Living Oprah

by Robyn Okrant

  I watch Oprah’s studio audience like a hawk. Their reactions seem so over the top at times, especially when she gives them a present. I think they’d have the same scream-until-glass-shatters response whether Oprah gave them a new car, the secret to marital bliss, or a pack of gum. Plus I’m always blown away when I hear the roar of the crowd when Oprah walks onstage.

  I wonder what it must do to a person’s psyche to be applauded just for coming to work. I think it would make us all feel more worthwhile at our jobs if there was an eruption of cheers every time we entered the boardroom, the stockroom, the classroom. I have to imagine that if people consistently tell you that you are important, you start to feel important. Highly valued. I am curious how that changes the way you walk through life.

  Although I haven’t been overly interested in attending a live taping of her show recently, I think this is the perfect year to get my butt back into a seat in Winfrey’s studio. I’ve been there a couple times in the past, early in my Chicago tenure. Like visiting the top of the Sears Tower, strolling around the Lincoln Park Zoo, and eating a piece of deep-dish pizza, I felt that seeing a taping of Oprah was a Chicago institution that was not to be missed. The first time was around 1995 or so. It’s a hazy memory, but I recall the guest panel was made up of people who were considered outsiders in their respective communities. I do remember that back then the show was more interactive, and we were invited to step up to a microphone to ask our burning questions.

  The other taping was around 2001. I also barely remember this one, but I know I wore an atrocious orange-plaid blazer and was made fun of by my friends for months. Oh — and there was a male guest on the show who wanted to have sex so many times each day that his wife barely had enough time to put on a pair of pants.

  It’s my understanding that it’s nearly impossible to get tickets to the show now. There are online tales of people who swear they’ve been applying for tickets for years without luck. When I mention my desire to see the show on my blog, one of my regular readers, Little Merry Sunshine, sends me a personal account about how a friend of hers got tickets to the show. Armed with her good advice, I visit Oprah.com.

  I live less than eight miles from the television studio and can be there at a moment’s notice, so things are a bit easier for me than for most people. As LMS advised, I find a list of soon-to-be-taped shows that are in need of audience members. One stands out in particular as they are looking for fans of the original Star Trek series as well as Boston Legal. If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck, then surely Oprah is going to be hosting William Shatner on her show! I haven’t seen an episode of Boston Legal, but I’ve seen every single Star Trek, mainly watching them with my dad on Sunday afternoons during my adolescence. We’d sit on the couch, each of us with a big bowl of Chunky Beef Soup and Minute Rice in our laps, ready to witness the age-old battle between humans and the rest of the universe. It was like dinner theater. Ah, I loved those papier-mâché sets, laughable aliens, and the lavender eye shadow (worn by both the women and the men on the show). I share this story on the ticket request page of Oprah’s website and also mention that my love of sci-fi endeared me to my husband when we were dating.

  I am surprised by a speedy response. O’s people find my admission of sci-fi dorkitude charming, and they call me up because they might have seat availability. However, they need me to e-mail a photo before they can tell me if there is a ticket. I send one immediately. Why the photo? In my excitement, I neglect to ask. Maybe they are concerned I am a nut who will show up at the studio in head-to-toe Klingon makeup and weaponry. Please. If I were to go in costume, I would totally dress as Uhura.

  I might not be going in Star Trek attire, but I will be dressing in my best Oprah Winfrey Show audience member costume. Also, to fit in with the rest of the crowd and look pretty for the camera, I decide to wear makeup to attend the taping. This yoga teacher’s cheeks very rarely feel the touch of a powder brush, but I purchase cosmetics recommended on Oprah.com and spend quite a bit of time applying the layers of paint according to instructions on the website. I feel a little clowny, but my husband thinks it is all in my head. Still, the weight of it on my face makes me feel as if I am wearing a disguise.

  And Jim? He wants to go with me to the show, and the audience wrangler sounds as if she’d prefer me to bring someone along. Unfortunately, our cat is scheduled to be neutered at the exact same time as the taping. My husband and I think about postponing the surgery, but we are warned by the vet not to wait, so Jim agrees to take one for the team. I become nervous about the prospect of going all by myself and know the fun factor won’t be as high without my partner in crime. Sadly, there isn’t any time to arrange for another companion. I am going stag.

  On a cold and gray Chicago morning, I head down to the television studio. There is a small group of us invited specifically for the Shatner taping. After we check in, we’re taken upstairs to the audience waiting area. This room appears to hold several hundred people, but there are just a handful of us here now. We’re treated very nicely and offered beverages and snacks. We all carry the Star Trek memorabilia we were instructed to bring to the show. With our phasers, starship Enterprise models, and alien figurines, we certainly aren’t going to be mistaken for guests on an Oprah episode about hip trendsetters. We look more like we’d be lining up for a taping of “I Was Beaten Up in High School.”

  Most of the staff who greet us upstairs are friendly and welcoming. They chat with us about Star Trek and refer to a couple of the notes we sent to request tickets for today’s taping. They are super high energy. The women I meet on the production staff are all dressed quite similarly, as if the stylists from O magazine chose their outfits this morning. It is probably the norm for most large companies to have a shared corporate culture. I’ve only seen a tiny cross-section of Oprah’s employees so far, but this society of women seems to be defined physically by neatly tailored clothes (trendy but conservative), splashy accessories, and perfectly groomed eyebrows (in opposition to the Bert look I’ve perfected).

  Their body types, ages, and skin colors may vary, but their style doesn’t veer too far from center. I make a quick trip to the restroom before the show starts, and as I wash my hands I check myself out in the mirror. I giggle a bit when I realize I’m dressed in the exact same manner as everyone else upstairs. I feel a bit awkward here at the show, but at least externally, I fit right in. I wonder if it’s wrong to be comforted by this.

  I head back up to my seat in the holding area. We are informed that Oprah is doing multiple shows today and are invited to watch her live interview with Valerie Bertinelli in the waiting room. As we turn our eyes to a flat-screen TV, we see Oprah ask the former child star about her weight loss secrets. She seems especially interested in the weighted vest Bertinelli wore while walking to lose 40 pounds. Winfrey tells her audience, “Let’s go get that thing.” I give a little yelp and then cover it with a cough. Just what every girl with curvature of the spine wants: to accessorize with weighted clothing.

  When we are ushered into the actual studio, Oprah is heading in the opposite direction to change clothes. The Bertinelli and Shatner pieces will air on two separate days, and Winfrey must dress accordingly. On her way out, she walks past our group, says hello, and mentions something about her shoes. And I don’t know how to say this in any way that doesn’t make me sound like a creepy stalker, but she smells really nice. I avert my eyes as if somehow she’ll be able to take one look at me and I’ll pour out my life story to her, beginning with my conception and ending with Living Oprah. I am less scared about what Winfrey’s response would be if she found out about my project than I am frightened by the prospect of being jumped by her adoring fans who can’t take their eyes off her as she disappears from view.

  My little group is seated two by two. A small area has been cleared for fans of the Shat (please don’t blame this nickname on me, I didn’t invent it), and we are placed in certain seats according to… what, exactly? I try to figure out
how the staff decides who will be sent to the back of the house and who is placed closest to the stage. Does it have anything to do with the pictures we were asked to send or how we are dressed today? I feel as if I’m auditioning for a role, but I’m not sure what the director wants from me. I try to appear as eager, nonthreatening, and camera-friendly as possible. Clutched in my hand is a tiny alien figurine — a telepathic Talosian from the two-part episode “The Menagerie.” I rub its oversized cranium for luck. One of Oprah’s staffers taps me on the shoulder and points me toward my seat, right in the center of the second row. Victory!

  I want to throw my head back and laugh. I am buzzing with energy and wish I could hear every conversation around me at once. I feel like I have infiltrated a clandestine organization: I am part anthropologist, part spy, part crazily excited to see Captain Kirk. I wait with a smile plastered across my face so large that I think my jaw might fall off. I feel important. Yes, at Security I was stripped of my iPod, my cell phone, and all the paper and pens in my purse, but it still feels good to be one of a special group in the Oprah Winfrey Show studio. The atmosphere is electric.

  An employee of the show steps onstage and asks us questions about our love of all things Trek and gets us hopping with excitement to see Oprah again. I wonder if the room is being pumped full of oxygen, like they do in Vegas, to keep us bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I’m only half serious. The thrill in the crowd is all about O, not O2. Winfrey walks onstage and we all begin to clap. We are instructed to react as if we hadn’t seen her before, since this is supposed to look like a different day of taping. We all jump to our feet. The applause and cheering get louder and louder. A woman near me yells, “Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Jesus!” I’m not even Christian, but it feels blasphemous.

  Some people around me are going a little too far and I get uncomfortable and choked up. I feel foolish for becoming upset, but my adrenaline is rushing and I’m on an emotional high. That’s putting it mildly. In truth, I am totally freaking out in this mob of screeching strangers. I wish my husband was here to make this a little less surreal for me. I’m wondering why everyone is falling over themselves to be seen by Oprah, and why a woman is actually thanking her Savior for this moment. And I’m wondering why I’m not brave enough to sit back down in my seat rather than reacting as if Mother Teresa, all four Beatles, Abraham Lincoln, and Gandhi have been beamed onto the stage. Instead, I take the easier route and allow myself to be swept up by the crowd.

  Oprah looks as if she can’t understand why we are losing our collective mind. She repeats to us, “Get over yourselves. Get over yourselves.” I just clap and smile even bigger and hope she’ll make eye contact. What is happening to me? Why do I care? In the midst of our applause, we’re all also looking at one another, smiling, sharing our joy and amazement with each other. I’m brought back to every pep rally and homecoming I attended in high school. We are all hoping to be acknowledged by the most popular girl in school. It’s fun right now, but we’d scratch each other’s eyes out to be able to hang out with her after the big game.

  Once Oprah gets us settled down and introduces William Shatner (no shouts to Jesus this time), I am surprised that during the interview she’s not always looking at him, but instead at blue cards filled with facts. We never see this part when we’re watching TV; it usually appears as if she’s deeply engrossed in conversation with her guests. Sometimes when he’s answering her questions, she’s reading and not making eye contact. Shatner doesn’t seem the least bit distracted by this, so I imagine this is the way things are done in their world. I’m eating this up. I can’t wait to see the show back in the comfort of my own living room. I love seeing the reality behind the artifice. I guess, in the world of sci-fi geekdom, you could say I’d choose the red pill.

  At the end of the show I get to experience a gift giveaway live and in person! We are given a DVD set of the digitally remastered first season of the original Star Trek series. Woohoo! Set your phasers to FUN! The crowd goes crazy, even the people who were not brought in specifically for this segment. Even the people who did not raise their hands when we were asked by Oprah’s staff if we watched Star Trek. I think people are excited simply because Oprah is giving us a present. I try to gauge who will enjoy this gift and who will be auctioning it off on eBay.

  Oprah leaves quickly after shooting a promo for A New Earth and her online class. I realize it’s brilliant that she makes her exit before we’re dismissed from our seats. She’d be swamped otherwise. We are told by one of the producers with gracefully arched brows that we’ll get our DVDs when we pick up our coats and personal belongings on our way out. She also urges us to visit The Oprah Store once we exit the building. We’re instructed about the boutique’s exact location, kitty-corner from the studio, lest we miss it.

  The mob shuffles from the studio, most of us looking over our shoulders for one last glance at the stage, which is already being adjusted to shoot the next episode. If I could read the mind of the woman dragging her feet in front of me, I think she’d be begging, “Please don’t make me go. I want to stay forever.”

  It’s a claustrophobic madhouse on the way out. We pass by a new audience, waiting to claim the seats we’ve warmed. There’s a rumor within the sea of folks leaving the Shatner show that the newbies are here to see past winners from ABC’s Dancing with the Stars. A woman giggles and says, “I hope Oprah dances! Maybe she’ll do the rhuuuuuuumba.” We all laugh.

  The new crowd is peppy and fun-loving, while my coviewers from the last taping have a panicky edge. Everyone really wants their free gift, and there’s no lobby for us to refill our purses with our belongings or to put on our coats, hats, and scarves before facing the frigid Chicago wind. It’s similar to the feeling of going through airport security on a busy travel day, with people behind you nudging you forward before you’ve retrieved your purse from the X-ray machine or had a moment to slip on your shoes. Strangers are talking to one another about how long it’s taken them to get tickets to the show (highest claim I overheard: nine years). Lots of women discuss their sightseeing plans for the day (there are almost a dozen mentions of the American Girl Store). Everyone is excited to shop at The Oprah Store, and I hear the word “cashmere” tossed around more than once.

  The morning has run much later than I thought it would, and I have to go to a lecture at school. I decide that I’ll visit the store on my own at a later date when I can be more relaxed about time. Plus I really want to get away from the crowd. It’s exhausting to be surrounded by so many bodies, charged up to their eyeballs with frenetic energy. I imagine Oprah must have scads of people around her for much of the day. I think I’d find this energizing and draining all at the same time. I step out into the cold. The sky is brighter now, and I’ve got a skip in my step as I walk toward school. I can’t wait to show everyone my bright yellow Star Trek DVD set. I covertly turn back toward the television studio and give it the Vulcan salute as a show of respect. Live long and prosper, Oprah. Although I think you’ve got the prosper thing down pretty well already.

  As an artist, writer, and performer, my main goal is to have impact on those who view or read my work. If I inspire a single conversation as a result of my writing or performance, I’ll be thrilled and honored. I can’t even fathom having the amount of impact Oprah has on her audience. In all honesty, I think it would terrify me to have such power, and I wouldn’t want to be in her Louboutins for a million bucks. I don’t have enough confidence in myself to lead a flock of women in every aspect of their lives. I could teach them yoga, some basic knitting skills, and how to drive a stick shift, but that’s about it. But Oprah has confidence to spare. She might not be an expert at everything, but she collects authorities who fit cleanly into her world. I’ve witnessed her influence grow in intensity and scope over the years but have never seen her use her power in such a history-making way as she has this year in her support of Barack Obama for Democratic candidate for president of the United States of America.

  Befo
re I discuss the presidential primaries, I feel a disclaimer is in order: I do not take my right to vote lightly. I imagine that some folks might think this of me because I placed my vote for the candidate Oprah urged us toward. I was, incidentally, waffling between two candidates before the start of this project. While Obama was one of them, Hillary Clinton was the other. When Living Oprah began, I joked that this project made my decision at the ballot box easier, but inside, I felt quite torn. I knew this would be a true test of my mission in this project: to be an extreme display of what happens when we give our power away to the media, to peer pressure, to outside sources of influence. Dressing in a certain manner, styling my home, cooking my meals, and reading books according to Oprah is one thing, but voting according to her guidance is another creature altogether. Although I felt the point of my project to be vitally important, I was scared and uncomfortable to make it.

  I try to ease my inner turmoil by telling myself it’s just one vote. It won’t really count. But this is a load of S-shaped poo and I know it. I also frequently remind myself I’d probably vote for Barack Obama anyhow. I know him well as a politician as I paid close attention to his work in Chicago, and have gained great respect for him as my Illinois senator. But there is this gnawing question in the back of my brain: What would I have done if Oprah backed a candidate whom I didn’t morally or ethically believe in? Would I have been able to continue this experiment or would I have had to pull the plug? In all honesty, I got incredibly lucky on this one. I was able to fulfill an Oprah suggestion without going against what I believe in. I was able to go to my polling place and vote for the candidate I had the most faith in, while still fulfilling the rules of the project. But I’ll always wonder, what if…