Author Archives: Joseph Gloss

The Lucky Jersey Number

Folk Belief / Superstition
Occupational Folklore – Sports / Number Lore

1. Text

SI, a college athlete and lifelong soccer player, described a common superstition in sports: the belief that a specific jersey number brings good luck. For SI, the number is 12, a number he has worn on nearly every team since middle school. “It’s more than just a number,” he said. “It feels like part of me. When I wear it, I play better. When I don’t, I feel like something’s missing.”

He explained that the belief isn’t about the number being universally magical, but about it becoming his number through performance and association. “I had my best game ever in seventh grade wearing number 12,” he recalled. “After that, it just stuck. Every time I had a good game in that jersey, it reinforced the feeling.” SI went so far as to describe himself as being “protective” of the number even feeling annoyed if another player tries to claim it first.

The superstition extends beyond performance to preparation. “One time I couldn’t wear 12, and I just dropped the league. I was already in a tournament league.” he said.

While SI recognizes that there’s no scientific logic to it, he believes the number has become a symbol of confidence and consistency. “I know it sounds silly,” he said, “but it’s mental. I just feel better when I have it.”

2. Context

SI first developed a relationship with the number 12 in middle school, during a formative moment in his soccer career. After an unexpected breakout performance in a local tournament while wearing that number, the connection became ritualized. From that point on, he began requesting the jersey number for every team he played on, even switching teams in some cases to ensure he could keep it. Over time, the number took on an almost talismanic quality, a symbol of personal power and performance.

This superstition is typical within sports folklore, where personal and communal rituals help athletes cope with the intense pressure and unpredictability of competition. SI’s belief in the power of his number was not taught formally but developed through associative experience: repeated moments of success while wearing the number reinforced its symbolic power. His emotional attachment to it grew not from tradition passed down, but from personal repetition and ritual — a hallmark of vernacular belief in individual athletic settings.

SI’s relationship to the number is deeply embodied. He noted that wearing it helps him feel physically and mentally aligned. If he’s forced to play without it, he often adapts by symbolically carrying the number elsewhere — on his warm-up gear, wristbands, or even drawn in marker on his sock. These substitutions act as symbolic proxies, maintaining the ritual even when the official uniform can’t.

The importance of the jersey number is also entangled with group identity. Numbers can signify status, position, or legacy — especially in team sports whime numbers are often retired or passed down. SI mentioned that when someone else wore him number, he felt “weirdly territorial, like they were taking something that belonged to me.” This shows how the number not only signifies self, but also occupies cultural space within the team structure.

3. Interpretation

The belief in a “lucky jersey number” is a classic example of sports superstition, rooted in what folklorist Linda Dégh would identify as personal experience narratives that become ritualized through repetition and reinforced belief. The number, in this case, functions as a symbolic charm, an object that carries emotional and psychological weight far beyond its practical use.

This superstition operates at the intersection of magical thinking and performance psychology. The number itself has no inherent power, but the belief in it helps the athlete enter a desired mental state. In this way, the superstition becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy: the confidence it instills improves focus, motivation, and execution. The lucky number acts as a trigger for performance identity, allowing the athlete to “step into” their best version of themselves.

SI’s attachment to the number, even when it’s not available, reflects a broader human impulse to anchor meaning in material objects. In moments of unpredictability (a game, a tournament, a close match), the number becomes a stabilizing symbol. It offers comfort, consistency, and an illusion of control — all of which are critical under competitive pressure.

On a larger scale, this belief mirrors number lore found across cultures, where certain numbers (e.g., 7, 13, 3) are invested with spiritual or superstitious meanings. In SI’s case, the number is not culturally universal but individually sacred, rooted in him specific history of success and reinforced by the ritual of wearing it. This personalizes the belief while still aligning with broader folkloric patterns — specifically the idea that symbols gain power through use, memory, and embodied repetition.

Ultimately, SI’s lucky jersey number is more than a superstition, rather a living symbol of personal history, identity, and agency. Like many forms of folklore, its truth lies not in evidence, but in function: it works because it feels true.

Never Say ‘Good Luck’

Folk Belief / Superstition

Performance Ritual / Verbal Superstition

1. Text

In theatre communities, it is widely believed that saying “good luck” to a performer before a show brings misfortune. Instead, performers and crew members say “break a leg,” a phrase which paradoxically conveys good intentions by using language associated with harm. According to JP, “If someone’s never been in theatre before, once they enter that space, they learn quickly not to say it. We’ve all made the mistake and have said it, but then we learn to never say it again.”

JP added that in some past situations, if someone accidentally said “good luck,” others would try and undo the jinx. “There are all these mini-rituals that people do to reverse it,” she said. “Some people knock on wood, which is a common way to reverse a jinx, but others would be as creative to do the hokey pokey. One girl I worked with once literally jumped in a circle three times. It all seems a little bizarre to me.”

She also mentioned how the phrase “break a leg” can be used creatively depending on the performance. “Sometimes if it’s a musical, people will say ‘break the set’ or ‘rip your costume.’” I shared with her how I’ve heard musicians use their own variations, such as “break your axe” or “break the kit.” Similar, though different, these many variations follow that same tradition of ironic misfortune equating to good luck.

2. Context

My childhood friend JP learned the superstition during her early involvement in high school theatre. The belief was introduced not through formal instruction but through direct social correction — another student or “thespian,” if you will, reprimanded her for saying “good luck” before a performance. This moment served as a kind of informal initiation into the vernacular norms of the theatrical folk group. JP described this moment as formative: “I didn’t even know I had done anything wrong — but after that, it stuck. I never said it again. I never forgot that moment. I felt ashamed. But in reality, how silly to feel ashamed for just trying to spread positive energy before the top of the show.” This type of spontaneous correction and adoption of group norms is characteristic of how folklore is transmitted: orally, experientially, and within culturally bounded settings. The performative aspect of the correction — the other student’s visible reaction — helped to underscore the gravity of the superstition and ensure its memorability.

For JP, and theatre practitioners more broadly, this superstition operates both as a ritualized behavior to mitigate uncertainty and as a signifier of in-group identity. The phrase “break a leg” is not merely a euphemism; it is a badge of cultural belonging. To say it — and more importantly, to know why to say it — is to demonstrate that one is an initiated member of the theatrical community. JP emphasized that even if people do not literally believe in the curse associated with saying “good luck,” the phrase remains taboo. Its use is ‘policed’ socially, often humorously, but with real affective consequence. She said, “The thespians take it seriously. You can’t joke around with them in that manner. God forbid.”

She also noted that variations of the expression, such as “break the set,” demonstrate how the underlying function of the phrase is preserved even as its form changes. These creative deviations reinforce both the community’s linguistic playfulness and its shared understanding of superstition as cultural performance. In this way, JP’s experience is not just personal but indicative of broader folkloric patterns: taboo language, symbolic inversion, group boundary maintenance, and the ritualization of transitions (in this case, the movement from rehearsal to performance).

In sum, JP’s account of this superstition illustrates how occupational folk groups like theatre communities maintain their identity and continuity through orally transmitted, symbolically rich traditions that respond to both emotional and practical needs.

3. Interpretation

The superstition of avoiding “good luck” in favor of “break a leg” exemplifies what folklorists call a conversion superstition — a ritualized substitution in language that seeks to preempt misfortune by invoking it in disguise. This paradoxical formula is rooted in the belief that overt expressions of hope or confidence might tempt fate or the supernatural to interfere. Instead, the phrase “break a leg” operates through apotropaic magic — protective language or gesture that wards off evil by acknowledging its potential presence in a non-threatening or ironic way.

In the context of theatrical performance, this form of verbal ritual takes on heightened significance due to the inherent liminality of the stage experience. The stage is a high-pressure site of live creation, where the margin for error is narrow and the outcomes are public. Within this context, superstitions serve a powerful psychological function: they offer performers a sense of agency in an otherwise unpredictable environment. By engaging in these folk practices, actors enact symbolic forms of control over the uncontrollable.

At the same time, this belief fulfills crucial social functions within the theatre folk group. Language becomes a boundary marker — a verbal cue that delineates those who belong to the culture from those who do not. The phrase “break a leg” is a form of vernacular code: it identifies the speaker as a cultural insider, someone who has internalized the values, taboos, and rituals of the group. In this way, the superstition becomes a tool of informal initiation. When someone violates the taboo and says “good luck,” the group’s reaction — whether humorous or stern — reinforces shared norms and reminds all members of the behavioral expectations that sustain group identity.

The supplementary gestures often used to “reverse” the curse (e.g., knocking on wood, hokey pokey) reveal how intertextual and intertraditional theatre folklore is. These counter-rituals draw on a much wider system of folk belief found across cultures and contexts. Their presence within the theatre reinforces the idea that folklore is adaptable and layered, borrowing and blending symbols and practices in ways that suit the needs of specific communities.

What is particularly striking is the persistence of this superstition within environments that might otherwise be considered secular, rational, or progressive, such as university theatre departments. This reveals the depth of emotional and communal resonance that folklore can carry. It is not sustained by literal belief alone, but by the emotional logic it provides. It offers a symbolic framework through which performers can acknowledge and manage their fears, externalize their hopes, and participate in a lineage of tradition that links them to generations of theatre-makers before them.

In this sense, the “break a leg” superstition is not merely a linguistic oddity but a ritualized expression of vulnerability, solidarity, and shared identity. It encapsulates the human desire to ward off chaos through collective, meaningful action — even if that action takes the form of a joke, a phrase, or a symbolic contradiction.

A Bad Dress Rehearsal Means a Great Opening Night

Folk Belief / Superstition

Performance Ritual / Theatre Superstition

1. Text 

JP, a theatre major at American University, recounted a widely circulated superstition in theatre communities: the belief that a bad dress rehearsal portends a successful opening night. This saying, according to JP, functions as a near-ritualistic mantra invoked in the face of final-rehearsal failures.

JP shared a vivid example from her sophomore year, during a student production of 9 to 5. JP called the final dress “a total mess.” 

“People forgot lines, a quick change got botched, the curtain cue was late. Everyone was freaking out. But then the show went great. It’s one of those things that’s not logical, but people buy into it.” This account captures the performative dimension of folklore: belief is enacted even when its literal truth is uncertain or doubtful. The utterance of the phrase itself helps stabilize the group in a moment of heightened anxiety.

JP also highlighted the semi-ironic way the phrase circulates as if actors feel like it’s “cringey” or “corny.” Her reflection underscores how folk expressions often serve not just to encode cultural knowledge, but to offer psychological relief and narrative closure. In this case, the saying retroactively transforms mistakes and technical issues into signs of future triumph, effectively reversing the emotional tone of the moment.

The phrase becomes a kind of communal coping mechanism, offering reassurance and collective optimism at a time when performers may otherwise feel vulnerable or demoralized. It is also notable that the belief typically emerges in the liminal phase of production — the moment between preparation and performance — when emotional stakes are high and certainty is elusive. The ritualized repetition of this phrase in that transitional space suggests a shared desire to assert narrative control, to impose meaning on what might otherwise feel like chaos. Like many folk expressions, the value of “a bad dress rehearsal means a great opening night” lies not in its verifiability, but in its ability to provide symbolic structure to an unpredictable process.

2. Context

JP first heard the superstition “a bad dress rehearsal means a great opening night” during high school, and like other superstitions, it just stuck. Like many folk beliefs in performance communities, this one wasn’t taught formally but was picked up through informal repetition — from directors, upperclassmen, and fellow cast members reacting to chaotic final rehearsals. “It’s one of those things you hear and just kind of know how to use,” she told me.

JP’s earliest memory of it came from a community theatre production when she was 15. “We had this horrible dress run where a kid fell into the orchestra pit and then wailed like you couldn’t imagine,” she said. “And afterward, the director just nodded and said, ‘Perfect. That means we’re ready.’ And I remember thinking, How does that make sense? Why would you say that. I laughed, but everyone got it together and the show won a Bay Area Youth Theatre Award” —an appalling, yet humorous retelling.

This belief, for JP and other thespians, acts as a kind of collective coping mechanism. She emphasized that it doesn’t even have to be said earnestly to serve its purpose. Even if you don’t totally believe it, saying it out loud helps ease the panic as if it gives failure a reason. This notion  that an imperfect rehearsal balances out with a strong performance — turns a moment of instability into a ritualized expression of hope.

In theatre spaces, where energy and morale can shift quickly, JP sees this superstition as a social tool. “It lets you fail safely,” she said. “No one wants to go into opening night thinking they’re doomed. This gives you permission to believe that disaster is just a step on the way to success.”

3. Interpretation

This superstition reflects a common pattern in folk belief, the symbolic inversion of misfortune into fortune, similar to the logic behind phrases like “break a leg.” In this case, the belief that “a bad dress rehearsal leads to a good opening night” serves a psychological and communal function, especially in the liminal space between rehearsal and performance.

Theatrical productions are deeply vulnerable moments of live collaboration. The stakes are high, and performers rely on both precision and chemistry. When a dress rehearsal goes poorly — often the last chance to “get it right” before the public sees the work — the potential for panic or discouragement is immense. This superstition intervenes in that panic, reframing it as positive foreshadowing rather than failure.

The logic is symbolically satisfying: a chaotic rehearsal “uses up” the bad luck, clearing the way for the show to succeed. Whether or not performers believe this literally, the saying becomes a shared ritual, a kind of emotional triage, that helps a cast move forward with confidence.

The phrase also performs a social function: it affirms group solidarity by creating a shared narrative in the face of stress. Saying “Well, it’ll be a great opening night” acts almost like a spell invoking the desired outcome through repetition. It’s folklore that performs belief, even when belief is partial or performative.

JP’s experience with the phrase and her awareness that it’s more about comfort than causality is telling. The phrase isn’t valuable because it’s true, but because it’s helpful. It reflects a broader folkloric pattern: when people feel powerless (as performers often do in the final stages of rehearsal), they reach for ritual, repetition, and communal language to reassert agency.

Ultimately, the superstition captures a central paradox of folklore: something can be emotionally true even if it is logically suspect. A bad dress rehearsal may not guarantee a great show, but believing that it might helps actors cope, connect, and continue, which is, in itself, a kind of magic.

The Theatre Ghost

Folk Belief / Supernatural Legend
Occupational Folklore — Performance / Supernatural

1. Text

According to JP, a theatre major at American University, it is widely believed among actors that every theatre is haunted. JP remarked, “There’s this idea that if a theatre doesn’t have a ghost, then it’s not a real theatre. People will talk about the ghost like it’s part of the company — like, ‘Oh, that was just Margaret, she likes to mess with the lights. Margaret is the name of the ghost at my hometown community theatre.” In the thespian experience, this belief is not treated like a horror story. Rather, it’s more matter of fact. “Even if people don’t say they believe in ghosts, they’ll still act like they do when something weird happens.” While the ghost does not inspire constant fear, its presence serves as a quiet overseer, subtly encouraging actors to stay disciplined out of concern for provoking its displeasure.

JP recounted several incidents that reinforced the belief for them and their peers. At various theatres she has performed at, she and others have reported hearing footsteps above the stage during late-night tech rehearsals, despite no one being scheduled in the catwalks. “Sometimes you’ll be alone, checking lighting cues, and you just know someone’s up there,” they said. “You feel watched. But then you look, and it’s empty. You get used to it.” Other stories involve doors closing on their own, props mysteriously going missing, and cold drafts in sealed rooms. “There’s a joke that if you forget your lines, it’s the ghost messing with you,” JP said, noting how the attribution of mistakes or malfunctions to a spectral presence creates a shared explanation — part humor, part ritual. JP emphasized that the presence of a ghost is never framed as malicious. The ghost is watching over the show. Making sure things run right and that the actors behave and respect the theatre.

2. Context

My childhood friend JP first encountered the idea that every theatre has a ghost during her early years in high school theatre. Unlike more formalized stage practices, this belief wasn’t something she read in a handbook or was taught by a director; it emerged instead from whispered stories backstage, joking warnings from older students, and the occasional unexplained flicker of a light or creak in the catwalk. The ghost lore was passed down informally, but consistently, and JP recalled being both intrigued and unsettled by how seriously some of her peers treated it.

This early exposure to theatre ghost legends served as a kind of initiation into the spiritual texture of performance space. JP explained that at first she thought it was a joke, but then
“Things in the theatre just happened. Weird things.” Her experience reflects a common pattern in folkloric transmission: belief that lives in the in-between, not quite serious, but not quite ironic either. The ghost was never officially acknowledged, but it lingered in the space as a shared understanding, subtly shaping behavior and mood. JP recalled how she and others in her community theatre would light scented candles during long rehearsals as offerings for the ghost. These actions, though never required, were widely understood as gestures of respect toward the spectral inhabitant of the space.

As JP transitioned to university theatre, she found the tradition not only persisted but deepened. “Every theatre I’ve worked in has a ghost,” she said. “And every group of actors has their own stories. Sometimes the ghost has a name, a backstory, even a favorite seat.” The ghost becomes part of the architecture — not just of the building, but of the community itself. For JP and many others, acknowledging the ghost is less about supernatural belief and more about honoring the memory and mystery that accumulate in performance spaces over time.

What makes this kind of belief so compelling is how it reflects a broader folkloric pattern: the connection between space, memory, and presence. JP noted how the ghost acts almost like a moral overseer. “You don’t want to be the one who disrespects the ghost. It’s like bad luck.” In this way, the ghost reinforces discipline and attentiveness, not through fear, but through tradition and shared reverence.

In sum, JP’s account of theatre ghosts illustrates how deeply embedded folklore is in the daily rhythms of performance life. The ghost is both metaphor and myth — a symbol of those who came before, a reminder of the theatre’s history, and a comforting, if uncanny, presence that binds the community through story and ritual.

3. Context

This belief in haunted theatres reflects a common theme in occupational and place-based folklore, where specific environments, particularly those imbued with high emotional energy, become sites of supernatural narrative. The idea that “every theatre is haunted” is both a literal superstition for some and a symbolic expression of the liminality of theatrical space. A theatre is inherently in-between: between fantasy and reality, between actor and audience, between everyday life and the world of the play. In folklore studies, such liminal spaces are often associated with the supernatural.

The ghost becomes a personification of memory and tradition within the theatre. Whether or not individuals believe in literal ghosts, the stories serve as a way of connecting the present company to past performances and performers. It offers continuity across generations and productions, creating a sense of sacredness around the theatre space. By giving the ghost a name, performers not only “own” the legend but also invite it into their communal identity — blurring the line between character, audience, and spirit.

Furthermore, attributing strange or disruptive events to the ghost provides a socially acceptable way to manage fear, stress, or uncertainty. If a light cue goes wrong or someone forgets a line, blaming “the ghost” allows the group to defuse tension and humorously redirect frustration. This aligns with the functionalist theory of folklore, where narratives and beliefs serve social and psychological purposes, even if they are not factually “true.”

Additionally, theatres make use of the “ghost light” — a single bulb left burning on stage when the theatre is dark. This is a perfect example of how ritual and practicality blend in folklore. While its technical purpose is to prevent injury in a dark space, it is widely described as a way to appease theatre ghosts and keep them from causing mischief. This convergence of utility and superstition further illustrates how deeply embedded folklore is in everyday theatrical practice.

In sum, theatre ghost stories are not just about the paranormal. They are about belonging, tradition, and emotional truth. They mark the theatre as a space set apart, one that holds memories, magic, and mystery, whether real or imagined.

No Whistling in Theatre Spaces

Folk Belief / Superstition
Occupational Folklore – Theatre / Behavioral Taboo

1. Text

JP, a theatre major at American University, described a well-established superstition within theatrical environments: the belief that whistling inside a theatre invites bad luck or misfortune. According to JP, this is not merely a stylistic or aesthetic preference, but a behavioral taboo actively enforced in rehearsal and backstage settings, especially backstage. “You might be whistling without thinking, and someone will stop you immediately,” she noted. “People treat it as disruptive, even dangerous,” JP noted that she can’t whistle either way, but believes the superstition is a little dramatic.

JP recounted watching someone in her college program reprimanded for whistling during her first year in university theatre. “I didn’t know it was a problem. This girl was humming and then started to whistle backstage during tech week, and someone cut him off — not angrily, but urgently. They told her, ‘That’s something we don’t do here.’ I laughed. I thought it was so crazy and comical, but the girl who whistled had the biggest look of shame.”

Although JP does not personally attribute supernatural consequences to the act of whistling, she adheres to the custom out of respect for the collective understanding. “I don’t believe something bad will happen, but I know it’s part of the culture. You don’t want to violate the space or distract people, especially when the stakes are high. Additionally, I don’t want conflict with other people, so even if I could whistle, I still would not.”

2. Context

JP learned this superstition informally during her early involvement in university theatre. The belief was not introduced through any institutional channel or training, but rather through peer correction, a method common in the transmission of occupational folklore. The reprimand she saw another student experience served as an entry point into the implicit behavioral norms that govern theatrical spaces — rules which are often unspoken but widely upheld. Additionally, her unfamiliarity with the superstition prior to entering this particular theatre context highlights the localized nature of folklore transmission and how such beliefs can vary significantly across different performance communities.

The belief in the danger of whistling in a theatre is historically grounded. JP informed me that in the 19th and early 20th centuries, stage riggers — many of whom had maritime backgrounds — used a system of coded whistles to signal cue changes for scenery, rigging, and fly systems. An unintentional whistle could therefore result in mistimed or hazardous movements backstage. While modern stagecraft no longer relies on such signaling systems, the associated taboo persists as a form of cultural residue, maintained more for its symbolic weight than its practical relevance.

JP explained that even though the original rationale is no longer operational, the custom remains widespread and now it has now become a very looming superstition. “People treat it as disrespectful,” she said. “It’s not just about the sound. It’s about what it implies — that you’re not actively engaged and focused in the way you should be.” As such, the act of whistling violates more than etiquette; it breaches a collectively upheld boundary of theatrical conduct.

3. Interpretation

The prohibition against whistling in a theatre functions as a behavioral taboo within the occupational folk group of stage performers and technicians. Its persistence, despite the disappearance of its original practical necessity, is a testament to the role of tradition as a mechanism of cultural continuity. In this context, the act of whistling is not inherently harmful, but it becomes symbolically charged within a space where control, precision, and attentiveness are paramount.

From a folkloristic perspective, this taboo aligns with other examples of ritual avoidance behavior — prohibitions enacted not because of empirical risk, but because of their perceived symbolic danger. The theatre, as a liminal space in which transformation and performance occur, is often surrounded by customs that reinforce spatial and emotional boundaries. Whistling, an unsolicited and uncontrolled auditory act, is viewed as an intrusion upon the ritual environment of rehearsal or performance.

Moreover, the belief plays a significant role in group boundary maintenance. Through mechanisms of correction and social enforcement, practitioners reaffirm their identity as members of a professional tradition. The act of stopping someone from whistling, particularly a novice, is both a disciplinary and didactic act: it reasserts collective values while initiating the newcomer into the shared culture of theatrical practice.

Even among those who do not interpret the act superstitiously, the continued observance of the rule suggests a broader understanding of folklore’s functional value. Customs such as this one provide structure and coherence within an otherwise unpredictable environment. The taboo against whistling operates not merely as a superstition but as a ritualized gesture of respect toward the space, the craft, and the community of practitioners who maintain it.

In sum, JP’s account illustrates how occupational folk groups preserve behavioral norms through informal transmission, even when the original rationale has been obscured or rendered obsolete. In doing so, these traditions help define the emotional architecture of performance spaces and maintain a shared sense of discipline, identity, and continuity.