You Don’t Belong Here
or, Why Rey’s Parentage was Worth Discussing with my Therapist
“Luke, I am your Father.”
“Well, I’m a third generation, my grandparents met at Northwestern, it’s kinda gross.”
“No way! My dad was dead set on me staying in the East Coast at Brown, but I needed to get out of that bubble, ya know?”
“What about you?”
I looked up from my Chicago deep dish cheese pie across the table to my new classmate acquaintances. I unfortunately do not remember any of their names (I wouldn’t meet my life long friends for another three hours causing a riot not he second floor of the Alison Dorm rooms.) I used the time it took to properly disconnect the oozing hockey disks of mozzarella from my fork to parcel out the question. What about me what?
I grew up in a village (Stevensville, Michigan had applied several times to gain the honorary title of ‘town’ but couldn’t quite match the required “more than 1,500 residences” to make the cut.) My mother had not gone to college (but is nonetheless very crafty and sharp) and my father went to a state school. He went on to work for the family business designing machines that manufacture paper.
While other parents worried about whether their countertops would match their wallpapers, we were worried that in a year my father wouldn’t have a job or any useful translatable skill in the workforce
They stared expectantly at my blank face, and I instinctively brushed my bangs aside — a habit I had incurred at a young age whenever I needed protection from stares.
“You know it to be true.”
I knew a thing or two about not belonging. From second grade to my freshman year of High School I did not have what several therapists would later refer to as ‘friends’ or ‘social skills.’ I was a square peg and all I ever found was round holes. I had frizzy hair, a round face, crooked teeth, glasses, crippling self-esteem issues, and The Hobbit permanently tucked under my left arm while my other hand stood at the ready to cover my mouth in case I laughed too hard.
Most of my memories were of solitude, or of crying in my bed after discovering that Kristy Parson had once again thrown a sleepover party and had purposely not invited me. Ah the age old tradition of re-read AIM messages and realizing the excuses my friends gave as to why they couldn’t hang out wouldn’t have fooled a child half my age.
My most vivid memory of this time period is me standing in my one-piece suit at the top of a water slide, slowly realizing that the three friends I had arrived with had sneaked away in the snaking line. And in true cringe-worthy fashion, instead of taking the hint I spent the next four hours looking for them, crying intermittently between the Vortex Vulture and the Slippery Slide.
When you are unwanted, you are severely aware.
“Oh, I’m from Michigan.” I said, not answering the question they were asking.
They glanced at each other knee deep in their own mozzarella swimming pools and returned to their discussion about who would be going on the upcoming Ski Trip.
“You come from nothing. You’re nothing…”
I remember sitting with all 100 members of the incoming freshmen theatre class, listening to the teacher who looked like and had the mannerisms of a 3-D Cat in the Hat. About halfway through his lecture on the evolution of Theatre, I could no longer nod along as if I knew what he was talking about.
“Who’s Brecht?” I asked, which was immediately followed by neck-braking head turns and even an 80s-coming-of-age-blonde-bully snicker.
No, I had never heard of the “Father of Epic Theatre” and I had definitely never read any of his plays- my high school theatre experience was about as colorful as two separate renditions of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.”
I also hadn’t realized the boulder-sized chip on my shoulder that I would soon harbor for anyone that grew up in a household lined with Brecht’s best or even 100 miles from a Talent Agency. My classmates consisted of New York modern aristocrats, sons of famous Hollywood cinematographers, and daughters of famous Russian Ballet performers.
“Oh, well, he’s the father of Epic Theatre” the Cat in the Hat explained to me, and I could tell a twitch of kindness behind the words. Perhaps he too had came from nothing.
“There is no try, there is only do or do not.”
I have a theory that one can only spend so much time on the outside of a group before taking drastic measures to state their case as to why they should be included.
I tried to be smart so that Riley and Laura would let me sit in the middle of them during Geometry class. In the same way the teacher did not mind us cheating as long as we were quiet about it, Riley and Laura had no qualms inviting me to parties if I let them cheat off the mid-term exams.
I tried to be funny so people would start to listen when I had something to say from the back of the class, even if it was just to hold up a “That’s What She Said” card from the Office Board Game during particularly descriptive AP Anatomy chapters.
I tried to make friends with others who also didn’t quite fit in. A girl with the nickname “Vampire” so given by her extra incisor teeth and another who moved to our town in second grade became my best friends, and are still close to me today.
In many ways, being an outsider made me work harder for friends, made me work harder at school, and made me a harder worker. My desperation to leave a ‘village’ for something bigger and better, and maybe even a place where I no longer felt I didn’t belong occupied every other thought in my adolescence.
I applied for 45 scholarships in total, and received 38. I became the head of 3 school clubs and joined the other 15. I was a three sport Varsity Athlete, and all-state in Soccer. I was Valedictorian and got into my dream school.
Only to arrive at another place I didn’t belong.
“Did you know my Father?”
Having read every high fantasy books I could get my hands on in my formative years, I also knew a thing or two about the hero’s journey.
Star Wars is no different. Young Skywalker, the world resting on his shoulders, abandoned on a lonely planet, discovers his heritage and realizes the blood in his veins makes him special.
Young Potter, the world resting on his shoulders, abandoned in a lonely suburb,
Young Clark Kent, the world resting on his shoulders,
Young Master Wayne,
In the hero’s journey, the answer of where you come from is equal to that of where you are going, or what you are going to do.
“I need someone to show me my place in all this.”
I loved Northwestern dearly for what it taught me. I did not fit with the cool theatre kids, but found my ‘tribe’ as the kids have appropriated it that day on the 2nd floor of the Alison Dining hall; to this day I love them to the end of the earth. I didn’t fit in with the cool comedy kids, so instead I took classes at iO Chicago where I learned from the best. It’s also where I got my first stage and writing opportunities from other outsiders who believed in me. I went from being cast in almost nothing for three years to a lead on the main stage. When the visiting director offered me the part, he said “I picked you because you were different.”
And he said it with a touch of kindness. Like perhaps he too had come from nothing.
“I find your lack of faith disturbing.”
I had been working on self validation with my therapist. The idea that seeking acceptance and trying to fit in is held at a higher esteem than liking myself, or believing in myself.
In other words, I keep wandering around the water park for four hours looking for people who clearly do not want to hang out with me, instead of enjoying the goddamn Vortex Vulture.
“And your career,” she added. “You often give others credit instead of yourself for how far you’ve gotten.”
I instinctively brushed my bangs aside.
“I am a Jedi, like my Father before me.”
I left the theatre in a daze. I was wiping tears away from the “In Memory of Carrie Fisher” screen, but my heart was still pounding from that moment.
Rey had also, come from nothing.
Later I lay in my bed, mulling over the film.
Rey had come from nothing.
She was a powerful Jedi, not because of who her father was, or where she is from.
She knew it in herself all along. She had a chip on her shoulder.
She was strong not because of where she came from, but because of where she is going, and what she is going to do.
“You have that power, too.”
In many ways, Hollywood was just like school, just like college, but this time I was prepared. I expected not to fit in — to wear the wrong clothes to acting class, to make 1,000 mistakes I did not have the privilege to learn beforehand not having been born to New York aristocrats 20 minutes from the nearest Talent Agency. But by now the routine was easy. Get up, work hard, be kind, prove them wrong, repeat.
There is no good Chicago deep dish pizza in Los Angeles, but when you see someone else working harder than everyone else, you share a look of kindness, because you know they too, probably came from nothing.
And the higher you climb the more and more of them you meet. You meet more of the others, too, but they themselves can’t quite shake the feeling that their place was not earned. Like they do not belong with the rest of you who built their lives out of the pure will to get out of the life they were born into.
Suddenly there are more Reys than Skywalkers and Potters.
“We are the spark that will light the fire.”
I dream-walked to the nearest coffee shop and ordered my usual black with a couple ice cubes.
Rey had come from nothing.
And so had I.
For Rey to not have parents swimming with midiclorians takes away her ability to excuse her own power. Those waiting to find out she is the daughter of a powerful Jedi, or Obi-Wan himself, were wrong. She has no one to thank but herself for her tenacity, her drive to prove herself, and her talent.
In the same way Rey doesn’t have an excuse, neither do I.
“It ties in with self-validation” my therapist would tell me the next day. “In the same way you look for others to validate your work, you also give others credit for things you have done yourself. Everything you have, you’ve had a hand in creating or making for yourself. You need to own it. You came from nothing.”
And so did Rey. And so do you. And so did those sitting next to you in heavy Los Angeles traffic. And so did the lady who comes to trim your bushes. And so did your niece who just got into her dream school. And so did that little boy who force’d up his broom on that bourgeois planet.
“You are not alone.”
This year has been a year of career successes. I hit all my goals- booked a commercial, got all my representation lined up, started writing on a show for Amazon, and am the co-writer and producer on another. And I am proud of that, but my ever moving target has put my sights much higher for the next year. But in some ways, I have no doubt in myself that I will hit them as well.
But none of this came like a rush delivery of the Cubs Special Giordano’s Pizza for me. I think those who find success often don’t like to talk about the dirt they trudged through to get there. They want it to be mysterious. Like they had always known they were related to the most powerful person in the Empire.
I spent three years hounding agents and creating and writing and creating again, and writing pilots no one will ever read and self-taping for auditions that no one will ever watch and doing it again and again like I had a chip on my shoulder, like I came from nothing, like I had nothing to lose, and it worked.
And I have no one to thank but myself.
This is also the year I beat out a lot of others who couldn’t put in the work, or were waiting for a lightsaber to be given to them. But I’ve never been afforded that luxury, and to that, I owe to this year’s successes.
I’m writing this because my story is not at all unique. Having been friends with ‘weirdos’ (Kristy Parson’s words, not mine) my whole life, there are Rey’s everywhere. One of my best college buddies was born in the Soviet Union, and now works in D.C. Another friend was born with a disability, and is going to be one of the best comedy writers I tangentially know. And fuck I’m straight-passing, cis, and white — there are hurdles I cannot even begin to comprehend and in comparison this story is embarrassing to what other Reys have done.
But Rey had came from nothing, and so do you.
And that means you can come from a village and make a splash anywhere, doing what you love. You can stop a fascist empire from overtaking the world as you know it. You can get to work on time and smash that presentation. You can trim those bushes and be home in time to cook an amazing meal for your family who loves you. You can get into the school of your dreams, because you put in the work to get you there. You can be a poor kid on an alien planet, come from nothing, and be in touch with the force.
“May the Force be With You.”
I finished my pizza, and I unfortunately do not remember their names. But I did go on to make a little something of myself, and I know deep down that if I have done this from nothing, there’s nothing I cannot do.