The Taco Queen of El Lay
Written by Marissa Díaz
YEAR ONE
Ten years ago, I was a well-adjusted young woman. Then, I moved to Los Angeles. I thought, “There will be so many jobs!!! So many opportunities! LA is where fellow Texas darling Eva Longoria ascended to great heights as Gabrielle Solis on DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES!!! I will be a famous Latina writer invited to luncheons and awards dinners and one day, have hundreds of photos on Getty Images!” I didn’t have money or connections, but I did have $40,000 in student loan debt, and a degree from NYU to show for it, so I signed up for “NYU in LA.” It was a mentorship program put on by the art school, meant to serve delusional Tischies migrating to the West Coast, with a dream… and without a goddamn clue. Each group was assigned two mentors that had forged their own path in the entertainment industry. I was assigned two agents. Trey worked for one of “The Big Three,” and Monica worked for a newer, boutique agency that was, “writer-focused.” For our first outing, the leaders lured us to a picnic at Barnsdall Park. We sat in a big circle, threw our snacks in the center, and discussed our desire to be Sundance darlings, and make the next, BEASTS OF THE SOUTHERN WILD.
Monica joined late. Instead of taking the open spot next to me, she opted to sit directly in front of me. I sat and stared at the back of her blonde bob. My face went hot. I waited for someone to say something. Anything. In my fantasy, Trey could’ve said something super simple and direct like, “Hey, Monica, I’m not sure if you noticed, but you sat directly in front of the group’s only stout but very fashionable Latina.” But Trey, nor anyone else, seemed to notice, so I sat behind Monica for an hour and said nothing. I took a picture of my “partial view” experience to file into evidence. To call it an “over-the-shoulder shot” would be generous. The photo was the backside of Monica’s body and a sliver of a girl’s face, who was sitting on the other side of the circle. I sent it to my best friend. “NYU in LA,” I wrote.
After an hour of sitting criss-cross applesauce, the mentorship circle closed. Everyone took back their tupperware containers and Trey asked Monica if she was interested in taking the leftover paper plates home with her. Or, perhaps she could use them at her office. A vein in her neck bulged. “I work at a full-service agency, Trey! We can afford paper plates!” she spat. Then, Monica turned to me. “You should take them home,” she said, and dropped a bag of single-use servingware into my hands.
YEAR THREE
I was an Intern, then a Production Assistant, then a Second Assistant, and finally, the First Assistant to a showrunner whose kink was bailing on high-profile meetings, last minute. It was the gig a million girls would kill for. I worked across television, film, and a digital feminist newsletter with edgy corporate sponsors. Each Monday, the team dialed into an editorial call and reviewed pitches. This week, a sneaker campaign was on the docket. On Friday, we’d execute the photo shoot, but models hadn’t been booked. The editorial staff, composed of lithe, white, normcore “New York Writer Girls” were roped into the campaign, but an important piece was missing. The campaign was about diversity and body positivity, and was meant to help poor browns in the hood, but they didn’t have a poor, fat, brown girl to put in front of the camera. The team would think on it, reach out to folks, and book someone that fit the bill.
Apparently, the team forgot I was dialed into the call, because minutes later, I got a text from my boss. “Sweet baby angel, I was just thinking about how much I love your style. Would you consider lending your kick ass look to our shoot on Friday?”
Did it sting? Sure. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider it for a few minutes. This could be my shot. I would get press. I would be THE Latina of the edgy white girls. Ultimately, I hated the way I looked on camera more than I wanted to be a cover girl, so I declined, stating that I was more of a, “behind-the-scenes” kind of a gal. My boss said she understood, but she did need a makeup artist and an on-set PA, so the least I could do was donate my time, “for the cause.”
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.”
YEAR TEN
I left producing. Now, I write and direct. Things have taken a turn for me. During awards season, I’m on an email list that SENDS ME LINKS TO SCREENERS. For $400, I joined a guild that doesn’t offer healthcare. Besides that, years of fellowship applications came through. I was assigned creative executive mentors. Have they read me? No, but they sure as fuck follow me on Instagram, and sent me heart emojis when I turned my kitchen cabinets, into a makeshift white board, where I broke my first one-hour drama. Am I unemployed? Suuuure, but I was invited to an awards show in a parking lot, in a tent, in SANTA MONICA! Managers have courted me and my name appears in the trades… like, ONCE a year!
Most recently, I was named the winner of a short film competition, run by an internationally-recognized… burger company. The Burger People took me back to my home state for SXSW. CONNIE BRITTON WAS ON MY FLIGHT. How could I tell it was her? She was wearing a mask, but I’d recognize Tami Taylor’s luscious locks ANYWHERE!
At South by, I was finally accepted by Latino Hollywood. The Burger People sponsored a dinner for fancy Latinos and surprise, surprise, I made the cut! I wasn’t allowed to bring a plus one, because it was a, “very, carefully curated guest list” of whoever was in Austin, during Oscars weekend. Whatever! There was a photographer, videographer, and an open bar!!!
As the glasses of Sauvignon Blanc washed over me, I took it all in. The curvy Latina from Texas was at the Hollywood Latino table, in front of the camera, being candidly photographed. After dinner, we left our seats and mingled. The photographer roamed and I talked to The Burger People about the anime-inspired launch of their newest, savory chili sauce. Suddenly, I heard my name. It was my manager yelling at me from across the restaurant.
“Marissa, they're taking group photos, you’ve GOT to get in!”
The photographer waited. THIS was my Eva Longoria moment. THIS would be my first photo in the “Marissa Díaz” Getty Image gallery. I would be in THE “Latino Hollywood” photo of the night. I’d screenshot it and post it to Instagram with the “Paris” filter over it. I ran over and shamelessly squeezed myself, smack dab, in the middle of the group.
As the photographer’s camera flashed, I wondered if ten years in LA turned me into… a “Monica.”
The next day, The Burger People put out a press release, to little fanfare. Yahoo Finance published an article. I didn’t make the photo, but my Sundance-supported half-hour script COCHINAS, about nasty girls from Texas, just got its first studio offer.
