Once upon a time I did stand-up comedy. Yes really.
Sometimes I was even funny.
I was incredibly comfortable because I had done a ton of stage acting and, as a child, had the temerity to walk right up to a director and announce that I would like “to do that.” THAT being acting.
In the midst of my brilliant stand-up career (told you I was funny) I met an amazing man named Paul. Paul took a liking to me for whatever reason and once got me a role in a potential show – one of those docuseries types with reenactments. I was a reenactor.
I love acting so I took it seriously.
There was one scene we had to shoot where I was one of many immigrants trying to hide from immigration. I was among a group that included my wife and child. In the scene ICE agents were banging on the door before they came barging in and I was trying to hide and protect my family.
Dear reader, the acting I did came from a place I didn’t know existed within me. Shakespeare was a cakewalk by comparison. I could feel something inside of me crack as I covered my wife, urging her to keep quiet while I was scared out of my mind at the prospect of being caught. In those few moments I let myself feel the absolute fucking fear that I have otherwise been so fucking fortunate to never have to experience for real. I leaned in and at some point I realized I was crying.
When we wrapped I felt bewildered and emotionally spent. I could see the same look of bewilderment on the other brown faces. The knowledge that were it not for the dumb luck of being born on the right side of some arbitrary line someone else could be reenacting that moment of our real lives.
The pilot never got picked up.
That scene will never leave me.
