The Beauty in Broken Dreams

Several years ago, I sat in the back row of the Bernard Jacobs Theatre taking in the Broadway-hit, Frost Nixon.  The entire auditorium sat in silence, gripped during the play’s most compelling monologue. Just as the speech ended I heard an elderly woman in front of me whisper, “Beautiful,” under her breath. I want to make people feel that way, I thought -- so moved by a piece of expression they literally can’t keep it to themselves.

I followed the blueprint for someone hoping to tell stories for a living. I moved to New York, went to a fancy drama school, and in no time was auditioning for big television, film, and theater productions. I was convinced it’d only be a matter of time before audiences were falling over my Hamlet, or tuning in to my hit series. Since the age of 11 all I ever cared to be was a storyteller. And for the first time it all seemed within reach.

My self-assurance was not misplaced. I spent years improving my craft. Each morning I arrived at the theater so early I’d have to quietly tiptoe past a sleeping guard before practicing monologues and studying plays hours before class even started. I was maniacal about the work, even at a bully at times, reluctant to share warm-up space or end a rehearsal a minute early. There was work to be done and I wanted the dream too much to take any chances.

By the time I’d reached my mid-30s I’d racked up some nice TV appearances, performed in some notable regional theaters, and appeared in a handful of commercials. I even worked as a casting reader, performing opposite the very actors that inspired me to someday grace the stages of the Broadway houses that lined mid-town Manhattan.

But soon it became clear my dreams were falling apart. Nothing was unfolding the way I’d dreamt as a boy, or planned in drama school. Yes, I’d made some progress, even gone further than most, but the harder I worked the more I felt like I was spinning my wheels. So at the age of 37 I decided with a heavy heart it was time to pack it all in.

I moved back to California and spent the next year living in the small guest room of a close friend. Being a good roommate was at times a delicate two-step. I tried desperately to respect his space, while longing for my own. I’d often sit in my car for hours writing, or listening to music because it was the only place I could find any solitude.

For the first few months I struggled to find my footing in my old hometown. I had trouble finding work, feeling a sense of purpose, and grappling with the feeling I’d let down the friends and family who’d supported my dreams all those years. But by far the greatest hurdle was dealing with the loss of identity. If I was no longer an actor then who was I? I spent a lot of time wondering if returning home was the biggest mistake of my life.

Then a shift began to take shape around the time I became more serious about writing. I needed a creative outlet so I swapped the stage for a pen. I wrote every day, some times terribly, other times boldly. I jotted down my thoughts in a daily blog, wrote screenplays, published articles, and even put the finishing touches on a book I’d been working on.

As the year went on I also tried to be of service to my community. I volunteered as a writer coach at a middle school, landed a summer teaching job, started a website devoted to promoting only positive news out of my hometown, and even delivered a TEDx Talk based on the discoveries I made returning home.

I also found time to visit new corners of the globe, read great books, rekindle old friendships and spend time with my family. Most importantly, I was able to be around for my aunt whose health had been fading.

The distance from the bright lights of Times Square had helped me realize acting was not who I was but simply something I did. My self-worth wasn’t defined by the credits on my resume, or the number of commercials I’d booked. For the first time in a long time I understood there was more to life than appearing on Law & Order, or getting the perfect headshot. And in time, my goals became less about achieving more, but rather about becoming more.

In the end failure had saved me. I found grace in my broken dreams and deepened my understanding of the “bigger picture.” I learned I could have high standards and still be kind to myself, that no award or notoriety can fill a void, and that the quality of our lives depends on the quality of our philosophies – how we chose to “show up.”

But most importantly, I was reminded that all those years I spent in voice, movement, and scene study class had little to do with becoming a big successful actor. Instead, we were being taught to speak our minds, take bold risks, do something kind for others, and be lifelong learners. If we were fortunate, we might become great actors along the way. The point was to be open to where life might take us.   

A More Nuanced Look at Hollywood's Diversity Problem

One evening as I was walking home after an audition, I glanced up at an advertisement on the corner of 42nd and 8th Avenue, one block away from Times Square. The giant signboard was covered with TV’s most familiar faces, all gearing up for their fall seasons. As I gazed back to the street below I took in a much more varied and eclectic scene. There were people of all colors, faiths, and sizes dashing from one place to the next, mingling in a world in complete contrast with the billboard just two stories above.

As a young drama student, I got a glimpse of what a community of diverse storytelling could look like. Having a mother from Seoul, Korea and an Italian-American father from Brooklyn didn’t limit me from feeling the conflict facing Torvald, the joy of performing Pinter, or blissfully losing myself in a Shakespeare sonnet. Perhaps the most poignant lesson in all my years of training was that nobody has a monopoly on the human condition.

But when I embarked on my professional career, I soon discovered that sentiment was not shared in the industry. “When I listen to the words it sounds great but then when I look at you, it doesn’t fit,” a casting director once told me. “You have a great look, but you’re going to have a really tough time getting work,” another said. I took their words in stride determined to prove them wrong. I would be different, I thought.

Still, I longed to see someone who looked like me grace the cover of “The Hollywood Reporter,” or sitting opposite James Lipton on “Inside the Actors Studio.” I never wanted a handout or sympathy; I simply wanted for an unfair industry to be equally unfair. I found myself fueled by a quiet rage. I began to take pride in my struggle, even sporting it like a badge of honor. But thankfully, my attitude evolved because I had. Carrying all that frustration around simply wasn’t productive.

It seems we’re at a fever pitch with the diversity in Hollywood issue. There have been countless articles, speeches, and movements highlighting the importance of giving storytellers of all backgrounds a chance to share their unique voice. It’s safe to say that most agree it’s time for a change. But within that consensus, we may have involuntarily made other actors, with equally big dreams and who don’t check the “other” box, feel alienated or worse, threatened. And it’s very difficult to build community when we don’t all feel welcome. As far as I can see, there are three steps we can take to put our best foot forward in an industry slow to catch up with the times.

1. Focus on our commonalities. 
If there’s one thing I’ve learned as an actor it’s that nobody wants to hear why something really hard is harder for you. Rather than amplifying our own setbacks, we can all focus on our shared bond as storytellers by supporting each individual’s desire to create. By letting go of the notion that success needs to come at the expense of another’s failure, we can work toward availability rather than defensiveness. And when we operate from a place of abundance, ideas flow more freely and our potential is awakened. Our current national landscape is craving unity. We as actors have a unique opportunity to bridge divides by telling bold, compelling, and inclusive stories.  

    

2. Compassion. 
Empathy is the capacity to understand another’s feelings while compassion is concern for someone’s hardship. You may not understand what it’s like to be overlooked for a part because of the shape of your eyes or color of your skin, but you can appreciate how hurtful it can be. Conversely, just because someone may not face those same hurdles doesn’t make them the bad guy or their aspirations less important. Together we can take joy in each other’s success and support one another’s artistic goals.

3. Focus on opportunity.
If you’re tired of not seeing your story told, write it yourself. Some of the greatest innovations were fueled by the drive to solve a problem. Change is unsettling for most and takes time. In the meantime, it’s our responsibility to condition ourselves to think, “So what? Now what? Opportunity favors those who take bold initiative amidst adversity and a landscape that may be less than impartial.