People ask me why I made a film about people of color who were homeless, hungry, abused, discriminated against, former child farm laborers and immigrants. What could I possibly have in common with them?
I’ve asked myself countless times over the ten long, arduous and self-esteem-eroding years it’s taken to get the film done.
What do I have in common with the people featured in the film? What makes me think I can tell the stories of people so different from me?
I did not grow up working in the fields. In fact, I grew up going to California’s wine country and learning about New World big reds and Old World Châteauneuf-du-Pape and Domaine Romanée-Conti.
I did not grow up in a barrio of San Francisco. In fact, I was an upper middle-class kid who took piano lessons and went to the symphony in tony Marin County.
I never knew hunger growing up. In fact, my family enjoyed fine dining in some of San Francisco’s greatest restaurants and my mom was a gourmet cook who made Julia Child’s Chicken Cordon Bleu.
I did not go to high school in the Central Valley town of Visalia like Dr. Ramon Resa did. I only learned about Visalia when I was a 28-year-old paralegal at a Wall Street law firm sitting with the investment bankers and Ivy League lawyers on the 50th floor of the BofA building in downtown San Francisco to close a multimillion-dollar municipal bond that would fund school construction there.
I was not told that I wasn’t smart and put into remedial classes despite performing up to par. In fact, beginning in fifth grade—when my teacher told my parents I was “cerebral” (and we had to go look up the word in the dictionary)—I was encouraged by my teachers and graduated in the top of my class in high school, college and graduate school. That label became a key part of my identity: I was a smart kid.
I was not told I couldn’t go to college. In fact, I was told I must go to college—and not just any college, but a good one—and must major in something meaningful like pre-med or engineering. So I did, graduating from highly-ranked Claremont McKenna College and earning my MBA with honors from UC Irvine.
I wasn’t the first in my family to attend college. In fact, my father earned a degree in chemical engineering from Michigan Tech, one of the highest-ranking engineering schools in the country. (Side note: he was the first in his family to go to college.)
What could possibly compel me to tell the stories of people so different than me? And who did I think I was anyway—was I even qualified to do it?
Turns out, I related deeply to the film’s message. I was told I couldn’t—by myself.
I struggled with self-confidence throughout my life, even in school where I excelled. But after my formal education, it was a different story. I landed professional jobs in finance and marketing—often being told by every future employer, “Oh, CMC – that’s a good school.” It’s a huge advantage in life to have people assume that you’re smart because you went to a “good school”.
Despite rising to Vice President levels in market research, landing a half million-dollar project with a national pizza conglomerate from cold calling and schmoozing with C-level executives in Fortune 500 companies, I struggled with impostor syndrome. No matter what I achieved, I often felt like I couldn’t do it. I’m not alone that. Every one of the ten people in the film wrestled with impostor syndrome—even after earning their degrees. They certainly weren’t told that they could succeed beyond their wildest dreams once they finished their school.
So how did I manage to pursue the audacious goal of making an independent documentary—despite the voice in my head telling me I couldn’t? What compelled me to stay committed to telling the stories of people who had endured immense challenges I hadn’t, to fundraise, to push forward with blood, sweat—and yes, tears?
Resilience. The same key factor that drove the success of the Told They Can’t professionals.
The good news is that resilience can be nurtured and developed in anyone. I hope when audiences watch this film, they’ll recognize that they, too, can dig deep and use their resilience—and say to themselves, “Yes, I can.”