Nepo Girl

On finding myself somewhere between Madison, the daughter of an accountant, and Sofia Coppola.

I first remember resenting my dad’s fame in the hallowed year of 2002. Not to brag, but my family happened to be staying in the same hotel as *NSYNC, and there were hundreds of boy band fans waiting outside the hotel every day, behind metal barriers. Any time we entered or exited the hotel premises, a smattering of *NSYNC fans would audibly wonder if they should be roused by our presence (Is that someone? Is he famous?), then one or two would shout my dad’s name or ask for an autograph, pushing and reaching against the metal fences between us. My dad would hurry me past the fans as quickly as possible, and when I asked if I could stay behind and wait, just in case I might catch a glimpse of the love of my life, JC Chasez, whose name I’d written in sharpie all over my school supplies, my dad said no. I was crushed. I did not want to be on our side of the barriers. I wanted to be on the other side, with the fans. I wanted to be where the people were.

My dad, actor/comedian/writer Denis Leary, and me - to quote Ashlee Simpson - “Living in the shadow of someone else's dream”.

I understand what it’s like to be a fan, because I am a fan, a big fan, maybe even a superfan, of all things celebrity. I love to read or hear what famous people eat in a day and which five things they can’t live without and what they were named most likely to become in their high school yearbooks. I’ve always, therefore, understood my role as a window, for strangers, into the life of someone they love, admire, hate, think is Willem Dafoe, or are just vaguely aware of. I’ve felt a responsibility, from a young age, to control strangers’ experiences of my family - wanting to pleasantly surprise them with kind, down to earth gestures, and wanting my dad to give them whatever they were looking for, to earn their approval and ease the interaction - I just wanted us all to be liked!

When I hit puberty and the adolescent years Degrassi: The Next Generation promised would define my personal identity, I began to resent this responsibility. It felt increasingly embarrassing to be on the celebrity side of the barriers. I didn’t want to be different. I didn’t want to talk to strangers. I didn’t want to keep repeating, “no, he’s not the Green Goblin, but yes, he’s on TV… I don’t know what you would have seen, uh, Ice Age?” I didn’t think I deserved special privileges. I felt I could never measure up to whatever people might expect from someone close to a star. When strangers recognized my dad out in public, I imagined them thinking: “That’s his daughter? That awkward girl with the big nose?” Shouldn’t a celebrity’s daughter be hot? Cool? Popular?

I began trying to hide my dad’s fame from my peers. I switched to a new school, where no one knew me and I could be anyone I wanted, I could be the daughter of an accountant! I even considered changing my name in the sixth grade - to “Madison”. I would lie about my weekend plans to my new classmates, “just going to some lame concert with my parents UGH!” then end up in the background of a photo of Ralph Fiennes talking to Liam Neeson, on the wrong side of the barriers, yet again. Exposed.

I was actually terrified this whole night after my brother told me that guy is Voldemort.

Maybe I struggled with early onset delusions of grandeur, or maybe this is just what it’s like to be a kid. Whatever you’re most insecure about gets warped through the funhouse lens of your hormones and chemical imbalances and suddenly you think everyone is talking about how Denis Leary’s daughter has a big nose and isn’t cool and experiences immense privileges she did nothing to deserve. It took me a couple of decades to learn the lesson that no one thinks about you as much as you think about yourself. But even now, having learned that lesson more times than I can count, I’m still insecure about this aspect of my life.

I’m very aware that mine is a particularly unsympathetic plight. Please, cue the tiny violins for poor me, struggling under the weight of having a famous dad! I struggled at the U2 concert with Ralph Fiennes and Liam Neeson! I struggled on all of our luxury vacations and in all of the private schools I attended! I hung my head, ASHAMED of my privilege, when forced to admit that Ice Age 3 paid for my nose job!

Well, apparently I was never quite ashamed enough, since I ultimately decided to pursue work in the entertainment industry, and there’s really nothing more embarrassing than a nepo baby “trying to make it” in Hollywood. Trying and failing, I mean. Of course, if you get to Sofia Coppola status, it’s no longer embarrassing and obnoxious, it’s ART! CINEMA, PRONOUNCED THE ITALIAN WAY! Before then, though, everyone judges you, as they should.

My dad’s connections got me my first internship in TV. The internship was unpaid, but financial privilege allowed me to take it on without needing a second job. I did not have bills to pay. I lived in my parents’ apartment throughout the term. I was able to show up every day, well rested and focused, without having to worry about paying rent in one of the most expensive cities in the world. I impressed my supervisors by staying late, knowing I could take a taxi for the very short commute home. I got my first real TV job ten years ago as a result of that internship, and have worked on the production side of the industry ever since.

As the years went on, I convinced myself I’d come to terms with being a nepo baby. I used the insecurity as fuel to work harder and prove people wrong, and never brought up my dad’s name unless directly asked. Most of my assistant work came through word of mouth, from former bosses. I avoided relying on my dad at all costs, venturing to make my own connections and forge my own path. I entered every networking conversation with zero presumptions, always projecting an “I’ll start from the bottom and work my way up!” attitude. I failed to realize how much pride and ego I had invested in being perceived in a certain, humble light. I failed to see the problem with truly believing that I belonged at the bottom, no matter what I achieved.

A few weeks into a recent coordinating job, a coworker said out loud in a meeting that when my name comes up on Slack, it looks like Denis Leary is sending them a message. Another coworker turned in his chair, so quickly it seemed as if he’d been waiting forever to find out, “is that your dad?” I presumed, okay fine - projected that he wanted to finally be able to guage whether or not I deserve to be where I am. I nodded yes, that is my dad. Word got around, as it always does, and a few weeks later, a different coworker texted me: “is your dad famous?”

Immediately upon reading the text, I felt responsible for the awkwardness of the interaction, despite how bizarre it is to just randomly text someone with whom you are not especially close - “is your dad famous?” I felt the exact same way I did as a kid when strangers would approach my family on the street, screaming: “Demolition Man!” as if it were a full sentence. I was blind to the other person’s role in the conversation, due to my pressing urge to control the narrative. How could I clearly and concisely communicate that while yes, my father’s name is recognizable to some, particularly to those with an affinity for Boston sports teams, he’s not, like, Brad Pitt or anything. He’s a regular, nice guy and I’m not one of them. I did not attend a debutante ball alongside royalty like Apple Martin. I didn’t grow up in Hollywood and my name didn’t even make it to the “ON THE COME-UP” section of New York Mag’s infamous NEPO BABY issue, I mean, seriously! How much more humble could I be?!?!

“Lol Yeah” I wrote back, “…He’s not that famous anymore”.

With these seven words, I hoped my remarkable groundedness would be illuminated. My coworker would read them and immediately understand how hard I’ve worked to transcend any nepo baby biases. I hoped she might become overwhelmed with admiration for my willingness to work a low level production job instead of using my connections to get ahead! But if she were to ask any questions to that end, I’d be forced to admit that I very recently tried to use nepotism to get a staff writing job on a different TV show.

I’ve been writing for years now, though I still struggle to call myself a writer in public, which is surely born out of the whole ego-driven, self-loathing, “put me on the bottom where I belong” thing. I’ve worked as a writers’ assistant on multiple television shows and I’ve written a million screenplays that never went anywhere, but I do have one I am really proud of, and it is loosely based on my relationship with my dad.

Earlier this year, my dad sent me a script for a show he planned to produce and star in. It was a father-daughter comedy. It occurred to me that I could ask him to hire me as a writer on the show, given the relevence of my writing sample, but I quickly shut myself down. I didn’t spend years working my way up as an assistant just to sell out to nepotism the first chance I got! Yes, I know, my dad’s name is what got me to the assistant positions in the first place, but after that I proved myself!!! Right?!!?

My mind raced with all the scrutinizing things people would think and say if I had a high paying writing job so obviously handed to me based on my last name. The other writers on my dad’s show, my boss, my peers, friends, family members, EVERYONE would resent me and judge me and think “must be nice!!!” I could be taking an opportunity from someone else who deserved it more, or had at least earned it in a more meaningful way. It would all be soooo humiliating.

I agonized, for nearly forty-five WHOLE minutes, before finally succumbing to the reality that I could not say no to an opportunity to get paid to write. I told myself everyone gets hired through some form of knowing someone who knows someone, right??!?! I called my dad and asked for the favor. He sent my script to the showrunner, who would be making all of the hiring decisions.

And after all that……..

I didn’t get the job. I interviewed with the showrunner, and he essentially told me my script was good, but not good enough, and that he would like to potentially hire me as an assistant or coordinator, since I might have helpful stories to share about being my dad’s daughter, for this TV show about my dad and his daughter. I would have to move for the job, and given the pay rate for writers’ assistant work, the profit would basically net zero.

During the actual interview, when the showrunner told me he didn’t think I was ready to write in a room, I failed to stand up for myself. I instantly descended into the very familiar, self-flagellating mode of “you’re right, I deserve nothing, whatever crumbs you may scatter my way I will take with gratitude, good sir! I would never presume to deserve more. Trust me, I judge myself way more than you could ever judge me for being a nepo baby so no worries at all!!!!” I told the showrunner I would gladly take any low level position on the show as an opportunity to learn. But after some sleep, therapy, and a few conversations with trusted friends, I landed on my truth.

As always, the truth was in the gray area, outside the cold, rigid boundaries of “I deserve this or I don’t” and “I am good or I am bad”. Somewhere in the mess, I found a decision that felt right to me: I do not need to share stories about my famous dad for barely over minimum wage and a job title that I already have on my resume seven times, just to prove something to a man who doesn’t think I’m good enough. The showrunner did not have to hire me just because of my dad, and I did not have to take a job I wasn’t comfortable with just because I thought it might change someone’s opinion of my worth.

I am where I am in my career because of nepotism. I am also a hard worker. I am proud to be my dad’s daughter. So much of what I have is a direct result of his work, and his love and care. When I notice elements of my dad’s personality in myself, I feel warm and I feel grateful. I am also not entirely defined by him. I am not responsible for anyone’s opinion of him, and I can’t control anyone’s opinion of me, and that’s okay.

And with that, I will proceed to obsess for days and weeks to come over whether or not I come off like a spoiled, Apple Martin-ass brat in this essay.