Feature Article on Corinne Rich
Corinne is on stage in front of a 300 or so audience. She doesn’t quite have a speech prepared, just a story. A story about the time she had to cut off her long hair after a chemical spill in a wine –making facility in Australia when she was 24. A story about coming to terms with her identity.
At the time of her interview, Corinne Rich lost her voice. She lost it after a weekend with friends and classmates in Anderson Valley. They drank merrily, left the sleepy town of Davis for the pastoral oasis fit for future winemakers. Two of her friends decided at the end of the weekend to get married. So it’s safe to say, the two-day getaway two hours northwest was a success. She lost her voice the way you want to lose your voice, if one was pressed to choose. The hoarse murmur that is emitted from her mouth, the only sound she can muster in between hollow coughs and sips of Chamomile, is a product of that success. Her voice, or lack thereof, is a good thing.
But it’s not an entirely good or fun consequence to lose your voice when it is your tool, part of your identity, part of the thing that drives you. Corinne is in her second quarter at Davis in the Viticulture and Ecology masters program. Wine and beer are her jobs. Drinking for others is a hobby. But for Corinne and her classmates, they take pride in understanding the chemical composition of the wines and beers that other college students drink as more of a means to an end than for an appreciation and understanding.
One night in 2014, after enjoying some beers with friends, Corinne and her group went to the Fremont Abbey Arts Center in Seattle to see a showcase of “The Moth.” They went to the basement of an old home to take part in the archaic tradition of storytelling. “The Moth” visits cities across the U.S. It is a time for people of all walks of life to revel in the stories we each carry in us. Each night is related to a theme. This time the theme was “Identity.”
On the night of her first “Moth” performance, Corinne didn’t prepare anything beforehand. She was more concerned about enjoying the company of her friends and the speakers she’d hear perform. However, the combination of peer pressure and alcohol brought her to scribble her name on a sheet of paper and toss it into the hat.
Typically, 10 people are chosen from the hat to perform. In a crowd of 300, how likely would it be that Corinne would even have to perform? How likely would it be that she’d chose to put her name on a night when few people would even sign up? She rationalized with herself and her group of friends that they wouldn’t even call her name. That the suggestion was all done in vain.
Other than the Penn Monologue performances she had under her belt from her undergrad years, Corinne was not a seasoned storyteller. Much less to a crowd of around 300, consisting mostly of storytellers or storyteller lovers. She was more of the latter: enjoying, watching, immersing herself in “The Moth” culture and “The Moth” experience.
“I always tell people that I am an emotionally healthy person because of ‘The Moth.’” Corinne says as she coddles her Chamomile tea and takes long sips.
Normally, Corinne’s voice is commanding. I met her at Trader Joe’s where we both work as crew members in the fall of last year. She transferred to our store around the time I was coming back from a summer break in my hometown. I saw her walking towards the banana stand as I grabbed a few avocados for dinner that night, but I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself until the following day. Our first conversation was in the fresh section. As we stacked blueberries and salad mixes on the shelf, she told me about the tattoo on the inner side of her wrist that she got on a whim in a trip to Bali. It was a triangle. It meant nothing and everything at the same time. Mostly, it was just for fun. For an experience. We discussed music, podcasts, travel. She could effortlessly move between conversation points and pose interesting anecdotes. I tried to catch up, but felt like I did not measure up in life experience or gravitas. I did not have meaningless meaningful tattoos. While we were in the grocery section together, she told me about the time she won “The Moth” showcase in Seattle.
“Do you want to listen to it sometime? I can send it to you,” she said while stacking a rectangular carton of pumpkin spiced mix bread in her hands.
In a small, quaint college town, Corinne has an effortless worldliness about her, having traveled all over Europe and parts of Asia, worked in Australia, and gone to school in the East coast. She is tall, standing at a near 6 feet, yet walks in humble strides, alongside her shorter, less height inclined friends.
Corinne sent me audio of her performance while I was procrastinating for a paper that was due the following morning. She had sent me a string of other “Moth” performances to watch on YouTube. One woman discussed losing her virginity in her late 20s after leaving her Mormon faith. Another man discussed having a sexual relationship with a woman who watched him on the kid’s television program, “Blue’s Clues.” These stories were powerful and interesting and alive.
I hadn’t heard of “The Moth” before meeting Corinne, but I gathered it was important to her. Aside from school, worldly pursuits, “The Moth” contained a part of her heart.
“There’s a difference between thinking and saying something to yourself than actually narrating it to others,” she said as she described ways in which “The Moth” changed her.
I opened the file that she entitled, “The Moth” and pressed play.
Corinne has an instinct for inflections. She knows when to pause, let the audience in on the secrets, in on the open spaces for thought, in on moments of reflection. She’s won twice for a reason. Even though she let me in on something that would put her fellow storytellers to shame. She’s never written her stories beforehand. While most other “Moth” contributors write their scripts, rehearse, rewrite, rehearse again, toss it all in the trash and start from scratch. The day she performed for the first time all she had was a story. A story that she had to tell the 300 or so audience in front of her.
I could hear the bustling nervous energy and excitement coming for my headphones. Only 8 people signed up to perform, Corinne was 6th on the list.
The host announces, “Please welcome Corinne Rich to the stage” with an enthusiasm that reminds me of a televised game show host.
Corinne immediately makes a joke for the crowd. They are in her grasp, in her story, enthralled in her voice. The booming, captivating voice. She describes the experience of having to chop off her long locks when it was badly damaged in the wine-making facility she was working in. She describes how her hair was part of an idea of her femininity, a part of her she struggled to grapple with as a young lesbian. The delusion of that identity was finally gone as the hairdresser chopped off what was left of a gender female binary that Corinne attached herself to.
In cutting her hair and telling her narrative in front of a crowd, mostly of strangers, Corinne Rich felt more like herself. There was power in that moment. Power in recognizing the full circle realization of her identity that took her places: east coast, Australia, Seattle, the Trader Joe’s in Davis.
Corinne doesn’t know what her next story will be about. She knows that the next time “The Moth” will be in town is in June. Most themes around that time are centered around Father’s Day. Having lost her dad ten years ago, she doesn’t know if she’s ready to tell that story yet. Grappling with that identity is still in motion. What she does know is how forming her story is part of the journey, part of accepting the reality of a thing that she may not be able to accept otherwise.
“Going up there, takes courage,” she says with her eyes and her voice.
Corinne’s hair is short now. It’s cut, styled, tousled in a “boy” cut underneath a baseball cap for a sports team that she likely has impartial feelings towards. A few days after we meet, her voice is coming back. The physical remnants of her weekend away are slowly fizzling. But the hair, the voice, the looming presence is nothing without the acceptance she has for herself from the time her identity was true. Like the time she went on stage in front of 300 or so.