Sunday, August 12, 2012

Number 63: Walk a mile in someone else's shoes

 Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticize them, you are a mile away from them, and you have their shoes.
-- Freida Norris

I know what it's like to be a Harvard Student.
And a teenaged heroin addict.
And an apple.

Kind of.

From an early age, I liked to play pretend. Sometimes, I miss the early ages. Believing was easier back then. But playing has always been easy for me. As a nanny, my favorite part of the day was story hour. (Well, that and Lego Zoo building time. I'm a beast at making habitats. Just ask my four year old co-architect.) Actors, if you've never tried reading aloud to a group of small children, I highly recommend it. You'll never understand the effect you're having on an audience better than when you're trying to hold the attention of a group of toddlers. There is no questioning when they're bored with your tactics -- they just get up and walk away. (And sometimes you have to chase after them through a crowded Barnes and Noble. But that's a whole other set of issues.)

I'm about to hit the four month mark in Chicago, and in two weeks, I will make my Chicago stage debut. Which makes me realize, it has been a long time since I've taken a walk in someone else's shoes. (Almost two years, really.) And I miss it. One of the best things I did since moving here is sign up for an improv class at Second City. It was terrifying at first, but the more I do it, the more fun I have, and the more I think that I'm actually kind of good at it.

Which brings me to my next order of business. In having a conversation about this crazy career path I'm walking, a good friend asked me, "Do you want to be the best?" I didn't know how to answer. And the question has been frustrating me all week. Because I don't know what that means. That's a heavy question. Everything about this business scares the shit out of me. I've gotten used to making sacrifices for it - whether it be missing events with friends, or family, or sacrificing a relationship for a rehearsal. And sometimes, that's frustrating. But when all is said and done, I've always tried to make the best decision for me at a given time. And sometimes you have to walk a mile or two before you figure out what the best decision actually is.

I know I want a happy future. I honestly don't know if I want a family, but I want the option. And I think it can be hard to have a family when you have such uncertain hours and uncertain paychecks. Do you want to be the best? I don't know what "the best" means. There's no finite barometer. Does the best mean being the highest paid actor out there? Or does it mean you're the most decorated? As an actor, you can't measure yourself by being the first to the finish line, because there is no finish line. There's just another race, and one more hurdle. In acting, there is no come from behind stroke that wins you the gold medal.

Do you want to be the best? I want to be happy. And as much as I loved my job this summer, it didn't make me happy like being on stage does. Do I want to be the best? That's not how I think about it. Because I have to do this. I want to win the part -- I always want to win the part. Does that count? I want to keep training, does that give me a few points? At 22 years old, I started my own company because no other company was letting me have the kind of fun I wanted to be having on stage. Where does that leave me?

At the end of the day, I'm not sure I care about being "the best." What I care about it, is working  hard. And showing respect for those in the theatre scene with me. And staying true to myself. In the words of Terry from Kaufman and Ferber's Stage Door, "I can't just walk up and down my room and be an actress. They have to let me." I love that quote, but that's not my mantra. The harder you work, the further you'll get. The longer you run, the stronger you'll be. Mathematically, I'll probably never win a Tony. But, that's okay. If your only goal is to win a shiny paperweight, what's the point in doing this?

Suddenly, after months of staying behind the scenes, I'm about to hit the stage again. And the audition circuit. And I'm probably going to get discouraged a few times. But it's what I came here to do. And I'm sure as hell going to do the best work I can do. I'm going to work myself as hard as I can. And I'm going to make sure I surround myself with enough people and activities that make me happy. Because at the end of the day, no matter how miles I walked in my character's shoes. I'm still Erika. And my size 6 Converse are the ones that matter.

Because I'm not a Harvard Student:

Or a teenaged heroin addict:
 
Or an apple: 


I'm just me. Any these babies have carried me several miles already. And I have a feeling, we've got a few more to go. I don't care if we're the first to cross the finish line, as long as we don't give up on the way there.






Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Number 59: Send a thank you letter to a mentor

There's a reason we named you Papa Bear. To be honest, I'm not even sure how that started or who started it. I picked it up from K (I've got you to thank for that too!) and it has always made sense to me. To us.

There's this thing that's always been a part of me. This ridiculous thing I'm passionate about. This thing that makes sense to me when nothing else does. This thing that motivates me. This thing I understand better than anything in the world and can't stop doing, no matter what. There was a time when I couldn't figure out how to MAKE THEATRE. (If I'm really being honest, when this story starts, I didn't even know what that meant. I just knew it was the only thing I had ever cared so much about.)

In September 2005, eighteen-year-old me went off to college thinking that everything would be easy like it was in high school. And it wasn't. I wanted so badly to be on stage my first semester, and I didn't get to. And it had me second guessing myself... until January 2006 rolled around. You did a simple thing. Something that could have turned out to be nothing.  You cast me. You said the part is yours. You are the right fit for this. You fit with us theatre folk. And that was it. Because that one little thing started a domino effect. Because this....

Turned into this:


 And SOMEHOW, two years later, THAT turned into THIS:

Although, it was chance that the first time I flew to Chicago was for your wedding... it seems oddly karmic, or at the very least, appropriate considering how things have turned out. I've been "the big sister" my whole life, and it was nice to realize that I had a big brother watching out for me. Because although you've given me some amazing advice over the years, it was often what you didn't say (I know I deserve more "I told you so's" than have been uttered), that led me in the right direction.

And so I'll say something I've said before, but I can't say enough: THANK YOU. Thanks for that one little part. Because that part introduced me to a whole new world of theatre. And in that world, I met K. And K introduced me to ML. And without those introductions, I never would have ventured out on the scariest thing I had ever attempted to do. And if The CoLab had never happened, I never would have had the courage to do the second scariest thing I've ever attempted to do, pick up and move half-way across the country. I know what you're thinking, and I promise I'm not over-embellishing. I know I'm here due to a lot of hard work, determination (sometimes to be mistaken for pigheadedness), a dash of stupidity, a little magic, and a whole host of other wonderfully supportive folks; but there was something about that first play at Brandeis that shaped me.

I've learned so much from you as a director, an actor, a theatre professional, and most importantly, as a friend. When I make my Chicago stage debut this month, I'll say it again. Because sometimes I forget how much I love what I do. And I was reminded this week of how much the theatre is not just a part of my life, but a large part of who I am as a person. So Papa Bear, thank you. For everything.

(And let's face it, after this post, there's no way any of the five of us can blame you for aiding us towards our collective future as a FAMILY of starving artists.)