Teens these days.

(Photo: Carol Kaliff, Hearst Connecticut Media)

Today kids across America walked out of school to protest gun violence and the inability for our government to pass common sense gun control.

That’s incredible. I can only imagine being a government & politics teacher, or any other branch of history/American studies, and witnessing your students actively participating in and organizing peaceful protests. Or deciding not to participate because they didn’t agree with the protests. Either way, it’s a teach by doing moment. It’s teaching kids to be actionable instead of simply memorizing facts or spitting out theory.

Facebook is flooded with posts of alum, teachers and parents talking about the school walkouts or walk ins, where assemblies are being held in memory of the students killed due to gun violence. CNN is live-streaming the walkouts and the words of our CT Senator Chris Murphy. Across the nation kids are holding up signs stating their beliefs and desire for the adults in charge to be actionable. They are no longer complicit and trusting that adults will get the work done. The Parkland students showed them that their voice matters even when they are unable to vote. That you don’t have to wait until you’re 18 to voice political opinions.

I was young for my grade and didn’t turn 18 until I was in college. I remember being furious that I couldn’t vote in the primaries that year, even though I would be 18 by the general election. I was always highly opinionated when it came to politics, thanks to my mother who was always a well-informed citizen and my brother, who walked into the Democratic Headquarters at 16 to start volunteering. I would tag along with him, making calls to remind democrats and independents to vote, checking in on our elderly residents to see if any needed rides to polls, attending Chris Murphy’s debates when running for Congress, joining the Young Dems chapter my brother helped start and my favorite part of the process: going from poll to poll on election night to watch them count then ending back at Headquarters or a restaurant to hear the results roll in. I couldn’t vote, but I was more engaged in the political process than most adults.

Which was why I was furious when adults would undermine my intelligence in my teenage years. I would often hear that my opinions, and the opinions of my peers, were just echos of my family’s beliefs. I understand the thought, and recognize that may be true in some cases, but I could never understand why my civics teacher would take so much time explaining our nation’s workings to us, only to tell me that my opinions were just something I inherited from my parents when I got in a fight with a classmate over Bush’s reelection. Of course my family influenced my beliefs, but I was also smart enough to research and act on my own. I was old enough to hold opinions.

I remember a car ride where my mom and brother were talking a politics. I listened without much input, thinking instead of my recent civics lesson on political parties.

“What if I’m a Republican instead of a Democrat?” I asked my family.

I was constantly the lawyer of the family. I always wanted to think about situations from a different angle. A contrarian, always thinking of the other side before agreeing with my family.

“Your beliefs line up with the Democratic Party,” my mom replied.

“But what if they don’t? What if I’m a Republican instead?” I asked.

“Then you can be a Republican.”

I went home and did all the research I could on both parties. I spent hours trying to understand the difference and political platforms. I weighed policies against my moral beliefs and found that I did side with the Dems.

All of this was done my freshman year of high school. Clearly I was already intelligent and thoughtful enough to question my beliefs and recheck them against my political affiliation. My thoughts and opinions haven’t changed much. They evolved slightly with the times and my maturity. Whereas I used to think we should eliminate marriage entirely, calling everything a civil union, so we can eliminate the religious context of marriage, I’ve realized that battle gets misconstrued and calling everything a marriage is a better angle. I used to be much more fiscally liberal that I am today. I used to be pro-choice under medical necessity but am now entirely pro-choice. Tiny tweaks, but my adult mind is still in line with my teen mind.

So I still get angry that I was always underestimated. That adults did not believe that I researched my policies enough. To be fair, this still happens. I was constantly accused for siding with Hillary instead of Bernie because she was a woman, when in reality I thought she was the most qualified candidate we ever had and her fiscally moderate policies enabled me to reap benefits while still covering costs of social security and welfare.

People may say that I was a different type of teen. That not everyone was as mature. Well then, why not teach them to find their own opinions instead of dismissing them?

I think adults fall into an awful habit of thinking kids don’t know enough. We talk down to them and assume they can’t possibly understand. But clearly they do.

Today’s teens are living in a world where any question they have can be answered in a matter of seconds on their phones. Teenagers are actually MUCH better at recognizing “fake news” than we are. Aside from their obvious increased technical literacy, they’re also taught how to seek out information. As students, they have access to online encyclopedias and academic research. They’re constantly being told not to trust sites like Facebook and Wikipedia, and instead fact check every piece of information they want to use. They’re writing research reports and getting graded on whether or not their facts are confirmed. They’re much better at finding the truth than we are.

Without the ability to vote, I believe they’re getting antsy. I remember talking to my cousins, just shy of 18, about how much it sucked to be unable to vote in such an important presidential election. And now here we are, with massive school shootings happening at levels that I can’t even comprehend, and they’re done with us adults. They can’t vote, but they can speak for themselves and remind politicians that they’re voting very, very soon.

We need to stop underestimating kids and instead listen to them. That’s how I treat the kids I babysit. I never want to influence their own moral and political beliefs, so I just listen to them and encourage them to think about where they stand. The other day a kid I babysat was doing a project on trans kids and I found that she knew way more than even I did. I offered no opinions and instead just let her inform me on the topic. When I was watching some younger kids, someone came to the door who was running for local office. What followed was an hour long conversation with the kids about what their platforms would be and how they can run for office within their school. While I would steer at times, like suggesting they invest in scientific research when they said they wanted to stop all hurricanes, I let them carry the conversation.

We invest so much time and money into our kids and their education. But often when they want to show us the results of that investment, we don’t listen. While what happened at Stoneman Douglas was horrific, it is inspiring to see the students use their voices and speak up for themselves when a politician is dismissive of their question. Unless you’re a teacher or school employee, the topic of school shootings will ALWAYS impact the kids in your life more than it will ever impact you. Empower them to use their voices, especially if they’re teenagers. I’m so proud of these teens who are speaking up for the students in Sandy Hook who are still too young to speak for themselves. There are no longer only parents representing their students, but students themselves being actionable.

Keep going teens. Stand up for what you believe in and know that your mind is worthy of respect and your opinions are worth being heard.

Moving on.

When I moved to Chicago, I thought I’d leave before college graduation.

I wanted to be a teacher and it made sense to my seventeen year old self to only go to an out of state college for three years then come back to CT or NY to get certified within that state. But when I changed my major three days into my freshman year, that plan went out the window.

I was supposed to move back to the East Coast after college graduation. Actually, I did move back to the East Coast. Well, kinda. I did not renew my lease in Chicago. I packed up and planned to move home but was called in for a job interview. The day before going home, I put all of my stuff in storage then went on the interview. I figured that if I didn’t get the job, I could come back and get my stuff. Then I packed all my clothes and headed home. We immediately went on vacation for a week where I found out that I was being called in for a second interview. After vacation, I headed back to Chicago and took the job. So essentially, I just over packed for vacation

When I started working in Chicago, I had no immediate plans to leave. I always knew I would eventually end up on the East Coast, but I never had a definite time frame. My standard answer was that I would be in Chicago for two more years, which turned into three, which turned into four. Two years ago, I was ready to pack up everything and move to Los Angeles but breaking my knee put those plans on hold. I wasn’t too upset about that though because Chicago always pulled me back.

I’m nine and a half years into my extended stay in Chicago. I love this city with my entire heart. I love the people I met and the strangers who greet me with the kindness and optimism that can only be traced back to the Midwest. I love taking an hour long walk after work along the lake and finding myself still in awe of our skyline. I love the neighborhoods I lived in – Lincoln Park, the Southport Corridor of Lakeview and now Uptown. I love that I always find something new in the city like how expansive Montrose Park is or where to order the best Chicken Shawarma plate. I love when I find myself back on DePaul’s campus and replay the memories: the quad where I used to run through the sprinklers after a night of drinking, the dorm where I met my best friends, the hall where I was initiated into Chi Omega. I feel the pit in my stomach churning when I find myself by my old place on Cornelia, wishing I had enough money to buy the townhouse that I loved so much. I like the way we all gather inside for long nights of beers and Christmas lights in the winter and eat outside every night in the summer. I love Eagles games at Mad River, our annual Christmas Trolley and late nights after comedy shows at Old Town Alehouse. I love how it’s in the middle of the country so flying to either coast is not a hassle. In college I cried on every ride to the airport down Lake Shore Drive. I knew I would be back soon, but I never wanted to leave. I would strain my neck looking back at the skyline on the way to Midway until it was completely out of view.

I never wanted to permanently live in Chicago. I stand by that. For every reason I have for loving Chicago, I have another reason I want to be home. The thought of raising children so far away from my family is worse than leaving Chicago. I don’t want to be a long distance aunt anymore. I missed a lot of my nephew and cousins growing up and while I don’t regret my time here, it’s bittersweet to see all the time lost whenever I realize how old they are. While I pride myself in being a lot more present these days because I’m more financially stable, I want to be able to join in on all the little things the next generation of my family will bring. I want to be at sports games and school plays and whenever I have my own kids, I want sleepovers with cousins and dinners with grandma. Beyond family, I miss New England. I miss having four seasons instead of two and being so close to so many major cities. I don’t like that each time I come home it’s an event. I want to be able to visit with friends without feeling like I’m stiffing my family. I’d like to be able to relax instead of making sure I got to see everyone while home. And I miss New England falls. GOD how I miss New England falls. I miss the hills and the trees and the mountains. I miss the foliage and the scent of October. I miss being able to hike up real trails instead of city paths.

But each time I think I’m ready to leave, something pulls me back. It’s not easy being in love with a city so far from home. I wish New York or Philadelphia had the same vibe as Chicago.

I know that in the next few years I’ll be leaving this city. Where I’m going next I’m not too sure of. I don’t know if I want to spend a year in LA living in warm weather for once before returning to the East Coast, or if I just want to head straight home. I’m not even sure of where on the East Coast I want to live. While I’m 90% sure I’ll end up in New York City, which would split the difference between my extended family in New Jersey and my immediate family in Connecticut, I’m not positive. I may jet out to California in a year then head over to New York City a year or two later. But whatever way I split it, I have two years max left in Chicago.

I’ve set dates on moves before, so I know things can change. But the problem is that I keep on delaying my departure which makes it more difficult to leave. I fall more in love with this city with each passing year. There are some good reasons why I haven’t left Chicago, like breaking my knee and wanting to stay with my medical team until completely recovered, but the truth is that I’m also terrified. I wasn’t scared of going to college. Everyone made some sort of leap that year. And while I was constantly scared after college, it was also a normal transitional period. But here I am, in my late twenties, and there are no external forces like going to college or joining the workforce to push me out. This decision is completely self-motivated and I’m the only one that can execute it. I’m scared that I won’t find the same support group I have here. I’m worried that moving closer to my family will keep me from hustling in comedy. I’m concerned that my constant indecisiveness on where to live will be what keeps relationships from forming.

My friends in Connecticut and Los Angeles will all confirm that I’m not a great long distance friend. I miss and love them but get distracted when I’m in a different city. I push away from the ones I’m really close to because it hurts to know we no longer live close enough to be dependent on each other. I try to separate myself so I’m not disappointed when their life eventually goes on and they find someone to fill my void in their new city. I want to change these things about myself, but I know that it’s something I struggle with.

I know that Chicago will always be here to visit. But I loved being a resident. I know my close friends will remain my close friends and I’ll probably come back as often as I jet to the East Coast right now. And I know that if I ever find that I made the wrong decision, there’s a three story walkup on Cornelia Ave. that I’m more than happy to put a down payment on.

I chose the perfect city to become an adult in, both legally and mentally. Any pain or hurt is almost always the result of loving something, so I’m thankful that I found myself in a city that I loved so hard.

After almost 10 years, I’ll finally answer the most frequently asked question of an East Coast transplant: Chicago is WAY better than New York*. But sometimes the thing we love most isn’t what fits best.

*(Except for the pizza. NYC thin crust over Chicago any day.)

#Whole30

So I fell into a fad diet.

For the last 30 days, I ate according to Whole 30. After having knee surgery in October, and my team going all the way to a Super Bowl win, I wasn’t eating well. I was immobile for two months and while I tried to eat as healthy as possible, it meant a lot of canned soup and pasta. My metabolism was gone because I couldn’t do anything so I was never hungry. I’d eat maybe once a day then snack on all the sweets and easy to grab carbs.

With the Super Bowl, I spent Sundays at a bar where I’d grab a Philly Cheesesteak and a few beers. While I’m someone who loves to cook, and never cooks unhealthy food, I had a hard time with eating out and grabbing takeout. When I started walking again, I started working and going through physical therapy, both of which were incredibly exhausting, and never had the energy to cook. Living in a major city grants me unlimited access to takeout, so I would typically grab some Thai food across the street because the thought of cooking was exhausting.

I decided that once the Super Bowl was over, I’d get back to clean eating and chose Whole 30 because I have a handful of friends who enjoyed it. It was a much easier plan than others I’ve tried. There weren’t rules assigned to days or times, and there were zero to no bans on specific fruits or vegetables (except corn, which I eat maybe twice a year, and lima beans/peas, which I never eat). The rules were pretty easy – no sugar, alcohol, grains, gluten, soy, dairy, beans, etc. etc. It was easier to focus on the things I could eat: meat, fruits, veggies, most nuts and seeds. There wasn’t any measuring of olive oil, or banana ban, so it actually ended up being much easier than I anticipated.

There’s a few things that helped lead to my success. First, I love to cook. On normal days before my surgery, I usually cooked all of my meals. I prefer my own food to eating out. The oils used in takeout tend to make my skin feel hot and I just like what I like. So having to cook every single meal for thirty days wasn’t a huge challenge. It just meant that I had to take the extra time. Instead of being too lazy and sleepy to pack my lunch for the next day, I forced myself to take the fifteen minutes before bed to do it.

I also really love the taste of healthy food. Even when I’m not eating well, I still love the taste of fresh fruits and vegetables. I was never a carbs person. Growing up, I never really ate pasta or bread. So aside from revising my snacks, cutting gluten out wasn’t much different than my normal diet. I spent a third of my life allergic to dairy, another third lactose intolerant and the last third trying to convince my body to build up a tolerance, so cutting dairy wasn’t a big issue either. I never drank milk and only started liking cheese in college. I always kept greek yogurt in my fridge for a quick snack or breakfast, but never craved it. So dairy was easy to let go. The only things I really missed were hummus, brown rice, ketchup, Diet Coke and peanut butter. While I definitely wasn’t making healthy choices before Whole 30, I still enjoyed healthy food, so it wasn’t like I had to train myself to like new food.

I also never had to count days. I started right after the Super Bowl and my 30 day marker was my mom coming out to visit tomorrow. I was actually pretty surprised when I realized today was my last day. It’s helpful to not have to mark each passing day or have a countdown. Additionally, there wasn’t much going on. February is a boring month full of nights in and snowy days so I didn’t have to worry about the social aspect of it. Over all thirty days, I only had five alcoholic drinks and ate two tiny things that I wasn’t supposed to. I never felt like I was missing out.

The biggest advantage I had was my financial security. As someone who spent most of my life trying to find the cheapest groceries possible, it was a privilege to have a good enough job that I can spend $2.50 on an avocado when I don’t want to go all the way to Whole Foods where they’re half the price (surprising, yet true… their avocados are practically free). I could afford to buy almond butter, ghee and organic beef jerky. While I’d rather not pay $2.50 per Rx bar when I could get a whole box of Kashi bars for the same price, I was able to for a month. I wanted to set myself up for success, so I allowed myself to buy the pricier groceries if it meant I wouldn’t cheat on the program. If I tried doing this even a year ago, it would be much more difficult because I would have to settle for whatever produce I could afford that week.

I tried not to talk about it. I only brought it up if I had to explain why I wasn’t eating or drinking. In the past, I was that person always writing posts about what I was eating and this time around I didn’t have the desire. I didn’t even weigh myself before it. It was less about weight loss than it was about reclaiming my body after having no control over it. For two years I’ve had to bend to its every demand and I was finally able to tell it what to do. It was a bit of a cleanse. Riding myself of the long and boring recovery days and celebrating the fact I could grocery shop and cook again. I posted my food on Instagram, but that was about it.

I found that by not talking about it, I normalized the way I ate. When I was filming, I brought my own snacks in case craft services didn’t have anything for me to eat instead of sending my “dietary restriction” over. Luckily there is almost always a bunch of healthy snacks at craft services and I didn’t have to worry about it. When I was at a friend’s party, I found the things I could eat and avoided the rest. When I went out, I drank the least amount of calories possible but didn’t explain why I wasn’t grabbing my usual beer. When a friend wanted to do dinner, I offered to cook so I could make something I could easily eat. Treating it as no big deal preventing it from feeling like one.

Honestly, I feel great. I have more energy and am much happier. My 5:40am alarm clock is less menacing because I don’t feel like a sloth anymore. While the diet is meant to be just a 30 day thing, I know I’ll adapt a lot of it into my day to day routine. I’ll take back the beans, brown rice and occasional gluten but I’m more or less done with dairy. I decided to eat at least one yogurt a week so I will be able to tolerate dairy when I want to indulge in the occasional cheese platter or slice but there’s no reason to keep a container of goat cheese in my fridge. I decided to limit my sugar intake to twice a week, in whatever form I want, so I can continue to reach for an all fruit smoothie or clementine instead of tootsie rolls. Plantain chips are my new pretzels and I’ll keep a bag of frozen turkey meatballs for nights when I don’t want to cook. Dates are the new sweet and I’m only allowing myself one Diet Coke a week. When drinking, I’ll opt for a good vodka soda, or dirty martini, and try to limit my beer and wine intake.

The largest habit I wanted to break is getting takeout. I decided to create a “take out tracker” in my bullet journal. If I don’t eat out for ten days in a row, I get a free meal where I can pick up dinner or bank it for another day. If I break my streak with anything but a reward, I have to start new.

It’s nice to try a diet when your goal isn’t weight loss. Honestly I have no idea how much I weighed before this and have no clue what I weigh now. I’m trying to go for something a little more sustainable than what was popular in the past. But I can’t lie – it does feel nice to fit a little better in my jeans.

I’m back.

I decided to start routinely writing in my blog again.

There are a couple reasons for this.

The inciting incident is a conversation I recently had with someone where I was talking at length about my post “My Worst Moment in Improv”. I mentioned how, in the aftermath of that post, I started backing away from both writing in my blog and improvising as a whole. I didn’t expect so many people to read my words and wasn’t prepared for the reactions I received. I was contacted by classmates who expressed regret in not stepping in on scenes that went too far. I was contacted by too many women who shared the same sentiment. I was contacted by theaters in other cities that asked me for advice on how to implement change in their own theaters, like speaking out about an issue makes me qualified to write their harassment policy for free instead of hiring a HR rep. I started slowly, and subconsciously, backing away from improv as a whole. I was tired of having to speak on behalf of all women. I was disgusted by the handful of people who shared my words & were the same people I saw inflict harm on women in the community. I was sick of showing up in buildings, including the one I worked in, and having the words “So I read your article. To play devil’s advocate, isn’t it more dangerous to deny creativity?” being said to my face. I was frustrated that I was being asked to explain consensual scene work like some kind of expert, yet was not being paid for the energy it took out of me. I was done with men stepping up to prove that they’re “good ones” like I didn’t have the ability to read them upon meeting them. I didn’t expect the reaction to consume so much of my energy and just grew tired and disenchanted by the entire community. A lot of that was on me. I wasn’t bold enough to just tell people to fuck off. I felt a sense of responsibility to continue the conversation and educate people who were inquiring. But clearly it took more out of me than I thought, because when I look back, that article is what caused me to slowly back out of the improv game and stop writing in my blog.

Two years later and I found myself back in a class with an instructor I trusted and admired for years. During the class I did the same exercise that the article I wrote was based on for the first time since a bunch of dudes thought date gang rape is a great group scene idea and I checked out completely. I felt disconnected and just wanted to get through it. I did, without incident, and was proud and sad and just thinking a shit ton. I came to the realization that I allowed my experience a few years ago take so much from me. I was pissed at myself for letting that entire experience keep me from two things I love – writing personal posts and improvising. After a high quality long conversation on a sticky and humid summer night, I decided to throw myself back into both writing and improvising.

The second reason is because in a month, I’ll be having major knee surgery for a dumbass accident I had almost two years ago. During a rehearsal, I made a dumb physical choice and fucked up the cartilage in my knee. I have already been through one surgery and two counts of learning how to walk again and am dreading this last round. The surgery will require that I do not put any weight on my leg for about six weeks. Short term recovery (being able to walk well, swim, exercise lightly, etc.) will take six months and I should be fully recovered in a year. While I’m grateful that this will be my last surgery, and that I have really good insurance to cover a highly specialized and expensive procedure, I’m really dreading sitting on my couch again. It’s really hard to be in limbo for two years while I watch my friends go on with their careers and lives. I did not think that my mid-twenties would be defined by this injury. I hate thinking about where I’d be if I didn’t have to take so much time out for recovery. While I want to be happy for my friends and their achievements, it’s hard for me to hear about their trials and tribulations in the comedy world while I’m stuck in this knee limbo unable to do anything. Before this accident, I felt like I was constantly creating, performing, writing, and working hard to achieve my goals. I finally got some of that wind back this summer, and now I know I have a year of recovery starting soon. I cried like a baby last night upon realizing that I might have performed for the last time before my surgery. So I’m trying to be proactive and reintroduce things I can do while recovering. One of those things is this blog.

So I’m back. Because I need this outlet again. I have a lot of thoughts I’ve been bottling up and my Facebook statuses weren’t providing adequate space. 

Figure out a way to make it work

Last night I was in Second City’s bathroom after watching the mainstage improv set when I heard the following conversation:

“Mom! I know what you’re going to say about this… but I don’t care. This is what I want to do! I don’t want to do anything else. I want to do this. I’ll finish college and get my degree to make you happy… but then I’m moving here and figuring out how make this happen. I want to perform for Second City.”

“If that’s your plan, you can move in with your dad so you can feel what it’s like to have nothing.”

I was speechless. I went outside to rejoin my friends and I was just in shock. On the L home, this really bothered me. I regretted not saying anything… I know I couldn’t change the mom’s mind, but what if I just pulled the girl aside and encouraged her to do it? It wasn’t until my walk home that I realized why this bothered me so much.

I had the same exact conversation with my mom… it just ended differently. When I was 16, my family friend took me to a Thursday afternoon rehearsal at Saturday Night Live where my brother & I were allow to run free and explore Studio 8H. After sitting in the audience for a live show just a few months before, he invited me back so he could take me backstage and teach me how it all happened. We got to meet the cast & crew, saw all of the rooms backstage and were allowed to spend hours in the studio watching the show come together. At the end of the day, he handed me his copy of that week’s show and asked me to promise not to show it to anyone until after Saturday. When I got home, I ran to my mom and had this conversation:

“Mom, I know you said that I have to go to a school within driving distance… but what about Chicago? You always said that you wanted to visit Chicago. I was so happy on set today watching them work. Everyone was so nice and encouraging and they told me that if I’m serious then I need to go to The Second City in Chicago. I promise I’ll still go to college. But what if I went to college in Chicago? I think I could be good at this.”

“If you figure out a way to make it work, we’ll talk.”

I can never thank my mom enough for letting me make my own decisions. It was always that way with her. If I wanted to do something, I had to figure out all of the details. If I presented a logical case where she could see that I was serious and understood all the work that would have to go into it, she’d support my decision. At 16, she trusted me to make a major life decision. At 17, we both cried as we stood in my dorm room and stared at my new (and impeccable) view of the Chicago skyline for way too long… prolonging our goodbye in the distraction of a September skyline.

My mom gave me the freedom to take major risks while staying practical. If I wanted to go to college in Chicago, I had to work two jobs the summer before college. That lesson in balance still helps me today. My 9-5 covers my student loans, rent and bills so if I want to take comedy classes, I have to babysit & volunteer for discounted tuition.

I wish I could go back in time and chat with that college student in Second City’s bathroom. I wish I could tell her all about how I’m making it work. That it’s possible to work full time while pursuing your passion. To show her mom what a group of people chasing their dream really look like. To show her that this thought that we have nothing is the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard. I was so angry… but as my friend Sophia put it, “You have to just hope that she wants it enough to do it regardless of what her mom says.”

I’m not immune to questioning other people’s life decisions. Like everyone else, I judge people whose desires I don’t understand. Lately it has been friends of mine who choose to have children at 23. I can’t wrap my mind around how or why I would raise a child at this age. However, I have to realize that it’s not my place to tell them what to do. It’s not going to affect me either way, so why do I care at all?

It’s like Babs sings, “Don’t tell me not to fly, I’ve simply got to. If someone takes a spill, it’s me and not you.”

If someone takes a spill, it’s me and not you.

Trust others in their ability to make their own life decisions. If they’re thinking clearly and understand what’s at stake… why not just support them? What’s in it for you? If they screw up and fail, that’s their problem… not yours. Your life will remain unaffected. So please just support, support, support.

And don’t be an asshole.

How hard are you willing to work?

I’m a pretty lazy person. A lot of you may say that I’m not giving myself enough credit but ask anyone I’ve ever lived with. They’ll tell you that there are days where I only emerge from my bed to accept my GrubHub delivery. I would live every single day like this… but I have too many goals.

Lately, people have been kicking me in the ass. I had a mini freak-out on Friday night about this. I felt like all of a sudden everything was possible and it was absolutely terrifying. Before then, I was kind of going through the motions of being a comedy student. Ok, I’m going to enroll in this program then when that’s done, I’ll go over here. I’ll continue learning until someone looks at me and says it’s time to go.

The problem is that no one is going to tell me it’s time. My last improv teacher really stressed this one. He told us that you are responsible for your own success and that this whole industry isn’t linear. Someone isn’t going to come up to you the minute you finish a program and tell you that you’re beautiful and fabulous and since you have a piece of paper saying you completed a program, you’re hired. That’s just not how it works. There are too many people who want the same goal and dream… how hard are you willing to work for it?

One of my favorite teachers once told me that Tina Fey didn’t just become Tina Fey. She wasn’t always the goddess of comedy. She worked her ass off and wrote every single day so that she would get better. I have to admit that I used to say that I loved improv because there was no homework. You just showed up, got a suggestion, and did your thing. That’s not true.

I was once in a show where I got Kurt Vonnegut as a suggestion. The only thing I know about Vonnegut was that he wrote a book called “Slaughterhouse-Five” and DePaul offered an English class about his books that I never took. There’s nothing worse than that feeling of being onstage with three other people, praying that one of them knows what the hell Vonnegut is known for. Luckily, someone else did and I took their lead.

After that show, I wrote down a list of things I should know. For the past five months, I have been going over classic movies, books and TV shows that I previously knew nothing about. I gave myself homework. It’s not that you have to know everything – that’s just impossible. But if someone in the audience shouts out To Kill a Mockingbird and I know nothing about the book because I relied on SparkNotes in high school, I’m going to look dumb. Dumb isn’t funny. Maybe there are like two bros in the audience who think that you’re funny for improvising a scene about how you have no idea what To Kill a Mockingbird is. But bros aren’t the ones hiring you, directors are. Directors don’t just look for funny people, they want you to be memorable. They want people to remember how smart you were when you took To Kill a Mockingbird as a suggestion and improvised a scene where you called all authority figures by their first name because that’s what Harper Lee taught you to do.

Additionally, no one makes it just by being a good improviser. Actually, let me retract that statement… because I don’t know if it’s true. Maybe there’s some super talented dude who just improvised… but for most of us, you have to be able to do it all. You have to act, write, sing and have some super cool talent that makes you different (I can shove six pens in my cheeks, thank you very much).

For awhile, I was coasting. I think the reason people really started pushing me is because they realized that I can write. I literally had someone come up to me the other day and offer me an audition slot for a show because he found out that I write. So many people find an excuse. Oh, I don’t do that. I’m not a writer, I’m a performer. My writing teacher summed it up perfectly the other day by pointing out that people are just scared of concepts. She mentioned that a lot of people hate writing satire in fear of the word alone. It sounds fancy, so people assume that it’s difficult. You don’t have to be a political science guru to write good political satire. You don’t have to be the best writer on the planet to call yourself a writer.

At the end of the day, figure out what you really want. Then make a list of everything you have to do to allow yourself the best chance of success. When I started this whole journey, I told myself that I can deal with failure as long as I know that I did everything in my power to make it work. That I could look back on it all without regrets. So on Friday, after allowing myself a vent sesh with my roommate to deal with the freak-out, I wrote a list. I have to eat healthy and make going to the gym a priority again. I have to write something everyday, no matter how long. I have to audition for shows that my conscious tells me I won’t get. I have to put money into my savings account so that financial stability will never be the reason I turn something down. I have to be responsible for my own success.  

After my list was complete, I put it somewhere I could see every single morning with the words “How bad do you want it?” scribbled on top.

How hard are you willing to work?

I’m not lucky.

I’m not lucky. But I always say that I am.

If anyone compliments me on a good show, I say that I’m lucky it hit hard. When an event that I’m in charge of goes well, I say that I’m lucky it all came together. Whenever I catch a glimpse of the skyline at sunset as I’m riding the L to Second City, I feel so damn lucky to be living the life I always wanted for myself.

But none of that is luck.

There are very few things that happened in my life thus far that I can truly attribute to the luck of the draw. Here’s what I can think of:

– Being born into the family I was born into

– My dad being hit by a bad driver

– Winning a $10 Amazon gift certificate at my company’s holiday party

That’s about it. All of those events were just randomly selected. They could have happened to almost anyone. Everything else is clothed in hard work, courage and an immense amount of trust. To say that I’m lucky would be to discredit myself. Things didn’t just happen. I worked really, really hard to be where I am.

So if I’m not lucky, then what am I?

I’m proud. The writer in me wishes that I had a better, fancier, word to describe how I feel at this point in my life but I always come back to pride. I’m really proud that I had the courage to unapologetically move to Chicago when I was 17. I’m proud that the heartbreak I’ve endured throughout my 5.5 years here never drove me away. I’m proud that I always found a way to make it work – whether it’s financially, emotionally, logistically or emotionally. I’m proud that I have the courage to trust in the unknown instead of fearing it.  I’m proud that I have the patience, humility, endurance and confidence it takes to chase a dream that people don’t always support.

I’m realistic and optimistic. I see that the glass is only half full… but it has potential to be completely full (oooooh, so philosophical). I understand the way things are now. I’m not naïve and I don’t avoid the truth because of rose colored glasses. But at the same time, I’m a survivor and survivors understand that it gets better. It always gets better. This applies to everything – mean people can become nice… a better job will come along and make that bad job seem like a distant memory… clearly there’s a theme here. When life throws you a curveball, cry it out. Have a Netflix marathon. But never, ever forget that just because today is bad doesn’t mean that life sucks.

I’m intelligent. Katie Novotny once said that Harriet M. Welsch once said, “I want to learn everything I can, and I write down everything I see.” I read, observe, write, question, wonder, daydream and study just about everything. Therefore, when I have to make a decision about my future, I’m not blind. I put myself in the best position possible before leaping. When I was 16 and went to SNL, I didn’t just decide on the spot to be a comedian. I researched where everyone came from, how they trained, how long it took. When I realized that I should go to Chicago, I found a college that fit my personality. I researched flight prices and presented my case. I finished my degree before taking a single comedy class. I let myself live life a little.

I’m hard working. I honestly work really, really hard. Tonight, for example, I have a 12 hour workday that includes an event we’re hosting. Directly from the event, I have to cab it to Second City Training Center because I have a show that goes up at 10:30. That’s a fairly normal day in my life. I know that I have to keep my 9-5 to afford my lifestyle but still find time to work hard on my goals in life. Instead of going out to eat or shopping in the organic section, I live off of $20 a paycheck for groceries & choose to babysit most weekends instead of going out because my comedy classes are super expensive. I sacrifice a lot and work really hard.

Finally, I’m thankful. I see thankful as a great replacement word for lucky. While lucky implies that you didn’t have to work for the result of a product, thankful just means that you are appreciative of the result. That you don’t take what you have for granted. I’m thankful for the incredible people in my life and the lessons I constantly learn from them.  I’m thankful that I am happy and healthy – two things that I had to work very hard to achieve. I’m thankful for my family, the freedom I experience in my country, and of every single day I have here.

So… with that said, I promise to not call myself lucky anymore. There are much better words to use.