Yuen: What improv can teach us about living with uncertainty

King Kong, Rainbow Dash and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer are crammed into a make-believe taxicab, heading to their next destination. The people playing these characters are young adults who are on the autism spectrum or have other special needs.

Howling with laughter, they spend the hour riffing off one another while practicing the sacred rule of improv comedy:

Yes, and...

"Yes" amounts to acceptance and empathy for another person's idea, no matter how off the wall you think it is. "And" represents you building upon that idea, fostering communication and collaboration.

That's how a story circle, in which each participant utters just one word at a time, can produce a tale about a cat who lived in despair and was greeted by a half-naked magic weasel.

"It can go from crazy to crazy, and take a turn you never thought possible," said Hunter Hunstad, a 20-year-old student from Maplewood who has Asperger's syndrome and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. "You never know what's around the next corner, which is a lot like life."

I met Hunter and his classmates at the Next Step Transition Program in North St. Paul. The program equips 18- to 21-year-olds with independent living skills and job training as they make the sometimes scary leap from the special education services they received in K-12 schools to the realities of adulting.

But when MNprov teacher Michael Bruckmueller leads a class, his students learn that it's OK to go with the flow and make mistakes. They laugh, fix it and move on.

"It's a sneaky way of teaching," said Bruckmueller, who also is director of education at ComedySportz Twin Cities, which has a partnership with the Autism Society of Minnesota. "You're laughing and having a really good time, but you're working on other things, like listening to each other, accepting and supporting each other, and building confidence."

He and Kelly Kautz, a former special education teacher who retired from Minnetonka Public Schools, co-founded MNProv in 2019. They also teach improv to special-ed teachers so that the educators can bring these same high-energy games to their students.

Kautz is adamant that youth on the spectrum do not need to be "fixed." The goal is not to make them neurotypical, but to give them skills that would benefit all students.

"We're saying we accept what you have to offer and who you are, and we want you to embrace those skills and use them the best way you can," she said.

It's why Next Step student Beth Nielsen, 19, of Woodbury relishes playing the games in class. "It helps my mental health and makes me feel relaxed," she said. "I had bad thoughts, but this has helped me calm down."

Nicole Hunstad, Hunter's mom, said improv has given her son the tools to leave his fears about social interactions behind. Before he started taking the weekly class, he wouldn't venture into the living room when relatives came over.

"He would hide in his bedroom," she recalled. "Now he's actually starting conversations. It's like he's coming out of his shell at the age at 20."

Research has shown that improv is linked to psychological benefits, such as reduced social anxiety among adolescents. Minnesota is not the only place pairing improv instructors with neurodiverse groups of learners. The Second City in Chicago offers workshops to teens and adults on the spectrum. Indiana University runs a summer program called Camp Yes And.

Improv, it turns out, is not a bad survival skill for this period of pandemic uncertainty. Unsettling changes to our routines and traditions are still part of the world we live in. But if I've learned anything from these young, vibrant and quick-witted people in North St. Paul, it's that we humans are capable of rolling with some of the chaos — and even laughing about it.

Bear with me, because it's tricky to explain, but it involves two people. The first person starts miming an activity, like bowling. Their partner asks, "What are you doing?" The individual responds with something they are clearly not doing — like playing the cello.

That ability to execute two typically dissonant tasks — like rubbing your stomach in circles while patting the top of your head — feels a lot like life these days.

What am I doing? Working. While caring for a preschooler whose class was shut down by the virus.

What are you doing? Taking a Zoom call. While glimpsing a text from a friend who just tested positive.

Repeat after me: