Joe had to have been aware of this awkward dynamic, which is presumably why he assigned the scene in the first place. Two of his favorite sayings were “You need to get outside your comfort zone!” and “Artists grow and succeed when we take risks!” No matter how I approached the beats of the scene, I couldn’t crack how that kiss was supposed to go. I was too in my head about it. After about a week of excruciating rehearsal in which the class watches and critiques the dialogue and you don’t actually kiss, Joe pulled Jessica aside for a private five-minute conversation. When they returned, we began the scene again. There was a strange fire in Jess’s performance right out of the gate. Before I could get my first line out, she grabbed my face with both hands, pried my mouth open with her shockingly strong tongue, slithered it down my throat while filling my mouth with saliva, and banged her braces against my teeth. Oh, I thought to myself, I guess I’m having my first kiss.
After class, I described what the kiss felt like to Ben. I needed the expert counsel of an experienced friend who had witnessed it from the second row. “Oh man,” he said, “that is NOT what it’s supposed to feel like. She washed? Noooooo!” That phrase, she washed, was apparently in reference to her filling my mouth with saliva. He’s the only one I’ve ever heard use that phrase, and it popped into my head every time I thought I might be about to kiss somebody for, like, the next ten years—which is pretty much how long it took me to kiss anybody again. Contrary to Joe’s goal of teaching us that confidence comes from taking risks (a generally true and good lesson), his execution of that lesson had the opposite effect and scarred me for a long, long time. I’m not implying that this experience had serious consequences beyond kissing, but it’s a good time to point out that my best-known on-screen love scene is with a gigantic anthropomorphic bag of weed, so there you go.
* * *
I came home from that summer program more interested in risk-taking, storytelling, and the arts, and much more confident in my own skin. I grew out my hair a bit, like Nathan. Tried to do some workouts Ben taught me (and failed miserably so I stopped that). I started dressing and acting cool: In the 1990s that meant I rocked jeans with holes in them, had a flannel tied around my waist, and said, “She’s all that and a bag of chips” a lot.
I started to bank some quick teenage successes. By eleventh grade I had joined my high school’s speech and debate team (Forensics) and consistently placed at the top of competitions, or meets, across the state. I auditioned for and got admitted to the Freehold Regional High School District’s two-year public magnet program for the arts. After my standard morning academic courses, the Fine and Performing Arts Center (FPAC, for short) was where I’d spend the second half of the day, in intensive acting and theater study.12 This was followed by the prestigious, publicly funded New Jersey Governor’s School for the Arts, a crazy-selective summer program for incoming seniors that accepted the top five boys and top five girls in each arts discipline statewide. If you got in, you attended a free monthlong intensive residency where you took classes with top professionals in your specialization; in our case, we studied with instructors from David Mamet’s highly esteemed Atlantic Theater Company. Governor’s School felt like all-state for sports, except way more competitive and creative.
I was fortunate to live in a community where these rare public programs existed. Getting into them was a big stepping-stone, showing me that this wasn’t just some random phase—my own state was saying I was actually good at acting. A hobby had become much more, and having these supportive signals of validation continued to offer me clarity: Turning my passion for the arts into a lifelong career was how I wanted to spend the rest of my life.
1?The uncles knew.
2?Okay, bad example.
3?The better part of my childhood summers was spent pooping in communal toilets and washing my tiny butt with bucket water.
4?“You mean A-plus!” —Mom
5?In brownface
6?In brown-voice
7?Piccolo doesn’t sound as folksy.
8?I had no lines.
9?“Did we mention that already? It is for premed. Early admission. He will be a neurosurgeon. Anyway, how is Kalpen?”
10?Spoiler: The opposite happened! And I am very thankful for their tacit support.
11?Not a real thing, I don’t think?
12?Modern, jazz, and tap dance classes instead of gym class. No more getting picked last!
CHAPTER THREE YOU CAN’T HAVE YOUR CAKE AND EAT IT TOO
My high school guidance counselor was named Mrs. Cummings, which I found as amusing then as I do now. As was customary for all students early senior year, Mrs. Cummings1 called me down to her office to discuss my future. What were my goals? Where did I see myself in ten years? (Not kissing anyone yet, that’s where!)
I had all the answers. I earnestly told her that I wanted to be an actor and filmmaker. I had also been so inspired by my grandparents—who basically instilled in us the idea of public service as a family value—that after my career got going, my goal was to add something civic-minded, like development studies or nonprofit work.
For the summer between the Summer Arts Institute and Governor’s School, I had my eye on a few of the philanthropic international programs I saw advertised on the school library’s bulletin board. I came home one evening and eagerly presented my dad with a colorful pamphlet about a “volunteer” opportunity that took high school students to Kenya for four weeks in July. He thumbed through it skeptically and laughed when he got to the last page: “Program Cost: $5,500.”
“If you really want to volunteer in a developing country,” Dad said, “I’ll send you to India. Our friends Daxa Auntie and Anil Uncle run a small NGO in rural Gujarat called Action Research in Community Health and Development [ARCH]. You can stay with them there.” I took him up on it. Each morning that summer I’d wake up early and shadow one of the various teams of ARCH specialists that could use an extra hand: doctors running an on-site medical clinic (which some patients traveled on foot for several days to access), environmental and social workers visiting tribal sites deep in the Dediapada rain forest, volunteers running sex education workshops on the street (bold for a conservative country).
I came back from India late that summer completely fluent in Gujarati—something I’ve managed to keep up, thanks to my parents and other relatives. I also returned with a basic understanding of 1) some important international development challenges, and 2) the reality that nobody wants to hook up with a sixteen-year-old American who came to rural Gujarat for a summer of volunteer work. (It was the exact opposite of the bucolic Maine sleepaway camps where my friends were getting repeatedly laid after Midnight Lip Sync Competition by the Lake Night.)
Mrs. Cummings knew about the summer volunteer work, and as I shared everything else that I wanted out of a future professional life, saying it out loud made my dreams feel more real than they had before. “So, that’s what I want to do,” I said eagerly. “Be an actor and filmmaker and do something in public service!” I was unprepared for her sudden, deep, from-the-belly laugh, just like Pussy Auntie’s. “That’s pretty much impossible,” Mrs. Cummings said with a hint of condescension. “You know, Kalpen, you can’t have your cake and eat it too.”