“Up on your feet, guys,” she shouted over the music. We all stood, formed a large full circle around the classroom space, and stretched a little in preparation for what we knew was coming. “Don’t judge yourself, this is a safe space,” she yelled out. “Ethan, you go first.”
Without any sign of hesitation, Ethan strutted into the middle and began flinging his arms and legs all over the place while snapping his fingers to the beat of his heart, or whatever else he might’ve been hearing in his head. There was no right or wrong way. The exercise was all about allowing us to connect emotionally and intellectually to our bodies so that we wouldn’t be freaking robots. It was a way of getting loose for the work ahead.
“Okay, Diane,” Marishka called out a moment later. “Now you.” Reluctantly, I slid out into the middle of everyone and moved lamely along to the music. At first, I was nervous and completely judging myself, but after a few seconds, I got into it and let the music’s rhythm carry me as best I could. Each of us took a turn, with Marishka shouting out directives from the side of the room. “Be present to your bodily sensations,” she told us. “Give in to yourself. Let go of your shit, Diane. Don’t resist. Drop your judgments about what it looks like. Let yourselves be free.”
Freedom of emotional expression—our coursework revolved around that principle. Why? Because great acting, as Marishka often reminded us, involves more than simply learning techniques. It’s also about getting so comfortable with your own feelings that you can empathize with those of the characters you portray. In class, for instance, we did a lot of what’s called “sense memory” work, which is letting sensory conditions, along with the needs of a character, affect the physical and emotional life of that character. “Think about the time in your childhood when you were most vulnerable,” Marishka once told us. Oh my Lord, I sat there thinking. “Close your eyes and imagine that you’re back in that very moment. Notice how your body feels. What can you see? Can you smell anything?” By the end of it, some were in tears. Others, like me, twisted in their seats. A few sat stunned. It was intense. The point was for you to find your truth, as well as the truth in every character you played. The founder of the studio, the Susan Batson who’d coached greats like Nicole Kidman, wrote a book on the topic. It’s called Truth, and it was required reading in our course. Like I said—therapy.
Susan Batson was my first stop in New York in August 2011. Elizabeth, a friend of mine from Boston who’d already moved to the city to break into the biz, told me to check it out. At the time, Elizabeth was working for a well-known talent manager, this old Italian lady. She also suggested I go in and meet with the manager of the studio to do a short audition. I did—and it was a complete disaster.
“Diane … is that Gwo-WHERE-way?” she asked, squinting her forehead as she peered down, over the top edge of her reading glasses, at the sign-in sheet. “How do you pronounce your last name?” she asked in one of the thickest Brooklyn accents I’ve ever heard. I’m talking deep Bensonhurst thick.
“It’s Guerrero,” I said, trying to keep up my fake smile.
“Well, whatever,” she said, setting aside the sheet and picking up another. “Here’s some dialogue for you to read for me. Have a quick look and then shoot.” I looked up and down the paper, which contained a few short lines at the top. I stood up straight, lifted the sheet to my face, and delivered the lines as smoothly as I could. Please, brain—don’t do that thing where you jumble up all the letters and I sound like I’m from another country, I thought. She stared at me without batting an eyelash.
“Hmmm, okay,” she said. “The thing is, honey, I don’t know if you’re pretty enough for this business.” I could feel the steam coming out of my ears. “But yeah, I guess we’ll give you a try, only because you’re Elizabeth’s friend.”
“Uh, all right,” I said. Thanks for the vote of confidence, you witch. “That sounds good.”
“Do you have any head shots?” she asked. I reached down into my bag, pulled out a folder filled with photos, and handed it to her. She flipped through the packet, barely pausing to look at each pose.
“It looks like you’ll need some new pictures,” she told me. I guess mine were too Boston for her. “But you’re in luck. I know a guy who can do them for you. He’s a bit pricey, but he’s good. I also suggest you sign yourself up at Susan Batson. Elizabeth probably already told you that.”
I nodded. “How much are the photos?”
“You’ll have to call him to get an exact price,” she told me, “but I think they’re around twelve hundred.”
I nearly pissed my underwear. “Twelve hundred dollars?” I asked.
“Yep,” she told me, handing the photos back to me. “But trust me, he’s worth every dime. He can make anyone look like a million bucks.” Right then, I wished I knew a guy who knew a guy, if you know what I mean.
I’d walked in that morning with the hope of landing a teammate and cheerleader. I left with a snarky Brooklynite on board. And a mandate to round up some serious cash, pronto. And a brand-new set of heart palpitations. At this point, I didn’t even yet have a permanent home in New York. The only way I’d been able to afford the courses was to keep my steady bar job in Boston. That’s right: Twice a week, I was schlepping from there to the city via Greyhound, four hours in each direction. Once in the area, I stayed with my aunt Milly in Passaic, New Jersey, in a corner of my cousin’s bedroom. The commute was a total nightmare. It had also turned me into a bag lady: Most of the time, I walked around with this enormous duffel strapped across my body. Not a good look.
Whenever I came to the city, I took classe and occasionally auditioned. When you’re just starting out, you’re lucky to get in the room. It’s true that as a girl, I’d imagined one day getting into musical theater. But by this point, acting had become my sole focus. And when I look back on those years when I bopped around our house, belting out Selena hits, I didn’t do so with the thought that I’d become a famous pop singer. For me, the fantasy was more about just being onstage. Connecting with an audience. Telling a story. Basking in the spotlight.
The first time I stepped off the Greyhound in Manhattan, I felt born to be here. The place pulsates with this insane energy. It’s unpredictable. It’s gritty. It’s real. It’s dangerous. The folks who gravitate to New York, people with dreams bigger than the sky, are my kind of peeps. There’s a certain electricity in the air here, one created in part by the fierce competition. The stakes are high, the skyscrapers even higher. And you’ve gotta be a badass to even stay on the ball field. That’s true not only in my biz but in every industry. Even a bum here has to be on the double hustle. First of all, it can get cold as hell in this town. Second of all, there’s always someone ready to elbow you out of the way. Not to mention that everything happens in a big fat hurry, so no one has time to stop and hear your sob story. The pace and the pressure can be tough, yet that’s exactly what keeps you working your tail off. In the city that never sleeps, I quickly learned that I’d better not either.
The audition process was three times more brutal than it had been in Boston. I thought I’d seen my share of gorgeous girls; here, they literally filled the tryout waiting rooms, standing around with their perfect tits and teeth and booties and money and connections. Talent and good looks are as prevalent here as nepotism is. To make it, you’ve gotta be damn good at what you do, or know someone who can help you to the front of the line—in many cases, you need both. I’d turn up at these auditions and absolutely give it my all. I’d then wait by the phone for days and hear nothing. No callbacks. No nothing. Which is how I realized that, if I was really going to do this thing, I needed to relocate to the city. Full-time.
So after three months of schlepping, I at last traded in my Boston bar job for another in midtown Manhattan. I also cut ties with Brian. We were sad about it but knew it was for the best. “Can I please have the room in the basement?” I asked my aunt Milly. She’d long since noticed how the commute was wearing me out, and she graciously agree
d. It was a tight space, with only enough room for a twin bed, a TV, and a dresser, but it was a place to stay, and I was grateful she wasn’t charging me rent. Being there also meant I could hang with my family. When I dragged home late in the evenings, my aunt would often be up waiting to offer me my favorite dish—rice, beans, and plantains with a side of lime or lemon to squirt all over it. So sweet.
Young aspiring actors have often asked me whether I ever wanted to quit. Yes. Sometimes daily. But like it or not, and I do like it, I rolled up in this world as an artist. It’s who I am. The alternative to continuing in my struggle was returning to the way I felt after I left high school. In my heart of hearts, I knew I’d veered off the career path I was meant to take, and that’s in part why I almost ended my life. So as hard as it was to show up to an endless succession of rejections, I stuck with it. When you want something badly, like to the point of near obsession, the work doesn’t feel as strenuous. Don’t get me wrong: It’s exhausting and often heartbreaking. But while you may be physically tired and your spirit is tested, it cannot be drained. If you love it, you will find the juice. The effort actually gives you energy rather than depleting you of it. This business is so challenging that you’re constantly trying to beat your existing score. And when you do—oh, how sweet it is. You’ve got the wind at your back and that force propels you forward.
Until it doesn’t—because that same wind can also knock you flat on your ass, which is what seemed to be happening to me after six months in the city. I was down to my last hundred dollars and still living with my aunt. With an average of maybe two tryouts a week, I hadn’t landed a role in anything. And I’d spent what savings I did have on those stupid photos the manager recommended. “Those types of head shots are totally going out of style,” a seasoned actor at the studio told me. “That might be one reason you’re not getting more callbacks.” Which of course wasn’t true, but what did I know? Fuck. I’d trusted this woman, and there I was with nothing to show for my investment. And as much passion as I’d brought with me to the city, it had become increasingly difficult to keep my head up. I was at least saving the little cheese I made at the bar to pay for my acting classes, but after months of saving, it wasn’t enough for me to afford my own place. Not by a long shot. That’s when I needed to take my effort to the next level and round up some cash, gangsta style. Let me explain.
I was so broke that I went on Craigslist; it had kept me busy before. So while poring over the site one evening, I scanned the ads from people seeking to purchase certain items—which included everything from Rolex watches to washing machines. About halfway down the first page, my eyes landed on this headline: “Wanted: Women’s Used Shoes.” Secondhand shoes? Who’d want someone else’s smelly footwear? Well, some guy in New Jersey did, and according to his CL entry, he was willing to pay up to $30 a pair for them. “The more stinky and worn out, the higher the price,” he wrote. I hadn’t brought much with me from Boston, but I’ve always been a shoe fanatic and still owned plenty of pairs. So I wrote to this dude and arranged to meet him at a bar for the exchange.
The guy was in his early twenties. He had an artist-hipster-type beard. He was wearing a beanie and jeans. I’d imagined he’d be a super-creepy dude with an old-school Kiss T-shirt, a guy who hadn’t bothered to brush his teeth or hair for days. But instead, I found someone completely different. He looked clean and cool. This doesn’t mean I wasn’t careful. I was still nervous and cautious, because after all, I was meeting a random man from Craigslist and selling him my old stinky shoes. The point is that I was desperate. After a quick and nervous hello, I handed him my bag of old shoes, and one at a time, he took them out and inspected them. The heels were run down on one pair; my moccasins had a huge hole in the toe area. I’d gathered five pairs in all.
“Is this all you’ve got?” he asked.
“Well, yeah, for now,” I said with a shrug.
“I can give you a hundred and ten dollars for all of them.”
“I thought you said thirty dollars a pair?”
“Yeah, but some of these aren’t very worn out,” he said. “I’ll pay twenty dollars for the ones in better condition, thirty dollars for the moccasins. Do you want the money or not?” It was so sketchy that it felt like a drug transaction.
I paused for a second, but only for a brief one. “I’ll take it,” I said. I needed the money no matter how weird the situation.
“I might be able to bring you more next week,” I said. “We’ll see.”
“Good,” he told me. And off we went in opposite directions.
I met up with the dude at least three more times, and by the last meeting, I realized he was more of a cool guy than a creep; he even gave me some of his artwork, which was pretty good. Apparently, he was selling the shoes to guys all over New Zealand and Australia who had women’s foot fetishes. Hey—whatever floats your boat, dude. You take socks? Anyway, all I knew is that I had some cold hard cash in my pocket. In fact, by the end of it, I collected more than five hundred dollars from the guy. Never mind that I’d left myself with two pairs of shoes: black boots for work and a pair of bobos. I laughed/cried at the thought that I could’ve been murdered and chopped up into little pieces by a Craigslist killer. That move was dangerous, but as I mentioned, I had to go gangsta. I consoled myself with the fantasy of one day telling this story on The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon. I could have been totally murdered and never seen or heard from again. Haha! Then we’d play Wheel of Musical Impressions. Oh, what a hoot it would be.
By spring 2012, I’d at last saved enough cash to look for my own place. Manhattan was out of the question—rents were too high. “Why don’t you move to Hoboken?” my friend Katie suggested. She was already living there with her boyfriend (and now husband, Henry) and loved it. “It’s an easy commute to the city, it’s a cute area, and you can find a cheap place close to me.” A month of pavement pounding later, I signed a lease on a studio for $750 month. It was so small that I hit my butt on the radiator whenever I got out of bed. But hey, it was all mine—and it was affordable.
* * *
Seven. Whole. Years. That’s how long it had been since I’d seen my family. Almost weekly, Mami rang me from Madrid. “Honey, I miss you,” she’d say on my voice mail. “Please come visit. It’s not the same here. It’s nothing like Colombia. It’ll be just the two of us, no distractions. Ring me back.” I rarely did, but that didn’t stop my mother from calling again. And again. And again. Someone should give her the award for Most Persistent Parent, because I don’t know any mom who has reached out to her child more frequently than my mom—even after she’d been terribly shunned.
In Hoboken, I felt like a real grown-up for the first time. I could come and go as I pleased. I could hang out as late as I wanted, without a boyfriend blowing up my phone with texts. I could sit in peace and think, and the sort of work I did in class had me thinking a whole lot. “What is blocking you?” Marishka would ask, prodding us during our exercises. “What walls do you still have up?” Every wall I’d erected had something to do with the subject I’d chronically avoided—my family’s breakup. And yet week after week, class after class, it became increasingly clear to me that I was blocked. Majorly. When I’d try a scene, I’d have a hard time being open to certain feelings. I had trouble with intimacy. The closer I came to any emotion that made me feel powerless, the more I shut down.
In late 2012, I found myself at a crossroads. I knew that in order to get on with this next chapter in my life—to continue growing as an actor and as a woman—I needed to go connect with the woman who gave me life. I had this huge aspiration to be a successful actor, and many times I’d find myself wishing I had my mother there with me, just to share things with her. I missed Papi too, of course, but I’ve always had a more complicated relationship with my mother. In my mind, Papi had been the one who’d sacrificed so much to keep my life as steady as possible. He’d been the savior. The nurturer. The anchor. They’d both been snatched from my life, but Mami w
as the one I resented. The one who’d been in and out of my world during that critical passage when my body was changing more quickly than the circumstances in our home. I needed her, and she wasn’t there for me. Through her choices, she’d made herself a big target for deportation—and in so doing, she’d missed out on some of the most important experiences of my childhood. Buying my first bra. Dealing with my period. Boys. Growing from a girl into a young woman. Yes, I pretended, at the time, that her absence didn’t matter to me. That I was perfectly fine. That Papi’s presence was enough. I shrugged it all off as no big deal and refused to talk to anyone about it. But deep down, I judged her, and I held her most responsible for the mess our lives had turned out to be. In my mind, my father was the hero of our family’s story line—and I’d cast Mami as the villain.
Mami had relocated to Spain six years earlier out of desperation. In Colombia, she and my dad weren’t talking. I’d gradually slipped away from her. And she was struggling financially. So what was the point in staying? None. Her brother, who’d become a Spanish citizen (and who’d since retired from his work as a bullfighter), had taken her in until she could afford a place of her own. She’d eventually gotten a job as a housecleaner, saved up her money, and moved into her own small place. In some ways, she and I were on parallel paths. We were both reinventing ourselves. Starting over. Rewriting our narratives.
“Mami, I’m coming to see you,” I called to tell her early one Friday morning. The line went silent, probably because she was twice stunned: first, that I was calling, and second, that I was planning a two-week trip to visit her. “That’s wonderful, Diane,” she said, her voice shaking around the edges. “It’ll be so great to see you again.”
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