There I was, sitting in class, proud of myself for trying to put my life together and become a benefit to society instead of a pariah. I was 24 and reinventing myself in college with a new name and a different look. It was great to be in this atmosphere, working toward my degree, among 18-year-olds who were on schedule with their lives. They didn’t know who I was; they were just kids back when my face was all over the news.
Every day I sat quietly in that classroom, hiding behind my Jackie O glasses, confident that I wouldn’t be recognized. And then one day my English professor assigned the topic: Write about an infamous Long Islander. I sat horrified. But weeks later, when the reports were given, I had to laugh … many, of course, picked Amy Fisher. They all thought they knew me. Had me all figured out. They couldn’t have been more wrong. I, on the other hand, chose Jessica Hahn. I got an A.
Let’s go back to the beginning. I’m the first to admit it: I screwed up! I was a misguided, reckless 16-year-old who committed felony assault and landed in jail by age 17. That was 10 years ago. I’ve paid my dues, grown up, and have spent every day since trying to be “the perfect human being.” I’m an adult now, thank heaven, and still can’t figure out why I did what I did when I was younger, and why society thinks I’m a static cartoon character like Scooby-Doo, frozen in time, never changing.
To a large degree I began the hardest journey of my life when I emerged from ball-and-chain-land three years ago. I thought I would simply shout “free at last” and my adolescent mistakes would become a distant epilogue. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
There I was, a financially depressed, uneducated young woman with a criminal record. I know, it sounds so awful. I decided to turn my life around. So when the tabloids and nudie magazines came calling, offering me big bucks, I turned them all down. Including Playboy’s cool million. I said, “No thank you.” I was going to take the high road, go to college, get a respectable job, date decent men — in general, try to be “normal.” It all sounds good, right? So now I’ll fill you in on the reality.
In the deli, at the movies, at the mall, I don’t mind people recognizing me. But it is at the workplace where I hit a brick wall. I discovered that Amy Fisher could not get a legitimate job. I was laughed out of interview after interview. They would think I was rich, and applying for the job as a publicity stunt. They didn’t understand that I was destitute.
Though hurt and dejected, I didn’t panic. I came up with a solution — I would change my name. That would solve the problem and I would be able to live anonymously like other people. It took about a month to legally change my name. Once this was accomplished, I immediately picked up the classifieds and started feverishly applying for jobs. People ask if I lied on my applications. I didn’t. The applicant is asked if they’ve been convicted of a felony in the last seven years. I could truthfully answer that I had not.
It took about three days to become employed. I was now a receptionist for a computer software company. I was there a matter of hours when someone walked up to me and said, “You look like Amy Fisher.” I smiled and politely replied, “I hear that all the time.” I assumed that would be the end of it. I was wrong. The same thing happened over and over. Finally, I was summoned to the supervisor’s office. She asked me if I was Amy Fisher. I denied it, but my words seemed to fall on deaf ears. I was fired, no further explanation, end of discussion.
Once again, I was living in dreamland, under the pretense that I could blend back into society unnoticed. I conveniently forgot that my face had been plastered on every periodical and television for the past seven years. I know, a simple oversight on my part. Once again, I stayed calm, took deep breaths and tried to think of a solution. Okay, I got it — I’ll dye my hair blond.
As I sat in the beauty salon, I became more confident each minute as I watched my auburn locks slowly transform into a pale shade of straw. When the process was complete, I felt like the liter of bleach made the difference. I’ll admit, I looked a tad hooker-ish, but nevertheless, different.
With my newfound confidence, I spruced up my résumé and headed out to become a member of the working world. Once again I was hired in a matter of days. This time as a bookkeeper for an insurance agency. I was so excited, determined to work hard and do a great job. I loved working; it made me feel like I had the ability to do something positive.
Oh no, here we go again. I was being summoned to the supervisor’s office after only two weeks. I walked into his office, trying to hide my paranoia. I barely had a chance to sit down when he blurted out, “I know you’re Amy Fisher! You’re fired!” He said that he didn’t want the press showing up at his door. Did he really think I changed my name and appearance only to call the media to alert them of my whereabouts? Whatever. I just left, determined not
to let him get me down. There would be other jobs.
As the summer of ’99 neared its end, I decided to go to college. Since I waited till the last minute, I only had one choice: Nassau Community College. I enrolled as a business major and was all set to start in the fall. During this time, I got another job, this time at a manufacturing plant, again as a bookkeeper.
My life seemed to be heading in the right direction for the first time in a while. I blended into college undetected. But I was terrified that someone would recognize me, that my anonymity would be blown and I wouldn’t get to concentrate on my studies; or worse, that someone would call the press and I would have to drop out of school entirely. Thank heaven neither of these things occurred and I was able to obtain an education. I graduated with a Business degree and a 3.5 average.
I wish I could say I was faring just as well on the job front. Unfortunately, I was about to relive the sickening experience of unemployment. My bookkeeping job lasted all of six weeks — a record achievement for me. This time the boss asked to speak to me privately. I assumed I was going to get the “I know you’re Amy Fisher” speech again. To my surprise, this time my termination explanation had a new twist — my employer actually said to me simply that I had been “the topic of office gossip” and that some of my co-workers thought I “looked like Amy Fisher.” She went on to explain how embarrassed she was, adding that she knew I was not Amy Fisher. However, my presence was just too distracting. I sat in her office for what seemed like an eternity, the whole time just thinking to myself how unfair this all was. I paid my debt to society, all I wanted was to work hard and earn my own way. I could save nuns from a burning building, and they still wouldn’t give me a chance because of all the attention surrounding me.
As I headed for the parking lot, I kept thinking of all the money I wasted on hair dye. What was I going to do? I couldn’t keep a job.
As the months turned into years, I was fired from job after job — ten, in all. Eventually, I came to think of myself as a “temp.” Even after graduating from college, it was the same thing — I’d be fired from a job for which I was completely capable, solely because of who I was, and their fear of the press following me around.
I was becoming desperate. I decided to take a drastic approach to my unique dilemma: I would have plastic surgery.
After two years of living like a miser, I finally scrimped up enough money to have my face reconstructed. No, I’m not kidding. I needed to look like a different person, essentially become a different person in order to be accepted back into society.
Amy Fisher was a pariah, therefore, she could no longer exist.
Today, I look in the mirror and sometimes don’t recognize the person staring back at me. It’s as if I have two identities, or maybe I have no identity at all. This makes me sad, and at times, isolated. In order to hide from the world, I was forced to hide from myself. To a large extent, I have to live a lie in order to blend in with society.
For the past six months, I’ve been able to maintain what most people would consider a good job at the same company. My co-workers have no idea of my true identity. This affords me the opportunity to earn a living, but not much else. When the girls go out to lunch, I eat alone. When they take a break to chitchat, I remain silent. I am terrified to strike up a conversation with a co-worker, much less attempt to form a friendship. I live everyday with my secret, remaining in my own psychological prison.
There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wonder, “Is today the day I get fired?” Every time a newspaper prints an article about me or there is another “Amy Fisher biography” re-run on television, I agonize that someone will recognize me and my financial security will once again be snatched away. I live each day not knowing what tomorrow will bring.
There are parts of my life that are very positive, though. I met a great guy and we got engaged. We have a 2-year-old son who is the most important thing in the world to me.
My fiancé and I want to buy a house so our child can have a backyard to play in and grow up like the rest of the children in suburbia, but how can we? Today’s economy demands a two-income household to get ahead, and I can’t secure employment. My struggles are not only frustrating to me but also have a deep impact on my innocent family. We have discussed moving away from Long Island, but this is not an option for us right now. My fiancé has his own business here that he can’t pick up and leave, and I am on parole until January, which dictates that I can’t leave.
Sometimes I think my luck can’t get any worse, but then something good will happen which makes me think of life as one big roller coaster. I’ve done wrong, but I have also been dealt some hard blows; granted, some self-inflicted. But through it all I’ve learned to survive, learn and grow as a person. To me, the glass will always remain half-full rather than half-empty. I know I will put the pieces of Amy Fisher back together. I have a positive attitude toward the future and remain with the hope that eventually I can be myself again, with acceptance.
Starting with our July 3 issue, Amy Fisher will be writing a continuing column for The New Island Ear covering a variety of subjects. She will also be answering questions from readers. You can write Amy at The New Island Ear or e-mail her at AmyFisher@IslandEar.com
