“Hope is dead to me” I said.
And I didn’t mean the quiet pretty girl with perfect braids and the aubergene Club Monaco sweater who sat in front of me in grade 5.
I meant the belief that my dreams will come true. That kind of hope. Is dead.
I am not being dramatic or exaggerating for effect (for once). I am sitting on the corner of my bed talking quietly with my best friend. My head is lowered and I shrug my shoulders softly. “Hope is dead to me” I repeat like a mantra. And it feels good, to finally give up. To admit that at age twenty-three I have worked hard enough and tried long enough in making my dreams come true and now it is time to let them go. For so long I had felt like a square trying to smash herself into a hole shaped like a circle. It hurts too much. I am bruised to shit and I quit.
I have just been told that the touring kids play I auditioned for to play the superhero struggling with cancer went to another girl. It was a dream gig. $500 a week, three shows a day all before noon, travelling to small towns up north with only one motel to chose from and the Stage Manager smelt so bad the windows of the van we travelled in had to be constantly rolled down even though it was -25 in the wintertime.
I’m kidding, it was not a dream gig but it was my last attempt at acting. I had graduated from theatre school over two years before and was now working as a support staff for at- risk youth. This meant I sat in a lot of Subways and watched teenage assholes eat subs on the company dime. It’s amazing how entitled kids without parents can be. They just assume you will drive them to their work training class. They won’t even say thank you. Once though, I was with a kid in a parking lot and a Mercedes pulled into the last spot just before me. I was so fucking pissed off. The kid I was with strolled out of my car and keyed the dudes ride with such self-assuredness and calm I felt like I was watching a baby being born. It was beautiful. I really liked that guy. The rest of them were dicks who didn’t know how to do laundry.
Clearly, I was not cut out to help people in the conventional way (do you like how I am using italics to stress the irony of my statements).
So I auditioned for this show, A Bully for Nert with the hopes that I would get asked to play the part and then I could quit my joe-job and become an actor for real.
They said my voice was too gruff to play a nine year old.
Which brings me here, sitting on my bed weeping softly. You know the moment when all ambition, longing, drive and desire for change completely drains out of you? That is where I am right now. My best friend Kerri is sitting beside me and she starts to laugh.
She is bent over, holding her gut, slapping her knees, hiccupping and crying she is laughing so hard. I don’t think it is very funny.
She just can’t stop.
She laughs so hard she pees a bit.
She looks at me leaning over in pain, sad-eyed and hurting and it just makes her laugh more.
She tries to stop laughing. And then she say’s “hope is…” and starts laughing again, like it is the funniest thing I had ever said, because it was.
Kerri saw through me that night, as only best friends can. She saw that my pain was the key to my success.
I began laughing too. “Hope is dead to me” we screamed as we rolled across the bed together at 2am. “Hope is dead to me” we peeled as we pounded the pillows with our fists and fell onto the carpet. “Hope is dead to me!” rang out through the neighborhood. The more I repeated the phrase the more it hit me- I am only 23 years old. I have like 40 more years of heart breaking, art making labour before I can legitimately give up. The more she laughed the more I saw how ridiculous I was and the clearer it became that this was only the beginning…in fact, this was exactly the very beginning.
This is the night Patti Fedy was born.
Patti is my clown. My alternate ego. My soul. She is the character that launched my career, made me a wack of coin and gave me cred in the theatre community. Patti doesn’t think very highly of herself and yet she is so pure in her self-deprecation that everything she says has ends up having this tinge of subtle genius. Being the very worst is her very best thing. Her desperate darkness sheds so much light.
The night Hope died was the most important night of my life. Thank God.
She was such a little bitch anyway.
thank god for patti fedy!
Well, as the best friend in the story, I can sure tell you that at the time it was so funny. I mean funny in a “I cannot laugh because she is so serious” kind of way. They same kind of funny as when someone farts in church and you almost die suppressing the laughter. I really could not contain myself. And I am so grateful that Emmy remembers my laughter as a poke that helped her see through the fog. Those late night theatre times when we lived together are so precious to me. What an honor it was to hear some of Emmy/Patti’s first jokes.
Remember when I fell to the floor in the kitchen because you made me laugh so hard I lost control of my legs? That’s a real gift you have there friend.
Love you.
I did not find your essay/article amusing. It sounded sad, coming from someone so young (23)I did not think of you as a pessimist before. I loved your quirky sense of humor. I sent your article about what happens to new Dads to my daughter, who gave it to her husband to read. She said”this is so true.” She laughed; maybe he didn’t. I have been told numerous times
“there’s ALWAYS Hope.” For some people, it is thru prayer and faith in the future. I thought my 30-yr. marriage was devoid of affection on my husband’s part. I’ve been waiting two years. We were apart for three weeks and we are now back on the road to receiving and giving lots of affection, laughing more, having more fun, sharing and caring more.
That is so inspiring that you and your husband have relit the flame. Thank you for believing in hope! This was written
By my 23 year old self. A memory. I am now almost 35 and hope is alive and well. In fact it is what keeps me trucking! I’m glad you checked in about the confusion. I was remembering the drama of
My youth…as I know now I have at least 35 more years to go before I can quit on hope.
love this!!! i know this emmy!! didn’t hope die a few times in theatre school? i feel like hope dies so many times. and it’s always such a poignant inspiring death. so much grows. fuck i loved reading this. love you em. always.
Haha. Hope died every day in those Halls. And was reborn anew. Love you too kaela! Big love!
Hope was overrated and under qualified. Patty is the better intern. Don’t pay her off until she reaches 65 though.
I needed this story this morning – - in more ways then I can ever tell you. Thank you.
Hi Emelia,
I’ve been there as well… the place where there’s no hope left. And sometimes, especially the week before having my period, I’m still there. And yes… it’s funny to think that hope is gone when you have 40 more years ahead of you. I’ve discovered that it’s best to go with the flow. You are not your dreams, you are not your career or profession. Without all of that you would still be you. And that’s awesome enough already
Thanks for your story, I really enjoyed reading it.
Much love from Holland,
Stephanie