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Whatever...Love Is Love

Page 7

by Maria Bello


  Others, including myself, had a different approach. We wanted to show the world how Haitians were rebuilding their own country. One shining example of this was the trade and fashion show that many of the Haitian women I worked with put together. Just one year after the earthquake, they were designing, manufacturing, and distributing their goods to the world. I wanted the world to see what smart support and investment could do to help make this country stronger and more resilient. When I brought people to the country, specifically celebrities, I didn’t want them to meet only the people in need. Many others were raising awareness for those people. I needed the celebrities to know Haiti’s change makers and influencers, people invested in rebuilding a stronger and more resilient country, and to know that Haiti was looking forward, to the future. By focusing my efforts on celebrating the most powerful, my feeling was that we could do more to help those most in need.

  This strategy was not without its challenges. It was a tense, then awful, then funny few days when I brought a couple of very kind and well-intentioned celebrities to see how Haiti was recovering a year after the earthquake. They arrived late one night to discover that their nice hotel did not serve food after 9 P.M. Since many of us there were hardened relief workers, the thought hadn’t occurred to us that maybe these two might need some additional TLC on their first night in a new country. Instead, we threw some energy bars at them with an air of “good luck and see you in the morning!” The next night, while driving in an armored car, a canister of pepper spray accidentally went off and one of the lovely celebrities was literally choking, eyes burning in pain. To her credit, she had a great sense of humor about the whole thing.

  Then, after taking them to a clinic where we bathed 100 kids in the same pool, with only one towel to dry them, they were close to leaving. But things became even more tense when we took them to the mansion of the cousin of the president for a big party, with a traditional Haitian band playing. The famous folks were righteously indignant, as they had come to Haiti to hold orphaned babies, not go to parties. But the people there were talking about investment and tourism and rebuilding and had the influence to make these ideas real, and they were who I wanted these famous folks to meet. And for the Haitians who were present that night with the celebrities, they were inspired to see such famous people in their home showing concern about their country. Many said that after, they felt a renewed sense of energy to rebuild a better Haiti and to keep fighting. I like to think that after everything, the celebrities were grateful to have experienced such a range of emotions and to have seen the full array of what Haiti was.

  A group of women and I started the organization We Advance. Our mission started in a tiny yellow clinic in Cité Soleil, the poorest slum in the Western Hemisphere. The neighborhood of tin shacks was like the film set of the dirtiest, most devastating place you could ever imagine, with its cesspools filled with rotten water and trash where the children bathed. Out of the “Sunshine Clinic” we put Band-Aids wherever they were needed, whether that meant giving out medicine, giving a mother food for her baby, or helping a rape victim. Eventually we realized there were never going to be enough hands or enough Band-Aids. What the women really needed and wanted was an education so that they could help themselves. That network is up and running as We Advance University, the first online educational site for women’s groups all over the country. We are still struggling for funding, but it is my great hope we will stay up and running.

  When we needed a break from the Sunshine Clinic, we would head to the beach in Jacmel. It is on the other side of the island from Port-au-Prince, an area that most people never see. It is paradise on earth. On our days away from the disaster of the city, we would drive through the slums, up to the heavenly mountain pass leading to a town that looked like New Orleans. With its artisans and architecture, with interesting people from all over the world, Jacmel held the promise of what Haiti could be.

  On one particular weekend I drove with friends to Jacmel. I was tired from working at the clinic, my leadership skills questioned, even by myself. I was getting over a relationship that I had enjoyed, but knew had to end. As soon as we arrived at the simple but elegant hut on the beach that belonged to our hosts, I dove into the crystal blue waters with all of my clothes on. I wanted to be healed and to wash away the pain that was hanging off me from the city. We all needed to be cleansed. But the truth is, it got harder and harder to feel clean as time went by.

  We all hung on as long as possible, sometimes our egos the only thing driving us to stay. Bryn later said that one of the reasons he lived in a tent for two years in Haiti while working at the hospital and building a school was because he was trying to prove that he could, to others, to himself, and to me. And what was I trying to prove? That I could make a difference? That my voice mattered? That I could convince the world to listen to the women of this great country? That I was a humanitarian?

  I think if I were a true “humanitarian,” I would have stayed longer, and continued to go back even if almost everyone who I knew and loved had gone. If I were a true humanitarian by the definition—“a person who seeks to promote human welfare”—maybe I would be living in Cité Soleil now. An antonym for humanitarian is selfish. The truth was, I wanted to give relief because I also needed relief.

  I tried as hard as I could to hold on. I think now that I failed miserably. I was foolish in the way I walked in Haiti, with bare feet in the slums, washing children in a dirty pool. I was rewarded with hundreds of parasites that tried to eat me alive. But would I take it back? Could I ever forget the smell, the life, the resilience, the sex, and the generosity? Never.

  So no, I would not consider myself a humanitarian. Nor would I consider myself selfish. I would label myself a “human,” trying to do my best in this beautiful fucked-up world to make a difference, for this country I love, for my friends, and for myself. As they say, time does heal wounds, and Haiti has proven she is more resilient than I could have imagined.

  I will be back soon, my love.

  8

  AM I CINDERELLA?

  Is there a “sole mate” out there for you?

  On a freezing cold, snowy night in December 1992, I was walking in New York City. After a year of taking acting classes I was finally getting auditions, mostly for commercials and small plays. It was around 5 P.M. and the snow was just beginning to hit the ground. I was excited, and said affirmations to myself for twelve blocks. (Those were the days when affirmations were becoming popular.)

  “I am a big famous movie star.”

  “This part is mine under divine grace.”

  “I am living my dream.”

  I smiled the whole way, desperately wanting my affirmations to work. My manager had explained that the audition I was headed to was for a “big Hollywood movie.” This was the most important one I’d ever been on.

  When I got to the audition, there were already six other women sitting in a tiny room, waiting to be seen. I immediately became deflated. I sensed that all the other pretty blond-haired actresses had done their affirmations as well. Mine stopped working for me the minute I realized this. But I sucked it up and went into the room with the casting director and the reader.

  I want to explain a little bit more about the auditioning process. When an actor goes for an audition, you often wait for hours in what feels like, and sometimes looks like, a holding cell. When your number (or name) is called, you take the long walk to the courtroom where the jury will tell you if you are good or bad. That jury will consist of a casting director, a camera person, and a reader. If you are lucky and the casting director is good, the reader will be a fellow actor who performs the scene with you as you look into a camera. But sometimes, the reader is the assistant of the main assistant who just sits there, saying the lines that come before and after yours.

  This audition consisted of a scene in which my father has just died. The scene started with me speaking to my mother with a defensive tone, and ended with me breaking down in the corner as she he
ld me. In this instance, the mother was played by a 50-year-old man who had never acted in his life, but was capable of chewing gum and drinking coffee at the same time. Regardless, I thought I did great. Even the female casting director said as much.

  So I said a series of affirmations of gratitude all the way back to my tiny apartment on Christopher Street.

  “I am so grateful for this opportunity to be in this movie.”

  “My time has come, and so it is done.”

  “I draw people toward me who help realize my dream.”

  No sooner than I had opened the door, I heard the phone ringing. (I know it’s hard to believe that there was a time when you actually had to be home for a phone call!) “Oh, that must be a good sign,” I thought. “They only call so quickly when they want you!”

  It was my manager. The next moments are a blur, but as best I can remember he said, “Well, the casting director said, and I quote, you ‘need to go back to school and learn how to act. And don’t send her on any more auditions until she does.’”

  “Oh,” he added, “she called your agents to tell them, too, and they totally agree. They’ve fired you.”

  After hanging up, I sat crying and devastated in my roach-infested apartment. Eventually, I ran down the stairs and I just started walking. By the time I got to 23rd Street, dressed in my army boots and black leather jacket, I was ranting to God in my head. “Okay, God, what are you trying to tell me? That this is it? I guess I’m not supposed to be an actress. The casting directors, my agents, they are all right. I don’t know how to act and I never will no matter how many classes I take. I’m going back to Philly and starting over.”

  Without thinking, I just kept walking straight ahead against the cold wind. Suddenly, something caught my eye. I caught a glint of light coming from the snow, outside of a gray stone building. I went over to see what it was. It was a shoe. Not just any shoe. It was a golden, glittery pump. And what did this Cinderella do? She sat down in the snow on 23rd Street, took off her black army boot, and put the gold shoe on. And it fit. Perfectly.

  “Thank you, God,” I said over and over again. “Thank you for this sign.” I just knew that he was telling me that I was on the right path and to stay the course. I took that golden shoe as a gift. It would be with me for almost 20 years. That shoe would travel from New York to LA and back again. Whenever I got depressed, I would look at it and remember how it had been delivered as a sign to tell me that I was supposed to keep going. I was supposed to be acting.

  Over the years, my friends and family loved to laugh at me, because I would look for signs everywhere. Of course I don’t always find them, but I do believe there are signs out there for all of us. My mom taught my siblings and me this when we were kids. Whenever Mom was in a tough situation, a rose would appear. She said it was a sign from Mary that all would be well, and most of the time she was right. “Signs are everywhere,” she said. “We just have to keep our eyes, ears, and hearts open for them.”

  But now there’s something I need to confess, something I learned to do well during all those years in Catholic school. For me, that shoe was not just a sign that I should continue acting. It was my missing glass slipper. I believed, until an embarrassingly adult age, that I would find the Prince Charming who went along with that shoe. Yes, I had Prince Charming Syndrome. I don’t think that is an approved mental illness by the American Psychiatric Association, but it should be, because I think many of us suffer from it.

  I always believed that my Prince Charming was coming. I searched my whole life for a match to my shoe, waiting for some prince to show up with it in his hands. I met so many princes along the way. Some of them acted quite princely. Some of them even looked quite princely. Some of them were princely. But most of the princes I found in my 20s and 30s were just the same guy over and over, with a different name.

  Here’s a snapshot of some of my princes.

  The first I’ll call Prince Charmingly Unconscious. He would express his love for me only when he was on Vicodin.

  The day after we slept together, I called him. He didn’t call back the next day, or the day after that. And for a month, I lay in bed despondent. I listened to Sarah McLachlan’s album Mirrorball and the song “Hold On” over and over, and I cried like a baby.

  I was devastated when, shortly after, a tabloid ran a story about him hooking up with a 20-something stripper and getting sent to rehab for prescription drug addiction. He looked bloated and dissipated in the photo. “See,” I thought to myself, “if he had only given in to his love for me, he would be so much better. I know he had had intimacy issues, but if I had only stuck around long enough, I could’ve helped him break through them.”

  The second, Prince Bad Charming, told me on the first night we met that he was a “man of bad character,” a player, and had just had a threesome in Montreal with two friends or two hookers, I can’t remember anymore. He said what he liked about the threesome was that the other two didn’t need him, that they were quite happy without him. A therapist might have said that he was a voyeur, enjoying the others’ pleasure of each other, and enjoying the bizarre validation he got from being reminded that he wasn’t really needed or wanted.

  He told me after a couple of hours of talking that he was never this open with anyone. He told me that he either had a connection with a woman or else he wanted to have sex with her. Now he was stuck, because we seemed to have this mystical connection and he wanted to sleep with me. So, what did I think?

  “Yes! The real Prince Charming has arrived!” was what I thought. Of course.

  Our first kiss happened that very first night and I was sure I was in love. It had been a long time since I’d felt the exhilaration of that sort of physical and (I thought) spiritual connection, and though he told me outright that he was nearly incapable of intimacy, I believed, of course, he could change. Of course I did. In my head I knew that I was being a foolish woman and that he certainly would not change. But my little girl heart so wanted it to be true.

  A few days later we met for dinner with a small group. I was a little drunk and decided to be the first one to leave. As I got up, in my skintight black skirt and four-inch heels, and made my way around the table, kissing everyone good-bye, my prince said, “I’ll walk you out and get you a cab.” I knew what this meant. I had been thinking of kissing him all night. I was even more drawn to him since he had been so vulnerable with me the other day, sharing his story of his days as a drug addict. He was more damaged than I could have imagined.

  He took me over to some bushes behind the restaurant, threw me against the wall, and started kissing me ferociously. It was a blurry haze of hands and tongues. Suddenly, he stopped.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  I was out of breath. “What do you mean? We’re kissing, we like each other, and we’re single. What could be wrong with this?”

  And as his sexual energy subsided, he put his hands on his head and said, “I’m not actually single.”

  I was dumbfounded. “But you told me just three weeks ago that you were single! How the hell did you get a girlfriend in three weeks, especially after the way we kissed at my house? Are you out of your mind?” Now I was fuming but, not surprisingly, even more turned on.

  “Remember the girl I told you about, my friend? Well, we decided to give it a go. She is a great person, and I’m not that sexually into her, but she’s my best friend, so what do you think?”

  “So break up with her,” I almost yelled.

  Sweet tortured soul said, “I can’t.”

  I was officially devastated but managed to say, “Then don’t kiss me anymore.”

  I turned away, jumped in a cab, and left him staring longingly after me with sad actor eyes. It was a classic scene from a bad romantic comedy.

  Naturally it didn’t end there. A few weeks later, after daily make-out sessions, I finally decided to sleep with him. I wore a slip dress with knee-high stockings. I was ready for sexy, loving sex. After his hourly
texts expressing his deep love and appreciation for me, it seemed he was ready as well. I fantasized that he would meet me at the door and we would pounce on each other and make love. Then we would hold each other for a while and afterward eat Chinese takeout from cartons and laugh while we lie in bed naked. It was another scene I’d written in my head for the romantic comedy I was hoping to star in opposite him.

  Instead, I found him having a massage when I opened his door. I hung out on his balcony for an hour until he was done getting poked and prodded. I wanted to leave. I knew that if I had more self-respect, I would have left. But my anxiety had been spiked and my brain was not working properly.

  When the masseuse left, I silently made my way to the white couch in his living room. While he checked his messages to see how his next movie was coming along, I stared at the coffee table in front of me and saw a greeting card from his girlfriend. It declared, “My undying love and affection.” I got a glimpse of the inside and saw that the writing was like that of a high school girl, complete with hearts over the i’s.

  “She has it worse than me,” I thought. And at least he wasn’t lying to me about who he was. But then, the emotionally adolescent part of me thought, “Oh God, he loves her more.” I got more and more depressed sitting there.

  Instead of my well-written love scene, we ended up having brief sex on the couch. Suffice to say, he was satisfied. When I pretended to be “satisfied,” he leapt off the couch to his computer. I was sweaty and my creamy-white slip dress torn. I was mortified. He called out to me, and of course I ran to him.

  I went over to his chair and I tried to embrace him. Seriously, yes, I tried. He told me about his upcoming movie and showed me screenshots of his oiled abs and scruffy, mean-looking face. He said that this film would make him a full-blown movie star, as he took me painstakingly through every scene. He then showed me fan mail from various women around the world. He was so proud. I was both disgusted and jealous in equal amounts.

 

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