Personal Statement

Happy Saturday! The first Saturday night of 2009. aaah. I spent the day jogging with my beloved labrador, Melvin, lunching with my dear friend Brittainy, catching a movie with my Dad (we saw Marley and Me - oh jesus, bring the kleenex,) making amazing spaghetti bolognese with my Mama, and chatting with a new sweet friend on the phone ;) all in all - a very fine day. I want to cling to this last weekend of "vacation" before launching back into reality on Monday January 4th. But "real-time" for the future has a lot to hold. And a lot to look forward to. Though I plunge back into producing at Dad's company come Monday, I birthed a new potential adventure last week - GRAD SCHOOL! (don't worry Kyle, we don't have to actually think about this until September '09... and odds I get in are what they are) so anyway - i finished three applications: to USC, UCI, and UCSD. and i'm stopping there. but I wanted to share with you my "Personal Statement". The reason these schools want to hear why you're attempting to be a Master in your field of choice. and in so many words (plus or minus a few pending the schools requirements) this is what I told them. I hope you enjoy. (And for those of you who aren't aware of the situation of my life right now... this will get you up to speed a bit.) love,a

The time in my life when I knew I wanted to be an actor, was the time I knew I needed to be. The spring of 2008 had been chugging along so gloriously well, every new years resolution met, every goal achieved: lose ten pounds? Done. Get my own apartment? Done. Get cast as Phoebe in As You Like It with a professional Shakespeare repertory company? Yes! I was young and independent, busy professionally and socially, and I’m not ashamed to say, pretty damn proud of myself. When all of the sudden at 11:04pm on June 27th, my world was rocked forever.

“Annie?” my mom’s quavering voice spoke, “it’s Daddy. Hurry. It’s bad.” “Is he okay?!” I ask in instant hysteria. “Just hurry.” Ten minutes of life later we learn that my Dad had such an irregular heart beat, it fluttered erratically until it stopped, cutting off oxygen to his brain and leaving him dead for 10 to 12 minutes until the paramedics arrived. Three shocks later, my Dad was in a coma. Three days later, he was in a persistent vegetative state. And 12 days later he was a human being again, but one with significant brain damage and memory loss.

An only child, and a complete definition of a Daddy’s girl, my absolute worst case scenario was this night. My life from that moment on became entirely about my Dad. Everything else was meaningless. My only objective was to be by his side throughout the day - reading him excerpts from Stephen King’s Red Sox novel, “Faith,” and singing him James Taylor songs by his bedside at night. Squeezing his hand, willing it to squeeze mine back. A week and a half of summer daylight spent in my Dad’s hospital room while his mind was somewhere else became my fulltime job.

It’s easy to lose yourself to someone you love so deeply, but you have to recognize that they silently are telling you not to do that. And I had another job to do, I had to be Phoebe at that Sunday matinee of As You Like It. The thought of leaving my father for more than two hours was almost unbearable, laughable even. Then my high school drama teacher, Mr. Bailey had a little come-to-Jesus moment with me on the phone. “Anne - do your show. I think you need to do your show” he said. “No no, I can‘t yet… I don’t know” I stuttered. “Go escape. It’ll make you stronger. It’ll make your Dad stronger. He wouldn’t want you to sacrifice this.” Mr. Bailey, of course, was totally right. Every day before his incident Dad would say to me, “hey Kiddo, did ya Phoebe today?” as if it was a verb, so excited for me that I was doing what I loved. And up until then he still hadn’t seen me perform. My friends in the cast were all on Mr. Bailey’s side. And I told the Stage Manager that Friday, “okay… I think I should do it. I think I can.”

That Sunday, I spent the whole morning with my Dad as per usual, reading him the sports section, sharing a lame egg sandwich from the cafeteria with my mom, watching the Olympics on the mounted TV in his room, all while harboring this inner nervous anxiety about stepping back into my old world, my circle, my environment of everything I had achieved, and everything I thought was so important. I was more nervous for that than performing. But as I stood in front of the dressing room mirror tying my big pink sash around my waist, precisely placing flowers in my hair that I had taken from Dad‘s hospital room, brushing on the last touches of blush, I kept thinking, “Daddy, this one’s for you. You’re gonna see me “Phoebe” one day before the run is through.” And then I raced onstage to play with Sylvius, and I escaped.

I returned to the hospital that night and rushed to my Dad’s side with that post-performance high pulsing through me and a surprising smile on my face, “I did it!!!” He turned his usual vacant gaze swiftly from the TV, his face awash and bright-eyed with the radiant energy I threw at him upon my entrance. “There’s a cutie.” he smiled and said casually after taking me in and processing who I was. Then I knelt by his bed, took his hand, and told him all about it. My strength renewed, and pulsating from my hand to his.

Though my ultimate desire in life now - to get my Dad back - will never change, I can’t lose sight about what makes me fulfilled. The experience of performing comes from my soul, nothing but that feeling on stage could have taken me away from my Dad. He instilled my love for theatre in me from day one; by driving me to my ballet class four days a week for 13 years, by taking me out of school in third grade to see the Phantom of the Opera, by organizing a week in London to see three hit musicals in the West End with a detour to catch Taming of the Shrew in Stratford. He nurtured this passion in me, and now it is my goal to continue to see it grow in myself, by furthering my education and experience in theatre. Because of my Dad, acting became my touchstone of strength - for both of us.

Two months later, and one week out of the hospital, he got to see me “Phoebe.”