Later that morning at ten, I showed up precisely as Josh had instructed: bare-faced and wearing sweats, a T-shirt, and my combat boots. The look wasn’t difficult to pull off, given that I was more down in the dumps than I’d been in weeks. I’d gone through the motions of memorizing my part the night before, but I didn’t truly want to be there. I kept thinking. I’ll never get cast in anything, not even a Web series. I delivered my lines for the casting director, Ms. Jennifer Euston, and unlike so many others she was approachable and happy. She put me at ease.
“That was good,” she told me, “but I want you to do it again for me. And this time, I want you to make the character a lot tougher and with a lot more attitude. Let’s get it on camera one more time.” Oh good. She’s giving me another chance. She must think I’m decent if she wants me to do this over, I thought. Let me try and get into this. I stood up straight, focused myself, and launched into my first line. That’s when something unexpected happened.
The moment I began reading, I was transported. Back to Boston. Back to my early middle-school years. Back to all those times when the girls in my hood got in my face and talked trash about me “acting white.” My childhood was filled with dozens of Maritzas, and if I hadn’t chosen a different path, I’d now be one of them. In those three minutes in front of the casting crew, I brought all those experiences to my character. Then at the end of the piece, just to add some drama, I got close to the camera and yelled out an ad-lib: “Yo, fuckin’ hit me!” The team looked stunned. Sweetly, Jen said, “Great! That was it. Thanks for coming in, Diane.” I left feeling so lifted, like I had lived a little bit of truth in that moment.
Day one went by. No callback. Two days turned into a week, which turned into three. Still nothing. “Forget it,” I told Josh. “I’m sure they’ve gotten J. Lo to take the part by now,” I joked.
One day about a month after the audition, my father rang to check on me. I’d just gotten into bed to sulk.
“So how’d that audition go?” he asked.
“I think I did okay,” I told him. “But I haven’t heard anything. So you never know. I don’t even care anymore.”
“Well, did you give it your all?” he asked.
“I gave it my all, and then some,” I told him.
“Then you’ve already won,” he said.
No, Papi, I thought. I haven’t won if I don’t actually get the part. I didn’t say that to my father, of course. I just thanked him, hung up, and scooted down under my comforter.
You don’t sell your old shoes to a random dude because you want a metaphorical victory. You don’t move your entire life to New York City so you can earn the “Great Effort” trophy. You don’t tuck a blue journal of dreams beneath your pillow at age twelve because you want to end up in second place, as the also-ran. You take big risks so you can score big victories. You step out because, dammit, you want to be chosen. You want something to show for your effort. You want to be the girl who got the part. Almost as much as I wanted life itself, that is what I wished for.
Some of the Orange Is the New Black crew and Maritza Ramos.
CHAPTER 16
Orange
One press account said I was an overnight success. I thought that was the longest night I’ve ever spent.
—SANDRA CISNEROS, novelist
It’s not every day a girl gets to wear a red beak. At a makeup school in downtown Manhattan, I was having my first one ever attached, courtesy of my friend Kourt. I met this beautiful creature at the Emoticon ;) shoot a year before. She was the makeup artist on set, and I was immediately taken by her kind spirit and genuine personality. So any way, Kourt was taking classes at Makeup Forever Academy, and for her final class project, she needed a model she could temporarily turn into a phoenix using prosthetics and cosmetics. Enter me—the (near) starving artist desperate for rent money. “Makeup Forever can pay you a hundred and fifty dollars for your time,” Kourt told me. Boom—sold.
The prosthetic was huge and clunky. Kourt was doing her best to fit the latex prosthetic over my nose with spirit gum, a glue that can be used on skin.
“Can you hold still so I can get this on here right?” she said.
I could hardly speak—or, for that matter, breathe—because the nose piece covered so much of my face. “Hmmm hmmm,” I managed to get out.
“This is going to be fly,” she said. So to speak.
Just as she was gluing down the edges, my cell rang. Trying to keep my face as steady as possible for Kourt, I pulled the phone from my pocket and answered it.
“Hello?” I managed to mutter. I sounded muffled, like I’d just stuffed a ball of cotton candy in my mouth.
“Hey, Diane, this is Josh,” I heard—and for whatever reason, he sounded out of breath.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I have some news for you,” he said. “Do you remember your audition for a show called Orange Is the New Black?”
I froze. “Orange who?” I said. Kourt, who was throwing me the stink eye, motioned for me to get off the phone.
Josh laughed. “You know,” he told me, “it’s that Internet prison show you went out for. And you got it! You landed a recurring role for the character Maritza Ramos.”
I dropped the phone. “Oh my God!” I yelled, jumping up and down. The beak’s right edge slid off and dangled over my mouth. A couple of the other makeup artists and models stared over at me like I was possessed. Kourt looked at me and smiled like a proud mama.
“I got the part!” I shrieked. “I got the part!” I picked up the cell phone and pressed it to my ear again.
“Josh, are you still there?” I asked.
“Yup, I’m here,” he said, chuckling.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked.
“I’m not kidding at all,” he told me. “In fact, they want you to start filming in about four weeks.”
My head spun. “So, like, how many episodes would I get?” I asked excitedly.
“We don’t know that yet,” he told me. “Could be two. Could be five. Could be eight. But you’re in!”
After a scream-fest with Kourt, I stuck around long enough for her to reattach my beak (role or no role, I needed that hundred fifty bucks by week’s end). But once I left the school, I cannot tell you how I even got home, because the whole way there, I was in the zombie zone. Is this actually happening? I kept thinking. Am I going to be on a show for longer than five seconds? The last time I’d been so worked up was over that Kmart commercial. That was nothing compared to the thrill and shock of this. Me? For real? Some actors go years without ever landing a recurring role. I mean look, they weren’t committing to me the way they would a series regular, but I didn’t care. In my eyes, we had a little time to date and get to know each other before they fell in love with me.
By the next morning, my euphoria had turned into trepidation. What had I gotten myself into? Who was in this? What was this whole Web series thing about anyway? The crazy thing is, I’d done zero research in preparation for the audition. That’s how I am: I like to show up and just roll with things. Sometimes that strategy works for me, because I’m open to whatever unfolds; other times, that has bitten me in the ass. Josh had mentioned something about Netflix, but at the time, that didn’t mean what it does now. I thought of Netflix as a place to order movies, and although some folks were turning to Web content as their main source of entertainment, that wasn’t yet widely known. And then when I heard “Web series,” I figured that could involve anything from a few friends making a movie in a backyard to a smallish production. That’s basically why I’d dismissed it. Until I didn’t get a callback—at which point it felt like the biggest letdown of my acting career.
Over the next couple of days, I went through the same stages that a lot of us actors go through: First, there’s the zombie stage. Then there’s the super-excited stage. Then there’s the scared-as-hell “What if I can’t deliver” stage. Followed by the super-diva “Um, excuse me, do you know who I am? Guards, take him away!”
stage. In short, I was a mess. But at least I was a mess with a job!
Josh gave me the scoop on the series. It had been created by Jenji Kohan, the badass director who also created Weeds on Showtime. The show, which is based on Piper Kerman’s bestselling memoir by the same name, is set at a fictional minimum-security women’s penitentiary in Litchfield, an actual town in upstate New York (although the real-life town has no prison). The show revolves around the main character, Piper Chapman—an upper-middle-class New Yorker whose past comes back to haunt her and lands her at Litchfield alongside an, um, colorful crew of other inmates. “Some of the scenes will be filmed upstate, in an abandoned children’s mental ward,” Josh told me. Most others—including Episode Two, which would be my first appearance—would be shot in the city. I still had no idea who any of the other cast members would be, but this was starting to sound like the big time. This was a series with a full budget and its very own set.
One month and many sleepless nights later, I turned up at the iconic Kaufman Astoria Studios in Queens at 9:00 a.m. sharp. The building itself is enormous. As I roamed around looking for the Orange set, I passed through a long hallway filled with signed photos of some of the greats who’d worked there. Frank Sinatra. George Burns. Lena Horne. Paul Robeson. Productions such as Goodfellas and Hair had been filmed in the studio. In one corner of the building, I noticed the set of Sesame Street, complete with Oscar the Grouch’s trash can and the big Sesame Street sign. So cool. Just across from it was the set of Nurse Jackie. I finally spotted the double doors marked Orange.
Pure insanity—that’s what I found inside. In this huge waiting area, throngs of actors, producers, and background artists milled around. I signed in with an associate director (or AD), and then I stood there and drooled like a dumbfounded schoolgirl. Real actors, those with films and TV shows I recognized and admired, were all over the place. Jason Biggs (American Pie). Natasha Lyonne (Slums of Beverly Hills). Laura Prepon (That ’70s Show). Taryn Manning (Crossroads). I was like, What is this thing? These were actors, and I was about to work on the same show with them. Eeek! Good thing I didn’t know in advance who’d been hired. If I had, I may not have shown up. That’s how much of a nervous wreck I instantly became.
On the set, women—all shapes, sizes, and colors—were all over the place. Some of the bigger stars were chatting with each other and hanging out with the producers, but most of the rest of us, the extras and the newbies, were standing around like geeks, checking each other out. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one thinking, How will I ever measure up in this crowd? No one said much to me, nor did I speak. Whenever I’m in a new situation, I get shy. Especially when the stakes are high. And especially when almost everyone in the room has been in some of my favorite TV shows and movies.
After a few minutes of gawking, I found my way to a row of side chairs and took a seat. What’s the protocol? And should I be mingling? From the looks of it, a few of the seasoned actors had already formed cliques, probably when they’d shot the pilot months before. This must be how it goes in showbiz, I thought. I had no idea what to say or do, which is why I’ll always be grateful to the actor who broke the ice.
“My name is Uzo,” said this vibrant black woman with kind eyes. She had such a commanding presence. So regal. She smiled and extended her hand, which I shook. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“I’m Diane,” I said, fidgeting in the chair. “Diane Guerrero.”
She sat in the seat across from me. “Where you from, Diane?” she asked.
“Boston, originally,” I told her.
Her face lit up. “Really?” she said. “I’m from there too.”
I liked Uzo Aduba from that first conversation. She seemed so sure of herself but also quite warm, which brought my blood pressure back down to normal. We traded stories about Boston, and after I gave her the digestible version of my story, she told me a little about her family; her parents had come to the United States from Nigeria.
“My mom is so amazing,” she said. “She’s like my biggest fan. She was always like, ‘Zo Zo, you can do it. You have to keep going!’ And here I am.” On Orange, Uzo had been tapped to play Suzanne Warren. As in “Crazy Eyes.” As in the portrayal that would eventually earn her two Emmys and a SAG Award.
“What’s your character?” she asked me.
“Maritza Ramos,” I told her.
“Cool,” she said—and just then, the AD interrupted us to pull me aside.
“We’re sending you into hair and makeup now,” she told me. “Just go back to the right, and down the hall.” I nodded, looked over my shoulder to smile at Uzo, and stepped off.
My hair had never been longer—like down past the small of my back. The hairstylist brushed it silky and then pulled it to the side while the makeup artist started working her magic. Maritza and her Latina crew are supposed to have this ghetto glam look. Mission accomplished: By the time the team got done with me, I could’ve fit right in on the streets of East LA. Very chola-y. My liner was thick; dark brown lipstick, almost burgundy, was smeared all over my lips.
Next stop: wardrobe. A seamstress handed me a fresh set of those khaki-colored two-piece scrubs. “Put these on,” she told me. Can I tell you a secret? I love my outfit on Orange more than any other costume I’ve ever had to wear. It’s simple. It’s comfortable. It’s basic. And no worrying about how my boobs or butt will look in a tight dress. It’s also almost exactly what everyone else is wearing. (Though we all have a different signature way we wear the scrubs; we are stylish women, after all.) The fact that we had to wear the same clothing made me feel like I was part of something. A community. From day one for me, it wasn’t about coming in and trying to be the cute girl. I wanted to be a serious actor doing serious work, not the one only concerned about looks.
When I emerged from the changing area, another AD met me. “We’re running behind today,” she told me, “but we’ll come get you when your scene comes up.” I nodded. “Make yourself comfortable,” she told me. “It could be a while.” She dropped me off in another waiting area, one filled with a crop of actors I hadn’t seen earlier.
The other faces were new and fresh, just like mine. Danielle Brooks. Samira Wiley. Emma Myles. Those three were sitting in a circle across the room, cracking up and eating lunch together—and clearly already bonded. I saw an empty chair in a far corner and shuffled toward it. A few minutes later, Danielle got my attention.
“Hey, girl,” she shouted across the room, “what’s your name?” She wandered toward me.
“I’m Diane,” I said shyly when she got close.
“So why are you sittin’ over there all quiet?” she said with a grin.
“I dunno,” I said. “It’s my first day. I don’t even know if they’re going to use me. Do you think they’ll cut me? Do you usually have to sit around for a while?”
She laughed. “Wait, wait, wait—slow down, girl,” she said. “They’ll get to you. Don’t worry. Just chill. Come hang with us until they do.”
I followed her back across the room, where she introduced me to her crew. “Hey, guys, this is Diane,” she announced, “and she’s nervous she’s going to be cut. But she’s not going anywhere. Can we please show her some love?” The girls snickered and applauded. A couple of them gave me high fives. Maybe this isn’t so bad.
“So who are you playing?” Emma asked me. I told her all about Maritza, but as I spoke, I couldn’t help but notice her horrible teeth. Yellow. Like they were rotting. Gross. I was like, Damn, they’re really using real people for this.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she cut in. “I meant to tell you—these aren’t my real teeth.” I let out a chuckle, the kind that told her I’d indeed been judging her dental situation. “I play a meth head on the show,” she said. “They just smear crap on my teeth. I’m usually much better looking than this.” Hilarious.
One by one over the next three hours, the actors were called in to shoot their scenes. A couple went off at two p.m. Someone else around four
. A few others at six and nine. By midnight, only five others and I were still in the waiting room. Finally, at two a.m., my number came up. “Come with me,” said the AD. The others and I followed her to video village, that area on the set where all the directors and producers congregate. When I rounded the corner, several senior producers looked me up and down, and then they got into a huddle and started whispering. Oh Lord, I thought. They’re definitely sending me home. After a minute, which felt more like thirty, one of them came up to me.
“You look too pretty,” she said.
I raised my brows. “Huh?” I said.
“You’re too made-up for this role,” she explained. “This isn’t going to work. We need Maritza to be way less glamorous. We’re sending you back to hair and makeup.”
Off I went—and I returned without lipstick. The producers seemed to approve of the new look and escorted me to the set, one of the most basic I’ve ever seen. A cafeteria. A rec room. A kitchen. A cafeteria and commissary. And a cell with bunks inside, which is where my first star turn took place. All the actors in my scene were already there, waiting for me to return from my cosmetic strip-down. Hardly before I could gather my thoughts, the director called out, “Action!”
Long story short? I blew the first scene. In it, I get into this little dustup with a couple of the Latina girls. Three of the actors in my scene, Elizabeth Rodriguez (Aleida), Dascha Polanco (Dayanara), and Selenis Leyva (Gloria), had worked together in Episode One. They had a rhythm; I, however, had my tongue in my throat. I’d been given three lines to memorize, and I flubbed every. Single. One. “Cut!” the director kept yelling. How embarrassing. We tried it again. And again. And again. I still don’t know if the director called it a night because he was satisfied—or because, at 3:15 a.m., he was too exhausted to continue. Then again, not everything is about you, Diane. Jeez.
In the Country We Love Page 21