Love For Three Oranges

Act 1

Written by Felicity Claire

©2018

Note: My anchor tags to make navigation easier between paragraph and footnotes worked perfectly. For a moment I even recalled how satisfying simple coding can be, and why I attempted to pick up the skill so many times. Then after a few days, my code disappeared. This has happened several times. I save, clear the cache, switched and updated browsers, etc. Tried all the trouble shooting the internet told me to try. Help?

Susan Claire Fitterman was born on September 1, 1948 in Fargo, North Dakota. I imagine a snow storm raging outside but know nothing of the event, though my mom did say that it had taken her parents a rather long time to figure out exactly how to go about having a child. They drove from California to Fargo because a family friend, a doctor, offered to deliver the baby for free.

Nahan Wolfe Fitterman was a violinist and conductor. Rolseltha Ann Nesheim played the violin, taught piano, and had a beautiful singing voice. This I discovered while seated next to her at a funeral when we were instructed to open a book of hymns. A soprano voice floated easily above the room. At first I didn’t realize the sound was coming from the person sitting next to me. 

My grandparents’ love for each other was deeply rooted in their devotion to classical music. After my mother was born they followed music opportunities to Denver. Among my mother’s possessions is a box labeled “Denver,” which contains mittens and tights and a collection of snowy family photographs. The Fittermans would relocate again, this time back to Southern California. They resided first in Long Beach, eventually settling in a neighborhood of Orange County called Santa Ana. They made their home and music studio in a long, airy Cliff May Ranch House. Roseltha taught piano. Nahan earned a Master’s degree from Claremont College, conducted symphonies and taught violin. The Fittermans hosted chamber concerts and music lessons in their living room, and zipped around Orange County, Los Angeles, and Long Beach in twin Cadillacs.

Susan wasn’t allowed to ride her bicycle beyond the driveway.

She studied piano. She was quite good and liked classical music, but wished to study ballet and play Anybodys or any Shark in West Side Story, and to attend the Actor’s Studio in New York. And she loved rock'n roll. But classical music was the family religion, academia the expectation. Her parents would never have encouraged her to pursue anything so unfamiliar or unsafe. They didn’t even know how to encourage her to be a child, for they were children themselves.

Susan was shy, introverted, and never quite figured out how to socialize or fit in with other children. She developed severe anxiety and crippling self doubt, and wouldn’t learn to drive until she was almost forty. (And then, it was only because she wanted to return to school and finish her degree at the University of California, Irvine. In one concession to reality, she knew my father could not take the time from work to drive her back and forth.)  I imagine she was afraid, and her parents didn’t encourage her. My father taught her to drive, and it was a long and arduous process. She protested every time she was made to use her license, and eventually let it expire. 

I didn’t learn either. My mom didn’t seem very enthusiastic about my learning, and when I was sixteen we had only my father’s work truck, but no working family car—an excuse I welcomed. I could have borrowed a car through the driver’s training program at my school, but ignored the option. I didn’t want to learn. I was afraid. At the age of twenty-seven, after landing a well-paying job the year before (and more frightened of becoming like my mom than getting behind the wheel), I enrolled in a driving school. I barely passed the driving test, but I did pass the first time in New York City. I’m very proud of that. Admittedly, I’ve also complained about driving and resisted doing it. When I moved to California a few years ago, I bought a car. But I walked and took public transportation whenever I could. Having returned to New York, on the other hand, I insist on practice driving whenever I can, and have promised myself never to let my license expire.

My mom hated being called Susan, so as an assertion of independence from her parents she renamed herself Suzanne, the name she used in a high school French class. When she was twenty, she entered into what she would later describe as an arranged marriage. The union was unhappy and short-lived. Following the annulment, instead of retrieving her maiden name she promoted her middle name, and Susan Claire Fitterman (married: S.C. Kauffman) became Suzanne Claire. This was yet another assertion of independence from her parents, though she would continue to lack the courage to put true independence into motion.

My mom and dad met in a class on Oral Interpretation at California State College, Fullerton. She was a drama major, and performed Carol Cutrere in Tennessee Williams’ Orpheus Descending so impressively that her professor, Alvin Keller, kept a photograph of her in the role in his office. At some point she dropped out of school. My dad and I never knew why. After I was born she earned the above-mentioned English degree from UC Irvine. 

There was an actor in the family, a cousin once or twice removed who appeared on Broadway and in films. He had even received recognition with a star on Hollywood Boulevard. As a girl she had been fascinated by, and wanted so badly to meet him, but never had the opportunity. He died in the early 1960s. 

In August of 2017 I found a rejection letter from when she auditioned for South Coast Repertory as a young student at Cal State. It’s in storage now, but if I ever add to this I’ll be sure to include it. It was the best kind of rejection letter. I wish I’d been there. Whatever she did in that audition, they appeared to be stunned, and praised her glowingly. They recognized her passion for the material she had prepared, her intelligence and perspective. They also didn’t seem to know what to do with her, and stated that they were reluctant to pull her out of school at that time. They encouraged her to please return for auditions when she was closer to finishing her degree. They suggested that she had potential not only as an actor, but that she could lend her great passion to a multitude of jobs in the theater. 

My gut reaction to reading the letter was that they were amazed by her audition, but there was no place for her in their repertory season. I’m not certain that Suzanne was destined to be an actor, though she probably could have been. She was an original. Personally, I think she should have been a writer/director who occasionally appeared in her own work. She could have slipped into any role. She had the kind of gifts that can’t be taught, but must be tended to and structured. She had vision, perspective, imagination and passion. She was a talented and elegant writer and poet, a pianist, and at one point she even studied architecture. She had an obsession with detail and getting everything just right. She could see the entire picture. 

She was also the most fearful person I’ve ever met. Though she understood order, design, tension, composition, balance, light, and harmony, she was never able to commit to the execution of those elements, or release whatever she had finished into the world. 

Buzzing Along

My grandfather died when I was three so I have very little memory of him. But my mom said that he was always “buzzing.” She’d often tell me, mockingly, that I was “buzzing,” just like her father. This generally happened when we were quarreling, or when I was feeling nervous, anxious and jittery, which was most of the time when I was around her or receiving her phone calls and texts. I also recognized the buzzing in myself when I was in the company of anyone I wasn’t comfortable with, on airplanes, in auditions, when I was stressed, hurt, felt unsafe in any way, or simply trying to spread my attention over too many things at once. It’s an energy that has driven friends and potential employers away. It struck during standardized tests in school and made itself visible, and me invisible in audition rooms. Every practice that I have adopted over the last few years has been to tame and calm it. Each day, I have simple rituals and practices that help keep it away. When I began to adopt these practices and rituals my mother mocked and criticized them, even when they were helping me.

But Suzanne had the buzzing too, and she had it worse than either Nahan or myself, but was never able to recognize or acknowledge it in herself. In my mother, the buzzing spiraled out of control. It’s one of the reasons she never became an artist, and was unable to function as an adult.

In addition to the buzzing, Suzanne was in a car accident when pregnant with me, which left her with slipped discs in her neck and back. Then there was the spider bite she received while gardening, which led to toxic shock and damaged some of the nerves in her fingers. She had a serious eye injury from lifting a box that was too heavy. She even had a brain tumor. It was benign, but I’ve always wondered if it contributed to her behavior and her inability to function as an independent adult. Suzanne just had too much bad luck. And with all that high-key, nervous “buzzing” passed down from Grandpa Fitterman, no focus and not enough encouragement from her parents to be courageous, she would hoard projects, visions, and ideas, which would live, unfinished, whirling around inside her brain and on paper, which she shared with no one.

When Suzanne didn’t become an artist, she became a mother, and I became her little work of art, her blank canvas. All of her attention was lasered onto it, and it had to be perfect. She was going to get it just right. I was the play she never wrote, cast, directed, or performed a supporting but memorable role in. She sewed my outfits by hand, and told me what kind of music and art I would pay attention to. She took me to concerts and museums. Sometimes I loved what I was given, but much of the time I thought it was boring, and resented having someone else’s interests and taste forced upon me.

What’s in a Name?

Before I was even conceived, my parents had an agreement: A boy would have my dad’s last name, a girl my mom’s. My name would have been Christopher Hoglind if I’d been a boy—after actor Christopher Lee,¹ plus my dad’s last name. But I was a girl, so I received four first names. Felicity (self-explanatory, a hope) they’d both read in the eighth verse of Chaucer’s Clerke’s Tale:

“We myghte lyven in moore felicitee.” 

Miranda-Brett was a fusion of characters from Shakespeare’s The Tempest and Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, which combined, represent innocence and experience—presenting yet another literary reference, William Blake. When she married my dad, my mom kept her adopted last name, Claire. The composition of my name was mostly my mom’s doing, though my dad thought it was pretty cool. When I graduated from college and started pursuing theater, nobody believed I hadn’t created it myself. I found this hilarious, considering how embarrassed I’d always been as a child by my long, elaborate name. I had wanted to change it for years! Other’s refusal to believe it wasn’t genuine eventually caused me to embrace it. If they didn’t believe that it was real, perhaps my mom had given me something fine and unique.²

¹ Lee was known for his work playing Count Dracula on film. Suzanne was obsessed with vampire themes and imagery, and felt that he brought a "sad dignity" to the role. (Maybe her obsession stemmed from the accidental fact that her dad was born in Besarabia, close to Transylvania.) The vampire is immortal, and turns others into copies of itself. Leonard Wolf (the modern Leonard Wolf, not Virginia Woolf’s husband) says we are all vampires: we don’t want to die and we seek to turn others into reflections of ourselves—our beliefs and opinions and prejudices. “You don’t see the vampire’s face in the mirror because your own gets in the way.” – Leonard Wolf. As you will see, much of this essay is an exercise in what Suzanne called “vampire logic.”

² Around the age of three I was at a party with the guy who would conceive and write much of the 90s television show Felicity. I've been told that he chatted with me. I have no memory of this, and my mom doubted that it influenced him in naming his title character. I did watch the show, but found the college students' personal dramas "boring" and "silly." I would complain: "Why does everything always have to be so complicated for them? They're crazy." I think I'd enjoy the show a lot more now. I had hair down to the floor at the time, and the morning after Felicity chopped off her curly mane everyone at school asked if I were going to finally cut mine. I did not.

Saint Bernadette

“When you were a baby, Sunday in the Park With George was on PBS. I turned it on, but didn’t watch because you were more interesting.” 

That’s what my mom said in early 1994, when I asked her what else I could see Bernadette Peters in. My elementary school had just announced Annie for the spring musical. I watched the movie, and when Bernadette began pulling the string of jewelry from Carol Burnett’s drawer I pointed at the television and demanded to know: “Who’s THAT lady??” My mom explained she was a Broadway actress known for performing the work of Stephen Sondheim. She only knew Sondheim from his lyrics in West Side Story, and Bernadette from a few television appearances, her beautiful and powerful singing voice, and the single tear that rolled delicately down her cheek during a torch song. She’d read about Stephen Sondheim and his frequent collaborations with Bernadette Peters in the Los Angeles Times. 

We found the CD of the album “Bernadette.” It’s the one with the Vargas on the cover, painted with soft pastel pink brush strokes. We didn’t have a CD player but our neighbor had one that could copy CDs onto cassette tapes. He was a student at UC Irvine, a pleasant, low key guy with wild black curly hair. He seemed surprised and amused by how grateful I was for doing me such a huge, important favor with his fancy music machine, which he used for listening to strange, dark indie music. 

When the cassette was finished, my mom and I rushed over to pick up the treasure. We listened on my grandfather’s old walkman from the 1970s. The first track was from the musical Follies. All three of us fell in love with it, and with her. The compact disc, my very first, with it’s beautiful, Vargas-painted liner notes, was displayed next to my bed in its jewel case. 

Next up was the Sondheim Celebration at Carnegie Hall on PBS. Bernadette wore a simple, shiny black dress and sang a sad ballad from a musical I didn’t know yet called Merrily We Roll Along. When the title came up on the screen it reminded me of the “Merrily On Our Way to Nowhere” song from Disney’s Adventures of Mr. Toad. I thought it sounded like an awfully cheerful show title for such a sad song. Later, Liza Minelli sang a more upbeat tune from the same show, introduced Sondheim to the Carnegie Hall audience, and to me. My parents said he spoke like their college English professors. He talked about art and artists, described Carnegie Hall as a cathedral, and asked Bernadette to return to the stage. She’d changed into a different black dress to recite some of the words George mutters in Sunday in the Park With George: “Order, Design, Balance, Composition, Harmony,” leading into the chorale singing “Sunday.” I loved it.

A day or two later Bernadette opened the 66th Annual Academy Awards with “Putting it Together.” About three months after that I watched the Tony Awards for the first time, and Sondheim’s Passion won just about everything it was nominated for. The awards for best score and lyrics were presented by Bernadette and Martin Short. 

That summer we found the Sunday in the Park With George VHS with Bernadette and Mandy Patinkin at a rental store in Costa Mesa. It also had Sweeney Todd, which we rented a few days later. I didn’t like Sweeney much at first. It was too violent and bloody. Although Into the Woods gets pretty violent and bloody. They showed that one on Bravo! the following year. I eventually warmed up to Sweeney. We rented Sunday every few weeks, and when the video rental store went out of business a year or two later, we bought their Sunday copy for two dollars. I watched parts of it every day after school. 

My mom fell in love with Sunday the way I did, as she did with every musical I was about to discover. She also loved that the show sparked my interest in impressionism. When we rented the movie Impromptu, because it was directed by James Lapine³ and starred George and Dot,⁴ I started listening to Chopin and Liszt. These classical artists led me to others. Bernadette was a good influence. She ignited my interest in so many things that my mom approved of, things that she had tried to interest me in before, but that I had to find on my own terms, in my own way.

I started studying tap and ballet. My grandmother helped pay for the recital costumes.

A tap routine performed to "New York, New York.”

The extent of my ability in this discipline. If you'd blown on me I would have tipped right over.

At school I was singing in whatever undefined range or style that I continue to sing in. I became fascinated by our actor relative, the one who had appeared in movies and on Broadway. For the talent show at the end of fifth grade I performed the opening song from the Bernadette Vargas CD. We found the sheet music for “Broadway Baby” in a little music shop near a mall called South Coast Plaza. My mom learned and practiced playing it for weeks. On Bernadette’s recording, during the lyrics, “Gee I’d like to be on some marquee, all twinkling lights,” you can hear a single drum stick tapping in time with the music. I wanted it to sound just like the recording, so when we made the accompaniment tape, as my mom played the piano, my dad clicked two wooden kitchen spoons together. He was right on beat. 

Even when the other things going on inside our house were terribly, terribly wrong, Bernadette Peters introduced us to things that allowed us to be a family, and helped me find order. Every time I’ve turned my back on those things, which I’ve tried to do many times, my life has gone into disarray. 

Sixth grade, after a performance of Mary Poppins at my elementary school. I played Bert.

I didn’t understand what all the lyrics in Company, A Little Night Music, Merrily, and Passion were about, but I was fascinated by how complicated and confused and conflicted adults could be. I thought that it was the most beautiful music I’d ever heard. I understood why people were wrong when they said the second acts of Sunday and Woods were unnecessary, and that Sondheim was a better lyricist than composer. Just because something doesn’t appeal to you, or you don’t have an ear for it, doesn’t mean that it’s not good. I had to learn that lesson too. Name any musical I complained about in high school. You love on that musical as much as you need to. I’ll watch. Fuck my taste. It’s probably brilliant for reasons I can’t understand.

The spring I discovered musicals was also the spring I began to question everything I’d accepted as normal. I realized there was something wrong with my mom. She just wasn’t like other moms. That wasn’t an entirely bad thing, but I knew something was off. She refused to get her driver’s license renewed or apply for a job. Debts were piling up. All financial and transportation responsibilities fell on my dad. He’d work long days but also have to drop everything to come home, drive us around, and take me to and from school. 

There was something wrong about how she treated my dad. She had convinced me as a young child that he was a terrible father and husband, but I could never figure out what he’d done wrong. There were huge fights that I’d get sucked into. I used to joke that I never lost my voice from over singing because of early conditioning. I could scream and scream and abuse my voice and never lose it. I stopped boasting about that and started taking better care of my voice for the same reason that people shouldn’t boast about staying thin while eating poorly and not exercising. You can look a certain way, but have a whole set of problems brewing on the inside. Self-abuse builds up. It can and will destroy you, if you let it. And for the record, my voice is not as resilient to abuse as it used to be. 

The neighbors heard the screaming, but never saw what it looked like inside our house because nobody was allowed in. I’ve only been able to handle two or three episodes of Hoarders. I won’t go into detail, but the Claire/Hoglind house was everything you’ve seen on the television show Hoarders. But it was before Hoarders, so for the longest time I didn’t know there was anything wrong with it. I just assumed my mother had a deeper love and understanding for the value and meaning of objects. When something was broken and we needed to let someone inside to fix it, it was left broken. Interestingly, it was my mother who said that if anyone saw the environment I lived in I’d be taken away. My father thought this was nonsense but he was terribly embarrassed by the clutter, and the fact that they could not allow people in the house. When he had a heart attack in December of 2000, Suzanne told him to go outside and wait for the paramedics. No children came over to play. Throughout my entire childhood, one friend was allowed over. Two rooms close to the front door were cleaned and sectioned off and curtains hung so the rest of the house would be hidden. That friend only stayed for an hour or two. During my adolescence and young adulthood, no friends ever visited.

That same childhood friend was part of another event that I’ll never forget. Poor thing. I think we must have traumatized her. Let’s call her Marcy. 

There was a certain thing my mom used to do. Her signature. (By the way, I’ve never seen a signature more perfect than Suzanne Claire’s.) My first memory of it was with Marcy, a little girl in third grade. She was quiet and shy like me. One day a cool kid, I called her the Queen Bee, decided she wanted whatever snack I was eating, grabbed it from me and gobbled it down. It was unfair. I was upset. The Queen then gave Marcy a choice: side with her or with me. She followed the Queen around for the rest of the day. When I got home I told my mom, who suggested I call Marcy and talk about it. So I did, and told her that I was upset. I felt very shy and apologetic as I spoke, stumbling over my words. Marcy didn't say much.

The truth I didn’t feel the need to address over the phone was that Marcy didn’t feel very good about herself. Acceptance by a cool kid felt very important to her. It wasn’t to me. I didn’t find the Queen impressive at all. She was pretty boring, actually. But Marcy was a follower. She didn’t understand that the cool kids are never actually that cool. I suspect that many—or most--don’t feel very good about themselves either, which is why they are often so mean and seek out cliques and followers.

My mom understood it. She’s the one who taught me about cool kids, which made her different—in a good way—from some of the other moms at school. I’m still grateful for that lesson. But unfortunately, when she heard me trying to explain it gently to Marcy, she snatched the phone away and told the little girl (a third grader) that she was “spineless.”

People had very strong opinions about my mother. Everyone at school knew about her. They were afraid of her, and so was I. I probably would never have gotten through to Marcy. But at least I wasn’t trying to hurt her. My mom’s approach was mean and ineffective. This truth-telling was my mother’s signature. She’d call out kids and their parents all the time. She insisted that all the other kids were jealous of me. She was so cruel, aggressive, and relentless about it that eventually I refused to listen to her, and would blindly and recklessly put my trust in people I shouldn’t have. It was infuriating when she was right, and more so when she was wrong. It drove my dad and me crazy! I started distrusting everyone, even when there was no reason to. It was all very confusing. It’s still confusing. It’s been an exhausting, confusing cycle of trust and distrust. 

My mom’s intuition was incredible. She picked up on legitimate reasons to be cautious around certain people, and often knew before I did exactly what was going to happen. She was always good at picking up on the truth. What she wasn’t good at was letting it go. In Suzanne Claire’s world, you distrust everyone, and punish every scoundrel, Queen Bee and “spineless” follower for decades, beating them, and truth, into the ground. Not (usually) to their faces, but to my father and me, and anyone unfortunate enough to have to listen.

Several years ago I realized I’d been doing the same thing. I started therapy.

³Director and book writer for Sunday in the Park with George.

⁴Leading roles in Sunday in the Park with George originated by Mandy Patinkin and Bernadette Peters.

If You Can Find Me, I’m Here

Meanwhile, Bernadette Peters was introducing me to a different world, and giving our family moments of peace and happiness, humor and comfort. I remember blasting The Goodbye Girl, Ruthless! and Sunday in the car on the way to Los Angeles. Usually our only reason for driving into Los Angeles was to visit the Museum of TV and Radio, my Youtube from sixth grade until the end of high school. In the 90s, the three of us would crowd around a tiny television at this museum watching Evening Primrose, which was about fifteen years away from getting released on DVD. I didn’t have a computer, so I had no idea people were trading copies through message boards.  We spent many weekends at the museum, and while I was in high school they did a month-long series of films, lectures and discussion panels on Stephen Sondheim. At one panel, I got to meet Dean Jones, who signed my Company album, Joanna Gleason, and Charmian Carr. I didn’t have anything for Miss Carr to sign (an obvious artifact would have been something from The Sound of Music, but I rarely thought of the obvious) so she signed on a picture of Madonna in the Martin Godfried Sondheim book!⁵

We were a family when we went to that museum. We were also a family when we attended affordable musicals. Tickets to the Orange County Performing Arts Center were usually too expensive, so we’d see shows at the regional theaters. In 1996, I ushered for a production of Sunday in the Park with George, which was presented as part of the Pageant of the Masters in Laguna Beach, because I had to see it three times. Dot was played by a young actress who later appeared in several Broadway shows. She signed my program!

We’d visit other high schools, even if I didn’t know any kids there, simply because I wanted to see a musical that I’d only listened to. University High School in Irvine, Mission Viejo and the Orange County High School for the Performing Arts were particularly impressive. At UC Irvine I saw Guys and Dolls, Victor Victoria, and Floyd Collins onstage for the first time. I made many, many bootlegs. (I apologize.) I was a fan and a collector. I studied tap and ballet and performed in the school plays, but I did not think of myself as a professional. Well, I wasn’t.

I did attend one professional audition. When I was in middle school they were putting up 42nd Street at Saddleback Civic Light Opera. I loved the old movie with Ruby Keeler.⁶ And I knew how to tap dance! For the audition I sang a shaky, terrified “Raining in My Heart” from Dames at Sea. I was not called back. I was also twelve. It would be nearly a decade before I’d attend another professional audition. (And by the way, I did see the production at Saddleback CLO. It starred the very actress whose Dot I enjoyed so much in Laguna Beach.)

In 1996 my mom noticed an ad in the paper that she thought might interest me. Bernadette Peters had released a new CD, and would be signing it at the Tower Records on Sunset Boulevard. 

We packed my entire library, every CD, cassette and book that she appeared in. Mom, Dad and I stood in line, each holding a stack of artifacts for her to sign. We weren’t selling them on eBay, I just wanted her to sign everything I owned. She signed every single item graciously. When she got to the Dames at Sea liner notes she let out a little gasp and, showing them to her manager, noted how young she was in the pictures.

That day I wore my Sunday in the Park With George t-shirt from the Nash Company, which specialized in classical music themed clothing and gifts. They also offered a small selection of Sondheim merchandise. Down the front of my shirt was printed: Order, Design, Balance, Composition, Tension, Light, Harmony, with Sondheim’s signature on the side. My dad noticed that she looked curiously at my shirt.

Then she asked me if I was an actor. I shook my head and said something like, “Oh, I do shows at my school sometimes.” I remember this part well. I was trying to answer no. I tried to tell her that I wasn’t an actor. Then she said, very matter-of-factly: “You’re an actor. You’re going to be an actor.” I didn’t believe her, although I did make a sign with her words and taped it to my wall. But I still didn’t believe her. 

Bernadette signing the Dames at Sea liner notes for me at Tower Records on Sunset Boulevard in 1996.

⁵At the museum they also had a made-for-television production of George M! We watched anything with Alice Playten in it. For the record, I’m openly jealous of any girl who has played Josie Cohan in George M! or Bet in Oliver! I’m also jealous of Danielle Ferland, Tammi Minoff, and Bernadette’s Fredrikas.

⁶From my dad: “I like to say, ever so casually, 'Oh yeah, Ruby Keeler, I danced with her.' And I’m actually telling the truth. She had married a local Newport Beach developer, John H. Lowe. Their son John was in my Catholic elementary school class. When we graduated eighth grade in 1960, all that summer class members threw parties: two, three, four a week. The Lowes hosted many of them. All the boys in our class danced with Mrs. Lowe. (She’ll always be Mrs. Lowe to me.) All the girls, too. The story’s prosaic. But it gets better: Ruby Keeler had been married to Al Jolson in the 30’s. So whenever the subject of Jolson comes up I like to say, 'Oh yeah, danced with his wife.’"

High School

My mom’s untreated anxiety was spiraling into what I now understand to be mental illness. She also had no health insurance due to several pre-existing conditions. I was the only one in the family with health insurance. My dad couldn’t afford the high premiums, which came with high co-pays, and deductibles. She refused to work. She refused to drive. She was afraid, and probably too far gone temperamentally by that point to have done either. 

When I was a teenager she was still calling people out at school, kids and their parents, and sometimes teachers. I was tense, untrusting, fearful and angry. I never got into sex and drugs but my grades suffered dramatically, and I was not growing as an actor. Though I participated regularly in the musicals at school, the debilitating self doubt and fear had set in. I felt thin and unattractive and wore baggy t-shirts. I had developed angular facial features that made me feel hard and ugly. I was told twice a year by my dentist that my bone structure was incorrect, and I should have surgery to pin back my lower jaw. We couldn’t afford it, and it was a terrible, painful and risky surgery that I didn’t think I should get anyway. But I was told over and over that I didn’t look right. Once I was told that I’d always look like Jay Leno if I didn’t “fix” my "problem." My mom brought it up all the time, lamenting that I didn’t get headgear in elementary school before it was too late, and that I didn’t look right. I’d never look right. She blamed my dad’s genes, since his maternal grandfather had a semi-Leno jaw. But later I noticed in pictures that my mom’s dad had it too.

I didn’t date. My friendships were mostly on the surface. My acting suffered. Vulnerability or any kind of physical or emotional freedom on or offstage was out of the question. My mom would criticize my hardness and my lack of vulnerability in shows. She also criticized me for struggling with ballet, something her parents hadn’t allowed her to do. She believed that everyone was jealous of me, then said that I wasn’t as talented or pretty as the other kids.

I regularly compared myself to the kids at the nearby performing arts high school who had union cards and straight teeth and looked so comfortable and professional onstage. I told myself I wasn’t a professional. They loved working and performing, I loved making things and directing and exploring. My greatest joy, something I did better than performing, was putting together cuttings of Sondheim musicals. I was director, casting director, musical director, and actor. I liked doing all of them at once. I also had a wonderful, patient drama teacher who allowed me to just... create. 

In December of 2000, during my senior year of high school, I went to New York City for the first time on a scholarship provided to my high school by actor Anthony Zerbe. I knew I was home. The first show I saw was Seussical. The entire trip felt like Seussical. I could have seen The Iceman Cometh and it still would have felt like Seussical. (I did see Copenhagen.)  

Showing off my Playbills (and polar bear pajamas) at the Crowne Plaza Hotel, Broadway between 48th and 49th, December, 2000. I still have that entire outfit.

When I returned to California, glowing, with all my playbills and souvenirs, I was informed that my dad had had a heart attack while I was away and had been in the hospital for part of the week. They didn’t call to tell me because they didn’t want to spoil my trip. He had no health insurance. 

The debts continued to pile up, as my mom added to the piles all over the house. Our roof leaked when it rained, and we couldn’t afford to get it fixed. Even if we did have the money, fixing it would have required allowing someone into the house, and that was out of the question. We had a system of dishes and cups set up for catching rainwater, but the system didn’t work very well. A day in January, less than two weeks after my trip to New York and my dad’s heart attack, it rained and some water leaked into a floor plug. I was sitting in the drama room at lunch (I only ate lunch in the drama room.) and a call came in which my teacher answered. My house was on fire. 

The firefighters arrived before the flames reached my room upstairs. The door was closed, and many important things were tucked away in drawers and closets. But the ocean of stuff downstairs, valuable, priceless, special things mixed in with junk and trash, went up. I recall sifting through the ashes, finding my grandfather’s 1970s walkman that I listened to all my first musicals on, melted. 

I didn’t attend my high school graduation, and I never found out if I actually passed a math class required to graduate. I still wonder about that. I had applied to a few two-year, performance certificate programs that I didn’t get into, but for the most part the college/conservatory application process was not something I participated in. I wasn’t rejected from the big musical theater programs because I never applied. My GPA wasn’t good enough to get in, barely high enough to even graduate high school. I didn’t really have anything to audition with. I knew a million songs. I could offer a shaky “Raining in My Heart” or a stiff “What More Do I Need?” But I wouldn’t have offered them the openness and vulnerability and willingness to learn and grow in any program, and the joy I felt participating in productions was mostly gone. It really wasn’t fun anymore. 

And yet, even though performing stressed me out, it was still better than what was going on at home. I didn’t even have a home for a while. Theater was what I identified with most. And that New York trip! I felt at home in its theaters. But performing, the thing that I was supposed to do better than anything else, especially since I was basically flunking out of high school, scared the hell out of me. 

While our house was being rebuilt, and with no college prospects, I went to Iowa for a performing arts scholarship competition (I wore a tight bun, I dressed all in black, and sang a stiff and angry “What More Do I Need?” I lost.), and then straight on to a program led by Ann Reinking in Tampa, Florida, called the Broadway Theater Project, which I had received a scholarship to attend. I didn’t really know why I was going. I was a terrible dancer and was convinced that I could never be a “professional.” I’d been told I couldn’t act and didn’t disagree, and I doubted my ability to be like those superhuman professionals I’d seen on Broadway. But theater was all I could do and what I loved most, so I went.

Lots of my heroes were teaching and talking to us, and I was surrounded by kids who really loved to perform. Dancers who could belt really high and cried during their songs. Nobody seemed nervous when they volunteered to work on a song or a monologue, though I’m sure a lot of them were. If they felt nervousness they were determined enough to work through it. I also thought everyone was pretty. I wasn’t pretty. None of the girls looked like Jay Leno. I had those hard, angular features I was so self-conscious about. I didn’t want to perform in front of any of them, I didn’t even want to be looked at most of the time. I hid in the back, and didn’t volunteer to sing until late in the program, and only because I felt bad that I was wasting the money to send me there.

I remember a lot of the work I saw. Some of it I really enjoyed and admired. Part of me wanted to let go and dive into this kind of work, but I wasn’t ready. I didn’t have the personality, drive, or hunger to be watched. I told myself that I didn’t love performing as much as they did. This wasn’t true at all, I loved it. Fear had convinced me otherwise. 

With my family’s dire financial situation, I decided I should just be a supporter, not a professional performer or artist. But it was that choice, which I kept falling back on over and over again, that would create the most chaos in my life. 

College

I arrived home from the Broadway Theater Project to a newly rebuilt, pristine, empty house with no furniture. I was thrilled. A clean start. I enrolled at the local junior college.  

Orange Coast College got such a bad rap at my high school. At Newport Harbor we had at least ten valedictorians, and a lot of people assumed that if you went to OCC you’d stay there forever. But it doesn’t have to be like that. Junior colleges save money. Sometimes really good students go to junior colleges because their parents aren’t wealthy or don’t have a college fund for their kids. And for those who receive poor grades in high school, or can't pass the standardized tests, they provide a second chance.

Of course when word got around that I was living at home with my parents and attending OCC my friends feared I’d never leave, that I’d be under the domineering gaze of Suzanne Claire forever. But that was never going to happen. My mom started hoarding soon after the house was rebuilt so it didn’t stay nice and empty for very long. She kept many burned, smoke and water-stained things, now worthless. She was also unhealthily attached to me, and had adopted all of my interests and identities with equal intensity, not in a supportive way, but in an obsessive, creepy way. My dad had grown to love musicals too, and encouraged me in my endeavors. He didn’t scare me.

Of course, like all her other finished and unfinished projects, she would resist releasing me into the world. But I went anyway! I knew I had to get out of there as soon as possible, and that I’d have to do it through school. I cleaned up my act. At OCC I opted for advanced placement classes, got nearly straight As, was told I could write, and studied with a renowned Southern California based tap dancer and choreographer. Math was still nearly impossible for me, so I completed the requirement later with computer science. I took the bus to school every day (OCTA!) and if I couldn't bring myself to spend the afternoon around my mom I'd take the bus from OCC to Metro Pointe, where I would do my homework upstairs at Barnes and Noble. While riding the bus I always imagined that I was on a bus in New York City. 

I still didn’t know what I was supposed to do with my life after college. I kept thinking about the work I had seen at the Broadway Theater Project. That’s what I was drawn to. But was it because I liked watching other people do it, or was I actually supposed to be a participant? I still wasn’t willing to do the kind of work I had seen and admired, even though it looked like so much fun. It looked like something I wanted to do, but it also looked terrifying. But gratifying! It looked like it felt good. If only I could just get up the nerve.

But my priorities were clear. Get the hell out of that house and be close to New York City. And the only way I knew how to do that was to earn good grades, transfer with financial aid and get a job on campus.

There was a school in Hempstead, New York—Hofstra University—that offered rolling enrollment so I could apply during the summer with the transcript from my first year at OCC. High school wouldn’t be counted at all. No standardized test scores needed. Hempstead wasn’t New York City, but it was a 30 minute ride away on the Long Island Rail Road. Manhattan was almost next-door to Hofstra. They had an English department and a Drama department. Madeline Kahn went to Hofstra! Then I heard about the Merrily We Roll Along original cast reunion concert, to be held in September at LaGuardia High School. That settled it. I was going to Hofstra! I applied, was accepted with scholarships and financial aid, bought my plane ticket and a ticket to the reunion concert. By fall of 2002 I was on the East Coast.

Several people questioned my choice. For a long time I did too. I don’t question it now. I’ve considered where I was at the time and what my options were. My primary reason for attending any school was to get out of that house. THEN I’d figure out what came next. 

Once at Hofstra, I pursued a Bachelor of Arts in English and Drama. I wish I’d elected for some of the excellent acting classes the BFA offered. Some great talent has come out of that program. Sometimes the more prestigious theater schools pass on remarkably talented and interesting performers who end up growing and polishing their skills elsewhere. Nobody passed on me. I didn’t give them the chance. I didn’t even apply! Anyway, when I enrolled in my programs at Hofstra I still wasn’t convinced I should be an actor, and the only classes I took with the drama department were the ones that involved reading plays and writing essays about them. Other than some required courses in set and costume construction, my double major was purely academic. However, I did perform in a few shows, musicals and dramas.  

My first year I stayed on campus and worked during Christmas vacation. My work hours, plus the money my dad could send (considering he was slowed down by the heart attack and a subsequent broken shoulder), were not enough to afford the round trip home. On Christmas night I went into the city and did standing room alone at Into the Woods, which was playing at the Broadhurst Theatre. It had snowed, and when I returned to campus that night, I stood in the doorway and saw my lone foot prints leading up to the dormitory. I was the only one in my complex who hadn’t gone home for Christmas, probably one of a dozen people left on campus.

When I went home at the end of the school year, I found that my mother was making progress filling the house up again. She was also keeping our elderly cat alive by pumping him with fluids (as per the vet’s instructions). “My only friend in the world,” she would say. 

I always worried about her when I was away. I knew that she had no identity or life of her own apart from me.

In 2005 I graduated high honors after long hours, studying, working, rehearsing, and performing. My mom constantly mocked me for attending Hofstra, and criticized me for not being a Phi Beta Kappa, as she had been at UC Irvine. Even so, when she came out for my graduation, I made sure that her first Broadway show was Bernadette’s Gypsy. I knew it was important.

New York, New York!

By the time I graduated in 2005, I had seen a few Broadway shows, and performed a few roles at Hofstra. One role in particular was such a deeply rewarding experience, and I began to worry that I’d made a mistake not studying musical theater, or getting a BFA, or at least some kind of acting or audition training. I did enjoy completing my English degree. I had done so poorly in high school. At the time, with everything going on at home, I'd been unable to focus or retain information. And yet I was still so eager to learn. I desired an education, and was so grateful for the second chance at Orange Coast College and Hofstra University. But I had no idea what to do with my degree, didn't feel ready to dive into grad school, and was itching to do another show.

The day after graduation, after spending the night on a friend's couch in Queens, I went into the city and found a handwritten ad taped to a bus stop for a room in Morningside Heights. $400 a month. I moved into a room that fit a twin bed and nothing else. I stayed for two years. The apartment housed three additional young women. Sometimes we would meet in the small kitchen (the living room was used as a bedroom), and I was told by one of them that the room next to mine was once occupied by a young actress who later appeared on Broadway in Rent. I never found out her name, but I wish that I had. 

My dad paid for my first monthly Metro Card. I couldn’t believe I actually had a monthly pass for the subway, not one of those day or weekend passes with a return trip on the Long Island Rail Road. I actually lived in New York City! A day or two later,  I wandered into Theater Circle on 44th Street, found a listing in a book for a temp agency called "The Supporting Cast,” bought one set of office clothes from H&M, interviewed, and within a week of my graduation from Hofstra I arrived for my first job as a receptionist at the top of the MetLife Building above Grand Central Station. I hand-washed my one set of office clothes every night until I could buy a second set. That summer I participated in a production of Merrily We Roll Along at what was then the 45th Street Theater, produced and mostly performed by some recent NYU grads. In September I received my equity card, performing with one of those children’s shows that go around the country in a van. I loved it.

In January of 2006 I arrived in EPA/ECC⁷ land with no regional credits, one song that I’d been singing casually since middle school, and no audition or acting training, other than volunteering once or twice in the last week of the Broadway Theater Project. I didn’t get haircuts or know how to apply makeup properly or how to dress myself appropriately. I took many temp jobs making twelve dollars an hour. Some people are good at putting together outfits on a budget, I was not. I was also physically awkward and shy, had a debilitating set of fears and phobias, and reeked of self loathing and insecurity when I walked into the audition room. On audition days I’d get terrible tension headaches that turned into three day migraines. I had no health insurance or mental health care.

I studied at two acting studios for musical theater. I added songs to my audition book, but no matter my study and preparation, I was working with such personal, mental chaos. I didn’t even realize how much I was suffering. I thought: This is who I am, and how I always will be. There was nothing wrong with the studios. I wanted to make up for all the training I didn't get while I was in college, and I worked very hard. But I never got call backs. 

Until Mamma Mia!.

Between April of 2007 and May of 2009 there were five equity chorus calls for the show. I hadn’t booked any regional work, so I was in town for, and attended each one, wearing the same outfit (Old Navy cut-off jeans, tank top, flip flops, no make-up.), singing the same 16 bars and getting called back each time. My “Honey, Honey” was never convincing, and I was always miserable during the dance improvisation. I sensed I was perfect for the show in some ways, and totally wrong in others. They kept calling me back. I think it's because the team on that show looked for certain qualities and a particular sound. I had some, though not all, of the qualities they were looking for, and I learned how to make the sound they wanted. 

In December of 2008 my mom was diagnosed with lymphoma. My last Christmas at home she was undergoing surgery for it. I remember my dad saying something along the lines of, this is going to be really hard. We have to be kind, even though she’s unkind. The family debt continued to rise. The recession hurt my dad’s electrical contracting business and my mother’s illness caused him to lose even more work. I was making between twelve and twenty dollars an hour at temp jobs and babysitting. Mamma Mia! became my only hope for a restart. So I auditioned until they cast me.

At my final callback in May of 2009 I sat in the waiting room with two girls. They were chatting about upcoming family vacations, cruises, etc. I’d never been on a family vacation. The only vacation I’d ever been on was the New York trip my senior year of high school. I don’t know who they were, but they seemed very nice and I wished them well. I hope they got to do the show. Maybe I ended up working with them and didn’t realize it. But I decided that I actually needed that job more than they did,⁸ not for my acting career, but for survival. Our home was on the verge of foreclosure, and my dad had no savings or retirement plan. I had a BA in English and no life skills. I needed Mamma Mia! to help me reset, and figure out what I was going to do with the rest of my life. 

I also recalled that one or two people in my class at the Broadway Theater Project were working in shows cast out of the same office. Some were playing very large roles and doing noteworthy, magnificent things. I thought, if they can audition and get those roles, I can be in the ensemble of the national tour of Mamma Mia! Some of my tension eased. That time, when they told us to kick off our shoes and “just have fun with it,” I was able to follow their directions. I enjoyed giggling and screaming through “Honey, Honey.” I even enjoyed the dance improvisation! I grounded myself and straight-toned the heck out of “I Have a Dream” and “The Name of the Game.” I abandoned the majority of two and a half years of preparation for Mamma Mia! callbacks and just had a good time. The less I tried to do, the happier they were with me.

I got the show from that callback. I didn’t get the immediate track they were auditioning us for on the road, but I got the next track that opened up the following month, in the New York company. 

⁷ Equity Principle Audition and Equity Chorus Call, the open audition system for members of Actors’ Equity. Required for members who don’t have an agent, or do have agents but were unable to secure an audition appointment for a given production.

⁸ Not an attitude I recommend or practice currently. I felt desperate and powerless. I'm thankful for Mamma Mia! and its many gifts. I always said the show saved me, and I've heard others say the same. However, I think it's been important for me to realize that I don't have to be dependent on a single show or job for health, happiness, and stability. For many, a contract like the one offered by Mamma Mia! is a rare and miraculous luxury. Landing one usually requires a specific skill set, being the correct type, good timing and luck. It is possible to create your own opportunities and sources of income without relying on the rare production contract. I wish I'd know that when I was younger.

On Broadway

Hold up. I have to interrupt myself and say something right now because I just read through the next section. I'd just gotten a Broadway show—at the Winter Garden Theatre. Home of Follies and Funny Girl and West Side Story and Pacific Overtures and Cats and 42nd Street and... Beatlemania. And yet this next part of the story feels super depressing. I'm groaning and rolling my eyes at the computer as I read it. Well, I wrote it from the perspective of someone who believed herself to be disadvantaged. And in some ways I was. But so are a lot of people. The truth is, I wasn’t nearly as bad off as I often felt that I was. There are people with a lot less who are able to pull themselves up and get stuff done. But I’m sharing my story as it happened, and my mental state was a big part of that. If you can get through this next part (like I had to) there's a nicer part coming up.

On Broadway. At the Winter Garden.  

My parents didn’t get to see my debut. My mom was receiving chemo, and there wasn’t enough money for travel. I flew them out the following summer after I’d saved a bit, could put them up in a hotel, and had some scheduled performances in one of the roles that I understudied. 

Onstage at the Winter Garden Theater in 2010, after my parents saw me in Mamma Mia! for thefirst time.

The recession was ongoing and my dad was still losing  a lot of work. I knew they’d lose the house and that it would be catastrophic, but I didn’t know what to do about it. I had a huge paycheck but the job was temporary. I was jittery and mechanical in my ensemble track, in the roles that I understudied, and in all my auditions. Not only was I not getting called back for anything, I wasn’t even getting asked for a second song at the EPAs. I was going to work at the Winter Garden Theatre every night, a luxury that I felt I didn’t deserve, even after nearly three years of auditioning and waiting for the show. My auditions actually got worse after I got Mamma Mia! because I was self-conscious about that Broadway credit blaring—to me undeservedly—at the top of my short resume. There were so many deserving, talented people with long resumes full of great regional credits, who didn’t have a Broadway credit, while I, who had done no regional theater, had one. I felt like an asshole. I would panic moments before I walked into the audition room, then I’d glaze over. I bored myself with my work, let alone the people behind the table. It seemed that everyone in my dressing room was in final callbacks for everything, while I hadn't received a single callback from all the EPAs I’d gotten in line for at 7:00am after getting home from the show at 11:00pm and not falling asleep. I’d never had an agent, and none showed any interest. I talked a lot about that actor in the family, the guy I'd never met who died in the 1960s and had a star on Hollywood Boulevard. I was constantly looking for validation that I should be an actor without actually believing it. I was searching for reasons to believe that I actually deserved to spend my evenings and weekends inside the Winter Garden Theatre.

Years later I was told that the work I did during my early days at Mamma Mia! wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought. But I've always been pretty self aware about my weaknesses. Too aware. I see a lot of theater. I knew what kind of work I liked to see onstage, and that I wasn't doing it. I was also working with some very talented, professional actors. Some of them were a lot younger than me, but far more poised and well-adjusted than I'd ever been. I spent so much time trying to improve but never quite succeeding. I dismissed my strengths as unimportant. Nothing I did well counted if I sucked at everything else. 

I was also really, really scared. 

Since the early 2000s, my mom had prevented my dad from selling our house, which we couldn’t afford to keep. She refused to leave “her home.”  She refused to put her possessions in storage. She insisted that they needed to have a house for when I came back from New York. At the beginning of 2012 my parents received an eviction date, April. My mother presented my father with divorce papers and fled to an apartment where she lived off an inheritance that she had denied existed, but we suspected, since her mother had sold her home at the height of the housing “balloon” and died less than two years later. A small percentage of the inheritance could have prevented us from losing the house. For after “rescuing” our home, it could have been sold and the equity, split evenly, would have taken care of them for the rest of their lives. 

In the spring of 2012 my dad lost every penny from the house and moved into a motel. He then stayed with me in my studio apartment for a few weeks in New York, until he could rent a room with a friend in Costa Mesa. When he was staying with me he got to see Mamma Mia! again when I was on in a principal role, and Nice Work if You Can Get It. He loves Gershwin. 

I had a broken family. It had always been deeply broken, but now it was really, physically broken. My mom had cancer and she would eventually need me to support her when the inheritance ran out. I also had a massive paycheck with no agent commission and a job that I knew wouldn’t last forever. I went to work in a magnificent building that I knew the entire history of but didn’t deserve to be performing in. I continued to struggle with auditions. I met people in other shows who clearly judged me for having a single theater credit, for that one credit being Mamma Mia!, and for the amount of time I’d spent there. You could understand how I’d once again fallen into the “I shouldn’t be an actor” mindset, assuming that this would probably be my only show. So I’d better enjoy it and figure out what else to do with the rest of my life. I transferred entire paychecks into savings, worked other jobs on the side, and made lists of other careers to try. 

In the summer of 2012, I declared loudly in the girls’ dressing room and on Facebook that I’d had it and would be moving back to California (specifically Belmont Shore) when I was done with the show. I wrote a long, humorless children’s novel, and believed the only way it could get published was if I used my contacts from Mamma Mia!. I believed that required staying in Mamma Mia! until all of that had worked out for me.

I took my first vacation, ever. I’d never taken a true vacation before, other than going to a hoarder’s home for the holidays. I went alone to Prince Edward Island, land of Avonlea and Anne of Green Gables, and Montreal. 

The following year I went on another adventure alone (though I did get to meet up with some friends there), to the north of England. 

We moved theaters. I enjoyed knowing that my relative, the actor I'd never met but loved to talk about, had appeared in a musical at the Broadhurst in the 1950s called Seventeen. He’s on the cast album, which is delightful. I went to Disney World for the first time. Then I took my dad to Ireland. Our first "family vacation." 

At some point in 2014 I met a girl at a theater function whom I'd seen a year or two before in a regional production of one of my favorite musicals. She was a highlight, and I made a point of telling her how much I'd enjoyed her performance. She was very friendly, and asked who I had known in the show. In other words, why was I there? I answered that I hadn't known anyone in the show, I just wanted to see it. She couldn't wrap her mind around that, and asked me a second time, and then a third, why I had been at her show. Certainly I wouldn't take a train an hour outside the city to see a show if I didn't know anyone involved. I answered again that I heard it was playing and wanted to see it, and told her again how much I enjoyed her performance. She remained—bewildered by the fact that I would spend my day off from a Broadway show seeing a regional show in which I didn't know anyone. 

Growth

After I’d released the idea that I’d ever work in theater again, I actually started to enjoy the show. This process began in 2013, during our last couple months at the Winter Garden. Each time I went on in the roles I understudied, my acting improved. I experienced, for the first time in my adult life and perhaps since middle school, what it felt like to feel good onstage. For the first time, I knew the elementary basics of listening and responding to a scene partner calmly and naturally, not frantically waiting for the cue line to come. I could actually hear what my scene partner was saying to me onstage, and I responded like a person. I didn’t try to block out the audience. I liked having them there with me, and did not mind being watched. I was finally starting to show some passion and vulnerability onstage. I wasn't perfect, and sometimes I'd still get nervous, but I was getting a lot better, and happier. 

Many of my co-workers were very ambitious (as they should have been), and in a hurry to get their third Broadway credit, a principal role, an original company, etc. Some of them were moving on promptly and doing extraordinary things. I was learning, slowly and quietly, how to be an actor and a professional. 

I loved working on 44th Street. It had always been my favorite street. It still is. Moving to a new theater renewed the show for me, and despite closing less than two years later, I felt the production improved at the Broadhurst. Certain elements were simplified. The floor didn’t light up anymore and the jetty didn’t move up and down, but it never felt like a downgrade to me. The set was freshly painted, everything felt brighter, and when I was swung out one night to watch my understudy tracks I noticed the show was framed beautifully by the smaller proscenium. The staging looked tighter and cleaner. 

I was in therapy. For the first time in my life I was addressing a severe, previously undiagnosed anxiety disorder. Throughout school, during long shifts at survival jobs, and understudy performances at Mamma Mia!, I had always forced myself to work through panic attacks and migraines. I was finally receiving therapy and treatment for both.

I was also making new friends, and I was learning from them. One of my friends would read self-help books in the hall between songs. I’d sit across from her, either reading something really dense that I wasn’t enjoying, trying unsuccessfully to edit my book, or scowling at my phone. Sometimes she’d come across a sentence in whatever she was reading that made her think of me, something I could benefit from or that she just wanted to share. She’d look up from her book, read the quote out loud, and without saying a thing I’d jot it down in the margin of whatever non self-help book I was reading, or draft I was working on. I have random Deepak Chopra and Brene Brown quotes scribbled all over the margins of books that I was carrying around backstage between 2012 and 2015. I may not have been willing to dive into those books myself yet, but I was paying attention to those who were.

My mom disapproved of all this. She hated that my new friends were “chill” and calm and peaceful, and that they were encouraging me to let go of things that bothered me. She hated that I went to therapy, that I’d explored yoga, even though I didn’t stick with it. She hated that I didn't believe yoga to be a trendy, tasteless fraud. When I explained to her that it had helped friends of mine, she would get angry, change the subject, and point out that I hadn’t been able to get any other show, and that I was just an understudy. I explained how difficult it was to book a show, any show. I tried to explain what the EPA and ECC system had been like for me. Why auditioning was such a challenge, and how many talented people there are in New York. I explained that while I was a good understudy, I wasn’t really right for the roles I covered, and that my ensemble track was a very good fit. 

I flew her out between treatments. She’d stay with me in my studio apartment, which she hated, and asked why I didn’t live in a decent home. She’d keep me up all night, sometimes when I had to go on in a leading role the next day, screaming about someone from the past, someone who had supposedly wronged me (questionable) whom I hadn’t thought about in twenty years. I’d forgotten they existed. But she’d been thinking about them the whole time. She wanted me to be mad at people I had let go of. But I was slowly, gradually becoming calmer and less bothered by things that fueled the anger swirling around in her head. It freaked her out that I was letting go of the anger. She felt like she was losing me. 

My last Christmas with her had been in 2008, while she was undergoing surgery for her cancer. So in December of 2014 I flew her out. I just wanted a nice Christmas with my mom! I took her to see The Nutcracker. She asked me why I wasn’t doing that, pointing at the stage of the New York City ballet.  

I took her to see the Rockettes. She asked me why I wasn’t doing THAT, as the ladies synched up and started their kick lines. She was completely serious. To her it just meant that I lacked discipline.

There we are, with our free Into the Woods posters after seeing the movie on Christmas Day in 2014 at the Ziegfeld Theater.

I brought her out so many times and nobody understood why. None of the trips went well. But she was sick. And I just wanted one good trip with my mom. I kept trying. I kept bringing her out. 

The last trip, several months before we closed, was finally a good one. I was determined. We did some good sightseeing, she admired the architecture, and somehow didn’t bother me about my living conditions or inability to book another show. While I was at work she saw On the Town, Phantom, Mamma Mia! (Three times. She loved Mamma Mia!.) and Side Show. I remember dropping her off at the St. James. As she was walking into the theater, in line with a bunch of solemn New York theater goers, she happily screamed something at the top of her lungs about Ken Jennings (I believe it was "You go, Ken Jennings!" punching her fist in the air), a cast member in the original production of Side Show. I laughed and screamed something back about how she wouldn’t be seeing him in this production, waved goodbye and darted across the street to the Broadhurst. 

It was worth all those tries for that one good trip.

I want to get something straight. People called her a stage mom, but I disagree. I knew stage moms. Suzanne Claire was not one of them. She expected excellence and perfection. But she never wanted me to be an actor. If ever someone asked what her daughter was doing in New York, she’d leave out the whole actor part. She never mentioned that I was in a show, even though it was one they’d probably heard of. She’d say I was a student, even when I was long out of school, and that I was involved in the arts and humanities. “She studies music and literature,” my mother would say. She would rather have told people I was in college for the rest of my life than admit her daughter was an actor.

But she was obviously conflicted. She loved Mamma Mia!. She loved when I was working on a new piece of music, or when I told her about the cabaret I was putting together. But she couldn’t call me an “actor.”

Boom Crunch

In the fall of 2014, aware that a closing notice would come in 2015, I finally put together the cabaret that I'd been thinking about for at least ten years. Well, it was more of a song cycle that told a story, made up of music from some of my favorite shows. I knew I’d be moving to California after we closed and didn’t know if I was coming back. I thought it was very possible that I would not, and that I'd better do it before leaving the city. Better get it out of my system. I was nervous, but it went pretty well and I was glad that I did it.

In January, February, and March of 2015 I attended the theater almost every night I had off from Mamma Mia!. I knew they'd announce our closing soon and I wanted to see as much as possible before leaving town. Some people I knew had decided that I was a super fan. I didn't feel like one, I just found great pleasure in attending theater. I wasn't doing research, though it informed much of my work, and life. I saw shows because I was genuinely interested. Because it felt right. 

I put some of my work on Youtube and shared it on social media. I wanted people to see what I could do. I knew what I did well and what I didn’t do well, so I shared what I was proud of. It felt good. It brought me peace, and I felt like I could move on. But inevitably, there was more work to do. There were other things I needed to work on and get better at and eventually share.

In June of 2015 I attended the Into the Woods reunion at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. There were panel discussions between songs. They talked about the witch. I don’t have a transcript, and I don’t make bootlegs anymore, so I don’t have it word for word. (Maybe someone who has it could send it to me?) She’s smart. She picks up on stuff that flies over other people’s heads. She sees everything. She’s a truth-teller. 

On her truth-telling, Sondheim smirked. Then he said something along the lines of: Perhaps she could be a little “gentler” in the way she tells it. Bernadette smiled sweetly. I squirmed in my seat. 

I’ve always enjoyed “The Last Midnight,” when the witch tells all of them, quite accurately, exactly who they are, exactly who she is, and then screams “Boom Crunch” and falls into the floor. But Sondheim was correct. It doesn’t matter if you’re the rightest person in the world if you’re unkind. She could have been gentler. Her daughter (spoiler!) is killed because she’s frightened of her mother and runs from her. 

I fidgeted in my seat for the rest of the concert. I thought of my mom. I thought of when she called poor Marcy “spineless” in third grade. And I thought of people I’d insulted, things I had said directly to classmates and cast-mates and cliques, whose behavior I disapproved of and tried to change. I won’t go into it, but my final AOL Instant Messenger away message in college was: “You are all mad,” from the end of Act One of Anyone Can Whistle. 

It had been a while since one of my truth-telling incidents, but what I had said in the past was still following me around, either because people I had criticized had latched on to it—understandably, because they hadn’t forgotten how I’d made them feel—or because my own conscience was torturing me. Every time I said something, I knew I’d done something wrong. It never made me feel good. And a lot of the time I didn’t even dislike those I had criticized, I just wanted them to stop behaving in a certain way. I think that’s why my mom did it too. I was never convinced she hated all the people she hurt. If you can’t force people to change, is it worth destroying them? Because, in your precious bitterness and preoccupation with the shortcomings of others, you also end up destroying yourself.

I love and understand the witch. I wish to have even a fraction of her wit, wisdom, intelligence, and style. But at some point I decided I didn’t want to be the witch, and that’s when my mom really started to lose me.

Moving On

We closed. My book never got published. I signed up for a few auditions (EPAs and ECCs) during my last year in New York, just hanging on by a thread of hope that there might still be something for me.  But mostly I’d given up. I felt that I was not wanted or needed in New York, I had worn out my welcome, and that I should leave. Some of my work was up on Youtube and that was that. I moved to California to help my mom, who had no transportation to chemo treatments. The cab services had stopped responding to her calls, and she couldn't make sense of Uber and Lyft on her phone. When I arrived in California my dad dropped me off at my mom's place, where I spent two nights on an air mattress that couldn't be blown up all the way because there was no space left on the floor. She'd filled her apartment wall to wall with boxes and piles and newspaper towers. The curtains were closed at all times, and most of the lights had burnt out. I did have friends I could have stayed with, and absolutely should have called them. I also could have gone to a hotel. But I didn't know how long it would take me to find a place to live, worried that I'd be intruding on my friends, and felt that I should save money where I could. I went on Craigslist, and in 48 hours I'd found a place to live in Belmont Heights with a theater professor at Cal State, Long Beach. I bought a light silver 2012 Toyota Corolla at the Cerritos Auto Square because that's where the commercials in the 90s had told me one buys a car in Southern California. I learned to drive the freeways between Orange County, Long Beach, Downtown Los Angeles, and Santa Monica, while attempting to acquire skills for two separate alternative careers that made a decent amount of money so when my mom’s ran out and my dad couldn't work anymore I’d be able to support them. I didn’t sing, and I put away my long, humorless, unpublished children’s novel. 

On Halloween I attended a touring production of  The Sound of Music, which had landed in Los Angeles. Before I left New York I had purchased my first pair of glasses. My vision had been blurry for years, but I just shrugged it off. Another indication that I was unwilling to take care of myself. I wouldn't have even bothered had they not been required for driving. The Sound of Music was the first show I watched with glasses.⁹ It occurred to me that I'd seen ten years of Broadway shows with blurry vision. To my surprise, I could actually see faces from the mezzanine. I dropped a dollar in a red Broadway Cares bucket, then drove nervously from the Ahmanson back to Long Beach.

While acrobats rehearsed an adaptation of The Little Prince in the garage, and the Cal State, Long Beach Theater Department had faculty meetings in the living room, textbooks about script supervision¹⁰ and computer programming were spread over my bedroom floor. I was studying things I wasn’t good at, driving my mom around Orange County, hanging out in a cancer hospital, and wandering around the Pacific Coast Highway with a canvas tote bag from the Strand Bookstore, like an NYU student home for Christmas vacation.

One of my goals was to teach my mother what I’d learned in therapy, from friends, and from working on a show with people who had a very different energy from anyone I’d grown up with. I wanted to teach her everything I’d learned by doing the things she never got to do, which I only got to do because she allowed me to find and explore them. But as I let those things change and help me, she became angrier and angrier. As my rage eased, my mom’s worsened. As her anxiety and fear swirled out of control I continued to work on taming my own. Add chemo-induced mania to the package. I was trying to get through to my mother while also teaching myself a new set of skills. I was failing at both. 

⁹Also one of the first musicals I remember learning, before I got really "into" musicals. My dad had the movie soundtrack on cassette.

¹⁰For those of you who are good on camera, be kind to your script supervisors. They are like swings without the costumes, makeup, and applause. And they do not sleep, ever.

New York!

In May of 2016 I returned to New York for two weeks to close out my apartment and tie up loose ends. I arrived on a Saturday night, terribly sick from a migraine. I was getting a lot of those again. The lights in Times Square were blaring in my face and I was getting motion sickness from the commute in. I nearly puked on the bus. Ugh, I hate it here, I thought. I arrived at my friend’s apartment, collapsed, declared angrily that New York was awful and that, other than Shuffle Along, I wouldn’t be seeing any shows. 

The next morning a friend spotted me on the street and I was whisked into the Winter Garden Theatre, the magnificent building I’d worked in for four years. I got the morning tour! I shuffled around on the stage a bit, was escorted into the box office, where I snatched up two tickets for the evening show. 

I wandered around Midtown a bit more, dipped into the Broadhurst Theatre and purchased two rush tickets for the matinee of a musical based on a children’s novel I’m very fond of. I went across the street to the Starlite Deli, bought my go-to two-show-day breakfast (which the owner remembered every detail of), took a seat right in the middle of Times Square and wolfed it down. Throughout the day I ran into stage hands and ushers, who greeted me warmly and welcomed me back with hugs. 

That afternoon at the Broadhurst I met a young girl who's got two choices: Remain at home on the suffocating leash of her grandmother, or follow a toad into the woods. She breaks the rules, goes on an adventure, and finds herself entangled with a strange family that is unable to grow or change, or die. Their seventeen-year-old son, perhaps the greatest danger she encounters in the woods, urges her to go to a spring when she turns seventeen, and drink the water that has cursed his family. He will wait for her, he says, and the young girl is faced with yet another important choice. The show ends with a Circle of Life ballet which I sobbed through. 

That evening at the Winter Garden I met a classroom of children who just want to be heard, and the adults around them who've silenced themselves, setting aside their dreams and heroes in the pursuit of safety and practicality. Everyone wants so badly to find their voice, and they do so through music, and by breaking the rules. While studying script supervision in Los Angeles that winter, I had been taught to “match eye-lines” in a scene in the movie that this musical is based on. In this particular scene—in the film—a young girl auditions for her teacher. She sings out, sharing with him and with us, her beautiful, powerful voice. I had silently studied the scene, drawing arrows and lines and writing notes over the screenplay. 

In both shows that day I was reminded that you cannot truly live without taking risks, growing and changing. I was observing adults and children at play. I knew it was the end of the week for them, that they had shown up for work and were pushing through. At least one of the shows had two performances that day. But I could also see the joy and love in everything they did. I envied them. I knew there wasn’t a role for me in either of those shows. I just envied the way both companies poured themselves into the work. They were doing what they loved most with passion and commitment. By the end of the day I was itching to do it too. 

I thought about when I watched certain actors at the Broadway Theater Project 16 years before, how I had envied their ability to show up, stand up, and do their work. 

I recalled how it felt to relax, and finally do it a little bit myself on the stage of the Winter Garden Theatre so many years later. 

I watched the children, and remembered how I felt doing shows in elementary school. I wondered if I could get back that feeling. 

In 1994, the Sondheim Celebration at Carnegie Hall taught me that I wanted to be an artist. The two shows I saw that day in 2016 reminded me when I’d forgotten.

Two weeks and eight shows later I tried desperately to extend my trip but couldn’t. I still had responsibilities waiting for me in California. But I knew I was home. I felt the way I’d felt on my first trip to New York. 

When I returned home from the Broadway Theater Project in 2001, instead of allowing myself to be inspired by the program or my classmates, I stopped singing entirely. But in 2016, when I returned home from that incredible New York trip, I decided to try something a little different.

I still had responsibilities in California. My mom was going back into treatments and had no transportation. But I did start to sing again, and knew that whatever practical skills I was still trying to learn would be used to support a life in New York, as an artist. I took community yoga classes, found teachers on Youtube, social media, and in books. Instead of just receiving a quote second hand from a friend reading a self help book I actually read one myself. It’s not my go-to section in a bookstore, but I can see value in picking one up once in a while and diving into it. I still can’t do a handstand, or most advanced things in yoga. But that doesn’t matter. Nobody with a severe anxiety disorder should mock or turn up their nose at any kind of help, even if it doesn’t turn out to be for them. I was settling my racing mind and stretching out my body. My migraines eased. My face and body were still angular and my insecurities didn’t vanish, but it felt like they were softening. I was softening.

At the urging of some friends, I attended two EPAs in Los Angeles and San Diego. I got really nervous for the one in Los Angeles, and fell into some of my old audition habits. I actually felt pretty solid about the one in San Diego, but didn’t get much of a response (or a call) from the people behind the table. Oh well, I thought. Back to computer programming.

As usual, my mom was appalled by all the new things I was trying, even though I told her they were helping me. She demanded to know why—if these books and practices were helping so much—I wasn't cast in either of the shows I had recently auditioned for in California. I continued to get yelled at for all the usual things, while driving her to and from appointments. 

She continued to deny her inheritance, an obvious lie since she did not work, and lived in an apartment in Irvine. She suggested that wherever her support was coming from, it was temporary and would run out soon. She was also my mom. She was sick. I was worried about her. I was planning to come back to New York in January of 2017, but she had to have another round of treatments. I was grateful for any outside distraction, inspirational meme, or project to work on. 

That Winter I saw Freaky Friday with my dad at the La Jolla Playhouse. I ordered an old, used copy of the book it was based on by Mary Rodgers. I started thinking about my book again. 

The last few days with my mom before I moved back to New York were typical. In the hospital we watched Best Worst Thing That Ever Could Have Happened, a documentary about the original production of Merrily We Roll Along. She cried through the whole thing. I haven’t watched it since because I get headaches when I cry too hard. When it was over I got criticized for all the usual things: not being good at ballet, attending Hofstra, etc. “Apparently the only thing you’re good at is singing and dancing but apparently you’re not even good enough to do that,” etc. She trashed a dear friend of mine, the one who had taught me the most about release, letting go of grudges and anger.

New York. Chapter Two.

I moved back to New York on April 2, 2017. Mostly I worked on my book. Inspired by the pace, voice, and humor of Freaky Friday, I cut about 50,000 words and tried to add my sense of humor. I saw lots of shows. In June I asked my roommate what book I should read after the LuPone memoir and he handed me Where’d You Go, Bernadette. 

Though happy to be back in New York, I felt eerily unsettled. The only human contact my mom had was with a nurse who came to her apartment once a week, and she had refused to tell me details of her illness. We only talked on the phone about shows I was seeing and what I was working on. I knew she would need my help again. The call in cab services in Irvine had had enough of her and were refusing further service, and she was still unable to make sense of Uber and Lyft on her phone. And I still didn’t know what to do when her inheritance ran out. 

In late July I got a call. I knew it was bad. I learned that soon after I had left for New York, she had gone back into treatments. I never found out how she got to them. She never returned to her apartment in Irvine, but was moved to a low income convalescent home in Santa Ana. She couldn’t walk or get out of bed by herself. The decline happened very quickly. I had no idea, and my mother had hidden from me, and asked her doctors to hide from me, just how advanced her cancer had grown. The call in late July was to tell me they’d upped her treatment and there had been a reaction. I’d better come back to California as soon as possible.

I won’t talk about what I saw at the hospital, or in my mom’s abandoned apartment, which my dad and I began to clear. Mercifully, a friend was in town the week I got there and took me to the Orange County Fair for a few hours. I ate some ice cream, pet a chicken. But it was the worst week of my life. On the morning of August 5th my dad dropped me off at St. Joseph’s hospital in Santa Ana because I wasn't sleeping and we were both afraid I’d crash my car. I had my copy of Freaky Friday. I couldn’t really read it but it was thin and light and I needed to carry a book with me. She had several rotating nurses during her stay in the ICU, but that day she had Bachi, a young Filipina who was involved in community theater in Orange County, had a friend in the Bronx, and dreamed of moving to New York City to pursue theater. We talked about show tunes and musicals, and I told her about the great Filipino theater community in New York. I told her I had a music rep service and would be happy to make her a song list for auditions. I was grateful for Bachi. She helped me get through that afternoon. 

Several hours later I went downstairs with a plastic bag containing the things my mom had brought with her to the hospital, mostly pictures of me as an eight year old. I wandered around the garden for a few minutes, gazed at murals of nuns, sat in a gazebo, called a family friend in Nevada, then called my dad to pick me up. We drove towards Balboa, went into a restaurant and I tried, unsuccessfully, to eat something. Then he drove me back to the house I was staying in by the Newport Back Bay. I didn’t tell my hosts what happened. I didn’t want to be the guest who’s mom had just died.

The next morning my dad and I went back to work on the apartment. I needed more privacy so I moved from my friend’s place to my mom’s apartment and slept on an air mattress on the floor for two weeks, slowly going through each box. I also brought work with me, and tried my best to do it, but didn’t get very far.

It took us much of August to get that place cleared out and tie up loose ends. My dad and I alternated between fury and sensitivity. She had kept entire newspapers from the fire in 2001, moldy from the firefighters’ hoses. She hoarded checks from two decades before that had never been cashed. There were furious letters she’d written about my dad and me. 

Then I found the letter from when she’d auditioned for South Coast Repertory as a young college student. My dad recalled her impressive, beautiful writing, and when her professor had spoken of her fine performance as Carole Cutrere at Fullerton.

Suzanne as Carole Cutrere at Cal State Fullerton 

Barbra Cook died. My first thought was to text my mom about it. 

My dad and I discussed his relationship with my mom. He knew before I was born that something was wrong. So why did he stay? He felt responsible. Over the years, both Suzanne and her mother had grown completely dependent on him. They functioned and needed to be cared for like children. He didn't know what would become of them if he left. The thought of leaving them made him feel guilty.

We continued to sift through my mom's apartment. I set aside items to donate to her favorite organizations and universities.

The family friend from Nevada came out to help with legal stuff. She was always astounded by my mother’s intelligence and passion. She had been around for the living room chamber concerts in Santa Ana, and knew why the Fitterman family had been extraordinary, and so unique in Orange County. 

As it turned out, my mom had made arrangements for herself in the early 2000s, before she had cancer, before the divorce and foreclosure. When my grandmother died, Suzanne had her parents’ ashes put together behind a mosaic of an orange grove on a wall in a Santa Ana cemetery.

Their shared square, located in the top row of a large tree in the foreground of the mosaic, depicts two oranges. Inside, on the front of their urn it reads: “If music be the food of love, play on.”

The afternoon she was interred it was revealed to me that Suzanne had arranged to be in the same mosaic, right next to her parents, in a square containing a lone orange.  

I thought it was either a cruel joke or the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. She spent so much time complaining about her parents and her difficult childhood. And yet... she'd planned this for herself.  

Back at her apartment, I found some old friends.

See, I cared about things other than theater.  (That one on the left was voiced by Alice Playten in the movie.) 

I also found the Copenhagen script I purchased at Theater Circle on 44th Street during my first New York trip, senior year of high school. That was the year I directed and performed Mary Flynn in a cutting of Merrily We Roll Along for theater festivals. I had scribbled some blocking ideas for "Best Thing That Ever Could Have Happened" ("Now You Know") on the back page of Copenhagen. 

In the back of the apartment, in the bottom of a box at the bottom of a tower of other boxes, I found these, unopened. 

The "grow" mug was still in the small box it had been purchased in, the Wall-E DVD sealed in plastic.    

I dropped off the winter clothing she’d ordered for her Christmas trip to New York at the AIDS Assistance Thrift Shop in Long Beach. Then I sold my car, and headed back to New York. I haven't had the desire to return to California since. 

New York. Chapter Two. Take Two. 

I have rarely discussed what happened in August, 2017 because I haven’t wanted to. It’s exhausting. When I returned from California I only told a small handful of people who were unlikely to repeat it. One or two of them had known Suzanne, been yelled at, mocked or demonized by her, and they knew what she had done to my father. So they understood my emotional ambivalence and confusion. 

I didn’t want the attention or flood of social media condolences. (I still don’t, if you read this far. But if you don’t, it’s all good.) I didn’t want to burden anyone with my pain, inconvenience or irritate anyone with my grieving process. I didn’t want to ruin anyone’s day, or make them feel bad for having a good day or rehearsing something cool or being in an awesome place on vacation. I felt that posting something tragic while others were having a good time would be a shitty thing to do. And to be honest, watching everyone’s adventures on social media made me feel better. There were nice things happening in the world, good days ahead, places to see, people to visit. I’m not interested in comparing hardships, or making people feel bad for not going through what I went through that month or over the years. I don’t want anyone to feel that their own pain is invalidated by the intensity of mine. I just want people to understand why certain things are difficult for me, why some things take me longer. I suppose I want you to understand my shortcomings and not judge me.

I needed to be busy with something right away, so I launched myself into the reworking of the cabaret I’d done in 2014. We presented it in November in a small studio for a small group of friends. We asked for a donation of five dollars each, to be given to Broadway Cares. My performance wasn’t very good. I was feeling both numb and terrified, but I’m glad I did it. I knew the show itself was really good, a lot better than it had been in 2014, and that I’d given myself a challenge. Actors grow by doing different shows, taking on different roles or ensemble tracks. I haven’t had the opportunity to grow through lots of productions, so I gave myself the opportunity to grow through my own show. A week or two after performing it in the studio and collecting donations I dropped a wad of cash in a red Broadway Cares bucket, about forty-five dollars.

After the performance in November I continued to study the lyrics but set aside rehearsals with my musical director for a bit. One of the reasons I’ve left things unfinished in the past is that I struggle with multi-tasking. Some people can juggle several projects at once. But whenever I try to be like such people (Because I admire them.), I end up with unfinished projects, or not doing the kind of work that I’m capable of. So I isolated each project, giving each one my full attention. I put rehearsals on hold, kept my lyrics close, and hunkered down for the winter to finish rewriting and editing my children’s novel. Around March I decided I was pleased with it, set that aside, and started working with more intensity through the show. The solo show became a collaboration. My musical director and I got together nearly every week, mornings, evenings, weekends, holidays. We reworked and fine-tuned every detail. I continued to work on my storytelling. I tried to iron out all the gesturing I do when I get nervous and feel the need to compensate for not actually connecting with the music. I recorded every rehearsal so that I could direct myself. I was looking down a lot. Even when nobody’s watching I have this tendency to look down, just like my mom did in those pictures from Orpheus Descending. And I was still doing unnecessary, nervous movements with my hands and face. So I worked on all that. I’m still working on it. 

I went to some EPAs and didn’t do very well, despite being (I thought) over-prepared. I had been without an agent, and not doing well at EPAs and ECCs since 2006. It was 2018. I thought about that. I thought it unwise to reintroduce myself to casting people with the same kind of work, and the same types of silly (usually nerve driven) audition mistakes I had made regularly during my previous chapter in New York, continuing a cycle that I knew would never serve me well. I kept practicing, reassessed my preparation, and where I should be directing my work and energy.

I kept running into people on the street or at Trader Joe’s. “How’s your mom?” they would ask.

“Ugh, long story,” I’d reply. When I did try to discuss it, I'd end up going back three, four decades. It was exhausting, and I’d get a headache or a migraine. Most people didn’t even know she’d been sick. She had asked me not to talk about it. During the eight years of her illness, I would occasionally mention it when I met someone who was ill themselves, or had a sick family member. But she had asked for privacy, and when she died I wanted it too. Nobody knew the whole story. I had always been embarrassed and ashamed by it. On the rare occasion when I would try sharing parts of our story, the responses were usually the same:

“I get it, my mom’s crazy too. All our parents are.” 

Or:

“I totally get it, we had to refinance the house last year.”

Et cetera. 

I’m from Costa Mesa, a city that has changed and grown more expensive since my dad built our house in the late 70s. I went to high school in Newport Beach. Nobody in New York could imagine my reality being what it was. Either they didn't believe me or thought I was exaggerating. At some point I stopped trying to make them believe. I never went into detail about anything that was going on, and Instagram didn’t seem like a good place to post the kinds of pictures I had of my mom’s apartment or my childhood home. Or a cancer hospital. 

So nobody knew anything, and I went about my business. Mostly I appeared fine, except all the times I broke down on a crowded "1" train while hauling Trader Joe’s bags up to 170th Street.  

I didn’t get it. She was so difficult to spend time with. I dreaded seeing her, though I always made a point of doing it. Her nervous, angry, buzzing energy was poisonous, and highly contagious. Everyone was afraid of her. I was afraid of her! Right until the end I was afraid of her. A friend who knew Suzanne pretty well described it as mercy, not only for her but for all of us. So why was I so devastated? As I began writing this, I started to understand. 

I spent my entire adult life trying to help her. I had tried to teach her about letting go, and how good it feels. As I was struggling through my own problems and trying to improve myself I was urging her to do the same, but she never could. She was writhing in anger and fear until the very end. I watched someone die who had never lived. She had never been treated for a severe anxiety disorder, and it spiraled into mental illness. “She’s just always been like this,” her parents would say when she was younger, throwing up their arms, trying to explain their daughter’s eccentric personality. She never had guidance, therapy or medication. And later in life, when people wanted to help, she wasn’t open to receiving it. She was too fearful and haughty to see any other way. 

I was devastated because she was extraordinary but didn’t know how to show it. She was the smartest, most terrifying person I’ve ever met. She would have been a legend if she’d been an artist. Whatever artist she had decided to be. Every kind of artist, probably.

I was also devastated because I understood what her anxiety felt like. She was afraid of working, driving, everything. And I get that. I know what it is to be afraid of applying or auditioning for jobs, walking into a new yoga studio or dance class. New people are frightening, even really nice ones. Sometimes even leaving the house is frightening. Getting started is always a struggle for me, and I have to be extremely disciplined to do it. Fear is a disease and it’s potentially crippling and I know what I’m talking about.

Nobody had understood why I kept flying her out to New York, or why I was moving to California. People around me, co-workers, close friends, questioned it. So many people wanted me to stay far, far away from her. 

Well, I did. I spent as much time away from her as I could. I knew what being around her did to me. But I still made a point of spending time with her. She was sick. I never knew how long she’d be around. She had driven away every friend she’d ever had, and I was the only family member she had left. I also knew that she was really something. It’s why my dad married her. 

In the past, when I said the wrong thing to friends and classmates and coworkers, I usually knew right away what I had done. I’d be furious with myself and would ask for help and advice. When I lost friends I understood why, but was still lucky enough to have other friends who stuck around, urging me to get a therapist. She didn’t have any of that. I had been allowed to explore theater. I had the Actors’ Fund and a car-free lifestyle that required walking and regular movement. She led a depressingly solitary lifestyle. She was stagnant, physically and mentally sick and weak. In my dressing room at Mamma Mia! I met dancers who were studying nutrition and yoga and fitness. They gave me advice when needed, and if I was going through a fearful, solitary phase where I was afraid to leave my bed or apartment, at the very least I’d go to the theater and haul myself through "Voulez-Vous," multiple scenes changes and the Megamix every night. I had been right for a show that, though I might have stayed in it a little too long (debatable!!), put me in the company of people I might not have gravitated to on my own, but absolutely needed to meet. I also happened to be in one of the most joyful shows on Broadway. If I was to spend six years in a show, I’m sure glad it was Mamma Mia!.

I had been so fortunate, and I wished she'd been given more of what I found on my own. It was devastating. And I was finally doing the kind of work on my book and in my show that she always criticized me for not being able to do. One by one, I was checking off each of my projects. She wouldn’t get to see any of it. She would have loved all of it.

I was starting to get sick of the mystery, the awkwardness, people not knowing what they should or shouldn’t say around me. It was becoming an unnecessary weight and I believed it was affecting my work. So in April, 2018 I started a Facebook announcement, but ended up with this, which sat on my computer for a long time until I was ready to pull it out again. I guess I had a lot to get off my mind.

I’ve imagined what it would be like to lose someone at a younger age. To lose someone who didn’t cause such chaos, who actually enjoyed living, and was nice to be around. I’ve thought of everyone I’ve known or known of or don’t speak to anymore. I’m really sorry. You guys write all you want about your loss. I’ll probably just write this, but you guys keep going and if I come across it I’ll read it.

To most of the people who knew Suzanne Claire, I want to apologize for any insult she threw at you. She probably saw a lot of good and wanted to make you better. Most people she insulted she later admitted she actually liked, and that she wanted them to like her. But she never got used to the idea that you can’t force people to change if they don’t want to. I guess I never got used to the idea either, with her. I got stuck trying to help her change while not taking care of myself. 

I’ll also say that you’re lucky to have met her. You’ll never meet another like her. You’re probably grateful for that. But I’m talking about the good stuff. She was probably the most intelligent, gifted, potentially extraordinary person you ever met and you had no idea, and the fact that nobody was able to help her and she never became what she could have become is a huge tragedy and loss. She was vain, but didn’t feel beautiful. Talented, and terrified. She would pick on people who weren’t nearly as gifted as she was, dwell on their work ethic, but couldn’t get out of bed in the morning. She knew she was the most talented mother at my elementary school but not good enough. Is it possible to know your worth but think you’re shit at the same time? Just imagine how painful that must have been. She talked herself out of being a professional. She could have been a professional at most things. She could have been anything she decided to be. Sometimes that’s terrifying.

Fear is a cancer and it spreads. It has to be treated. When young, my mom was never given, and was later unable to receive, the necessary treatment.

So if you ever had a bad experience with Suzanne Claire, try to forgive her. There’s usually a reason people behave as they do. This Mother’s Day, and on September 1 (her birthday) if you are able, think some good thoughts for Suzanne. 

While we’re here, some random, fun stories about Suzanne Claire.

In her 20s she worked briefly at a pet shop where she cared for a sick rosy boa. The snake was blind in one eye and had mouth disease. Suzanne adopted and nursed her back to health. I think snakes are very beautiful but I’d be too squeamish to do that. Rosemary lived in our upstairs bathroom until 2001, when she died a week after our house fire, probably from a combination of old age and smoke inhalation.

She was staying with relatives in the house next door the night Marilyn Monroe died. A dog barked. This was not unusual for the dog. 

My mom hated and distrusted Hillary Clinton with the wrath she saved for most politically ambitious or business-minded women. But when the 2016 presidential election came around, she took three buses across town so she could vote for her, and declared, “I HAVE NO CHOICE,” as if she were going into battle herself. She was right, there wasn’t a choice. I’d like to emphasize that I do not hate Hillary Clinton, and by 2016 I was excited to vote for her. But I knew that if she was even remotely as bad a human as my mother had decided she was, the alternative was too dangerous. I loved my mom for understanding that. 

Her last Christmas gift to me was this giraffe flashlight, because she saw how delighted I was to find a pair of giraffe Mickey Mouse ears in Adventureland. 

I don’t want another mother. I think I lucked out with the one I had, and whatever she didn’t know how to help me with, I’ve learned from my dad, and from paying attention to the people on my television, the stage, books, social media, and everyone around me. For all the things she did wrong, my mom did the one thing right that I needed to save myself. She allowed me to find and explore my own interests. Despite all the mistakes she made, and that her parents made, they were an extraordinary family with impeccable musical taste and talent.  

People make mistakes

Fathers, mothers, 

People make mistakes

Holding to their own, thinking they’re alone

Honor their mistakes, fight for their mistakes, one another’s terrible mistakes

Witches can be right, giants can be good

You decide what’s right, you decide what’s good. 

(I borrowed that.) 

A week in Toronto, July, 2018. 

Over the summer some friends asked me to come to Toronto to watch over their little girl while they were at work. One of them was performing in a show, while the other would be away for the week teaching.

Most mornings were spent sightseeing with both my friend and her daughter. One morning they showed me a beautiful green space close to where they were living. There were trees and lakes and gardens, and the little girl took off running very fast, darting around and turning corners. We followed along behind, and for whatever reason I was getting very nervous that she would trip and fall. I kept reaching out, as if to catch or shield her.

At one point her mom said, “You know, she can fall. She’ll be OK." Soon after, she did take a spill, a quick one, laughed, got right back up and continued running.

I’ve done a lot of babysitting, and tend to be very cautious and responsible with kids, which I think is a generally good quality to have in a babysitter. But that day I admit to being a bit over protective. Perhaps my anxiety was just making an appearance. But I was reminded that it's OK for children to fall. They will, and they must, fall. It’s not responsible or wise to always prevent them, or yourself, from doing so. Remember, Holden Caulfield mishears “If a body meet a body comin’ thro’ the rye” for “catch a body.”

What’s Next for You?

Everyone’s favorite question! “Life,” I usually answer. Honestly, that's all I want. I just want to live a little. 

So out of the dust and mold of my mother’s apartment, out of the chaos and disfunction and perfectionism and fear, everything’s over now, right? Well, my dad became homeless again this year, so I've been pretty worried about that. He was kicked out of his room in Costa Mesa when the owner’s girlfriend moved in. Then he fell for a Craigslist apartment scam in Anaheim, stayed in a motel for over a week before driving cross-country to live with his sister in Chicago. All at seventy-one years old. Now he’s learning how to use the computer, so that he can start an editing business. He’s really good at it. He proofread this. Man, did he catch some dumb mistakes.

I'm just trying to do my work. The only way I will ever be of financial help to anyone in the future is if I do exactly what I’m supposed to be doing and keep myself together. But the worst of the chaos, I believe—I hope—is done. Some of it was self-made, but growing from the fact that I’d only ever known an environment of chaos. I’ve had to “cast a cold eye” on myself and correct course. I seek order and pursue the arts. That is enough for me for now.

Things have been pretty calm. I take lots of vitamins and herbs and herbal teas that are supposed to be good for anxiety. (I think they work.) I'm working on physical strength and stamina. I've discovered that fifteen minutes on the rowing machine with the water that swirls around does more for my anxiety than any benzo prescription. There’s a ton of "self-care," a steady stream of animal videos, and a daily to-do list that I check off in my planner. I go to the park nearly every day, even if it's just to sit on a bench close to the entrance for five minutes. I sing every day. There are no fights, and my buzzing is mostly gone. I’m not around people who care for gossip. The only information I have is about what I’m working on. It’s kind of amazing, though I do love theater people and wish I could spend time around more of them. But I don’t miss the gossip. I hope everyone’s doing OK. I hope everyone’s being supportive and nice to each other and not too competitive or territorial. It seems like there are struggles and disappointments at every level. I’ve also noticed that artists whose work I’ve admired for years, who have large, beautiful families, every dream role possible on their resumes, nominations and awards… well… I suspect they have just as much insecurity, self doubt, and pain as those of us who lack those privileges and accomplishments. And you know what? Theirs is just as valid as everyone else's. 

I've had the opportunity to try different kinds of work. Each time I realized something was wrong for me I gave myself permission to stop doing it. I paused, then tried something else. 

I don’t have a lot of possessions and I want even fewer. Perhaps a bit of PTSD from clearing out my mom's apartment. I borrow books from the library. I grew up with a massive home library. I loved it, see the appeal in having one, and enjoy other people’s libraries. I understand what it is to keep books around as old friends. I simply don’t feel the need to do it anymore. 

I’m taking it easy on the Bradbury and Fitzgerald. Bradbury refused to drive his whole life! He was terrified of driving, and obsessed with the past. I do adore The Martian Chronicles, though, and not because Bernadette was in the movie.

I've decided that I didn't spend too much time at Mamma Mia!. Maybe being there for so long, and then moving away and trying on different careers for size was what it took for me to figure out I’m supposed to be an artist. I probably wouldn’t tell someone they should stay in a show for as long as I did, but I also wouldn’t tell someone they shouldn’t. We all have different family situations, histories, and challenges. There are many good reasons for staying in a show for five, ten, twenty years. Be kind. Show empathy. Imagine the unimaginable.  

Something that occurred to me recently: At some point I got used to the idea that Mamma Mia! didn't count as a legitimate theater credit. It was an attitude I picked up from actors and agents around town and adopted because it went along really well with my insecurity and self doubt. Mamma Mia! was just a job. My first and my last, probably. For a while I was even ashamed of it. Now that some time has passed, I've rediscovered its value. I have found that people are curious and eager to hear about my run. I feel a sense of pride in my contribution to the show that I never felt while I was there, and after reconnecting with a few people I've learned that my early work there as an understudy, though a little nervy, was better than I thought it was at the time. And even when I was displeased with my acting, I always took pride in my responsibility as an understudy. I didn’t call out once my first year, and rarely did so for the rest of the run. I think my worst crime at Mamma Mia! occurred during the final year, when I was offered a ticket for Parade at Avery Fisher Hall. Afraid of not being granted a personal day, I called out sick. It was a beautiful concert, but I was nervous the whole time, sat very low in my seat, and didn’t get up at intermission. I was petrified that someone would see me, tell my stage manager, and that I’d be fired immediately. I even kept my phone on, just in case there was an understudy emergency. It was on silent, but I always turn my phone all the way off when I see a show.¹¹ Any negative thing that happened in the week following the concert I attributed to the lie I had told my stage manager. I never did THAT again. 

I cared deeply about the show. I always had my phone close and was willing and able to go on when sick and injured if there was nobody else to do it. A six year run has its challenges, and I certainly had rough patches of frustration and boredom. But they came and went quickly and there was never a time when I wasn’t grateful. 

I still have trouble referring to my career as a "career." I find it hard to do with only one show as my body of work. I don't feel that spending six years in the same show makes me a veteran of the stage. But I do think I'm a lot wiser, more qualified, and prepared to do a different show at some point. I learned some valuable lessons from Mamma Mia!, and I believe those lessons have been, and will continue to be very useful. I just have to build on them. I’m doing my best. 

I also love Mamma Mia! more than ever. The show and the movies. I'd love to see what the regional theaters are doing with it. 

I wouldn’t advise someone to make any of my choices, because I didn’t really choose any of what happened. I never created a brand for myself. I’m just myself and this is my story. I didn’t choose a school. I simply did what I was able to do at the time. I don’t tell everyone to go to OCC or Hofstra, or to get a BA instead of a BFA. But I have told students that there are many options and personal situations and paths and to do what’s right for them. Go your own way, do what you have to do. 

Because I decided to put together a show, I had wonderful company during all of the holidays that I've often spent alone. I have trouble meeting new people. I haven't done a lot of shows that allow me to meet other artists, but over the last year I've ended up in the company of artists I might not have otherwise had the opportunity to meet. 

I've also stopped trying to change people. I've been finding people who want to grow. 

I’m excited about the work I’ve finished. My book isn't published, but I did get a few copies printed and bound. It feels so good to hold, and to share with my friends, and my dad. The feeling of completion is incredible, and I’ve been roaming about the city with a kind of lightness and pride that I haven’t known before. I need to keep going though. I want more people to see, read, and enjoy my work. I want to use what I’ve completed in an efficient way, so that I might build on it. I still lack that competitive, play to win mentality I observe in so many successful performers. I’ve also never been any good at “networking,” and my professional contacts for the things I’m pursuing are either scarce or nonexistent. We are eager to perform our show for an audience, but have yet to find an appropriate venue. So right now I’m trying to keep my head up. I’m in a different age range, or at least I’m trying to be. I’ve had several adventures. (One, life-threatening, I incorporated into my book.) The weights I had before are no longer there. I’m learning how to allow myself to be watched. If I don’t live and breathe to be in front of people, then the emphasis should be to share, to put on exhibition the work I’ve been pouring myself into, the material I care so much about. To put the work on exhibition. I think Barbra emphasizes that word really well on the Broadway Album, by the way. 

I’ve been rehearsing in clothes that I might perform or audition in, since during my previous chapter in New York I never knew how to dress or present myself. The one show I got I was wearing Old Navy cut offs and flip flops. For auditions that weren’t for Mamma Mia!, my outfits were usually awkward and ill-fitting, too fancy or too casual. I never managed to find anything that felt comfortable or that represented me well. For whatever reason it’s a lot harder for me than for other people, but I’m figuring it out. 

Reading through this I realize I've failed to mention the actor in the family, the one my mom and I never met, who made a career in film and onstage. He seems relevant, and I'm about to go back through this and add him in. We both wanted so badly to know him, to be like him. But for a long time now I've avoided bringing him up because my mom and I had a habit—a bad one—of randomly mentioning him to people (and, in my case, on Facebook) as a form of validation. We were searching for worthiness without actually believing in our own abilities. We were both looking for reasons to be artists. I was looking for a sign that it was meant to be. I just spent an hour revisiting some of his work on Youtube. It's been a while. I've gone three or four years without even mentioning him, even while sitting with a group of people in front of the television as he walked across the screen. I said nothing. I stayed quiet and watched. His name was Frank Albertson.

Pretty soon he'll pop up again, as he does every December, in a Christmas movie that I'm very fond of. Having just gone through my show a few times, and after looking over my book, and feeling pretty darn good about all of it, I realize there's no harm in entertaining a healthy appreciation for that long gone relative. I'm inspired by him, and I believe there's more than enough reason to mention him in this essay. Or whatever this is. If it's a memoir I hope it's just one long chapter. Anyway. Who you know, who you're related or married to is not validation. You are your only validation. 

I finally emailed Bachi, my mom’s nurse on her final day. Her email was on a Post-it in Freaky Friday. I was glad to work on her song list. 

Certain parts of this are hard to read, and I'm ready to put it behind me. I think I'll let others read it, though. So when we get coffee, I won’t have to tell this hours long story. I’m okay to discuss it, but briefly, and then move on to something nicer. I hope some new chapter that I can't even imagine yet surprises me and reveals itself. 

This shit writes itself, I'm just paying attention. I have attempted to be as reliable in my narrative as possible. I implore others, when telling their own stories, to self-examine and do the same. Now Somebody, make this into a musical, or put it into your middle-grade novel. There isn’t any room left in mine. Mine doesn’t need any more drama. And please, give it a megamix!

¹¹Several years ago I went to see one of my favorite West End actresses play the role of Roxie Hart in Chicago. I had silenced my phone, but something in my bag must have touched the screen. A few seconds into the Chicago Overture Liz Callaway’s voice soared over the orchestra section. At first I couldn’t figure out where “The Story Goes On” was coming from. I was mortified and panic-stricken when I realized the source. It was resolved quickly before the overture had ended, but of course I spent the whole first act recovering. This is why I always turn my phone all the way off when I am at a show. I also check it, like, five times. Just to make sure it's off.

Epilogue

How do you learn from someone so angry and rigid and unwilling to change, yet so brilliant? Suzanne recognized real truths that deserved to be shared. But she expressed herself through name calling, and remained obsessed with the failings and venality of others while neglecting her own life, her own work, and the needs of her family. How do you learn from someone like that? In this section I attempt to distill lessons from that relentlessness, both hers and my own.

When I wrote this essay over a few days in April of 2018, I feared that I was falling back into habits that I’ve spent much time trying to undo: beating my ideals into the ground and trying to change people. I didn’t want to do that here. I removed and added the following section several times, and when I decided to share the essay with a few friends, I gave them a heads up that the “lessons learned” part at the end could be a problem and might have to go. 

They agreed that it needed work, but felt I made strong, important points and that my ideals aligned with their own. They hated to see it go. These were individuals who had remained friends with me despite my rampages, partly because they knew I had reason to be upset and angry. But they also urged me to let go of personal grievances that weren’t worth my time and energy.

The thought of deleting this section was unsettling to me. I realized that over the last several years, I’ve changed from loud and angry truth-telling to complete silence. I’ve been afraid to say anything, even when it’s about something important. The relentlessness and nastiness never represented me well, but neither does silence. In this section I strive to find a way to voice truths that are important to me, ideals to live by, mostly taught by my parents. Lessons that I value. But how do I share this knowledge without driving people away and isolating myself? By leaving this section in, have I undone all the good I’ve accomplished over the last few years? 

Here’s why I don’t think so: My previous truth-telling  was impulsive. This is not impulsive. I’ve thought about these ideas for a long time. I’ve chosen my words carefully, and accompanied the stronger ones with compassion and forgiveness. I’m not angry anymore, and I’ve let go of the grudges. Anything I was still feeling angry about when I began writing this, I had forgiven by the time it was finished.  

Besides, while berating someone with my obsessions, I had a captive audience (or semi-captive audience), who could escape only by, well, escaping—physically removing themselves from my presence. Many were too polite and decent to do so, unwilling to hurt my feelings or appear closed-minded. Here, they need only stop reading if they find me tedious.

If there’s anything I can say to gently urge people to do the right thing more often, I believe it’s worth including. Perhaps someone will come across this and be displeased to recognize their own behavior. Well, I’ve had to recognize some of my bad behavior onscreen, onstage, and in writing—online and on the printed page. It was never an enjoyable experience. But acknowledging the truth eventually helped me become a better, happier person.

I believe in showing restraint, staying quiet, listening, and only when whatever anger has been boiling within has had a chance to settle down, speaking hard truths. I may not be able to change certain people, but I can tell others that they need not conform. “That’s just how it’s always been,” doesn’t fly with me. There is always another way. We can do better. We all need to change and grow. We need to open ourselves to the possibility that we’ve been wrong. I’m speaking to people who are ready and willing to hear. I will not force my “enlightenment” upon anyone. I can only present the thought, and then let it go.

I’d like to share what I’ve learned while making terrible mistakes under my mother’s influence. I shall also try to protect myself from worse mistakes that I might have made without her warnings.

Suzanne’s incredible intelligence was invalidated by the ungentle ways in which she shared it. So I’d like to share some wisdom that I acquired from Suzanne Claire, but gently. 

Let’s go. 

Artistry and Exhibitionism.

And this was BEFORE she learned the lyrics of “Putting it Together.”

I met kids in school plays and dance recitals who got into the arts because they craved being in front of an audience. They were very outgoing, and loved the attention. My mother called these kids “exhibitionists.” I was taught to judge their need to be in front of people. What my mother never understood, but I learned on my own and tried to explain to her many times, was that exhibitionists could actually become very fine artists. There’s nothing wrong with wanting attention and enjoying being watched. I admire professional kids, and often wish I had their bounding joy and fearlessness onstage. Exhibitionism is a lot of fun, both for the performer and the spectator. They bring people joy. I love and envy them.

But my mom also understood there is a place in the performing arts for people who don’t necessarily live and breathe to be watched. She recognized that being in front of people and receiving lots of attention were not important to me. I didn’t like either. I wanted to lose myself in the world of a musical and a character, to be part of a company of actors. I also wanted to create things and put them all together. She thought there was great value in all of this, and that it was reason enough to audition and participate in productions. This is one of the reasons I have always returned to auditioning and working on music and my various “projects” after running away. I always wish for my work to be seen. I suppose I have no choice but to get comfortable with being uncomfortable, until I’m comfortable. 

And by the way, I recently finished Sanford Meisner’s book On Acting. In it he says: “Every actor is an exhibitionist. If you’re not an exhibitionist you’re no actor.” I laughed when I read this, and decided that I should make it a goal to awaken my hidden exhibitionist.

Professionalism and Experience  

We knew a lot of professional kid actors and performers with agents and headshots and union cards, whose parents would haul them up to Los Angeles every few weeks for cracker commercial auditions and Saturday morning cartoon voiceovers. They were always performing somewhere, and usually getting paid for it. I heard a lot about booking and hustling. My mom told me not to worry about that as a fifth grader. I’m glad. It wouldn’t have been right for me.

We also knew a lot of kids who loved to perform, were very professional, but had zero interest in reading books about theater or watching shows that they would likely have nothing to do in. My mother assured me there was nothing wrong with my being a theater “enthusiast” and an artist at the same time. She didn’t always know how to help me with the application, the doing. If you’re trying to be an actor or a singer or a dancer, you still have to put down the book, turn off the VHS and get up and apply what you’ve learned. But I appreciate that she encouraged me to be a theater goer. Seeing theater is one of my favorite things to do. Acting and singing are too, sometimes I’m just afraid to get started. 

I think some people make assumptions about what it means and looks like to be a professional or an artist. I’ve also noticed that in certain circles it’s cool to be an employed actor and boast of not liking or knowing anything about musicals. I don’t think it’s a requirement to like or know a lot about musicals to be a good or professional performer. In fact, I’ve often found myself envious of those who only know the musicals they have worked on. I find they’re less “in their head” when they work. There’s not the same deep, emotional attachment going back decades for a particular piece of work and its history, another actor’s phrasing engrained in their mind. They show up, stay present, do the job, and do it well. Some of my favorite people I’ve worked with might know only a handful of musicals, and only because they worked on them. I find their perspective interesting, and I love to hear about shows that I’ve only read about or watched. To be honest, I often prefer the company of artists who didn’t read the Meryle Secrest Sondheim biography the year it came out. The problems arise when I spend extended periods of time around people who make fun of me for having done so. Fortunately, that hasn’t happened in a long time, and I’ve found there are a lot of talented performers who are very interested in the history of their profession. Some of them have been theater nerds (historians) since childhood. 

Self-Respect

In many, though not all things, my mom taught me to have boundaries, rules, and self-respect. I have always been off limits to anyone in or on (what I suspect to be) a “break” from a relationship. What she didn’t teach me was how not to be self-righteous about it. She encouraged self-righteousness. She never told me that it’s unkind to judge or demonize people who don’t follow the same strict moral code. She didn’t teach me to show compassion, or to consider the reasons (often involving guilt, external pressure, persuasion, and expectation) that might lead one to be unfaithful while remaining in an unhappy situation. I have been trying to show more compassion. I seek understanding. 

She pointed out the double standard for men and women when it comes to betrayal. My mom assured me that I need not enter into a partnership in which I might be a victim. In certain communities, including liberal, progressive, artistic ones, I’ve noticed that a woman is admired for showing patience and forgiveness for a man’s repeated betrayal. I’ve observed people champion feminism and participate in women’s marches who pretend not to notice dishonest, chauvinistic, and anti-female behavior in their friends. I understand there are rough patches and temptation, people make mistakes, and that forgiveness, renewal, and trust are still possible. I also understand the desire to maintain a pure image of those we care about, partners we love and idealize. But to ignore or excuse regular, ongoing betrayal is to encourage victimization and subservience. I’ve been the bad guy for calling it out, loudly and ungently. I won’t do that again, but it still bothers me. If one partner is allowed to do whatever he wants without consequence, then the other should be allowed, encouraged, and even celebrated for walking away.

Choose someone who can be faithful to you, and whose faithfulness you can return. Unless you’ve agreed on an open relationship, which could be awesome, too. But don’t tell my dad I said that.

My mom warned me about everything I’ve read about during the #metoo movement. I’ve never allowed anyone to compel, pressure, or tempt me with the promise of career advancement. There’s no dilemma for me. I’d rather do my own little show than land a big show dishonestly. The indignity of getting something unfairly would ruin it for me. It wouldn’t be worth it. That’s not self-righteousness, it’s self-respect. Self-respect is contagious, and when change is important enough, truth-tellers should be loud and clear. What I never anticipated, however, is how difficult it is to face certain truths about people we love and admire, and how equally difficult it can be to know who’s telling the truth. 

Not everyone who contributes information does so with entirely pure intentions. I suspect that some people, bored or harboring bitterness, want the worst to be true. Hungry for news, gossip, and justice, they make judgements quickly and share information without knowing for sure if the information is correct. Misinformation spreads like wildfire. The truth becomes diluted, and if someone has actually done something wrong, and any one accuser has spoken dishonestly or exaggerated, it makes whatever injustice that has occurred so much harder to prove. It becomes easier to doubt those who are actually telling the truth, to take their stories seriously. My first instinct is usually to believe the accuser. “I believe women,” etc. And I do. But I won’t say I haven’t been conflicted, unsettled, or unsure.

I have never had anything to report. But I do listen, and if I hear of something particularly tragic (women’s gymnastics), I am riled to anger. I rarely have any information to add or the desire to spread around old news. I have managed to avoid unsafe and uncomfortable situations for most of my time in New York. People usually figure out right away that there are certain things I will never do—with them.

Whenever possible, respond to unwelcome advances with kindness and compassion, but do not act out of guilt. When someone is trying to persuade you to do something, don’t let them convince you that you’re afraid, or that you have a problem, when you’re simply not interested.

People make mistakes. Only you can decide who to forgive and how to forgive them.  

Here’s a good one: Don’t worry about being accepted or liked by the “cool” kids. I actually give this advice out a lot. Do try to be kind to them, though. It's very possible they were bullied and excluded when they were younger.

Showing Respect

I was raised to  respect other artists, particularly those with more experience. It has never mattered to me how young or old someone is. Over the years I’ve known actors who I felt could benefit from showing more respect and humility, less entitlement. I didn’t want to be like them, and I was afraid of being delusional about my own abilities. So I went in the extreme opposite direction. 

Also unhelpful: I’d never quite released my identity as a fan. I used to introduce myself to people as a “fan first.” This self image has never benefited my work. And besides, it’s just not true anymore. Over the last few years I’ve focused on changing this mindset.

Self deprecating humor is also dangerous for me. I have the tendency to believe it.

Being respectful does not require the feeling of inferiority. My mom never quite understood that, and for a long time I didn’t either. It’s not disrespectful to those who came before you to do your work, share, and feel good about it.

Additional observations and advice from a know-it-all

Truths-Tellers

I love truth-tellers. If they’re talented and entertaining about their truth-telling, all the better. I cleaned up my act on social media and in real life because of truth-tellers who were willing to call out, usually through humor, the unaware, smug, and stupid behavior they observed in the theater community. I recognized some of my own behavior in their jokes. Now, every time I have the urge to publicly boast or complain about something, I ask myself, “What good will this do? Will this actually make me feel better?” Most of my past oversharing and foolishness occurred when I felt insecure and lonely. On the internet I sought validation and attention. I still do sometimes. But I think I’ve gotten a lot better.

I’m grateful for truth-tellers, but even the best ones must check themselves. It’s easy to become negative, to start looking for reasons to be mad at someone. Snark and bitchiness might invalidate an otherwise correct observation, or at least turn people off to it. Don’t squander time angry over something or someone when you could be rising in your craft. Don’t be like my mother, wasting time criticizing people’s behavior and work ethic while holding to her own.

I’m easily rattled and bothered by bad behavior, injustice, and unfairness, even when it has nothing to do with me. I find it so easy to get sucked in. It’s really difficult when someone mean gets rewarded, but sometimes mean people are really talented and qualified. Insults and embittered truth-telling are never worth the time and energy. Besides, someone else who’s got a lot less to lose will probably do that. Leave it alone. If it’s really important, it will be or already is, known.

If you feel something is truly important enough to be said, try compassion. I see a lot of people on social media shaming their relatives for their ignorance, for being afraid of people who are different. I know the anger and frustration caused by those who insist on staying rigid in their ignorance. I understand the urge to beat it into the ground. I just don’t think it’s effective. If you must be a truth-teller, find a way to be gentle about it. Your relatives are just fearful of the unknown and unfamiliar.

If people don’t want to hear or acknowledge the truth, there’s nothing to be done. Maybe deep down they know, maybe the truth will reveal itself.  

Jealousy, Gossip, etc. 

Jealousy exists, but so do kindness and compassion. There will be people who delight in your stumbles and failures. There will also be many who don’t. Better to stay aware and selective about those whom you surround yourself with and ignore certain parts of the internet. There’s a difference between awareness and paranoia. Paranoia is fear disguised as awareness. The only person who can prevent you from doing your work is yourself.

I tend to get angry and upset when I sense jealousy or territorial behavior. But I’ve also learned that most humans are otherwise good. They are simply afraid. Perhaps they’ve worked their entire lives for something and still fear they’re not good enough (not true), don’t deserve what they’ve been given (absolutely not true), or that something will be taken from them (won’t happen). I had all of those fears during my first three years at Mamma Mia!. 

And just for the record, though there are many characters I love and understand and relate to, it doesn’t mean that I rather than someone else, should have played those roles. I do think there will be something for me, at some point. But I don’t have any rivals. I won’t be participating in any perceived or fabricated rivalries. 

If anyone I admire has decided not to like me, then I don’t want to know. When I hear this is the case, I remind myself that I don’t know for sure, that the person I heard it from could be mistaken, or bored and trying to stir up trouble (People love a rivalry, huh?). If I’m fond of an artist’s work, I’m not going to miss their show, simply because they might have decided not to like me, for whatever reason. All I know for sure about anyone is whether or not they were pleasant and professional to work with, if I like their work, if I’ve learned from them, and for how many years I’ve enjoyed listening to them on my iPod. 

Mean Girls (and boys)

The person who thinks they’re the smartest in the room rarely is. Especially if they’re mean. If you’re mean, you’re definitely not the smartest person in the room because it’s not smart to be a bully.

Don’t mess with a clique. Do not try to change its members. Do not disturb. They are content, or contentedly discontent.

Mean people might do beautiful work. But no achievement will completely hide their character. Wish them well, acknowledge their fine work, and hope that it brings them some peace and happiness—and a kinder disposition.

Persuasion and Authenticity

Allow people to be who they are. This is for every kind of community, family, and parent, including those we regard for their tolerance and progressivism. It’s for anyone with the tendency to decide for others who and what is right for them. This is destructive, and if you don’t lose them, in an effort to satisfy your expectations, they could end up hurting themselves and those around them. When communities pressure and shame individuals who are weak, afraid, or unwilling to think for themselves, it weakens everyone. It creates chaos.

It’s not for you to decide for someone else what gender, class, religion, school, or social circle their partners or friends will come from, the length of their resume, or the nature of their credits.

Point your loved ones in the direction you believe to be right, good, important, or beneficial, then step away. One of the most destructive things you can do to a person is to prevent them, for whatever reason, from growing and changing. No one should be pressured to hold to people, jobs, careers, or situations that make them unhappy and prevent them from growing. But people do anyway, sometimes from fear, sometimes because of others’ expectations.

There’s an inspirational meme that I enjoy: “Stay close to people who make you feel like sunshine.” Make fun of it you want, I probably did at some point. But I’ve discovered that I’m happier in the company of optimists, who prefer the outdoors to dark rooms. Don’t tell my dad, but I enjoy astrology with a willing suspension of disbelief. I studied astronomy in junior college. Orange Coast College had a tiny planetarium designed by Richard Neutra. But the friends I have who enjoy astrology (who usually have an appreciation and awareness for astronomy, as well) are often more fun to spend time with than people who mock those who enjoy it. It’s whimsical and fun, and I’m definitely a Taurus.

Spend time with people who make you feel good, and pursue what you’re most passionate about, whether the cynics like it or not. Be exactly who you know you’re supposed to be even if it frightens them and they disapprove. Don’t let your family, community, ego, or fear of being perceived a certain way dictate who you’re supposed to be or spend your time on this earth with. Don’t give in to that fear. It will only create chaos and disorder.

“It’s more expensive to be a coward.” – The World Only Spins Forward 

It’s been very expensive for my entire family. My mom’s fear caused us to lose our home, put my dad in a motel, and led me to study things I was not good at or passionate about because I felt a responsibility to help clean up the mess. Cowardice, hiding your power (and yourself), fuels internal rage, which causes harm to those who would like to help you. I feel like I’ve said this about a thousand times, but the unwillingness to give in to change creates chaos. It affects so many besides yourself.

If someone’s work is not to your liking, it’s still not for you to discourage them from doing it. If they’re not meant to be professional artists, let them figure it out for themselves. I’ve really struggled with auditions over the years. I’ve had friends, co-workers, and casting directors shake their heads sadly at me and suggest that I’d be so much happier as an archivist, script supervisor, full-time teacher or librarian. Every time I’ve listened to those people it has been a mistake.

I know it’s not the casting director’s responsibility to forgive my issues in the audition room when I’ve had a panic attack moments before entering it. It’s my responsibility to figure out what I can do to help it. I do know that giving up and turning my back on everything that I love has never been the right move. Any time I’ve tried to choose a career for safety, security, money, anything that would relieve me of the pain of disappointing myself in auditions, I’ve ended up in more pain, chaos, and financial insecurity than I started with. Every time someone has suggested an occupation that I’d be a lot happier in, and I’ve tried to follow their advice, I’ve ended up terribly unhappy.

I’m happiest when I’m getting comfortable with discomfort. The more whimsical my pursuits, the more secure I feel. I find order. The thing that has repeatedly saved me has been following some sort of path related to the theater, to being some sort of artist. I don’t know exactly what it is I’m meant to be—I don’t think it’s just one thing. What I do know for sure is that I should stay close to this world.

I believe that the correct response to an artist who is gifted but struggling and failing over and over again is not to encourage them to give up, but to try something new. A practice that could help with their art. Even a special skill that could help support their art and pay the bills and live comfortably. I’m grateful to anyone who has directly or indirectly given me tools, help, or encouragement. Encouraging someone to be an artist can save them. If you know someone who needs a nudge, give it. If they’re afraid, push them anyway. Maybe even be hard on them.

Don’t make fun of an artist’s tools and practices. Not having a set of tools and the unwillingness to explore a different set of tools destroyed my mother and nearly destroyed me.

A thought.

In 2016 I drove down to San Diego for a Bernadette Peters concert. She sang a lot of her usual repertoire. I sang along. No more “Broadway Baby,” these days she does “Losing My Mind” instead. At the end of the concert, a woman sitting close to me complained that she didn’t sing enough “happy Broadway songs.”

“Yeah, Sally Durant Plummer’s a real downer, huh?,” I mumbled. This is a Follies reference. Sally left New York, stopped performing, and married someone she wasn’t in love with. I believe she would have been better off single in New York than married and miserable in Phoenix. I love Follies very much, and Bernadette’s “Losing My Mind.” But I hope she starts singing some Dolly Levi in her concerts. I’ll be there. And they better start making t-shirts with her name across the front.

Self-Protection

My mom’s energy was venomous. I was at my worst when she was near. But I couldn’t write her off completely, even when everyone encouraged me to do so. When she was sick, it wouldn’t have been right. I was not always able to stay grounded when helping her. When I was successful, it took every tool I had.

When someone’s behavior becomes erratic, self-protect if you must. I’ve certainly had to, and I’ve noticed people slowly (or not so slowly) back away when I’ve been at my worst.

But remember, they might be going through something extraordinarily difficult. Perhaps they’re in a kind of pain that you’ve never experienced and cannot understand. Wish them the ability to change or improve, or that they have or will find people or a discipline that will help them to do so. If you’re not meant to be part of their support system, that’s fine. Don’t set yourself on fire. Hope they have someone who can venture into the flames without catching fire. But be kind, try to understand, and then try to forgive. Some people don’t even realize what they’re doing. 

If you notice someone you love is in crisis, and you know you’re strong enough to repel the fire, and you recognize why they are worth sticking around for, then do it. You might just save them.

A list.  

Just because you’re not “hustling” doesn’t mean you’re not working hard. 

Those who are talented, qualified, and working diligently will succeed, but only if they are able to find the courage to show up and ground themselves. If a person, job, community, institution, or nation can benefit from your presence and participation, there need not be a conversation of dues. We are all paying our dues, in different ways.

If work is scarce, create your own. Grow anyway. Grow so much that people don’t recognize you when they finally see you again.

Don’t pretend to be what you’re not. I believe this is fear wrapped in ambition. Or is it ambition wrapped in fear? I don’t know. What I do know is that it indicates you’ve been made to feel that what you are isn’t enough.

Don’t hide, silence, or dumb yourself down.

Don’t zero in on others’ weaknesses without acknowledging your own.

Do not create or exaggerate some story of trauma or hardship. It isn’t necessary. We all experience pain, and everyone’s pain is valid. It’s not a competition. Just do your work.

Something that would not feel like a hardship to you might be deeply troubling for someone else. Be respectful. Try to understand, and show some compassion. 

If someone’s judging you for being privileged or lucky they’re probably jealous.

If someone’s judging you for being a Gryffindor they’re also probably jealous. I’m jealous.

Just because you’d play a Slytherin in the movie doesn’t mean you’re not actually a Hufflepuff.

Truly sneaky, mean people rarely know or admit which house they are actually in, and you can choose to answer the questions on those quizzes to reflect how you would like to see yourself.

In my opinion, most actors are Gryffindors. This is a compliment.

I have met a few actors who are Ravenclaws. It’s generally not important to them for people to know they are Ravenclaws, and you’d rarely find them asserting it on social media. They’re usually the ones who care the least about how they are perceived on social media.

Sometimes sneakiness is used for good.

There are different kinds of intelligence and bravery.

I don’t think I’m a Gryffindor, but I strive to be one. Whenever I complete a project, perform, audition, rehearse, or work on upper body strength at Planet Fitness, I feel like a Gryffindor.

The truth always reveals itself. 

The work always speaks for itself. 

Privilege

One of the first books I read this year was The Last Shot. It’s about a group of high school basketball players growing up on Coney Island in the early 90s. Read that book and you’ll never feel like an underdog again. We are all so privileged. I’ve had so many shots. My shots keep coming. It’s up to me to make them work out.

I’ve met a lot of people who exaggerate their financial difficulties. There’s no need. I think it’s wonderful if your family is supportive. Don’t squander your privilege. Use it wisely, fairly, and kindly. Give back generously. Open yourself to people who are not of the same “class.”

Don’t hate or demonize people for their privilege. They haven’t done anything wrong by having it.

Those whom we envy most for their privilege often have a lot of other troubling stuff going on beneath the surface.

Do not let anyone make you feel guilty for your talent, good fortune, or for your desire to grow and build on what you have already accomplished.

Something I’ve noticed: When an artist has something that a lot of other artists would like to have, expressing any kind of dissatisfaction with your career, or the desire for more, is generally frowned upon. This attitude was projected onto me a lot during my first few years at Mamma Mia! When I would express frustration about my struggles in the audition room, and my inability to get an agent, I was told, “You’re fine. At least you have a Broadway show. And it’s not closing any time soon.” This was not helpful, and it never felt good. I have listened to that same attitude projected bitterly onto artists with extensive theater credits and more financial stability: “They have everything, what more could they need?,” etc. I imagine that doesn’t feel good, either. Neither is kind or fair. Of course we must check ourselves. Many of us have been guilty at some point of greed and selfishness. But no one should be made to feel guilty for wanting to build on their careers, especially when their achievements so far have been acquired through talent, skill, hard work, and focus. Furthermore, you can remind yourself all day long to be grateful and still experience pain, disappointment, and longing. It doesn’t mean that you are ungrateful. It means you are human.

Don’t use lack of privilege as an excuse to not finish your work. This is a form of fear and perfectionism: “My environment or situation isn’t perfect so I can’t start or finish this project.” Help people understand why something is hard for you or taking longer than expected, but don’t use it as an excuse for not doing it. I’ve definitely had the tendency to forget how privileged I am. People have pulled themselves up and worked with a lot less, while I’ve wasted time dwelling on my hardships, envying people with more privilege, and using my envy as an excuse to not pursue the arts. Writing this has been really good for me. I’ve been able to revisit and examine my privilege and hardship at the same time. I’m grateful for both.   

Here are some of the reasons for which I am privileged:

My mom made sure I saw Rudolph Nureyev perform at the Orange County Performing Arts Center when she knew he was very sick.

Where I grew up, there was a rental store that had Sunday in the Park with George on VHS. 

My dad was willing and able to pay for two dance classes a week, tap and ballet. We lived close to a very good dance studio. I struggled a lot in class, but was influenced by the artistry and work ethic I observed there. 

My dad was also willing and able to pay for an occasional compact disc, and there are excellent libraries in Orange County. 

As a child, I always had enough food to eat, and health insurance.

When our house was falling apart, my public high school was located in Newport Beach. Kids from every walk of life attended my high school. I was once in a show with someone whose family owned houses on Lido Isle and in Beverly Hills, while another castmate was living in a van. But we were all in the same ensemble. In that environment I acquired perspective. 

I saw Bernadette Peters play Rose, Desiree, Sally, and Dolly.

I live in New York.

I’m healthy, and trying to keep it that way. 

I don’t have a community or family telling me I have to be perfect, or that I have to be with someone they approve of or are comfortable with. I’m free.

Perhaps my greatest privileges: Exposure to a certain kind of work at such an early age. The freedom to develop my own taste, without the internet, social groups, camps, or programs telling me what was right or good or correct. I’m doing the best I can not to squander those privileges. 

Perfectionism

“Maybe you can never reach perfection, but you’re gonna head in that direction!” That’s a lyric from the Bernadette Peters/Academy Awards version of “Putting it Together.”

Recognize the difference between making something right and making it perfect. Perfection is not the same as preparation, quality, and attention to detail. It’s so tricky. You can’t leave something unfinished indefinitely, but you still have to exercise patience and not share it until it’s ready. Sometimes the piece just isn’t done yet. It’ll get there when it gets there. It will arrive right on time, according to its own schedule.

I haven’t always been able to tell the difference between getting something perfect and getting it right. Sometimes I’ve hidden my work, citing perfectionism as an excuse, and other times I’ve said, boldly and recklessly, “Let’s just do this!” only to find that the work wasn’t ready or I hadn’t done enough preparation. I’ve jumped the gun trying to be brave.

Don’t let anyone shame you for taking the time to make something right. Be honest with yourself about it, and keep a timeline. And instead of trying to make a piece of art perfect, try making it clear, simple, and universal. Detail and clarity over size and intricacy.

Speaking of size, you may think this is too long, and you may be right. I’ll end here for now. I leave it unfinished and imperfect. I hope that anyone with the stamina to read this all the way through has done so with an open mind, the willingness to understand, self-examine, and forgive.

Intermission