Meet the “Dad/Mom”

Screen Shot 2016-06-16 at 3.14.09 AMStarting tonight I am a video blogger as well as the lady wordsmith here at lifeafterdawn.com. The term a decade ago was vlogger but I doubt that it is still in use today. Whatever you call it, I’m doing it.

So here is episode one, Meet the “Dad/Mom” in which I explain why I am such a thing and how I came to be me. Welcome new friends and old to this brave new world, with such transgender people in it. Please send me your questions, answers, ideas, random th0ughts, to my email dawnennis@gmail.com or you can comment here, too, or on YouTube. 

Thanks!

Also: A trust has been established by Wendy’s brother, Robert Lachs, to assist with furthering the education of the Ennis children. Anyone wishing to donate to the fund may send a check, payable to “Ennis Family Scholarship Fund Trust” to Robert Lachs, 1729 E Prairie Ave., Wheaton, IL 60137, or click here to donate via GoFundMe. 

 

 

Attention, “Transparent” Fans and Wanna Be Screenwriters

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Before you ask, yes. I’ve already sent in my entry.

But… if you’ve always dreamed of living in Hollywood and writing for a program about a family dealing with a transgender person going through transition, this is for YOU!

THE DEADLINE IS TONIGHT! They are, indeed, looking for a trans woman writer to join the writers’ room.

Official Description:

TRANSPARENT is looking for a trans woman writer to join the writing staff next season. No TV experience necessary, but you should be a self-identified writer. A love of words, comedy, story, drama and performers is a must.

If you don’t live in LA, you’d need to potentially be able to relocate to LA from January to June ish, 2015.

Your first step, if you’re interested, is to write a 2-3 page fictional short story about anything you like. Your story doesn’t need to be about being trans, but it can be. It should feel brutally, beautifully honest, show your sense of humor and feel like a reflection of you. It would be great if there were a protagonist or idea of a protagonist on a journey towards getting something, but not necessary.

If you’re interested, please send your resume and a 3-page short story (double-spaced and as a word doc) to estigiordani@gmail.com by (TONIGHT) October 15th. Please be sure you have a separate cover sheet with your name on it and that your name doesn’t appear in the headers of the story as part of the process will involve blind submissions.

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Farewell, My Friend

Rick Regan

My pal is gone.

Rick Regan is the second of my close, longtime friends to be taken from us this year. I cannot fathom a tribute fitting the master of words that I could write and he’d approve.

Our first meeting 18 years ago was in the newsroom at WCBS-TV. He was the copy editor or what we called the co- producer. He didn’t give me as much trouble with my copy as he did with his gnarly, gruff “go away, kid… you’re bothering me” attitude.

I can’t say why but I persisted in becoming his friend. Rick taught me so much about the business and ten times more about life, love, the Sox and tenacity. This was a man who simply did not let go.

And he was the same way when he met me… as ME. He refused to let go of our friendship, now established and ingrained. He told me he stood up for me against people I didn’t even know, who mocked me and laughed at the change I embraced and he accepted, even though like most folks he struggled to understand it. Anyone could have stayed silent. But not Rick. He made it clear: “that’s my friend and you’d better quit it. Now.” And they did, at least around Rick.

He was the kind of friend who could tell me, as he did once: “God, you’re putting on weight! What’s wrong? You need to run that off. Come run with me!”

He delighted in hoisting my oldest son on his broad shoulders when we took our son to see “The Gates” in Central Park in 2005.

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We thought it was lovely, creative, cool and imaginative. Rick declared: “It’s okay, so long as it doesn’t interfere with my run.”

My favorite Rick story, though, dates back to that awful day in September 2001. We were just beginning our coverage of that terrible tragedy when it occurred to me, I need to make a phone call. Yes, I did call home, but first: I called Rick. “What?” was his “this better be important” acid-toned answer when he picked up the phone; clearly I had woken him up. “Get up. Turn on the TV. Get in here.” I didn’t even say it was me. I hung up and went back to work. Fifteen minutes later, he was at his desk pounding out copy. That was Rick. He later thanked me. None was necessary.

Rick was the light of every newsroom. And when I wound up at WABC- TV, all I had to say was “I’m a friend of Rick Regan’s.” And I was “in” with the old guard (or at least the good guys in the old guard; the rest were just jealous).

He was the last guy you would imagine with a mirror glued to his cubicle — not to check out his wild red hair — but so he could see the managers if they snuck up behind him! He loved showing that off.

And he loved words. He loved them almost as much as Laurie, but he loved her beyond words. He told me once she was everything he lived for, and I never doubted it.

I will never be the writer Rick was, try as I might. So, instead of wasting effort, time and risking his heavenly wrath, I shall instead quote an irish poet… Who is now buying a round in the honor of my friend, Rick Regan.

“A Drinking Song”
by W. B. Yeats

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

I look at pictures of my friend now and find it so hard to believe he’s gone forever from our earth. I would have thought the world would end first, and Rick would be there to write about it all.

Rick: say hello, please, to Art, to your brother, to our dads, and all those waiting to greet you. I love you, Rick.

And I say to you and to all who took the time to read this, as Rick always said to me, instead of “goodbye:”

Be good.

Karma Calling

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There is this person I know.

We’ve known each other for many years, and we have quite a few friends in common in the TV News business, where she got her start before moving on to publishing. A few years ago, she was the first person to whom I pitched an idea for a memoir about the changes that have come about in my life. I sent her an email but I didn’t get a reply; no call, nothing… So I moved on.

I hired an agent and we put together what’s called a proposal.  By the fall of 2012, there was genuine buzz about my story and this person I know heard through the grapevine that I was about to make a pitch. She finally replied to my year-old email and asked me to send it to her first. I was gung-ho but my agents balked, telling me horror stories about every project this person touched. I was torn but they were adamant, so we didn’t include her when we sent out the proposal — each with a confidentiality agreement.

In that early form, the book admittedly needed work, and so we went back to the drawing board. I hired a publishing pro to help me address some of the feedback we’d received. And life went on…

I transitioned in May 2013, and just a few days later, a tabloid newspaper printed a full-page story about my coming out. The reporter (who also used to work in TV) copied and pasted much of her “reporting” from my facebook post, but then shocked everyone including me by citing details that could only have been taken straight from my book proposal. By revealing very private information that was privy only to those who received the proposal, this reporter totally undercut my efforts to tell my own story.

As I waited for all the attention to die down, the newspaper kept after me, sending reporters to grill my neighbors, my relatives and even to ambush my wife and children in hopes of digging up more dirt; although I deleted hundreds of my children’s pictures, almost any photograph or status update that my wife or I had posted in social media found a home in the paper’s pages and dozens of tabloids around the world. And this same tabloid reporter kept publishing articles about me. 

So, when my agents sent a revised proposal to 40 publishing houses earlier this year, we took extra steps to avoid a repeat of the leak. It didn’t matter; our worst nightmare came true once again when this reporter somehow obtained a copy of the latest proposal, and again printed details that made most of the publishers say, “no thanks, the story’s already been told.”

My agents had suspected my old friend was the reporter’s source all along, but I refused to accuse her, given I had no proof. However, this time, the agents confronted her publisher directly, and to our surprise, they confirmed our suspicions: my old friend admitted she leaked my proposal to that tabloid reporter, twice, out of spite.

I was crushed, but I felt the damage had been done. I am not a spiteful person and I would prefer to be bigger than her and just move on.

But as most of you know, just a few months later, my circumstances have changed. As I think I’ve made clear, I’m now beyond desperate.

Today at the Port Authority Bus Terminal in New York City, as I waited hours for a ride home to see my children, I spent my last $1.50 to buy myself a bagel, so I could have something to eat for the first time since Tuesday. It was the least expensive thing I could find, and yes, I know it’s hardly the healthiest option. Although relations are strained between us, my wife bought me that bus ticket because our kids missed me, but not before reminding me we don’t have enough money to pay both our mortgage and my rent next month; soon, I’m going to have to give up my apartment, and that will mean in just a few weeks I will not only be unemployed but I will be homeless, too.

I’ve applied for unemployment, welfare and disability but I won’t see any money until next month — and although it’s a fraction of what I used to earn, I can’t in good conscience keep it for myself. That money is to help feed my family; they need it far more than I do, because they’ve given up so much already. Tomorrow, we tell our daughter we can’t afford to send her to summer camp this year, something I vowed she would do, even though I lost my job. I’m still learning that I cannot make things happen just by wishing them to be true.

I’m not telling you all this to evoke pity or ask for your help. As I have blogged this week, I did this to myself by being shortsighted, selfish, and believing assurances my book would be a huge hit and fix all my problems. No one else is to blame for that. Just me.

When I lost my job, I thought I would quickly get another one to at least help me start to fix these issues — but it’s July. Nobody’s hiring, and those who are, want nothing to do with me; despite 30 years of experience, excellent references and awards, all that publicity has made me “radioactive.” Like many of you, I’m very well connected. But whereas Don Ennis could make a call and find a gig within days, the truth is Dawn Ennis rarely gets a return call or email. Thank goodness for my true friends who have continued to send me leads; I’ve followed up on each and every one.

And I’m still unemployed.

So I decided today that I would make a phone call that I’ve avoided. I dialed my old friend’s number for the first time in years, and sent her an email, because I believe, rightly or wrongly, that she owes me something. And what I want… is a job.

Any job; I’m not picky. All I need is a start, and a chance to earn some decent money to support my family. This is not extortion, and not a threat. But I promise I’m not going to remain silent either.

I’ve made sure people who know my friend are aware of my plea, and I am still awaiting her reply. I have told anyone who asks what she admits to doing. What’s the point in keeping it a secret?

It didn’t have to be this way. But my friend’s bosses told my agents she was so miffed at not being sent my confidential proposal, she decided to ruin my chances of seeing it published. Twice.

And now I’ve decided she should make that up to me. All she needs to do is get me a job. Someone in her position should be able to swing that easily.

We’ll see.