“All right,” she said, closing my door and leaving my room. I inhaled that book. I couldn’t put it down. It was both a hard and easy read. Precious was a character sadder than I’d ever encountered in either life or fiction. She was also filled with more hope than I personally could ever muster up. I was excited to see this book adapted to film. At this point, I’d like to remind you that I’m being completely honest in this chapter and every chapter in this book. I have an insanely good long-term memory so I remember all of this.
So if I told my mom to make the leap, to play Mary, why’d I say no to the idea of auditioning for the role of Precious? Because it didn’t make any fucking sense! I wasn’t an actress. I was in school for psychology. That’s what I was going to be. A professional in the field of psychology. Sure, I was so depressed that making it there was unlikely, but I digress. Mom was the star. She was the artist. I had suffered through her dreams of stardom enough for two lifetimes. She was talented, but still she and Ahmed and I had slept in a bunk bed for five years. I’d seen Mom’s talent and drive but more of her sacrifice and rejection. Dreams are dreams. Reality is something different. Reality is the electricity and cable being cut off for late payments and sleeping in the living room so that your children can each have a room of their own. No, thank you. I wasn’t strong or talented enough to dream like Mom did.
Strangely enough, I discovered that I liked acting soon after this. Not that I thought of it as acting at the time. I was staying with Crystal at her mom’s house in the Bronx. I think her mom could see that I was on the verge of a breakdown, and she said that I could live with them for the summer. I needed the change of scenery. Crystal was a theater major at Lehman College, and she was in her first play there that summer of 2003. Peter Pan. She played an Indian and a pirate. I was bored and sad a lot, so Crystal suggested I come to rehearsals. Seemed like a good way to let the day pass. I became an Indian and a pirate also. It wasn’t much, but it was the most fun I’d ever had. Crystal’s friends became mine. I was still very sick and depressed, but at least I was around other people. AND there was a bar near the school that didn’t card so I discovered booze. That shit is delicious, and it would often help me forget that I was sad! Hooray! (I don’t recommend it, but I don’t don’t recommend it.)
The director of Peter Pan was super fun but intense. His name was Guy Ventoliere and he scared the living shit out of me. I didn’t know how to act like everyone else in the play. They were in school for theater and I was just killing time. The difference was evident. When the set for the play was built, I immediately broke an entire staircase by hastily jumping off it (seriously). Once during rehearsal, Guy called me out for watching the scene instead of being in it. These are two different things, but I hadn’t realized it until Guy told me to get my shit together and be more mindful of my surroundings. When I sang “Pirate Song” with the other actors, Guy called me out again.
“Gabby. Your singing. It’s too good.” (I know I’ve already said that my family trait is confidence and big talk, but swear to God, I’m not making this part up!)
“You want me to stop?” I asked, too scared of him to take the compliment.
“No. Make it your own.”
“You want me to be louder?” I always thought the answer was to be louder.
“I don’t know. Just make it your own.”
“I can sing the harmony if you want.”
“Yeah! That’s great. Do that.”
I loved being in that play. I remained very afraid of Guy and very sick, but doing that play for an audience of children was the most important thing I’d ever done. It was a way to fill my life with more than just constant sadness. Dark yo.
After Peter Pan, there were auditions for The Wiz. All of my new friends were auditioning so I decided to audition, too. It was fall, but by now, I was officially not going to college and enrolled in therapy. Theater became my lifeline. I was cast as Glinda the Good Witch. Dope. I was having actual fun at night while attending my therapy classes during the day. No one except Crystal knew about this. I am still grateful to her for keeping my sickness under wraps with her friends and also for dealing with my rampant mood swings. I was very hard on her. She was the closest person to me, so I often tried my best to make her feel like shit for the crime of being a normal, blossoming woman. I was often just mad that she wasn’t as sad as I was. She was very kind to share her friends, her plays, and her college experience with me. She remains one of the better people I’ve encountered in my life.
One day while she and I and a few others were waiting for rehearsal to begin, a woman walked over to me. She had walked past us about twice before approaching. None of us knew her.
“Sorry, I just have to tell you something,” she said. “You’re going to be famous one day.”
“What?” I asked. Shit, you’d think I’d be used to it by now, right?
“I’m psychic. I know that sounds crazy, but I am. I don’t charge for it or anything, but I can see in your eyes that you have a big future in front of you.”
“Oh, no! I’m not a theater major like everyone else. I don’t even go here.”
“What?” Now she was confused. She apparently hadn’t realized that most of the people in that hallway were theater students. “No, this is about you. I saw you when I walked by before and I just had to say something. You’re really special. One day the entire world will be listening to you.”
“What?” (Come on, Gabby! Say something other than “what?”!)
“I see you talking to Oprah. (Oprah? Again?!) You’re going to be famous. I see you talking to her.”
“What am I famous for?”
“I don’t know. I swear I see it in your eyes. Your confidence. It’s one of a kind. You’re going to write a book. You’re going to help people with your confidence.”
I had probably just secretly thrown up and fantasized about cutting the fat off my body with a steak knife after a five-hour day of therapy. Bitch, please. What confidence? Where the fuck was it?
“Oh, wow. Okay. Thank you.” She left and that was that.
Eventually, I finished my daily therapy classes and started working at the phone sexery. I was becoming an adult: more bills and responsibilities and less time to play make-believe in the Bronx. I was grateful for the friends I’d made there, but soon I wasn’t doing any acting or singing at all. Which was fine. It was never the plan to begin with.