yes please(16)

But there was one “sorry” that I took too long to say, and it haunted me for years.

Saturdays at SNL were a tornado of activity. I would typically be in eight or nine sketches a night, which meant fast costume changes and lots to prepare. Costume changes at Saturday Night Live are a dance all to themselves. Each week I would confab with my human pit crew and figure out how much time I had to change between sketches. I would change under bleachers and tucked away in corners. Hearing the sound of the audience while I was in my underwear was thrilling and terrifying. My job was to stay still and obey directions as they were shouted: “Lift your foot!” “Snap this shut!” “Close your eyes!” Bruce would pull off my pre-Velcroed shirt as Robert glued on my fake mustache. I would hold up my two index fingers next to my head while Jeffrey put on my old-man wig, and Spivey would stand next to me telling me that my new cue to enter was “Thanksgiving is ruined!” Everyone was equal during those moments, all of us actors in a play trying to get changed in time. I watched Robert De Niro wiggle into spandex pants as Siegfried. Or Roy. I witnessed Donald Trump stepping into a chicken suit. I engaged in small talk with Derek Jeter as he was buttoned into a dress. “How are you doing?” I asked. “Are you nervous?” He just laughed and said, “No,” thus settling the long-standing debate about what is more nerve-racking: live comedy or the World Series.

“SNL time” is completely different from real-world time. Gena, our stage manager, would peek in and reassure us that we still had “a minute twenty.” Our shoulders would relax and we would joke around like emergency room doctors. We would chat about someone’s boyfriend as we hustled to the stage floor, and more than once a prop was thrown to me with seconds to go. I would catch it, the crowd would clap, and the scene would start. It was chaos. It was so exciting.

The problem with busy shows is that details get lost. Attention is not equally paid and things slip through the cracks. It was in one of those cracks that I did the only sketch I regret from SNL. The crack is not an excuse. Or maybe it is. This essay is about apologies, and I have learned an important part of apologizing is not making excuses. But that night was particularly busy.

It was March 2008 and I was newly and secretly pregnant. I remember feeling tired and worn out. Hillary Clinton was in the cold open and I stood beside her wearing a matching outfit. It’s always extremely weird to play someone as they stand next to you. Coming down from that much adrenaline can drain you. Later that night, I played Dakota Fanning, hosting The Dakota Fanning Talk Show. I don’t do an impression of Dakota Fanning, or look anything like her, so the sketch depended on my creepy ability to play a ten-year-old girl with relative ease. It was written by two SNL writers who liked the idea of a highly intellectual Dakota Fanning discussing things that were far too mature for her young age. Her references were often lost on her beleaguered bandleader, Reggie, played by the always-brilliant Kenan Thompson. Dakota would confess that she was a big fan of Vonnegut but “not familiar” with Harry Potter. She loved Tom Waits and enjoyed discussing Japanese poetry. She treated her mom like her manager and claimed she never watched TV. Her upcoming projects were always serious and much too adult. You get the idea.

On this particular night, the awesome Ellen Page was the host. Ellen was playing a young and innocent Miley Cyrus. This was in the Hannah Montana days, and Miley/Ellen was showing Dakota her new doll. The script read like this:

ELLEN/MILEY

Hey Dakota, check this out! It’s my new Hannah Montana doll! Pretty awesome, right?

(ELLEN TAKES OUT A CUTE DOLL AND MAKES IT DANCE)

AMY/DAKOTA

I’ve also got a new doll. It’s from my upcoming film Hurricane Mary, where my sister and I play severely disabled twins.

(AMY/DAKOTA TAKES OUT A CREEPY DOLL)

ELLEN/MILEY

(AS HER DOLL)

Hey Dakota, want to play?

AMY/DAKOTA

(AS HER DOLL)

I wish I could but I am severely disabled.

I rehearsed the sketch and went over the blocking. The entire time I assumed that Hurricane Mary was something the writers had made up. We did a run-through and I was told the doll was being made and would be ready by air. The night of the show came, and the doll arrived. As it was put into my hands, I remember feeling my stomach tighten. It had been manipulated to look like a strange and twisted girl. But there was no time. Jeffrey adjusted my wig. Gena told me I had five seconds. The scene played fine. I ran to the next quick change. Robert glued on a beard. I forgot about my weird feeling, finished the show, and went to the after-party.

Months later I received a letter from Marianne Leone and Chris Cooper. It was simple and painful. It said something like “Shame on you for making fun of a real girl. Her name is Anastasia and she is amazing. You should know her story.” I knew Chris Cooper from his work in films like American Beauty and Adaptation. I had always heard he was a wonderful person and a delight to work with. I didn’t know his wife, Marianne, but a quick Google search told me a few important things: Marianne was an actor and had written the television movie Hurricane Mary mentioned in our skit. Hurricane Mary was based on the real story of Alba and Anastasia Somoza, twin sisters with cerebral palsy, and their mother’s battle to ensure their right to an equal-opportunity education, as well as their full integration into society. Marianne and Chris had come to know Anastasia’s story through their advocacy for disabled children. The cause was personal for them: their beloved son, Jesse, had been born with special needs. Sadly, he had passed away in 2005.