Outside of my moonlighting, I had a life, and an extremely busy one at that. In the fall of 2008, I enrolled in a one-year paralegal program at Bunker Hill Community College in Charlestown. I’d moved on from the idea of a career in diplomacy and became more interested in law. If I became an attorney, I figured, I could one day represent my parents’ case; I could also become an advocate for immigrant families. But law school is such a major expense (hello, more loans) that I wanted to first check out the industry and see if I liked it. My plan was to get certified as a paralegal, work with lawyers, and then decide whether I still wanted to apply to law school. I also took a part-time receptionist position at a law firm specializing in personal injury cases. Between that, my waitressing, and school, I was barely catching any zs.
With so much going on, there wasn’t a bunch of time left over for me to see Lorraine. Even so, I fit in sessions every other week. In the first few months, I did most of the talking as she nodded and took notes. But over time, as she got a clearer sense of my issues, she began challenging much of what I told her. Like this:
“I used to think I wanted to be a performer,” I said. “I’m now considering law.”
“What made you change your mind?” she asked.
“A career in the performing arts isn’t practical for me,” I told her.
“Why?”
“Because it’s too late,” I explained. “If I wanted to be in musical theater, I should’ve gone to a conservatory.”
She removed her glasses and placed them in her lap, then looked right at me. “Girl,” she said, “Do you think you’re just afraid that if you went after that dream now, you’d fail at it? It may be why you set up these roadblocks for yourself.”
I squirmed in my chair. “What roadblocks?” I said. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you get in your own way, whether or not you’re aware of it,” she explained. “Look at the choices you’ve made over the last few years. Notice how often you’ve gotten close to completing a goal that’s important to you, and then you’ve fallen off track. That’s probably not a coincidence.”
I sighed and tried to wrap my brain around what she was saying. “I guess so,” I said. “But I’m not even sure I still wanna be an entertainer.”
“Really?” she said, raising her brows. “You light up every time you mention it.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said. “I may not be good enough.”
I may have doubted my own talent, but the girls at work thought I had a knack for performing. Every night as we got dressed, I’d break out my best material for them. I had this one spoof where I’d imitate Britney Spears dancing in the video Stronger. I would make my voice sound all high like hers, wildly swing my hair from left to right, and do these insane moves all over a chair the way she does, only I would trip over the chair and make it as unsexy as I could. My friends laughed hysterically. One day, a man walked by and suggested I never do that again because it indeed wasn’t sexy. “Ah shove it, you pig!” I snapped. “What do you know?”
“Diane, why aren’t you trying to be an act-ah?” Luciana would ask. “What’s with this law thing? You could totally be on TV.” That sounded good, and I looked forward to going to work so I could show off whatever new routine I’d come up with. But entertaining my friends was one thing. Making a living and putting myself out there in front of the world was another matter altogether.
My drinking hadn’t stopped, but I had been practicing my daily affirmations, courtesy of Lorraine. “Forgive yourself, Diane—today is a new day,” I’d say to myself.
“It’s okay if you drink, as long as you can get up the next morning and accept yourself.” Ha! That’s right: I made up the last sentence of that affirmation so it could fit my lifestyle. That worked for the most part, except when I got terribly ☺. When you fling open the closed doors of your heart, it’s incredibly painful. You want to escape, and I often did. But at least I wasn’t doing that as much by tearing into my skin. “When you have the urge to cut,” Lorraine had told me, “squeeze some ice in your hand instead.” Believe it or not, that worked for me. That, and a little yoga Namaste, was life-changing. “Be kind to yourself, D,” I’d often have to remind myself. I still do.
A session at a time, Lorraine’s ideas began to stick. She was right: Most of my moves had been based on the fact that I was scared out of my mind. What if I did everything in my power to become a success, only to fail miserably? What if I pursued a career in entertainment and got booed off the stage? What if people didn’t like me? In many ways, I’d been tripping myself up so that I’d never have to answer those questions. It’s interesting what you start noticing about yourself when you pay close attention. “You’re allowing fear to block your greatness,” Lorraine often reminded me. “You’ve gotta change your mind-set.” She had a point. Fear is what had kept me from applying to a conservatory. And fear was dogging the dream I claimed to no longer want—#selfsabotage.
Meanwhile, week after week, I sat there at that desk job, answering phones and filing documents. I absolutely hated it. I have never been more bored in my life. The minutes literally dragged by. And the whole time, this whisper I’d been hearing, this nagging sense that I was meant to be doing something else, grew louder. I wasn’t supposed to be sorting through legal documents. I belonged not in a courtroom but on a stage or on a set. Yet law was the safe option, or so I thought. That’s why I clung to it so hard. By then, though, I’d figured out this wasn’t the road for me; rather, it was a detour from the route I was too frightened to take.
During our months together, Lorraine gave me many gifts—and one of the greatest came during a session in the summer of 2009. I was telling Lorraine (again) about all the ways I’d dropped the ball. All the stupid decisions I’d made. All the times I’d let myself and others down. Usually, she let me vent fully before she spoke. On this day, she interrupted me.
“You want to know something, Diane?” she said.
“What?” I answered, surprised that she’d cut in.
“You are not your mistakes.”
Lorraine stared at me for the longest time as that sentence hung in the air between us. I lowered my head, fiddled with my bangle bracelets, and looked up at her again.
“Your failures don’t define you,” she continued. “Your worth isn’t about what you do or don’t do. You have value simply because you’re here.”
I dropped my eyes to the floor and let that sink in. I’d spent my entire childhood trying to be the good Catholic girl. Trying to earn the approval of others. Trying not to make the mistakes my brother made. Trying to show everyone that I wasn’t going to be that child—the daughter of immigrants who fell in the ditch. And after all that struggle, I was completely worn out. I didn’t have it in me anymore to keep pressing forward. The fact that I’d at last thrown up my hands made me, in my own eyes, a total fuckup. But in Lorraine’s view, it made me a human being—one who deserved to be here, whether or not I did another right thing that day. Pick yourself up and try again—what a revelation.
Our lives try to get our attention in countless ways. Through our gut instincts. Through our loved ones. Through our circumstances. And in my case, through an angel God once sent to me at exactly the right juncture. Lorraine showed up in my life when I urgently needed a friend to help me see the truth. She did that—and it was all that she could do. Because I’d reached that place we all get to where no amount of compassion or love or hand-holding from someone else can change things. It was on me. As I’d done on that rooftop, I had to close my eyes and make a choice that I wanted better for myself. In November 2009, one year after I’d nearly slipped from this world to the next, I made a couple of moves. First, I let go of the delusion of a career in law. I then enrolled in an acting course at Boston Casting. And finally, I got head shots taken.
Peter Berkrot’s beginner acting class at Boston Casting.
CHAPTER 14
Stage Right
When I sing, trouble can
sit right on my shoulder and I don’t even notice.
—SARAH VAUGHAN, jazz singer
Much has been written about how to find your passion. Your true calling. Your career path. As 2010 got under way, I discovered something: You don’t choose your life’s work; it chooses you. It’s this new love that sweeps you up in its momentum. From daybreak to dusk, you can think of nothing else. You find yourself talking faster, louder, more excitedly upon its mention. When I finally gave in to the major pull the performing arts has always had on me, I felt all of the above.
I began my mornings by scanning the online industry gossip columns. Who was acting in what? What star had landed a big role in a film or TV series? What trends were popping up in theater? I wanted to see what the industry was looking for. Oh surprise, surprise—not me. That was okay, because I was determined to figure out a way for them to get to know me. I searched for any acting classes I could take, and of course, I eagerly clicked on the classifieds and pored over the audition listings to see if I could walk in somewhere and be discovered on the spot. Hey, a girl can dream—but the reality was much different. I had no idea how to break into this business. None. I couldn’t try out for anything, because in order to do that, you mainly needed representation by a manager or agent.
At first I kept my mouth shut about my new direction. Brian was aware of it; in fact, he’d been the one to encourage me to sign up for acting classes. He knew it was the one thing that might end my craziness. But I didn’t want to discuss my plan with anyone other than him, for a few reasons. First, I thought talking about it might jinx it—I’m a bit superstitious that way. Second, I enjoyed having my own little secret, this thing I could savor in private. And above all, I had zero interest in hearing the (unhelpful) opinions of others. You’ve gotta be careful who you share your big dreams with. People often piss on them. Some will even talk you out of your aspirations, mostly because they’ve given up on their own. It’s not like I had so many close friends left to shoot the breeze with, but still—I zipped my lips. Plus, I wasn’t the type to walk around saying, “I’m an actor and I want to do something special!”
I enrolled in two classes: beginning acting and intro to improv. My teacher for both was Peter Berkrot, who was in Caddyshack, a cult classic staring Bill Murray. About twelve of us were in each course, and the students were from all different backgrounds. There was this one lawyer who wanted to improve at litigating by using acting techniques in the courtroom. Another guy just enjoyed being around people and loved the exercises. And there were plenty who, like me, were sticking their toes into the thespian waters for the first time. Yup, a real A-list class. One session was on Mondays, the other on Wednesdays. As the end of each weekend rolled around, I could hardly contain my excitement about taking part in whatever new material we’d cover in the upcoming class. I went from sleeping all day, drinking all night, and not giving a shit about my life, to waking up early in anticipation of all that I could learn. Our passions don’t just compel us; they can also heal us.
I absolutely loved Peter’s courses, and they loved me back. We did a lot of scene work. At the start of improv, for instance, Peter would throw out a scenario. If you’ve read Amy Poehler’s Yes Please or Tina Fey’s Bossypants, I’m sure you already know what real improv is. For those who don’t know, here’s how it went in our class: After Peter had set up the storyline, each of us then had to step into a character and situation and run with it. It was liberating to be so spontaneous and to say yes! Yes to myself. Yes to life. It was so much fun! It all just poured out of me. I started to feel like myself again. Happy. For most of my life, I’d been a very happy person, and to be in a space where I wasn’t, and for such a long period of time, was driving me nuts. I needed this—an artistic outlet. And Peter was great. He made me feel like I belonged there. In fact, Peter’s feedback is what kept me going. Once class was over, I’d often stick around to talk with him, just so I could pick up any extra tips he might have. “You know, you’re good, Diane,” he once told me. “You’ll have to keep working hard at this, but you do have something.” I was already singing my rendition of “Some People”—the Bernadette Peters version, of course—from the musical Gypsy.
Peter also urged me to be less shy. I wasn’t always aware of it, but I am a shy person—and believe it or not, that was a revelation to me; it still continues to shock me. To this day, for instance, I am a socially awkward person who feels weird about hugging. I still have a problem determining if a situation requires a hug or a handshake. I usually end up doing a weird mix of both, which makes people really uncomfortable. Who woulda known? This indecisiveness and insecurity would show up in my work. “Forget about looking silly,” Peter often told me. “You’ve gotta get over your inhibitions so you can fully embody the character.” I enjoyed class so much, and as I started to dream again, I began to actually call myself an actor. Not out loud, of course—too soon—but in my head. Chill, D.
Although I’d mentally moved on from the whole law thing, I held on to my job at the firm. The longer I stayed, the surer I became that I’d made the right choice to set aside law school. Most of the attorneys in my office were happy doing what they loved, but that wasn’t my gig. I can’t stay still for too long, or I will turn into stone, melt, or explode. Not sure if this is 100 percent true, but I didn’t want to chance it.
My job there might not have been exactly inspiring to me personally (I was answering phones and taking messages all day), but what I earned did pay for my acting courses. And although I missed all the cash from my cocktail-waitressing days, I was thrilled I’d moved on from that. I needed a little break. That job had really drained me. I knew of many girls who worked in that kind of environment for years. That’s not going to be me, I’d think. It’s not a bad thing; some waitresses make a very nice living. But I couldn’t handle the constant drinking, the partying, the staying up all night, the entire seedy world. It had carried me down the wrong road.
But then, as usual, real life hit and I realized, Oh shit—I need money. I had to earn a second check so I could get the creditors off my ass and pay for acting classes. So I took another nightclub bartending job. At least I wasn’t out on the floor—I ended up working behind the bar. And I did love that the job came with a flexible schedule. Because work was at night, I was free during the day to potentially audition. I knew I had to stay available. I was so determined to get even just a foot in the door that I wasn’t about to miss an opportunity. If a casting agent asked, “When can you come in?” I’d go, “Today at two is perfect.” At this point, most of my auditions were straight off Craigslist (as well as whatever Boston Casting would send me), and you can imagine what kinds of roles were advertised. Some involved no acting at all, but even those were a chance to get on camera. And you name it, I went after it.
I once answered an ad for a foot model. Not that I thought my feet were cute, but like I said, I went for everything. When I showed up on set, the director asked if I felt comfortable being topless. Whoa, whoa—I’m here for a foot audition. I had no interest in going down the Playboy Bunny road. Oh, and I also tried out for countless (no-budget) short films and music videos. Most were produced by students who were completing their senior projects—and few involved pay. I was cool with that, because just getting something onto my résumé was its own kind of payment.
One of my first parts was in a music video called “Faces,” with a Boston R & B singer Louie Bello. When I look at the video now, it cracks me up and makes me cringe. All the way through it, Louie and I are basically staring at each other with bedroom eyes! It was all about me trying to look pretty. I was appreciative of the opportunity, but I didn’t feel comfortable being the “pretty face.” I wanted to fight monsters and solve mysteries instead, but hey—it got me on camera. I had to put myself out there somehow. I was working at it constantly. There wasn’t a second of the day when I wasn’t thinking about the moves I could make to get closer and closer to my dream. Things seemed slow, but I was just taking
in the journey. I was giving myself the space to really try something and either succeed or fail at it; at least I wouldn’t die knowing that I didn’t make an attempt. I had no illusions of grandeur. I just wanted to throw my hat in the ring.
With every part I took, even if I had only a couple of lines, I pushed myself to make the experience smoother than the last. I agreed to be in a twenty-minute short, a horror indie flick produced by my friend Billy Duefrese, who was excited just to be making movies. Honestly, the film was wacky, and we did all of our shooting in Billy’s backyard. I played a girl who’d gotten locked in a basement by some drug dealers; for most of the filming, I waved my arms wildly and grunted and groaned with duct tape over my mouth. As ridiculous as it was, I was doing it—I was in a project and I was acting! I was also healing and learning even as I was experimenting. There was no time to be sad or discontent with life, and no room to judge myself in the process. I wanted something, and I was going for it.
In the beginning, all my parts were nonunion—which meant I wasn’t even put in a room with other members of the Screen Actors Guild (SAG), the gold standard membership for actors. You have to work a number of union jobs in order to earn your membership. Starting around June 2010, I got strategic in my search for union jobs. Many actors build up their credits by working as extras in big films. I tried that approach. I eventually scored a job as an extra in the film The Zookeeper, the romantic comedy starring Kevin James from The King of Queens. A big movie with A-list actors on a real set. Whoa. I was doing this thing.
Or was I? Because long story short, it was pure torture. I was one of a slew of extras dressed to appear at this big party in the movie. My time on set started out cool: I got to see (but not personally meet) Kevin James, who was hilarious and phenomenal in his role. Things went downhill from there. All the other nameless faceless masses and I stood around in our heels and cocktail dresses, holding glasses of champagne that were really filled with apple juice. Every hour or so, the director would yell, “Action!” and the group of us would walk across the room and pretend we were enjoying the shindig. At certain moments, I was supposed to laugh and/or cough. It was tedious. I left the set early without even collecting my voucher. I was like, “I’m outta here. I’m not doing this.” Are you kidding, boo? I’m an artiste. I did not, repeat not, want to be in the background. Don’t get me wrong: It’s a fabulous gig for some actors, and you can make decent money at it. But I had a much different vision for myself. I knew I had a long way to travel before I got to my goal, but this gig made me crystal clear on the final destination I had in mind: I wanted to be an actress who could continue refining my craft by working in the front, not the back. From then on, I decided I’d concentrate on getting whatever work I could get, as long as it required me to use all my skills. The SAG membership would come one way or the other.
In the Country We Love Page 17
