PLanks a lot
"Planking is an activity consisting of lying in a face down position, sometimes in an unusual or incongruous location. The palms of the hands are typically touching the sides of the body and the toes are typically touching the ground. Some players compete to find the most unusual and original location in which to play. The term planking refers to mimicking a wooden plank. Planking can include lying flat on a flat surface, or holding the body flat while it is supported in only some regions, with other parts of the body suspended. Many participants in planking have photographed the activity in unusual locations and have shared such pictures through social media."
The Origin of #PlanksALot Planking
Planking began for me in the early 2000s when I was a high school history teacher at Los Angeles Senior High School, part of the Los Angeles Unified School District. It was a time of heightened tension as schools grappled with the growing threat of campus violence in the wake of Columbine. We trained for “Code Red” lockdowns, staying confined to classrooms for hours. To prepare for these extended lockdowns, each teacher was issued an emergency bucket equipped with trash bags and toilet paper—a makeshift toilet that symbolized the harsh realities of a world where lockdowns were becoming the norm. The bucket, stored in the back of the room, became a marker of our collective fears and planted the seed for my desire to subvert this heaviness with something unexpected and joyful.
One day, during a lockdown, my students and I were restless. To shift the energy, I proposed a game: I’d turn my back while a student hid, and I’d figure out who was missing and where they were. When I turned around, I couldn’t find Oscar, the shortest student in class. I searched under desks and behind chairs, but he was nowhere to be found—until I looked up. There he was, wedged between the top of a cabinet and the ceiling, stiff as a board.
“What are you doing up there?” I asked, holding back laughter.
“He’s planking!” the class shouted.
They explained it as a playful act of lying stiff like a plank of wood, particularly in places you’re not supposed to be. Intrigued by its mix of rebellion and creativity, I climbed onto a desk and tried it myself. It felt liberating—an activity not bound by my physical limitations. I wasn’t fast or agile, but I could lie down in defiance of norms, turning the mundane into something magical. When I asked how Oscar got on top of the cabinet, a student grinned and said, “We used the bucket!”
Years later, in 2012, as my wife, Emily, and I prepared to leave Los Angeles for Reno, Nevada, I was consumed by anxiety about the transition. At a Diana Ross concert at the Hollywood Bowl, I planked on the steps of the venue, reclaiming a sense of control amidst the uncertainty. It was a small but transformative act—a way to concentrate on joy while facing the unknown.
Soon after, my life took another turn. Diagnosed with a brain tumor, I endured 60 chemotherapy infusions over ten years. Planking evolved from a playful act into a survival strategy. After each major round of treatment, I would plank in a remarkable location to reclaim a sense of agency and distract myself from the pain. These moments became acts of defiance and joy, helping me push the boundaries of what my body could do while still loving it and keeping it safe. It’s a delicate high-wire act of sorts.
In 2020, as I neared remission, my physical abilities continued to decline. I needed new ways to plank and to reimagine what was possible. Then, in 2023, during a bucket list trip to Tokyo, I visited the Small World Museum, where my likeness was miniaturized into a 1:84 scale model in a planking pose. This small version of me opened up infinite possibilities—planking in places I could never reach, from a solar eclipse to a urinal, a dog, and even the sky. These moments celebrated collaboration and reminded me that asking for help isn’t a weakness—it’s a strength. Together, we can achieve far more than any of us could alone.
Planking is my art, my joy, my medicine. It’s how I resist despair and live deliberately, turning the act of being in my body into a magic trick—concentrating on joy to make pain disappear. It’s a reminder that we can do more than just take up space—we can transform it.
Planking began for me in the early 2000s when I was a high school history teacher at Los Angeles Senior High School, part of the Los Angeles Unified School District. It was a time of heightened tension as schools grappled with the growing threat of campus violence in the wake of Columbine. We trained for “Code Red” lockdowns, staying confined to classrooms for hours. To prepare for these extended lockdowns, each teacher was issued an emergency bucket equipped with trash bags and toilet paper—a makeshift toilet that symbolized the harsh realities of a world where lockdowns were becoming the norm. The bucket, stored in the back of the room, became a marker of our collective fears and planted the seed for my desire to subvert this heaviness with something unexpected and joyful.
One day, during a lockdown, my students and I were restless. To shift the energy, I proposed a game: I’d turn my back while a student hid, and I’d figure out who was missing and where they were. When I turned around, I couldn’t find Oscar, the shortest student in class. I searched under desks and behind chairs, but he was nowhere to be found—until I looked up. There he was, wedged between the top of a cabinet and the ceiling, stiff as a board.
“What are you doing up there?” I asked, holding back laughter.
“He’s planking!” the class shouted.
They explained it as a playful act of lying stiff like a plank of wood, particularly in places you’re not supposed to be. Intrigued by its mix of rebellion and creativity, I climbed onto a desk and tried it myself. It felt liberating—an activity not bound by my physical limitations. I wasn’t fast or agile, but I could lie down in defiance of norms, turning the mundane into something magical. When I asked how Oscar got on top of the cabinet, a student grinned and said, “We used the bucket!”
Years later, in 2012, as my wife, Emily, and I prepared to leave Los Angeles for Reno, Nevada, I was consumed by anxiety about the transition. At a Diana Ross concert at the Hollywood Bowl, I planked on the steps of the venue, reclaiming a sense of control amidst the uncertainty. It was a small but transformative act—a way to concentrate on joy while facing the unknown.
Soon after, my life took another turn. Diagnosed with a brain tumor, I endured 60 chemotherapy infusions over ten years. Planking evolved from a playful act into a survival strategy. After each major round of treatment, I would plank in a remarkable location to reclaim a sense of agency and distract myself from the pain. These moments became acts of defiance and joy, helping me push the boundaries of what my body could do while still loving it and keeping it safe. It’s a delicate high-wire act of sorts.
In 2020, as I neared remission, my physical abilities continued to decline. I needed new ways to plank and to reimagine what was possible. Then, in 2023, during a bucket list trip to Tokyo, I visited the Small World Museum, where my likeness was miniaturized into a 1:84 scale model in a planking pose. This small version of me opened up infinite possibilities—planking in places I could never reach, from a solar eclipse to a urinal, a dog, and even the sky. These moments celebrated collaboration and reminded me that asking for help isn’t a weakness—it’s a strength. Together, we can achieve far more than any of us could alone.
Planking is my art, my joy, my medicine. It’s how I resist despair and live deliberately, turning the act of being in my body into a magic trick—concentrating on joy to make pain disappear. It’s a reminder that we can do more than just take up space—we can transform it.
Los Angeles, CA, USA (Hollywood Bowl - Diana Ross Concert)
