I don't consider myself a feminist. I've supplied enough definitions to know that I will inevitably contradict them at some point. Life is complicated. It's all about circumstance.

These days, I'm officially a working actress, and like many a New York cliché, I moved to the Big Apple at eighteen and spent my first few years making a living in the Hospitality Industry, waiting tables in pressed black pants, carrying cocktail trays in four inch heels, and mixing martinis in low-cut tops at a number of Manhattan men's clubs, night-spots, and watering holes. My philosophy at the time was a sort of post-feminism, the idea of a level playing-field, a society in which feminism is no longer relevant, a world in which I welcomed chauvinism and machismo as a sort of harmless ignorance which I could use to my advantage. It was almost like acting; I could play a role to make some money and leave it in the bar along with guest-checks and drunken John Hancocks on the credit card receipts. It certainly wasn't cathartic, but it didn't bother me, either. After a good night I even felt empowered, and gave myself a pat on the bum for a stellar performance, a good hustle, my superior intelligence. It was all part of the game and I was playing not out of greed but necessity, paying my dues to society, a step on the journey of life which would allow me to fulfill my dreams, to ultimately live off my creativity, my heart, my passion, and my pathos.

Waiting tables is a popular choice for young women who dream of something larger. They can pay their rent in an expensive city without any assessable skills to speak of. Despite the pretensions of many New York establishments, a personable carriage and a comely appearance go a lot further than a bloated CV. E-mailing photos and bringing headshots to job interviews is becoming a common business move, if not a requisite. Some establishments even advertise job openings in Backstage or the talent gigs section of Craigslist in addition to the regular classifieds; the managers hold their interviews like cattle calls. Some even call them auditions. Nightclubs are known for the high turnarounds, and it's generally accepted that employees will quit after a few months or a few weeks, out of laziness or boredom or a call from an agent.

So I did it for years, I hated it at times, I went through phases without the motivation to pursue the higher goal, through shifts of perspective on my life -- from fondness to disgust for my owners and clientele, from romantic ideas of being one of the proletariat to romantic ideas of la vie boheme to romantic ideas of stardom and never stepping foot into a bar again, until I could show up with a body guard and an entourage and a credit card with no limit. Phases of optimism, alcoholism, sheer exhaustion. I've been fired from two jobs, the first after a day and the second after two years of working and quitting on and off. I've quit around ten jobs. I've given my two-weeks notice twice. And during it all I was getting some parts, getting some photos, making some contacts and pursuing, albeit intermittently, the higher goal, and by the time I finally quit a job not out of boredom or laziness but to work on an Off-Broadway show, I was tired of the Hospitality Industry. The thought of getting dolled up three to five days a week to intoxicate patrons and indulge them in flirtation or idle chatter until last call at four in the morning was depressing.

After the run of the show, which paid typically and hideously little, and an indulgent tropical vacation, I was back in the city without a gig and with a gradually depleting bank account. I had to get another job. I took one as a cocktail waitress at a popular mega-club. I quit on my third night, when I had to wear high heels, a denim mini-skirt, and a lavender Yankees cap to work a private party for a star slugger of the aforementioned team. I didn't call and I never went back to pick up my tips. There were no new philosophies nor self-discoveries gelling in my consciousness, I was just sick of it. I found a couple part-time bartending jobs at a family-friendly restaurant and a perpetually dead pub near my apartment and shortly thereafter I landed the lead in a feature film, a co-production with a European company, to be shot abroad, with European stars and a tight-knit crew, and everything I'd ever wanted and I didn't even believe it was happening and I didn't tell anyone for days, for weeks, for fear they'd take it all away. I was so happy. I would be living for the camera and nothing else mattered, and fuck the proletariat, nothing was real but the movies and a plane ticket to Paris.

Before going to Europe in the late summer, we shot three weeks of local scenes: long days, sweltering heat, and the inevitable personal tensions that occur when several creative types and their accompanying egos are spending all of their time together, running on catering and adrenaline. Waiting on line at JFK, beside my producer who was making business deals until the final boarding call, I was wired and anxious and a bit worn-down but I was still walking on air. I had my script for the European scenes spread out on my little tray as soon as the 747 was safely above the clouds, making notes and feeling quite glamorous. I wanted to soak up every second of this, the prize, the justification of my existence. So, I didn't sleep a wink, and the next two weeks -- the designated Grand Prix -- were a total blur, a fugue state consisting of scattered images, sensory impressions, and extreme, conflicting emotions which I am yet to reconcile.

It had been a red-eye flight, and I was about 20 hours without sleep but to dodge some bad weather we began shooting almost as soon as we landed.

Shooting exteriors in the City of Lights, I was a somnambulist in Prada heels on cobble-stone streets, turning corners and gazing into windows ten times over for sound issues, camera angles, a slight stumble. But the air smelled good and each take was another chance to shine and this was exhilarating enough. We finished shooting by necessity with the sunlight's shift, and when the crew decided to go to dinner, I had to decline, apologizing profusely, "I'm so sorry, I'm just, I'm just too tired." They were gracious and understanding as they watched me half stumble into the bedroom; I was jet-lagged; I needed to be rested and ready for the next day's work.

Over the following weeks, there were no more understandings. There were dinners and drinks as mandatory a part of my job as any work done on set. And the more exhaustion began to take its toll on my already fragile thespian grip, the more I became aware that my behavior off the set was a role that demanded as much energy and nuance as my performance on camera. As a woman, I felt judgment coming at me from every direction. And, like a caricature of a woman, by the final stretch of the shoot, I began to lose my grip, to fall into crying jags in public, to beg tearfully, in hushed and breathy apologies, to be left alone. I'd never behaved this way in my life. And I was treated differently because of it; my suggestions, once welcomed by my crew, were now dismissed without hesitation.

In the male-dominated entertainment industry, every encounter between members of the opposite sex is rife with sexual undertones, overtones, outer-tones, whether in the minds of the participants or in the eyes of the observers. Is it fair, that I have to play this role, this cautious exertion of my sexuality while I'm here to do another job? While I'm here, theoretically, to use my creativity, to save my mental and emotional energy for this other role for which I was supposedly hired? Am I supposed to be sweetness and light, to measure every smile, to maintain the good humor enough not to be labeled a diva, while restricting it enough not to be labeled a flirt? So that I can be taken seriously, while under the scrutiny of twenty-five, mostly foreign, mostly masculine, pairs of eyes sixteen hours a day? While I have to keep my emotions so close to the surface for the camera, and so buried for the crew? And I began thinking of all the actresses of Hollywood past and present, and how the vast majority of those who are remembered as great are also remembered as raging divas, sluts, nuts, and other monosyllabic epithets intended to devalue or demean... and I began to really feel for them. Wouldn't a man making similar demands about schedule and shots and alone-time between shoots simply be considered serious about his craft? And would he have to be so careful to appease the egos around him in order for his behavior to be considered acceptable? I began to consider myself a feminist.

Months later, after some sleep and perspective, I'm once again ready to ditch the label. After all, I was working longer hours on less sleep for longer than I ever had. It was an amazing experience, full of wonderful and talented people that I feel blessed to have met. I was angry, and then disappointed, that I couldn't be around to enjoy it because I was pushed toward a nervous breakdown... and a man in my shoes probably wouldn't have been. I do believe that women, through socialization or sheer physiology, are more ruled by our emotions. While I was constantly aware of the tensions on the crew, of the judgments being passed, of the tally of sexual advances and rejections and of all the jealousies and the egos inflated and bruised, a man in my shoes might have just let it roll off his back, and maintained pure focus, like a duck in the rain.

I still find it frustrating that my idols were called silly names, and that I've been called the same, but it seems a small price to pay for leaving a legacy, or coming out on top against odds, or gaining respect after the long journey. And some of us ask for it, in the entertainment industry. It is a business largely fueled by glamour and illusion, and sexuality is a part of the equation that can be used to one's advantage, and if one is smart enough to understand that and strong enough to ride it out, it will not feel like exploitation. It will feel empowering, a stellar performance, a good hustle, a sign of superior intelligence. It's a game, the field is level, and I'm still playing to fulfill my dreams, to live off my creativity, my heart, my passion, and my pathos.

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