My journey from Marine to actor

I was a marine with 1/1 Weapons Company,

81's platoon out in Camp
Pendleton, California.

[Ra]

Audience: [Ra]

I joined a few months
after September 11th,

feeling like I think most people
in the country did at the time,

filled with a sense
of patriotism and retribution,

and the desire to do something --

that coupled with that fact
that I wasn't doing anything.

I was 17,

just graduated from high school
that past summer,

living in the back room
of my parent's house paying rent,

in the small town I was raised in
in northern Indiana called Mishawaka.

I can spell that later
for people who are interested --

(Laughter)

Mishawaka is many good things,

but cultural hub of the world it is not,

so my only exposure to theatre and film

was limited to the plays
I did in high school

and Blockbuster video,

may she rest in peace.

(Laughter)

I was serious enough about acting

that I auditioned for Juilliard
when I was a senior in high school,

didn't get in,

determined college wasn't for me
and applied nowhere else,

which was a genius move.

I also did that Hail Mary
LA acting odyssey

that I always heard stories about

of actors moving to LA
with like, seven dollars

and finding work and successful careers.

I got as far as Amarillo, Texas
before my car broke down.

I spent all my money repairing it,

finally made it to Santa Monica --

not even LA --

stayed for 48 hours wandering
the beach basically,

got in my car,

drove home,

thus ending my acting career, so --

(Laughter)

Seventeen, Mishawaka ...

paren't house, paying rent,
selling vacuums ...

telemarketing,

cutting grass at the local
4H fairgrounds --

this was my world
going into September, 2001.

So after the 11th,

and feeling an overwhelming sense of duty,

and just being pissed of in general
at myself, my parents, the government --

not having confidence,

not having a respectable job,

my shitty mini fridge that I just
drove to California and back --

I joined the Marine Corps and I loved it,

I loved being a Marine.

It's one of the things I'm most proud
of having done in my life.

Firing weapons was cool,

driving and detonating
expensive things was great,

but I found I loved
the Marine Corps the most

for the thing I was looking
for the least when I joined,

which was the people.

These weird dudes --

motley crew of characters from a cross
section of the United States,

that on the surface I had
nothing in common with,

and over time,

all the political and personal bravado
that lead me to the miltary dissolved,

and for me the Marine Corps
became synonymous with my friends.

And then a few years into my service

and months away from deploying to Iraq,

I dislocated my sternum
in mountain-biking accident

and had to be medically separated.

And those who were never in the military

may find this hard to understand,

but then being told I wasn't
getting deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan

was very devastating for me.

It's a very clear image of leaving
the base hospital on a stretcher

and my entire platoon is waiting
outside to see if I was OK.

And then suddenly I was a civilian again.

I knew I wanted to give
acting another shot,

because --

again this is me --

I thought all civilian problems
are small compared to the military.

I mean, what can you
really bitch about now?

It's hot,

someone should turn
on the air conditioner,

this coffee line is too long.

I was a marine,

I knew how to survive.

I would go to New York

and become an actor,

and if things didn't work out,

I'd live in Central Park

and dumpster dive behind Panera Bread.

(Laughter)

So I re-auditioned for Juilliard

and this time I was lucky enough,

I got in,

but I was surprised

by how complex the transition
was from military to civilian.

And I was relatively healthy,

I can't imagine going through that process
on top of a mental or physical injury.

But regardless, it was difficult.

In part because I was in acting school --

I couldn't justify going
to voice and speech class,

throwing imaginary balls of energy
at the back of the room,

doing acting exercises where
I gave birth to myself

while my friends were serving
without me overseas.

But also because

I didn't know how to apply
the things I learned in the military

to a civilian context.

I mean that both practically
and emotionally.

Practically, I had to get a job.

And I was an Infantry Marine,

where you're shooting
machine guns and firing mortars,

there's not a lot of places you can
put those skills in the civilian world.

(Laughter)

And emotionally,

I struggled to find meaning.

In the military everything has meaning.

Everything you do is either
steeped in tradition

or has a practical purpose.

You can't smoke in the field

because you don't want
to give away your position.

You don't touch your face

because you have to maintain
a personal level of health and hygiene.

You face this way when "Colors" plays

out of respect of those people
who went before you.

You walk this way because of this --

your uniform is worn
and maintained to the inch,

and how diligently
you followed those rules

spoke volumes about the kind
of marine you were.

Your rank said something
about your history

and the respect you had earned.

In the civilian world there's no rank.

Here you're just another body,

and I felt like I constantly had
to prove my worth all over again.

And the respect civilians were
giving me while I was in uniform

didn't exist when I was out of it.

There didn't seem to be a --

a sense of community.

Whereas in the military,

I felt this sense of community.

How often in the civilian world
are you put in a life or death situation

with your closest friends

and they constantly demonstrate
that they're not going to abandon you?

And meanwhile at acting school ...

(Laughter)

I was really,

for the first time,

discovering playwrights
and characters and plays

that had nothing to do with the military

but were somehow describing
my military experience

in a way that before
to me was indescribable,

and I felt myself becoming less aggressive

as I was able to put words
to feelings for the first time

and realizing what
a valuable tool that was.

And when I was reflecting
on my time in the military,

I wasn't first thinking

on the stereotypical drills
and discipline and pain of it,

but rather the small,
intimate human moments.

These moments of great feeling:

friends going A-Wall because
they missed their families,

friends getting divorced,

grieving together,

celebrating together,

all within the backdrop of the military.

And I saw my friends battling
these circumstances,

and I watched the anxiety
produced in them --

and me --

not being able to express
our feelings about it.

And the military and theatre
communities are actually very similar.

You have a group of people

trying to accomplish a mission
greater than themselves;

it's not about you,

you have a role,

you have to know your role
within that team,

every team has a leader or director,

sometimes they're smart,

sometimes they're not.

You're forced to be intimate with complete
strangers in a short amount of time;

the self-discipline,
the self-maintenance.

I thought, how great would it be

to create a space that combined these two
seemingly dissimilar communities,

that brought entertainment
to a group of people,

that considering their occupation,

could handle something
a bit more thought-provoking

than the typical mandatory fun events

that I remember being
"volun-told" to go to in the military --

(Laughter)

All well-intended but slightly
offensive events,

like "Win a date with a San Diego
Chargers Cheerleader",

where you answer a question
about pop culture,

and if you get it right you win a date,

which was a chaperoned walk
around the parade deck

with this already married,
pregnant cheerleader --

(Laughter)

Nothing against cheerleaders,

I love cheerleaders.

The point is more,

how great would it be
to have theatre presented

through characters that were accessible
without being condescending.

So we started this non-profit
called Arts in the Armed Forces,

where we tried to do that --

tried to join these two seemingly
dissimilar communities.

We pick a play or select monologues
from contemporary American plays

that are diverse in age and race,

like a military audience is,

grab a group of incredible
theatre-trained actors,

arm them with incredible material,

keep production value
as minimal as possible --

no sets, no costumes, no lights --

just reading it,

to throw all the emphasis on the language

and to show that theatre can
be created at any setting.

It's a powerful thing,

getting in a room with complete strangers

and reminding ourselves of our humanity

and that self-expression

is just as valuable a tool
as a rifle on your shoulder.

And for an organization like the military,

that prides itself on having
acronyms for acronyms,

can get lost in the sauce

when it comes to explaining
a collective experience,

and I can think of no better community
to arm with a new means of self-expression

than those protecting our country.

So we've gone all over
the United States and the world,

from Walter Reed in Bethesda, Maryland

to Camp Pendleton,

to Camp Arifjan in Kuwait,

to USAG Bavaria,

on and off-broadway theaters in New York.

And for the performing artists we bring,

it's a window into a culture that they
otherwise would not have had exposure to,

and for the military it's the exact same.

And in doing this for the past six years,

I'm always reminded
that acting is many things.

It's a craft,

it's a political act,

it's a business,

it's --

whatever adjective is most
applicable to you,

but it's also a service.

I didn't get to finish mine,

so whenever I get to be of service
to this ultimate service industry,

the military --

for me, again --

there's not many things better than that.

Thank you.

(Applause)

So we're going to be doing a piece
from Marco Ramirez

called "I Am Not Batman".

An incredible actor and good of mine,

Jesse Perez is going to be reading

and Matt Johnson,

who I just met a couple hours ago.

They're doing it together
for the first time,

so we'll see how it goes.

Jesse Perez and Matt Johnson.

(Applause)

(Drum beat)

Jesse Perez: It's the middle of the night

and the sky is glowing like
mad, radioactive red.

And if you squint,

you can maybe see the moon

through the thick layer of cigarette
smoke and airplane exhaust

that covers the whole city,

like a mosquito net
that won't let the angels in.

(Beat)

And if you look up high enough

you can see me standing
on the edge of a 87-story building.

And up there,

a place for gargoyles

and broken clock towers

that have stayed still and dead
for maybe like 100 years,

up there is me.

(Beat)

And I'm freakin' Batman.

(Beat)

And I gots batmobiles

and batarangs

and freakin' bat caves like for real.

And all it takes is a broom closet

or a back room,

or a fire escape

and Danny's hand-me-down jeans are gone.

And my navy blue polo shirt,

the one that looks kinda good on me,

but has that hole on it near the butt

from when it got snagged
on the chainlink fence behind Arturo's

but it isn't even a big deal
because I tuck that part in

and it's like all good --

that blue polo shirt,

it's gone, too.

And I get like,

like,

transformational.

(Beat)

And nobody pulls out a belt
and whips Batman for talking back.

(Beat)

Or for not talking back.

(Beat)

And nobody calls Batman simple,

or stupid,

or skinny.

And nobody fires Batman's brother
from the Eastern Taxi Company

cause they was making cutbacks neither.

Cause they got nothing but respect.

And not like afraid respect,

just like respect respect.

(Laughter)

Cause nobody's afraid of you.

Cause Batman doesn't mean nobody no harm.

(Beat)

Ever.

(Double beat)

Cause all Batman really wants
to do is save people

and maybe pay abuela's bills one day

and die happy

and maybe get like, mad famous for real.

(Laughter)

Oh and kill the Joker.

(Drum roll)

Tonight like most nights I'm all alone.

And I'm watchin' and I'm
waitin' like a eagle,

or like a --

no, yeah, like a eagle.

(Laughter)

And my cape is flapping in the wind
cause it's frickin' long

and my pointy ears are on,

and that mask that covers like half
my face is on, too,

and I got like bullet-proof
stuff all in my chest

so no one can hurt me,

and nobody,

nobody,

is gonna come between Batman ...

and justice.

(Drums)

(Laughter)

From where I am,

I can hear everything.

(Silence)

Somewhere in the city

there's a old lady picking styrofoam
leftovers up out of a trashcan

and she's putting a piece
of sesame chicken someone spit out

into her own mouth.

And somewhere there's a doctor
with a wack haircut in a black lab coat

trying to find a cure for the diseases

that are gonna make us
all extinct for real one day.

And somewhere there's a man,

a man in a janitor's uniform,

stumbling home drunk and dizzy

after spending half his paycheck
on 40-ounce bottles of twist-off beer

and the other half on a four hour visit
to some lady's house on the street,

where the lights have all been shot out

by people who'd rather do
what they do in this city in the dark.

And half a block away from janitor man,

there's a group of good-for-nothings
who don't know no better

waiting for janitor man
with rusted bicycle chains

and imitation Louisville Sluggers

and if they don't find a cent on him,

which they won't,

they'll just pound at him til the muscles
in their arms start burning,

til there's no more teeth to crack out.

But they don't count on me.

They don't count on no Dark Knight

with the stomach full of grocery-
store-brand macaroni and cheese

and cut up Vienna sausages.

(Laughter)

Cause they'd rather believe I don't exist.

(Drums)

And from 87 stories up,

I can hear one of the
good-for-nothings say,

"Gimme the cash,"

real fast like that,

just, "Give me the fucking cash!"

And I see janitor man mumble
something in drunk language

and turn pale,

and from 87 stories up,

I can hear his stomach trying
to hurl its way out his Dickies.

So I swoop down like mad fast

and I'm like darkness,

I'm like, swoosh.

And I throw a batarang
at the one naked lightbulb.

(Cymbal)

And they're all like,

"Whoa, motherfucker,

who just turned out the lights?"

(Laughter)

"What's that over there?"

"What?"

"Give me what you got, old man."

"Did anybody hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"There ain't nothing."

"No, really there ain't no bat!"

But then ...

one out of the three good-for-nothings
gets it to the head.

Pow!

And number two swings blindly
into the dark cape before him,

but before his fist hits anything,

I grab a trash can lid and ...

right in the gut.

And number one comes
back with the jump kick,

but I know Judo Karate, too,

so I'm like ...

(Drums)

Twice.

(Drums)

(Laughter)

(Drums)

But before I can do any more damage,

suddenly I hear a "click, click" ...

and suddenly everything gets quiet.

And the one good-for-nothing left standing
grips a hand gun and aims it straight up,

like he's holding Jesus hostage,

like he's threatening maybe
to blow a hole in the moon.

And the good-for-nothing
who got it to the head,

who tried to jump kick me,

and the other good-for-nothing
who got it in the gut,

is both scrambling back away
from the dark figure before 'em.

And the drunk man --

the janitor man --

is huddled in a corner
praying to Saint Anthony

cause that's the only
one he could remember.

(Double beat)

And there's me.

(Cymbal)

Eyes glowing white,

cape blowing softly in the wind.

(Beat)

Bullet-proof chest heaving,

my heart beating right through it

in a morse code for, "Fuck with me
just once, come on, just try."

(Beat, beat, beat)

And the one good-for-
nothing left standing,

the one with the hand gun,

yeah, he laughs

and he lowers his arm

and he points it at me

and gives the moon a break.

And he aims it right
between my pointy ears,

like goal posts and he's special teams.

And janitor man is still
calling Saint Anthony,

but he ain't pickin' up.

And for a second ...

it seems like ...

maybe I'm gonna lose.

Nah!

(Drums)

Shoot, shoot, fwa-ka-ka!

"Don't kill me, man!"

Snap! Wrist crack!

[Neck!]

Slash!

Skin meets acid --

"Ahhhhhhh!'

And he's on the floor

and I'm standing over him

and I got the gun in my hands now

and I hate guns,

I hate holding them cause I'm Batman.

And asterisk:

Batman don't like guns

cause his parents got iced
by guns a long time ago.

But for just a second,

my eyes glow white

and I hold this thing

for I could speak to the good-for-nothing
in the language he maybe understands.

Click, click.

(Beat)

And the good-for-nothings
become good-for-disappearing

into whatever toxic waste, chemical
sludge shit hole they crawled out of.

And it's just me and janitor man.

And I pick him up,

and I wipe sweat and cheap
perfume off his forehead.

And he begs me not to hurt him

and I grab him tight by his
janitor man shirt collar,

and I pull him to my face

and he's taller than me
but the cape helps

so he listens when I look him
straight in the eyes.

And I say two words to him:

go home.

And he does,

checking behind his
shoulder every 10 feet.

And I swoosh from building
to building on his way there

cause I know where he lives

and I watch his hands tremble
as he pulls out his key chain

and opens the door to his building.

And I'm back in bed before he
even walks in through the front door.

(Beat)

And I hear him turn on the faucet

and pour himself a glass
of warm tap water,

and he puts the glass back in the sink.

(Beat)

And I hear his footsteps.

(Beat)

And they slower as they get to my room.

(Beat)

And he creaks my door open like mad slow,

and he takes a step in,

which he never does.

(Beat)

And he's staring off into nowhere,

his face the color of sidewalks in summer,

and I act like I'm just waking up

and I say, "Ah, what's up, Pop?"

And janitor man says nothing to me.

But I see in the dark,

I see his arms go limp

and his head turns back like towards me,

and he lifts it where I can see his face,

where I could see his eyes.

And his cheeks is dripping
but not with sweat.

And he just stands there breathing,

like he remembers my eyes glowing white,

like he remembers my bullet-proof chest,

like he remembers he's my Pop.

And for a long time I don't say nothing.

And he turns around,

hand on the doorknob,

and he ain't looking my way

but I hear him mumble two words to me,

"I'm sorry."

And I lean over and I open
my window just a crack.

If you look up high enough,

you could see me.

And from where I am --

(Cymbals)

I could hear everything.

(Applause)

Thank you.

(Applause)