Bill collectors, hard-working Americans, and people from foreign counties who have settled into jobs formerly held by hard-working Americans, are the absolute bane of the poor person’s existence. Back in the day, the worst thing they would do is call you “up on your job,” as my Homegirl on the Beach, Alvita, says. Now they will let you know in 140 characters or less all up on your Twitter feed that they want their damn money. I even saw a friend being called out on her Facebook wall about a past due bill. If that doesn’t make you want to tighten up your online force field, grits ain’t groceries.
In these hard economic times, most of us will stumble into a temporary state of broke-assity. Chances are, some dude from a phone bank in the heart of downtown Can You Please Repeat That in English, India is gonna call you. If you are new to poverty, or you just need a little help shutting down all those begging ass agencies that help begging ass broke people, like me; I’ve got a few tips for you. I am an expert on poverty. I’ve been broke ass in two states. I practically deserve a leather chair next to Suze Orman’s black ass. I think I’ll call my show: The Broke Ass Whisperer. (Please say this with reverence and pretend you have on sparkly Michael Jackson gloves when you do that starburst “tah, dah” thingy!)
1. If you do slip up and answer the phone (you do know they make this thing called caller id?) use it as an opportunity to endear yourself with the collector. Start by playing Barry White’s Never, Never Gonna Give You Up, and in a whispery sing-songy voice, ask if you can kiss the collector all over his/her sweet, sexy body. Right on. (Bonus points if you’re willing to gay for the sake of bad debt. I can just see you now on a podium at the next Gay Pride event in your town. Drag queens will kiss you… You go, girl! ) You have to shift the focus away from your broke ass being stupid enough to actually answer the phone. If it means having phone sex with some dude in India, so be it. It’s only cheating if you take pictures of your Johnson or your Smack Madam and post it on Twitter.
2. Never, ever admit, affirm or even hint to the fact that you are on the phone. If you do, the credit clock starts all over again, and that crazy spending spree you went on buying all those Africa Medallions/ Mr. Hammer Pants/ Hair crimping appliances in 1991 will be straight up dope and freky, freky, fresh, AGAIN. This is the only time hanging up on someone without first giving them a good- old- fashioned -Trenholm Court Housing Project- caliber cussing out is ever acceptable. On second thought, just get ETHNIC on the collector, but stop short of threatening to cut them. That will just get the Po-Po dispatched to the hizzie; and you don’t want a piece of the badge. Remember, we are in a recession, and I have it on good authority that cops get paid a “put her black ass in jail” commission…ok, I’m totally making that up.
3. If you are broke ass and bone-headed enough to say your name, throw in a “residence” afterward. Like, “This is Mary. Mary’s RESIDENCE.” (and scream that part, just for fun!) That will make the collector pause. Then you can slide in, this is THE MAID, or even better, THE NANNY. Bill collectors hate to think that the debtor is using charged-off debt dollars to live the good life. This is also the perfect time to invent the life Oprah says you really want. Think of it as your big break in acting. I used this one recently, “I’m sorry, I’m Tamela’s (always screw your name up the second time) NANNY. She and her husband, Mr. Rafeal, (see, see, see, works for you and your baby daddy, too!) are on holiday in the South of France with Jay-Z and Beyonce. May I take a message?” The Collectress got all pissy with me, and asked me to repeat myself. So, I did, but this time I did it with my signature Afro-Cuban accent. I’ve got some country kinfolk in Cuba, Alabama and I know all the words to “Conga” by Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine!That's close enough to #WINNING! Of course I sounded like a cross between Bono, Ellie Mae Clampett and Miss Cleo, but that is not the point. The point is the bill collector was so pissed that she thought Tamela was off having a Rump Shaker Rematch with Beyonce’ that she put me on hold while she conferenced in her MANAGER. I used that as the perfect opportunity to pretend the phone company had just cut off my phone. Well, that wasn’t much of a lie…the next day the telecommunications repo man got me! I totally saved myself from having to lie to the Collectress and her boss about when I could send them a check (eye roll, tooth suck, double cobra neck), by lying about my identity with an accent. Hell, I should submit it as part of my reel to casting directors. IT was NAACP Image Award worthy. I would like to thank all the broke ass people who taught me being broke isn’t just a way of life; it’s a state of mind…sniff,sniff.
Being broke ass is painful and embarrassing, but with a little creativity; you can make it fun! Just ask all those bastards that took TARP money…
Next Post: Teaching Your Toddlers to Shoplift Hair Weave and How to Resale Weave for PROFIT!
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Casey Anthony, the Debt Ceiling and Michele Bachman
I have an opinion on all three: WHY? Also, these were the top three topics on Google, and I figure other people have opinions, too.
Why is Casey Anthony still wasting tax payer’s money? Why would you let your child go missing a month before you got out the tattoo chair and off the pole at the club and decided to search for her? Because you killed your baby, that’s why. If I don’t hear my kids for five minutes, I know something is wrong. If there is silence in the Ekhoff house, I know somebody is getting into something- or somebody is bad sick. No mama worth even a half-bucket of a damn is going to let her baby go missing that long, unless said mama did something wrong. Sure, we all have that point in Wal-Mart when we want a tractor beam to swoop down and suck our precious, screaming sweethearts up to the planet “Will You Shut the Hell Up So Mommy Can Shop in Peace.” Alas, the tractor beam doesn’t come and long-suffering Mamas in Wal-Marts all over the world have to live through shopping trips of doom, and they don’t go looking in the sporting goods section for some fresh chloroform. This heifer doesn’t need to be thrown in jail; she needs to be covered in Alaga syrup, and placed ever-so-gently in the biggest red-ant bed in Alabama. I’m guessing the best ant beds are somewhere between Clio and Smut Eye. If I were George Foreman of that jury, it would have taken us about an hour- wouldn’t want people to think we were biased- to end this trial.
I know you’re thinking, “Tang, clearly, you know nothing of politics or money, why do you feel the need to speak out on the debt ceiling?” My answer to this one is simple, because I can. We’ve raised the debt ceiling before. This ain’t America’s first time at the debtor’s rodeo. Do it or don’t do it, but for the love of Oprah, stop talking about it. It’s been raised over 100 times since 1917, it ain’t like The President and Mrs. Obama just invented it for funzies while lighting sparklers with the girls last night. Hell, it’s been done ten times in the last decade. I hate to be the one to remind you, but old W. was President when we raised it without stuttering eight years in a row. Can’t we just get back to picking on Mrs. Obama for trying to get future rap star, ‘Lil Fat Ass to step away from the fried Kool-Aid?
Michele Bachman, I hate to be the one to break this down like a simple fraction for you, but your husband may be a little gay. Where I come from, people who like to de-program gay people are usually gay. See, straight people don’t get all up in gay people’s business like that. Usually, it’s sexually frustrated uber-christians who want to pray the gay away. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret Michele, most husbands, the straight ones, are too busy working their asses off to take care of their families to be concerned with how to make gay go away. Most American husbands don’t give a damn what two grown people do with their own bodies in their own homes.
I did a quick survey at my house.
Me: Honey, how do you feel about gays?
Him: Why is the thermostat set at 72 in here? We aren’t trying to hang meat in here. Do you know how much the power bill is?
Me: No, because I was watching Ru Paul’s Drag Race, and….
Him: You had the TV on today? I told you that TV uses too much electricity. Do I hear water dripping in the bathroom? Are you using the oven???
Notice a trend here, Michele, my hot-blooded, American husband cares about one thing: paying the bills, bills, bills.
The only people who seem to make a living at professional gay-hunting are just looking for an excuse to take advantage of young, confused people, and all the while they use religion as the rack to hang their Bob Mackie ball gowns on. Michele, when your husband calls gay men barbarians, what he means is, “ I wish that Native would get restless all up in this…” Girlfriend, you better get your wife in check, before you decide to run for President, because Ru Paul is in hair and make-up just itching to call Mr. Bachman out.
Before you go hurling the Liberal word at me, I’m ok with my gay-loving, idiot-loathing, bad-ass self. I believe God, and Oprah, loves us all. I believe Jesus died for me. Thank the Lord for that, because I'd be bustin hell wide open for my past sins, and my current state of "fry baby-killing Casey Anthony." Now, let’s raise that debt ceiling, buy some tacky crap from Oriental Trading Company, and throw a Casey Anthony Burn in Hell Party! I bet we all know who’ll be the first one on the Karaoke stage when “It’s Raining Men” starts to play. God Bless the USA!
Why is Casey Anthony still wasting tax payer’s money? Why would you let your child go missing a month before you got out the tattoo chair and off the pole at the club and decided to search for her? Because you killed your baby, that’s why. If I don’t hear my kids for five minutes, I know something is wrong. If there is silence in the Ekhoff house, I know somebody is getting into something- or somebody is bad sick. No mama worth even a half-bucket of a damn is going to let her baby go missing that long, unless said mama did something wrong. Sure, we all have that point in Wal-Mart when we want a tractor beam to swoop down and suck our precious, screaming sweethearts up to the planet “Will You Shut the Hell Up So Mommy Can Shop in Peace.” Alas, the tractor beam doesn’t come and long-suffering Mamas in Wal-Marts all over the world have to live through shopping trips of doom, and they don’t go looking in the sporting goods section for some fresh chloroform. This heifer doesn’t need to be thrown in jail; she needs to be covered in Alaga syrup, and placed ever-so-gently in the biggest red-ant bed in Alabama. I’m guessing the best ant beds are somewhere between Clio and Smut Eye. If I were George Foreman of that jury, it would have taken us about an hour- wouldn’t want people to think we were biased- to end this trial.
I know you’re thinking, “Tang, clearly, you know nothing of politics or money, why do you feel the need to speak out on the debt ceiling?” My answer to this one is simple, because I can. We’ve raised the debt ceiling before. This ain’t America’s first time at the debtor’s rodeo. Do it or don’t do it, but for the love of Oprah, stop talking about it. It’s been raised over 100 times since 1917, it ain’t like The President and Mrs. Obama just invented it for funzies while lighting sparklers with the girls last night. Hell, it’s been done ten times in the last decade. I hate to be the one to remind you, but old W. was President when we raised it without stuttering eight years in a row. Can’t we just get back to picking on Mrs. Obama for trying to get future rap star, ‘Lil Fat Ass to step away from the fried Kool-Aid?
Michele Bachman, I hate to be the one to break this down like a simple fraction for you, but your husband may be a little gay. Where I come from, people who like to de-program gay people are usually gay. See, straight people don’t get all up in gay people’s business like that. Usually, it’s sexually frustrated uber-christians who want to pray the gay away. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret Michele, most husbands, the straight ones, are too busy working their asses off to take care of their families to be concerned with how to make gay go away. Most American husbands don’t give a damn what two grown people do with their own bodies in their own homes.
I did a quick survey at my house.
Me: Honey, how do you feel about gays?
Him: Why is the thermostat set at 72 in here? We aren’t trying to hang meat in here. Do you know how much the power bill is?
Me: No, because I was watching Ru Paul’s Drag Race, and….
Him: You had the TV on today? I told you that TV uses too much electricity. Do I hear water dripping in the bathroom? Are you using the oven???
Notice a trend here, Michele, my hot-blooded, American husband cares about one thing: paying the bills, bills, bills.
The only people who seem to make a living at professional gay-hunting are just looking for an excuse to take advantage of young, confused people, and all the while they use religion as the rack to hang their Bob Mackie ball gowns on. Michele, when your husband calls gay men barbarians, what he means is, “ I wish that Native would get restless all up in this…” Girlfriend, you better get your wife in check, before you decide to run for President, because Ru Paul is in hair and make-up just itching to call Mr. Bachman out.
Before you go hurling the Liberal word at me, I’m ok with my gay-loving, idiot-loathing, bad-ass self. I believe God, and Oprah, loves us all. I believe Jesus died for me. Thank the Lord for that, because I'd be bustin hell wide open for my past sins, and my current state of "fry baby-killing Casey Anthony." Now, let’s raise that debt ceiling, buy some tacky crap from Oriental Trading Company, and throw a Casey Anthony Burn in Hell Party! I bet we all know who’ll be the first one on the Karaoke stage when “It’s Raining Men” starts to play. God Bless the USA!
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Where Were You?
There are tragic moments in history that are seared into the American consciousness. These moments can galvanize a generation into action or apathy. These moments can spring forth spontaneous memorials and public mourning. These moments make us true citizens of the United States. In playgroups and daycares and parents’ day out groups all over America, tragedy has struck a new generation: Nick Jr. has REPLACED the actress that played Marina in the tour-de-force pre-school program, The Fresh Beat Band.
Where were you the day the music died? I was in the kitchen sneaking me an ice cream sandwich. (When you have pre-school aged kids, you never get to ENJOY treats near them, because they are like crayon-wielding sharks. They can smell a snack from a mile off, and they have no problem with “sharing” your snack.) I remember this moment like it was yesterday. Because it was yesterday when Adam let loose the scream heard round the world, “That’s not my MaWeena! Gimme my MaWeena back!” He then dissolved into a screaming, snotting meltdown that ranked up there with “The Great Wal-Mart Hissy Fit of 2011.” I actually had to put my ice cream sandwich back in the freezer, because I knew this wasn’t gonna be one of those temporary freak outs. ( Sidebar: Dontcha just hate it when the first ice cream sandwich you eat out of the box is the perfect temp then you leave the box in the freezer and you grab another one a couple of days later to find those yucky ice crystals?) Damn you to hell, Marina! I wonder if I can sue somebody, and get the child some college money because of this trauma ?!?!
Who the hell is the Fresh Beat Band? For enlightened parents, who actually care about real issues in the world, they are an annoying pre-school version of a pre-fab TV show band-- an updated, multicultural, “Monkees” without the dreamy Davey Jones for four-year-olds. They even have a Latina as the lead singer. Old Marina is not the lead singer. Old Marina has fiery red hair, and she plays (insert laugh track here) drums. Old Marina manages to look like the grown- up version of that little girl from the Partidge Family who could give less than a damn about “acting” or staying on beat. But my son loves Old Marina. For four-year olds, the Fresh Beat Band ROCKS!!!! Their songs speak to my son’s soul: Let’s Go Bananas, Great Day, Quack Shoes, are like Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On to little Adam.
According to “sources,” Old Marina has left the show to get married and start a family. But, I did some cyber stalking, and it appears Old Marina may have been moonlighting as a singer- songwriter. Damn you to hell, Old Marina. Parents have taken to the interweb to loudly reveal their displeasure. And here I was thinking my kid was the only stalker-in-training. Twitter is atwitter with calls for the beheading of the Director of Programming at Nick Jr. Facebook posts on the official Fresh Beat Band page are scathing and down-right ugly. As my friend Tara said, “Those parents are ready to riot.” I wish these people would find a life.
After much thought, I have decided not to “take it to the streets” over this new, Miss Clairol- assisted Marina. In the stay at home mom community, I bet that makes me a bad mother. As if I care. I’m old-school. I believe this is a teachable moment for my distraught toddler: change happens. You may hate it, but it does happen. I wonder if losing “his MaWeena “will be to my sons’ childhood what the Challenger Explosion was to mine. That was the day I learned to never watch another space ship launch live. I wonder if in 20 years, a group of young people affected by this Old Marina/ New Marina thing will get together and pen a moving, hip-hop anthem to commemorate the day the music died?
Ever the subversive, I am part of that shadow group that prays that the New Marina adds a Ted McGingley cancel curse to the damn show, BECAUSE I HATE IT. I hate every vapid song. I hate every jerky dance move. I hate every scratch of the turntables by “The Real MC Twist,” or is he Shout? Hell if I know.
I do feel bad that my child has lost his first character on a TV show, but if he would stop beau-guarding the damn TV, I could introduce him to the world of soap operas, where character replacement is high art: one day you are seven years old, and poof the next day you’re 32, and head of Jabot Cosmetics, like Victoria Newman on The Young and The Restless.
I will have to endure another old black lady all up on the casket moment with Adam, because I just cut the TV on, and wouldn’t you know it, the channel is set to Nick Jr. I feel a meltdown in 5,4,3,2,…
Where were you the day the music died? I was in the kitchen sneaking me an ice cream sandwich. (When you have pre-school aged kids, you never get to ENJOY treats near them, because they are like crayon-wielding sharks. They can smell a snack from a mile off, and they have no problem with “sharing” your snack.) I remember this moment like it was yesterday. Because it was yesterday when Adam let loose the scream heard round the world, “That’s not my MaWeena! Gimme my MaWeena back!” He then dissolved into a screaming, snotting meltdown that ranked up there with “The Great Wal-Mart Hissy Fit of 2011.” I actually had to put my ice cream sandwich back in the freezer, because I knew this wasn’t gonna be one of those temporary freak outs. ( Sidebar: Dontcha just hate it when the first ice cream sandwich you eat out of the box is the perfect temp then you leave the box in the freezer and you grab another one a couple of days later to find those yucky ice crystals?) Damn you to hell, Marina! I wonder if I can sue somebody, and get the child some college money because of this trauma ?!?!
Who the hell is the Fresh Beat Band? For enlightened parents, who actually care about real issues in the world, they are an annoying pre-school version of a pre-fab TV show band-- an updated, multicultural, “Monkees” without the dreamy Davey Jones for four-year-olds. They even have a Latina as the lead singer. Old Marina is not the lead singer. Old Marina has fiery red hair, and she plays (insert laugh track here) drums. Old Marina manages to look like the grown- up version of that little girl from the Partidge Family who could give less than a damn about “acting” or staying on beat. But my son loves Old Marina. For four-year olds, the Fresh Beat Band ROCKS!!!! Their songs speak to my son’s soul: Let’s Go Bananas, Great Day, Quack Shoes, are like Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On to little Adam.
According to “sources,” Old Marina has left the show to get married and start a family. But, I did some cyber stalking, and it appears Old Marina may have been moonlighting as a singer- songwriter. Damn you to hell, Old Marina. Parents have taken to the interweb to loudly reveal their displeasure. And here I was thinking my kid was the only stalker-in-training. Twitter is atwitter with calls for the beheading of the Director of Programming at Nick Jr. Facebook posts on the official Fresh Beat Band page are scathing and down-right ugly. As my friend Tara said, “Those parents are ready to riot.” I wish these people would find a life.
After much thought, I have decided not to “take it to the streets” over this new, Miss Clairol- assisted Marina. In the stay at home mom community, I bet that makes me a bad mother. As if I care. I’m old-school. I believe this is a teachable moment for my distraught toddler: change happens. You may hate it, but it does happen. I wonder if losing “his MaWeena “will be to my sons’ childhood what the Challenger Explosion was to mine. That was the day I learned to never watch another space ship launch live. I wonder if in 20 years, a group of young people affected by this Old Marina/ New Marina thing will get together and pen a moving, hip-hop anthem to commemorate the day the music died?
Ever the subversive, I am part of that shadow group that prays that the New Marina adds a Ted McGingley cancel curse to the damn show, BECAUSE I HATE IT. I hate every vapid song. I hate every jerky dance move. I hate every scratch of the turntables by “The Real MC Twist,” or is he Shout? Hell if I know.
I do feel bad that my child has lost his first character on a TV show, but if he would stop beau-guarding the damn TV, I could introduce him to the world of soap operas, where character replacement is high art: one day you are seven years old, and poof the next day you’re 32, and head of Jabot Cosmetics, like Victoria Newman on The Young and The Restless.
I will have to endure another old black lady all up on the casket moment with Adam, because I just cut the TV on, and wouldn’t you know it, the channel is set to Nick Jr. I feel a meltdown in 5,4,3,2,…
Friday, June 10, 2011
Almost Famous
So, I'm almost famous. I won "Funniest Person in Tulsa" Wednesday night at the Loony Bin Comedy Club. I went in expecting to get my butt kicked. But, I won. I am happy and proud for having the courage to try. I just keep being patient and trying to make things happen. It's been 10 years off and on of trying to figure out how to make comedy my profession instead of my hobby. I've been giving it my all for the last three years. I hoping this gamble pays off!
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Homegirl on the Range: The Greenhaw Effect
Homegirl on the Range: The Greenhaw Effect: "When my fractured family moved to Montgomery, Alabama from Fort Benning , Georgia, my world was shattered. The short time I got to experienc..."
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
The Greenhaw Effect
When my fractured family moved to Montgomery, Alabama from Fort Benning , Georgia, my world was shattered. The short time I got to experience the life of a military brat was idyllic. I got to be a kid. I wasn’t defined my color or my gender. I was just a smart, funny, and very shy little girl.
The economic realities of my parents’ divorce dictated a new script for our lives. No longer did we live in the safe walls of a military base, with beautiful yards and children of every flesh tone; we were now project dwellers. My Mama would hold my face in her hands and say, “You live here, you are not of here.” It would take decades for her words to fully sink into my soul. It would take until I was 40 years old to wash away all the emotional scars that growing up in poverty had left smudged on my psyche. I never felt good enough. I never felt I was enough. I felt doomed to failure, because kids like me never make it.
Growing up in the hood the only places I ever felt safe were at school and at the library. I read everything I could get my hands on: history books, romance novels, plays, poetry. I was obsessed with Judy Blume, and every chance I could I would retreat to a world of high rise apartments in Manhattan. I became obsessed with moving to New York City. I’d look around at our apartment, and later our run-down Section 8 rental house, and just pretend that I was in a fancy building looking out at Central Park.
Bookworm. Nerd. White girl. These were the nicknames hurled at me by the kids at school. The harder they hit me with the verbal attacks, the more I retreated into books. I remember like it was yesterday, the day in seventh grade when I checked out Gone with the Wind and To Kill A Mockingbird at the same time. Our librarian at Bellingrath Jr. High, a notoriously violent school at the time, allowed me to check out more than one book, and she always gave me books from the 9th grade reading list. IT was as if it had been announced on the intercom: Tangela Alyce Parker is not only a nerd, but she is a no-good- white-folk-loving discredit to her race.
The girls, who probably never read either book, started calling me Prissy and MAMMY, they would punch me in the back when I opened my locker. My arch nemesis, Pat, once tore the pages out of a brand new copy of Pride and Prejudice my Mama bought for me at a yard sale. (I still hate that girl. I’m not surprised that she is in Tutwiler Women’s Prison, bless her heart.) I was skinny and awkward looking. I wore big shirts to hide the mysterious growths on chest that made boys who used to make me cry now try to make me laugh. I finished Gone with the Wind in four days. It only took me an entire day to finish Mockingbird. Honey, my world was rocked. I found a new obsession: Harper Lee. I went rushing into the library, and I said, “I need all the books by Harper Lee. “
“There aren’t any more books by Harper Lee. She never wrote another one.”
“Well it says she lives in New York AND Alabama. Do you know how to find her? I need to talk to her.”
“ No, I don’t. But I guess you could write a letter to her at the place that published the book.”
I walked away dejected, but I decided one day I would become a writer, and move to New York City and become FRIENDS with Harper Lee. Unbeknownst to her, Harper Lee had a 13 year old stalker. I would sit in a roach infested project apartment in Montgomery, Alabama and plan the ultimate luncheon in Ms. Lee’s honor at THE PLAZA. I was so well connected in my head, I would even get LIZA! to perform.
Twenty years later, Wayne Greenhaw, my friend, my mentor, my drinking buddy, and my one time employer, introduced me to my idol Harper Lee. He said, Nelle, I want you to meet my dear friend, Tangela.”
Ms. Lee said, “It’s so nice to meet you. Wayne talks about you all the time. His stories about you tickle me.”
I started crying. The collective history of both my grandmothers, and every elderly black woman in my family that had taken care of a white family by force or by choice rushed on me and overwhelmed me. I can remember the stories of how they would “raise up” white children, clean houses, and get paid three dollars a day. I heard the tale of how my Granny loved a child and how that child loved her back, but the mother, in a jealous rage, accused my Granny of stealing her jewelry, and made the husband fire my grandmother.
All the indignities of the “Domestic Service” that built the American South had been chronicled by the women in my family, and to this day those stories are etched on my heart. Calpurnia, the housekeeper and surrogate mother, in To Kill a Mockingbird , was the first black female character written by a white person that I read as a child who wasn’t embarrassing to me. Both Prissy and Mammy made me feel a sense of unrelenting shame as a child. I felt shame for my grandmothers because they were Mammies for wealthy white families in Montgomery. I felt ashamed because I believed the whole world saw me as growing up to be either a Prissy or Mammy, but along comes Calpurnia, and suddenly there was a third option: a woman can be trapped in the reality of a place like Maycomb, Alabama, but she has a right to be her own person. Calpurina was grace and class and dignity.
Finally my chance had come to talk to Harper Lee, and here I was crying like a damn fool. I hugged her through my tears I said, “Ms. Lee, thank you for writing Calpurnia. Thank you for not making her a Mammy. MY Grandma was a Calpurnia.”
Nelle Harper Lee said, “Wayne said you were special.”
She looked at Greehaw and said, “I have never had anyone say that to me, Wayne. I like her. Smart as a whip.”
Wayne rubbed my back, winked at me, and handed me his handkerchief, and said “ I told you you were special.” As Ms. Lee was whisked through the crowd, and Wayne looked back at me and gave me a thumbs up!
In one moment, my friend Wayne Greenhaw had facilitated the absolute moment that changed my life. That was the moment I started to believe I was smart. That was the moment I started to believe I was from the ghetto but not of the ghetto. That was the moment I started to believe my words had power. That was the moment the smudges of poverty and racism and fatherlessness began to disappear from my spirit. I started to believe I was worthy of being and doing whatever I wanted, because my IDOL, Harper Lee said it was ok.
In the years since I worked as Wayne’s personal assistant, and as his publicist at River City Publishing, I have endured some extreme hardships: poverty (again), homelessness, emotional ruin, and a few personal catastrophes that I’ll save for a tell-most autobiography. I found myself cleaning houses to keep our family alive. With each stroke of the broom, each scrub of the toilet brush, each squirt of Windex, I found myself thinking of all the women in my family who cleaned. I’d think of Calpurnia’s quiet strength, and remember I was a maid by choice, not by force. I would often vacillate between being thrilled to have work that paid my bills and being humiliated that I had to do maid work to pay my bills. The famous quote of Hattie McDaniel, the Academy Award winning actress who played Mammy in the film adaptation of Gone with the Wind, “I’d rather play a maid, than be a maid,” would pop into my head while dusting or washing windows. Those words would sustain me while I cobbled together my one woman comedy show.
I remember sitting on the porch of El Rey having a drink with Wayne when I was in the middle of trying to figure out how to make a comedy show out of my experiences as a maid. I asked him if he had any advice for me. Wayne just laughed and said, “I don’t do comedy for a reason, but you are funny, and you ain’t scared of shit. Don’t start getting scared now. Hell, you been making folks laugh for free for years. You need to find a way to get paid. Remember what Hattie McDaniel said?”
I laughed as we said the quote out loud together. “Hell, girl, getting paid to make people laugh at you being a maid, beats the hell outta actually being one. I’ll guaren-damn-tee it!” I decided to lean into my inner Calpurnia, and make the most out of the chickenshit life had been doling out!
As I try to recover from the double barreled shotgun blast of grief of losing Wayne and Knox, I take great comfort in the fact that it is solely because of Wayne’s friendship that I have the courage to pursue my dream of being a comic and a humor writer. Wayne’s friendship was responsible for my very first trip to New York. I didn’t get to see Miss Lee, but I got to have drinks with Wayne at the Algonquin. Wayne’s generosity afforded me the opportunity to meet authors I would NEVER have been able to otherwise: Stephen King, Amy Tan, Walter Mosely…and those are just the kinda famous ones. Most importantly, Wayne’s friendship allowed me to meet my childhood shero, and receive the validation that I had longed for as a child. I am grateful beyond measure.
I may never be a famous comic. I may never be a famous writer. My sincere hope is that when the trumpets sound, and I’m called up to the Big Happy Hour in The Sky, that I have been as good a friend to someone as Wayne Greenhaw has been to me. I love you, Squirrel. I am missing you something fierce.
The economic realities of my parents’ divorce dictated a new script for our lives. No longer did we live in the safe walls of a military base, with beautiful yards and children of every flesh tone; we were now project dwellers. My Mama would hold my face in her hands and say, “You live here, you are not of here.” It would take decades for her words to fully sink into my soul. It would take until I was 40 years old to wash away all the emotional scars that growing up in poverty had left smudged on my psyche. I never felt good enough. I never felt I was enough. I felt doomed to failure, because kids like me never make it.
Growing up in the hood the only places I ever felt safe were at school and at the library. I read everything I could get my hands on: history books, romance novels, plays, poetry. I was obsessed with Judy Blume, and every chance I could I would retreat to a world of high rise apartments in Manhattan. I became obsessed with moving to New York City. I’d look around at our apartment, and later our run-down Section 8 rental house, and just pretend that I was in a fancy building looking out at Central Park.
Bookworm. Nerd. White girl. These were the nicknames hurled at me by the kids at school. The harder they hit me with the verbal attacks, the more I retreated into books. I remember like it was yesterday, the day in seventh grade when I checked out Gone with the Wind and To Kill A Mockingbird at the same time. Our librarian at Bellingrath Jr. High, a notoriously violent school at the time, allowed me to check out more than one book, and she always gave me books from the 9th grade reading list. IT was as if it had been announced on the intercom: Tangela Alyce Parker is not only a nerd, but she is a no-good- white-folk-loving discredit to her race.
The girls, who probably never read either book, started calling me Prissy and MAMMY, they would punch me in the back when I opened my locker. My arch nemesis, Pat, once tore the pages out of a brand new copy of Pride and Prejudice my Mama bought for me at a yard sale. (I still hate that girl. I’m not surprised that she is in Tutwiler Women’s Prison, bless her heart.) I was skinny and awkward looking. I wore big shirts to hide the mysterious growths on chest that made boys who used to make me cry now try to make me laugh. I finished Gone with the Wind in four days. It only took me an entire day to finish Mockingbird. Honey, my world was rocked. I found a new obsession: Harper Lee. I went rushing into the library, and I said, “I need all the books by Harper Lee. “
“There aren’t any more books by Harper Lee. She never wrote another one.”
“Well it says she lives in New York AND Alabama. Do you know how to find her? I need to talk to her.”
“ No, I don’t. But I guess you could write a letter to her at the place that published the book.”
I walked away dejected, but I decided one day I would become a writer, and move to New York City and become FRIENDS with Harper Lee. Unbeknownst to her, Harper Lee had a 13 year old stalker. I would sit in a roach infested project apartment in Montgomery, Alabama and plan the ultimate luncheon in Ms. Lee’s honor at THE PLAZA. I was so well connected in my head, I would even get LIZA! to perform.
Twenty years later, Wayne Greenhaw, my friend, my mentor, my drinking buddy, and my one time employer, introduced me to my idol Harper Lee. He said, Nelle, I want you to meet my dear friend, Tangela.”
Ms. Lee said, “It’s so nice to meet you. Wayne talks about you all the time. His stories about you tickle me.”
I started crying. The collective history of both my grandmothers, and every elderly black woman in my family that had taken care of a white family by force or by choice rushed on me and overwhelmed me. I can remember the stories of how they would “raise up” white children, clean houses, and get paid three dollars a day. I heard the tale of how my Granny loved a child and how that child loved her back, but the mother, in a jealous rage, accused my Granny of stealing her jewelry, and made the husband fire my grandmother.
All the indignities of the “Domestic Service” that built the American South had been chronicled by the women in my family, and to this day those stories are etched on my heart. Calpurnia, the housekeeper and surrogate mother, in To Kill a Mockingbird , was the first black female character written by a white person that I read as a child who wasn’t embarrassing to me. Both Prissy and Mammy made me feel a sense of unrelenting shame as a child. I felt shame for my grandmothers because they were Mammies for wealthy white families in Montgomery. I felt ashamed because I believed the whole world saw me as growing up to be either a Prissy or Mammy, but along comes Calpurnia, and suddenly there was a third option: a woman can be trapped in the reality of a place like Maycomb, Alabama, but she has a right to be her own person. Calpurina was grace and class and dignity.
Finally my chance had come to talk to Harper Lee, and here I was crying like a damn fool. I hugged her through my tears I said, “Ms. Lee, thank you for writing Calpurnia. Thank you for not making her a Mammy. MY Grandma was a Calpurnia.”
Nelle Harper Lee said, “Wayne said you were special.”
She looked at Greehaw and said, “I have never had anyone say that to me, Wayne. I like her. Smart as a whip.”
Wayne rubbed my back, winked at me, and handed me his handkerchief, and said “ I told you you were special.” As Ms. Lee was whisked through the crowd, and Wayne looked back at me and gave me a thumbs up!
In one moment, my friend Wayne Greenhaw had facilitated the absolute moment that changed my life. That was the moment I started to believe I was smart. That was the moment I started to believe I was from the ghetto but not of the ghetto. That was the moment I started to believe my words had power. That was the moment the smudges of poverty and racism and fatherlessness began to disappear from my spirit. I started to believe I was worthy of being and doing whatever I wanted, because my IDOL, Harper Lee said it was ok.
In the years since I worked as Wayne’s personal assistant, and as his publicist at River City Publishing, I have endured some extreme hardships: poverty (again), homelessness, emotional ruin, and a few personal catastrophes that I’ll save for a tell-most autobiography. I found myself cleaning houses to keep our family alive. With each stroke of the broom, each scrub of the toilet brush, each squirt of Windex, I found myself thinking of all the women in my family who cleaned. I’d think of Calpurnia’s quiet strength, and remember I was a maid by choice, not by force. I would often vacillate between being thrilled to have work that paid my bills and being humiliated that I had to do maid work to pay my bills. The famous quote of Hattie McDaniel, the Academy Award winning actress who played Mammy in the film adaptation of Gone with the Wind, “I’d rather play a maid, than be a maid,” would pop into my head while dusting or washing windows. Those words would sustain me while I cobbled together my one woman comedy show.
I remember sitting on the porch of El Rey having a drink with Wayne when I was in the middle of trying to figure out how to make a comedy show out of my experiences as a maid. I asked him if he had any advice for me. Wayne just laughed and said, “I don’t do comedy for a reason, but you are funny, and you ain’t scared of shit. Don’t start getting scared now. Hell, you been making folks laugh for free for years. You need to find a way to get paid. Remember what Hattie McDaniel said?”
I laughed as we said the quote out loud together. “Hell, girl, getting paid to make people laugh at you being a maid, beats the hell outta actually being one. I’ll guaren-damn-tee it!” I decided to lean into my inner Calpurnia, and make the most out of the chickenshit life had been doling out!
As I try to recover from the double barreled shotgun blast of grief of losing Wayne and Knox, I take great comfort in the fact that it is solely because of Wayne’s friendship that I have the courage to pursue my dream of being a comic and a humor writer. Wayne’s friendship was responsible for my very first trip to New York. I didn’t get to see Miss Lee, but I got to have drinks with Wayne at the Algonquin. Wayne’s generosity afforded me the opportunity to meet authors I would NEVER have been able to otherwise: Stephen King, Amy Tan, Walter Mosely…and those are just the kinda famous ones. Most importantly, Wayne’s friendship allowed me to meet my childhood shero, and receive the validation that I had longed for as a child. I am grateful beyond measure.
I may never be a famous comic. I may never be a famous writer. My sincere hope is that when the trumpets sound, and I’m called up to the Big Happy Hour in The Sky, that I have been as good a friend to someone as Wayne Greenhaw has been to me. I love you, Squirrel. I am missing you something fierce.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Missing
There is nothing like a death of a loved one that slaps you back into the land of the living. My dear friend, Knox McLaney, died last week, and I ain’t been right since. I’m heartbroken, crushed, devastated.
Knox was a master story teller. He and I would sit around the bars in Old Cloverdale in Montgomery, and do everything we could to one-up each other in telling the dirtiest, most salacious, and damn-near unbelievable stories about raising hell or, uh, chasing tail. He’d always win, but I would have a fine time trying to top him!
If I came close to beating him weaving one of my true confessions that would have made Oprah-lying-to- James-Frey look like Ghandi ; Knox would say, “Tang, you are making that shit up!”
I’d look him square in the eye and say, “Maybe, but until the records are unsealed, that is my testimony!”
Knox and I were the odd couple. He was from old Montgomery, and I was this girl who grew up in the projects. I respected the fact that despite his being 20 years older; Knox wasn’t a bigot. I think he respected the fact that I am nobody’s victim. We both spoke the same language: Southern. We both understood that there wasn’t a damn thing better than crumbling up a piece of hoe-cake into some left over collard potlikker. We both understood that you don’t call somebody in the middle of an SEC football game. We both understood that friends, the people you choose to be your family, are sometimes closer to you than your own blood.
For me, Cephas Knox McLaney was the daddy I never had, my wise big brother, my hilarious, bourbon-drinking uncle, and my gossip-loving best friend. I loved Knox hard. I’m taking his death pretty hard. I know when I go back to Montgomery and go into Bud’s his hat won’t be sitting in the chair across the bar. I know I’ll never get to ask him how many damn sticks of butter he used in his world famous barbeque sauce. I know I’ll never be able to hear that crazy laugh of his when I tell him how one of my young sons dropped their britches and took a whiz in the church parking lot. I’ll never hear that slow as Alaga syrup drawl of his again.
I read his obituary online today, and just when I thought I couldn’t shed another tear: a river the size of the Black Warrior came from my heart and sprung out of my eyes. Then I read the first line again “ Knox was a prominent local attorney…” and I started to laugh, inappropriately, out loud. You see, Knox and I used to love when someone from the “Country Club/ Big Money/ Jesus loves me and mine, but not your black/gay/poor ass” clique in Montgomery would keel over dead, and the local paper would describe them as a “ Prominent local doctor/lawyer/businessman. “ Because Knox would have the dirt on the deceased, and he would always say, “If the paper says Prominent local ANY-THING, you know that lying- ass sum bitch paid somebody off!” I know Knox must be laughing his ass off, because he and I both know he could give less than a damn about being prominent in Montgomery. He only cared about being prominent to his children.
Knox McLaney was an amazing father, a generous friend, and an adventurous spirit. Montgomery, Alabama is a better place because Knox McLaney lived a rich and full life there until the day he died. Somewhere out there in the spirit world Knox is drinking a Maker’s Mark, smoking a Winston, and looking Thomas Jefferson square in the eye saying, “Mr. President, you are making that shit up!”
I’m missing him already.
Knox was a master story teller. He and I would sit around the bars in Old Cloverdale in Montgomery, and do everything we could to one-up each other in telling the dirtiest, most salacious, and damn-near unbelievable stories about raising hell or, uh, chasing tail. He’d always win, but I would have a fine time trying to top him!
If I came close to beating him weaving one of my true confessions that would have made Oprah-lying-to- James-Frey look like Ghandi ; Knox would say, “Tang, you are making that shit up!”
I’d look him square in the eye and say, “Maybe, but until the records are unsealed, that is my testimony!”
Knox and I were the odd couple. He was from old Montgomery, and I was this girl who grew up in the projects. I respected the fact that despite his being 20 years older; Knox wasn’t a bigot. I think he respected the fact that I am nobody’s victim. We both spoke the same language: Southern. We both understood that there wasn’t a damn thing better than crumbling up a piece of hoe-cake into some left over collard potlikker. We both understood that you don’t call somebody in the middle of an SEC football game. We both understood that friends, the people you choose to be your family, are sometimes closer to you than your own blood.
For me, Cephas Knox McLaney was the daddy I never had, my wise big brother, my hilarious, bourbon-drinking uncle, and my gossip-loving best friend. I loved Knox hard. I’m taking his death pretty hard. I know when I go back to Montgomery and go into Bud’s his hat won’t be sitting in the chair across the bar. I know I’ll never get to ask him how many damn sticks of butter he used in his world famous barbeque sauce. I know I’ll never be able to hear that crazy laugh of his when I tell him how one of my young sons dropped their britches and took a whiz in the church parking lot. I’ll never hear that slow as Alaga syrup drawl of his again.
I read his obituary online today, and just when I thought I couldn’t shed another tear: a river the size of the Black Warrior came from my heart and sprung out of my eyes. Then I read the first line again “ Knox was a prominent local attorney…” and I started to laugh, inappropriately, out loud. You see, Knox and I used to love when someone from the “Country Club/ Big Money/ Jesus loves me and mine, but not your black/gay/poor ass” clique in Montgomery would keel over dead, and the local paper would describe them as a “ Prominent local doctor/lawyer/businessman. “ Because Knox would have the dirt on the deceased, and he would always say, “If the paper says Prominent local ANY-THING, you know that lying- ass sum bitch paid somebody off!” I know Knox must be laughing his ass off, because he and I both know he could give less than a damn about being prominent in Montgomery. He only cared about being prominent to his children.
Knox McLaney was an amazing father, a generous friend, and an adventurous spirit. Montgomery, Alabama is a better place because Knox McLaney lived a rich and full life there until the day he died. Somewhere out there in the spirit world Knox is drinking a Maker’s Mark, smoking a Winston, and looking Thomas Jefferson square in the eye saying, “Mr. President, you are making that shit up!”
I’m missing him already.
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