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Marissa Díaz
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Marissa Díaz
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About
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Home
About
Work
Redefine Success
Marissa Díaz 5/28/19 Marissa Díaz 5/28/19

Redefine Success

It All Begins Here

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Small Steps Create Big Shifts
Marissa Díaz 5/28/19 Marissa Díaz 5/28/19

Small Steps Create Big Shifts

It All Begins Here

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Turn Intention Into Action
Marissa Díaz 5/28/19 Marissa Díaz 5/28/19

Turn Intention Into Action

It All Begins Here

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Make Room for Growth
Marissa Díaz 5/28/19 Marissa Díaz 5/28/19

Make Room for Growth

It All Begins Here

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YEAR FIVE

By the grace of God, I made it out of the assistant trenches. I took a fifty percent pay cut to be a producer. “This is what people do,” said our CEO in our weekly touch-base. “It’s all industry standard. You make less money because you won’t be working around-the-clock and on weekends and holidays… or whatever it is you were doing as an assistant. Plus, you’ll be running an entire production company by yourself. Imagine the opportunity!” she screamed over a loud whirr in the background.

“But I still work on weekends and holidays,” I said.

“What?!” She yelled over the loud noise.

I elevated my voice, in the hope that this time, she could hear me. “I SAID, I STILL WORK ON WEEKENDS AND HOLIDAYS–”

The call ended. Did she think I was yelling at her? Because, though I was, I was only yelling because I wanted her to hear me. Not because I was angry. My fingers trembled as I called her back, but she sent me straight to voicemail. 

She followed up with a text: “Sorry babe. Can’t talk. It’s too loud. I’m in the middle of a blow out. Talk soon. xo”

 

YEAR SEVEN

As the head of development, I made progress in diversifying our slate, our writers' rooms, and episodic directors. I took generals with POC writers and executives. I was tired of being left out of POC Hollywood because I worked for white people. I needed to take meetings, but my office was a linen closet in my boss’s LA home, so I was gifted a Soho House membership. I invited two, junior Latino execs, who had just been promoted off assistant desks, for lunch. They’d never been, so we snuck selfies when the waiters weren’t looking. They told me about a new Latino initiative they were working on with a few friends of mine. They were recruiting new members and told me I needed to join. Later, they emailed me thanking me for lunch. I followed up about the initiative. They wrote back. “Oh, right. About that. We’d love to have you join, but we would need you to apply so the board can approve you.” 

“But I know all of the board members,” I said. “Of course. We just need your resume, a credit list, and a letter of intent. We want to make sure this is an executive-only space. No assistants. You understand.” 

It would’ve been easy to submit my supporting documents, but it was like a friend asking to see your ID at a birthday party. It was like MEAN GIRLS. “You can’t sit with us.” It was like, we created this club for brown executives and you belong, but we’re going to make you get on your knees, and PROVE IT.

YEAR NINE

I brought in a hot piece of IP about a queer Latina. I’m on our kick-off call with Universal Studios, proud to be known as something other than someone’s assistant, to be taken seriously, to be seen. My boss introduces me to our executives as, “The Taco Queen of LA.”