I hated the angel at this point but responded politely. Any sign of annoyance and they might think I’m difficult to work with.
“I got my training in the UCLA theater department, so I’m confident I can play a wide variety of roles! And yes, my parents moved to New Jersey, where I was born, from India—”
“Okay, right, so you’re not even Latin. I can’t cast you. I mean the role isn’t written Latin, but that’s the only way I could have cast you. You’re a very good actor, by the way. You’re really good. It’s just too bad. That you’re not Latin.”
There was nothing to discuss further. I was the wrong kind of brown. The head of casting for the WB didn’t want to waste her time auditioning me. Not when there was a room full of white actors with less training out there waiting for their shot.
* * *
Experiences like this were common and maddening, because they undermined my ability to make creative choices as an actor. While other newcomers got to create backstories, develop their craft, and showcase their talents with fifteen-minute auditions, I found myself kicked out after reading just one part of a scene, or relegated to playing tired stereotypes, regardless of how much I prepared. I felt like I was going nowhere artistically or professionally, and my cynicism deepened. An actor’s job is to emote, but in the face of racism, it becomes necessary to put on what others see as a professional game face while burying feelings of anger and rage. It’s emotionally draining, creatively suffocating.
I grew to expect bad behavior from casting directors as a rule rather than an exception. I learned to believe all producers would ultimately require a reductionist accent. When I did find a promising audition, I thought to myself, Oh, they’re bringing me in for the part of a guy named Ryan. I’ll never get it since it’s not written for an Indian American dude. It was clearly a defense mechanism, something to take the sting out of the constant bullshit. Unfortunately, it was also turning into self-sabotage.
I felt so beaten up that I stopped my dedicated preparation routine. I no longer focused as much on doing well at auditions, because I knew in my heart I wouldn’t get those parts anyway. Once I stopped giving one hundred percent, this pathetic self-pity only made the self-fulfilling prophecies come true: Without believing that my hopes and dreams were possible, I was not preparing. I hated every audition. Now that I was unprepared and hating every audition, I was not getting jobs. But most damningly, I was the one who decided—before the producers themselves had—that I was not worthy of a role. Even a stereotypical one that might have given me a coveted résumé credit or paid another month’s rent.
Time went by. More odd jobs as a messenger or driver or production assistant or extra. A few months, then a few more. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t passionate about anything, so what difference did time make?
As one year of wallowing in self-defeating behavior was about to turn into two, I faced this reality: If I’ve already given up, what is the point of wasting all this time? I told myself to consider law school. Become a teacher. I took the bus to the library and checked out LSAT prep books. My parents sensed where I was at, and again urged me to consider a practical backup plan. This time I didn’t oppose the idea. I read articles on getting a real estate license and spiraled even deeper into self-doubt. My friends didn’t quite know what to make of things; they were at work all day so whenever I wasn’t doing odd jobs to pay the rent, I was usually home alone.
Why had Kaz bothered encouraging me? Maybe I should have listened to Mrs. Cummings, taken another whack at the multiple-choice Scantron, and found something more suitable.
I was in the shower one morning when the devil and the angel popped back into my brain. They didn’t argue with each other. This time, they joined forces and picked a fight with me. You’ve had a bad attitude for so long, they said. You’ve spent lots of time figuring out how to quit without actually doing it. What’s the holdup? If you’re going to leave acting, leave.
I listened to their bullying until all the hot water was gone, which is when I realized: I hadn’t formally quit because I couldn’t quit. I was more down and lost than I’d ever been, and in spite of this I could not really give up acting. As much as I’d flirted with the idea, I knew that if I walked away from chasing this dream—from my desire to tell stories that might make audiences feel emotion, bring them into worlds they might never have a chance to enter in reality—I would regret it for the rest of my life. That’s the difference between a professional artist and someone with a great hobby: If I gave up on acting, there would be nothing to fill that creative void, which I love in the deepest part of my soul.
Also, for someone who needs to touch their pregnant character’s breasts in order to learn basic algebra, the LSAT is a really hard test to study for.
* * *
I changed my mindset and developed a strategy. First, I couldn’t afford to waste time and energy being upset with racist casting directors or bigoted producers. This didn’t mean I was suddenly not angry when I encountered them. As much as I still wanted to scream and kick them in the throat, their bullshit didn’t deserve all my energy.
Second, I embraced the difficult calculations I’d have to make. I’m brown, period, and this is a white boys’ game. If the best characters that writers, producers, directors, and casting teams can come up with are tired, unfunny stereotypes that we’ve seen a million times, it’s a reliable sign that the individuals I’m dealing with are seriously short on talent themselves. This reflects badly on them, not me.
Third, I had to differentiate passion from desperation. It was silly to view all job opportunities as equal. If something was a genuine, well-written part, I’d go all in. If I had to work ten times harder just to get the same shot as some dude named Braden from Iowa, I’d do the work. I couldn’t change the number of frustrating casting directors or stereotypical auditions I was going to encounter—that part was out of my control. So, unless there was a potentially career-changing business or creative reason to participate, I would focus on things within my control and make a concerted effort to respectfully decline the one-dimensional roles. What I wouldn’t do is show up to auditions unprepared and angry, as if I’d already lost the part.
I got my shit together and resumed going to auditions with my head held high.
1?An interesting piece on the demand for young actors at the time: https://www.nytimes.com/1999/05/17/arts/for-all-the-tv-pilots-there-s-just-not-enough-youth-to-go-around.html.
CHAPTER EIGHT ON FIRE
Barbara Cameron’s associate Laura was beaming with excitement on the other end of the phone. We talked a few times a week and I had never heard her like this. “Honey, I have a fantastic audition for you! It’s a big part in a teen movie called Van Wilder, come to the office right now so I can talk to you about the script and the character!”
My calls with Laura and Barbara were always very warm. An actor’s agent ends up being everything from a math expert （you’re not making enough money from acting to pay your rent） to a psychologist （get another job and don’t spend so much on drinks—you can’t even afford rent） to a moral compass （just take a Xanax instead）。1 It just wasn’t common for them to ask for an in-person meeting. That’s how I knew, whatever this Van Wilder movie was, it was huge. Getting to Barbara Cameron’s （non-porn） guesthouse office at the far end of the San Fernando Valley during rush hour was a gigantic hour-and-a-half-in-traffic pain in the ass. Though I had moved beyond my share of the Panoch （I saved up and bought a very-used Toyota Paseo with a salvage title after graduation）， I was too excited to drive all the way out there. I needed Laura to tell me about this fantastic audition now.