Nik Dodani

When people talk about legacy, they tend to mean something grand—something that will be remembered across generations. A name on a university building. A scientific breakthrough that saves lives. A dynasty of real estate tycoons whose nepo babies try to break into Hollywood and inevitably descend into scandal and exile. It’s the thing people say about you when you’re gone, assuming they say anything at all.

For your average actor, legacy is a little trickier. Sure, our work is recorded, but mostly in ways we can’t control. While an author can stash away drafts until they’re ready to share them, and a painter can burn their failures in a dramatic fit of artistic shame, an actor’s final product is left in the hands of directors, producers, editors, and men in suits they’ll never meet.

It’s a strange feeling, realizing your entire image is dependent on other people’s choices—what story gets told, how you’re framed (both literally and narratively), whether you’re remembered or reduced to “Wait, wasn’t that guy also in—no, never mind.” Actors don’t get heirlooms they can pass down. We don’t leave behind aged canvases or signed first editions of our greatest literary work. We leave behind blurry red carpet photos and clips of us pretending to eat meals that were spit into a bucket between takes. The reality is, my most enduring mark on the world might not be a performance I poured my whole self into, but a GIF of me pointing at a Wendy’s spicy chicken sandwich “like a bawse.” A sandwich I didn’t even eat! It ended up in the bucket!

When I was getting started in my teens and twenties, this drove me nuts. I wanted control. I wanted permanence. I wanted to be seen, ideally in a moody prestige dramedy where everyone whispers and no one blinks. I thought legacy had to be capital-I Important. But as I get older, I’m finding peace in a more meaningful truth: I love acting more than almost anything and can’t believe I get to do it for a living.

So when people ask what kind of legacy I want to leave behind, I usually say something noble, like I want to tell great stories or hope my work makes people feel seen. Which is true—to an extent. I do want to be part of stories that aren’t often brought to the screen: queer brown kids who are both divine and deeply annoying. Characters who don’t exist to teach lessons, but to live. To mess up. To want things. To be. But honestly, I just hope to appear in at least one “Underrated Actors You Forgot You Loved” article listing roles from a long, eclectic career. (Yes, I do write, direct, and produce now, so I guess I’m more in charge of my story, but like, let’s see how that goes. I’m behind several deadlines).

My grandparents were refugees. My parents are working-class immigrants. I don’t really have any family heirlooms, but my family gave me something better: instincts. A sharp tongue. A side-eye that could curdle milk. A reflexive ability to laugh at chaos and, often, at the absolute worst possible time. If that means I get to live a life where I’m pitching my boyfriend ideas for SubwayTakes and hoping my mom doesn’t see me talking about butt stuff, I’m good.

That’s enough legacy for me. Everything else is a bonus.