All That Is Bitter and Sweet_ A Memoir - Ashley Judd [196]
I continued slowly to work at my desk on the advocacy tasks I created for myself during my time in Africa, with each email and call, praying the effort made good on promises made to my new sisters.
Once the Africans had gone offline for their nighttime, I turned my attention westward, to Hollywood. I spoke to my agent who as ever was full of information about scripts and green-lit movies, phone calls and appointments, and all the latest show business news, that nonetheless made my head spin. I started reading a few scripts she had sent me.
Having been offered TV shows for years, I had begun to take the idea of doing a cable series seriously. But I rejected the idea of network, however lucrative, however fantastic the writing in this new golden age of television, however flattering the entreaties. A hit network show would consume nine months of the year for five to seven years of my life—and I would have to make that commitment before knowing whether the show was a hit. I would have to opt out of doing international feminist social justice work, resign from all the boards on which I served. I was unwilling to give up the life I had made for myself, to deny myself the chance to meet another Ouk Srey Leak, to have an old woman with whom I pick rubbish to call me her granddaughter. I remember a labor slave in India whose lair I visited, and the moment when our eyes met in a shard of mirror. I had said to him, “Mohammad, when I see you, I see a beautiful child of God.” Holding my gaze, he replied, “I do, too.” A deaf mute woman I met in a brothel in Kinshasa, Congo, came to mind. She was still there. When the networks call, I say thank you and no thank you, and I have watched beautiful, talented women sweep acting awards for shows I declined. I smile, and bless them, and some I email, cheering them on. I DVR the series I enjoy.
I read scripts for several proposed series on cable. One was about adoption. I perked up. That fit my interests, confronted all sorts of salient social themes, and would allow me to be polemical with a smart character. I would be interested in such a show, but my agent called back later, saying it was a nonstarter. Another script came along, and to my surprise, I loved it. I had been talking with producers who pitch me material about my preference to film in middle Tennessee, and surprisingly, most have been very willing to accommodate. If am going to be on a show for four to six months a year, I would like sleep in my own bed. It would be too much to keep up my current pace of international travel and film something in New York or L.A.
Then, I read a movie script with a lot of buzz, an action thing, written all male, but they sent it to me to read, asking if I’d like this flashy supporting role to be written female. I lied and said yes. Someone associated with the director emailed me to schedule a Skype call with him, and I became more honest with myself. I called my agent and said, “I hated that script.”
The tens of millions of dollars I have left on the table rarely crossed my mind. I still pull my weight in the marriage, which is a 50–50 financial partnership, but I long ago stopped participating 50–50 in the posh extras. I chip in what I can for vacations, but for private travel and such, my contribution is nowhere near what it used to be. The days of hopping on a little private plane to attend a UK basketball game are long gone. When I meet with my financial planner, I realize she may assess me as an “under earner,” given my potential. She is a counselor, in addition to being one of the top financial advisors in the country, and in her own 12-step recovery. Ted, she, and I talk about the feelings that come up around money as well as the dollars and cents. My feelings are almost uniformly