What Inspires Emily Procter

By Emily Procter, Los Angeles, California

As appeared in

I've lived in Los Angeles for 18 years, and for the past eight, I’ve been blessed with what actresses dream of—a starring role on a hit television show, playing Detective Calleigh Duquesne on CSI: Miami. I’m comfortable here now, content with being my down-to-earth southern self in a tough and glitzy business. But I wasn’t always.

There was a time when I was starting out that I was really struggling. Not so much with acting—I was getting enough work doing guest roles and TV pilots to pay the rent—but with how unmoored I felt. I’d moved to L.A. after college and I knew there’d be an adjustment. I just hadn’t counted on how hard it would be.

Life out here was nothing like back home in North Carolina, where all of my family was, where I’d had the same friends since kindergarten, people I could count on. Even after four years in L.A., I still didn’t know who I could trust. I felt lonely. And a little lost, as if something was missing from my life.

So far my closest relationship was with my cat, Kevin. He was rescued as a newborn from a hole in the wall—literally—of a friend’s old beach shack. From the get-go, he was gentle and sweet and had this calm about him that I only wished I could find. It was like his rough introduction to the world hadn’t closed him off but rather opened him up. He’d come when I called and flop onto his back so I could rub his belly. He’d even jump into the bathtub with me. Kevin was the picture of contentment. How could I help but fall in love?

Still, in the fall of 1996 it hit me that except for taking care of Kevin, my days were all about me. Was I thin enough? Did my hair look right? Did I prepare enough for my next audition? Where was my career going? I really need to take the focus off myself and do something for someone else, I thought.

I could almost hear my mom saying, “Go for it!” My parents were big on helping others—my dad was a doctor, my mom volunteered at a home for people with AIDS, and we were always signing up for service projects at church. When I heard about the soup kitchen at All Saints Episcopal a few blocks from my apartment, I decided to volunteer.

Monday lunch was my shift. Every Monday I’d put on my green corduroy overalls—for some reason, that became my serving-line outfit—and walk up Bedford Drive, cross Wilshire Boulevard, then turn right onto Santa Monica Boulevard to get to the soup kitchen.

I kept noticing the same guy at the corner on Wilshire. A homeless man in a wheelchair. He was in his fifties and sat quietly in his shorts and red windbreaker, reading. He didn’t hassle people, just said thanks when someone dropped money into his cup. I’d say hello, but that was it. He seemed reserved, and I wanted to respect his privacy.

But one Monday in December something made me stop and say, “I work at All Saints soup kitchen. Want to go with me and get lunch?” He looked up at me with these bright blue eyes and said, “Yeah!”

“I’m Emily.”

“Jim.”

I grabbed his wheelchair and started pushing, but I couldn’t maneuver it in my clunky clogs. “I’m sorry, Jim. I’m not going to be able to get you there today…not in these shoes.”