Top Quotes: “You Can’t Be Serious” — Kal Penn

Childhood

“I was barely six years old when the fastest, dumbest boy in kindergarten called me the n-word. (Jeez, Kal, what a way to start your book.) It was late in the school year — May, possibly June. Unseasonably hot for late spring. Miss Withers’s entire class was playing freeze tag on the playground, and agile little Randy Finn was “it,” powering through the muggy air, happily trying to tag the rest of us. This devil child resembled a splintered toothpick — skinny, with tiny arms. He came at me with his fingers outstretched, and I took off, resigned that he’d catch me quickly. The gravel crunched faster under his feet behind me, his breathing getting louder and louder. This kid was close.

Just as he got within reach, we came up to a jungle gym, a crossroads. Randy’s skinny knees reminded me of cartoon doorknobs. Time for a cartoon trick! “Look!” I shouted dramatically while pointing in the direction from where we came, “What is that?!” Nobody ever falls for this stuff outside of cartoons. Randy stopped. He fell for it. He turned to see what I was talking about. “What’s what?”

By the time he turned back, I was twenty glorious feet away. Not because I was fast, but because Randy was so very dumb.

Hands on his hips, the kid caught his breath. I got a good, satisfying look at him: such a diminutive frame swimming in the ocean of an oversized T-shirt, trying to make sense of what just happened. As the realization dawned on him — that I just out-ran him by outsmarting him — Randy’s face contorted. He glared. Anger was building from a place deep inside. I glared back, unafraid. This silent staredown probably lasted five seconds — a kindergarten eternity. And Randy broke it with words that forever altered my understanding of the world. “You,” he said confidently, “you’re a 96@4!E!” Fast, dumb Randy Finn called me the n-word.

Every kid within earshot stood astonished. A white girl named Holly started to cry. I didn’t know exactly what the n-word meant, but I quickly understood its gravity from the other kids’ reactions. An awful feeling erupted in my gut — whatever this word means, this is what I am? And that’s bad? The sea of tiny, shocked faces quietly disbanded to the various swing sets and monkey bars.”

“First and second grade were uneventful insofar as-super-low bar here — I don’t remember getting called any racial slurs. I quietly sat decked out in clothes from Sears and did what was expected of me. By third grade, a Persian kid named Araz moved to our suburban New Jersey town. He was better-dressed, and looked nothing like me, but the teachers suddenly started mixing us both up. This fascinated me. I hadn’t yet experienced the repeated behavior I’d come to know as “all look the same-ism,” so the fact that teachers — who were the smartest people in my whole wide seven-year-old world — could get confused by two boys who only shared a vague brownness, fascinated me. It was almost as if Araz and I alone knew what the other kids didn’t — that the teachers weren’t actually that smart. And for that I felt kinda bad for them.”

“It wasn’t uncommon to get spit on or beat up between classes, usually with a side order of whatever movie or TV show quote the bully happened to be motivated by.

Chilled monkey brains! A whack to the face.

Hey Apu! Thank you, come again!! Some asshole’s spit lands in your hair.

Long Duk Dong?? Your books and folders have been thrown sky-high and papers are raining everywhere. (Why didn’t these kids watch wholesome things like The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air or Back to the Future?!)

Teachers knew this was going on. Most chose to ignore it. One outlier was our kind music director, Mr. Manziano, who freely gave bullied kids passes to “practice music” whenever we wanted. This meant that instead of the hell of a middle school cafeteria, we could retreat to Mr. Manziano’s practice rooms, which is where I ate my lunch most days.”

“In Jersey City at the time, a gang called the Dotbusters was thriving. These racists would go around harassing, assaulting, and even killing Indian people. A man named Navroze Mody was murdered by four men who were ultimately only sentenced to between six months and ten years. It was a scary time. My aunt lived in Jersey City. My grandmother would stay with her often. Grandma regularly described how she’d hold her head high as groups of young men taunted her on afternoon walks. I guess after marching with Gandhi, a bunch of morons in New Jersey seemed pretty B-list, but it was all terrifying to me.”

“I felt like I had discovered a superpower! While watching our scenes, these guys forgot their preconceived notions, and did something they didn’t think they would: They laughed with us. The very same kids who spit on us and kicked our asses while quoting Apu and Indiana Jones…we just changed their minds using the same techniques these TV shows and movies used–humor and art. Comedy can bring people together and change how they feel! This magical realization continued when friends and parents–mine included–watched and applauded when the show opened that night. It was the first catalyst in my passion for acting.”

“All eyes on me. Do I lie? Do I tell the truth? At sixteen, the pressure feels ridiculous.

ME: I um.. I think I want to go to NYU or UCLA. I’m going to become an actor and filmmaker.

Freeze frame, record scratch. Everyone stares at me for what feels like forever. Pussy

Auntie bursts out laughing.

PUSSY AUNTIE: Very creative! Very creative response!

Her smile curtly disappears. Her eyes narrow.

PUSSY AUNTIE: Seriously, what are you going to study in college?”

“Mrs. Cummings pulled a long multiple-choice test out of an envelope and handed it to me. I don’t remember exactly what the questions were like, but I feel like they were more “Buzzfeed Quiz” than AP exam because I didn’t stress over the choices. I quickly filled out the Scantron bubbles that would help me define my life, and returned to class, eagerly awaiting the results. Six weeks later, she called me back down to her office, and that’s when my heart started beating fast. “Have a seat,” she said. Opening this envelope felt like it took forever. I was sweating because I was excited about what it might potentially tell me about my future. What would be possible? What could I accomplish? I pulled out the results. On top, in bold letters, it read: “Inconclusive. This student’s interests are too varied for us to provide tangible recommendations.”

Mrs. Cummings laughed again, this time with genuine amusement. “I have never seen these results before,” she said. “They always give you a specific set of answers.” I broke the test. I was the anomaly, the oddball, the misfit. She sighed. “I guess no matter what you do, you’ll be happy doing it.”

Starting Out

“First of all, the Panoch had no power steering. At low speeds — say, anything under fifteen miles an hour — changing lanes without power steering is the same as a high-intensity interval workout. You really have to use your body weight to pull the wheel in one direction to get it to move, then lean and push it back in the other direction to get it to stay. Because this was Los Angeles, you rarely achieved speeds above seventeen miles per hour. Every time I drove the Panoch, my arms and core got a little more ripped. Especially while parallel parking. This had its challenges when it came to those Back Stage West auditions. Many people have a gym bag. I had a Panoch bag — with a towel, some water, deodorant, and an entire extra set of clothes (the first was to drive and sweat in, the second to change into just before a casting session).”

“She offered to show her manager — who worked at a well respected A-list company — some of the scenes I had shot in those student films. Maybe he’d agree to audition me and take me on.

When she got the rejection on my behalf, Jenna was both savvy enough to ask her manager why he didn’t want to meet, and thoughtful enough to ask me if I wanted to hear the truth. Of course I did. Whatever it was that her manager didn’t like, I wanted to know. Whatever it was I did wrong in those student film clips, I would immediately work to change so that I could earn an agent or manager just like so many of my classmates already had.

“First of all,” Jenna said, “he told me that he watched your tape and thinks you’re a really good actor. He’s always brutally honest. He wouldn’t have said that if he didn’t mean it completely.”

“Well, that’s good!”

“He also said,” she continued, with considerable hesitation, “that somebody who looks like you is never going to work in Hollywood. There just aren’t enough roles written for Indian actors. He felt like you might play a cabdriver once or twice, but it wouldn’t be worth his time and effort to represent someone who isn’t going to work regularly.”

Wow. I was very surprised that this manager was comfortable enough to straight-up acknowledge this intersection of business and bigotry. He could have made up any excuse he wanted about why he didn’t want to meet with me (“He’s too tall!” “He’s too short!” “He’s a bad actor!”), but he didn’t. In a weird way, racism-truth felt so much better than being lied to. I was thankful for Jenna’s true friendship and the accompanying willingness to tell me something so uncomfortable. Hearing it was boch a slap in the face and a very welcome assessment of where I stood.

The quality of my performance in those student film clips wasn’t the underlying issue.”

“A few months later, I had saved up enough money to get a new set of headshots. “The photographer is supposed to be really good,” I remember telling the homies during one of our late-night food runs at Fatburger in Westwood. “I hope this time it’ll lead to getting an agent.”

My friend Marc Milstein spoke up: “You know what else might lead to an agent? A stage name. Did you know that Whoopi Goldberg’s real name is Caryn Johnson? Imagine if she went by that? No way would she be as memorable.”

The idea of altering my name was something I had casually thought about since Jenna’s manager said an Indian guy would never find steady work in Hollywood, but it’s not something I seriously discussed with anyone.

“Chevy Chase’s real name is Cornelius, man. Cornelius Chase. How tite is that?” said DLC. “You should come up with a stage name. I bet it would help.”

My real name is Kalpen Modi. Kalpen is what most of my friends and family call me. In high school, kids sometimes shortened Kalpen to Kal as a nickname, the same way that Joseph becomes Joe, Rodrigo becomes Rod, and Pushpa becomes Pussy. Between bites of warm fat fries, the wheels started turning. If coming up with a stage name helped those actors establish themselves, it was a no-brainer — I would do it too.

So, what should my catchy stage name be? Should it be similar to Kalpen or totally different? Would a whiter-sounding name have persuaded Jenna’s manager to meet with me? (Should I go by Chad?) Anyway, what’s in a name? Wouldn’t a brown person by any other name still play a stereotypical cabdriver and be called a sellout by his peers? Maybe not! Maybe coming up with a name that sounded a bit more like the names that casting directors were used to seeing would make me a little more viable in their eyes. This was a serious consideration. My friends’ suggestions? Not so serious.

“What about Kal… Pacino?”

“How’s Kal Ripken Junior Junior?”

The puns went on and on. That gave me an idea. “I could just split my first name in half and add an extra n.” My nickname is already Kal, and “Kal Penn” seems less dramatic than Cornelius becoming Chevy. The suggestion was met with resounding approval. It was now two forty in the morning, but our homework procrastination over munchies had yielded magnificent results.

That weekend I printed up my new headshots and replaced Kalpen Modi with Kal Penn. Let’s see what happens, I thought, sending out the first of many more Wednesday batches to agents.”

“I was sitting at the desk in my dorm room a couple of months later when my blue McDonald’s phone finally rang. “Hello, is this Kal Penn?” the lady’s voice said. “Yes — who’s this?” I sald quickly,? “My name is Laura. I’m calling from Barbara Cameron and Associates. We received the headshot and résumé you sent in. We’d like you to audition for us, if you’re still looking for an agent?””

“Captain Moneybags flipped to the last headshot. It was the actor Joseph Gordon Levitt. At the time, Joseph was on the popular sitcom 3rd Rock from the Sun. He was obviously very talented, and I put him in the pile because he probably didn’t carn a superstar’s paycheck yet. Hot, but not expensive hot. In other words, perfect.

Captain Moneybags looked at Joseph’s headshot, and in his 1930s cartoon producer voice said, “What the fuck is this kid… fucking Asian?” Joseph was talented, respected, and in our price range. Was he Asian?

“I.. don’t know. Does it matter?”

Captain Moneybags quickly snapped back. “Of course it fucking matters! He looks Asian,” he said. “I don’t want any Asians in my movie, Kal. Bring me good. White. American. Kids!”

I took the pile of headshots back to my desk. CM’s assistant didn’t react at all, which told me this was all perfectly normal. I was completely baffled and phenomenally curious. Did it cross Captain Moneybags’s mind that the person sitting across from him was not a “good white American kid”? I neither knew nor cared if Joseph Gordon-Levitt was Asian. Why did Captain Moneybags? Moreover, why was he so angry about it? I wanted to understand what went on in the minds of powerful producers. Specifically, in that moment, I wanted to understand: Were they confused, racist, or both confused and racist?

I let Captain Moneybags cool down for the rest of the afternoon. Before he left for the evening, I asked why it mattered if Joseph Gordon-Levitt was Asian. He answered simply, “Asians don’t watch movies.””

“Now that I was in charge of hiring CM’s interns, I could at least try to elimiinate nepotism from the list of qualifications. I did an exhaustive search for the best and most diverse applicants, not just the ones who had family or school connections. My short list of candidates was an extremely talented group from around the country, including people from different demographic groups who didn’t all come from Los Angeles or attend fancy private schools.

I was proud of this.

The last time I had gone through a pile of applicants with CM was when I brought him that stack of headshots (Asians don’t watch movies!). This time, he leafed through the prospective interns, pausing at the third, fourth, and fifth résumés. I wondered what the issue was now. “Why are there chicks?” he asked. He could tell the question confused me, so he repeated it. “Kal, why are there chicks in this file?”

Was this dude kidding me with this shit?

“Every human in the pile is an exceptionally talented film student. Do you not hire women?”

“Nope. No chicks. You’ve heard me talk, right? I’m not trying to get sued for my filthy mouth. Don’t hire any chicks.” Then, with his 1930s smirk and wink, “Unless they’re hot. Bring the hot ones in for an interview.” I walked back to my desk, wanting to throw up.”

“Want to know the best evidence I have that money and connections aren’t enough to keep you in business? It’s Captain Moneybags himself. Within three years of opening his daddy-trust-funded production company, he had produced only one project: a straight-to-DVD movie that took a massive loss. He eventually closed up shop and left the entertainment industry forever. The last I heard he was a struggling real estate agent in Florida.

I guess nobody told him that Asians buy houses.”

“Later that summer, finally, an audition! Sabrina the Teenage Witch was a sitcom about a suburban family of witches and their talking cat. I was up for a small role: just a few lines playing a college student named Prajeeb in Sabrina’s study group, but I was very excited. Though I had done Brookfield, it was almost impossible for an actor of color to get an audition for any of the big sitcoms, which were all purposely white: Will and Grace, Friends. Even Seinfeld.

Auditions can be a lot of fun to prepare for — I start by creating a backstory to the character, grounding who he is as specifically as possible, and developing his are in the scene. I envisioned Prajeeb as a laid-back kid from Portland, Oregon, who was super into camping and small-batch organic coffee. I decided that he loves flannel button-downs like Eddie Vedder, so I wore one to the audition.

I did well in the first two rounds. As I walked to my car after the callback, the casting director came chasing after me. “Kal, the producers loved you and want you to read it one more time. Can you come back in with me?”

Hell yeah! It’s always a good sign if they want another reading. On the walk back to the casting office, I daydreamed for just a fleeting moment: thinking about my little cousins who probably watch Sabrina the Teenage Witch. What a fun surprise if they randomly turned it on and saw me in an episode. I smiled confidently as I walked through the door to read for the six well-manicured faces another time.

“Thanks for coming back, Kal. We’d like you to do it again,” the main producer said with a grin. “I’d be happy to!” I said.

“This time with an accent.”

For fuck’s sake.”

“An Indian accent, really? That’s the most clever note a team of Hollywood producers could come up with?

I was proud of the two rounds of auditions I gave as Prajeeb from Portland, Oregon, who was super into camping and small-batch organic coffee! I wanted to play Hipster Prajeeb! So, if they wanted the kind of stereotypical Indian accent that wasn’t on my menu, I was going to make them feel uncomfortable. I was going to make them look me in the eye. I was going to dare them to say it right to my face, by pointing out my talents, so that they could feel guilty and realize how terribly they were behaving. Hopefully it would be enough to change their minds.

“What kind of accent do you want?” I said deftly. “I can do Scottish, Irish, southern, Italian, New York.

“Why don’t we just stick to Indian?”

Yeeeeeesh.

I had less than five seconds to think through what I wanted to do. If I did the accent, I might get the role. It would look good to have a network sitcom job on my thin résumé. As I learned from Brookfield, I was going to have to work harder than white actors to build credits. The gig also paid about $700, more than a month’s rent.

If I didn’t do the accent, I probably wouldn’t get this job. Some other kid would get the credit on his résumé and the cash in his pocket, and I’d have to continue working odd jobs until I booked something else that may or may not be better than this.

I chose to read the scene again with an Indian accent.”

“Racial signifiers are stereotypical because they’re reductionist, yes. They’re also artistically boring because they mean that a character rarely has any agency. Everything is tied to identity. Is the character hungry? Curry jokes! Sleepy? Probably because of a mystical Indian spell. Going shopping for clothes? Probably a sari. Zzzzzz. Those characters don’t advance the plot. They just function to serve the arcs of the white characters. Stereotypical representation is dehumanizing when it removes the full breadth of what it means to be a living, breathing, multidimensional person with traits that are independent of identity.”

“I told him. “I’m so thankful to be joining you for this hilarious little part! I was just hoping, you know, that maybe I could play Prajeeb without the Indian accent?” His mood turned so fast you’d have thought I asked for something crazy, like the scene in the Borat sequel when Tutar’s father questions if his daughter can attend the debutante ball even though “her moon blood has arrived.” The director wasn’t shy about what he thought of me. “You’re doing that accent.”

I told myself maybe he’s just not educated about this. Maybe if he just knew better, he’d agree with me. Sure, it didn’t work with Captain Moneybags, but not all white producers and directors are the same, right? I brought up the creative backstory I’d crafted for Prajeeb, told him why I didn’t think an Indian accent was necessary for the humor of a guy I purposely grounded in northwestern American values.

The flannel!

Pearl Jam!

His eyes narrowed. He was very angry. “We hired you to do the accent and that’s what you’re doing, got it?”

My final plea.

“I just thought it would be nice for my little cousins to see me in a role that wasn’t a stereotype,” I said, hoping to assure my participation wouldn’t fuel a new generation of middle-school David Cohens.

“Stereotypes are all I ever saw on TV growing up.”

He looked at me with laser-focused eyes, and for a brief moment I wondered if I had gotten through to him.

“Your little cousins should be happy you get to be on a TV show at all. And so should you.””

“Two pages in, the WB casting head interrupted. “Thank you so much. Kal. I’m sorry. I just have to stop you before you finish the first scene. I just um… I just have to ask. What are you?”

“Huh?”

“What are you?… Like where are you from?”

“Oh, I’m from New Jersey. I graduated from UCLA’s School of Theater, Film and Tele-”

“No, I mean like where are you really from? Are you Latin?”

The goddamn devil was right.

“I’m, uh, ethnically Indian. I was born in New Jersey.

“You look like you could pass for Latin. Are you mixed, at least?”

“Mixed? Um, no-”

“Ugh, are you sure?”

There was now a miniature version of me standing on the shoulders of the tiny devil inside my own head. Was I sure? I thought to myself, Lady, I already got myself a white-sounding stage name, I need to “at least” be mixed too?

I hated the angel at this point but responded politely. Any sign of annoyance and they might think I’m difficult to work with.

“I got my training in the UCLA theater department, so I’m confident I can play a wide variety of roles! And yes, my parents moved to New Jersey, where I was born, from India.”

“Okay, right, so you’re not even Latin. I can’t cast you. I mean the role isn’t written Latin, but that’s the only way I could have cast you. You’re a very good actor, by the way. You’re really good. It’s just too bad. That you’re not Latin.”

There was nothing to discuss further. I was the wrong kind of brown. The head of casting for the WB didn’t want to waste her time auditioning me. Not when there was a room full of white actors with less training out there waiting for their shot.”

“Laura, what’s the name of the character? What’s the role? I’ll drive out to the office, I’m just too excited to wait!”

“Okay. The character… is… um… a foreign exchange student named.

“Go ahead..”

“Taj Mahal.”

I hung up the phone.”

“She asked me an important follow-up: “When you read the script, did you laugh? Are parts of it funny?”

“Super funny. There are great gags and setups throughout. It’s not all based in ethnic stereotypes.”

“That’s important. On the stereotypes, how many things in the script made you cringe?”

“I don’t know- maybe thirty?”

“Okay, you get to pick ten,” she said. “Pick the ten things in the script that you think are the most cringeworthy, and if you get the job, sit down with the writers and bring those ten things up.”

Wait, I could do that?! Ten things? I didn’t know I could do that! I mean, I had tried something similar with just one thing, and I definitely didn’t want to get the “Prajeeb from Portland” reaction again.

“You shouldn’t just say you think it’s stereotypical and that they should change those ten things. You have to put in some work too. Come prepared with ten things that are funnier than what the writers came up with originally. Nobody is making this movie to purposely offend or degrade anyone. They’re making it because they want audiences to laugh, to have fun, to spend money. So, come up with ten things that are funnier than what’s scripted. That’s part of your job anyway. Go be funny!”

This was new to me: the idea that I actually had some agency in the matter and that the creative work could be collaborative. My professional experiences so far taught me that I couldn’t do much more than complain (exhausting) or refuse to audition out of principle (financially unsustainable). Sonia was mapping out how I could use my skills to make a project better and funnier, while building a résumé that could eventually lift me out of the Brown Catch-22. I had to get the part first.”

“It was down to me and one other Indian actor I heard they’d found along the way.

I knew nothing about my competition except that each of us would read scenes with Ryan Reynolds, and the producers and director would see which of the two Tajs fit best.

I was very curious for intel on my competition. What did he look like? Was this dude good-looking? Tall? Was he even a full-time actor like me? Or was he one of the many Indian college students who thought it would be fun to audition for a movie?

None of the above.

When I walked into the waiting room for the chemistry test, I saw that my competition was… a white dude. Wearing brown makeup. Though it was common, I’ll let that sink in for a minute. I was up for the role of an Indian foreign exchange student named Taj Mahal against a white dude in brownface. Any reservations I had about taking the part vanished.

I encountered brownface regularly enough in those days that I often assume everyone can relate to how widespread and not shocking it was. This is not to say it wasn’t deeply maddening (it always was), but in writing the first draft of this chapter, for instance, I didn’t anticipate my editor’s notes: “This is quite shocking! And horrifying! Please give us some examples.” There are too many to list. You can safely assume that any audition I went on, for a role written specifically Indian, included a number of white actors who (with the right makeup) could “pass” for Indian according to the producers. (To illustrate how not long ago this was with a frame of reference, the NSYNC song *Bye Bye Bye” had already been out for more than a year.)

Some of our most memorable shows and revered artists have utilized brownface.

Most people know about Peter Sellers (1968), Fisher Stevens (1986), and Hank Azaria (today). Less-obvious instances, like Harvey Jason in Jurassic Park (1997), Max Minghella in The Social Network (2010), one hundred extras in Aladdin (2019), and Rob Schneider in a bunch of stuff, make you go, “Oh right. This is still a thing.”

The practice is still common enough today that I couldn’t write this chapter without mentioning it. Given the widespread, systemic nature of it, it was impossible to hold personal beef against every actor who showed up in brownface. It made me angry, yes. Livid. It also made me feel lonely, with a decisive lack of support from the Indian American community, and the reality that every actor is just looking for a gig. The philosophy seemed to be: It’s super competitive out there. You do what you gotta do.

For example, my stand-in on House M.D. was a really really nice guy who predated me on the show (he was a stand-in for other characters in seasons before I joined the cast). So, once I was in the picture, he was told to paint his face brown every morning by our cinematographer, who cited lighting as the reason he needed the brownface. Back in the good old days (2009), this was just accepted.”

“The day before that rehearsal, the producers asked me to meet with a dialect coach. “We want to make sure your Indian accent is authentic.” I was very amused that people who decided to name an exchange student something as unrealistic as Taj Mahal were concerned enough for his accent to be right. In preparation for the audition (and now the role), I’d already been talking to plenty of Indian immigrants with real accents (cousins and friends mostly). But if the producers were paying for lessons with an Indian dialect coach, I figured I might as well take advantage of it.

I drove to a house in the Hollywood Hills and was greeted at the door… by a white dialect coach named Nancy. Jesus, I thought to myself, first I had to creatively eviscerate Facey McPainty and now White Nancy is going to teach me an Indian accent?

We started the work session and as it turned out, Nancy was actually really good! She had lived in India most of her life, was trilingual, and had a PhD in South Asian linguistics from Princeton, so her command of language was really quite impressive. I’m kidding. She was just some white chick from LA whose Indian accent was as bad as Peter Sellers’. I politely sat through the first session and then went home.

I canceled the remaining dialect coach meetings via email and instead prepared for the next day’s rehearsal with the writers and director.”

“Originally in the script, Taj was supposed to wear traditional Indian clothing. In the real world, most young exchange students try extra hard to assimilate, not double down by wearing ethnic attire. I pitched the idea that something like a collection of ill-fitting sweater vests was more realistic and therefore more charming and grounded. While Walt and the writers were agreeable to this, one of the producers was furious. He ranted with a bizarre combination of bravado and sass: Sassy Producer carried on about how he had been to India (once, in the early 1980s) and was therefore an expert on all things Indian. Taj had to dress in traditional Indian clothes, because the people Sassy Producer saw in India in 1982 were wearing traditional Indian clothes. End of story. I got the sense that this strange behavior was far more about his own ego than the best way to ground my character.

I employed more of Sonia’s advice, and stuck to explaining the clothes as a way to make the character witty and more engaging. More truthful could mean funnier. It worked. Sassy Producer eventually relented. The character’s wardrobe felt like a win, however minor. Sonia was right; practical compromises would help me keep some artistic integrity. Of course, there’s plenty of stereotype — ethnic and otherwise — in both the role I played and the film in general. But I was glad to have comedic bits beyond that, and happy to be working with people who mostly respected and appreciated my creativity within the confines of what we were making.”

“During breaks that first day, I got to know the writers better and pumped them for information. Ever since auditioning for a character named Taj Mahal Badalandabad, I had wondered two things: 1) Why did they decide to make the character Indian? and 2) How did they decide on his last name?

It turned out that the choice of his ethnicity was somewhat random. There hadn’t been that many Indian characters in movies, so this seemed like a fresh take to them. The important thing was that without Taj, they said, the plot wouldn’t progress. I was happy to know that my initial assessment of Taj’s creative grounding was solid.

And his last name? They just made it up. That was.. hilarious. To those of you who don’t speak Hindi, let me explain. The end of Taj’s last name, -abad, could be taken from any number of generic cities — Allahabad, Ahmedabad, Abbottabad. It’s common. But the first two syllables of Badalandabad were interesting. In

Hindi, bada means “big.” And land — pronounced lund — means “cock.” They had no idea they had literally named this character Taj Mahal Huge Cock.

I love subversive, subtle things! After I explained what it meant to David and Brent, we all had a good laugh about how they had unknowingly named a character whose central problem in life was that he couldn’t get laid — a Big Dick Baller.”

Making It

“Our group sat watching the main stage, declining various lap dance offers, when a particularly striking and articulate young woman hovered over me. “Hey baby. I’m Sunny. Would you like a dance?”

“No, I’m all right, thank you.”

Sunny leaned in. “Hey! I know who you are! You’re Kal Penn! I’m a really big fan. Are you sure you don’t want a dance?”

My buddies were floored, saying things like, “Dude, that stripper knows who Kal is. Unbelievable — he had one small part in that Van Wilder movie!”

“Come on, one dance?”

I again politely declined her offer. “That’s not really my thing but thank you very much.”

Sunny sized up our group and slid into the open chair next to mine. “I’m just going to sit here and talk to you for a while then!”

“You’re talking to me off the clock?” I clarified. (My immigrant parents raised me right.)

“Yeah, off the clock, don’t worry, I just think it’s so cool that you’re here. I’m a really big fan of your movie. I’m Indian too!”

Oh shit! I thought. That’s amazing, an Indian American stripper! A note for you, dear reader: For all the impressive headway the Indian American community has made in lots of professions — medicine, engineering, the law — there are shamefully few of us in Sunny’s line of work.”

“Our friend Raju threw cold water on our fairy tale: “You know that woman wasn’t actually Indian, right?”

“What do you mean? Of course she was Indian. We spent like an hour and a half talking about being brown!”

“Nah, dude. She was just trying to get us to buy more lap dances. That lady was from El Salvador.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. I heard her speaking Spanish to one of the other strippers.

“So? I took French in high school.”

“Exactly. And you aren’t fluent.”

“What about the PhD program?”

“I’m pretty sure that part was real. But she was definitely not Indian.”

I couldn’t believe it. Yo, Latina Sunny was a good actor!”

“Why did two funny white guys from New Jersey write a movie with two Asian American lead characters? I called the dudes immediately. Jon told me that he and Hayden had a diverse group of friends in high school and college. Whenever they’d watch movies together, they thought it was weird that the Asian or Indian characters would barely speak. So, they just wrote them as leads in a movie themselves.”

“A week later, Hurwitz called me. They had actually done it: Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle was sold to a company called Senator, with New Line Cinema distributing. Nobody asked them to change the ethnicity of the characters, and nobody would have to scrape together cash to fund the film independently. That’s because two junior executives at New Line (one white, one black, both young) were given the opportunity to green-light and develop a lower-budget comedy. This is what they chose. It was perceived as a business risk, but they understood the characters and the world being created.”

“When it came down to getting cast, it wasn’t just my audition being marginally better that got me the role of Kumar. I’m not trying to sell myself short here — I gave a great audition and worked like hell to prepare for it. But so did the other guys. Part of the reason the role went to me is because none of the other prospective Kumars had been cast in a studio comedy before. I was the only Taj Mahal Badalandabad, and therefore perceived as the more professional choice.

My agents, of course, had totally predicted this. That’s why they pushed me to audition for Van Wilder. It’s why they called back after I hung up on them, and it’s why they encouraged me to build up a résumé and fight for auditions — even distasteful ones (see Hadji). It’s what Sonia Nikore meant when she advised me to work at making scripts funnier, pay my dues, and build a career. All of that advice had been true. Do I wish I had a time machine with a magic wand inside that could make us live in a world where the industry was fair and equitable, and I didn’t have to make those imperfect choices along the way?

Well, yeah, obviously (mostly because that would be sick as hell, a time machine and a magic wand). But that world doesn’t exist. Without Taj, I wouldn’t have been Kumar. I don’t regret playing my cards right.”

“My gross salary for Harold & Kamar Go to White Castle was the equivalent of what the US Census Bureau called median household income. After deducting the standard expenses-agent, manager, and lawyer fees; paying publicist salaries and taxes — what I was left with was good enough to live off of for about five months. To be clear, that’s a huge victory. I had a roof over my head just from acting — I was supporting myself with my art, which meant that by my count, I was finally living the dream.”

“With no real press to get no real jobs, those five months of living expenses didn’t turn out to be much of a safety net, so I eventually needed to return to some temporary gigs. And I suddenly found that I couldn’t get the kinds of day jobs I had relied on before. Production houses were hesitant to hire a somewhat-recognizable actor in an assistant role, because they knew I’d leave as soon as I got more acting work. And the service and retail industries wouldn’t hire me in coffee shops, clothing stores, bars, or restaurants because they said I could potentially hold up business. “You won’t be able to take orders as quickly if a customer turns out to be a fan.” Apparently nobody wanted people’s lattes getting cold if I was stopped and asked which special effects were used to light my back on fire in Van Wilder.

Most people would think, Harold & Kumar was a hit! Now it’s on to fame, fortune, and fancy cars! In real life, it was more like, “Harold & Kumar was a hit! Now you’re not allowed to work at Jamba Juice.”

“I landed in Sydney, took a quick shower, and went to my first rehearsal. I was greeted by the cheery director. He was short and — not to be a dick about it but — smiled a lot in a stupid sort of way. If there was a sound to go along with this director’s grin, it would be one of those old Warner Bros. cartoon dogs, ub-boo-boo-hoo-boo. This guy had a lot of energy. He wore two large hearing aids, a faded T-shirt, and comfortable- looking jeans with running shoes. My first impression of him during the audition was that he had a boring personality, which is rare for someone in a creative leadership position. This was confirmed once we sat down to go over the role. Because, as if this was the most goddamn brilliant genius idea any human had ever come up with in his life, he excitedly said, “So… I decided that Jorge should have an Indian accent! Ub-hoo-boo-hoo-boo.”

This bullshit again.

I put on a game face and did the three things I had become accustomed to doing in these situations: 1) Ask why my character needs to have an accent even though I knew the answer (because it would make it so much funnier), 2) Offer to instead help make the character funny on the merits of who he is, and 3) Pitch any number of other accents I could do besides Indian: Boston? Yiddish? Australian? Director Original Ideas McGee had a predictable response: “No, that wouldn’t be very authentic.”

I raised my voice a few times about why I didn’t want to play this role with an Indian accent before saying to myself, You know what, I just wrapped Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle. I didn’t do A Lot Like Love the way the casting director hoped. I don’t need to regress into a role with a reductionist accent, and I don’t need to waste my cueng getting upset. I sent Dan Spilo a straightforward email: “Please call production and have them fly me home, I’m obviously not playing a role like this. Sucks to lose the money, but I’ll figure it out. I’Il be in my hotel room packing and will be ready to roll to the airport ASAP. Thank you.”

We were supposed to start shooting a week later, and out of respect to my friend Jamie — for whom I wished success — I wanted to make sure Original Ideas McGee could cast someone else who was okay with the stereotypical accent he wanted. Surely there were other brown actors for whom this could be a way to break out of the Brown Catch-22.

Then my phone rang. It was Dan. “Bad news. The studio is saying if you left, you’d be in breach of contract since they flew you to work in Australia already. This really isn’t worth damaging your reputation over. It sucks, but you need to stick it out and do the character the way they want.”

“Damage my reputation? I’m not the asshole telling an actor to do some racist buffoonery because I’m not talented enough to come up with something better!” I was pissed. “Dan, I’m not fucking doing it. I’ve had it with this! I’m not breaking My Middle School Me Rule!” I hung up.

Reality set in with a call from my lawyer: Getting sued for breach of contract was a big deal, often designed as a deterrent. The studio could go after me for millions of dollars, which obviously I didn’t even have. I had to suck it up and do the accent.”

Once we started shooting I made it a point to perform as light an Indian accent as possible. I’m talking barely noticeable. No way was I going to give them a full Apu. If these guys weren’t going to let me leave, I was at least going to fight creatively for a somewhat-grounded character.

Maybe over time, the great chemistry that Jamie and I have could shine through.

We did a few takes of the barely noticeable accent on my first day, and Original Ideas McGee yelled, “Cut! Kal, I don’t think I heard an accent!” He lifted his left hand to cup his ear just behind the hearing aid. “Did you do one?” The way he did this reminded me of Portly Pete, the older guy with hearing aids who sat next to me at my pre-college telemarketing job, exasperatedly asking, “What did he say?” For a moment, I thought about my day on that job, and how awful it felt working for shady guys who lied to old people all day long.

This gave me an idea: I could lie to this buffoon.

ORIGINAL IDEAS MCGEE: Did you do the accent?

ME Of course I did — this accent is so funny!

ORIGINAL IDEAS MCGEE: I didn’t hear it, Kal! Make it thicker and louder in the next take!

ME: Of course, of course! You’ve got it, boss. I’ll make it thicker and louder!

We did another take. Instead of thickening my accent, I made my eyes much wider and bobbed my head the way other white directors had asked me to do in the past.

Original Ideas McGee saw my minstrel nonsense and because he couldn’t hear well, assumed I actually made the accent thicker. He was very delighted. This went on every day: I would do a light accent -> he couldn’t hear well and would ask if I was doing one at all -> I would make my eyes wide without thickening the accent -› he’d believe I was speaking with a thicker accent because he couldn’t hear well and was boring and a bigot and probably has a tiny penis. Ul-boo-boo-boo-boo.”

Obama

“On April 20, 2010, the oil and gas company British Petroleum’s Deepwater Horizon rig in the Gulf of Mexico started to spill what would ultimately be two hundred million gallons of crude oil into the ocean over the course of eighty-seven days. It was the biggest oil spill in US history. Sixteen thousand miles of coastline were affected, along with the livelihoods of thousands of families.

A sizable percentage of American fishermen in the Gulf happen to be of Vietnamese descent, and many don’t speak English as their first language — potentially complicating an already dire situation. Overnight, I and other OPE staffers handling outreach to constituencies affected by the spill began to receive emailed reports from the White House Situation Room. These updates would arrive every few hours, outlining everything from areas impacted to environmental and economic damage. It was a critical tool that guided our outreach efforts toward the people who needed it.

On the ground, there were rumors that BP might try to get these Vietnamese American fishermen to sign complicated legal documents with measly settlements, knowing that they couldn’t understand the labyrinthine language. They would need help navigating this and other aspects of post-disaster life.”

“With a giant grin across my face, I remembered a particularly debaucherous night on a USO tour that I did to South Korea. My college buddy DLC joined me on that trip, and one night after wrapping up our duties visiting with American troops at our military bases, we stopped for a couple of drinks at some nearby bars. A gay bar we stumbled into was technically off limits to American military because Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was still in effect, so it surprised us to see a small group of soldiers proudly enjoying their beers and shots inside. “Only one of us is gay,” one of them explained. “When the rest of us found out about him, it wasn’t even a question that we’d never report him to our higher-ups. We’re a unit. We’d take a bullet for each other. We pro tect American freedom. We’re not going to get him kicked out. The only, thing that’s changed is that we now hit up both gay and straight bars on our days off, so that all of us have a shot at getting laid.”

Sunnyside

“”NBC,” Ad Age wrote about Sunnyside, didn’t seem to be tremendously enthused about the project from the get-go.” In promoting Sunnyside on other networks, NBC spent $250,000; in promoting Perfect Harmony that number increased by 580 percent to $1.7 million. In promoting Sunnyside on its own stations NBC ran forty-three promotional spots; in promoting Perfect Harmony, 1,368 spots — an increase of 3,081 percent.

1,368 ads for Perfect Harmony. Forty-three for Sunnyside.”

“I’m passionate about what I do, so the truth can be tough to digest. The business of television is complicated, with numerous factors at play in determining benchmarks of success and viability, but there’s no parsing reality in this case. When someone chooses to provide 3,081 percent more resources to a project with a white protagonist than they do to a project with a protagonist of color… while measuring the success of both projects with the same scale…. it is an example of systemic racism — the more diverse project has been set up to fail from the start.

After taking over our timeslot, Will & Grace aired to lukewarm numbers before repeatedly dipping to or under a 0.43 rating — lower than Sunnyside’s premiere.

Will & Grace was not pulled off the air.”