When you meet someone you respect and admire, do your best to hang on to them. Be in touch. Listen well and apply the lessons they help you discover when you see fit.
Be prepared for gaps along the way. There are times you may find yourself without a mentor or someone close who has perhaps trod a similar path. These are the times when you’ll stand in the gap for yourself. You’ll show up for yourself and collect the memories from your triumphs and spectacular failures to share with the young person who will look to you as a mentor soon enough.
You may find that a mentor who’s achieved goals similar to your own doesn’t quite exist in the way you’ve imagined. All that means is … lace up! You’re the person. You will blaze the trail and become the mentor you’ve always dreamed of.
* * *
I sat in the front of my mentor in 2011, shortly before my thirtieth birthday, and the future felt gravely uncertain. I was depressed and in real need of advice from somebody who could help me see my way out of a painful spot. After weeks of weighing my options, I had all but made up my mind to end my acting career in favor of something—anything—more stable. I looked to Stuart K Robinson to guide me toward the stability I craved.
When I pulled into the driveway of his house a few years prior to this moment, I knew there was a great deal I could learn from Stuart, but I hadn’t predicted that he would become someone whose counsel I would seek regularly in years to come. At the time, I had been on a few dates with his daughter, Nicolette, and the dinner that night had been carefully planned for me to meet the whole family and (hopefully) pass muster.
Meeting all the Robinsons brought out a sense of home and family for me that has only deepened since then. And meeting Stuart opened my eyes to new possibilities for my own path. Stuart managed to put two kids through college, and buy a home, and a vacation home, and take his wife out to dinner every now and then, and he did it all somehow without ever becoming a household name.
Obviously, I was familiar with the African-American actors and entertainers in Hollywood who achieved superstar status against the odds. Who wasn’t? Will Smith, Samuel L. Jackson, Whoopi Goldberg. Some you know by first names alone. Denzel. Oprah. These superstars have names you’ve heard often and bodies of work you know extremely well.
You wouldn’t really hear about the blue-collar success of someone like Stuart outside of his large but mainly local sphere of influence.
But Stuart had made it in my eyes. He started out as an actor and then made the move to other areas of the business. He found success in casting, teaching, public speaking, and even as the COO of a major commercial agency in Los Angeles. He built a life for himself and his family in this industry and found a way to successfully sustain it for forty years.
Yeah, I knew Stu could teach me a lot.
We’d come to share quite a bit over the years, but his finest hour as a mentor and friend came at that very moment in 2011 when I needed it most.
Some of us have a sense that we have to figure out everything on our own. We mistakenly think that being in need of help or advice is a sign of weakness.
Give your friends and mentors the gift of showing up for you.
Can you identify the three to five people who love you most? They want to help you. They want you to win. Reach out. The first step out of any depression or stagnation is asking for help. One vulnerable conversation with Stuart and I was never the same.
The uncertainty and feelings of being stuck were different from what I’d felt before. After the major breakthrough and other lessons of growth in my twenties, I was no longer plagued by the lack of inspiration in my work. I’d seen a change in myself in front of the camera. I was taking more risks, and the risks saw my booking rate increase. I was booking relatively big jobs and making fans at the networks. If the phone was ringing, usually it meant I was working. That was good enough for me. What I couldn’t figure out, what I couldn’t stand anymore, was all the time when the phone wasn’t ringing.
The final straw had come in connection to a pilot I’d recently done. It’s true I had done pilots before but there was something different about this one. I had fought for the role and won it after seven or eight auditions. The show was interesting and sexy with a winning cast and producing team attached. I had my hopes set on a series pickup and a six-season run. Short of that I was sure that being part of such a high-profile project would get the phone ringing even if we weren’t picked up. I was wrong. After it was all over and the pilot didn’t become a series, I found nothing had changed. The needle hadn’t moved at all. I was in exactly the same spot. The lack of control was enough for me to want to throw in the towel and focus on something—anything—more secure.
* * *
WHAT I COULDN’T FIGURE OUT, WHAT I COULDN’T STAND ANYMORE, WAS ALL the TIME WHEN the PHONE WASN’T RINGING.
* * *
The fact that I was a part of the small percentage of union card holders in Los Angeles to find themselves employed in the entertainment business meant that I was achieving success. But when even success starts to feel like failure, it’s time to make some changes.
Stuart had found tremendous success in other areas of the business. The face time I’d requested was not to get Stuart to tell me how I could make it as an actor. I was done with that. I wanted the opposite of the life I’d been living.
Stu, having heard me out, nodded in silence. He then took a long sip of his water, taking extra care with his word choice. I’m sure he could see and feel that I was pretty fragile and wound up. The truth is that I was in “a bit of a state.”
Stu confirmed and reassured. He said of course I had the freedom to quit and try something new with my life. He said that we could talk about other possibilities if that’s what I wanted to do. And then he spoke the words that would change everything: “But I’d love to see you try before you quit.”
His words felt like a punch in the gut. A well-intentioned punch, but a gut punch just the same.
He wanted to see me try? What did he think I did in these audition rooms? How did he think I’d managed to gain any ground in the nine years I’d been in LA? Still … I listened.
“You don’t think I try?” I asked in earnest.
Stu drove the point home. “I think you do extraordinarily well when you’re called upon. I think you show up and you’re confident because of your preparation.” He paused and asked the million-dollar question, “But what did you do on your own behalf today? Did you do anything other than wait? Did you call anyone? Did you send an e-mail? You have great relationships with people who know your worth. Do they even know you’re out of work?”
Whoa.
The questions embarrassed me because I knew exactly what he was driving at. I wasn’t doing nearly enough to help myself. It was a total blind spot. I’d been sitting on my hands. I could feel the clouds parting as my mentor went on.
“You could get a band together and go to all the local coffee shops. They’d love to have live music. You haven’t been singing at all.” He reminded me that I had never explored commercials or voice-over work. “I’ve invited you to take my class for the last year. You could start there.”
I was a bit ashamed not to have thought of any of this sooner. I almost couldn’t wait for our session to be over so that I could get to work for real.
Stuart taught a commercial class in town that was renowned. It was probably only because he was Nicolette’s old man that I had ignored it for so long. I enrolled in the beginner’s class and started the following week.
My class was primarily made up of novices and newcomers. You could tell sometimes by the wardrobe or the drawl. Mostly you could tell from the sunny dispositions. These people were excited. They were stoked to be getting their commercial careers under way, and to be learning the secrets to success from the man they’d heard so much about.
I was less sunny, of course. Pros aren’t sunny.
My heart and ego were still pretty banged up and bruised—but I thought I was hidin
g it well.
The first lesson came early.
Stuart told us we were auditioning for a toothpaste commercial. He sent us to the front of the room in groups of four and went down the line with a camera as he asked innocuous, casual questions while filming each response. What’s your name? How tall are you? What’s the last great movie you saw? Or—What’s your favorite dessert?
Sometimes there was a follow-up question and sometimes there wasn’t. The whole thing took maybe forty-five seconds a person. He made his way through everyone in the class in twenty minutes or so.
I’d been clever and charming, I thought. Simple enough. I didn’t know what the test was exactly, but I thought I did all right. As far as I could see, there was varying success from the class on our first assignment. Some of the newest and most inexperienced members of the class couldn’t think of an answer to Stu’s question at all. They’d smile bashfully and search for words. Some would answer confidently and go for a joke to ease tension.
I watched each one and tried to see it through Stu’s eyes. I had no idea what he’d be looking for, but I tried to guess. Pros are easy to spot, I thought.
“All right, so—” Stu began, when everyone in the class had been recorded. “There are times in a casting office when we’re extremely busy and doing other things while the audition tapes play silently in the background. We’re looking for a spark, a transmittance or warmth and feeling, even in silence.” He muted the sound. We watched playback of the toothpaste exercise we’d just done, in silence.
What message are you sending out even before you open your mouth? What soundless story is your body telling when you enter a room?
It was astonishing to see how fresh and inviting the newcomers were. A bashful and honest smile was worth a thousand canned safe responses any day. With the sound off especially, the novices were killing it.
Then it gets to my forty-five seconds on the tape and … I could see so clearly the difference between the newcomers and me, and it wasn’t the fact that I was “a pro.”
The difference that I could see was as plain as day. There was a film of corrosion and jadedness over me that had to be stripped immediately. I’d misjudged the newcomers. It was me who had much to learn.
* * *
YOU WOULD CALL the SUNNY NEWCOMER BACK TEN out of TEN TIMES BEFORE YOU’D WANT to SEE the JADED GUY AGAIN.
* * *
Years of heartbreak and rejection had made me guarded. I was tight and tense, and it wasn’t being hidden well at all. You would call the sunny newcomer back ten out of ten times before you’d want to see the jaded guy again.
When I broke it down for myself later that night, I came up with a plan of action. I made a commitment to myself to come rushing forward in the rooms I was invited into.
No hanging back. No waiting to find out if it was “safe” before bringing what I have to the table. I am bringing it regardless! Moving forward, I would risk the rejection and take more responsibility for the energy I was carrying with me into rooms. I would be as fresh and as free as the newcomer.
The lesson of the Saturn Return was a reminder that we each have a choice. Do we let the past dictate our future? Or do we come rushing forward with the best we have to offer?
* * *
A week after my very first class with Stuart, I booked two national commercials and a great part on the Don Cheadle vehicle for Showtime called House of Lies. After the second and third classes, it was a part on Supernatural. A week after that I had to leave the class completely because I was on a plane to New York as an added cast member on a new series for NBC, Smash.
For the rest of my life, I will credit Stuart K Robinson for getting me off my couch. I made a commitment to myself that I would never again sit in inaction, waiting for the phone to ring. I was ignoring at least half of my responsibility as a businessman.
What are you ignoring today? What did you do to help yourself today? Who did you call? What did you read? Did you take one step toward something that makes you come alive today?
If you’re willing to take one humble and meaningful step toward making a dream come true, the Universe will take two.
You will be aided. You will get the help you desire and desperately need. Take the step. You’ll win or you’ll learn.
CHAPTER 7
HAMILTON ACT 1: OUR TOWN
An artist spends their whole life trying to get back to the place where their heart was first opened up.
—SOME GENIUS
Twenty seconds. Eight bars.
That’s how long it took in July of 2013 to feel the irrepressible tug of history in the making. The lights had barely gone down on the first-ever staged reading of The Hamilton Mixtape at a festival of new works on the Vassar College campus in Poughkeepsie, New York.
The reading started, and in a blink I was transported right back to that record store in Philadelphia where I first heard the entire Rent cast album standing on my feet at a listening station—that place where my heart had first been opened up. I knew right then that I’d been waiting for my whole artistic life to feel the feeling once more.
Nicolette was on the campus for the summer, working on a piece she loved. I visited often to watch my favorite performer in action. I’d catch other new shows in performance whenever I could. On the festival’s schedule there were two performances listed for The Hamilton Mixtape at the one-hundred-seat Powerhouse Theater. Both sold out almost immediately.
This new work was from the creative team behind In the Heights, after all. As its composer and lead performer, Lin-Manuel Miranda had won Tony and Grammy awards for his work in the semiautobiographical musical celebration of the Manhattan neighborhood where he had come of age.
In the Heights had closed a couple of years earlier. The industry eagerly awaited the sophomore outing from the talented young man and his cabinet of collaborators. The pre-excitement meant that even in the development stage, scoring a ticket to see the new work was nearly impossible. Not even a tweet to Lin could get me in.
I had made friends with a few ushers during my frequent trips to see Nic. My powerful friends with flashlights saw to it that when the lights went down at the start of the reading, I was able to grab an empty seat in the very last row of the tiny theater.
The Mixtape included only act one at the time. Act two was still very much a work in progress. But the first twenty seconds gave us a glimpse into something extraordinary. It was multilayered brilliance made all the more powerful and resonant because of the well-chosen multiethnic cast of performers giving their hearts to the material. Lin’s score was so bold and fresh and confident. For me, hearing it for the first time is what falling in love feels like.
I had met Lin only briefly before. Our paths had crossed a handful of times at social events or at the theater. I knew that The Hamilton Mixtape was not a fully realized show yet, but what they had already was so special. What they showed us that afternoon at Vassar was once-in-a-lifetime special.
By the end of The Hamilton Mixtape, I was emotional for all kinds of reasons, some of which I can barely explain.
I know now that part of my reaction surrounded lingering questions I had about translation and the things that get lost along the way when going from one language to another. Less than a year prior to taking my seat in the back of the small theater at Vassar, a hundred-year-old text had illuminated a cultural blind spot for me. I’d been wrestling with existential questions it presented for months … and though I wouldn’t have been able to explain how or why in that moment, The Hamilton Mixtape felt like the answer.
* * *
For actors of color, a large determining factor of our success in the business is closely related to how good we are at translation.
Flashback to the hundred-year-old text—I was cast in a benefit reading of Thornton Wilder’s lasting and iconic Our Town for the Actors Fund in New York. The one-night-only event would feature the talents of B. D. Wong, S. Epatha Merkerson, Celia Keenan-Bolger, and others whom I had
long respected and admired. These types of nights can be a lot of fun, but preparation is key. They’re well attended by industry insiders. The evenings are relatively low stakes but very high pressure. You want to feel good about how you did because there are no do-overs.
A couple of days before the first rehearsal, while preparing to play George, the young male lead of the piece, I found myself smack-dab in the middle of a mild identity crisis when asking myself the question: But who am I really?
You see, Thornton Wilder’s beautifully wrought Our Town was never intended to be My Town. By that I mean, even though Our Town tells the story of the fictional Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire—a stand-in for a kind of Everytown, USA—when looking at context clues from almost every major production of the seminal work, there don’t appear to be any people of color drawn in Wilder’s quintessential American town.
Fine.
Our Town, which follows the lives of George Gibbs and Emily Webb and those of their families, and some of the town’s other residents, did have universal dimensions, to be sure. The play is set in 1901 and takes place over a period of twelve years. Narrated by an omniscient “Stage Manager,” the script takes us through different life stages that run the gamut from the mundane to the peaks of romance and marriage, and the lows of death and loss. At the time of its debut, Our Town—staged with no scenery and no curtain—was considered to be a radical departure from traditional theater.
After a thorough read of the play, it was time to begin the process of finding honest, empathetic pathways to a credible portrayal of George. It always begins with as strong a vision as I can conjure of myself inhabiting the world of the play. But this time, try as I might, I couldn’t get a clear vision.
I couldn’t apply much of my American experience to Thornton Wilder’s New England town. In my deep dive, I had serious doubts about whether Mr. Wilder wrote his play with an eye toward the color-conscious casting of his seminal work at some distant point in the future.
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