Welcome to Chromatica
“We got the job.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yep.”
“… Absolutely sure?”
“Uh huh.”
“… She’ll be there…”
“Yeah, she will.”
“… And we’ll be there…”
“We will.”
“… On set...”
“Yep”
“…”
“You ok?”
“…”
“Hello?”
“… gimme a moment.”
Such was the highly anticipated, confirmation call I got this past January that kicks off today’s story.
Some quick backstory before we go any further:
By this point in my life, I had left my 9-to-5, full-time job and was pursuing freelance graphic design opportunities while picking up production work on the side. Justin, my roommate, had been an art department coordinator for a few years, and I’d come on to assist him in mostly ‘pre-’ and ‘post-production’ work. Through our working together I had found myself face-to-face with a few notable names and a major celebrity or two, but I’d never found myself starstruck to the point of immobility. Coming across a celebrity, or even working one-on-one with big-name personalities for a project, was something I was strangely used to by this point in my life. Though all the while, as my exposure to the Hollywood elite grew steadily, I wondered if the stars would align and I’d actually come to meet the one person who I knew could give me heart palpitations with one glance.
Nothing could have prepared me for the moment when my wondering would became a solid, terrifying reality.
“Ok… so what’s the timeline?”
“3 days pre-production, and then a two-day shoot on location. Post-production work for a couple days or so after that.”
“Starting Monday?”
“Yep.”
“…”
“Are you sure you’re ok?”
“I’m more than ok. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Yep, get ready!”
Could I get ready?
Seriously, could I really ‘get ready’ for something like this? How? What was ‘ready’? Part of me felt like everything had built up to this opportunity. The side jobs, bad jobs, good jobs, the long nights, the uncertainty, the bold decisions, the stupid decisions too - even my initial decision to leave home and move across the country with no job and no idea what I was doing. It had all led to this moment of me standing here, in my bathroom, the dial tone buzzing in my ear - a moment that I’d hoped for but never considered a genuine possibility. I was like a dog who’d caught up to the mail truck and had no clue what to do now. There would be limits, that’s for sure. I’d keep it professional, like I had with the other big-name clients who’d sat across my desk. Hell, I’d have to. No doubt there’d be security, NDA’s, and contracts a-plenty.
‘It’s a job like any other,’ I told myself. ‘Yes, she’ll be there, and you’ll be on set with her and this is the big one. The ‘mother-of-all-moments’. But easy, Action - play it cool. Give the work your all and help make this special. Regardless of whether you meet her, you’ll have been a part of it.’
And so pre-production began. Three long days of pre-production. Three long days of sourcing materials, coordinating with third-party vendors, tracking down vehicles, filling out paperwork, and driving courier runs to prop artists, set decorators, the leadman, the production designer, etc. We would get a call every hour or so from her team regarding a change to the video’s concept: ‘This is out,’ or ‘She doesn’t want that anymore,’ or ‘Could we bring back this idea?’ On and on it went, with Justin and I pushing well over ten, eleven hours a day. Yet with each added stress or change to the video, and each night as I flopped, exhausted, onto the couch where Blair would be waiting with a glass of whisky, I reminded myself: I am a part of this. In my own, small way, I am helping make this video happen. I am helping her.
On the third day of pre-production, after we had checked and double-checked that everything was set, ready, and on its way to the shooting location, we pulled out of Los Angeles and began the drive north into the desert. I’d always enjoyed the calming aspect of driving on the open road, seeing new landscapes and exploring parts of the country I hadn’t explored yet. While this was no different, I couldn’t help but stress out. I understood, hands down, that this would be the closest I would ever get to her. This chance would not happen again. Ever.
“Two hours until you reach your destination.”
Should I try to say something to her?
“One and a half hours until you reach your destination.”
Would I get in trouble if I tried to approach her?
“One hour until you reach your destination.”
Would I even be able to say what I wanted to say? Could I even get my mouth to speak?
“Thirty minutes until you reach your destination.”
Even if I could summon the courage to approach her, and speak to her, and all of it… would I even be able to convey properly how much she’s done for me? Means to me?’
“You have arrived at your destination!”
I checked into the motel the crew was staying at. Room 213, all to myself. I unpacked, arranging what few items and clothes I had brought with a determined delicacy and attention to detail, as if she had hidden cameras in my room and was watching to see if I truly cared about being there. A little while later Justin texted the shoot schedule: we’ll need to drive out to the location around 4:30 AM, so you better get some sleep. I lay on my bed for hours, my mind refusing to slow down. We were all here to work. The notion of trying to pull her aside, get her attention, talk to her, or anything like that would be disruptive to the shoot and video. She wouldn’t like that - her manager, the director, the rest of the crew, etc. wouldn’t like it. And I wouldn’t like it either, honestly. I didn’t want to be the annoying fan, racing up to her and hijacking everything, thinking that my meeting her mattered more than the video, the production, her work.
‘But I can’t do nothing,’ I thought back, challenging the voice of reason. ‘I can’t have this chance slip through my fingers and not, at least, try something.”
To which reason responded: “Good luck with that.”
Suddenly my alarm was going off. I jolted off the bed. 4:00 AM. I had fallen asleep, still fully clothed, amid the internal dialogue. After scrambling around the room, getting a quick shower in, and collecting what I’d need, I was off - racing across the desert highway into the heart of a pitch-black morning. I parked at the allotted location for crew members and hopped into the shuttle-bus that would take us across the rocky terrain to basecamp.
The sun was just peaking over the Trona Pinnacles when we arrived, cast and crew alike shivering in the frigid cold. Our phones were promptly confiscated and locked into secure bags to prevent anyone from leaking any photos, videos, sound recordings, etc. It would be a few hours before shooting began, but there wasn’t an idle pair of hands to be found. Dancers warmed up, makeup and hairdressers slapped on war paint and wigs, set dressers prepped backgrounds, cameramen unpacked equipment, electrics and grips scrambled back and forth on set. Everyone was frantic to ensure that everything technical would be up and running by the time she and her team got here. I dashed around, making sure that the art department team had everything they needed, whether it be another set of hands or a quick cup of coffee. ‘It doesn’t matter that I’m a production assistant,’ I reminded myself after getting a few cold shoulders from some of the crew I didn’t know. ‘If I can help them do their jobs smoothly and prevent any hang-ups or distractions, then their work within the video will be even better and the production will thrive.’
During my dashing, I overheard that one of the production coordinators needed a ride back to the parking lot where we had all gotten into the shuttle-buses. I volunteered, grabbed a set of keys and we were on the road. The production coordinator and I began to chat and bond over our excitement for the shoot, when in the midst of our babbling a chopping sound grew overhead. We looked up and suddenly there it was: her helicopter. Without realizing it we were approaching the very point on the road where she and her team would be landing.
‘Oh god, oh god, OH GOD!’ I thought while doing my best to maintain my cool in front of the production coordinator. We braked just as the helicopter landed, not fifty feet away. My eyes darted back and forth from it to the small armada of Cadillac Escalades that would usher her and her team to set. The doors opened, and she was there for a flash before being shuffled into an SUV, the fleet speeding past us down the road.
‘How cool was that? Getting to see her land!’ the production coordinator said, laughing.
Needless to say, I expedited our drive to the parking lot and back as quickly as I could without scaring the production coordinator or overturning our van. By the time I’d returned to location, she was in her ‘trailer’ – an enormous RV that had traversed the desert terrain, inch by inch, to basecamp so that she could sleep on location overnight and not have to return to LA. But no matter, I wasn’t worried about running up and speaking to her face-to-face, anymore. An answer to my dilemma had burst to mind the moment that helicopter had landed. I b-lined for the production trailer, grabbed a pen and a couple pieces of paper, and began to write.
I wrote down everything. All of the times I had needed someone who couldn’t be there, yet she had been. All of the times I had experienced joy, strength, and resilience through her music. All the self-acceptance she had taught me to unlock. All of the thoughts, memories, saving graces, and emotions that had been linked to her. From the gawky teenager on Bus 183 - too shy to take off his headphones in case someone started talking to him - who had overheard Katheryn Hegarty ask the Lopez twins ‘did you hear that new song, ‘Just Dance’?’. To the traumatized college freshmen quietly repeating the lyric ‘I’m beautiful in my way, ‘cause God makes no mistakes’ until he fell asleep. To the liberated college sophomore, freshly transferred to William & Mary, blasting ‘Marry The Night’ through his headphones as he danced, drunk and alone, on the fifty-yard line of the football field in the moonlight. From the graduate, back from his adventures in London, finding a moment’s peace on an Appalachian mountaintop as ‘Joanne’ played in his ears. To the angry young man, stomping down Chicago’s streets to the beat of ‘Perfect Illusion’. A young man - now made aware of his chronic condition - seething with how wildly unfair it was, that his body and mind should wrack him with pain and break apart fifty, sixty years too soon.
I wrote, rewrote, and edited it all down again, as if I were a sculptor shaving down clay to ensure my work was perfect. My fingers and pen were on fire I was writing so fast. I knew I wouldn’t be able to talk to her, but damn it all if I was going to throw away this one shot to tell her my story. Not to feel important, not to feel famous-adjacent, but rather to thank her. It was that simple: someone does you a service, you thank them. At the core of all of this - my anxiety and anticipation over this moment - that’s all I really wanted. I didn’t need a photo with her, I didn’t need to sing for her, I didn’t need to shake her hand, I didn’t even need her to look my way. I just wanted to thank her.
I finished the letter with something like “it seems you were sent ahead of me to light a way forward”. And I meant it.
I folded the letter shut. Step one: complete.
Step two, and the predicament it entailed, came to mind. There was no way I would be able to get near her trailers, so I’d need someone to get the letter to her. Someone who might understand my plight and not toss my story into the trash, muttering “tuh - another fan.” I stared out of the production trailer window, musing over my options. Outside, on fold-out tables by the food truck, dancers and crew were finishing their early lunch. Across this crowd my eye caught sight of Richy Jackson, her choreographer, and I decided that he was my best bet. I made my way over and pulled him aside, asking if he’d be willing to deliver the letter and telling him, flat out, that I understood this was pushing it, professionally speaking. Richy chuckled and reassured me that it was ok, and that, when he got the chance, he would pass the letter to her.
From there it was off to the races, with no time to think about notes or thank you’s. Everybody mobilized and made their way from basecamp to set. Filming commenced, and I zoned in on doing my job. Yes, she was right there – not even twenty feet from where I was. But I needed to focus and contribute with my newfound, and definitely important, job: dirt sweeper.
Yep. I was a character from an Ayn Rand novel.
I was a cross between ‘M.O.’ from WALL-E and one of the guys at a baseball game that comes out and brushes the dirt clean during the 7th inning stretch (in Richmond they dress up in drag and dance the YMCA – bonus points!). Between takes I jumped out from behind the small rock formation I was stationed at and swept away the dirt that had been kicked up by dancers and the occasional truck/motocross motorcycle that drove behind the shot between takes. Again: really important, necessary, top-tier level stuff, this. After all, it wouldn’t look particularly good for this intergalactic land of Chromatica to have tire tread from a Ford F-150 in the shot, now would it? Yet again, I reassured myself: ‘It doesn’t matter that I’m a production assistant… who has now been given the task of… sweeping dirt… um… Right - that doesn’t matter. I’m here. I’m a part of this. I belong.’
For those of you unfamiliar with how the entertainment industry works, or what productions are like, on and off set, these sorts of crucial tasks are often entrusted to PA’s like yours truly. Why? Well, A) everyone else has something else to do, and B) being a PA is the lowest of the low in the production company’s hierarchy. This is literally the purpose of a PA’s job - do everything/anything that no one else wants to do. I’m that serf in Monty Python and The Holy Grail, rummaging around in the filth. Hell, I even apologized for it towards the start of my letter, saying: “Trust me - you will never actually come into contact with me. I’m literally the least important person on this set.” But again: whatever I could do to help, and I was willing to do it. That had to count for something, yeah? That had to be appreciated by someone, even though no one was saying it… or indicating it…in any way… right? ‘Hey,’ I told myself, ‘you get satisfaction out of mundane tasks like this anyway - cutting grass or raking leaves.’ It’s true, actually. Any physical task that shows a visual indication of my progress gives me a chance to tune out my brain and enter an almost meditative state, and I love that. ‘So… yeah, this is ok. It isn’t glamourous. In fact, it’s probably the furthest thing from it… but I’ll make it work!’
Hours passed. Dancers danced, crew ran around resetting the set, and your lowly dirt-sweeper swept. Eventually I was no longer needed behind my rock, so I joined the crew and dancers behind the camera as we watched her run through solo versions of the dance routine. I struck up a friendly conversation with a young woman who stood beside me wearing a woolen poncho and baseball cap. Her name was Nica, personal assistant to you-know-who. I asked about her job, and she asked about mine. I laughed and told her I was “Gray, just a lowly dirt sweeper”. She stared at me inquisitively while I told her about how I ended up getting the job. We went back to watching quietly for a moment or two before she turned to me, smiling, and said…
“Gray… I’m really glad you’re here.”
I smiled, taken back by her sincerity.
“… Me too, Nica.”
CUT! The music paused and Nica rushed forward with Diet Coke and Essentia water in each hand for the panting, pink, alien lady. I was instructed to resume my post behind the rock, and the rest of the day went forward from there. Just me, my broom, my rock, and the dirt. Another hour or so passed, and then…
“THAT’S IT FOR DAY ONE, PEOPLE!”
Back to the shuttles. Back to the parking lot. Back to the motel. Back to my bed. I was exhausted.
3:45 AM. Our second and last day of filming. I staggered out of bed, feeling the lack of sleep. My body had been relentless with neuropathic pain that night, probably brought on by my not eating properly while on set, paired with frayed nerves, anxiety, and hours of sweeping. On with the clothes, the jacket, and coat. Down to the car, off to the desert, into the darkness, then the parking lot, then the lurching shuttle buses, and finally again to basecamp. Quite the ‘hop, skip, jump’.
“Phones over here, people! Phones over here! Everyone must check in all communication devices,” shouted the head of security.
I was told to grab coffee and breakfast orders for members of the art department – set dressers, prop guys, everyone. I stood in line at the food truck for what felt like ages, fingers freezing and knees knocking.
It wasn’t until I was a couple spots short of the ordering window that I realized I had been standing behind Bobby Campbell, her manager, the whole time. I tapped him on the shoulder and introduced myself, extending a handshake only for it to be denied as he raised both hands, bright with fluorescent nail polish. “They’re still wet,” he said flatly. I paused but went ahead and told him it was a pleasure to meet him and be on set.
“And… what is it you do here?”
“Oh, I’m a PA.”
“Riiight……. and what did you say your name was?”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t. My name’s Gray.”
“…oh.”
Though his expression remained flat and uninterested, his eyes flashed. Up to that moment he had treated me with nonchalance, but now there was a slight air of recognition… and disapproval. Luckily, it was his turn to order, and at the same time someone he knew came up to him, slapping him on the back and striking up a conversation (Bobby: “hey, watch it - they’re wet!”). I placed the order for the art crew and excused myself from Bobby’s presence, my train of thought gaining speed as I headed for the cover of the production trailer.
‘Why on earth did I get such an icy attitude from Bobby? I mean, I get it I’m a PA, but c’mon. No one on set knows who I am. Not even the people on my crew can remember my name. I’ve hardly even spoken to anyone in costumes, or makeup, or the directors, or anyone. I mean, there was Nica… but I doubt she would have bothered to tell Bobby who I was, so she’s out. That only lea-’
I froze.
Richy. The letter.
Had Richy told on me to Bobby? Did that mean that the letter never made it past Bobby? But wait… what about Nica? That moment yesterday, when she was so kind and empathetic… why would she do that, say that? Had you-know-who gotten the letter? Had Richy kept his promise? Had Nica and Bobby been there when the letter changed hands, or had it been read aloud and that’s how they knew? ‘I’m really glad you’re here, Gray’. That’s what Nica had said. Unprovoked. And Bobby. The manager, the protector. The guy who’s probably faced down hundreds of hysterical fans and who’s main job on set was to protect the video - to ensure that no one, on set or off, leaked anything to the press/internet. If he’d heard about the letter, or heard/read its contents himself, of course he’d disapprove… which meant…
She’d gotten it. She’d gotten the letter.
No, my mind answered back. She hasn’t. You’re in your head about it, like you are with most things. It’s coincidence that Nica and Bobby said what they said.
‘But… but,’ I thought, ‘she must have… right?’
I dashed around delivering breakfast orders, my mind back to its spinning. How would I know? Was there something I could do? Would she spot me amongst the crew, and in that moment would I get some kind of sign, or sense of recognition from her? Did she know what I even looked like? If she had read the letter, would she even bother to do anything? Did she even care? Albeit I was wrapped in doubt and desperate for confirmation, still - I’d gotten a taste of the notion that she knew who I was, knew my story, and I was ecstatic. I returned to the production trailer to collect my trusty dirt-sweeping broom, considering multiple plans of action, only to be told the worst: I’d be needed in the trailer all day to help collect and fill out crew members’ paperwork for the job.
My heart sank. This would take hours, and filming was kicking off in just a few minutes. I held on to the hope that my letter had gotten to her and hunkered down into the mind-numbing task at hand. And yes, to me paperwork is more tedious than sweeping dirt. For most of the day I was chained to my desk, like any good second-assistant working at Runway, but occasionally I had to track down a rogue cameraman or stuntman’s timecard and would catch a glimpse of the action. Filming was ending earlier today than it had the day before, so I had to be quick, but thorough. If I made any mistakes, I’d have a bunch of angry crew members on my ass for screwing up their paperwork and costing them overtime.
Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Noon. One. Two.
At last, at a quarter to three, I finished. Every slip of paper, every receipt, every timecard, and every tax form had been tracked down, filled out, and organized. And just in time, too. As I was filing the last of the forms another PA jumped up into the trailer – “They’re about to film the final shot!”
Craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap.
I stumbled down the fold out stairs and sped over to the shooting location where everyone had amassed. Sure enough, all the dancers were in place, waiting for the enormous drone that floated a hundred yards away to give them the green light. The music kicked back in, aaaaaand ACTION – the final shot began. This is it, I thought. This is when it ends. The whole day spent in a stuffy production trailer, while the excitement happened without me.
‘Don’t you see’ said a soft voice from within me. ‘You were never needed at all.’
I watched as she and the dancers spun around, laughing with their hands in the air. Then I looked around me at the director, cameramen, producers, designers, members of her entourage and friends of her team that had come out to see the shoot – all smiles and pats-on-the-back as the select few who had been allowed to hold onto their phones snapped photos, while others made calls to coordinate the next video, the next job, the next multimillion dollar project that was already speeding their way. A face or two did happen to realize I was there, only to give me inquisitive looks, as if to say “… who are you?” before turning back to their friends or their phones.
I stood there, silent, feeling out of place and small. My self-reassurance of ‘It doesn’t matter that I’m a production assistant’ had been broken down to ‘I don’t matter - I’m a production assistant.’ What had I been thinking? I knew I should have been thankful to be there, and I was, but part of me couldn’t help it. I watched the dance go on, a joyous moment of life and color. I watched the crew, my crew, congratulating themselves and setting up for the next big thing while I stood there with nothing to show for my work - nothing lined up to look forward to. All this time I had been joking with myself, my team, and others in the crew who I didn’t even know about how ‘unnecessary’ I was to the production, but with the end in sight… it didn’t feel like a joke anymore. It felt like I had providing the punchline to something that ultimately wasn’t funny. Like a kid in class who trips and falls, or spills milk on himself, or acts dumber than he is - all on purpose - for the entertainment of his/her classmates. Who is happy to play the clown and be laughed at because the laughter is better than the silence of not being spoken to, or thought of, or cared about at all.
‘Why can’t I be someone… something… else?’
My life has been haunted by this question. I have always, always, perceived the grass to be greener on any side other than my own. Maybe it’s because I’m a middle child who felt ignored by his parents I thought they cared more about my over-achieving, super smart older brother and my adorable, whining baby brother. Maybe it’s because when the time came for me to go to middle school, high school, and beyond I was never able to excel at anything in particular that ‘mattered’. OK but not great academic achievement, little involvement in extra-curriculars (the two groups/organizations I went to outside school happened to be filled with bullies), no good at team sports or physical fitness. I had a vivid imagination, and would love to pretend and daydream, but to the other kids around me and the adults who ran the show, what did that matter? Maybe, simply put, it wasn’t one thing in particular. Maybe it was the amalgamation of all the little shortcomings, all the judgments from parents and kids alike, that drove me to always bring myself down, feeling worthless and unwanted. As the misunderstood boy, the gawky teenager, the invisible freshmen, the struggling college kid, the direction-less graduate. Through all of it, a sense of “lesser than” and “otherness” consistently berated me, unyielding in my desperation for something to change and ravishing in the self-hatred that festered. The ‘otherness’ I’ve come to see as a trait of empowerment. In the past it used to plague me that I wasn’t like everyone else, but with college, and especially after college as I came into my own, accepting my queerness helped me break free from equating ‘other’ with ‘bad’.
But ‘less than’? ‘Less than’ has been a ghost that has never left me, no matter how much I’ve tried to shake him. No matter what I do with my life, no matter what radical change or chance I take, disappointment in myself follows like a shadow. Imposter syndrome, low self-worth, low self-esteem - call it whatever you want. And what’s worse, ‘less than’ had kept me from trying, because up until recently I oftentimes found myself believing the ghost and refusing to give my life another shot, another chance. I’d done all I could to not believe the shadow and yet I’d come up short every time, so why would this time or that instance be any different? ‘Not a good enough student, singer, artist, brother, son, boyfriend, friend. Not handsome enough, big enough, strong enough, thin enough, smart enough, creative enough, talented enough, healthy enough, important enough, calm enough, passionate enough, stable enough, competent enough, giving enough, grateful enough...’
Not enough.
So now here I was, after all of the build up, all of the work I put into this supreme ‘working of fate’ that had fallen into my lap, where I’d found myself on the film set of a major music video, less than twenty feet from the woman I’d dreamt of meeting for years - a woman who’s entire mission has been to stop both kids and adults alike from listening to their shadows - and all I could feel was the ghost flowing over me in a wave of misery and self-pity…
“I WANT YOUR STUPID LOVE, LOVE!”
The last refrain of the song rang out over the rocks. The dancers struck a pose, hands high to the sky. A moment passed, everyone and everything standing still.
“alriiight… CUT! That’s a wrap!” cried the director.
The drone landed and a cheer went up as the crew moved forward to the dancers. I stood still as others rushed past me, finally willing myself to approach the back of the pack and reach the crowd just as I heard her start up a speech. She thanked the dancers, the costumers, the stuntmen, the director, the producers, Bobby, her team, that one cameraman who had taken a tumble while filming the day before. Everyone applauded and shouted loudly as she and her dancers bunched together in a huddle for a final round of photos. The cameras flashed for a brief moment, then everyone turned on their heels and walked back to basecamp as her team gathered around her like a shield and escorted her to the pick-up truck that would speed her away.
I stood there, left alone now, staring at the pinnacles. They looked back at me with unwavering indifference.
You know what kid, I said to myself. You’re just not one of them. And that’s ok... Maybe you will be one day, or maybe you won’t. Today, you’re just… not. You’re used to this. It’s not gonna kill you. It’s disappointing, but just tell yourself you gave it your best shot. You got the letter to her, or at least, you got it to Richy, and we can just hold tight to the idea that she read it too. Just… put one foot in front of the other and get back to basecamp - they’re going to need your help breaking down and packing up everything to get back to LA.
I sighed. Yeah, it was time to go back.
I looked down and picked up one of the rocks at my feet. It was shaped like a heart that had been smudged. I held the rock and turned back to basecamp. Lingering crew members were packing away the drone, and a few dancers were chatting and laughing as we all walked back. I watched some even call out to her as Bobby helped her get up into the bed of the pick-up truck. ‘We love you!’ – ‘I love you too!’, she replied. I shuffled through the dancers gathered around the truck as quickly as I could. I wasn’t in the mood to get another disdainful look from Bobby. Free from the crowd of dancers, I crossed in front of the truck and turned my direction to art department, doing my best to push down everything eating at me. Let’s see, I need to ensure the paperwork gets to the production company. And Justin’s lent his umbrella out to another crew member, I’ll have to track that d-
“Gray?”
I froze. No exaggeration. I genuinely, instantly, froze.
Silence.
‘I didn’t hear that. That didn’t happen. Nobody heard that but me.’
More silence.
I took another step or two forward.
“Gray!”
I stopped again. Someone was playing a trick on me. Someone was playing a very cruel game of ‘Red Light, Green Light’ where my name, in her voice, was the red light.
But maybe it wasn’t a trick.
Maybe…
I closed my eyes and turned around. A single word, fragile, sat in my throat, holding its breath:
‘please.’
I opened my eyes.
Lady Gaga was standing in the bed of a pick-up truck, clad in electric pink, staring directly at me.
Her entire team stared from me, to her, to me again. I couldn’t move. I didn’t feel excitement, or fear, or joy. Lightning didn’t strike, a firework didn’t go off. Not even a smile crossed my face. All I could do was stand there, frozen, staring back at her. As if my mind, the world, all of it had been wiped away.
She stared back. We just stared at each other, for seconds that felt like millennia, until finally an expression crossed her face. To this day I’m not certain how to explain what that expression looked like, or what she was thinking or feeling, but it was as if the sight of me had brought up some painful memory from her past, while at the same time the sight of me had brought her some form of immense joy. Perhaps, now, looking back, the best way I can describe it is this: etched across her face was pure ‘understanding’. As if, somehow, in that moment she could see straight through me. As if by standing still, just looking back at her and saying nothing at all, I’d said everything I’d ever wanted to say to her. And, in reply, she was saying:
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, I see you.’
‘Yes, I hear you.’
‘Yes, I know your pain.’
‘And because I know your pain, I know you’ll find a way out.’
‘I know you.’
‘I love you.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Please don’t give up.’
I managed to smile at her. Not a happy smile, or an ‘oh my god, I’m your biggest fan,’ smile, or a smile of relief. But a smile, nonetheless. She smiled too, putting her hands over her heart. A small flame lit inside me and my smile grew warmer, my hands folding to mirror her sentiment as I took my shot and mouthed to her: ‘thank you.’
She closed her eyes, biting down on her smile as if to stop herself from crying, then, opening her eyes, lifted her hand and blew me a kiss.
Bobby called out to the driver to get a move on, and the truck surged forward. She lurched a bit but regained her balance and sat down, the two of us still staring at each other, sharing a moment of solace, as her truck raced past me, moving further and further away. The driver sharply turned a corner behind some trailers, and she was gone.
A lot has happened since that dusty day in the California desert. Months have passed in quarantine. A pandemic has ravaged the globe and killed hundreds of thousands of people. Protests and riots have occurred, and continue to occur, across the country and world as millions of people demand a long overdue end to violent, systemic, racist oppression. All of us have sat in our homes, watching the world seemingly fall to pieces around us, waiting, hoping, asking: “when will everything return to normal?”
It won’t. It shouldn’t. The world isn’t ending, it’s changing - rapidly, and without apology. The world needs to change - it has to - and we need to change with it.
There is so much needless, useless, avoidable pain in this world brought on by our own action and inaction, be it conscious or ignorant. We have to stop. We have to say ‘no’ to those who would put us down to make themselves feel important. We have hurt each other so often without thinking, yet we hurt and belittle ourselves just as much. We must rid ourselves of the narrative that others have given us. We have to stop following that narrative, telling ourselves that we’re not enough, or that we’re lesser. We need to stop waiting for someone to tell us we’re equal before we tell it to ourselves, believing it and knowing it in our hearts. We need to stop waiting for someone else to tell us that we’re worthy, because we are worthy from birth. We are never ‘less’, no matter who we are, what we look like, where we come from, or what experiences we’ve had or not had. There is no ‘greater than’ or ‘less than’. Only ‘other’, and a fear of that ‘other’. We have created this world’s inequalities. We have imposed these judgments and critiques on each other and ourselves.
And now it is time for us to step up, take action, and put a stop to it.
In the days leading up to the full album being released Lady Gaga, across all social media platforms, gave the new world she’d created for her album a rallying cry:
“In Chromatica, no one thing is greater than another.”
Just as I have held tight to the experience I had in the desert this past January, and to the few moments of connection she and I shared, I now hold tight to the truth Gaga has built her new world on: no one thing is greater than another. All are equal in the eyes of our maker. Equal in the eyes of love, nature, destiny, and fate. That we are exactly who, and where, we are meant to be in this moment. That all we have to do is act on our God-given right to choose for life to be better for all people. To choose to say ‘no more’ to that which holds us back from bettering ourselves and evolving as individuals, a community, a nation, and a species. To choose to help, heal, and love both others and ourselves.
Chromatica is not a planet. It’s not an imaginary world with aliens and monsters - with pop divas in gogo boots and pink wigs, or dirt sweepers hiding behind rocks. It’s a frame of mind. It’s a vibrant wheel of color, spinning its song around and around as hues blend into one another other, creating an infinite number of shades and tones, each as unique and beautiful as the next. I choose to operate on that plain. I choose to move forward in my life gauging my progress as an individual solely against who I was before, and what I aim to be next. I embrace every version of myself that led me to Gaga, and every version after that who will move forward thanks in part to her empowerment. Every version that is waiting for me in the near or distant future, cheering me on. ‘You can do this, you can be this! We’re here, just up ahead, waiting to finally meet you. Waiting to hug you, cry with you, and breathe a sigh of relief with you. Waiting to remind you of all you have accomplished, show you how far you’ve come, and push you on towards the future you deserve.’
We have the power to create happiness. We have the choice to uplift and embolden - to be Good Samaritans when others overlook, judge, or harm our brothers and sisters. We have the strength to fight for a new and better world. We have the power to demand change in the way we live, and the way our nations treat and protect us. We have the ability to be better, to educate ourselves, to realize our faults, and to admit when we’ve blindly gone along with the status quo. We have the power to fulfill the promise that 'all men are created equal’, and the chance to make this life a wonderful, plentiful, beautiful adventure for all. We, the people, have the power.
Not tomorrow, not later, not some time down the road once we’ve done this or that.
Now.
We have that power now.
We’ve always had it. It’s been waiting for us, patiently, to listen to its call. And now, because I make the choice to, I can hear it singing: