Over the last century, play has continuously been relegated to the realms of children or the frivolous. Why for so long have social norms taught us to strive to be rational, civilized, and to control ourselves? What is it about play that is disconcerting?
Gathering various creative perspectives, the series Radical Play considers play as an act of rebellion—a joyous method for learning, expressing oneself, forming empathetic connections, pushing boundaries, and reshaping our world.
Each contributor in this series invites people to play with them in their own unique way. Jamal Dixon sends music into the world and says, “Dance with me.” Ginger Brooks-Takahashi plays curiously with the natural world—and creates provocations for others to do the same. In their children’s books and drag readings, Lil Miss Hot Mess is playing with young humans and inviting them to join a parody of adulthood.
In the places and toys I’ve designed, I get to play with people all over the world and help them play with one another. Through that playing, we understand each other better. Playing together helps us see each other in ways otherwise elusive. You can spend years working with someone and not know them the way 20 minutes on the dance floor can illuminate. And yet, as adults, play is difficult to access. We feel vulnerable to judgment. We’re distracted by very real commitments to work and chores. Creating time and brain-space to just play is not a priority. I see play as an act of disobedience, or rebellion.
Play is pitted against:
Productivity: Do things that have universally understood value. Contribute as a worker.
Adulthood: Do things that are serious and practical. Practice restraint, control yourself.
But play doesn’t start as this. In childhood, it is how we (humans and many if not most animals) develop. It’s built into our instincts, along with its kin, curiosity, driving us to learn and grow. So while we are intuitively playing in order to learn and grow, we are simultaneously being taught to grow up, which largely means: stop playing. It’s confusing. I remember noticing this contradiction early in life. I had an internal drive to experience and explore by playing, while this external messaging was telling me I should not. Or, I should do so in designated spaces in defined time limits. In our cultural systems we learn to not play. School trains us to hold still, ignore playful instincts that might call us to joke with a friend or notice the birds outside. In both school and workplaces, laughter disrupts control—control of oneself, the hierarchy of the teacher, the institution, and the student. For me, daydreaming and a bouncing knee were rebellion.
Long before play is rebellion, however, it is a question: What happens when I do this? Play is in the unknown. It explores the question without concern for the answer. How else can I do that? Play is in all the ways a child tries to get across a stream without using the bridge. It’s falling in, hearing the splash, then doing it again because that splash was loud and felt good on your skin. And the jump felt good in your body. Your whole being lit up when you didn’t know if you’d have the courage to jump, and you did it. Again. And again, differently. And again.
The hard part is remembering who you were before you were taught not to play. And I don’t mean your inner child. That term implies a separate person—the child inside you—and I don’t think that’s a helpful way to think of it. Don’t play as them, play as you. I believe you are different than you were as a child, but you still have the tools you had as a 5-year-old; you’ve just forgotten how to use them. Maybe even forgotten they exist. But your playful self knows the tools are still there. If you can free yourself of the reasons not to play, maybe you’d play like you did when you were 5 or 10 years old. But probably not: you were a different person then. There will likely be throughlines and common themes in your childhood and adult play, since one informed the other. Still, what you need from play is different, as are your circumstances. And so will be your play.
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Illustration by Cas Holman, 2023. Courtesy of the artist. -
Illustration by Cas Holman, 2023. Courtesy of the artist. -
Illustration by Cas Holman, 2023. Courtesy of the artist. -
Illustration by Cas Holman, 2023. Courtesy of the artist.
One thing most of us gain from our years of schooling is what I call an “adult voice.” This is an inner dialogue, the rational voice in your head that tells you how to act: Don’t embarrass yourself. Sit up straight. Hold still. This might be one voice of many, like your conscience, and likely a few others. I find mine to be uptight and boring, but I recognize that it is trying to protect me. Afterall, without it I would not have made it through school, those 12 years of training for becoming adult. Our adult voice doesn’t want to get sent to the principal’s office, or laughed at for not being cool and acting like the older kids. It wants good grades. It wants to know the answers and make sure everyone else knows you know the answers. In my own inner dialogue, I have both adult voice and its nemesis: play voice. This is the one that seeks to get me in trouble. It dares me to roll down that beautiful grassy slope. It wants to nudge a coworker in a meeting or pass a stupid joke as a secret note. Most things my play voice wants to do are utterly pointless, and that is exactly the point. Play is disobedient, so the more rules that exist in a place, the more likely I am to want to play there. When I enter an office of serious conduct, my play voice immediately wants to shake it up.
Listen to your play voice. Its ideas might be liberating and important. If not fun.▪︎
Explore the full range of articles included in Radical Play below or here.