“That’s okay.”
“Well, please help yourself while you’re here or just ask one of us, okay? Now, this is the living room-slash-big room filled with toys and screens.” Luz turned them around to face a space that was likely larger than Emeli’s entire apartment. They had two more floors to go. The girl didn’t speak, just nodded. Stunned.
“We have parental blocks on the cable so the kids don’t accidentally turn on anything they shouldn’t see. But if there’s something you want to watch, just ask. Are there shows you like to watch?”
“Not really.”
Jesus, Maria, Jose,
caramba
. Such a tough nut to crack, this girl.
Luz clapped her hands together. “Okay, then. Let’s head upstairs.” As Emeli followed her, Luz had to remind herself:
She’s a kid. She’s scared. She’s not being a sullen, disrespectful brat. She probably has no idea what to do, how to feel. Be nice, Luz!
As they climbed the stairs, Luz felt the urge to fill the silence, even if it just made her feel better. Though she couldn’t imagine how it could make Emeli feel worse, unless it was just annoying. And in that case, too bad.
Get used to it, sister! We’re a chatty, noisy, loving bunch.
“So I moved some things around in my old office to give you privacy. I still have my bookcases in there, so you’ll never run out of things to read.”
Nope, she didn’t lighten up at that.
“It’s small, but it has a door.” Luz welcomed her into a room about twelve by fourteen feet. Not small for this teenager. She was used to living in a room about half this size.
“This is where I am?” Emeli’s voice was tentative.
“Yes!” Luz was so happy to detect emotion, any emotion. “This is your room.” She didn’t add out loud “for now.” It still hadn’t sunk in fully that she had another child to take care of—although they were siblings, Luz thought of Emeli as a child and was, for now, inclined to treat her as such. Luz would much rather be her mother—it seemed she needed one.
I’ll figure it out,
Luz told herself.
Emeli walked in slowly. She felt the carpet under her feet.
“Sorry about that carpet. I hate carpet. We just haven’t gotten to yanking it out yet.”
“Uh-huh,” Emeli mumbled. Unbothered, instead, comfortable.
Luz leaned against the doorway as the girl fingered the bookcases. “I got those at ABC warehouse in the Bronx. I’d been eyeing them for years.”
At the mention of the Bronx Emeli cracked a smile. “I know that place. My cousin lives up there.”
Luz lit up at the mention of family. “Really? On your mom’s side or your dad’s?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Oh.” She led the girl around the stairwell. “This will be the bathroom you can use.”
They walked in. It was fairly narrow but long, and nearly all cream-colored: cream marble backsplash, cream mirrored tiles, ecru tub with a rich teak wraparound frame. Emeli took it in but was stuck staring at one item.
“Um, what’s dis?”
“Oh! That’s a bidet.” As if naming it helped. “It’s one of those things that, see, you turn it on like this.” Luz bent down to turn on the spout.
The girl looked at her quizzically.
“It’s for, uh, cleaning yourself after you use the toilet.”
The girl raised her brows. “Oh!”
“I mean, it can take some getting used to, but I’m sure the girls will be more than happy to show you how to use it!” Luz pictured her twins taking turns on the bidet, showing their new sister—cousin?—wait,
auntie? Tía?
—how to use the appliance. She chuckled at the thought. But thinking of them suddenly snapped her into Mama-play.
“Actually, let’s rip through the girls’ room and I can show you the master bedroom later—not like you’ll need to go up there. I thought maybe we could make some cookies for the kids before they get home. Ya know, the smell of fresh-baked cookies and all . . . ?”
The teen shook her head, not understanding the reference.
“They say it lowers stress levels.”
The girl nodded, chin up. Okay. Whatever you say.
Luz was tired already. And she hadn’t even been through one night with this new girl. Sister. Auntie.
And who am I?
Chapter 24
W
aiting backstage, Cat popped another mint into her mouth. Her stomach was roiling and she was sweating.
C’mon, girl,
she told herself.
Breathe.
She deliberately pulled air into her lungs, concentrating on the sensation, in and out. Her fight-or-flight programming was on full alert. There might as well have been a hungry grizzly bear in front of her, Cat felt so terrified.
“A water, please? I’m so dehydrated,” Cat stage-whispered to a producer.
There were two reasons for the smidge of confidence Cat retained: First, she had managed to board the next flight following her scheduled departure, though it meant arriving with very little time to spare before her presentation, so she was running on adrenaline. And second, what Gabi had said to her about having nothing to lose. With her new speech, produced in a frenzy on the plane, Cat could tank completely, thereby losing all future speaking gigs and getting skewered on social media—maybe they’d say she had lost her mind and she could ride that to a comeback? Or she could be crazy-like-a-fox enough to start a whole new line of work.
The idea of this speech as an opportunity to focus-group was keeping Cat upright. That, and the potential for happiness. For launching herself into a new space, one that didn’t depend on whether she was “Latin enough,” one that didn’t make her eyes glaze over in boredom and abject ennui. One with room to grow, one that she loved. There was no question in her mind that she was going to step through the door before her, even though it wouldn’t be possible to go back. Step into the light . . .
“Here you go.” The producer proffered a bottle of water, chilly to the touch. “So, we should start.”
“Yes, thank you. Start.”
You’ll have to be more eloquent than that,
chica, Cat told herself.
Cat’s host strode onto the stage and into the lights. From behind the two-story-high curtain, she could barely hear but she could see. A packed house of women looking for business inspiration were waiting for her, this brown woman, to tell them they could do it. Okay. But did it have to be so cut and dried? Did it have to be about business exclusively? No. More than half of success was psychological.
Get the business stuff from books,
Cat said silently to herself.
I’m here, goddammit, to get you off your ass. And me as well.
“. . . Let’s welcome, Cat!”
Here you go, girl. Just feel it.
As Cat walked onstage, her Spanx did its usual mild roll down her middle. She paid it no mind. She just focused. She felt as if she were about to bungee jump down a cliff. But this cliff dive—well, this cliff dive led somewhere. It would have to. Cat had no choice.
“Hello! Hello, everyone! Thank you so much for having me here. It’s a real honor.”
Cat paused, but it wasn’t for effect. She was gathering her internal forces. Some members of the audience shifted. Some peered closer. Some, she felt, were already impatient. But she had their attention. Now or never.
Leaving the podium and putting her notes aside, Cat leaped into the abyss.
“So, I missed my plane. I missed my plane here. On purpose.”
There were murmurs from the audience.
“
Yup, on purpose! And you’re going: Uh, whyyy? Why would someone like me miss a flight on purpose? How could I be so irresponsible . . . ?
Because I was afraid. And I was afraid because I had just been dumped by my agent. At the airport.
Yup, dumped.
Now I’m sure you all remember how it feels to be dumped. And if you have never been dumped, well, odds are you may not be the dumpER forever.
”
Some light chuckles.
“
Being dumped is hard—it sucks! He dumped me, he said, because
. . .”
She mimicked his voice and tone.
“‘
I’ve done everything I can for you, Cat. I think we’ve come to the end of the line, Cat.
’
And you know what? He was right. He had done all he could for me. I’ve done maybe six pilots. More meetings with more studios than I can count. Web sites, radio, everything—but there were
also
things that
I
couldn’t do for
him
. I couldn’t take another TV job out of desperation. I couldn’t take another TV job at a place I knew was sincerely toxic. And I couldn’t take another TV job where I would be a puppet. Saying and doing what my producers wanted, regardless of my feelings on what I was talking about—regardless of the facts!
Now, I loved my time in television. I love the frantic nature of the business. My mind works a hundred miles a minute, so I need to do things that can keep up with it. I’d never had another job that used all my skills—used me on all cylinders. Not one. TV was it. But, there’s TV and then there’s TV.
So here I am.
No show. No show on the horizon. I speak, I write. But now that swinging into the next gig is not so easy, I’m asking: “Who am I?” Who am I.
Well, I’m the daughter of a
‘
leetle
’
Mexican woman who came to this country at the age of fifteen. She had me on her own and raised me to rule the world. She put every single ounce of her hopes and dreams about the opportunities this country had to offer into me. She packed them all in like a tin of sardines, like a clown car.
Cat pantomimed as she spoke, garnering some chortles along the way.
But we didn’t have a lot of money. She was uneducated. We were alone. My mother worked two full-time jobs while I hopped from caretaker to caretaker, sometimes a
tía
here, sometimes a cousin there. Sometimes a very freaky white lady down the street who wore makeup like Cruella de Vil!
And as soon as I could work—while going to school and getting straight As, mind you—I was put to work. I started baby-sitting at ten years old, even became a full-time nanny over the summer when I was twelve. Imagine hiring a preteen to care for two kids while you’re gone for eight hours a day. Disaster!
But nope, nope, I didn’t let it show, all the stress. I didn’t let disaster happen. Even though I was so exhausted and so sleep-deprived at times that I’d chew my cuticles to bleeding nubs—though my nails always looked fabulous . . .
Once I was old enough, I started waiting tables alongside my mother at a chain restaurant. The horror!
More chuckles.
Can you imagine being sixteen years old, when your parents are, like, ‘totally pains in the butt,’ and there I was, having to work next to my mother sometimes for thirty hours a week or more. Again! All while going to school and getting straight As!
So, but, who am I, besides a person who just got dumped?
I’m the product of that hardworking woman, an immigrant. Of course, while I was growing up, people had many different words to describe my mother and me. I won’t repeat them, but I bet you can imagine what they were. We just kept our heads down and kept at it. Then college came and I’m in the Ivy League and we just keep going at it, keep working, keep moving forward. Like a steam engine. Like one giant steam engine—nothing could stand in our way!
So there I was two years ago, suddenly with my own television show. My own national television show. My brown butt had a show! And I was the first in my family to graduate from high school, let alone college, then a master’s degree—and from an Ivy League school. There I was, singing the theme song from
The Jeffersons
as I moved into my doorman-building apartment
. “Movin’ on up! To a dee-luxe apartment in the skyyyyy!”
I finally had a piece of the pie.
But guess what? All these things I wanted to accomplish, these items I could check off my list, the things I wanted to do my whole professional life have been done. Now what?
You’d think that I’d feel super-accomplished, right? That bio that was read just before I came onstage was impressive, right? I’m asking because, honestly? I’m not impressed. Now, I’m not going to stand here and give you some feel-sorry-for-me-and-my-fame-and-riches story. But I am going to ask you: Why am I not impressed?
Are you impressed with everything you’ve done with yourself? When was the last time you were most proud of yourself, in a good way? In a
‘
Hey, that was kinda awesome
’
way? I take it that if you’re here you’re looking for improvement. For tools to get ahead in life. You want
me
to impress
you
. Well, how’s this . . . ?
I figured it all out just now.
The reason that everything my mother and I worked so hard for doesn’t impress me or make me particularly happy may be that we got it backward. Could the American Dream that we tried so hard to make true be a little bit backward?
Some disgruntled mumbles came from the audience.
Wait! Wait! Stay with me here. This country is miraculous.
My girlfriends and I have a saying: “By the luck of our birth.” If we had been born in the native countries of our mothers, as little as one decade earlier . . . my goodness, I’d be so far from standing here, I might as well be on the moon. And I am ever grateful to the universe for the good fortune to be who I am, where I’m from, today.
But! And you knew that “but” was coming . . .
But, once we have that house and that car, that dream, are we completely happy? Once we reach our goals, do we stop and just . . . be happy? Or do many of us keep searching for happiness?
See, I think I’m not impressed with myself because I was chasing the wrong thing. I thought that if I got those degrees and got that show, got those accolades and that mantel filled with awards and fan art, I’d be happy. Here’s the truth: I was miserable. There’s a part of me that enjoyed the day-to-day. I enjoyed being recognized, I enjoyed some free clothes—who wouldn’t? But like my agent, when it comes to this race, I think I’ve done all I can do.
See, my dream is to be fulfilled. My American Dream does not live in that house in my dee-luxe apartment in the sky. I think I was chasing fulfillment through accomplishment. But what if accomplishment, true accomplishment, was a result of fulfillment—happiness—instead of the other way around?
“
Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
”
What if we were to do things that made us feel fulfilled, which would make us better at what we do—which then brings about raises, promotions, recognition, even that house!
Many of us who were the hope of our parents grow older and come face-to-face with a scary question: Whom did I do this for? Was this really for me? Is it okay that it wasn’t? When do I get to drive this freight train?
Is what you’re working on currently, or what you’d like to do instead of the career you have now, a source of happiness? Can you truly say that, once you hit a certain net income, or once you have money left over to put into savings every month, then you’ll be happy?
I don’t know.
I dunno.
For me, what I do know is that today, I’ve jumped off a cliff. I’m taking a leap.
Where am I going?
What’s my next chapter going to be?
As a dear friend said to me right before I missed my flight, on purpose: What have you got to lose?
And maybe that’s the answer. Not asking,
“
What do I have to gain?
”
but
“
What have I got to lose?
”
What have you got to lose? What have you lost already? What are you ready to gain?
I don’t have it all figured out right now. And you probably don’t either.
Whaddaya say we figure it out together?
Write that next chapter?
And I promise I won’t go missing any more planes!
Thank you.
Even as the last words left Cat’s mouth, she saw people standing up. As she bent her head down in gratitude, the roar of 800 women nearly knocked her off her feet. She looked up and witnessed her first standing ovation.
Cat smiled so hard her cheeks burned. Her eyes welled.
“Oh, Cat, before you go?” The young producer poked her head into Cat’s tiny dressing room. Cat was beyond exhausted, from straight-up stress response for nearly twelve hours, a funeral, to performing with all new material, not bombing totally, being mobbed by dozens of women afterward, each of whom just wanted to tell Cat how inspiring she was and how moved they were and how they, too, could now ask: “Who am I?” Cat’s makeup was running, her hair frizzing, yet she didn’t think she’d ever felt so alive.
“There’s just one more person who really needs to see you . . .”
A handsome, lean-faced, forty-something woman peered in. Not cocky but strong and deliberate, she exuded astonishing confidence.
“Cat, I’m Audrey Grey. Executive producer over at Alta Productions for Gala.”
Gala? The largest online content creator in the country.
“Oh! How are you?” Cat got up to shake her hand.
Audrey smiled. “Listen, I was just out there . . .”
“Oh, yeah, well . . .” Cat fell into her usual self-deprecating mode.