I pinned a black-and-white sign with the number thirty-four on the front of my floral print dress and entered the audition. The door creaked. I closed it gently behind me, but my hands shook. The casting director sat at a low-lying rectangular wooden table. I put my resume and headshots on his desk. He did not crack a smile. His silky brown-haired big city demeanor said I’ve seen it all before. I was nothing special.
“What’s your name?”
“Cassandra Roberts. I’m sixteen and I have a dramatic monologue prepared.”
“I’m ready when you are.”
So, I plunged into my role. I recited words from my heart and gesticulated passionately. I even shed a tear. In less than a minute, I presented a case of despair, of love lost. For weeks, I practiced being in character by modulating the tone of my voice and reaching for the depths of bitter mourning.
“Who wrote that monologue?”
“I did.”
“It was excellent, but a little one note. Do you have anything to show your comedic side?”
“Yes!”
And I launched into a comic monologue, which was also original. He laughed.
He proceeded to tell me that despite my excellence - black excellence - he did not have a part for me.
“You’re talented, but the production we’re working on requires a blonde.”
“I’ll bleach my hair.”
“And white skin.”
“I’ll bleach my skin.”
“Sorry doll face, we’re shooting a romantic comedy, and I just can’t picture a black woman falling in love. It’s not believable. Black women are so angry.”
“Do I look angry?” I asked with deadpan sarcasm.
“You’re acting humble. You should join a black-people production. They’ll have a role for you. Sorry, babe. Not for me. Not today.”
Another rejection for me. I grieved. As an actor, I’m accustomed to make-believe. Yet, I couldn’t pretend being dismissed didn’t hurt. I wondered what was so offensive about dark skin and black hair. We, too, breathe. Maybe I was unbelievable. A black girl with hope. I chose to focus on life outside of theater and film. I wanted to fall in love. I felt defeated. Art or life? I chose life.
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Again, in yet another fine short story, Yerusalem Work demonstrates her mastery of storytelling and visualizing the characters and scene during an audition for acting. As usual, she communicates a socially significant message—this time of a Black female interviewee for casting who is discriminated against racially and who is stereotyped as a Black angry woman by the white male interviewer. The interviewer states ridiculously that he is looking for a white woman with blond hair for the role.