by Felicia Day
My percussionist boyfriend graduated and went away to grad school a few semesters later, but not before he introduced me to the most amazing thing I’d ever experienced. No, not sex (I’m a lady; I don’t write about that) but something just as good: the World Wide Web.
It was just emerging as a THING in the mid-’90s. Boggles the mind, but Friendster and MySpace weren’t just punch lines to jokes at one point. One day I was trying to find a reference book for a term paper at the library, and my boyfriend said to me, “You should use the computer lab, way easier than the card system.” Of course, I thought he was an idiot. I was a library loyalist, paper was always superior, and flipping through the index cards made me feel industrious. But I went into the computer lab and, lo and behold, on the desktop of the music lab computer was a thing called a “browser icon.” I was confused.
“Mosaic? What’s that?”
I double-clicked and stared at a blank university database search page. There was a search bar in the middle with no instructions, no guide. That was it. Not user-friendly, even for a prototech native like me. I called over to the guy who worked there, “Hey. How do I use this browser thing?”
He said, “Go to AltaVista dot-com and just search for stuff.”
“Do I spell out the dot?”
“No, it’s a period. ‘www.altavista.com.’ ”
“Sorry. Can you type it in for me?”
He, rolling his eyes, marched over and typed on my computer. I was about to get uppity and say, “Um, you don’t have to be condescending . . .” but as soon as I saw what appeared on the screen, I flipped out and forgot to be defensive and angry.
“OH MY GOD. I CAN SEARCH FOR ANYTHING BY TYPING IN THE BOX?”
“Um, why are you yelling?”
“Sorry, dude.”
It was like my childhood dial-up technology but better. A place with unlimited messaging, no expenses, I could type to other people with a keyboard for free about anything I wanted! This browser was . . . and then it had . . . and I could . . . what?!?!?!?
My world was transformed.
After completely forgetting about whatever stupid scholastic thing led me there, it took me about two hours to plant my flag on the internet and create a personal university home page with cutting-edge green bubble GeoCities-like background art that I designed all by myself. Here’s the actual picture of my stunning artistry:
Amazing design. Perfect layout. (Font: default New Berolina. Oh, yeah.) True story, I ended up earning a spot on a “Babes of the World Wide Web” directory with this page. It was a disgusting and skuzzy website that compiled the URLs of the “hottest women on the internet.” And I made their top fifty list in 1998, yeah! If you blow up my head shot, you can clearly see the faint outlines of a mustache on my upper lip. In the early internet days, standards were definitely lower.
Before I left the lab, I made Condescending Guy show me how to dial up to this “internet” thing from my house using a program called Telnet, and after that I never looked back. Or searched for a social life for the rest of college. With this kind of technology, who needed it?!
Between my web browser, math degree, playing violin and video games, and never ever dating anybody, I had the most comprehensive, unsocial college experience in the history of man. But still, I loved it. I loved being on campus. And learning. And getting perfect grades. And being the little prodigy everyone took care of. I occasionally went to kung fu movie screenings at the college rec center on Friday nights (yes, my mom went with), and I prided myself on knowing every out-of-the-way single-stall restroom hidden in the obscure campus buildings, like Archaeology, where I could poop in private. After four years I graduated as the valedictorian of my class and delivered an overly earnest speech on “Finding the Art in Your Science.” The whole time I was lucky enough to find work as a musician, so everyone assumed I would continue on to graduate school and have a great violin career, and all the expectations were heaped and heaped and heaped.
After graduating, I didn’t do anything with any of it.
Um, why?
There was a student in Mr. Frittelli’s class, I’ll call him Carl, who was from New York City and a “BRO!” personified. With an accent like a construction worker and hands like ham hocks, he was the most out-of-place guy you can imagine in the classical music world. And he wanted to play the violin more than anything else in his life.
Thing was, Carl was not good. He didn’t start early enough, he didn’t work hard enough, he sometimes brandished his instrument like a weapon. No one thought he could make a career of it. But he WANTED it so badly. You could see it in his eyes when he watched other people play who were better than him. It broke my heart.
All I wanted was to give Carl my abilities. Even though I had been devoted to music for so many years, I knew deep down that I didn’t want to play violin for the rest of my life.
I admire the crap out of Carl now, because he was doing something he loved more than anything. And he was determined to do it, regardless of how successful he was. Carl played the violin because he had a PASSION for it, and screw the rest of the world. Even if he had to get a day job that wasn’t musical after college, and was only able to pick the instrument up at night before bed, to play ONLY for himself, it made him complete to have that in his life. And I think every minute he spent playing that violin was a moment he was spending his time right.
I wanted to find something like that for myself. I had a sense that I hadn’t found it yet, that there was MORE out there somewhere. I knew I wasn’t complete by playing Pachelbel’s Canon for the five hundredth time at a wedding. I knew I wouldn’t be satisfied by teaching adorable toddler robots “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” either. I wanted to find a dream that I couldn’t live without pursuing. Regardless if I made it or not. Just like for Carl, the “trying” of it would be worth it.
So after graduation, I moved to Los Angeles to become an actor. That was what my heart told me I needed to TRY to become. I knew I could do it.
After all, I had two Real Degrees. How could I fail?
- 4 -
Hollywood: Not a Meritocracy?
My adorably naïve history as an actor and why, in my mind, I was destined to “make it” in Hollywood based on several community theatre chorus girl parts.
For some reason I always knew I wanted to be an actor. I think it was because I read too many fantasy novels as a kid. There was always this nebulous feeling of destiny, like I was the Chosen One, foretold to vanquish auditions for One Life to Live and Hannah Montana with talent bestowed by the gods. In my heart I was certain: The sword of stardom would be mine!
My aunt Kate was the one who got me hooked on performing. She was the coolest person I’d met by the age of preschool, and that’s pretty frickin’ cool. With big permed ’80s hair, she drove a yellow Datsun fastback and let me ride in the front without a child’s seat. The sound track to Cats was permanently stuck in the tape deck, and we’d sing “Memory” at the top of our lungs when we’d sneak out after bedtime to get curly fries at Hardee’s. Together, at the ages of six and twenty-four, we were practically Thelma and Louise.
Aunt Kate had briefly moved to New York City to become a musical theatre performer after college but was forced to return home because of health reasons (type 1 diabetes, the worst). She got a job as a librarian but kept acting locally, because no matter how many times you have to sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” for bored senior citizens at an Alabama dinner theatre, once performing is in your blood, you can’t get it out.
She also introduced me to the concept of a “work ethic” nineteenth-century-early. Aunt Kate developed horrible cataracts because of her disease, and for a summer became partially blind. She needed several surgeries to fix her sight but couldn’t afford to stop her job. She had to keep her health insurance. So, as a seven-year-old, I was recruited to go in every day and basically do her job with her. Shelving. Scanning in books. Chiding people: “Mrs. Bertram, you have to return that new Da
nielle Steel. Someone else has been waiting for it for weeks!” The best part is that her tiny branch was located inside the local mall (must have been a weird Alabama phenomenon), so she paid me for my time in items from the Hello Kitty store across the way. A Little Twin Stars pencil case was my first legitimate wage payment.
No job since has left me feeling so well rewarded.
When my aunt found out that a local Huntsville theatre group was staging To Kill a Mockingbird, she decided that I was absolutely perfect for the lead part of Scout. Mainly because my haircut matched the kid’s in the movie (through no fault of my own; again, my mom made bad choices).
“If you wear overalls to this audition, Felicia, you can become a star!”
I won’t lie. “Star” sounded super appealing to my seven-year-old self. If I couldn’t be reborn a princess, this sounded like the next best thing.
There was only one catch. “The audition paper says ages ten and above, Aunt Kate.”
“If they ask, just tell them you’re ten.”
“But that’s a lie.”
“You want them to hire you to be someone you’re not. So if you lie well, you’re showing them how great you’re gonna be at the job!”
I thought about it for a few beats and couldn’t argue with her logic. It was pretty confusing. So the next day I lied and got the part! It was a great lesson to learn so young: Never let the truth stop you from getting what you want.
Rehearsals started up, and I loved every minute of it. Not the work of acting necessarily, that was all right, but the feeling of becoming part of “The Theatre.” (Say it with a British accent, that’s how I wrote it.) No matter your age or race or background, all actors are treated pretty much equal, which is heady stuff for a seven-year-old: “equality.” I found out that being treated like I was important fit me like a glove!
The kid who played my older brother in the play, Jackson, was not so taken by my adorableness. He was thirteen and despised me because he didn’t like my upstaging him with my dazzling performance. (At least that was what my aunt told me.) I was great at memorizing my lines AND his lines and never hesitated to yell out when he flubbed them. I couldn’t understand why he was so sensitive about it! After all, he was the old one who should have better neural connections; I was only SEVEN. (Revealing that at rehearsal one day was quite the hat trick. Everyone was impressed. Except Jackson. He hated me for that, too.)
During one dress rehearsal, he screamed “Shut up!” when I helped him out with his dialogue (“You forgot the ‘eats raw squirrels’ line again, Jackson, jeez!”), and after that incident, the line was drawn, Hatfields and McCoy–style. Our families started sitting on the opposite sides of the auditorium, and we referred to his mom as “Old Fat Thighs.” The atmosphere got tense.
It all caught up to me during our first matinee performance. There’s a section in the play where Jackson’s character says, “Run, Scout, run!” and he pushes me to get away from the scary Boo Radley dude who turns out to be . . . well, it’s only been fifty years, no spoilers. Anyway, this almost adult (in Arkansas) kid pushed me SO HARD that I flew eight feet across the stage, tripped, and hit my head.
THUMP!
The audience gasped. Time slowed. As I staggered up, I remember noticing how everyone was leaning forward in their seats. It was suddenly very exciting to be an actor.
“Is she hurt?” “Was it part of the play?” the crowd murmured as I stood there, stunned. My aunt had told me a true thespian never breaks character. So I decided to use the moment like Meryl Streep: I burst into tears and ran offstage yelling, “MOMMY!”
The screaming match between my mom and his after the show would rival any sweeps-winning episode of Dance Moms. Carnations and Chips Ahoy! were used as projectile weapons in the greenroom. The fight went on so long that eventually I started feeling guilty. Because Jackson looked so miserable sitting on the opposite side of the room and . . . okay, I’ll admit it. He was cute and I had a crush on him.
WHATEVER, YOU GUYS!
Nothing got friendlier between us after that, but he never shoved me like an MMA fighter again, and I never corrected him on his lines again. (Even though he DID mess them up. A lot.) For years after that play, my family would tell the tale of how “That kid Jackson tried to murder Felicia,” and we were pretty convinced he was going to grow up to be a serial killer. I recently looked him up on Facebook. He became a dentist, so same difference.
Here’s the awesome irony, though. A local newspaper critic attended that specific matinee performance. Afterwards, we got an amazing review that singled out the “fantastic physical performance of the young actress playing Scout.” I even got an award that season! So basically, what I learned was that I love the stage, and that it’s advantageous to have slightly older men physically assault me. (Just KIDDING! Gawd.)
I’m sure my aunt would have mentored me through many a great role after that, helping me conquer the Northern Alabama theatre scene with my glorious skills, but it was not to be. My family moved to Mississippi right after the play ended. But I’d developed a taste for the stage, and I wanted to keep doing it. I couldn’t let go of the idea that I was pretty amazing.
We moved a lot during my childhood because of my dad’s medical training, but whenever we’d arrive in a new city, I’d immediately search the Pennysaver or community center bulletin boards for auditions. Of any kind. And no matter what little backwater town we landed in, people were putting on a show! Usually a revival of Oliver! (I was in that play four times as an orphan. I also played a prostitute twice in Sweet Charity before the age of fourteen.) Sometimes the productions were very small, like an 8x8 space behind someone’s garage, or at an old folks’ home where the star was an eighty-five-year-old with Alzheimer’s, but as long as they accepted me, I joined up. I couldn’t help it. Like tuberculosis, once you catch it, the need to perform is always inside of you.
Unfortunately, when you’re the “new kid,” you don’t get the juicy roles right away. There’s usually a seniority system, and sometimes I was passed over for a speaking part by someone who wasn’t great, which was disappointing to me but enraging to my mother.
“They only picked her because she was Jewish!”
Well, Mom, I was auditioning for Anne Frank in The Diary of Anne Frank at the Louisville Jewish Recreation Center. I think maybe there were justifications.
As I mentioned before, my mother never had the follow-through to be a true stage mom, but she was supportive in pushing my performance career in strange and arbitrary directions. Around twelve, she signed me up for singing lessons with a woman named “Miss Hilda” who led a church choir and looked like she’d been a spinster since the late 1890s. The woman wore dickies with her sweat suits.
Miss Hilda taught me German art songs, which is SUPER useful when you’re auditioning for Tannhäuser, but if you’re trying to rock a solo from the Who’s Tommy, not so much. My mom couldn’t tell the difference. Singing was singing, and her daughter was amazing at it, therefore everyone must listen! She became alert for opportunities for me to shine with my newfound skill, on stage and beyond.
One day we got in the car and started driving to Ohio. Randomly. My brother and I were confused.
“Where are we going?”
My mom had a copy of the newspaper in her lap and thrust it at me. “They’re rebooting The Mickey Mouse Club and searching for new talent! You’re auditioning!”
Panic. “But I don’t have a song prepared!”
“Just do that one Miss Hilda taught you last week!”
“Um . . . really?”
“Either that or ‘Happy Birthday.’ You have such a beautiful voice, it won’t matter, you’re a shoo-in, baby!”
I wrapped my mom’s faith around myself like a straightjacket as we drove three and a half hours to a nondescript Holiday Inn in Cincinnati. I marched into the run-down ballroom with a number 239 pinned to my shirt and, when prompted, began singing Schubert’s “Gretchen am Spinnrade” for the touring D
isney audition committee.
“Meine Ruh’ ist hin
Mein Herz ist schwer,
Ich finde, ich finde sie nimmer . . .”
“THANK YOU!”
And that was the closest to becoming a Disney kid I ever got. Thank goodness.
Several years later, we were living in San Antonio, and my mother met a man whose daughter took ballet class with me. Of course, the conversation turned to my fantastic singing voice, and it turned out that the guy knew a guy who had a brother who recorded music and made albums. In his garage. Talk about kismet!
Except he didn’t do pop music (or German lieder), he specialized in Tejano music. The accordion music that the Tex-Mex region adores. Objectively, it is very danceable.
To most humans, I would not be the FIRST person you’d pick for stardom in this particular field. For one, I didn’t speak Spanish, and two, there was that really Caucasian thing going on with my face. At this point I was a bit older, fifteen, and I strongly registered my objections, but when my mom saw an opportunity, she couldn’t let it escape.
“Your voice is so pretty! That girl Selena is popular, and you’re just as pretty as her! You can do this!” There was no arguing. I would be her Central Texan Eliza Doolittle.
My mom immediately bought language tapes to play in the car. “Mi casa, su casa . . .” everywhere we drove, I drilled. I started flamenco class, which had nothing to do with Tejano but was similar enough to tap dancing that I enjoyed it, and after a few weeks of intense training, we met with the recording guy to talk debut album concepts.
Now, this guy should have been rightfully laughing us out of the state, but my mom is somehow able to make the most insane ideas seem plausible. At least when you’re in her sphere of contact. Once she’s gone, you start to catch yourself, like, Hey, now. Wait a second . . .
We sat there in a tiny recording studio behind a nail salon, and my mom painted the headline “White Tejano Star Takes San Antonio by Storm!” with such vivid enthusiasm that the producer dude, slurping from a two-hundred-ounce sweet tea cup, was totally digging it.