Whatever...Love Is Love (16 page)

Instead of welcoming me to the fold, he was trying to talk me out of it. I started to panic. “No,” I said, mustering my composure. “I have decided that this is the only thing I want to do.”

He glanced up from his desk, looking over the top of his glasses, and spoke in a holy, hushed tone. “Are you sure?”

I felt like I was about to enter the nunnery and was taking my final vows. I was scared, but I was resolute. So in as convincing a tone as I could manage, I said, “Yes, I am sure.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “Be here Tuesday at eleven
A.M.
sharp!”

I worked hard and went to class a few times a week. When I wasn't in class I was practicing with my classmates. When someone would ask Fred how to get an agent or how to become a better actor, he uttered only one phrase: “Just do the work, kid.”

One of the greatest lessons I learned from Fred is “To thine own self be true.” He reminded us all that we didn't have to “become” a different person to be a great actor. We just needed to find those real places in ourselves that connected with the character. We were taught never to pretend, but to be in the moment of the scene. It was a philosophy much like Zen Buddhism. When you're washing the dishes, even onstage, all you have to do is WASH THE DISHES. Simple, right? It took a very long to time to learn this lesson, and frankly, I am
still
learning that lesson in my acting and in my life.

It took eight years until I could make my living acting. And soon, people started recognizing me for that. I was no longer the “girl who wants to be an actress” or a “struggling actor,” I was now a
real
actor.

Years later I would receive my first big acting honor, the New York Film Critics Circle Award for Best Supporting Actress in a film. I wanted Fred to present it to me, but he was in the hospital having just had surgery. That day of the ceremony, I went to visit him. And as I thanked him and went on and on about the lessons he had taught me, he just rolled his eyes and said, “Keep doing the work, kid.” And I'll continue to do the work for as long as I can.

WHY DID I LABEL MYSELF WITH THE WORD “ADVENTURER”? I THINK
that all started when I decided to take a break from Villanova, where I had been majoring in women's studies, political science, and pre-law. I had saved money from my job at Sbarro's fast-food trattoria in the local mall and took off for Europe.

By the end of my first three months traveling, I had joined a wedding in Amsterdam, drank beer at Oktoberfest with six friends I had met that day, and got pummeled (really, it was a massage) by a huge man in a loincloth in a basement bathhouse in Turkey. I was engaged at the time to a very lovely man. I loved him very much, but I had to do my version of sowing my oats before we would get married, become lawyers, start our own little firm, and live in a nice Jersey suburb.

When I stepped off the plane three months later I was dressed in my fabulous blue hat from Paris and black palazzo pants from the flea market in Amsterdam. I looked into the eyes of my handsome, perfect fiancé, who was there to pick me up with flowers in his hands, and knew it was over. I couldn't go back to life in Philly as I had known it. I had gotten only a tiny taste of what was outside of Philly and I wanted more.

I decided then that I would never get married. I wouldn't become a lawyer or a Jersey housewife. I had learned in a few intense months that I was an adventurer. I needed to see and experience new things, and seek out places outside and inside myself that I had never been to before.

JUST A SHORT TIME AGO, I ADDED “ACTIVIST” TO MY SET OF SELF-IMPOSED
labels. Activism is part of everything I do. In almost every article I write or interview I give, it always comes out that I am passionate about gender equality and have rolled up my sleeves to work alongside some amazing people all over the world. “Humanitarian” is not a label I am comfortable with, as you read earlier. An activist is someone who campaigns for or is actively involved with a social cause.

People who consider themselves activists come to it in different ways. Mine started right around grade school—although I don't ever recall not wanting to do something when I felt something was wrong or needed change. My mother told me that when I was 10 years old, my neighbor Martha Laydon and I became concerned about the factory down the street, which poured out black dust onto surrounding cars. Families on the street would go to bed with clean cars and wake up to see them covered with this mysterious dust. Some said it was the reason 6 out of 10 households on our street had a member with a case of terminal cancer. Martha and I went to investigate with our notepads. After we had climbed down the muddy hill that led to the railroad tracks where the factory was located, a man in a white jumpsuit caught us sneaking around. “Hey, you kids, what are you doing here?”

Even back then, I had some acting skill, I guess. Or maybe I had read too many Nancy Drew books. I improvised, telling the man, “Uh, we're doing research on all of the cool places in our neighborhood and how things are made and we wanted to see if you could show us.”

He was more than happy to bring the two cute girls into the dank, miserable factory. Martha and I dragged behind him, pointing to the odd things we were seeing. Hundreds of yellow drums seeping sludge were piled up to the ceiling at the sides of the building. Something that looked like cotton candy was everywhere. I remember the first time I saw this stuff. It was when my siblings and I were enlisted to help my dad insulate the garage attic. I jumped on the pile of the foamy stuff. Dad screamed at me to get off. It turns out that insulation was made of asbestos.

They never told us what they were burning in that factory while we were sleeping. After the tour, they gave us pieces of gum and we left. We wrote up a report of our detective work and took it immediately to Sister Michael at our school. She was alarmed that we had gone there unsupervised and had lied to get ourselves a tour. My mother was equally upset, but also intrigued. Of course she didn't want me to get into trouble, but she was just as curious as I was to find out what they were burning. Years later, we would find out the truth, but not until my mother and dozens of our neighbors came down with cancer or died from it. When I became an adult I was interested in perhaps bringing a civil suit against the company. But they were long gone and their records were not to be found.

NOW TO THE FINAL LABEL—AM I A “WRITER”? I ADDED THE WORD
to my profile. So does that mean I am one now?

I've wondered most of my life about this question. My mother said I was born a writer. (Okay, so she's my mom and unconditionally loves me. But she's got a discerning eye, really!) At age seven, I was obsessed with writing in my pink Holly Hobbie diary. I would make up stories, accompanied by stick-figure people with speech balloons above their heads.

At age nine, I was reading every romance novel I could get my hands on. The one I remember most was by Kathleen Woodiwiss. The heroine, dressed up like a boy, stows away on a pirate ship. The captain catches her in the lie and they fall for each other and make tender love. She is confident—a swashbuckling crusader who fights like a man and has the values of a superhero. She and other similar characters inspired me to write my own love stories. By age 12, I had graduated to more serious-looking journals and notebooks—still covered with hearts and flowers—and was writing every day.

I still write almost every day. By now I've been writing for more than three decades.

However, for many years, I didn't get paid for my writing. And, based on that criterion, I didn't consider myself a writer. I realize now that I was actually a “struggling writer” but was too frightened to call myself that. Maybe it had to do with how terrifying it was being a “struggling actor.”

The only struggle I had as a writer was figuring out how to get paid for it. Otherwise, I was a prolific writer. I wrote all the time. I wrote my version of the “Great American Novel.” I wrote and directed a play. I wrote numerous screenplays and a television pilot. But I never sold anything. . . . So I guess I wasn't a writer. At least I didn't think so.

Finally, after more than 30 years of writing, I got paid. In November 2013 I got paid to write a piece for the
New York Times
's Modern Love column. I also wrote a follow-up piece for them the next week, and got paid again! Then publishers approached me and asked me to write this book based on the themes introduced in the articles. Maybe now I'm a writer?

I won't deny it. Seeing my name in print in the
New York Times
and then writing this book were two of the best moments in my career. But the most gratifying moment came when Jackson finally read the first article, months after it was published. He saw the article framed on our bedroom wall—a gift from Clare. Jack texted me as I was sitting at my very dear friend Mariska's birthday celebration in Connecticut. I love that I was at Mariska's, since it was she who had introduced me to Jack's dad. I always say she is responsible for the birth of Jackson Blue McDermott.

Jack's text was astounding. It's too precious to share. When he writes his book, he'll decide if he wants to publish it. Basically, he said that the article had made him proud to be my son and part of our modern family. He knows how his words and his support inspired me to write that article in the first place. I credit him with helping me begin to understand what it means to be truly happy. So back to this notion of whether I'm a writer.

My friend Claudia, who is a brilliant writer but great at everything, if I'm honest, recently told me that “An accountant can consider him or herself a poet. It's about what's in your soul, not what's on your W-2.”

My friend Darcy also calls herself a writer. She pays her rent by being a nanny and tutor. She has been paid for her writing. She was a writer of erotic fiction under a nom de plume while living in Paris. When she has time, she writes screenplays and has studied writing for years. She is brilliant. But would you call her a writer if you knew she was also a nanny and tutor by day?

Clare makes her living being a creator of ideas, brands, and strategies. When people ask Clare what she does, she says, “Nothing.” This always takes them off guard, as the word comes out of an obviously brilliant woman with great style and a cross between a British and a Zimbabwean accent. That is what brought her to the United States in the first place. At 22, she sold an animated movie to a big Hollywood studio and moved to LA. Her screenplay is about two twin rhinos that go on a hunt to save their mother. The movie was never made, but she was paid for writing it, so is she a writer? To her the answer is yes. In her soul, she considers herself a writer.

When I was 28 years old, traveling alone for the first time in Africa, I met a man at the Johannesburg airport. I was sitting writing in my journal, and became afraid when I heard screaming coming from the main terminal. This was during the Soweto uprising, so I worried there had been an attack on the airport. Later, I learned that it was a group of young students coming back from a choral competition. They and their parents were screaming and crying for joy at their victory.

But at the time, I didn't know this and I was afraid. While I was trying to stay cool and not panic, a kind-looking man came up to me and calmed me. Here's what I wrote after he walked away:

A man, about 65 years old, approaches me as I sit and write. In a broken accent he asks if I am writing a book. I say, “Maybe one day.” He says, “Remember that I asked you this always, about this book you will write.” I will always remember the premonition of Mr. Rashita from Israel and hope one day he will read the book he sees me write.

Mr. Rashita, if you are reading this book, thank you very much!

Here's what I have decided. You are what you love doing. I love writing even when I don't like it or when I feel it doesn't like me back. I am learning to embrace this truth.

14

AM I ENOUGH?

D
o you sometimes have those moments of complete despair when no matter what good is happening in your life, you feel so alone and afraid?

I used to think of myself as a broken bird, trying to fly and bandaging my own wounds, but never able to get off the ground. Eventually, I decided that someone else could mend my wings and
then
I would magically take off. I have been on many spiritual quests that I hoped would fix me. Am I fixed? Was I actually broken?

When I moved to NYC at 21, spiritual seeking became my mission along with becoming an actor. I was sure that someone “godly” was going to tell me what was wrong with me and heal my wounds. The first year in the city I was as unemployed as any actor could be. I was waitressing and bartending, hoping to be discovered. I had decided that to become a great actress, I must go back to my past and rid myself of all the demons in my life. The demons were the things that made me such a lonely girl, kept me at a distance from people. I was afraid if other people got to know me, really know me, they would see how broken I was and feel sorry for me. Feeling sorry for me meant that they thought I was weak. That was my biggest fear. I knew what weakness could do to someone.