Celebrity Detox: (the fame game) by Rosie O'Donnell Page B
Authors: Rosie O'Donnell
Tags: BIO000000
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the responsibility that comes with it. Now, she can love that she is loved, and by so many. I think that means Streisand is coming to see her own spectrum, and finally understanding how much joy her rainbow brings to people. I would say she is starting to see she has the power, the sheer wattage, to illuminate very deeply into our collective night.
Ruthie, my Kabbalah teacher, tells me I am a leader, whether I like it or not. She says in my next life I will probably come back as a dog, certainly as someone or thing with no ability to have an effect, but in this life I am a leader. I have no choice—it is my
tikkun
, a word that means many things in Hebrew, “transformation,” or, in terms of the Kabbalah, “the reconciliation of two seemingly opposite things,” like the desire for fame and anonymity at the same time, the desire to be visible and invisible, to be a part of a community and also to be alone.
“You can’t stay in the craft room your whole life, Rosie,” Ruthie once told me. She is right. I
am
a leader, and sometimes I like it and sometimes I don’t. I have a spectrum; I believe everybody does, but for reasons I will never understand, people are influenced by mine, and so I should not compromise it. Ever. This is what I saw on the plane, going home. I was a part of
The View
and
The View
was a part of me, for at least as long as my contract lasted. I needed to try and make it a better show.
I love the landing of planes. I am always happy to touch down. I saw the city appear, its frail lines coming clearer, a photograph in fluid, the landscape beneath evolving from little to life size as we approached the runway. No matter how many times I have flown, I always find it odd to see the world from up high, to see it as a toy town, a Monopoly game board, and to watch as it slowly assumes its real dimensions.
I have also learned, however, that even things you find indisputably real, or obvious, are not necessarily so. Coming down from on high, I saw the Empire State Building as a silver sword, and the George Washington Bridge strung with little lights. How can one argue with facts such as these—the existence of a building, or a certain stream of light? Some facts, you think, are inarguable. But even this is not so.
For instance, 9/11. I remember 9/11 crisply, as most New Yorkers do. And I have written what I recall of it in this book, some chapters ago. I showed my brother Eddie what I had set down here, and he got upset. “What?” I asked him. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t you remember what really happened on 9/11?” he asked. “You have not written it correctly.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Don’t you remember me calling you? We were both at NBC.” (Eddie used to work at NBC, a few floors above where I produced
The Rosie O’Donnell Show
.)
I said, “I remember speaking to you on 9/11.”
He said, “On 9/11, I called you and said, ‘What are you doing?’ And you said, ‘What are you talking about?’ and I said, ‘We’re under attack. We have to leave the building.’ And you said, ‘No, Eddie, I’m doing my show.’ And I said, ‘Roseann, you have to leave the building. We’re under attack; you have to get out of the city. And get the kids . . .’ And then you said to me, ‘No, Eddie, I can’t, I’m doing my show.’”
Now, I have no memory of the events Eddie is describing and I have no way of finding out whether they are true or not, and it is in some ways besides the point. I’m less interested in that and far more interested in the fact that such discrepancies can occur in the first place. Here we are, two solid, reasonably sane people, and we have two entirely different accounts of the same event. Maybe he’s remembering it the way he is because he has some need to see himself as my big brother, some sort of savior. Or maybe my failure to remember the situation as it was has to do with my inability to accept my vulnerability. I honestly don’t know.
As it
Ruthie, my Kabbalah teacher, tells me I am a leader, whether I like it or not. She says in my next life I will probably come back as a dog, certainly as someone or thing with no ability to have an effect, but in this life I am a leader. I have no choice—it is my
tikkun
, a word that means many things in Hebrew, “transformation,” or, in terms of the Kabbalah, “the reconciliation of two seemingly opposite things,” like the desire for fame and anonymity at the same time, the desire to be visible and invisible, to be a part of a community and also to be alone.
“You can’t stay in the craft room your whole life, Rosie,” Ruthie once told me. She is right. I
am
a leader, and sometimes I like it and sometimes I don’t. I have a spectrum; I believe everybody does, but for reasons I will never understand, people are influenced by mine, and so I should not compromise it. Ever. This is what I saw on the plane, going home. I was a part of
The View
and
The View
was a part of me, for at least as long as my contract lasted. I needed to try and make it a better show.
I love the landing of planes. I am always happy to touch down. I saw the city appear, its frail lines coming clearer, a photograph in fluid, the landscape beneath evolving from little to life size as we approached the runway. No matter how many times I have flown, I always find it odd to see the world from up high, to see it as a toy town, a Monopoly game board, and to watch as it slowly assumes its real dimensions.
I have also learned, however, that even things you find indisputably real, or obvious, are not necessarily so. Coming down from on high, I saw the Empire State Building as a silver sword, and the George Washington Bridge strung with little lights. How can one argue with facts such as these—the existence of a building, or a certain stream of light? Some facts, you think, are inarguable. But even this is not so.
For instance, 9/11. I remember 9/11 crisply, as most New Yorkers do. And I have written what I recall of it in this book, some chapters ago. I showed my brother Eddie what I had set down here, and he got upset. “What?” I asked him. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t you remember what really happened on 9/11?” he asked. “You have not written it correctly.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Don’t you remember me calling you? We were both at NBC.” (Eddie used to work at NBC, a few floors above where I produced
The Rosie O’Donnell Show
.)
I said, “I remember speaking to you on 9/11.”
He said, “On 9/11, I called you and said, ‘What are you doing?’ And you said, ‘What are you talking about?’ and I said, ‘We’re under attack. We have to leave the building.’ And you said, ‘No, Eddie, I’m doing my show.’ And I said, ‘Roseann, you have to leave the building. We’re under attack; you have to get out of the city. And get the kids . . .’ And then you said to me, ‘No, Eddie, I can’t, I’m doing my show.’”
Now, I have no memory of the events Eddie is describing and I have no way of finding out whether they are true or not, and it is in some ways besides the point. I’m less interested in that and far more interested in the fact that such discrepancies can occur in the first place. Here we are, two solid, reasonably sane people, and we have two entirely different accounts of the same event. Maybe he’s remembering it the way he is because he has some need to see himself as my big brother, some sort of savior. Or maybe my failure to remember the situation as it was has to do with my inability to accept my vulnerability. I honestly don’t know.
As it
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