I think the big thing would be maybe the death of my brother. That was the hardest thing for me to take. It was very tough because that's natural and he saw a certain potential and he would say, don't ever have a drink. Now, I don't carry that far with people. I never had a drink.
My brother was told that he wouldn't walk, that he wouldn't be able to play drums, that he wouldn't be able to race a car - and he's done all those things. He's defied the odds, defied disability. I look at him and I'm so inspired, by his mentality and by how incredible the body and the mind are. There's really nothing you can't do. My brother has proved that.
I try to pay as little attention as possible to people who are not part of my team. What counts for me is what my father says, because he is my coach. I listen to my brother and my fitness coach. I don't care about anyone else.
My brother, who's a few years older then me, went to college in New York. He said all of these people from Saturday Night Live do improv together in Upright Citizens Brigade, and I thought, "Oh, that sounds really cool." So when I got braces and couldn't play music anymore, I said to my parents that I wanted to go to New York and take a class at that place. They were remarkably on board with it. I got on the train, went up, took a class and I loved it.
I'm a tomboy! Even though I look all-girlie and act girlie, in reality at home I am such a tomboy. I like to mess around and hang out with my brothers, that is the most fun for me!
My parents were not musical, but my mom just really wanted my brother and I to learn music as well as practice sports. It's a balance for which I'm thankful. I'm not sure I'm more balanced than anyone, but I'm happier because I can make music and I'm really thankful for that.
My brother was diagnosed with autism, so it's something that hits close to home. And as I got older - especially when I started modeling and being in the city - I wanted to do help. I became involved with Autism Speaks.
Just me existing, as an openly black transgender woman from a working-class background, thriving, is a political act. My brother always reminds me that if you are black in America and you're alive, you deserve a round of applause. There are so many forces that don't want us to be alive, and so just being openly who I am, and happy and thriving, is a political act.
My parents left Iran in 1979 and moved to France and then moved to the U.S. My brother was born in France and I was born in New York. I think my parents left France because they felt their kids would never be accepted by French culture. Here they thought we could feel American - that we could feel safe in that way - which was important to them, given what their experiences were in Iran. They used to joke about how I could be president because I was the only one born in America.
I would say I was a little bit outgoing, a little bit shy. I was definitely much more shy than my brother. I was young - age six. I was really drawn to music because my brother started playing instruments and I wanted to be at his level, even though I was younger.
Ever since I was a about seven or eight; I think it was seven. My brother said "I want to start acting," and me and my sister just said, "Oh we'll try it, we'll see." It was just one of those things - we were just like, "Oh, we'll see what happens." So we ended up - all my siblings and me - we ended up just trying it, and I got that one role on In Plain Sight and then we just decided to keep going and see what happens. And then: Hunger Games.
I always tried to make people laugh. I attribute that to - I come from a family of divorce. It was a way to distract myself from stuff. I always thought it was interesting that my brother and I existed in this really tight bond, and we would just take the piss out of pretty much everything. I knew I wanted to be an actor so it would be great if I could make people laugh while I was doing this, because I could be other characters and other people, and I could hide behind things. It was a great out for me, and a mode of expression.
We're on an indie label. We don't have mass marketing behind us, and we don't have big budgets. We do our own thing. We do exactly what we want to do. We produce our own music. We write ourselves. We record ourselves. We mix ourselves. The artwork is done by my brother. That's not selling out. We're doing exactly what we want to do.
My brothers are so much a part of who I am, and such a large part of my heart and my drive. I've never had a kid, but I understand that whole, "I would kill for my family" kind of thing. I understood it, it resonated with me. It's a very primal, animal thing that you feel for your family.
I'd always believed that any song worth singing is worth putting harmony on. When it comes time for the harmonies to come in, I will move to my left because my brother and I always used to use one microphone, and so you had to share the mic. And, even today, I will move over to the left to give the harmony room, knowing in my mind that there's no harmony standing on my right. But it's just old habits are hard to break.
Let's face it, fashion was destroyed by HIV. People would just die like flies in the eighties. Then, my brother died of HIV, so I was shaken by it in a way that you cannot imagine. It has sadly been in my life ever since and affected it for such a long time. It won't let go. To me, it's a fight that's not finished. Of course, there are medicines that help, but half the world has no access to them.
I made films with my brothers and my cousins and if any of the films ever come to fruition my career will be in ruins because the acting, writing, and directing is so unbelievably, heinously bad. We once screened one for my grandfather, this film that we had painstakingly made over a couple of days when we were all 10 years old, and he sat there and he said, "This is the worst film I've ever seen." No sympathy whatsoever.
My earliest memories are of my brother, pointing the home video camera at me and saying, "C'mon, Ange, give us a show!" Neither of my parents ever said, "Be quiet! Stop talking!" I remember my father looking me in the eye and asking, "What are you thinking? What are you feeling?" That's what I do in my job now - I say. "OK, how do I feel about this?" And I immediately know, because that's how I grew up.
I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with my life. I always wanted to pursue either music or comics, so when the opportunity came from comics publisher Fantagraphics for my brothers Jaime and Mario and I to make a comic book together, we jumped at the chance: "Let's just do it and see what happens." Really, we weren't sure where we were going to go with it. We thought our work was good enough to be out there, but we didn't know that the response was going to be pretty good, pretty quick.
I still don't know how to drive. I don't go anywhere, really. My brother drives me. I walk around my neighborhood but I don't go anywhere, nor do I want to.
In terms of the production company, my brother and I are very drawn toward projects that do feel slightly outside the box. And at the same time are accessible enough that they could draw a slightly wider audience.
I'm really interested in the current tech world because of my brother Michael. Since we were little kids, in the 1970s, he was dealing with the first computers. He works for the government. So I know both sides of this world. I found it so interesting and I do seek it out because it's very close to me. It's not a role that existed 15 to 20 years ago.
One thing you can't help noticing in South America and in Latin culture, generally, is how nice people are. Although when I went back to Spain - my mother lived in Spain and both my brothers lived there - after the Uruguay trip, I thought, "Oh great, Hispanic people." But they weren't nearly as nice as the Uruguayans. They're quite proud and pissed off, the Spaniards.
As kids, my brother David and I longed for acceptance. We were desperate to belong. We would have been thrilled to see the pews of Jones's church in San Francisco, with blacks and whites sitting side by side. And Jim Jones's sermons on social justice and equality would have had much greater appeal to us than the soporific morality tales we were accustomed to hearing. Jones promised real racial equality. He promised to create a truly equal community in the jungle in Guyana.
I only wish my brother David had survived to experience Berkeley as well. No one would flinch here if we were to walk down the street together, whereas in Indiana we were constantly met with hostility. I don't believe in heaven, but this is about as close to heaven on earth as I imagine getting.
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