(Editor’s note: there’s a potential remount of “Fear…” in LA in Spring 2017. Be mindful if you don’t want to be spoiled.)

“I wish that I could die.”

That’s what the woman said. Bathed in a strange, sickly yellow light, she scribbled nonsensical squiggles into the notebook by her side, her hand already covered in rubbed off ink from notes long since taken. “I wish that I could let the tide roll over me,” she said, never once breaking eye contact with me as I squirmed ever-so-slightly in my seat. Strewn all over the desk between us, letters to somebody I’d never know called out for help, called out to be read and examined, each one begging to be understood — just like the woman sitting before me.

But apprehension — or was it fear — stopped me from doing or saying anything to help her. Apprehension prevented me from diving too deeply into the slowly festering realization in my stomach that her words were, not too long ago, my words, scrawled about in a chicken-scratch notebook of my own stashed securely in a dresser drawer elsewhere. Of course, I knew deep down inside that there was no way she dug into my private notebook to throw my words back at me. Emotionally, though? That was all I could think about.

Of all of the tools available in the immersive designer’s toolbox, fear is (arguably) the most potent, most powerful tool that can be brought to bear against a participant or guest. Fear speaks to our “lizard brains,” our most bare, stripped down instincts of “fight or flight,” and it is, oftentimes, the basis for our most visceral reactions.

This is something that Screenshot Productions, the creators of “Fear is What We Learned Here,” seem to know quite well, as they use fear to cultivate some of the most truly captivating moments within any immersive experience I’ve participated in as of late.

It is with these thoughts about fear and “fight or flight” that I entered the nondescript warehouse in the middle of San Francisco’s DoReMi Design and Arts District, which sits right alongside Bayview/Hunter’s Point, one of the more notoriously “dangerous” parts of the city. My steadily growing anxiety wasn’t helped by the fact that it was later in the night, long after any worker or commuter had already made haste to the closest bar. It didn’t help, either, that the beer I drank beforehand to “calm my nerves” rocketed me well past “calm” and landed me squarely in “all nerves” territory.

But perhaps more than any of these things, it was the overarching, ever-present, exhausting knowledge that we live in a political climate founded on terror that had me on edge. Knowing that this production was focused on the idea that “the personal is political,” I couldn’t help but wonder just how far into personal Screenshot would dare to tread.

They spell out as much as they could in the event’s description:

F I W W L H is a synesthetic immersive experience that explores the use of fear as a social framework for control. The experience challenges the individual to consider perceptions and ask what is necessary to subvert systems of manipulation.

And as you and I and all of us surely know by now, political parties on every side of the aisle in America (and the world) consider fear to be a part of their toolboxes, a way in which they can control and manipulate the governed into seeing and believing what they want them to see.

The woman finished her monologue. At that point, she reminded me (perhaps too much) of my own mother and the kinds of conversations we’d have in similarly dark rooms amongst similarly messy piles of letters and writing. And, just like my mother, she told me that everything is going to be fine. She told me that it will all be okay. She rose, and took me by the hand over to the velvet barrier between this world and the next. But before sending me through, she squeezed my hand and pulled me forward. She whispered in my ear three words that, throughout my entire life, have always managed to strike a chill spike of fear into my own heart:

“I love you.”

Considering the dizzying emotional rollercoaster I had just been on, the sight of a chair — albeit a wheelchair — was a strangely welcoming one. As I sat down, a man in a linen suit emerged from the inky darkness before me. He spoke —with a hint of a southern drawl — in the bombastic tongue that had come to define the sorts of faith healers and preachers that command legions of faithful fans on television and the internet.

As he spoke of Donald Trump and of how his election was the reward for faith, I found many of my own arguments and words to the contrary turn to ash in my own mouth. It didn’t help that I wasn’t sure how to interact — again, the previous experience with the woman at the desk left me wondering just how much agency I actually had in this experience.

Eventually he began to accuse me of losing the faith — it was, after all, why I was in the wheelchair. It was, according to him, why I lost my legs. But, as he explained, that was not how it had to be.

“I saw you come in here today, and God tickled my ear,” he said. “God said, you’re going to get this man to walk again.”

The conviction with which this pastor spoke and the words he used made me feel like I was watching a live, walking, talking Facebook comment: equal parts long, unwieldy, and (scariest of all) fanatical. That image was driven home by the fact that he had misgendered me; he flagged me as male, when in fact I am not. And it was here, at this point, that I admit I began to dissociate from everything that was going on.

This man, who, to many, may seem more like a caricature than a character, is actually the type of person I encounter in my every day life. As a trans woman who writes for the internet, diatribes and screeds like this one being spat out at me are par for the course. Heck, internet aside, existing as a trans woman out in the world often puts me in contact with such people, people so consumed with belief in their bigotry that they believe they’re “helping” me by calling me deluded or crazy.

I’d be lying if I said my fear about constantly running into these people didn’t define the life I live, down to the very route I take to get to the subway or the coffee shops I’ll frequent. I’m very well aware of the fear with which I live my life, and while most days I can reconcile this fear with my emotions, there are days where the fear is all I know.

And so, the lines between the production and the “real world” began to blur for me, and here, after the fact, I’m left to wonder: how much of this was on purpose? Did the actor, the man behind this character intend to misgender me as part of the act? Or did he simply not know, and thus flagged me incorrectly? If it was the former, then I think it was a smart play, for the very reasons I stated above. However, if it was the latter, then… well, I’m still not sure what to think.

All I knew was how it made me feel.

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The pastor grabbed my head, rocking it back and forth, intensifying the dissociating dizziness that would come to define the experience for me. He lifted me up, and as I took a few wobbly steps away from the chair, he began to praise God. In the same breath, he guided me again to another velvet curtain, and gently pushed me through to yet another world.

Thoughts and feelings about being misgendered began to fill my mind, and I found chest tightening with regret at not correcting the man. The anxiety took hold, and I found myself unable to focus on the new scene in front of me — a cart, bathed in light, covered in what may have been FBI or CIA documents.

It was a strange introduction, one that reminded me of the first “room” I’d entered on my journey, the one with the suicidal woman bathed in sulfuric yellow light. The cart and its documents seemed to be a fine bookend to what I’d later find out was the third and final “room” of “Fear is What We Learned Here.”

Before long, another light flickered on, and I’m shown what looks to be a woman in a box with a black mask over her head. Another man steps from the shadows, and he told me that I was brought in today because I was “the best” at “extracting information.” I could only furrow my brow and nod blearily as I tried to think about the scenario and where I was. He tries to get me to interrogate her — I stall. I play dumb, just a little bit.

“You want me to what?” I asked. “Question her. Get answers,” he said.

“Uh, wait, why again?”

The man sighed and he said, “Look, obviously you want me to do the talking here, so why don’t you take this rope and tie her up.”

I blinked. “You want me to… what, again?”

It was here where the worlds of immersive experiences, political control, and personal feeling all came crashing together.

I had a choice: tie the woman up or don’t. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to tie the interrogator up (or at least try to) instead. Every bit of me wanted to just flat-out refuse and stall until time was out. But I still carried over a bit of confusion from the last few “rooms” — was I playing a character? Was I playing me?

The woman spoke of somebody who always “overreacted,” who drove her to the verge of wanting to be dead. The pastor spoke of a man (I think) who lost his legs because he lacked faith. And here, I was somebody who was good at getting information out of people.

Was I three characters? Was I one? Was I none?

Moreover, how much of my confusion was a result of my thinking as an experience designer versus thinking as a participant or guest? In other words, was I overthinking this?

I stalled for time as long as I could, and I began to worry that I was actually delaying the entire production for the other guests behind me. I began to worry that I was “breaking” the immersion and annoying the performers. So racked with the anxiety and paranoia and guilt that comes with knowing what it’s like to be on the other side of the curtain, I complied, weakly, unhappily, disgustedly. I asked her if she was okay, and I tried my best to be gentle and tell her what I was going to do.

But before I could actually do anything, I was taken away by the man and led to another area. He lectured me along the way, saying it was wrong of me to do that, that I had no idea who he was, or who she was, or anything. I choked down my frustration with the conflicting, confusing information, not wanting to delay things further in a situation that already felt rushed.

I was blindfolded and led out through what felt like a long series of curtains to the outro: a computer opened to YouTube playing the same black and white montage I watched while lying in a bed at the beginning of the experience.

Since that Saturday, I’ve had a hard time trying to sort out how I feel about the experience. There were some genuine moments of paranoia and fear and worry, and from a design standpoint, what Screenshot was able to do with the space was stunning. The use of lighting and fog effects was masterful, and so was the sound design of the production as a whole.

All of the actors involved were excellent, and breathed astonishing life into the experience.

However, in speaking with others who underwent the experience, I learned that there were technical difficulties with the “torture” portion of the experience. Originally, the “woman in the box” was supposed to be a Milgram experiment where someone is asked to “shock” somebody based on information given to them by a third party.

I have no qualms in saying that I would have outright refused such a request, instead turning the questioning back onto that third party, but that was not the request I was presented with. I was asked to tie her up — strange and off-putting, to be sure, but a decidedly far cry from electrocuting somebody. Because of this, I still find myself frustrated — and perhaps a bit saddened — at the resulting lecture after having complied with the man’s request out of sheer confusion and for reasons that truly felt out of my control. It is, after all, one thing to go along with an experience because it’s what is expected of you if you are playing a character. But it’s a completely different thing if you’re being asked to play yourself — and truth be told, I still have no idea which one (if any) was right.

But maybe there’s a lesson there.

Chances are, people like you and I will not be asked to interrogate somebody for the government. Chances are, people like you and I will (hopefully) never see the inside of a CIA or FBI black site, and we’ll never have to make such a stark choice with another human life in the balance.

But make no mistake: we make decisions that affect the lives of those around us every day.

It might not be as obvious as being out-and-out sexist or buying into religious fanaticism, but our habits are present within those things. Consider: unconscious biases, unchecked privilege, subscription to and reinforcement of institutionalized and systemic racism, sexism, transphobia, homophobia — the list goes on.

If we can be made to think critically about our actions within an immersive experience like “Fear is What We Learned Here,” then we should be able to do the same for our actions in the greater world. If we can take the inquisitive nature that defines us in such productions and apply it to our every day lives, then maybe we’ll be able to better question ours and others’ actions within society as well.

Though fear was not what I learned here, what I took home was just as powerful: a renewed sense of critical thinking and a new lens with which to observe not just immersive experiences, but the world that I try to make better each and every day.