Be who you are and be that well.

I recently had a chance to visit my grandparents, Tutu and Grandpa, who live in Pennsylvania and whom I get to see about once a year. These two people are probably the greatest role-models I know. A doctor and nurse duo, their romance was and is something of a fairytale. Honestly, having that to live up to is more of a gauntlet for any of my prospective suitors than the influence Disney movies have had on my hopelessly romantic notions.

They met while she was in nursing school and he in medical school. They were married a week before my grandfather was to ship out to a tour of duty in the Philippines as an doctor in the Army during the Korean War. They spent their honeymoon driving cross-country to California before she kissed him goodbye, and, then, they didn't see each other for a year. My grandmother took six planes from Buffalo to Philippines and they finally could be together.

They have been inseparable ever since. They had two kids, my uncle and my mom, and settled on a tranquil estate overlooking Lake Erie with a pool and a cabin and an orchard and a garden and tons of trees and places to explore. That place was paradise to us. It was a warm and welcoming home-base for nieces, nephews cousins, grandparents, and friends.

When they decided to sell their home in 2002, I was 18. I was the only kid in any generation that had spent exactly my entire childhood there, and having to say goodbye was one of the most painful losses I've ever endured. Even my own childhood home did not have that effect on me.

But if it was hard for me, I can only imagine how much it hurt my grandmother. And I can only imagine it because she keeps it all inside. Not in an angry way or a trapped way, like we can witness in a lot of people, but a sort of acceptance and faith that the pain is part of a grand plan and we just have to trust it, no matter how bad it hurts.

I recently had a chance to visit my grandparents and spend a precious couple days with them all to myself---for the first time since I was a kid and I got in trouble for convincing them to take me to McDonald's for chicken nugget Happy Meals, which was strictly forbidden by my mom who produced a show called, "The Health Show" on ABC.

We had one big day out while I was there. We went to an award-winning IMAX movie called "Wild Ocean" at the Tom Ridge Environmental Center. A few minutes into the film, I heard snoring on both sides of me, but didn't have the heart to wake either one of them. To be fair, my assessment of the film was that it really should have been titled, "Mild Ocean: a Sardine Story."

For lunch, we went to Sara's Diner and sampled curly fries and onion rings and hot dogs and milkshakes. Towering above us was the Blue Streak roller coaster at the Waldameer Amusement Park, where I took my first ride as a kid.

We picked up some donuts at H & K DO Nut Shop--another thing we just don't do when my mom rules the roost.

It was all going pretty well, but I could feel the winds begin to change. My grandfather turned down the country road toward their old house. When my grandmother realized what he was doing, she simply said, "I don't want to go there, Chuck," and when he pressed, she said, "We're not going there."

With that, he turned around. He asked if she'd like to go visit her parents. She said yes. Now, I have always had a major problem with cemeteries. The last time I had to visit one to see one of my relatives, I was 12, and my grandmother had died the year before. I threw a tantrum and refused to get out of the car. But, I wasn't 12 anymore, so I had to suck it up and be a grown-up.

We pulled up on the side of the rode, and immediately the tears began to stream from my eyes. It was literally like there was a faucet on behind my eyeballs that I couldn't turn off. So, I didn't fight it. I just kept my sunglasses on.

My grandmother got out of the car and shuffled, light blue pant suit, purse over forearm, across the grass to the flat twin stones of her mother and father, who had both died before I was born. The way she moved was so peaceful and quiet. She knelt down and touched the stones with her arthritic, but beautifully manicured hands, it was so gentle, almost like a child examining a butterfly.

Then, she began to clear off some weeds and grass clippings that had been scattered across the graves. Although I felt almost crushed by the sadness I could feel coming from her, and certainly couldn't stop my own flow of tears, I knelt down and helped. Though I felt the sadness, I could also feel the love that she had for her parents, felt how much she missed them, but also felt her faith that someday they'd all be together again in a happy place. And at that moment, I felt happy too.

Today, I was having a conversation with a dear friend of mine about losing loved ones, and for some reason, even though I've always been a skeptic, I have the same kind of view of death as my grandmother. I miss those that I've lost so deeply and I can't help but cry, but I have faith that their spirits are free and happy and flying. I feel peace in cemeteries, even though it hurts.

Now, I can talk about visiting that cemetery, as well as the cemetery where my grandparents will have their final resting place, which was also part of our Grand Day Out, with almost a giggle. As Charlie Chaplin said, "What is tragedy in a close-up, is comedy in a long-shot." Never did I imagine that after a morning of milkshakes, donuts and movies would end with a visit to two different cemeteries.

Tonight, when recounting the tale, I had the urge to jump up and re-enact that scene with my grandmother in the cemetery. I assumed her cute little shuffle, and did just as she has done, kneeling and gently touching the inivisible stones and brushing them off. When I looked over, my friend's eyes were brimming with tears, which shocked me at first, because I thought of it as kind of silly.

But then, I realized, that she was having the same reaction to my representation of my grandmother as I had had when the moment first occurred. I had embodied my grandmother in that moment and had triggered emotion in someone who has never even met her.

And it dawned on me is that that is exactly what we do as actors. When we first get a role, we learn about these characters that have either lived or been created from the imagination of a writer. We observe them or imagine how they move, talk, dream, think, behave.

In these observations, we have these visceral reactions--we feel pain, joy, sorrow, hilarity. We make judgments and choices. Our combinations and interpretations are endless, but the thing that all of our characters have in common is that they are human. Even the monsters and animals in movies and books have aspects of humanity, and that is why we care.

And then, after we've had our cries or our laughs at the expense of these characters, we must stop being the observers and the watchers, and become the observed. Embody the character. Our job is not to make sure the audience feels a certain way about our characters, but to relinquish that choice to the audience. If the viewers believe us, believe what they are seeing, the character will appeal to some aspect of their humanity and they will have a visceral reaction of their own. But, that is out of our hands.

As someone who has always been very aware of peoples' feelings and reactions to my own actions, a problem I've had is being too concerned with whether the audience approves of my interpretation of a character. Whether I'm doing it right.

But I realize that there is no way I could possibly make sure that every audience member had the same reaction to what I was doing, and that trying to somehow control their reaction as a whole or please everyone is just plain stupid.

So, that little moment really made me realize that as actors, we must politely say, "With all due respect, right now, I don't give a damn about what you think. I'm just living my life here. Make of it what you will." Otherwise, our objectives will to be please the audience, rather than to fight for what our character needs and wants and craves. And that is a lose, lose, lose situation for everyone--actor, character, and audience.

As St. Francis de Sales, the patron saint of my high school said, "Be who you are, and be that well."

I think he's got something there.