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

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.

Selma - Being the White Girl Part 2

Marching with StudentsUnite in Selma; MLK weekend

So for a few months now I've been dealing with this Selma-induced awakening. Watching Ava's prophecies come true. Yep, sure enough, she's right.  There's still racism happening everywhere. Can't believe I didn't notice before...

So now, I'm awake.  I'm thinking about it, talking about it - asking everyone I can to wake up with me and start some real conversations. And boy am I feeling righteous. I'm on some kind of mission - I fill my tanks at the Center for Human and Civil Rights and I blog about it with you: "Hey world! I'm uncomfortable, and I want to do more!"...  I want to know how to be better and I'm not afraid to make some mistakes along the way so long as I keep marching. I've found student groups I can help, I've encouraged young people of color to express themselves positively in an artistic forum and offered my assistance in getting them started. I've spoken at churches and schools and MLK events.

In short, I'm feeling empowered. I've got hope and I see change on the horizon.

And then I met THEM. The ACTUAL racists. Oh wait. You see, I'd been using that clever word: systemic. A clever word because when you fight a system, you don't actually have to fight a person. But one night in Selma, Alabama, I ran smack dab into two probable survivors of Bloody Sunday. And by survivors, I mean they were likely there (they are old enough now) and they were most likely on the wrong side of the bridge.

What does a racist look like?  Well, these two were probably making themselves easy to spot. They sat outside a diner, smoking unfiltered Pall Malls, wearing camouflage jackets and pants.  And... oh yeah, they were white males. In Selma, AL. Over the age of 65. And they asked me, like any good local would, with almost no suspicion in their voices, what I was doing here. Where did I come from?  I told them about the march that had just happened, how Selma filmmakers were honoring the town with a concert and free screenings of the movie.

Without hesitation, Old Racist #1 turns to me and says: "You won't get me into that theater full of N*** unless I got a machine gun."

And the phrase "I can't breathe" drifted into my head. Oh my God. Ava is right. And the kids of StudentsUnite, who during the march kept pulling me aside and saying - "No one is talking about the REAL problems"... they were also right. Because while the true survivors of Bloody Sunday still honor us with their breath today, so too do the antagonists still live and breathe and hate.

My awakening is complete. And I'm done talking. Well, no, that's not entirely true. If I was talking before, now I want to shout. But more so I'm ready to ACT. To take action.

I spoke a moment longer with those old men. I foolishly attempted to change their minds. In the course of our dialogue in which I managed heroically not to say out loud that I was relieved they would probably die soon anyway, I heard some actual information. These men are racists, yes. They are incorrectly attributing misbehaviors and social difficulties to race. But they are also frustrated with those same systemic issues: the welfare state, poverty, criminalized behavior.

What I wanted to do wasn't change their minds - they have the same issues I do. What I wanted to do was change their hearts. Maybe that would be my biggest dream for the movie Selma - that it could change a person's heart. Because that's what art can do, right?

So I'll hope that a movie can change a man's heart, because I truly don't know how. And in the meantime, I've got work to do, fighting the system.  At least now I have a better picture of what that means, and WHO I'm up against.

Selma - Including Women

I love this picture. It's of myself, Tessa Thompson and Carmen Ejogo on our way to a BBQ one night in Selma. All of our faces are glowing from a day of filming the marches on the Edmund Pettus Bridge, and we've scrubbed all that movie makeup off, taken down (or off) our 60s hair, and we all probably could be mistaken for college kids. For a month on the set, we were surrounded by incredible, powerful women. And that wasn't an accident.

Last night I was performing at Dad's Garage - an improv comedy show - which for one special weekend included Scott Adsit of 30 Rock and Big Hero 6 fame. He is formerly from Second City, a real veteran of the boards, and a team player. Before we went on stage that evening, he asked if Jessica and I could also play in the second half. He had noticed that our company was imbalanced in terms of gender and he was simply taking steps to correct that. It was then I had one of Oprah's Aha moments!

Ava DuVernay made it a priority to include women's stories in Selma. Scott Adsit made a point of including women in our show last night. It's really that simple, and sadly that hard. Gender inequality can be shifted in quite the same way racial inequality can. Beginning with intentional inclusion -   making balance a priority.

It's not easy to be that first woman. Or that only woman. The actual fact of Viola Liuzzo's departure to Selma is that she did not ask for permission from her husband and family to leave, she just left. She had to call from the road to say that she was leaving, because otherwise she probably would not have been allowed to go. In 1965, women had very little rights. The horror of the aftermath of Viola's death upon her family was multiplied by the fact that many felt Viola had acted outside of acceptable behaviors for a woman, a wife and a mother. A Ladies' Home Journal magazine survey taken right after Liuzzo's death asked its readers what kind of woman would leave her family for a civil rights demonstration. The magazine suggested that she had brought death on herself by leaving home -- and 55% of its readers agreed.

I was raised in the South, and taught to behave like a lady. Much of that upbringing I value - to treat everyone with respect, to behave with dignity and to ensure that others are cared for first. But I also recognize the trappings of a system which was well-entrenched in 1965 and still clings to its position of power today. Gender inequality, racial inequality, human rights inequality - these are issues we cannot sleep on. I chose to enter the world of improv comedy in 1995 in Tallahassee because it looked like fun, and I was needed because there were no women playing in the local troupe. I was asked to join by a man who noticed the imbalance. He was the same man who had been, (the years before,) the only gay man in the troupe. It is tough to be a first and an only. But it starts with a choice.

Selma - Controversies and Snubs

This morning while listening to a news quiz show on MSNBC, I heard the host refer to Selma as a "controversial film." As in: President Obama screened what controversial film for cast and crew this weekend? DING DING DING Selma! The guesser earned 100 points, and the host earned my complete frustration. UGH. Really? Out of billions of adjectives, that's the one some writer picked? Sigh. How about historic, dramatic, timely, award-nominated... Oh right.

So fine - let's talk about controversies and snubs. Because with the way Selma seems to be affecting audiences nationwide, I suppose its fair to admit there is a big white elephant in the room.

First: the LBJ "controversy." Friends, that's a non-starter. Read the Washington Post article, and then go watch the film. Selma shows President Johnson for who he was: A Master Politician. And Dr. King is shown to be a Master Activist. They both did the job in the way they knew how, with the resources they had. The End. That's no controversy.

Second: As awards season shifts into high gear, I know I personally have been disappointed by gaps in the nominations. I'm not the only one. But I refuse to call it a "snub." A snub by definition is done with intent. So let's call it instead a "miss." And here are my thoughts on the "Misses:"
1. Selma has received Academy nominations for Best Picture and Best Song - these nominations are great honors, amid strong competition this year. Ground-breaking films like Boyhood and Birdman are sharing this category with us. We are in stellar company.
2. Many great films and individuals in the past have been overlooked by the Oscars. Here too we are in stellar company.
3. Ava DuVernay and David Oyelowo, Carmen Ejogo, Bradford Young - they are all going to be just fine. They have faced much bigger hurdles than an empty trophy shelf to get where they are.
4. Selma speaks for itself. If you are unhappy with the nominations, cast your vote at the box office. Because at the end of the day, an Oscar is a huge honor - perhaps the highest in our industry - but money makes movies. Not accolades.
5. This is the most important thing I want you to know about Selma. When Ava created this film, I don't think she envisioned an audience whose demographic reflected the Academy. Selma wasn't made for a generation that REMEMBERS SELMA. It was made for all of those who weren't born yet. Like me, yes, but much more importantly, for the young men and women like our four girls who played the roles of the victims of the 16th St Baptist Church bombing. When I hear them speak about how this movie has changed them... When I see how my friend Heather has taken her middle school students in Dallas to see the film and talk about it... When my cousin in Kansas shares with me something her daughter found out about Viola Liuzzo that I didn't already know (and believe me that's not an easy trick)... Well, those are the awards for which Selma and Ava and David - and all of those who worked on the film - have been nominated and have won.

For more information on how students can see Selma for free, click here.

Selma - Discovering Viola Liuzzo

I was sitting in the hair trailer, quietly contemplating the past week of shooting on location in Selma, Alabama - an experience that will warrant an entirely separate blog post - when Colman Domingo tapped me on the shoulder. Colman plays Ralph David Abernathy in the film, and has been the heart of our cast. A person I will forever be grateful for having met. He was sitting in the chair next to me getting his hair sifted on (Hollywood magic!) and he spoke some powerful words to me that I will keep for myself except to say this: He said, "Viola is with you." I wept. I would like to share with you the story of how I discovered Viola. While preparing for the audition for Viola, I did my obligatory actor type research. I found pictures, I wiki'd, I googled. The role in the script was almost non-existent, just a few simple lines from a woman to her husband, telling him she was heading to Selma to participate in the marches. The director, Ava DuVernay, essentially rewrote the script, and in the process fought to make women a more vital part of the story - hence Viola's inclusion. The script didn't say much more about Viola, just how she was there, and then murdered, so I had to make quite a few of my own choices. I started digging. The deeper I got into Viola's story, the more overwhelmed I became. We only get a glimpse of her courageous existence in the film, but beneath that is an ocean of pain and bravery that I was stunned to find. I want to tell you the whole story, but it would take one hundred blog posts, a film, a field trip, and a tattoo. Because Viola's life isn't just her own. It is her children's, it is a movement's, a race's, a gender's, a conspiracy laden miasma of buried truths, disseminated misinformation and resentful failures on the part of people who should have known better. I will tell you more of her story, but I'll start here with this experience. The image I have of Viola in my mind is the photograph of her marching along the highway. She is focused, determined, weary. She carries her shoes in her hands. The shoes were the first thing that struck me. I hate wearing shoes. While shooting the scene with David Silverman of Viola and husband Jim at home watching the Bloody Sunday footage, and subsequently planning for her departure, I insisted on being barefoot. All I wanted for the entire month of shooting was to pay as much respect to her spirit as possible. It was my job alone to make sure that Mrs. Liuzzo's voice was heard in the few words and multiple moments I had on camera. I was absolutely overwhelmed with the monumental responsibility.

On a day off from shooting I went to visit Viola's marker on Hwy 80. True to the words I'd read, it is incredibly difficult to spot. I drove past it four times before I finally arrived at a lonely, fenced in granite marker at the top of a hill off the highway in Lowndes County, Alabama. It was 3 in the afternoon, 100 degrees and cloudless. I parked the car and stepped into the enclosure. Old plastic flower wreaths were shattered and scattered about, from weather and time, and grass overtaking the stone covered mound was a testament to how few know who Viola was. I stayed at this place for an hour. I spent most of the time pulling weeds and rearranging the old flowers, talking out loud to no one at all. Well, to Viola, I guess. I told her I was sorry. It should have been Meryl Streep. It should have been Cate Blanchett. I wasn't sure why they hadn't called yet to tell me I was fired, that Kate Winslet would be taking over. Because Viola deserved that - the greatest actress in the world. She has deserved so much that she hasn't received, as does her family. I asked her how she had the courage to do what she did - leave a family that she loved, travel hundreds of miles alone, in spite of what society told her women, wives and mothers 'should' be doing and fight so fearlessly for what she believed in. It seemed super-heroic. That day, at Viola's marker, I received a simple answer. What Viola Liuzzo and thousands of others did in 1965 wasn't an example of superhuman courage, unique and godlike motivation or power. They were all just people. Just people. Like me. And you. If we were all in those same shoes, (or out of them in Viola's case) we would and COULD do the same. I could represent Viola because she wasn't different, she was a mom and a wife and a nurse and a student and a white woman who wanted change. So maybe Colman was right. Maybe Viola was with me. I desperately hope that she got to be there on our last day of shooting and stand again in triumph at the steps of the capital in Montgomery, and listen again to words of hope spoken by a man with a gift for oratory. And I hope with all my heart that each of you will get a chance to discover Viola and be changed by her story as well. And if you find her marker on Highway 80, please take her some fresh flowers and some weed killer. I can't get back there again until March.

Selma - Being the White Girl

On the Edmund Pettus Bridge, June 2014
l to r: Omar Dorsey, Me, Andre Holland, E Roger Mitchell
photo-bombers: Tessa Thompson, Colman Domingo

I want to talk about racism. And I don't. So I'm going to. Seven months ago I got cast in the (now) award-winning film Selma. To say that after twenty years of an acting career that this was the pinnacle is the simplest way to put it. It was and still is a mountaintop experience. It has changed my life. But not in the ways you might think - I'm not getting calls from JJ Abrams asking me to play Alana Solo (sigh). That's OK. These changes are better. More important. So I'm going to try and share my experiences with you through this blog. Try and approach it piece by piece so that someday I can look back and remember all of this. But first, I need to talk about Being the White Girl. I need to talk about racism.

A dear friend has been making a joke, at which our audiences are joyfully laughing night after night. And each time I cringe just a little. Here is the joke: "I'd like to introduce my co-star tonight, who is starring in the film Selma, which I'm sure you've all heard about - it's getting tons of great reviews and award noms... If you want to recognize her in the movie, she's the White Girl." Everyone laughs. I smile shyly. Afterwards I proudly take pictures and answer questions about the film, including the occasional "You don't play a racist, do you?" Thank God, I don't. I didn't have to say the "N" word. I don't think I could have, but I'm glad nobody asked. Because in the film it does get said.
In the film Selma, a LOT gets said. Some of it is obvious. Some of it though... Some of it has been making me think. And I can't stop thinking. And part of me is REALLY uncomfortable with that. Because I'm the White Girl. And right now I see color EVERYWHERE. I can't stop seeing it. And I'm asking myself ALL THE TIME: Am I racist? Is what I'm thinking racist? Is this blog post... racist?? Part of me wants to stop seeing color, but I think that is part of our problem RIGHT NOW. I think I'm not the only white person who'd like to pretend racism is over - because 'I'M NOT RACIST'. If only I can shut my eyes hard enough, if only I can look every black person in the eye and not see black, then it's all done. Over. We can all "just get along." Gosh, that would be so much easier. Because in my heart I want more than anything for everyone... no matter what... not to suffer anymore. That's an easy thing to get on board with, right?

But that's not reality. It will never be my reality again - at least not for a long long time. Because its still out there. Racism. I can't stop seeing it. And feeling responsible. And I HATE that. But I'm also glad for it. My self-awareness is SO uncomfortable. I wonder if every African-American I look at notices that I am paying extra close attention right now. I'm so sorry for that - I don't want to make anyone feel different or exposed or isolated or JUDGED. But I do want to CHANGE. I want to change ME, I want to change our COUNTRY. Because we as a nation haven't gotten it right yet. So I want to talk about racism. And I want you to talk about it. With me, with everyone. Because right now I know there are things I can do differently, there are things I can do better, so that, God Willing, SOMEDAY, I can close my eyes and rest. Knowing that it truly is over.
Until then, I'll be uncomfortable. But at least I'll be awake.

Stages of LA

A friend of mine has taken the leap and is out in Los Angeles for pilot season. It's a story that makes just about every LA actor shift uncomfortably in their seats. Hell, it makes EVERYONE shift in their seats. It's making me shift around so much that I had to blog about it. She asked me if, much like stages of grief, there are stages of LA. Well, Chita, there are. Here ya go:

The Stages of LA:

Stage One: Delirious Hope
In Stage One of the LA experience, the sunshine causes a massive shift in the Hope gland. Symptoms, which are often self-perpetuating, include an urge to exercise or at least go outside more frequently, wide eyes, deep breaths, and random giant smiles. Call it the "fresh off the bus" syndrome. During Stage One you often run into random, 'meaningful' celebrities (mine was Breckin Meyer), food will taste better (surprise, its Southern California, where food is just fresher) and you will be bombarded with LA's favorite form of religion: New Age spirituality! Get ready for lots of SIGNS, and plenty of serendipitous meetings and parties. LA loves a Stage One-r and gets easily infected by their momentum. This is a good time to take meetings and buy a new pair of shoes.

Stage Two: Prideful Determination
Ah Stage Two - elusive and curious. In Nature, a Stage Two-er resembles a Lone Wolf. In Stage Two the freshness has begun to wear off, but the residual momentum has become more than just kinetic energy, it is now a habit. There is a sense of ownership of place - this is your territory now, a place you belong... but not quite. Because in Stage Two, you are still DIFFERENT. There are two major symptoms that define Stage Two. The first is a sense of peaceful superiority, rightfully earned. While others failed to take a risk, leave the pack, jump in the dangerous rapids, YOU, Oh Stage Two-er, were more daring. More brave. More crazy. And you did it. You are here, in LA, and you took the leap. This is it, the big time, and you didn't DIE when you jumped. Like a marathon runner moving one leg in front of the other, you are in it to win it, and that's more than most anyone can say for themselves. This will be enough to sustain a Stage Two-er through the most terrifying of ordeals: getting started. The second key symptom is directionless determination. While in Stage One, you taste the excitement of locating the Best Local Farmers Market, In Stage Two you are now dealing with the more undefined task of "Realizing the Dream." Stage Two-ers are easily recognizable at Headshot print shops and Samuel French stores. This is where they gather, and you will see their heads held high. Note the slight odor of denial.

Stage Three: Stupidity
Stage Three and Stage Two are like a pair of first-time two-steppers - they can never decide who's leading. It will be awhile before someone is fully in the throes of Stage Three. The shift comes when the internal clock, planted within by society, friends and loved-ones (albeit unintentionally) - when this timer starts to reach the RESULTS stage. Each clock is different, but they all eventually cause the reality check gland to start producing massive amounts of Comparison hormones. It should be noted that the Reality Check Gland is absolutely necessary for survival in most human beings, but is missing in a few select folks, namely Tom Cruise. It is also questionable as to whether or not Glenn Beck has one. Stage Three is triggered by the RCG generating an arbitrary desire to place a tangible value on experiences gained thus far - in effect, to QUALIFY the LA journey. You will question the judgment that lead you to leap from the safety of the pack into this wilderness of highways and palm trees. Had you chosen to watch the movie version of this wild, action-packed adventure, you would have left at about minute fifteen, out of sheer boredom. Is it Stupidity then, that led you to believe this leap was worth taking? In due course, a Stage Three-r has begun to recognize other LA people who have done the same thing they are doing - and unable to identify a DIFFERENCE, you can no longer maintain the Stage Two, Lone Wolf mentality. Stage Three-rs are often found screaming and crying in their cars, chugging lattes at the nearest Urth Cafe, and shaking their heads in the relative darkness of movie theaters while watching recently nominated box office failures.

Stage Four: Selective Nostalgia
Stage Three is tumultuous and painful, and does not often last long. In the LA journey, one either shifts back to Stage Two, or transitions into Stage Four. Stage Four generally begins when you finally start to develop an immunity to self-loathing. Assisted by several occurrences of senseless rejection, the exhaustion of perpetual denial brings itself to a stage of almost euphoric reminiscing. A fully progressed Stage Four-er generally seeks the comforts of the noble aspects of the craft. You will often begin the Artist's Way, sign up for a Level One performance class of some sort, or apply for Grad School. The Stage Four-er has difficulty recalling the impetus for taking the Leap, and simply remembers the past as a time when life was easier, simpler, and BETTER. The 'Thousand Yard Stare' is shared by Stage Four-ers and life sentence prisoners alike. Stage Four is the darkest stage of the LA journey, and can last several years. A Stage Four actor is sometimes unfairly labeled as the Bitter Actor, and is generally not the best person to seek advice on the business from. Ironically, most Stage Four-ers make excellent dramatic actors, if the role is well written and involves a storyline about 'home'.

Stage Five: Benevolent Resignation
Stage Five is one of the most difficult stages to attain while still living in LA. Most actors will need to leave LA before they can actually shift into this final stage. In Stage Five, the awareness of the Bigger Picture has come into full realization. The Inner Clock is silenced, the Reality Check Gland is satisfied by evidence of the ability to exist and receive occasional lattes and new shoes as necessary. Recognition of others on the same journey no longer generates a need for separation, but instead is the impetus to establish a new pack, a new family. Stage Fivers have the charming habit of defending the honor of LA to those who have not taken the journey. Stage Five is not all peace and gummi worms, however. A Stage Five-r is actually a vicious fighter, a dangerous enemy, and a pain in the ass to live with sometimes, because Stage Five-rs have lived through the toughest war, the war with themselves, and are occasionally susceptible to Post Traumatic LA Syndrome. This is necessary to keep the Drama Gland, the same gland which caused them to take the leap in the first place, free of blockage. However, once in Stage Five, generally an actor is equipped to balance hope with experience, reality with television, and journey with destination.

ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT
Any of these stages is subject to be HALTED if the actor books a job or makes out with a celebrity. The concurrent stage will resume accordingly depending on how long it takes to spend the money earned, or whenever the celebrity doesn't call back.

Go East, Young Woman.

I am leaving for Berlin in two days. Yeah, Berlin GERMANY. My great grandmother came over on a boat in 1913, leaving her German roots (which were more specifically planted somewhere in Russia off the Wolga River) and headed West, young man. And now I've started a fantastic journey which involves quite a bit of heading East. Towards the rising sun. Poetry Alert - this concept is pinging on quite a few levels for me. The idea of Going West is a deeply ingrained American, perhaps even masculine, and definitely youthful spirit. Our young country went West 160+ years ago, searching for land, hope, gold... any number of symbols of American freedom. The West has, for a long time represented so much about the American spirit of space, independence, the future.
The New World is the West.
And for maybe more than a few years I have been drifting back East. Back to Atlanta - sure, that's an obvious one. Over to the Old World of Germany, where East and West have only recently been on speaking terms. But there are other metaphors that I can't help but apply as well. Eastern spirituality has been calling to me lately - yogic retreats, Hindu prayer groups, poly-theistic notions of God within everyone and everything. What does it mean to feel this need to unstitch myself from the fabric of generations of ambition and progress? Am I just getting old, too tired to push further West? Is there any meaning at all in this faintest of patterns? What's left to discover and explore?
When we got to the Grand Canyon last May, I had this little game I would play with myself. I would pretend that I was a pioneer, traveling for years across the uncharted trails of the Midwest, dragging my restless family in tow, not knowing or being able to explain why I needed to keep moving or where the hell I figured we'd end up. And I would imagine that insane moment of vertigo when after the hundredth boring hill you looked up and saw the canyon gaping out in front of you. 'Oh crap.' And 'Oh wow.' In the same breath.
There IS something new about being pulled East. Something more feminine, more creative, in a way the opposite of the pioneering spirit, in the way that one side of the coin is the opposite of the other. If going West is the Young Man's dream, maybe going East is the Young Woman's path. Or maybe I just like to travel.

And one last note: the link I placed up there is a link to the fundraiser campaign we are hosting to generate some financial support for this international collaboration* which has already brought me so much expansion, and may in the future (as it builds momentum) support other wandering artists like me. If you wish to contribute in any way at all, I would be very grateful, even simply for your thoughts and well-wishes. Thanks in advance. -T

*International Collaboration: I am traveling with a small group of artists to Berlin to perform a Fassbinder play titled Bremen Coffee. I play the lead. I will also be doing comedy improv shows every night after the play. It is a dream come true.

How Do You Measure Excess?

Ah... even the title of my blog post is indulgent. It sounded like such a clever title that I had to use it, whether it really applies to what I want to say or not. "What the heck am I doing?" is probably a better title. The novelty of my move has worn off and the old habits are rearing their ugly heads. I haven't started yearning for LA. I don't know that I ever will. I truly don't think I 'pulled a geographic.' But I'm going to be straight with you here. I think I may have lost my navel-gazing mind. I don't think I can even admit to you what a strange place I am in... I don't want to sound, well, crazy.

I gave up my career, which I had previously given up everything else for... but I never really had a plan. I didn't really ever know what I wanted, specifically, so I couldn't ever really say if I got it. The title of my Blog is Lucky Star, because the phrase that I have found best describes this phenomenon (or essence) is "I was born under a lucky star and I'm just trying to stay under it." I get this image of me, staring straight up into the night sky, like a seal with a ball balanced on her nose, just trying to keep that star balanced above my life.

And now here I am, Square One. Again, I have no goals, no plans, just whims and urges. Most days I pretend that it's fine with me that I live this way - many of my urges lean towards having fun, eating, sleeping and having adventures. But then there are the days when I realize that I may not be able to keep living this way forever, or worse, that I may not WANT to. Its kind of like there is some sort of protective chemical inside my body that puts me to sleep soon after I start thinking this way. If I could just stay awake long enough to make some real choices... And now I'm getting sleepy, very sleepy...

Home

I've been living in Atlanta now for four and a half months. I'm sitting tonight in my little attic apartment with the door open to let in the cool Fall air. Tomorrow morning I will go four blocks down the street and spend the day working as an office PA for a film production company, helping to coordinate commercials, corporate videos and even indy films. And then in the evening I will go rehearse for a hilarious Christmas improv show at the theater that I have been playing in since I was barely drinking age. I will sneak out afterward to have dinner with two amazing German directors who came in to town five weeks ago to help us put up a Fassbinder play in Decatur. They will be leaving on Wednesday to go back to Berlin, and I will be close on their heels. Well, maybe I'll wait til Spring, but it will be difficult to be patient until then - the work we did together was some of the best work I think I've ever done.
I'm on the stage again. I'm trying to pay my bills doing things that I am proud of - voice overs, production work, plays... It's not glorious. But it's what I can give and keep giving, because it doesn't drain my heart. I love being busy, I love being challenged, and I love being close to my family.
I will never say it was a mistake to have moved to LA. I don't hate LA. But four months later, I still cannot tell you why I left. I do know that I have not spent one moment wishing I hadn't moved. And I can give you plenty of reasons why I'm glad I'm here now.
Seasons.
Everyone coming to my house for Thanksgiving.
Neighborhoods.
Trees.
Theaters.
Friends.
Smaller Ponds.

Leaving LA, Part 2

Let's see. May 29th, the last entry in my blog, was a Friday. I was sitting in an Extended Stay hotel - now I know what that is, and its terrifying. Tiffany and I needed one last place to stay in town so that we could get her to LAX in the morning. We had spent three weeks insisting on the Four Hour Rule: Do not plan anything further than four hours ahead. The exceptions were few, but included such things as booking the flight, which Z had done a week earlier, when we had been on the road two weeks and it felt like things were coming to a close. When we started the trip, we honestly didn't know where we were going to end up, or how long it would take us to get there. But after two weeks I had started to tap into a long buried well of... for some reason the word 'spirit' feels right here...Anyway, I had begun to feel like a seed probably does when it's been tucked deep into the richest earth, warmed sufficiently and soaked just enough that the shell that has kept it safe has now become a flimsy, uncomfortable restraint.

In church retreat terms, it was time to come down from the mountaintop. So we booked a flight out of LA for Tiff, because all my stuff was still there, and while the Southwest has amazing places every 150 miles, Texas is a Whole 'Nutha Story. We could have called some friends and stayed at their house, reveling in one last night of vacation. For some reason though, Los Angeles didn't feel like part of the deal. So we chose a crappy cheap airport hotel, spent way too much on a neo-cuisine sushi dinner, and went to bed early.

When I came back to the hotel after having dropped Tiff off, I felt... well, that's the thing. I can't really say what I felt, even now, months later. Ask a prisoner what they feel the day before they are to be released. I bet the answer is not relief, or anxiety, or excitement. I bet instead, their eyes will glaze over a bit and they will get quiet, and you won't get any answer at all. Wow - I guess I'm being a bit dramatic here, but it's true - when I got back to LA, when my big roadtrip was over, I didn't really feel anything at all. I just kept going. In my mind I was ready to find an apartment and get going again on my acting life. That was Friday.

Sunday afternoon I called my Dad. He flew into town Wednesday night and by Thursday afternoon I was back on the 10, heading East. By Sunday I was sitting in Tiff and Z's apartment in Atlanta, and I'm not quite sure how I made it that far. I wasn't relieved, I was devastated. My life was irrevocably changed, going back to LA was an insurmountable obstacle - I had jumped into the void.

Without question though, I had to do it. I just knew. It was time to go.

This summer has been intense. Someday I'll be able to look back and describe the highs and lows, the moments when it was almost a disaster, or the glowing signs of change and forward movement. Or maybe this will all be a blur, like a car accident. Right now I feel like I'm simply along for the ride. Like my life was heading this way inevitably, and I'll be lucky if I get to pick where we stop for dinner.

So if I'm not steering, who is? And where the hell are we going? If success is only an accident, and if we aren't in control at all - What would you do with your days?

Flying over Phoenix

Ha ha! Take THAT! Warner Music Group! That will teach you to try and protect copyrighted material! For my next trick: a final episode of Southwest Escape 2009, using music that other people created, in order to (GASP! SHOCK SOUND!) introduce great bands to my friends and family, who might spend their hard earned coin on an album of their own. What a nasty music pirate am I! YAR!

Thank goodness for broad sweeping corporate censorship. And... bitter rant finished. It really didn't take much to get my selfish way, of course, and now you can enjoy the sounds of Widespread Panic and Kings of Convenience while viewing the final adventures of Tiff and Tara one-point-oh.

A friend mentioned that it seemed there was a lot we were leaving out. Which of course is true - this trip was very much about some soul-searching for both Tiff and I, and I quickly realized soul-searching makes terrible web-vision. It does, however, make for good bloggering, so I will take some time over the next month to try and reflect on what 3400 miles can give a person, besides a lot of gas receipts. In the meantime, thanks for watching and leaving comments, sending prayers and thoughts our way. It all, without a doubt, made a difference.

If I Tell You...

... then I'll have to kill you. But someone leaked some top-secret footage of Tiffany and I visiting a very unusual gas station in the middle of Southern Arizona, just off the I-10 Southeast of Tucson. I really can't say anymore. I may have already said too much. If you are reading this...

Bats and Rocks

So Tiff and I decided to flush out a real tourist destination for our Memorial Day Weekend excursion. We chose Carlsbad Caverns, in the Southeast corner of New Mexico, dangerously close to Texas. Here is a video of our thrilling adventure. Needless to say, two weeks of camping and driving is starting to take its toll. We have also been followed by a storm cloud for quite a few days now, and it has made tent sleeping especially challenging. Also, we are reaching the end of our travels, as we head back to LA to face reality. Not quite sure what that is yet, but it will definitely involve some changes, for both of us. You can't help but have a little perspective adjustment when you see this many places, people, sleeping places...

We are getting a little melancholy. Time seems to slip by faster now like the last bits of sand in the hourglass. I hope you've enjoyed these videos as much as we've enjoyed making them - there will be a few more, but the bulk of the party has gone home, and its soon going to be time to start cleaning up. The Scion will be 3000+miles older, and we will both be a little browner. Keep watching though. The craziest things always happen long after the party should have been over...

Shibapu

(Not Sipupa, which is what I've been saying for the last week...) Shibapu is the mystical entrance that connects the spirit world of the Anasazi (Ancient Pueblo) Indians to the realm above, which is the earthly realm. Isn't that interesting? The Ancient Pueblos believed the spirit world was DOWN BELOW, as opposed to up in the sky or in outer space somewhere, like modern religions believe. Which means that places like the Grand Canyon are held especially sacred, and of course you'd better take care of the Earth, since it's your dead ancestors' roof...

So New Mexico is known for having a lot of spiritual locales as well. Strange, that seems to be a re-occurring theme in our travels: Grand Canyon is the Shibupa of many Indian tribes of today, Sedona with its Vortices, Mesa Verde - duh, and now we have found a few spiritual stops in NM, namely Taos and Truth or Consequences. You'll have to do a bit of your own research to see why, but here's our video to give you a taste!

I don't want to spoil the surprise, but we didn't end up hanging out in El Paso, TX after all. The border crossing and dirty street vendors, reminiscent of a banged up Canal St, had our recently attuned instincts protesting insistently. We drove right through and ended up in a fantastic little neighborhood just 40 miles further down I-10 called Mesilla. The best Mexican food I've had in awhile at La Posta, and a little peace and quiet in a hotel to avoid yet another storm and the screaming-children-at-6am effect that camping in Southern NM tends to include.

I am exhausted! But our trip continues to unfold in a way that suggests the spirit world is as close as the nearest canyon or swimming hole, and our kachinas are making sure that we get to the next moment safely, and with nothing more than a door ding or a broken nail to contend with. We are indeed Blessed.

Mesa Verde Thirsty

Now twelve days into the trip and finding the Southwest to be more and more stunning and surprising. It really has everything, from high to low, deserts, mountains, wet and dry... Tuesday night we slept safely in our tent as a summer storm swept over us, threatening to blow us into the San Juan River. The tent not only stayed in place, but kept us dry! It was so much fun that we decided to get a hotel room the next night...
Here is the next video. It's a review of our visit to Mesa Verde, as suggested by my friend Big Jay, the best Sous in all of Asia de Cuba. There is also a few shots from our exciting trip down the Animus Rapids, weighing in at Class 1-3, three being the scariest. The entire boat was filled with guides in training, so we got to really ride the meat of the river, which was also at its highest and fastest, running 4100cfps for 5 miles. It took us about 2 hours. Enjoy!

All my Exes Live in Vortexes

Your impatience is stifling. Here is the next video!

So Saturday morning we drove south from our little campsite to Sedona, AZ where the hippies roam free. We spent the morning in a local coffee shop listening to spoken word artists and a gal who was singing solo for the first time. Here's her MySpace page. Adorable. At one point in her as yet unrehearsed spiel, she mentioned her distaste for her former home: Los Angeles. Sensing a theme here? We took the afternoon to mountain bike around the stunning rock formations of Red Rock, and then got back to the campsite early so we could cook turkey burgers over our first campfire. By the way, I make a great fire, and Tiff makes a heck of a turkey burger and chopped potato feast.

Sunday morning we broke camp early and spent the day making our way to Cortez, CO. Along the way we took the scenic route through the Painted Desert and stopped in the Petrified Forest. In brief: it was a bunch of pretty rocks. The desert is stunning, but my favorite part was the gift shop, where rock and fossil collectors could spend a lifetime drooling.

I have had moments of panic, and a few tentative emails to the various income providing organizations with humble requests to excuse my extended absence. I have moments when I can't believe what I'm doing, and then moments when I can't believe what I'm doing. I have also had a few really strong moments of clarity, and that's what this is all really about. Can I go back to waiting tables? Is it time to find a new place? The more miles I put on the Scion, the closer I get to an answer...

Slide ROCK!

Wow - what have I gotten myself into? Its 9 days into the road trip and I'm already overloaded with footage and stories! Literally overloaded - my hard drive is filling up and I'm learning a fantastic lesson in letting go of holding on. Clothes that get stained, bugs on the bumper of my new car, sunburn and bloody nose - its just part of the life I have chosen. Can't argue with inevitability! So here is the next segment of our journey. Thanks for hanging in there through our ups and downs. I miss you all, and rest assured, decisions are being made. Heading out this morning to play in Meas Verde. OMG - I'm in Colorado. Amazing.

Arizona Loves You

Well, we have driven almost a thousand miles now, and the next stops we are featuring in our latest video are the Hoover Dam and the Grand Canyon National Park, South Rim. The Scion is holding up amazingly well, but already the Sprint service is useless in the less-populated areas. So the videos will be uploaded as I can find hotspots. Of course the IPhone’s 3G network allowed Tiff to upload the sunrise from the lip of the canyon and send it swiftly to her boyfriend in Atlanta. Guess who will be jumping ship as soon as the new version of the IPhone comes out. Cross your digital fingers for tethering technology!! Free us all, Steve Jobs!

Just outside of the Grand Canyon we stopped in Cameron, which is one of the last and oldest Trading Posts in the country, smack dab in the middle of the Navajo Indian Reservation. We enjoyed ridiculously heavy and tasty Navajo Tacos, which consist of fried bread (Yes, really) topped with beans and beef and cheeses and two shreds of lettuce. I was having trouble enjoying the tacos, however, because I had noticed that my gas gage wasn’t budging – it had been sitting at 7/8 of a tank for a while, and my trip meter read over 100 miles. I was about to sick up my lunch by the time we got to a gas station to fill the tank, just to make sure the gage hadn’t busted on my brand new car. Sure enough, it was right. I have been getting almost 40 miles to the gallon – in the mountains, as well as the desert with AC blowing full blast. Eat that, Prius.