You Look Like That Girl: A Child Actor Stops Pretending and Finally Grows Up (17 page)

Billie Jean started traveling with me on film shoots and spent much of her puppyhood in Star Wagon trailers. She chewed on exposed wires under the driver’s seat and covered my wardrobe in dog fur. She stayed in a fancy hotel and occasionally peed under the grand piano in the lobby. She stayed in hotels in rough neighborhoods, too, carefully lifting each paw to step over the discarded Listerine bottles that kids had attempted to get drunk on.

I became one of those actresses that traveled with her dog and while it was a stereotype, it was about much more than that. Walking Billie Jean after a long day at work centered me and brought me back to myself.
Her love was unyielding, whether we were on set or in our backyard. She was my constant and loyal companion who reminded me that to some, none of this film stuff mattered in the slightest, as long as I could still throw a Frisbee.

It was around this time that being recognized became a routine part of life. It had been an occasional occurrence before, usually by a few fans of independent films or after school specials. It was the most uncomfortable part of the job, but I would always try to be nice to people who approached me in random places. At least, as nice as I could be while trying to get my bra on/wipe food off my face/talk through a mouth full of dental tools.

In an attempt to cut down on all the recognizing, the hair had to go. My long mane fell below my waist. It might have seemed like a deliberate choice, but really, general physical maintenance didn’t appeal to me. Getting a haircut fell under the same unpleasant category as getting a root canal, so something based in laziness and fear kind of became my trademark. But after a while, the locks became my albatross. People would notice the girl with the crazy long hair first, and then match up my face with that movie they happened to see last night. It became a liability.

I sat in the bathtub one night and chopped off my hair with a pair of kitchen scissors. I felt a resounding sense of hope as twelve inches of hair fell down around me. Maybe having shoulder-length brown hair would morph me into one of the mundane teenagers I saw loitering at the mall. Maybe I could finally blend in and move with stealth though the world,
like those girls who felt free to giggle loudly because they always seemed to belong exactly wherever they happened to be. It didn’t actually work that way, because as it turns out, I was still me. Just with shorter hair.

Thad a fearful respect for fans; without them, I would never have had a job in the first place, but it was a complicated relationship for a massive introvert who struggles with insecurity and shyness. Some people wonder how actors could possibly be shy, but they forget that we spend most of our lives hiding behind a character. It’s the part where we have to be ourselves that is wildly uncomfortable.

Many roles involved me being angry, perhaps about the fact that someone put a chip clip on my head.

PHOTO COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR
.

Ostensibly, it should be flattering when someone in the cereal aisle says that they like you. The problem was that I always felt on the verge of disappointing them. People would say that this chance meeting was important to them; it had made their day and they were going to tell their friends about it. I wanted to provide a story to live up to their expectations. I needed to be spontaneously witty and charming and provide them with details to make it worthwhile to come up to me. It was a pop quiz on my starlet abilities, but the
problem was, I was flunking. I shuddered when people started to label me as a “movie star.” I tried to correct them and explain I was just a working actor, but they waved away my words, mistaking them for humility. I couldn’t explain that the term “movie star” felt like being stuffed in a pair of too-tight jeans that left me gasping for breath.

I had watched Sally Field interact with her fans. She was downright masterful. Sally had ease and grace that boggled my mind. She was the quintessential movie star in all the best possible meanings of the classification. The public aspect of the job seemed to come naturally to her —she never looked as if she felt the need to carve up a piece of herself as an offering, or put on a show to uphold a stereotype. Celebrity looked simple and pure on Sally. I tried to study her, to mimic her movements and her energy, but when it was my time I felt like I was trying to recreate Van Gogh’s
Starry Night
with sidewalk chalk.

Whenever a fan approached me, the inner monologue went something like this:

Someone is coming over. Damnit, why do I always have to eat so much garlic? My breath is terrible and I bet I have something in my teeth. How the hell do I get it out before we take the photo? I should carry those little toothpicks. Oh man, I was doing that stupid Charlie’s Angels imitation right before they came over. Did they see that? They are going to think I am such an idiot. Wait. I’m smiling too big. Tone it down. I really do look like an idiot. Oh, they just asked a question but I was thinking too much about my teeth to hear all of it. What was it? I’ll say something about Robin Williams. People love hearing about Robin Williams. Photo time. I need to keep my head up a little because in that other photo I totally had a double chin. But now the shot is up my nose….a little lower. The flash didn’t work. We’ll have to do it again. Chin up. Oh, they want to hug me. I don’t think I put on deodorant this morning. Wow, this hug is lasting a long time. I should let go. Or will that make me seem cold and unwelcoming? Okay, good, she let go. Now I have to sign this napkin. Napkins are hard to sign because they move all over the place and get
little rips in them. Especially because I can only use this little tiny pencil she found. What is this? A golf pencil? Oh well, that’s all she has. I really need to start carrying Sharpies. But then that would make me look like a self-obsessed moron, wouldn’t it? If I pulled out my own Sharpie to sign an autograph? What did she say her name is? Shit. I can’t spell that. She already spelled it once but she went too fast. I can’t ask her to do it again. I’ll just put “Best Wishes, from Lisa Jakub” because I know how to spell all those words. What do I do now? Are we done? Should I make small talk? Ask her where she is from? Go back to my garlic-infused meal? I’ll just smile again. But I think I still have something in my teeth. Where do you even buy those little packets of toothpicks?

That was how it went. Every. Single. Time.

Actors are afforded many unnecessary luxuries, like comped dinner checks and the first chance to get whatever thing might be the newest thing, but the luxury of being a real person is rare. Sure, you can say we are asking for it and are well compensated; however, it seems unfathomably cruel that actors are not often viewed as rightful human beings. Society tends to elevate actors, while taking away basic human dignity.

I was once in a pool at a hotel, when another guest recognized me and asked that I get out of the pool to pose for a photo with him. Not loving the idea of posing next to a stranger in my bathing suit, I politely declined, saying that if he could wait until I got some clothes on, I could do it then. He sighed deeply.

“I want to do it now. You are an actor. You owe it to me.”

It was so degrading, so dirty. I had been reduced to merely one thing, and that thing needed to be performing for him. I was a rented human, here for mere entertainment, regardless of feelings or privacy. It says something rather unpleasant about society that this is acceptable, and in fact, normal.

After
Mrs. Doubtfire
was released, the extent of this phenomenon became clear. I had always thought of gossip magazines and tabloids as harmless entertainment, something charmingly amusing, like mini-cupcakes or a tilt-a-whirl. At a certain point, it all became more ominous, more apparent that this was having a significant impact on our cultural norms.

We actors had always come into homes in an intimate way, showing up in the living room at the appointed time every week and making ourselves part of the family. But something was shifting. This ownership of celebrities, this stalkerish pseudo-journalism and entitlement was becoming standard. This was no longer an era in which the film industry could keep Rock Hudson’s sexuality or Marilyn Monroe’s addictions private. Now, every time a celebrity took her kids to the park or ordered a latte, there was a stealth photo of the event, complete with commentary that took a decidedly disparaging bent. Actors’ very souls belonged to the public, becoming their very own communal puppy to adore and then kick when they got bored.

But actors garner no sympathy in this regard, since we cooperated completely. We walked right into it, willingly dished up the core of our essence and agreed to never feel dissatisfied about that. It’s all worth it, just to be famous. Isn’t it? We agreed not to object to objectification.

So, this one time I kind of got kidnapped. I say “kind of” because she didn’t keep me for very long. I don’t want to be too dramatic, and to announce that there was a kidnapping, with no preface, just seems overly reactionary.

By the time I was fifteen, leaving my house had become significantly more challenging. My desperate desire to blend in became full-blown social anxiety in reaction to being swarmed and grabbed at in public places. Getting recognized in a busy public space can suddenly turn into
something akin to a mosh pit. There is a shocking amount of physical contact. There is hair pulling, hugging that morphs into choking, and the thrusting of pens and cameras disconcertingly close to your eyes. Most fifteen-year-olds generally hate themselves and every inch (or, lacking inches) of their bodies, but being stared at constantly seemed to compound my typical teenaged angst.

I was working on location, and the show had its final wrap party at the home of one of the crewmembers, Pam. She lived on a farm and had acres of beautiful property. It was a perfect place for a bunch of overworked, exhausted cast and crewmembers to talk about how the shoot had gone and wonder aloud when they would be seeing their next paycheck. Pam had a wonderful array of rescued animals on her farm. She had mountain lions, wallabies and one of those big dogs that take whiskey to people stranded in the Alps. For someone who always preferred the company of animals to people, her home was paradise.

My mom was inside, hanging out with the crew, but I was enamored with a wallaby in the yard. His creepy little rat hands grabbed mine as I fed him carrots. Just as I was considering the fact that the mountain lions hadn’t gotten their due attention, a woman came up to me and said she was Pam’s neighbor and a huge fan of
Mrs. Doubtfire
. Her kids loved it too, she said, and her little girl cried every time I cried in the film.

“Was it fun to make the movie?” Her eyes were wide.

I answered the questions in the standard format: yes, it was fun; yes, Robin was that funny; yes, Sally was that nice; yes, Pierce was that handsome. By this point, the words tumbled out like a well-worn monologue. All the salient details were covered, I smiled at the right times and with all the manufactured enthusiasm I could manage, while still keeping an eye on the wallaby, who had started digging through my pockets for more treats.