Waiting for my Eddie Furlong Moment
Could getting discovered heal the childhood trauma of being picked last? Only time will tell.
In the early 1990s, I learned a fun fact about how Eddie Furlong, teen heartthrob and winner of the MTV Movie Award for Best Breakthrough Role for his portrayal of John Connor in Terminator 2: Judgment Day, was discovered by a casting director while hanging out at the Pasadena Boys Club.
Now, I have never seen a Terminator movie. I am also fairly certain that the only Eddie Furlong movie I’ve seen is Detroit Rock City. However, I have thought about this fun fact innumerable times throughout the last 30 years of my life. This teeny kernel of pop culture trivia has instilled in me a nonsensical optimism that one day, I too will be yanked from obscurity by a magical fairy godmother of a casting director so that I may fulfill my life’s true purpose.
What is that true purpose, you ask? Are you passionate about the theater? Do you have an obsessive love of film? Is it your dream to bring the written word to life, using your physical form as a vehicle for storytelling? Well, no. I just think I’m pretty awesome and more people should know that. (Side note: How can someone have low self esteem and an inflated ego simultaneously? I am also open to being discovered by a psychologist who thinks my brain should be studied.)
So what is it I’m looking for? The fame? Okay, tons of people work toward that on a daily basis. But I have taken no action, put forth no effort to actually achieve any sort of celebrity status. I have never taken an acting class or acted professionally. However, here is a short list of my acting experience which actually makes me believe that I could be good at it.
So if it was really about fame, I could make that a goal and take steps to pursue it. But nahhh. Not interested. Then the other day I was thinking about what it is about the idea of being discovered that I have been so drawn to my entire life.
When I was in 5th and 6th grade, once a week we had library class. We’d walk down the hall and be greeted by our school librarian who had long black hair down to her waist that she always wore in a single thick braid. She was like a hippie, witchy Pocahontas, and she spoke like someone who would be hired by the Calm app. On the worst library days, we had to learn about the Dewey Decimal System, which eventually came in handy never. On the best library days, we got to play library baseball.
Library baseball was essentially a trivia game where the class was split into two teams and players would “bat” by answering questions about library sciences. Your team would advance bases, but watch out for a wrong answer because that’s a strike! You get the idea.
Sure, as a nerd, of course I did well with answering academic questions. However, after playing library baseball enough times, I had literally memorized every single question and answer. I was batting 1000. Unheard of! Certainly any team’s MVP. And yet, at the start of every game, when team captains were selected and players were drafted, I sat on the bench. Like, it was an actual bench where the unselected sat. I was always one of the last classmates to be picked for a game that not a single other person could play better than me.
I was used to being picked last during gym class. And for that, I blame no student. I was easily one of the least athletic kids in the entire school. It was always a relief when gym teachers used the “count off” method to divide the class into teams so I could avoid the embarrassment of standing alone, waiting to be pointed to, in a visual representation of my sadness. But for an academic battle?? Getting picked last for a trivia game meant that my low selection ranking had nothing to do with my ABILITY and everything to do with my LIKABILITY. Or lack thereof, I guess.
Getting discovered is the antithesis of being picked last—someone who barely knows you choosing you versus someone who actually knows you NOT choosing you. So I guess for me, it’s less about becoming a celebrity and more about feeling worthy. #trauma
Don’t get me wrong, I still hope it happens. But maybe I’ll stop loitering around the Pasadena Boys Club.
