As the years move on, the motivation behind such cruelty is not at all as simplistic. One knows, on some level at least, she’s calling that girl a hoe because she stole her boyfriend; now there’s a reason for every action, acknowledged or not.  

Another difference in the years gone by is that stinking phrase’s truth: sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. Are you kidding? Even at nine, that never healed the wounds. I would yell back to my mom, “But, it’d feel better if she hit me! Her words hurt way more!”

Nevertheless, here in Los Angeles I lead a moderately pleasant lifestyle. Yes, my career choices put me directly in the line of fire as far as cruelty goes. I’ve been called overweight, boring, insecure, dull, frizzy-haired, and whatever else, but when the motivation behind the words is as clear as, “I’m on an audition/shoot/call/whatever, they are talking what’s best for their business,” it really doesn’t hurt. It’s not personal. However, last week I had 3 days of ridiculous, ludicrous name-calling that taught me a thing or two.

On Wednesday, I darted around in my car late night with Tanya and Amy. Suddenly I had to break, which I did, and a ghetto angry chick pulled beside me, “Stoopid ass bitch!” We laughed together as she cursed me out for the entire red light, and I gave her a purposefully infuriating peace sign the whole time.

Then, that night I was woken up by a New Jersey number ringing my phone. “Hello?”

“Stop callin’ my sister, f*ckin’ bitch.”

In a complete sleep-daze, “Uh, I don’t think I know your sister.”

“Like f*ck you don’t! You f*ckin’ bitch!” *SLAM*

I rolled my eyes as my phone rang again, “Yeah, hello?”

“Is this [my number]?!”

“Yes.”

“F*ck you!” *SLAM*

still from Mean Girls

Subsequently, on Thursday night I was headed to this hotel pool party and after a long hunt for parking, I spotted a close one and turned on my signal. Another car just missed it so they stopped to call me a “f*cking c*nt.” I’ve been pathetic with confrontation, so I was angrily shaking. I mean, shouldn’t we all agree to reserve “c*nt” for only the most depraved crimes?

Of course that morning I was woken again by my good ol’ New Jersey girl, “Hey, you f*ckin’ bitch! I told you to stop calling my sister!” I think I told her I promised to stop.

Through all of these situations, it felt like God was prompted my heart to acknowledge something very important before any real ‘ish ever hit the fan. Suddenly, I remembered being 13. I shared the lead of Dolly in my middle school’s performance of Hello, Dolly. Every year climaxed to the final performances and a thing called “competition,” which was a showcase that took place for our county’s schools. Each school presented a play and because my school cast 2 people for each role, our director Mrs. Jarvis could only choose one student for each. For me, this was an afterthought; I just adored performing. For our assistant director, who was coincidentally the mother of the other Dolly, it was the whole purpose.

This tense situation made for an awful, painful year of comparisons, cruelty, and lies. The assistant director would loudly point out any lines I messed up, made fun of my voice when it cracked, and complained to the director that I didn’t know the words. In the meantime, her daughter had lines read to her from the side of the stage; it was total sabotage. I finally stood up for myself and wrote a letter about all the incidents to the director. It ended with the assistant forcefully grabbing and pulling my arm in a private moment and calling me a “terrible liar.”

Later in life, I would be told by a Hollywood slimeball that I was a mere shadow of the beauty and personality that was my best friend Courtney.

Even later, a sleazy fashion designer would tell me I was a whore who partied, did too many drugs, and stole someone’s boyfriend.

Following that, a boss told me that my writing aspirations were more absurd than if I wanted to be a prima-ballerina and that my acting desires were just as likely as my becoming a pro-basketball player.

And after all of this, to conclude my week of insults, my ex-agent that is stealing the money from my commercial told me I’d “better watch [my]self because [I am] turning really Hollywood.”

Suddenly, clear as day, I realized that all of these painful insults were equally untrue. Whether the words came from a total stranger on my cell phone or from a confidant I trusted my career to, they were all lies and could not be weighed more heavily than I had laughed off the driving incident. The sole difference was that the last five perpetrators knew exactly where to punch; they knew exactly what would hurt. Even more, they had separate motivations. The assistant knew she needed her daughter to win, the slimeball knew Courtney wouldn’t sleep with him, the designer knew he didn’t want to pay me, my boss knew she didn’t want to lose me to another career path, and my agent knew my ultimate desire was to never let Hollywood change who I am.

So there I had it. Constructive criticism is a beautiful thing that comes from those who love you. These people and situations were motivated by fear, insecurity, anger, frustration, and desperation.

Suddenly, Momma was right: only stones would hurt.