"You only got that because you're Asian"
I entered the University of California, Irvine as a Drama major, eager and ambitious to expand my craft as an actor. At the same time, I entered UCI with anxieties about what my future would look like, having chosen a lifestyle dedicated to the pursuance of artistry (and I still have those anxieties today). But I pushed myself and tumbled onto UCI's arts campus with a dedication to learn to become a well-rounded actor.
some context.
At the School of Drama, they hold one large audition to cast actors for the season's six "Mainstage" productions (shows that are directed by MFAs, professors, and professionals, with a seemingly endless, but limited budget). Fittingly called "Mega Auditions," I went to my first one.
It went alright. When I look back, I saw the high school version of myself sitting in the corner of a vast waiting space, listening to Fleetwood Mac's "Seven Wonders" while he dodged individuals who mispronounced his name. Entering the space with four individuals in front of me (because we entered in sets of 5), I was the last to audition. And I did it. I performed a monologue written by my high school theatre teacher and one other piece I can't remember (a Neil Simon monologue?). I remember some of the directors looking down at their papers, frivolously writing notes, while others gave pensive, stoic looks at my work.
The following week, I pushed myself to chat with another first year in my "Intro to Theatre" class as a humble attempt to make friends. I don't know why I did that because I knew this person gave me some bad vibes once they opened their mouth. But, there was that aching voice inside my head, begging me to "put myself out there" or suffer feeling/looking like a person with no intra/interpersonal skills. So, I just sat with this person and listened to them ramble incessantly about their life. If I remember correctly, they never really asked about me, further confirming that they weren't even a good listener, let alone potential to stay long in my life.
After class, we ran across the bridge from humanities into arts because call back lists were posted. I arrived to find a horizontal line of colorful papers on the board and a herd of students checking who got a callback for what. I found my name under "I Dream of Cheng and Eng," and felt *some* ("some" being an operative word) tingle of excitement.
The "friend" I met, unfortunately, did not get a call back for any of the Mainstage shows. I told them that I received one. They replied with:
You only got that because you're Asian.
That tingle of excitement turned into a crack inside my body. Before college, I didn't understand race or even conceptualized what being of a race meant. I just knew I was Filipino and brown. Race didn't have any weight until that moment. Why? Because it didn't feel right. It didn't feel right to be limited to one, singular thing, especially through the gaze of an incredibly ignorant white person. Sure, their comment stemmed from hurt, but that doesn't make it right to devalue someone to one dimension of a socially constructed ideology.
fast forward.
I was neither cast as Cheng or Eng. I'm glad I wasn't because the show was incredibly racist and I wasn't sure why a non-Asian person directed the show. While it did reveal a moment of anti-Chinese sentiment in mid-19th century America, it did not serve the message of the *still* existing anti-Asian sentiment seeping in America today.
I convinced myself that the School of the Arts was not for me. I pursued the Drama major, but I closed myself off from any ties because of how insensitive and, frankly, racist that one comment was. Because of it, I told myself that I wasn't fit to be an actor, that I was limited to Asian roles. Historically, characters of color have often been used to uphold white narratives. So, who was I to want to serve a story like that? I'm all for diverse casting and that there are "no small parts," but when bodies of color are marginalized to uphold a story that is not their's, I interrogate that. Because there are other stories to be told, not just the white, cisgender, heteronormative one.
This particular paragraph stems from my own experiences outside the School of the Arts. I feel like most people try to find a home and I was looking for one after that audition. I found it in Sierra, in SPOP, in someone I fell in (and out of) love with, in my friends (old and new), even in Kababayan's Pilipinx-American Culture Night. I gained knowledge about social justice and transformative change throughout my time at UCI, even pursuing a major in Gender & Sexuality Studies. It's shaped my understanding of the way power, opportunity, and privilege work, informing my decisions and my art.
It was wrong of me to generalize every one at the School of the Arts as white racists that make ignorant comments like that one person. Even though I'll hear a backhanded, joke-guised comment here and there, I know it's difficult for some to accept that not everyone is offered the same opportunities as their white counterparts. It's something to be said. Yet, that was the fear that I contended with. I did not let myself believe that there are actual people out there who are actually kind (and are willing and able to remember your name).
Week 8 DCP
Which is why, when Erika Clark, a dear (and the first) friend I made in my Drama 30a: Intro to Acting class my first year, asked me to audition for her Director Class Project during the summer before this quarter, I was caught in a tension. I knew I wanted to audition for something meaningful before leaving UCI.
So, I read the play. Let me tell you, man: I was reading a beautifully written story about Pilipinx-American siblings, about the tasteful and ironic ways they move about the world in remote America. I was reading for a character that I felt connected to — not just because we seemingly share ethnic experiences and identities, but because our experiences as humans are well-informed by our search for humanity, not just our origins from the Philippines. That's what I loved about the writing of this play — usually, "identity plays" zone in on the specific identity of a character and the way they wrestle with that in a pre-dominantly white world. This playwright successfully constructed true-to-life characters who were human beings first, and just happened to be Filipino.
I found an audition monologue I hadn't picked up since my first year and just walked to the same theatre we performed the play in. While I did have hesitations before the audition (and even during the rehearsal process), I knew, deep down, no one else was going to do it. I think a lot about representation of Pilipinx-Americans (or lack there of) and I wondered,
"If I don't do it, who will? Maybe the few who are Pilipinx-American, who are Asian, but what about me? Don't I deserve a chance?"
And so, after 5 weeks of evening/weekend rehearsals, as well as terribly missing my family and some of my friends, we opened and closed this past weekend.
thank u, next.
Leaving this cast felt like the end of a movie, where the group of friends look out to the sunset and drive down a road while credits roll up. Or that feeling you get at high school graduation, when "Friends Forever" by Vitamin C plays in the background. That feeling of change, of parting ways. It's an interesting feeling, you know? A therapist once illustrated it as a metaphor: that I am like the Sun (even though I identify with the Moon), and that my family and friends are like planets orbiting around me. There will be moments when they orbit and move away from me and there will be times when others orbit back into my life. But there is that moment of *transition,* that feeling of loneliness when all those planets are not in my orbit. That's the feeling, really.
I forgot that a strong sense of community is built when putting a production up on its feet. When you spend over 130+ hours with each other, crafting together a show in collaboration with others, for an audience — it builds a community through a shared experience. And this is an experience that I won't forget because it reminded me of why theatre exists today.
I don't think I will have time to come back to the School of the Arts because of a few other projects I'm in the process of producing for this year. It's a little sad, but you know — life moves forward.
And for that I say, thank you (next). Thank you to everyone on our design team (Elijah Punzal, Mariko Cilley, Sonya Wong, Leah Booth, Josh Price) for bringing the world of this play to life. It's true — a production is nothing without its designers and you all brought this world to light. You were like architects building a world us actors had the privilege of moving around.
Thank you, Mason, for being a phenomenal stage manager. Like I said closing night, you will be in high demand because you are not only an amazing stage manager, but you have a particular kindness not a lot of people have. I'm sending you heaps of courage and light as you push forward in life. I'm thankful for our conversations about love and life, and the pursuit of happiness. I hope you find it. I have faith you will.
Thank you to Karren Shamo for being my little sister. We actually were each other's scene partners for our call back, and it's funny to look back and see how far we've come together. That call back was the first time I ever met Karren and I had never felt more chemistry with a scene partner than in that moment.
Thank you to Alex Bobroff for being an extraordinarily unique partner. It's been lovely growing with you, and not just as our characters, but as actors. Thank you for giving me energy and always staying on top of things. Even though you believe people think you're annoying, people don't recognize uniqueness when they see it. Keep doing you, man.
Lastly, thank you to Erika Clark. We really have come full circle: from the time we drove down to LA to *not* see Pentatonix perform three years ago to Sam's 30b class to now. Thank you for being an empowering, encompassing, and emboldening director with a strong sense of her vision and a command of material. Thank you for being patient with me through this DCP's intimate moments and pushing me to become better as this character, as an actor, and as myself. You will never know how much it meant to me that you reached out, encouraging me to audition. Thank you for giving myself permission to act again, for reminding me that I deserve to be here.
Yes, maybe I did get this particular role because I am Filipino-American. Maybe I was cast because I'm brown and I have a connection to the character that is different from, say, a white person playing him. Maybe I was cast because I speak to a role that should be cast "correctly" because of our generation's push for diverse and informed casting.
But, it just comes to show, that Asians, Filipino-Americans, and people of color are more than just their racial identity. That we aren't limited by race or sexuality or gender or class. That we are emboldened by it. That we are actual human beings driven to understand what it means to be a good person in a world stitched by darkness (and colonialism and genocide and imperialism and violence). That we also have stories worth telling, stories bounded by resilience, strength, and love — for ourselves, our families, and our communities. I acknowledge that our lives are informed by such socially constructed categories, that race and gender have profound material effects on our lives.
Yet, that shouldn't stop us, especially me, from being proud of it. That people of color, multiply marginalized people, are given the imperative to work harder. And that isn't always a bad thing. It just means that, despite our marginalized positions, our work shines because we work harder, smarter, and become resilient in the process.
I am proud of being Asian, more specifically, Pilipino-American. I am proud that my work is not bolstered because of my race, but because of what I do and who I am. I am proud of my family and of my friends and of myself.
Jairus, your family brought you here and you're doing it, man. I love you.
