Wednesday, April 03, 2019

Patriarchal Calculus 101 - Solving for What Do I Do

I wrote this post a year ago, while trying to process a situation that feels eerily similar to what Lucy Flores wrote about in The Cut. It has sat in my 'draft' folder for a year. I'm not sure why I'm publishing it now, but if I were being honest I'd tell you that 'the incident' was now long enough ago that maybe my friends who read this won't spend any time trying to 'figure out' who or what I'm referring to. That's not the point of this post, and it doesn't matter. What matters is my voice.

To anyone who has ever asked "Why didn't she say  something?" I would like to provide a quick online course in the impossibly complex calculations that I call Patriarchal Calculus.

I cannot count the number of times I've been made uncomfortable on a set, where I've been the target of some sort of unwelcome sexualized behavior.  It happened again recently. Something mild, but nonetheless uncomfortable and frustrating.

I wasn't even sure it was a big deal, as I've become so desensitized to this kind of boys-will-be-boys crap, but since times are a-changin', I mentioned it to a few close friends.  Every last one of them was shocked, angered, totally skeeved out. It felt good to be held up and assured that this wasn't an acceptable norm. And then they each in turn asked me, from a place of deep love, concern and compassion:

Why didn't you say anything?

In the question there is a subtle accusation. I should  have said something. Why didn't I?  What's wrong with me?? Haven't enough women shown me what it is to be courageous? I am letting down the #metoo movement because I chose in the moment to stay silent.

In the question there is an implication. It's my responsibility to change the way this man behaves.  To educate him. To hold him accountable. It implies the next step in the 'me too' movement is for all women to confront their abusers. And do it NOW.  Not in two weeks.  Not in two years.  Not once they become famous.

I do have a plan that I am comfortable with, that privately satisfies my sense of justice, that I'm putting in to action.  And part of that plan is this blog, which serves to share with all of my loving supporters an explanation of how, on that morning, I did the infinitely complex math of sexual harassment, and came up with the solution of "Don't Say Anything."

Welcome to my first lesson in Patriarchal Calculus 101...

(x*y)/z + i  = What do I do?
!c! - WTF

x = The severity of the offense, based on a completely subjective scale which is modified by previous trauma, personal preference and a myriad of other contextual factors (i.e. are you at work, a bar?). For some an action may not even register, but an example of a low value for x might be a light pat on the ass, while for others it might be a greeting of 'Hey Sexy'.  At some point on the scale the value shifts into the criminal range, and that zone also contains a sub-range which includes intent and 'I'm not a lawyer, how am I supposed to know?'... [Is masturbation considered assault? And when you're having to stand there and witness it, do you have the time to Google the answer?] Solve for x, in the moment. Determine the severity of the offense, and apply it to the equation.

y = The frequency of the action.  How often is this action occurring? Just once?  Every five minutes?  Every morning on your coffee break?

z = Our relationship. Is this my boyfriend? My boss? My friend's husband? My mentor, a colleague, an acquaintance, a stranger?

i = I.  What are you wearing?  Did you hug him hello? Have you been smiling and laughing at his jokes? Have you been drinking? Did you agree to meet him in his hotel room? What is your personal accountability in this situation?  Yeah, I know, I'd love to erase 'i' from the equation completely, but this is the patriarchy, folks. Forty years of indoctrination have taught me to consider the one factor I can control: my own actions. So add that sucker in.  It's part of the math, for now.

Divide all of this by...
!c! = The range of consequences.  Given that you haven't yet decided what exactly you're going to do, and factoring in the randomized nature of an assailant who at the very least is already crossing some line of propriety and therefore isn't bound by traditional social conventions as defined by Hallmark, Jesus, and the Bad Touch Doll, this value can only be represented as a range. Evaluate the likelihood within the range that each possible outcome might occur, given all the other factors you've previously solved for.  Perhaps on the spectrum is the ideal outcome -  he responds with immediate and heartfelt contrition, while everyone else in the room looks on in humbled awe at the beatific evolution of humanity.  Or maybe he gets offended and pouts.  Maybe he publicly shames you for over-reacting.  Maybe he fires you. Maybe he blacklists you.  Or maybe he gets more violent and hurts you worse. Quickly - do the math.

And before you complete the equation, you'll need to subtract the last factor...
WTF = Why is he doing this? This is an imaginary number, by the way.  It's impossible to solve for WTF without first completing the equation, so you'll just have to do your best.  Is it an accident?  Is this just an absent-minded gesture?  Is he 'old school'?  Does he really think this is OK? Does he think I'm enjoying this? Is he simply doing it because he can? Or is he sick in the head, needing help, giving me what he thinks I deserve? In the patriarchal calculus system, a woman may spend the bulk of her time, well after the incident, recalculating WTF. It is certainly the hardest value to resolve.

This complex probability equation must be solved in a very limited amount of time.  So in my moment of discomfort, I solved the equation and came up with the solution "Don't say anything, just put up with it for another half hour."  The alternate solutions which included -  1) push his hand away, 2) tell him to cut it out, 3) respectfully mention that his behavior is distracting, 4) scream and kick him in the nuts - all put me in a potential scenario that was marginally more uncomfortable than the one I was already in... The truth is I didn't even consciously think all that to myself. I've gotten so good at this math I do it in my sleep.

And now my friends are asking me how I came up with that answer. To them it's obviously wrong (they preferred solutions 2 or 4).  Unfortunately I broke the cardinal rule of math class - I didn't save my work. So I can't really tell you how I got my answer.  But when I came to them with my story, divulging it one inner circle friend at a time, I was testing the waters. I wanted to know if I was over-reacting. I wanted to be heard. I'm not traumatized, and I'm not wanting to destroy this man. On the scale of Aziz to Weinstein this guy doesn't even register. He's actually a decent person and probably just needs a good shaking... From a male friend, that will be able to look him in the eye and hold him accountable, just in case he tries to pretend he thought the advance was welcome (while on a job!), or acts like he didn't even realize he was doing it.

Women have to do these kinds of cost/benefit analysis equations every day. That's the current state of our society. In 2018. So if someone comes to you with a #(maybe)metoo story, please start by assuming she checked her work, and the answer she came up with in that awkward, irritating, or violating moment... was her best possible answer.  Instead, of asking why a woman didn't say anything, maybe try asking her if she feels like taking any action now or in the future, and if so, tell her you'll do what you can to support her. Or... just listen.

I don't want you to help me get better at doing this math.  I want none of us to ever have to do it again.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

An Apology Letter to the NEA

White Woman In Progress, at 7Stages Theater
 through April 9, 2017
After another typical night at Agatha's (Murder Mystery Dinner Theater), Ryan and I sat at the bar chasing scotch with more scotch and discussing our show.  It was a typical weekend.  Or maybe it was a Wednesday.  As a self-employed actor, a week has never looked the same to me in the past 20 years.  Nights are showtime, mornings are a chance to finish emails, and days are a muddle of auditions, gigs, meetings, and unpaid prep time.  So knocking back a few fingers of scotch is almost mandatory - you gotta find some way to calm yourself down after a 4 hour evening of entertaining random audience members, quick-changing out of a mustache/fedora and into a giant gingerbread cookie costume. Now that we're in our 40s, I suppose there's a hint there too of washing down the shame - what grown adult makes a living dancing around a dining room in a neon green afro and elf nose?  But I'm pitching an idea to Ryan for the next show: I'll call it Hawaii Five Uh-Oh, and this time we'll use one of those inflatable samurai suits - the audience should love that... but what if it pops?? These are the kind of real-world issues I struggle with as a working actor/writer/costumer/etc. So I guess its no wonder that I balk at using the word artist to describe myself, and instead opt for the word "entertainer".  And when an AJC theater critic inferred in his shining review of my current one-woman show that the bulk of my career is 'illegitimate,' I was in total agreement with him. He used those ubiquitous "air quotes" to lend a nod to a belief system so well entrenched that it is literally championed by the very people it represses! We all get it, though, us actors. It's a system that protects us from the crazies, after all. If acting was a real  job - everyone would want to do it! But thankfully, there are actually very few jobs out there that are considered 'legitimate' - and those are almost universally defined by the paycheck that they deliver.

But this morning I woke up thinking about those air quotes.  And I can't stop thinking about them. My whole life I've shunned the title of artist.  I've discredited the bulk of my performances in one way or another: Improv?  Silly make-em ups or skits. Stagecraft?  Nope, its just a little play, community theater. Voice-overs? Mostly romance novels, and one-off local radio spots. Movies and TV? Blink and you'll miss me. I wouldn't dare put myself on a level with Broadway, or the Silver Screen, or even the Alliance (our big Equity house here in town). Sure I carry a SAG card, but I don't make enough money most years to qualify for health care.  I'm not a REAL actor, and I'm certainly not an artist. This is the way I've seen my whole career, for which I've given up just about everything else - and I never questioned that... until I decided to put on my own one-woman show. Now that could reasonably be considered artistry.  It's like the hardest thing I've ever done! And I'm truly creating something from just about nothing! So yeah, I can't avoid the title, and I don't want to. In my mind I've finally earned it. So when Mr. Osborne introduced me as an actor only occasionally doing "legitimate" theater, I smiled and nodded - Dude, we're on the same page. This time it actually counts.

That night at Agatha's, as the last of the audience got their parking tickets stamped and filed out joyfully reminding each other of their favorite moments - a lone couple in their late 20s shyly approached us.  We were out of costume, our duties fulfilled, we'd already thanked the guests and now we were off the clock.  But we didn't mind, cause we're actors, and we're lucky enough to eek out a living telling jokes. So we turned to acknowledge them. They were in tears.  "We wanted to thank you," the woman said. "This is our first night out since our 1 year old son died four months ago.  We never thought we'd laugh again. You saved our lives." 

As our administration attempts to gut the National Endowment for the Arts, I realize that I have willingly participated in the system that allows our society to dismiss and discount any art that doesn't make money, that doesn't make sense, that doesn't doesn't make a huge sweeping impact. But that is unfair, inhuman, and suicidal. Art is vital. Art is undefinable. But most importantly - ART IS LEGITIMATE. Please tell your representatives. And if you have time, come check out my art - all of it. 

Sunday, April 24, 2016

Hate begets Hate: Impressions of a KKK Rally

By the time I arrived at Stone Mountain Park, GA on Saturday April 23rd, most of the events of the White Supremacist Rally were over.  When I pulled into the park, riding in the passenger seat of a beat-up mostly red Ford F150, you could almost believe the lie the sublimity of nature told: Everything is as it should be... 

Close your eyes, lay in the sun and listen to the trees shivering in the slight breeze. Don't bother to look any closer, the park's permanence insists. My history will never change, so why should you grapple with it? My history will never change, so you need not strain to defend it. Be at peace. The tears of erosion that stain the sides of my smooth rock face have no hope of washing away the three Confederate leaders carved into time. 

Saturday morning, two days before a Georgia state holiday known as Confederate Memorial Day, a number of organizations gathered to participate in a "Pro-White" rally. The League of the South and the KKK were numbered among those present. You can check out Audrey Washington's twitter for an excellent visual report of the morning. Apparently this occurs every year, but gathering details about what exactly happens and why is not easy. It seems no one really knew what to expect, as the police arrived in full riot gear, and protestors out-numbered participants 10 to 1. Barricades were scattered throughout the park, random groups of people perched on the curbs at intersections, the parking lots were mostly vacant and it was unclear whether people were there to exercise their bodies or their rights.

What I saw met some of my expectations and leveled others - plenty of confederate flags of course, but some were held by African-Americans. I would later come to understand this was most likely in protest. There were various banners ("Bury the Klan" covered a billowing sheet, the word 'bury' in red, looked like blood, dripping.) Plenty of police vehicles sailing up and down the roads with blue lights flashing, but ominously without sirens, like a funeral procession. At 2pm when I arrived, the rally and protest were just breaking up, and people were walking with intention back to their cars, out of the park.  I was disturbed to see many men and women of both races in army fatigues, carrying assault weapons. They weren't part of the peace-keeping forces on duty.  The flat black of the modern weaponry seemed menacing, unsafe, a warning. One of my most deadening moments was witnessing a group of militant white youth marching down the road, carrying a black flag bearing the letters ANTIFA.

Some of them wore bandanas covering their nose and mouth, like they had just emerged from the noxious fumes of a devastating fire. I rushed to google the acronym, only to be shocked when I discovered what those letters meant. ANTIFA is an organization that opposes fascism in all its forms. These people were protestors. My heart sank - everything about their presence felt violent, aggressive, dangerous. They were shouting "F**k the police," skulking down the sidewalk. Their masks, I would learn as I overheard a police officer announce into a megaphone, were in violation of Georgia's anti-mask statute, passed in 1951 as part of an effort to curtail the activities of the KKK.  The misdemeanor that these protestors could incur, and that other protestors had already been charged with earlier that day, would (according to the stern voice of one officer) "land you in jail."

My initial wariness at entering a potentially dangerous rally and protest shifted to confusion, and a subtly growing nausea. My senses were all on high-alert. I was intensely aware of my disappointment at having showed up too late. And at my singular need to find the bad guys. And at not wanting to be mistaken for part of the problem. I manically flashed peace signs at anyone who was black. I smiled passively and bowed my head as I passed any gatherings, not wanting to make them aware that I was secretly accounting for their skin color, wardrobe, attitude - discerning which team they were on, while wanting to make my affiliation just as clear. When after an hour of wandering through the park, we turned a corner and found the remnants of the white supremacists gathered in a tucked-away parking lot, I barely had the spirit left to take a photo, much less confront them. My mind was drowning in the complexity of the day's events, my vision of a high moral ground now just a flimsy Hollywood backdrop. Let's get out of here, I told my friend.

I was too exhausted to protest. Racial tension coated everything, a thick film of viscous anger. But its weight and its undeniable presence have been a part of our fabric for so long that it seems even exposing it to the bright sun, the passions of 10-to-1 protestors, the undeniable division marked by a wall of riot shields - none of this can change its consistency. It remains, and we go home. That was the feeling that eclipsed all others. Like the massive stone that has squatted on Atlanta's horizon for 350 million years before the city rose from the trees, burned and rose again, fear and hate are here to stay. So you'd better keep those you love close, and those you don't understand a baseball bat's length away.
Incredible image by Annalise Kaylor - please check out her photo stream for a candid and moving portrait of the day
I didn't want this to be the story. I wanted to see Dr. King's dream emerge from slumber and embrace the haters and the misguided. I wanted love to win yesterday. And I selfishly wanted a chance to be one of the brave souls who stood on the front lines of hope.

But I showed up too late. Hundreds of years too late.

How do you protest a person's point of view? That was what I asked my friend when she suggested we participate in the demonstration in some way. I want to be a peaceful activist; I believe that love and acceptance are the only tools that can bridge the divide. She suggested giving out flowers from her yard.

When we arrived back home, sunburnt, fear spent and hollow, the basket was still full.

Friday, November 06, 2015

Dear Offended People

I just watched the video on Dear Black People by Nicole Arbour. I'm not posting a link - you can find it pretty easily yourself.

So naturally the response all over my left-wing feed is one of righteous outrage, and understandably so. This broad is taking advantage of every obnoxious thing about the internet and cashing in. Ms. Lutkin summed up the favored view craftily when she wrote: She's a troll who lives under a troll bridge posting troll videos, and it's making her rich.Arbour is offending mass quantities of EVERYONE (fat-shaming, racism) and reaping the benefits of notoriety in a country where no publicity is bad publicity.

And she’s a perky young blond girl with the kind of looks that deafen teenage boys. So yes, it’s super easy to hate.

Unfortunately, what she did is to some degree what I’m about to do - talk about race - so I had to watch a little more closely.  Because as much as I fear the consequences of my words… I need to hear what she has to say about race.

Oh crap, I thought, as I watched this video. If this is a meta-stunt, she might be very very very smart. There were statements in this video that RESONATED with some people, and whoever is editing it has a strong sense of comedic pace. At least in the sense that if the joke didn’t land it moved on too quickly to the next moment to notice… It’s not exactly amateur hour here - this woman has gotten the vlog down to a practical science.

And then I watched her interview on The View, (she was defending another offensive video) and I relaxed. Nope, she really IS just a jerk who is cashing in on Trump-level bullying tactics. Phew. I mean for God’s sake, she keeps using the word “satire” incorrectly, and her one potentially justifiable defense (“men can joke like this, so why can’t I?”) is sadly only backed up by repetition of same defense. Elaborate, Nicole, and you might have tapped into something. Recognizing her lack of self-awareness (or inability to be verbally concise without an editor), I breathed a deep sigh of relief.

But why am I relieved?  Because on the one hand, her video about race (not the one about obesity, I can't even begin to approach that chaos) creates a conversation. In my book, we DO need to talk about race. ALL OF US. We need to speak out candidly so that we can get past the fears and start the healing.  We need to bravely step into a minefield of unknown perspectives in order to feel empowered to rise up against a system we ourselves created and participate in.

So where is the difference??  That’s what I needed to put words to: how is what she’s doing DIFFERENT from what I’m doing? Because here’s what I DON’T agree with: A blogger’s response triumphantly linking Elon James White’s quote: “You could just say NOTHING.” Now I’m probably taking issue with this statement because it’s most likely taken out of context by said white blogger who angrily railed against Arbour, spewing facts that Arbour clearly doesn’t care about. But White (from the posts I scanned) doesn’t think women, or anyone should be silenced en masse, and this blogger was missing the point. EVEN NICOLE ARBOUR NEEDS TO SPEAK UP. We need everyone to start talking. Because YES, some of it is going to be incomprehensible trash. But like Orlando Jones said (joked) about the confederate flag: “This way, we know where all the a**holes are!”

Right now we’re simmering in sweet Southern passive aggressive politeness.  See no evil, Hear No Evil, Speak no evil. Don’t speak unless spoken to. If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

All these misunderstood aphorisms - this is where I’m coming from. Nobody talked about racism with me, when I was growing up. There were certain things you didn’t say, that you just didn’t bring up in polite society. And voila: Ignorance.

And in another world, these well-meaning writers seem to be saying - unless you have a certain level of understanding, education, (PERSPECTIVE) then you need to keep your mouth shut and LISTEN.  

That’s the key, isn’t it? We all need to do less talking and more listening. And more DOING.

But then what the heck am I talking about? Here is my dilemma: on the one hand, I believe that a “CONVERSATION” needs to be had.  On the other hand, I agree that our community would be better served by less talking and more action. And since I can only be responsible for me, the question becomes: WHERE ON THIS SPECTRUM DO I BELONG?

I’m afraid the truth is probably further down the road toward shut up and dance. I’m afraid of this because I have recently signed up to do the opposite: I’ve agreed to WRITE a one-woman show about racism and my journey towards activism. I’ve agreed to TALK about it. When I could be going to any number of organizations and volunteering. Yeah, I only have so much time, people! So if I’m going to talk about this stuff, I’d better get my white ducks in a row, and make sure I don’t end up in the same stew with Nicole Arbour.

So, for the sake of practicing my favorite art form: The Benefit of the Doubt, I’m going to watch this obscene video one more time and try to squeeze out the few drops of honesty that might be hidden within… Had she actually attempted to have a real conversation, instead of a One White Woman Show in a Bouncy Castle, what she might have been trying to say:

Dear Black People” - One blogger claimed that there is NO WAY Arbour actually saw last year’s Dear White People - an independent film about modern day racial divides - so it’s just a coincidence that she has “appropriated” this clever title into what is clearly a throbbing target of offensiveness tacked on to the front of her shame parade. Except that it achieves exactly what it’s supposed to: attention. Genius? Well...Maybe. But the more interesting question it evokes is: WHY is this inappropriate? The title Dear White People isn’t just a title, it’s the radio show conducted by a character in the film who comes to discover [spoiler alert] that her "angry black woman" radio persona doesn’t do justice to her more culturally mixed life experience.  It’s a great movie, by the way, but I myself had to watch it with a glass of white guilt nearby to wash down the taste of privilege gone sour. Yep, that was my crappy metaphor for ‘taking my white medicine.’ It tastes bitter, but its supposed to fix what’s broken… I’m saying it’s not easy to hear how wrong white people are. That doesn’t mean it shouldn’t happen. Although I do find it hard to believe Arbour thought her title through quite so deeply. And that would be me making a dumb blonde stereotype.

“Can we just get on this whole appropriation of black culture thing?” - OK, let’s talk about the concept of Appropriation. Is it wrong for me to like rap music? What does this phrase really mean and where is the line? Let’s talk about this phrase because it makes me ashamed to enjoy certain things, as if I need to be doing it in secret. In some way it seems to create more of a divide in a time when equality is our goal. To what end is this phrase useful to me as a form of awareness, and at what point can we ease up on the separation?

Cause even when I do the exact same job as a man, I get paid less money. But I don’t know anything about inequality." (italics = spoken sarcastically) - Nicole believes that her experience of misogyny is an equivalent experience of inequality to that of racism. I hate to tell you folks, but there are a lot of people out there who don’t experience inequality of race… (BECAUSE THEY ARE WHITE)… and therefore don’t understand what it really does mean. Yep, she’s definitely not getting it, but she also does experience a form of inequality. What she doesn’t get is that it’s not the same. By a significant margin. Neither did my mom until we talked it out. Seriously. Ever heard a person use the term "Reverse Racism"? Arbour is not alone in this type of thinking. However, ignorance-shaming results in people getting angrier and defending their ignorance, instead of approaching the conversation with the deep awareness that we are ALL good people on the inside, and given the opportunity, we can come to a better understanding of each other.  Before we (the enlightened) react with shock and disgust at her ignorance, let’s give each other the BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT.

“You guys are appropriating your own culture!” - Phew. Yeah this part got a little tough to parse out. I… THINK… she’s trying to say that we all… yeah I don’t know what she’s trying to say… it’s something about the perceived hypocrisy of the attempt to represent a level of black culture that one does not actually represent…and that being unfair?? I have a feeling this is where she REALLY lost people. Also, she’s talking about stereotypes here, too: the idea that a stereotype comes from some element of truth, and that (shock face) one prefers the positive over the negative. She suggests that one can’t retain one without the other, but that is just fallible logic.  It won’t take much to shake her of this erroneous belief… I hope.

“[The Klan is] proof that white people invented the hoodie” - OK, now we just need to school her in the art of dark (not race) comedy. TOO SOON. It’s like the whole Daniel Tosh rape controversy… There IS a way to be funny about controversial topics, but you better be real good at comedy… This is just a bad joke.

“Why don’t we all just enjoy whatever the f**k we want from every culture?”  - We do. It’s called cruise ships. We can, however, talk about the difference between enjoying and exploiting.

“Let’s talk about slavery. It was really f**ked up. But the thing is? I wasn’t there! I am f**king sick of hearing that I don’t know the struggle. Cause you’re right, I don’t. I’d really like you to explain it to me so that I can HELP.” -  Wait. WHAT? Where did this come from? I was about to rail on this chick and then she said what I wish she’d say: “I’m ignorant and I want to be educated.” I guess all that’s missing here is me believing her. And there went the benefit of MY doubt. Because when you leap from bubbly rants to genuine concern, it's a little tough for me to catch up. So let’s address the first half: guess what? This isn’t the first time the slavery mea culpa has been brought up. There are a lot of people who secretly feel like they are being unfairly held responsible for slavery. It’s a misunderstanding of the need for Affirmative Action, etc. How can we address this misunderstanding? 16 (mostly) Southern States and districts feel that in the 21st century they are unfairly targeted by the Voting Rights Act. This debate exists on many levels. So yes, Nicole, let's talk about it.

And then… “I’m making jokes because that’s what I do in awkward situations. But I find what I see happening to the black population disgusting.” … Um. OK. Well, even Arbour sees there’s imbalance. That was something I did not anticipate. Because we are now on the same page and I would not have seen that coming. She goes onto describe minimum wage and the American Jail system as modern forms of Slavery. Which is exactly what this article in the Washington Post says. Oh wow, I would not have expected this girl to be reading the Post. PS, neither did I. I just happened to Google "modern day slavery and minimum wage" and that’s what I found. I might go back and read the article later. To cover my hypocritical butt.

“Bill Nye the Science Guy says that we are all actually from the same race. I think it’s about damn time we started acting like it.” - So that’s her point. Nicole Arbour wants equality. So do I. So what’s the problem? No really, what is the problem with her way of phrasing such questions, and how can we address it? Instead of getting so mad and telling people to shut up?? - Even this poorly choreographed stump speech from a person that nobody can convince me is underserved in any way. Yeah, she has very little tact and even less depth, but we need to meet people where they are and then lift them up. How’s that for a non-violent approach?

Unless of course you just hate what she stands for… The Rich Blond Troll. In that case, let’s get to hating! Or... you go. I'll be over here reading that Washington Post article...

Tuesday, May 05, 2015

Actors: Don't Move to Atlanta (Reverse-Psychology Font)

Atlanta - the Hollywood of the South, the land of hope for countless actors who dream of credits to populate their empty resumes. Hundreds of millions of dollars of production has made its way to our steamy, swampy, tax-free corner of the country and every hungry actor has tilted their nose in our direction. Low-hanging fruit is no uncommon sight in our agricultural homeland.

So it should come as no surprise that every actor who is unhappy with their career now has Atlanta on their radar. Can you feel it, fellow artists? The satisfying feeling of control over your destiny? A chance to DO SOMETHING about all those closed doors, all those minutes ticking by without progress? Because what an actor is best at is imagination, and Georgia's burgeoning film industry has been crowding the trades with Big-Fish/Small-Pond success stories. If an untrained yokel can book a gig on the Walking Dead, imagine what an LA-seasoned actor could do!

So I'd like to offer some perspective from the inside. Before you pack your bags and give up your rent-controlled duplex. Before you toss your Starbucks apron on the floor, break up with your yoga teacher and call your cousin in Macon who said you could crash there anytime:

Only move to Atlanta if you are ready to QUIT ACTING. 

Yup, I said it. And now I get to explain myself. Because on my tax forms, for the last 6 years of living in Atlanta, I have stated the truth - I am a full-time ACTOR. I make a living as an actor, I have bought a 3-bedroom home on a quarter-acre of land, and two months ago I spent Oscar weekend in LA in a fancy dress at a party I would never have been able to get into 6 years prior, laughing and cheering as a movie I was in won an Oscar.

As Glinda at Agatha's Murder Mystery Dinner Theater
Does that sound like the Hollywood of the South fairytale come true? Of course it does, because I wrote it according to old rules of success that I no longer believe in. Because when I left LA 6 years ago, I QUIT ACTING. I was done with the LA model, and it was certainly done with me.

The LA model: Success is defined by the number of credits on your resume. If you have enough, 'they' let you get more. Someday you get enough credits to regularly be offered more credits. Then you get a house with a pool and take care of all your poor friends who haven't gotten enough credits yet. If you are talented enough and work hard enough, this will eventually happen for you. In the meantime, you must make yourself miserable wondering why it hasn't happened yet.

The ATL model: The Film/TV industry doesn't need you. No matter how talented you are, no matter how hard you work, you are not necessary. (Unless you are crew - then you are DESPERATELY needed.) The Atlanta pond has plenty of actor fish. There are plenty of people available to play Vampire #3.  It has way less fish than LA or NY and even so there are way too many fish. Those untrained yokels that got small roles that became medium-sized roles that became a series regular role after 4 seasons? Actually, they've been working here in Atlanta for MANY years, have been on camera countless times prior, as well as on stage or in other industry jobs, and have earned their "credit."

Performed this for one night in November.
When Out of Hand Theater calls, I always say YES
But you can make a living as an actor here. You simply have to quit acting. Stop thinking of what you do as some sort of magical gift you were granted as an infant and start thinking of acting as a trade. Like a plumber, you need to go where the sinks are broken. Because there IS a need for storytellers. And there is a need for your unique story. You simply need to figure out what that story is and who needs to hear it. While keeping in mind that your audience probably isn't the one watching the CW. They've got plenty of mindless content to devour. Think LOCALLY. How can you use what you do to serve others? Is there a story that you can tell, that will help/entertain/unite a smaller audience?

It's an incredible feeling when you go where you're needed. When you finally stop insisting that people who don't need you include you anyway. Find a community that needs your skill-set, and start taking control of your business. My business earns me a comfortable living, but only about 5% of that comes from film and television work. Where does the other money come from? Two dozen other acting-related jobs that I usually don't have to audition for, and that use my skills in a myriad of creative ways that keep me interested and busy. I teach, I do voice-overs, I write and perform live theater pieces, I improvise, I coach, I entertain.

Dad's Garage Theater. Oh yeah.
In Atlanta, I found a world of employment outside of the Hollywood of the South. I turned my focus away from what civilians consider "success," and instead looked to work where I was needed. Because they don't need me on Guardians of the Galaxy 2. But there's a few hundred local Atlantans a week who could use a laugh, or a chance to learn improv, or an imaginary witness to practice their courtroom technique on. And after 20 years of experience and training, I'm just the actor for the job.

I won't get famous. And being at an Oscar party was fun, but the party we're going to throw next year when my new theater opens is going to be EPIC. I can't define my happiness by random uncontrollable acts of fate. I get my fulfillment by being where I'm needed. Like any good plumber.

** Want to read more? Stages of L.A. is my experience of moving to Hollywood **

Monday, March 09, 2015

A Thank You Note to Selma

Dear Mayor Evans and the City of Selma,

Thank you for a weekend that my parents and I will never forget. Spending time with you during this historical celebration of one of our country's most courageous moments has been inspirational, eye-opening and empowering.

In days to come you will probably hear some complaints about an event that became bigger than your city could have ever prepared for, so I want you to know the truth from three participants who could not have asked for a better experience. And we did not have VIP badges.

Friday afternoon when we parked on the far side of the Edmund Pettus Bridge and walked our bicycles over the bridge, we had already made friends. A retired Marine/preacher and his wife from a small town in Mississippi didn't have any idea where to go. We shared what little information we had, an address for a church and the time of a rally later that evening. Someone else may tell you that your website wasn't helpful enough, but rather than spend time scrolling through webpages, my nose buried in my cellphone, I got to hear the story of this couple's journey to greet history. I got all the information I needed.

Saturday morning my parents and I wandered into downtown Selma as vendors scrambled to get sausages grilling and BBQ heated up. The streets were already filled with as many people as your population, twice over, most of them standing in a self-organized line wrapped around two city blocks to hear the President speak. After waiting over an hour, the line growing in front of us as buses pulled up and people joined the line wherever they saw fit, we decided not to bother and found instead a position on a curb three blocks away from the Bridge, just behind the back barriers.

Some may complain of long waits, sound problems, the heat, not being able to see. But not us. We stood all day in the sun, and when the President finally began to speak two hours after he was scheduled, we couldn't hear anything above a mutter. I'll tell you what I did hear: Rev. S.P. Powell, one of the foot soldiers on the bridge on Bloody Sunday was sitting on a trash bin just behind me, and before we knew it, the crowd around us was gifted with a word-for-word account of his experience, of the power of his faith to carry him through, of how Dr. King bought him a '55 Chevy to help in the coordination of the efforts. He really loved that car.

On Sunday afternoon, we stood amidst 40,000 people outside Brown Chapel, listening impatiently to a service gone on too long, (and yet every word just as meaningful as the next,) wondering when we'd finally be allowed to march. As the clock ticked past the scheduled hour, rumors of the March being cancelled began to filter through the crowd. Eyeing the almost entirely white police force and the majority
African-American marchers, I began to worry. I looked in the eyes of officials dressed in suits moving swiftly through the masses and they seemed focused,wary and guarded. Sunday afternoon could have been a disaster, when over 80,000 stirred-up, sunburnt participants were told the March could not proceed. But that's not what happened. Instead those of us at the chapel walked together, singing, the half mile to downtown to greet the rest and mill about for photo-ops.

The bridge was packed; ambulances couldn't easily get to injured or exhausted participants. My parents and I didn't try to get near the milieu and instead stopped blocks before the river to stand with the dancing youth of the Freedom Foundation, RATCo and Students Unite. We held up petitions to change the name of the bridge while our friends sold T-Shirts to fund their new Youth Center. You may hear accounts of disappointment and the unfulfilled promise of an organized march - but that day I walked, sang, held hands - and I worked for change.

"I was there." It's a phrase I will be able to utter with pride and gratitude for the rest of my life. I was there with my parents, with my new friends, and most importantly with the living heroes of the Civil Rights Movement. I felt the spirit, I heard the passion, and I knew the reason why Selma is the place where change began.

So thank you, Selma. For 1965 and for 2015. You did your best, and it was good enough.
TL: Mom and I Sunday afternoon, bridge in the background.
TR: Robin White, Mary Liuzzo Lilleboe, myself and Sheyann Webb Christburg at the NAACP Awards Gala in Montgomery
LL: Dad meets Jimmy Webb           LR: Mom meets Sheyann

Tuesday, March 03, 2015

Selma - Discovering Viola Liuzzo Part 2

I used old photos of my grandmother to help inspire the
look for Viola.  Granny (Elizabeth Sellars) is pictured 
Lower Right and Viola is Upper Right
It was late on a Sunday night in June when I finally found myself on US Route 80, westbound for Selma, Alabama, on my way to our final week of filming - on location at last. It was my first time traveling a modern version of the road Viola Liuzzo drove the last night of her life. Even though this highway is now bigger, straighter, flatter - it is still a haunting drive. I was alone and the fog kept my vision limited; the occasional pair of headlights approaching gave me an ominous feeling. I wanted it that way. I wanted to have, if I could, even a small understanding of the life of the martyr I was portraying. She was an elusive woman. Accounts I had read of Viola were contradictory, and for good reason. Most Americans, until recently, had no idea who Viola Liuzzo was, myself included. Her greatest of sacrifices for the Civil Rights Movement - the only white woman to give her life - is buried in history beneath layers of misinformation.

On March 25th, the night of the completion of the third march to Montgomery, Viola Liuzzo was traveling back and forth on Route 80 delivering marchers back to Selma and running various errands as part of the transportation committee. After departing in her Oldsmobile from Selma at approximately 8 in the evening, driving with a single passenger, Leroy Moton (a 19-year-old African American), she was gunned down by four Klansmen on the highway in Lowndes County. Moton survived the attack physically unharmed.

If this description seems vague to you, it's intentional. The facts of Viola's death are equivocal, primarily because one of the Klansmen involved in the murder was paid FBI informant Tommy Rowe. So it depends on who you ask, what documents you consult, and who you believe as to what actually happened to Mrs. Liuzzo that night. And not only were the events of that evening obscured, but Viola's reputation, her history were twisted to fit multiple agendas.

For example: the death of a white woman in the name of civil rights is way more incendiary if the photo used in articles trying to elicit sympathy is of a beautiful young woman, aged 24, blonde hair perfectly coifed like an angel. But Viola was 39 when she passed, beauty of a different nature, a figure of strength, determination and full awareness of the boldness of her actions. As I searched for truth, I found that photos and books only spoke of moments and ambiguous facts, and that her humanity, her motivations, were yet a mystery.

Until I stood on the bridge. Wearing a trench coat, with my hair pinned and lips painted red, I found myself drenched in history. Not just the setting - a magnificent steel arch bridge welcoming visitors into downtown Selma, Alabama's second oldest city and home to 1250 historical structures in varying states of restoration. I found myself surrounded by living history. Many of our background players were lifelong residents of Selma - some had even participated in the original marches. And they shared a common love for the woman I was portraying. Faces glowed with pride as stories were shared; tears flowed freely as we prayed together in gratitude. Viola had only been in Selma for a short while, and yet she had inspired a commitment in the people of Selma to remember her and honor her. These were the hands that washed off the confederate slurs from her marker year after year. These were the voices that insisted on honoring her name in council meetings and in the media. Viola may not be remembered by a nation, but she is loved by many in Selma.

That day I felt as close to the truth as I am ever going to get. By marching hand in hand with those who love Viola, I felt what it meant to be beloved. I finally came to understand a martyr.