Yes Please (9 page)

—EILEEN POEHLER

I
WAS THRILLED TO HAVE A DAUGHTER AND SPECIFICALLY
asked the florist to put a card on the arrangement that read, “Glad it’s a girl!” I have never forgotten holding you as a newborn, with your whole fanny fitting in the palm of my hand. I figured I would wait for the appropriate time to describe this to you, and now seems like a nice, private moment!

—BILL POEHLER,
also chiming in

That’s my birth story. I was small and fussy, and remain so as an adult. Three years later my younger brother and only sibling, Greg, was born. I remember my father dressing me to go to the hospital and my mother commenting on how he put the wrong pants on me. I remember loving my brother instantly. He was my first friend.

If your parents are still alive, call them today and ask them to describe the day you were born. Write the details down here, on the following pages. Tell the story every year on your birthday until you know it by heart.

sorry, sorry, sorry

I
SAY
“
SORRY
”
A LOT
. When I am running late. When I am navigating the streets of New York. When I interrupt someone. I say, “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” in one long stream. The sentence becomes “Sorrysorrysorry” and it’s said really fast, as if even the act of apologizing is something to apologize for. But this doesn’t mean I am a pushover. It doesn’t mean I am afraid of conflict or don’t know how to stand up for myself. I am getting to a place right in the middle where I feel good about exactly how much I apologize. It takes years as a woman to unlearn what you have been taught to be sorry for. It takes years to find your voice and seize your real estate.

I am still learning the right balance. Sometimes I go too far the other way. I have a quick temper and I’m not afraid to argue. Once, I was flying from New York to Toronto with Tina Fey and Ana Gasteyer on our way to shoot
Mean Girls
. We were flying in first class and spent the hour-long, ten
A.M
. flight chatting about life and work. The man sitting next to me was in an expensive suit on his way to a meeting, and I got the sense that he hated us and our friendly back-and-forth. A few times during the flight he sighed loudly, which I took as a sign that we were bothering him. I ignored it. Maybe that was a mistake, but sighing doesn’t really work on me. As we got off the airplane and headed toward the moving walkway, the man pushed past me and jostled me a bit.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Excuse me? Excuse you!” he said.

I looked up at his boring, rich-guy face. He was turning red. I realized he was preparing to scold me. He had bumped into me on purpose to teach me a lesson.

“You girls were talking the entire flight,” he said. “You should not be in first class!”

All of my lower-middle-class Boston issues rose to the surface. I don’t like it when bratty, privileged old white guys speak to me like I am their mouthy niece. I got that amazing feeling you get when you know you are going to lose it in the best, most self-righteous way. I just leaned back and yelled, “FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK YOU.” Then I chased him as he tried to get away from me.

“You rich motherfucker! Who do you think you are? You’re not better than me. Fuck you and your fucking opinions, you piece of shit.”

And on and on. Tina was laughing. Or horrified. I don’t remember; I was in a rage haze. Also I was showing off, which can be at the very least embarrassingly transparent and at the very worst careless and dangerous. But who doesn’t love self-righteous anger? It’s great. When I yell at the dads drinking coffee and looking at their phones at the playground while their seven-year-olds play on the preschool monkey bars, I feel like I am fully alive.

But for the most part I try not to yell “fuck you.” I try to say “yes please.” And “thank you.” “Yes please” and “thank you” and “sorry, sorry, sorry.”

But there was one “sorry” that I took too long to say, and it haunted me for years.

Saturdays at
SNL
were a tornado of activity. I would typically be in eight or nine sketches a night, which meant fast costume changes and lots to prepare. Costume changes at
Saturday Night Live
are a dance all to themselves. Each week I would confab with my human pit crew and figure out how much time I had to change between sketches. I would change under bleachers and tucked away in corners. Hearing the sound of the audience while I was in my underwear was thrilling and terrifying. My job was to stay still and obey directions as they were shouted: “Lift your foot!” “Snap this shut!” “Close your eyes!” Bruce would pull off my pre-Velcroed shirt as Robert glued on my fake mustache. I would hold up my two index fingers next to my head while Jeffrey put on my old-man wig, and Spivey would stand next to me telling me that my new cue to enter was “Thanksgiving is ruined!” Everyone was equal during those moments, all of us actors in a play trying to get changed in time. I watched Robert De Niro wiggle into spandex pants as Siegfried. Or Roy. I witnessed Donald Trump stepping into a chicken suit. I engaged in small talk with Derek Jeter as he was buttoned into a dress. “How are you doing?” I asked. “Are you nervous?” He just laughed and said, “No,” thus settling the long-standing debate about what is more nerve-racking: live comedy or the World Series.

“
SNL
time” is completely different from real-world time. Gena, our stage manager, would peek in and reassure us that we still had “a minute twenty.” Our shoulders would relax and we would joke around like emergency room doctors. We would chat about someone’s boyfriend as we hustled to the stage floor, and more than once a prop was thrown to me with seconds to go. I would catch it, the crowd would clap, and the scene would start. It was chaos. It was so exciting.

The problem with busy shows is that details get lost. Attention is not equally paid and things slip through the cracks. It was in one of those cracks that I did the only sketch I regret from
SNL
. The crack is not an excuse. Or maybe it is. This essay is about apologies, and I have learned an important part of apologizing is not making excuses. But that night was particularly busy.

It was March 2008 and I was newly and secretly pregnant. I remember feeling tired and worn out. Hillary Clinton was in the cold open and I stood beside her wearing a matching outfit. It’s always extremely weird to play someone as they stand next to you. Coming down from that much adrenaline can drain you. Later that night, I played Dakota Fanning, hosting
The Dakota Fanning Talk Show
. I don’t do an impression of Dakota Fanning, or look anything like her, so the sketch depended on my creepy ability to play a ten-year-old girl with relative ease. It was written by two
SNL
writers who liked the idea of a highly intellectual Dakota Fanning discussing things that were far too mature for her young age. Her references were often lost on her beleaguered bandleader, Reggie, played by the always-brilliant Kenan Thompson. Dakota would confess that she was a big fan of Vonnegut but “not familiar” with Harry Potter. She loved Tom Waits and enjoyed discussing Japanese poetry. She treated her mom like her manager and claimed she never watched TV. Her upcoming projects were always serious and much too adult. You get the idea.

On this particular night, the awesome Ellen Page was the host. Ellen was playing a young and innocent Miley Cyrus. This was in the
Hannah Montana
days, and Miley/Ellen was showing Dakota her new doll. The script read like this:

ELLEN/MILEY

Hey Dakota, check this out! It’s my new Hannah Montana doll! Pretty awesome, right?

(ELLEN TAKES OUT A CUTE DOLL AND MAKES IT DANCE)

AMY/DAKOTA

I’ve also got a new doll. It’s from my upcoming film
Hurricane Mary
, where my sister and I play severely disabled twins.

(AMY/DAKOTA TAKES OUT A CREEPY DOLL)

ELLEN/MILEY

(AS HER DOLL)

Hey Dakota, want to play?

AMY/DAKOTA

(AS HER DOLL)

I wish I could but I am severely disabled.

I rehearsed the sketch and went over the blocking. The entire time I assumed that
Hurricane Mary
was something the writers had made up. We did a run-through and I was told the doll was being made and would be ready by air. The night of the show came, and the doll arrived. As it was put into my hands, I remember feeling my stomach tighten. It had been manipulated to look like a strange and twisted girl. But there was no time. Jeffrey adjusted my wig. Gena told me I had five seconds. The scene played fine. I ran to the next quick change. Robert glued on a beard. I forgot about my weird feeling, finished the show, and went to the after-party.

Months later I received a letter from Marianne Leone and Chris Cooper. It was simple and painful. It said something like “Shame on you for making fun of a real girl. Her name is Anastasia and she is amazing. You should know her story.” I knew Chris Cooper from his work in films like
American Beauty
and
Adaptation
. I had always heard he was a wonderful person and a delight to work with. I didn’t know his wife, Marianne, but a quick Google search told me a few important things: Marianne was an actor and had written the television movie
Hurricane Mary
mentioned in our skit.
Hurricane Mary
was based on the real story of Alba and Anastasia Somoza, twin sisters with cerebral palsy, and their mother’s battle to ensure their right to an equal-opportunity education, as well as their full integration into society. Marianne and Chris had come to know Anastasia’s story through their advocacy for disabled children. The cause was personal for them: their beloved son, Jesse, had been born with special needs. Sadly, he had passed away in 2005.

I’d like to tell you that I responded to the note. Or that I turned around and faced that letter head-on. I’d even like to tell you that I checked my body and heart and realized I was fine with the sketch and felt no need to apologize. Nope. Instead, I got angry. Anger and embarrassment are often neighbors. Sometimes we get defensive about what we feel guilty about. I was angry about the fact that I was being accused of something I didn’t do. I didn’t make fun of a real girl on purpose! I would never do that! That’s not me! That’s not me at all! I reread the note over and over again. I shared it with other people in the hopes they would agree that Marianne and Chris were overreacting and I was right to believe I was a good person. I told everyone about it and asked everyone to say it wasn’t my fault. I threw the note in the trash like it was evidence of a crime. I stomped around for a bit and then pretended it went away. I was a shitty version of myself. The shadow side. I made a lot of noise because I felt bad about hurting someone’s feelings and I didn’t want to get quiet and really figure out how I felt. I was afraid to lie down and put my hand on my heart and hear the tiny voice whispering inside me saying that I had screwed up.

Your brain is not your friend when you need to apologize. Your brain and your ego and your intellect all remind you of the “facts.” I kept telling myself that the only thing I was guilty of was not paying attention. Sure, I was being self-absorbed and insensitive, but who isn’t? Sure, I should have been more on top of what I was saying, but wasn’t that somebody else’s job? Didn’t everyone know how busy I was? Didn’t Marianne and Chris take into consideration what a NICE PERSON I was? My brain shouted these things loud and clear. My heart quietly told a different story.

Shame is difficult. It’s a weapon and a signal. It can paralyze or motivate. My friend Louis CK likes to say that “guilt is an intersection.” Getting out of it means making a choice and moving forward. I felt guilty and I felt shame, but I didn’t really move. For years. I parked my car in the intersection and let it sit there until the battery ran out. Then Spike Jonze helped me.