It was around this time that being recognized became a routine part of life. It had been an occasional occurrence before, usually by a few fans of independent films or after school specials. It was the most uncomfortable part of the job, but I would always try to be nice to people who approached me in random places. At least, as nice as I could be while trying to get my bra on/wipe food off my face/talk through a mouth full of dental tools.
In an attempt to cut down on all the recognizing, the hair had to go. My long mane fell below my waist. It might have seemed like a deliberate choice, but really, general physical maintenance didn’t appeal to me. Getting a haircut fell under the same unpleasant category as getting a root canal, so something based in laziness and fear kind of became my trademark. But after a while, the locks became my albatross. People would notice the girl with the crazy long hair first, and then match up my face with that movie they happened to see last night. It became a liability.
I sat in the bathtub one night and chopped off my hair with a pair of kitchen scissors. I felt a resounding sense of hope as twelve inches of hair fell down around me. Maybe having shoulder-length brown hair would morph me into one of the mundane teenagers I saw loitering at the mall. Maybe I could finally blend in and move with stealth though the world, like those girls who felt free to giggle loudly because they always seemed to belong exactly wherever they happened to be. It didn’t actually work that way, because as it turns out, I was still me. Just with shorter hair.
Thad a fearful respect for fans; without them, I would never have had a job in the first place, but it was a complicated relationship for a massive introvert who struggles with insecurity and shyness. Some people wonder how actors could possibly be shy, but they forget that we spend most of our lives hiding behind a character. It’s the part where we have to be ourselves that is wildly uncomfortable.
Many roles involved me being angry, perhaps about the fact that someone put a chip clip on my head.
PHOTO COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR.
Ostensibly, it should be flattering when someone in the cereal aisle says that they like you. The problem was that I always felt on the verge of disappointing them. People would say that this chance meeting was important to them; it had made their day and they were going to tell their friends about it. I wanted to provide a story to live up to their expectations. I needed to be spontaneously witty and charming and provide them with details to make it worthwhile to come up to me. It was a pop quiz on my starlet abilities, but the problem was, I was flunking. I shuddered when people started to label me as a “movie star.” I tried to correct them and explain I was just a working actor, but they waved away my words, mistaking them for humility. I couldn’t explain that the term “movie star” felt like being stuffed in a pair of too-tight jeans that left me gasping for breath.
I had watched Sally Field interact with her fans. She was downright masterful. Sally had ease and grace that boggled my mind. She was the quintessential movie star in all the best possible meanings of the classification. The public aspect of the job seemed to come naturally to her —she never looked as if she felt the need to carve up a piece of herself as an offering, or put on a show to uphold a stereotype. Celebrity looked simple and pure on Sally. I tried to study her, to mimic her movements and her energy, but when it was my time I felt like I was trying to recreate Van Gogh’s Starry Night with sidewalk chalk.
Whenever a fan approached me, the inner monologue went something like this:
Someone is coming over. Damnit, why do I always have to eat so much garlic? My breath is terrible and I bet I have something in my teeth. How the hell do I get it out before we take the photo? I should carry those little toothpicks. Oh man, I was doing that stupid Charlie’s Angels imitation right before they came over. Did they see that? They are going to think I am such an idiot. Wait. I’m smiling too big. Tone it down. I really do look like an idiot. Oh, they just asked a question but I was thinking too much about my teeth to hear all of it. What was it? I’ll say something about Robin Williams. People love hearing about Robin Williams. Photo time. I need to keep my head up a little because in that other photo I totally had a double chin. But now the shot is up my nose….a little lower. The flash didn’t work. We’ll have to do it again. Chin up. Oh, they want to hug me. I don’t think I put on deodorant this morning. Wow, this hug is lasting a long time. I should let go. Or will that make me seem cold and unwelcoming? Okay, good, she let go. Now I have to sign this napkin. Napkins are hard to sign because they move all over the place and get little rips in them. Especially because I can only use this little tiny pencil she found. What is this? A golf pencil? Oh well, that’s all she has. I really need to start carrying Sharpies. But then that would make me look like a self-obsessed moron, wouldn’t it? If I pulled out my own Sharpie to sign an autograph? What did she say her name is? Shit. I can’t spell that. She already spelled it once but she went too fast. I can’t ask her to do it again. I’ll just put “Best Wishes, from Lisa Jakub” because I know how to spell all those words. What do I do now? Are we done? Should I make small talk? Ask her where she is from? Go back to my garlic-infused meal? I’ll just smile again. But I think I still have something in my teeth. Where do you even buy those little packets of toothpicks?
That was how it went. Every. Single. Time.
Actors are afforded many unnecessary luxuries, like comped dinner checks and the first chance to get whatever thing might be the newest thing, but the luxury of being a real person is rare. Sure, you can say we are asking for it and are well compensated; however, it seems unfathomably cruel that actors are not often viewed as rightful human beings. Society tends to elevate actors, while taking away basic human dignity.
I was once in a pool at a hotel, when another guest recognized me and asked that I get out of the pool to pose for a photo with him. Not loving the idea of posing next to a stranger in my bathing suit, I politely declined, saying that if he could wait until I got some clothes on, I could do it then. He sighed deeply.
“I want to do it now. You are an actor. You owe it to me.”
It was so degrading, so dirty. I had been reduced to merely one thing, and that thing needed to be performing for him. I was a rented human, here for mere entertainment, regardless of feelings or privacy. It says something rather unpleasant about society that this is acceptable, and in fact, normal.
After Mrs. Doubtfire was released, the extent of this phenomenon became clear. I had always thought of gossip magazines and tabloids as harmless entertainment, something charmingly amusing, like mini-cupcakes or a tilt-a-whirl. At a certain point, it all became more ominous, more apparent that this was having a significant impact on our cultural norms.
We actors had always come into homes in an intimate way, showing up in the living room at the appointed time every week and making ourselves part of the family. But something was shifting. This ownership of celebrities, this stalkerish pseudo-journalism and entitlement was becoming standard. This was no longer an era in which the film industry could keep Rock Hudson’s sexuality or Marilyn Monroe’s addictions private. Now, every time a celebrity took her kids to the park or ordered a latte, there was a stealth photo of the event, complete with commentary that took a decidedly disparaging bent. Actors’ very souls belonged to the public, becoming their very own communal puppy to adore and then kick when they got bored.
But actors garner no sympathy in this regard, since we cooperated completely. We walked right into it, willingly dished up the core of our essence and agreed to never feel dissatisfied about that. It’s all worth it, just to be famous. Isn’t it? We agreed not to object to objectification.
So, this one time I kind of got kidnapped. I say “kind of” because she didn’t keep me for very long. I don’t want to be too dramatic, and to announce that there was a kidnapping, with no preface, just seems overly reactionary.
By the time I was fifteen, leaving my house had become significantly more challenging. My desperate desire to blend in became full-blown social anxiety in reaction to being swarmed and grabbed at in public places. Getting recognized in a busy public space can suddenly turn into something akin to a mosh pit. There is a shocking amount of physical contact. There is hair pulling, hugging that morphs into choking, and the thrusting of pens and cameras disconcertingly close to your eyes. Most fifteen-year-olds generally hate themselves and every inch (or, lacking inches) of their bodies, but being stared at constantly seemed to compound my typical teenaged angst.
I was working on location, and the show had its final wrap party at the home of one of the crewmembers, Pam. She lived on a farm and had acres of beautiful property. It was a perfect place for a bunch of overworked, exhausted cast and crewmembers to talk about how the shoot had gone and wonder aloud when they would be seeing their next paycheck. Pam had a wonderful array of rescued animals on her farm. She had mountain lions, wallabies and one of those big dogs that take whiskey to people stranded in the Alps. For someone who always preferred the company of animals to people, her home was paradise.
My mom was inside, hanging out with the crew, but I was enamored with a wallaby in the yard. His creepy little rat hands grabbed mine as I fed him carrots. Just as I was considering the fact that the mountain lions hadn’t gotten their due attention, a woman came up to me and said she was Pam’s neighbor and a huge fan of Mrs. Doubtfire. Her kids loved it too, she said, and her little girl cried every time I cried in the film.
“Was it fun to make the movie?” Her eyes were wide.
I answered the questions in the standard format: yes, it was fun; yes, Robin was that funny; yes, Sally was that nice; yes, Pierce was that handsome. By this point, the words tumbled out like a well-worn monologue. All the salient details were covered, I smiled at the right times and with all the manufactured enthusiasm I could manage, while still keeping an eye on the wallaby, who had started digging through my pockets for more treats.
“Would you mind popping next door and saying hello to my kids? They would get such a kick out of you.”
By that point, strange requests had ceased feeling strange. I was handed random babies to hold and would sign arms or shoes when people didn’t have a piece of paper handy, so this didn’t seem to be completely out of line. But I must have paused.
“I am Pam’s best friend and I already asked her if it would be alright with your mom, and they said it is fine if you want to come over. I’ll make sure you are back in a jiffy.”
I took a quick look back at the mountain lion enclosure. They were lazing in the sun, the tips of their tails flicking slowly. They looked like they would wait for me. I agreed and started walking towards a nearby house.
“Oh no,” she said, “I have a lot of property and it is too far, we will have to drive.”
They say (and when I say “they” I mean Oprah) that everyone has an inner voice. Something inside you knows the deeper truth of a situation and will always guide you in the right direction. I had an inner voice, but it was shy, awkward, uncertain, and eager for acceptance; not that different from my outer voice. My inner voice said something like, Wow, this seems sketchy and weird, but she won’t like you if you don’t go, so go.
I felt the deep and constant pressure to be nice to fans, so that I didn’t come across like a spoiled brat who thought she was better than everyone else. I wanted to be an accommodating good girl. It was also becoming clear that anything I did or said now had the chance to end up printed in a magazine article, fodder for “celebrity gossip.” I didn’t want to be labeled a bitchy little monster who wouldn’t go talk to a fan’s kids. They bought movie tickets and so I was obligated to perform, even when I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I got in the car and allowed myself to be taken to the “second location,” as any security expert would have called it. Fear rose up in me as we started to drive but I was also positive that my reaction was one of an overly dramatic baby, so I remained quietly scared. I decided to not put on my seatbelt, so I could jump out of the car if the situation required it. My hand stayed on the door handle to prepare for the leap, but we were in the middle of the country and there were no stoplights or signs. We never once slowed down.
I tried to remember where we were going, so I could find my way back to the farm with the security of the wallabies and my mom. I don’t know how long it took us to get to her house but it felt like an hour. The whole time she chatted away, about the age of her kids and her husband’s job but I only heard pieces of it, as my mind was mostly concerned with plotting my escape. When we arrived, I was shivering. She thought I was cold and gave me her sweater. Would a kidnapper give you a sweater? I was being ridiculous. This was embarrassing. Everything was fine. We went into the house and her three kids were sitting on the couch watching TV. They were all in their teens and had perfected the miserable teenager slouch. The coffee table was covered in cans of Dr. Pepper and the wrappers of whatever they had recently thrown in the microwave.
“Look kids, look who it is! Lydia, Mrs. Doubtfire’s daughter!” She pointed at me and I wondered if I should clarify that actually, my name was Lisa and my real parents were not inclined to cross-dress.
Her kids reacted as if she were a stray cat who had presented a half dead mouse at their feet. They sort of snarled and went back to the program. They did not get a kick out of me. This is fantastic, I thought, they don’t care in the slightest so she will take me back to the farm and the mountain lions and this will be done.
“I should get back to the party.” I tried to be assertive but my voice cracked and I looked at my feet as I said it.
“Hold on, I have to call my husband at work.”
She hurried to the kitchen and got on the phone. I sat on the front hall stairs and shivered, pulling my knees to my chest under the sweater she gave me, even though I worried that I might be stretching it out. In the TV room the kids were still mesmerized by the show, seemingly undaunted by the fact that their mother had kidnapped someone. She was fighting with her husband on the phone, trying to get him to come home early to see this prize of a child actor she had procured. He, from what I gathered, cared at the same level as his children and was trying to get her off the phone. She yelled back at him and that is when my tears started to flow.
The front door was right there, what would happen if I just bolted? But I didn’t really remember the route back to the farm, my panic blocked out any sense of direction. All the farms looked the same, what if I stumbled into another farmhouse of obsessed film fans? Plus, I hadn’t worn my glasses that day, as I thought they made me look bug-eyed, so my mediocre eyesight was not really up to a run though the rural countryside to safety. I ached with regret and fear.
She got off the phone and came over to me. My eyes were swollen and tears streaked my face. While I might have perfected the film cry with the one, slowly rolling tear on an otherwise unmarred face, I have never been a pretty crier in real life. It usually involves jagged gasping and shocking pink blotches. She seemed not to notice.
“My husband will be home soon, why don’t you watch TV with my kids until he gets here? He will get such a kick out of you.”
I started to heave, gasping for air and chocking out my words. “I want to go back, they are going to wonder where I am, please, I want to go back.”
“Oh, but he will be thrilled to meet you. It won’t be too terribly long. Why don’t you go get to know the kids?” She shooed me towards the living room.
I heaved more and she sighed at me and shuffled back to the kitchen to call her husband back. Over my chattering teeth, I could hear her telling him that he really needed to come home sooner. They fought for a while, she screamed about other times he hasn’t cared about her or supported the things she was interested in.
I was clearly going to die there. At my funeral they were going to talk about how it was my own damn fault for getting in that car. They always say don’t get in the car. I deserved to get kidnapped.
I was reaching hysterics as she got off the phone the second time. My legs were starting to get numb from holding my knees to my chest so tightly. She stood over me and looked disappointed. Her hunting and gathering project had been unsuccessful; no one was interested in her offering.
“Fine. Fine, let’s just go,” she yelled at me while she grabbed her keys and angrily marched to the car.
Did she mean it? I stood on my weak and wobbly legs and followed her like a stupid little lamb. We got back in her car and I wondered if we were really going back to Pam’s or if I was about to be scalped and dumped in a landfill. She said nothing on the whole trip back, she just stared out into the fields that blurred past. Again, I kept my hand on the car door handle. My heart leapt as things started to look familiar. Maybe she really was taking me back. I cried the tears that come when you think things just might actually be okay.
As we pulled in to Pam’s driveway I began to think that I over-dramatized this situation. Maybe she was just a really clueless movie fanatic who failed to notice that I was completely terrified. Maybe she just wanted attention from her husband and children and thought I might be able to get her that. Maybe she was just lonely and bored and I was something interesting that happened in the midst of her gloomy day, something she could tell the person behind her in line at the bank. When she pulled to a stop, I took off the sweater and got out of the car quickly, unfathomably saying “thanks” as I slammed the door shut. I saw my mother and Pam by the wallabies and ran over to them trying to hide the fact that I had been crying.
“Hey, I thought you were going to be here with the animals?” my mother said. She seemed a little annoyed that I was not where I said I would be. I was nothing but relieved.
Pam watched car and the driver as she pulled away.
“Who was that?”
Pam didn’t know the woman or the car, the woman had not talked to Pam or my mother as she had claimed. I was not able to give a description of anything that was helpful. I had such stress-induced tunnel vision that I couldn’t even describe the house, the woman, or even the kids very well. I couldn’t remember where the husband worked.
I don’t think she ever meant me any harm. She had fallen into the theory endorsed by the trash media: actors are not real humans. I had just been a little trinket for her to collect. She was so blinded by Hollywood that she didn’t notice that I was just a scared kid who never learned how to say no.
This is what gets lost in the shuffle of gossip-fueled headlines and grainy undercover vacation photos—it’s a big deal when the media doesn’t treat actors as people. It might seem like a harmless distraction but the impact is significant. When we “otherize” people, when we look past their humanity and make them inherently different from us—it’s a problem. We lose our sense of empathy and understanding. It allows us to be blinded by devotion, or unflinchingly merciless. When we turn people into infallibly divine kings or unrelatable, lowdown slime, we are doing some serious damage to our humanity. If we can just remember that people are all fundamentally the same, it doesn’t make any sense to grab a kid from a party like she’s a gift bag.