much good, so I head home to get some sleep before the Big Day.

It’s hard to sleep, though, because I keep thinking about that morning’s all-staff Zoom meeting, where we went over the plans for Friday’s member preview party and Saturday’s opening day festivities. There was a lot to go over: dignitaries, DJs, lion dancers, an aerialist, a photo booth with life-size Bruce Lee cutouts to pose with, wine and appetizers for guests, snacks for volunteers, and on and on. Friday night’s dress code would be party attire; the new staff t-shirts to be worn on Saturday were available at Cookie’s desk.  

I had been listening to the meeting on my phone as I hung the last photos up in the mezzanine gallery. When I finished there, I headed back downstairs to finish a sculptural installation of old hard-cover books, still tuned in through one earbud. The facilities director had one final agenda item. In light of ongoing anti-Asian sentiment and the increasing frequency of mass shootings, he wanted us to be prepared in case our exhibit events became a target of violence – so he had cued up an active shooter training video that he thought would be useful. I stopped outside the gallery to watch it on my phone. “It’s got some disturbing stuff in it, just to warn you,” said the facilities director, before he pressed play. 

And boy, did it ever. (This is your content warning too, dear reader – feel free to skip the next two paragraphs.)

The video is set in a crowded restaurant. A server is asking a young couple what they’d like to drink, when a fight breaks out at the bar. Suddenly there are gun shots, and everyone dives for the floor. People are screaming, tables are toppling – and the gunfire keeps coming.

As they cower, flee, and tend each other's wounds, the actors deliver advice to the camera. The server joins a stream of people bolting out into the street. “Running makes you harder to hit,” she pants. “If you can get to an exit, get out!” Back in the bar, the woman who had been ordering a drink is shooing a group of fellow patrons into a back room. “If your path to the exits is blocked,” she says, “find a place to hide. Lock and barricade the door.” She turns away to help move a filing cabinet, and we cut to the bartender, who is crouched behind the bar with a couple of other guys. He leans forward and whispers urgently, “We have no escape path, and the shooter knows we’re here. We’re preparing to fight as a last resort.” He hefts a fire extinguisher in one hand, turns to the guy next to him, and says, “Ready?” The video concludes with a quick recap of this grim decision tree: First choice: Run! Second choice: Hide! Third choice (and only if you’re out of other options): Fight! 

The video ended, and a grid of stunned, horrified faces appeared on my phone. I looked up to see our Exhibit Director, Jessica, standing in the doorway of the gallery, also with one earbud in, clearly shaken too. “Jesus Christ!” I hissed. “What the fuck was that?!” We stared at each other for a beat, realized we absolutely did not have time to process that particular trauma right now, and pivoted back to the exhibit punch list. Those images stayed with me, though – and came flooding back when I was laying in bed that night: the wounded woman, the sprinting server, the fire extinguisher in the bartender's hand.

When I arrive at the museum Friday morning, the sound in the gallery is working and Jessica is helping a television crew set up to film. We take turns testing the interactive, which allows you to step into a pool of projected water and have quotes from Bruce Lee’s favorite books appear at your feet, while words and images from his life pop up on the wall in front of you. I walk through the space, making sure nobody left a stray hammer on top of an exhibit case, or painters tape around a light switch. I have a running list of things we should have done and will hopefully find time to do next week (fix a typo, add gels to some lights, etc.), but I know we have done all we can for now. 

This final pass complete, I join the rest of the staff getting ready for the members’ event, which starts at 3 pm. People are setting up tables, printing signs, placing stanchions, running out to pick up food. There’s a jittery buzz in the air. The shooter video has added a surreal edge to our usual pre-exhibit excitement: The apocalypse is happening, and we are getting ready to hand out canapés.

Just after lunch an email goes out. The Executive Director wants us all at an impromptu meeting in the Welcome Hall at 2:30 – thirty minutes before the doors open. At 2:20 all the bathrooms are full of people getting into their party clothes; I duck into the media closet and change quickly, hoping nobody else has had the same idea. I arrive in the Welcome Hall to find my colleagues gathered; they are quiet, nervous, straightening their ties, fanning themselves with registration print-outs.

Joël, our Executive Director, steps forward into the circle and thanks us for being there. He says he wants to acknowledge that the video we all watched yesterday was really upsetting. He says he was still thinking about it while he was ironing his clothes last night. He knows it’s important for us to be prepared for such horrors, because that’s the reality we live in now. But he wants us to know that if we were shook by that video – if we’re still shook – we’re not alone.

And he wants to remind us that the opposite of fear isn’t the lack of threat, it’s the presence of connection. He wants us to stop for a moment to look around at our museum ohana (family), to feel that connection. I glance at the young woman on my left, a friend I’ve bonded with over motherhood, skating, and more, through the years. On my right is the intern, here for the summer, who helped me sort books yesterday and is now looking sharp in dark slacks and leather boots. 

Joël tells us it’s okay to be vulnerable with each other, to share our feelings about all the scary stuff, because that’s what gives us strength when we need it most. He says our ancestors were tough as nails, and we are too – as long as we remember who we are and where we came from. He ties it all to the exhibit, too, somehow conjuring up the spirit of Bruce Lee – that indefatigable philosopher warrior – to join our circle.

Then he teaches us a chant he learned in Hawai’i, where he lived before he came to us. It was taught to him by Hawaiians, and he assures us it’s appropriate for anyone to join. We will repeat the chat three times, he says. The first round is to connect us to the land, to feel rooted in the earth beneath our feet. The second connects us to our ancestors, drawing on the strength that carried them through so many hardships and traumas. The third round connects us to the wider universe – or whatever we call the spiritual power that’s bigger than us.  

And so we chant together. Each round goes up a key, and our voices rise up through the space over our heads, echoing through the chimes of the sculpture above us, through the halls of the museum, out into the world. When it’s over, we clap in unison. Several of us wipe away tears. And then – bam! – we’re back to running around with our hair on fire, getting ready for the doors to open.  

The whole thing takes no more than five minutes – maybe seven. But the world has been transformed. We are connected as a team – as a family. We have each other’s backs, come what may. We are vulnerable, and human, and tough as nails. Our ancestors are there with us. And they are proud. 

Saya Moriyasu's "Sweet Hello"