Marilyn Monroe - My Story

I spent the afternoon posing. I was a little confused at first, and something kept nudging me in my head. Sitting naked in front of a camera and striking joyous poses reminded me of the dreams I used to have as a child. I felt sad that this should be the only dream I ever had to come true.

After a few poses the depression left me. I liked my body. I was glad I hadn’t eaten much in the past few days. The pictures would show a real washboard stomach. And what difference would it make—the nude of a “beautiful nobody”?

People have curious attitudes about nudity, just as they have about sex. Nudity and sex are the most commonplace things in the world. Yet people often act as if they were things that existed only on Mars. I thought of such matters as I posed, but the nudging continued in my head. What if I became an actress sometime? A great star? And somebody saw me on the calendar, and recognized me?

“What are you looking so serious about?” Tom asked.

“I was just thinking something,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing worth repeating,” I said. “I’m just crazy. I get all kinds of crazy thoughts.”

I had my car back the next day and was able to romp around from studio to studio and enjoy the usual quota of snubs.

I rushed to Aunt Grace with the big news. I had a job. I could enter a studio without being asked fifty questions. And I didn’t have to sit in a waiting room. I was on a payroll as an actress.

“It’s the finest studio in the world,” I said. “20th Century-Fox.”

Aunt Grace beamed and went to the stove for coffee.

“The people are all wonderful,” I said, “and I’m going to be in a movie. It’ll be a small part. But once I’m on the screen—”

I stopped and looked at Aunt Grace. She was still smiling at me. But she was standing still. Her face was pale, and she looked tired—as if life was something too heavy to carry much further.

I put my arms around her and helped her to the table.

“I’m all right,” she said. “The coffee will fix me up fine.”

“It’ll be different now for all of us,” I said. “I’ll work hard.”

We sat a long time and discussed a new name for me. The casting director had suggested I think up some more glamorous name than Norma Dougherty.

“I’d like to oblige him,” I said. “Especially since Dougherty isn’t my name anymore anyway.”

“Haven’t you any ideas for a name?” Aunt Grace asked.

I didn’t answer. I had a name, a real name that thrilled me whenever I thought of it. It belonged to the man with the slouch hat and the Gable mustache. His photograph was now in my possession.

I tried the name out in my mind, but kept silent. My aunt was smiling at me. I felt she knew what I was thinking.

“The man at the studio suggested Marilyn,” I said.

“That’s a nice name,” my Aunt said, “and it fits with your mother’s maiden name.”

I didn’t know what that was.

“She was a Monroe,” said Aunt Grace. “Her family goes way back. I have some papers and letters I’m keeping for your mother. They show that she was related to President Monroe of the United States.”

“You mean I’m related to a president of the United States?” I asked.

“Directly descended,” said Aunt Grace.

“It’s a wonderful name,” I said. “Marilyn Monroe. But I won’t tell them about the president.” I kissed Aunt Grace and said, “I’ll try to make good on my own.”

The assistant director said, “Now just walk up to Miss June Haver, smile at her, say hello, wave your right hand, and walk on. Got that?”

The bells rang. A hush fell over the set. The assistant director called, “Action!” I walked, smiled, waved my right hand and spoke. I was in the movies! I was one of those hundred to one shots—a “bit player.”

There were a dozen of us on the set, bit players, with a gesture to make and a line or two to recite. Some of them were veteran bit players. After ten years in the movies they were still saying one line and walking ten feet toward nowhere. A few were young and had nice bosoms. But I knew they were different from me. They didn’t have my illusions. My illusions didn’t have anything to do with being a fine actress. I knew how third rate I was. I could actually feel my lack of talent, as if it were cheap clothes I was wearing inside. But, my God, how I wanted to learn! To change, to improve! I didn’t want anything else. Not men, not money, not love, but the ability to act. With the arc lights on me and the camera pointed at me, I suddenly knew myself. How clumsy, empty, uncultured I was! A sullen orphan with a goose egg for a head.

But I would change. I stood silent and staring. Men were smiling at me and trying to catch my eye. Not the actors or the director and his assistants. They were important people and important people try to catch the eye only of other important people. But the grips and electricians and the other healthy looking workmen had grinning friendly faces for me. I didn’t return their grins. I was too busy being desperate. I had a new name, Marilyn Monroe. I had to get born. And this time better than before.

My bit was cut out of the picture Scudda Hoo, Scudda Hay . I didn’t mind when I heard about it. I would be better in the next picture. I’d been hired for six months. In six months I’d show them.

I spent my salary on dramatic lessons, on dancing lessons, and singing lessons. I bought books to read. I sneaked scripts off the set and sat up alone in my room reading them out loud in front of the mirror. And an odd thing happened to me. I fell in love with myself—not how I was but how I was going to be.

I used to say to myself, what the devil have you got to be proud about, Marilyn Monroe? And I’d answer, “Everything, everything.” And I’d walk slowly and turn my head slowly as if I were a queen.

One night another bit player, a male, invited me out for dinner.

“I haven’t any money,” I warned him. “Have you?”

“No,” he said. “But I’ve received a sort of invitation to a party. And I would like to take you along. All the stars will be there.”

We arrived at the Beverly Hills home at nine o’clock. It was a famous agent’s house. I felt as frightened entering it as if I were breaking into a bank. My stockings had a few mends in them. I was wearing a ten dollar dress. And my shoes! I prayed nobody would look at my shoes. I said to myself, now’s the time to feel like a queen, you dope—not when you’re alone in the room with nobody looking. But the queen feeling wouldn’t come. The best I could manage was to walk stiff legged into a large hall and stand staring like a frozen blonde at dinner jackets and evening gowns.

My escort whispered to me, “The food’s in the other room. Come on.” He went off without me. I remained in the hall, looking into a room full of wonderful furniture and wonderful people. Jennifer Jones was sitting on a couch. Olivia de Haviland was standing near a little table. Gene Tierney was laughing next to her. There were so many others I couldn’t focus on them. Evening gowns and famous faces drifted around in the room laughing and chatting. Diamonds glittered. There were men, too, but I only looked at one. Clark Gable stood by himself holding a highball and smiling wistfully at the air. He looked so familiar that it made me dizzy.

I stood as straight as I could and put on the highest class expression I knew. But I couldn’t enter the room where the laughter and diamonds were.

A voice spoke.