The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York is my dad's favorite place in the whole world. He and my mom came to visit from Oregon for Father's Day this past June, and we went there before taking them out for brunch.
I love watching him walk through this huge, world-class museum in awe of the masterpieces. He'll often stay in front of one painting or sculpture for a long time, trying to figure out how the artist could create something so amazing.
*******
The grandeur of New York is the opposite of everything he started with. My father was born in a sod house in the middle of nowhere, Nebraska. To people who don't what that is, it means my dad spent much of his childhood in a house with a dirt floor, until they moved to the big city of Wahoo, population 1,208.
But it wasn't a limitation for him. He worked his way through college and law school, and graduated with honors -- and plenty of student loans.
Because he had to struggle to pay for his education, he had a big dream for his children: Whatever college my brother and I were accepted into, he would pay for it in full, so we could graduate debt-free.
My brother Joe and I made it especially difficult for dad to fulfill this dream. Joe attended Colgate University and I went to Northwestern University. Both of us rejected full or partial scholarships at various Oregon universities to attend these very expensive institutions. But Dad never said, "How much!?!?" or "Why not a local college?" He said, "No problem."
Like our father, we had big dreams. My brother wanted to be a successful financier, and I wanted to be a Broadway actress. And both of us worked hard to receive top-notch educations.
Four years after my brother came here to stake a claim in the world of finance, I arrived in New York City. By then, he had earned a position at a hedge fund that people ten years older would wish for. Like my brother, I pushed myself to succeed. Within a year, I had an agent and my Equity card, and was going on my first big tour.
Dad couldn't be more proud of both his children.
Then, the tour ended, and suddenly no work followed it. I auditioned as much as possible, and worked a variety of jobs, everything from temping to cocktailing. But it wasn't enough. First I couldn't make rent. I had to borrow money from my folks to stay afloat. I couldn't even afford to buy my dad a birthday gift. Then came their Father's Day visit.
*******
After we finally dragged my dad away from the Monets and Renoirs, we all went out for brunch in the trustees dining room (a favor granted by a friend in the art world). Joe and I had a marvelous time, laughing and telling mom and dad stories of our adventures in the big city.
After a terrific meal of eggs benedict and bloody marys, I suddenly remembered that I only had about $10 in my purse, and wasn't sure exactly how much space I had left on my credit card. I panicked.
Before I could say anything, Joe had already plunked down his AmEx. "Happy Father's Day, Dad." Joe said. "It's on me." I offered to cover the tip, but Joe declined. (Which was a blessing, because the next day my card was declined at the Drama Book Shop.)
Soon, I began to wonder if I'd picked the wrong dream. My brother and I were equally intelligent; we'd both graduated at the top of our classes in college. But now, while his education was being put to use, I was answering phones and making cocktails, waiting in audition lines and getting rejected more often than hired. At the same time, I was still on what I termed the "parental percentage plan": where my parents were to theoretically send me less and less money as the months went by.
"One day soon," I would say to them on my cellphone on the way to a waitress or temp job, "I won't need you guys at all -- at least not for money!"
"Honey," Dad would say, "It's New York City. You'll probably need some 'help' for a long time."
Dad was too kind to specify that "help" went beyond money. We all knew it meant late-night phone calls from the other side of the country, while my helpless parents sat in what will always be my home, remembering not so long ago when I lived there. "Help" meant saying, "I am proud of you. You are talented. I love you!" eighty million times.
I have come to learn that love is repetition.
After a particularly low time, something great would happen, and I would call them to share it: I nailed an audition, got a callback, or had an amazing voice lesson. I was attempting to undo the damage of my sadness on other calls, but it never felt like enough. The truth is, parents don't just want their kids to be happy, they want them to never be unhappy. The sound of tears will always trump the sounds of joy -- at least from 3,000 miles away.
***********
One day, I called Dad at his office and told him my friend and I were putting together a cabaret, and would be performing the week of Thanksgiving.
It was perfect! The whole family would be in New York. We had planned to celebrate the holiday in my brother's humungous apartment -- the one with actual art on the wall, a dishwasher, a piano, and a huge Persian rug to lounge on while watching football on a plasma flat screen. (Of course, Joe had paid for all these things without the help of a "parental percentage plan.")
So I put everything I had into the cabaret. At every turn, I asked myself which songs Dad would like best, which joke he would find the funniest -- whatever I could do to make it a gift that would substitute for the things he really deserved that I couldn't afford.
They flew in a few days before Thanksgiving. The night of the performance, Mom and Dad were sitting front and center. The place was packed with friends and even a few strangers (not bad for a Tuesday night). My friend and I sang our hearts out, and I tried to direct our energy toward my folks whenever possible. My dad especially seemed to enjoy himself. He cried during every number... even the funny ones.
Afterward, Dad spoke excitedly. "It was like, your soul up there," he said, trying to explain how it made him feel to watch and listen. "The biggest thing I could tell was how all your hard work and education just paid off. All that training really shows."
I couldn't get over the way he was looking at me. It reminded me a little of the way he stared at all the paintings and sculptures at the Met back in June. Maybe the performance was just average to someone else, but to my dad, it was a masterpiece.
I was overwhelmed. I felt as if I'd just laid down an AmEx on the breakfast table, and said, "Happy everything, Dad! It's on me!"
Then I finally got it.
He wanted to be a part of it. That was the gift. He didn't know where my talent came from, but he knew it was special and he did all he could to make sure that I got to perform for people who would make me better.
He looked at me onstage and he saw a glimmer of himself, a piece of his hard work, reflected in the song, in the music. For a moment, I was better than a Monet or a Van Gogh, because he got to pick out the colors of paint I would use. He is the most vibrant color in me.
It was a sort of double-whammy pride: pride that he made me, that I was his; on top of pride that I did something he found amazing and inspiring.
Our parents are the real victims when we decide to be actors. They live the highs and lows, and feel the rejections with a ferocity we can't imagine. It would be easier for all of them if we found stable lifestyles, and high-paying jobs.
"It might be easier, but it wouldn't be extraordinary," my family is fond of saying.
"It's really amazing, Kat, what you can do up there," my brother tells me as we stand around, watching the tech director take down the lights from our show. "I sit at a desk every day, and it's always the same. That works for me, but..."
"I'd give anything to be able to do that." Dad finishes.
"Dad." I look into his eyes. "You already have."