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.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
My Husband, The Sleepeater
I had never in my life heard of a sleepeater. Sleepwalker,yes. I'm not into research, so I have no idea if there is a scientific name for this illness of his. I would like to know if there is any way I can make money off of it. My husband is a sleepeater. No, he's not on Chantix...I would have already retained Mr. Beasley's firm if he was.
Whenever DaddyFixIt is stressed, he starts eating his way through the pantry. Nothing. Is. Safe. He's stone cold asleep. His eyes are open and he's in a whacked-out, crackheadian sort of trance. It is snack cake munching bizarreness.
This sleepeating has become the beginning of the end of this marriage. I have toughed it out through poverty and his German stubbornness and his pain in the ass Republicanism, but this madness is worthy of a visit to Judge Mablean. I am certain if the divorce ever happens, I will check the "other" box under reason for divorce, and write in my best school teacher printing, " his crackhead sleepeating episodes."
Zebra Cakes are my favorite. Not because they taste so damn good, but because each purchase is a "swirl power" fist pump for all the interracial families out there. Zebra Cakes are not just a funky good time for me, they are a political statement. I had been finding empty snack cake wrappers for 3 days. I assumed the McBrothas had performed some death defying leaning tower of toddler move on the step ladder to get to the top shelf of the pantry. I stood on the dining room chair, and prayed it wouldn't collapse as it creaked from the extra blizzard lbs. I looked on the top shelf. I was ready to scream when I found the box ripped open with the passion of a kid on Christmas morning. No, it wasn't my doing. I follow the rules. I open where Little Debbie tells me. There is but one twin pack left. I put the box back on the shelf, and went to bed. I was saving the last Zebra cakes for my morning snack. I had one Dr. Pepper left, and I was saving it to wash down my white, creamy, chocolate drizzled, salty, sweet, snack cake of social justice while I watched the first ten minutes of The View...and talked shit under my breath about how unfair it is that Sherri Sheppard has like 16 shows on tv, even though she says ax instead of ask...I hate affirmative axtion!!!!
As I pulled the covers over me I hear a feverish rustling out front. My dear, sweet, handsome husband had apparently gotten up from the couch where he had fallen alseep during the Family Guy episode that he'd already seen a hundred times. It's his way of cock blocking the TV. He gets a death grip on the remote and passes out like a Yeti all full and ready for winter. I walk down the hall to see him standing there, "oooohhhing and ahhhhhing" as if Halle Berry's letting him feel her up, but he ain't nibbling on a Hollywood Zebra; he's slobbering all over my gotdamn ZEBRA CAKE.
I had heard the stories about his sleep eating from his family, so I can't lie and say I wasn't warned. He's eaten an entire large pizza, plus-sized bag of M&M's, and anything left in a styro to-go box. Even when awake the man could eat a baby dingo. As if I don't have enough problems feeding him in daylight, now I gotta figure out how to fund his twilight appetite, too!
But this sleepeating incident was different. It was personal. He wasn't eating with love or dignity or grace. He wasn't toasting Mr. and Mrs. Loving, who fought all the way to the Supreme Court to strike down Jim-Crow era miscegenation laws. He wasn't savoring the interracial goodness of the Zebra Cake.I doubt his black ass even tasted it! I tried to wake him up, but he just looked past me and then proceeded to go to OUR BED.
"Oh, hell to the no! Wake up. You just ate my last Little Debbie." I said, indignantly.
He just turned over, and picked up his snoring where he left off on the couch.
I left the room in a huff. I plunked down on the sofa, and for the first time in the history of our Oklahoma house, I got to watch TV alone: no talking animated critters, no World War Whatever, no screaming, no crying, and no snoring. I now had a death grip on the remote. How come no one ever told me there are two Lifetime channels? The more I flipped, the less angry I became.
Now I buy Zebra Cakes two boxes at a time : one box for Civil Rights and another to tame the savage beast. I never know which box is which until I ask, "How was work, baby?"
Whenever DaddyFixIt is stressed, he starts eating his way through the pantry. Nothing. Is. Safe. He's stone cold asleep. His eyes are open and he's in a whacked-out, crackheadian sort of trance. It is snack cake munching bizarreness.
This sleepeating has become the beginning of the end of this marriage. I have toughed it out through poverty and his German stubbornness and his pain in the ass Republicanism, but this madness is worthy of a visit to Judge Mablean. I am certain if the divorce ever happens, I will check the "other" box under reason for divorce, and write in my best school teacher printing, " his crackhead sleepeating episodes."
Zebra Cakes are my favorite. Not because they taste so damn good, but because each purchase is a "swirl power" fist pump for all the interracial families out there. Zebra Cakes are not just a funky good time for me, they are a political statement. I had been finding empty snack cake wrappers for 3 days. I assumed the McBrothas had performed some death defying leaning tower of toddler move on the step ladder to get to the top shelf of the pantry. I stood on the dining room chair, and prayed it wouldn't collapse as it creaked from the extra blizzard lbs. I looked on the top shelf. I was ready to scream when I found the box ripped open with the passion of a kid on Christmas morning. No, it wasn't my doing. I follow the rules. I open where Little Debbie tells me. There is but one twin pack left. I put the box back on the shelf, and went to bed. I was saving the last Zebra cakes for my morning snack. I had one Dr. Pepper left, and I was saving it to wash down my white, creamy, chocolate drizzled, salty, sweet, snack cake of social justice while I watched the first ten minutes of The View...and talked shit under my breath about how unfair it is that Sherri Sheppard has like 16 shows on tv, even though she says ax instead of ask...I hate affirmative axtion!!!!
As I pulled the covers over me I hear a feverish rustling out front. My dear, sweet, handsome husband had apparently gotten up from the couch where he had fallen alseep during the Family Guy episode that he'd already seen a hundred times. It's his way of cock blocking the TV. He gets a death grip on the remote and passes out like a Yeti all full and ready for winter. I walk down the hall to see him standing there, "oooohhhing and ahhhhhing" as if Halle Berry's letting him feel her up, but he ain't nibbling on a Hollywood Zebra; he's slobbering all over my gotdamn ZEBRA CAKE.
I had heard the stories about his sleep eating from his family, so I can't lie and say I wasn't warned. He's eaten an entire large pizza, plus-sized bag of M&M's, and anything left in a styro to-go box. Even when awake the man could eat a baby dingo. As if I don't have enough problems feeding him in daylight, now I gotta figure out how to fund his twilight appetite, too!
But this sleepeating incident was different. It was personal. He wasn't eating with love or dignity or grace. He wasn't toasting Mr. and Mrs. Loving, who fought all the way to the Supreme Court to strike down Jim-Crow era miscegenation laws. He wasn't savoring the interracial goodness of the Zebra Cake.I doubt his black ass even tasted it! I tried to wake him up, but he just looked past me and then proceeded to go to OUR BED.
"Oh, hell to the no! Wake up. You just ate my last Little Debbie." I said, indignantly.
He just turned over, and picked up his snoring where he left off on the couch.
I left the room in a huff. I plunked down on the sofa, and for the first time in the history of our Oklahoma house, I got to watch TV alone: no talking animated critters, no World War Whatever, no screaming, no crying, and no snoring. I now had a death grip on the remote. How come no one ever told me there are two Lifetime channels? The more I flipped, the less angry I became.
Now I buy Zebra Cakes two boxes at a time : one box for Civil Rights and another to tame the savage beast. I never know which box is which until I ask, "How was work, baby?"
Monday, March 28, 2011
Little House on the Prairie Homeschoolin'
I've been working feverishly with the McBrothas to get them ready for pre-school and kindergarten. I have a degree in elementary education, so I should be able to teach my kids, right? Wrong...Homeschooling is great for people who can somehow convince their children that they are going to hell or the rapture will just pop off if they don't sit their asses down and learn. My sons fear no deity...except Daddy, and when home school starts, he retires to another area of the city. I'm trying to pull this feel-good, granola-ass, parents-are-the-first-educators (thanks, Dora)crap outta my ass, and let me just say; it's highly overrated. God invented schools so parents wouldn't end up in Bellview. See, right around age four is when your kid is moving out of that sweet stage and into the I wish I could drop your ass off somewhere until 5 pm every damn day. Those sick, happy stay at home mamas with their flow charts and schedules and effective discipline are supermamas, and most likely were not raised in the hood.
I came from the ghetto, where education is better left to the oldest gang banger in the projects. This clearly, has been the most effective way to educate a certain segment of society. The Gangbanger Griots impart important knowledge like:
1. how to rob people (job skills)
2. how to cuss people out (effective communication)
3 how to shoot people ( hunting skills)
4. how to live off the man and your baby mama ( money management)
I have been successful at teaching them to write each other's name. I suspect a toddler identity theft ring is gonna break out at preschool, if they simmer down long enough to get in. They are spelling words and reading words and writing all over any surface in the house. Now if I could get them to sit down, play quietly, and not bite the pig snot out of each other, I'll say this home-school experiment was worth it. Frankly, I hate all those smug bitches at story time with their sloped-headed, inbred, well-behaved, spawns. I know that when it gets to nut cuttin time, the McBrothas will kick their it-tiny asses and steal their juice boxes; it's just how they roll.
Until the day we get the yea or nay on the youngest McBrotha going to school, I'll just keep trotting out the crayons, duct taping them to their chairs, and threating to beat til their white meat shows as I try to teach them to write their own name.
I came from the ghetto, where education is better left to the oldest gang banger in the projects. This clearly, has been the most effective way to educate a certain segment of society. The Gangbanger Griots impart important knowledge like:
1. how to rob people (job skills)
2. how to cuss people out (effective communication)
3 how to shoot people ( hunting skills)
4. how to live off the man and your baby mama ( money management)
I have been successful at teaching them to write each other's name. I suspect a toddler identity theft ring is gonna break out at preschool, if they simmer down long enough to get in. They are spelling words and reading words and writing all over any surface in the house. Now if I could get them to sit down, play quietly, and not bite the pig snot out of each other, I'll say this home-school experiment was worth it. Frankly, I hate all those smug bitches at story time with their sloped-headed, inbred, well-behaved, spawns. I know that when it gets to nut cuttin time, the McBrothas will kick their it-tiny asses and steal their juice boxes; it's just how they roll.
Until the day we get the yea or nay on the youngest McBrotha going to school, I'll just keep trotting out the crayons, duct taping them to their chairs, and threating to beat til their white meat shows as I try to teach them to write their own name.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Delete Watch 2011
I have spent all day today watching the Facebook status of a “friend.” Not a real friend. A Facebook Friend. For me, Facebook friends run the gamut from people I met once at a party (not friends) to people who know about my irrational fear of glitter (real, old school friends).
Well one of my not real friends has been posting all day about deleting people. She’s left our old town and is refreshing her life. She has been posting updates about purging 700 or so of her not real friends. This brings me great pain. We are not friends, but her posts are so deliciously self-absorbed, unintentionally comical, and oft times very, very poorly worded. I’m the first to say that I am a hot grammatical mess on a good day, but this chick actually owned a magazine. Besides, I’m a standup comic, no one expects me to be correct at anything. Her posts are like sonatas for the comic in me: ”Why everbod be hating on me because I got stuff. Don’t let haters be hold you be. Let Get It.” Translation from grammatebonics: “I have nice things and people are jealous of me because I’m fabulous.” She constantly posts professional pictures of her son, the model. Look, I know everyone is a child of God, but the modeling business has rules. This kid is not cute.
So, all day she’s been updating how many folks she’s put behind her little iron curtain. So far I’m still part of her close circle of 1,000. But, I suspect the time is coming when I’m out. I’m bracing myself. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss pictures of your ugly kids. I’ll miss pictures of your big house that’s in foreclosure. I’ll miss pictures of the Benz your Mama has to lease for you because your credit is as bad as mine, and you have a job.
I realize this is not Christian or nice of me. I know. I am human. I don’t want to be cut because I get a sick thrill of seeing what’s going on in her world “errday” as my dear Facebook friend says. Without her, I’m nothing. Without her, I am left with real friends to care about, pray for, and encourage. Being Oprah for free is exhausting! But being a kinder, gentler version of Lewis Black when I read her posts from 1,000 miles away, finger pointing, screaming, and all, makes me a better friend to my real friends. Since I don’t have a real job, and I don’t have day to day contact with people other than those who expect me to be in charge of procuring them a juice box or a beer; it is the closest thing I get to having a co-worker to hate.
I need you Facebook Friend. Please don’t delete me! Of course, I could shut down this whole sick mess by unfriending her. Nah, I’ll just wait and see…
Well one of my not real friends has been posting all day about deleting people. She’s left our old town and is refreshing her life. She has been posting updates about purging 700 or so of her not real friends. This brings me great pain. We are not friends, but her posts are so deliciously self-absorbed, unintentionally comical, and oft times very, very poorly worded. I’m the first to say that I am a hot grammatical mess on a good day, but this chick actually owned a magazine. Besides, I’m a standup comic, no one expects me to be correct at anything. Her posts are like sonatas for the comic in me: ”Why everbod be hating on me because I got stuff. Don’t let haters be hold you be. Let Get It.” Translation from grammatebonics: “I have nice things and people are jealous of me because I’m fabulous.” She constantly posts professional pictures of her son, the model. Look, I know everyone is a child of God, but the modeling business has rules. This kid is not cute.
So, all day she’s been updating how many folks she’s put behind her little iron curtain. So far I’m still part of her close circle of 1,000. But, I suspect the time is coming when I’m out. I’m bracing myself. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss pictures of your ugly kids. I’ll miss pictures of your big house that’s in foreclosure. I’ll miss pictures of the Benz your Mama has to lease for you because your credit is as bad as mine, and you have a job.
I realize this is not Christian or nice of me. I know. I am human. I don’t want to be cut because I get a sick thrill of seeing what’s going on in her world “errday” as my dear Facebook friend says. Without her, I’m nothing. Without her, I am left with real friends to care about, pray for, and encourage. Being Oprah for free is exhausting! But being a kinder, gentler version of Lewis Black when I read her posts from 1,000 miles away, finger pointing, screaming, and all, makes me a better friend to my real friends. Since I don’t have a real job, and I don’t have day to day contact with people other than those who expect me to be in charge of procuring them a juice box or a beer; it is the closest thing I get to having a co-worker to hate.
I need you Facebook Friend. Please don’t delete me! Of course, I could shut down this whole sick mess by unfriending her. Nah, I’ll just wait and see…
Holy Snowballs!
The locals warned me about the unpredictable weather in Tulsa. I totally ignored them, because I was bound and determined to get the hell out of Montgomery and make the best of my new life. Seriously, how bad could it be? I am a soul survivor of Huricaines Opal and Ivan ( full disclosure: I rode this one out with a little help from the adult beverage of choice)! I ain't no weather weakling!
Today is the day the frozen chickens come home to roost. I'm cold. There's still leftover snow. Did I mention I am cold?
The McBrothas have been playing super-snowball fight with me, and I am trying to remain in good humor about it, but I'm cold. I hate the cold. I love my new life. I just have to find a way to fund staying inside for 3 months, running the heater on high, while watching tv all day...I need a get rich quick plan. Perhaps I could sell the slushy mix in my driveway to War Lords in Africa. Or I could make delicate ice sculptures off of the icicles dangling from EYES...call the 'lil tears of joy...
The up side is only 8 more weeks until spring...then I get to dodge TORNADOS!
Today is the day the frozen chickens come home to roost. I'm cold. There's still leftover snow. Did I mention I am cold?
The McBrothas have been playing super-snowball fight with me, and I am trying to remain in good humor about it, but I'm cold. I hate the cold. I love my new life. I just have to find a way to fund staying inside for 3 months, running the heater on high, while watching tv all day...I need a get rich quick plan. Perhaps I could sell the slushy mix in my driveway to War Lords in Africa. Or I could make delicate ice sculptures off of the icicles dangling from EYES...call the 'lil tears of joy...
The up side is only 8 more weeks until spring...then I get to dodge TORNADOS!
Friday, November 12, 2010
Bosszilla
(If you are a potential employer and you’re stumbled upon this blog, Tangela is in no way responsible for today’s content. My, uh, her evil twin hacked into the blog. She’s a horrible typist.)
As I litter the Tulsa Metroplex with my resume, I pause to reflect on past bosses. I’ve had a couple of great bosses and quite a few really bad bosses. I have bosses that I don’t even remember. I loved that dude who was manager at Lane Bryant when I worked there during the 2000 Christmas season, but I can’t remember his name to save my life. I can remember almost every stinking detail about the bad ones!
BossZilla
The worst boss I ever had had cancer twice and it didn’t killer. Either time. She’s still alive and kicking. Evil must be the secret to a long life. She would roll up at the school still glowing from chemo and go into a shrill hissyfit. Who in their right mind would leave chemo and come to work? Who would leave chemo and start cussing people out? BossZilla. Instead of thanking teachers and students for their prayers, she’d say something like, “That bulletin board looks like s#%^” She was principal at the last school I ever taught in. She was the bile flavored icing on the cake that soured me to teaching in Montgomery County. I watched her peel a little first grader off of her when he hugged her- not because of the chemo, but because” his hands are nasty.”
There was only one thing me and this one could ever agree on: WE HATED EACH OTHER. She embarrassed me and my co-teacher once so badly in public that it brought me to tears. After that, the gloves were off. I tapped into my inner ghetto girl, and it was on and poppin like bacon grease in Granny’s cast iron skillet. I became walking defiance. More like sauntering, electric sliding defiance. The woman had a proven record of not tenuring black teachers. The school board knew it, the unnamed lobbying association knew it, and the three black teachers at the school knew it. Unlike the other black teachers at the school, I wasn’t afraid of her. I wasn’t afraid for my future. I wasn’t afraid for my job. I knew that she was going to non-renew my contract, but what she didn’t know is I had a copy of a memo she had written to an unnamed Administrator that specifically asked how she could get me moved without her having to deal with the “race issue.” Sidebar: Always be nice to the cleaning people, they can be your greatest friend or your worst enemy. I filed a complaint with the Justice Department and the US Department of Education. There were at least 11 complaints filed against her for the same thing in 3 different school districts. I was offered 6 positions the following year; I turned them all down. She is now an Administrator in the Montgomery Public School System.
Tort Waiting to Happen Zilla
He called me “Nipples.” I was the most educated person that worked there, and he called me “Nipples.” I explained that I didn’t like to be called “Nipples.” I still can’t remember why I didn’t sue him.
FriendZilla
You can’t be friends with your boss. It’s a recipe for disaster. You really don’t want to be getting all Jacked up with the person who can decide your fate. I had a boss who was very friendly at first. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for me at first. I was her favorite at work. It was no secret. I took advantage of our relationship, at times. Everything was fine-- until it wasn’t. She became jealous of the success I was having in our industry. She found out a company in Atlanta was scouting me to come work for them, and she got mad. She found out I was asked to present at a conference about African-Americans in the industry, and her not- black-at- all ass was furious! Then she fired me. I was crushed. I got over it, eventually.
Getting fired was the best thing that ever happened to me. Yes, I was a snot ball for a few weeks, but I learned a lot. I learned to be resourceful. I learned that I was strong. I learned that I don’t do well in captivity. I learned that after all those years of thinking I was a bad employee; I really was a bad employee. I’m from the era where you graduate high school, if you’re lucky enough to go to college-you go- and then you take the first job you’re offered, and stay there until you die. Nobody retired in my old hood. I was trained to play the game, but the training didn’t take. No one ever told me I could own my own business, when I was growing up. No one ever told me I could be an artist or actor or anything that required creativity or individuality. I raged against the machine from childhood. I had no idea why I was always in trouble for speaking my mind. I became a true threat in 6th grade when I did my first and only impersonation of my music teacher. She had it put in my permenant record that I was “smart and devilish and I had an attitude problem.”Pfffffft. (Eye roll, tooth suck, cobra neck)!!!!!!!
Armed with the knowledge I have now, would I have done things differently? Probably not. I see people that started their careers the same time I started mine, and some have really great jobs and lives. Others have fallen prey to greed and power. If I had changed a thing, I wouldn’t be where I am now. I have never been able to play the game well. I’ve never been able to just shut up and go along. I’m dyslexic which makes life hard for an avid reader and even harder for a secret writer. I’m a horrible typist. I’m impatient with people over 18 and under 65. I can do just about anything, but nothing that pays the bills. But, I’m great on the phone. I could always be a telemarketer, if I can get rid of this accent.
I believe one day I’ll be rewarded for doing my own thing. Funny is the only true talent God gave me. I don’t try to be funny. I just am. I try not to offend people. I try not to curse like a sailor. Shut UP! I try not to make my Mama ashamed. I try not to come across like one of those folks on Comic View. Trying to make a career out of making people think and making people laugh is a full time job. It’ll pay off. I’ll make it. And when you see me dressed to the nines, looking like a fluffy Halle Berry, sitting beside Oprah talking about my one-woman show on Broadway; you can say you remember when they used to call me nipples.
In the event I don’t make it on Oprah next week, and I have used you as a reference, just say the following things about me: She types 100 words per minute with 99% accuracy. She has a great attitude. She is a team player. She has never filed an EEOC complaint against anyone. She has never been in Girls Gone Wild. She would be an asset to your university/firm/strip club/convenience store.
Until next time, YeeHaw!
As I litter the Tulsa Metroplex with my resume, I pause to reflect on past bosses. I’ve had a couple of great bosses and quite a few really bad bosses. I have bosses that I don’t even remember. I loved that dude who was manager at Lane Bryant when I worked there during the 2000 Christmas season, but I can’t remember his name to save my life. I can remember almost every stinking detail about the bad ones!
BossZilla
The worst boss I ever had had cancer twice and it didn’t killer. Either time. She’s still alive and kicking. Evil must be the secret to a long life. She would roll up at the school still glowing from chemo and go into a shrill hissyfit. Who in their right mind would leave chemo and come to work? Who would leave chemo and start cussing people out? BossZilla. Instead of thanking teachers and students for their prayers, she’d say something like, “That bulletin board looks like s#%^” She was principal at the last school I ever taught in. She was the bile flavored icing on the cake that soured me to teaching in Montgomery County. I watched her peel a little first grader off of her when he hugged her- not because of the chemo, but because” his hands are nasty.”
There was only one thing me and this one could ever agree on: WE HATED EACH OTHER. She embarrassed me and my co-teacher once so badly in public that it brought me to tears. After that, the gloves were off. I tapped into my inner ghetto girl, and it was on and poppin like bacon grease in Granny’s cast iron skillet. I became walking defiance. More like sauntering, electric sliding defiance. The woman had a proven record of not tenuring black teachers. The school board knew it, the unnamed lobbying association knew it, and the three black teachers at the school knew it. Unlike the other black teachers at the school, I wasn’t afraid of her. I wasn’t afraid for my future. I wasn’t afraid for my job. I knew that she was going to non-renew my contract, but what she didn’t know is I had a copy of a memo she had written to an unnamed Administrator that specifically asked how she could get me moved without her having to deal with the “race issue.” Sidebar: Always be nice to the cleaning people, they can be your greatest friend or your worst enemy. I filed a complaint with the Justice Department and the US Department of Education. There were at least 11 complaints filed against her for the same thing in 3 different school districts. I was offered 6 positions the following year; I turned them all down. She is now an Administrator in the Montgomery Public School System.
Tort Waiting to Happen Zilla
He called me “Nipples.” I was the most educated person that worked there, and he called me “Nipples.” I explained that I didn’t like to be called “Nipples.” I still can’t remember why I didn’t sue him.
FriendZilla
You can’t be friends with your boss. It’s a recipe for disaster. You really don’t want to be getting all Jacked up with the person who can decide your fate. I had a boss who was very friendly at first. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for me at first. I was her favorite at work. It was no secret. I took advantage of our relationship, at times. Everything was fine-- until it wasn’t. She became jealous of the success I was having in our industry. She found out a company in Atlanta was scouting me to come work for them, and she got mad. She found out I was asked to present at a conference about African-Americans in the industry, and her not- black-at- all ass was furious! Then she fired me. I was crushed. I got over it, eventually.
Getting fired was the best thing that ever happened to me. Yes, I was a snot ball for a few weeks, but I learned a lot. I learned to be resourceful. I learned that I was strong. I learned that I don’t do well in captivity. I learned that after all those years of thinking I was a bad employee; I really was a bad employee. I’m from the era where you graduate high school, if you’re lucky enough to go to college-you go- and then you take the first job you’re offered, and stay there until you die. Nobody retired in my old hood. I was trained to play the game, but the training didn’t take. No one ever told me I could own my own business, when I was growing up. No one ever told me I could be an artist or actor or anything that required creativity or individuality. I raged against the machine from childhood. I had no idea why I was always in trouble for speaking my mind. I became a true threat in 6th grade when I did my first and only impersonation of my music teacher. She had it put in my permenant record that I was “smart and devilish and I had an attitude problem.”Pfffffft. (Eye roll, tooth suck, cobra neck)!!!!!!!
Armed with the knowledge I have now, would I have done things differently? Probably not. I see people that started their careers the same time I started mine, and some have really great jobs and lives. Others have fallen prey to greed and power. If I had changed a thing, I wouldn’t be where I am now. I have never been able to play the game well. I’ve never been able to just shut up and go along. I’m dyslexic which makes life hard for an avid reader and even harder for a secret writer. I’m a horrible typist. I’m impatient with people over 18 and under 65. I can do just about anything, but nothing that pays the bills. But, I’m great on the phone. I could always be a telemarketer, if I can get rid of this accent.
I believe one day I’ll be rewarded for doing my own thing. Funny is the only true talent God gave me. I don’t try to be funny. I just am. I try not to offend people. I try not to curse like a sailor. Shut UP! I try not to make my Mama ashamed. I try not to come across like one of those folks on Comic View. Trying to make a career out of making people think and making people laugh is a full time job. It’ll pay off. I’ll make it. And when you see me dressed to the nines, looking like a fluffy Halle Berry, sitting beside Oprah talking about my one-woman show on Broadway; you can say you remember when they used to call me nipples.
In the event I don’t make it on Oprah next week, and I have used you as a reference, just say the following things about me: She types 100 words per minute with 99% accuracy. She has a great attitude. She is a team player. She has never filed an EEOC complaint against anyone. She has never been in Girls Gone Wild. She would be an asset to your university/firm/strip club/convenience store.
Until next time, YeeHaw!
Monday, November 8, 2010
The McBrothas: Preschool Pariahs
They told me I couldn’t have any more babies in 1997. They lied. I found myself inexplicably knocked up in 2005 and 2006. Ok, it’s not inexplicable, but it is surprising since I am the proud owner of a prolapsed this, half-torqued that, a scrambled egg, and Frankenwomb. Hell, I should get sole Executive Producing credit on “I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant!” Once again, I find myself robbed of a reality show, but I digress. Anyhow, after finding about the impending miracle babies, I set about finding names for the children that wouldn’t be too ethnic, too granola, or just plain cringe worthy. So, Debrickashaw, Earthflake, and Shirley were out of contention for the boy name coronation. My name drew a butt load of teasing for me as a kid. I was an Orange Bowl float without a parade. And, my husband’s name is cool for a man in France, only in France. The one thing we bonded over from the very beginning was we’d never give our kids names that would get them a front row seat on the Wedgie Express or a special dispensation by the National Bullying Association as Ass Kickees for Life. Mr. Rene and I know a thing or two about being jacked with because of names, and we were duty bound to protect them.
We settled on Daniel and Adam because they were biblical, practical, and no one would ever make any assumptions about their race, gender, or awesomeness based on their names. We thought we got it right. Daniel would grow up to be brave and faithful when faced with life’s lion dens. Adam would be man enough to listen to his woman, even when she’s telling him to do something downright stupid—I love that in a man. Theologically the kids would be alright.
In hindsight, we were wrong. Jim Bakker crying on t.v. wrong. Jersey Shore being on the air wrong. No playoff in college football wrong. We should have gone with more Nordic names: Daniel the Destroyer and Adam the Abolisher. As they have grown into toddlerhood, one thing has become very apparent: these little wonder twins can tear up anything. Theologically, the kids may be alright, but the husband and I are about ready to remove everything from the house, and force them to live and play in cardboard boxes until we can ship them off to college or boarding school. Mr. Rene looks at me with distrust after the inevitable 5pm crash—not when the stock market closes, but when one hoists the other into the kitchen cabinet to get down a plate. I think Mr. Rene thinks that he may not be the father. Well, he is their damn daddy. He is brute force incarnate. Any man who can pick up a washer and dryer without a dolly and carry it is a bit of a damn heathen.
I have a recurring nightmare about my husband taking me on Maury Povitch demanding a DNA test on me and David Banner of the Incredible Hulk Banners. I see the husband sitting there all smug, telling Maury the kids have superhuman strength, so there is no way he is the father. We cut to a commercial for Binder and Binder, while I rack my brain, “Did I do shots with that dude at Bud’s? Damn you, bartender for overserving me, again! “
Back from commercial, Maury is waving the DNA result packet around like it’s a flag on Puerto Rican Day in the Bronx. And I want to go upside his head something fierce. Old David is sitting there chameleonizing from lime green to spring maple leaf. Maury makes on last ditch effort to get me to come clean about creeping with David. “Maury,” I say, “ There is no way I had relations with THE HULK. I’d remember that, even after the Jager!” Maury slowly opens the envelope, looks at Mr. Rene, “YOU ARRREEE The Father!” I get my cobra neck roll on, as only the animated baby mamas on this show can. The audience is shouting, the Hulk is sweating green food color everywhere, and I wake up to the sound of something breaking. It’s not the Hulk, it’s one of my beloved, beautiful cherubs, knocking a picture frame off of the mantle. The Mantle. What kind of lizard toes does a kid have to climb up on a damn mantle?
Since we’ve been in OK, the boys have taken a ceremonial leap off of their bunk beds onto their ceiling fan, leaving it minus a blade. Five minutes after my new to me sofa arrived in the house, Adam bled on it. Daniel, in an effort to prove asthma can be contracted by an entire family in one sitting, sprayed an entire canister of Glade all over the bathroom to mask the smell of a heinous stinky.
There is no reason why I should have to seek employment. My children are baby model beautiful, but I don’t take them on model calls, because I’m afraid of them drop kicking a photographer or burning down a modeling agency. I think it’s a cruel joke that the big guy has given me such cute kids, yet, I’m unable to profit from them. Hell, the Lohans ain’t as cute as my boys, yet the Deena gets to spend all of her young ‘uns earnings on new clothes…I want a chance, too! In the words of Daniel the Destroyer, “Not Fair!”
Beat them. I know that’s what you’re thinking. Beating them only makes them stronger, and turn a strange shade of chartreuse. Mr. Rene says that’s all the proof he needs. I tell Mr. Rene’ it’s a side effect of race mixing. It happens to all biracial kids. It’s what the klan tried to warn you about. Then I remember sitting next to a green dude at the World Famous Johnny Zip Lounge.
We settled on Daniel and Adam because they were biblical, practical, and no one would ever make any assumptions about their race, gender, or awesomeness based on their names. We thought we got it right. Daniel would grow up to be brave and faithful when faced with life’s lion dens. Adam would be man enough to listen to his woman, even when she’s telling him to do something downright stupid—I love that in a man. Theologically the kids would be alright.
In hindsight, we were wrong. Jim Bakker crying on t.v. wrong. Jersey Shore being on the air wrong. No playoff in college football wrong. We should have gone with more Nordic names: Daniel the Destroyer and Adam the Abolisher. As they have grown into toddlerhood, one thing has become very apparent: these little wonder twins can tear up anything. Theologically, the kids may be alright, but the husband and I are about ready to remove everything from the house, and force them to live and play in cardboard boxes until we can ship them off to college or boarding school. Mr. Rene looks at me with distrust after the inevitable 5pm crash—not when the stock market closes, but when one hoists the other into the kitchen cabinet to get down a plate. I think Mr. Rene thinks that he may not be the father. Well, he is their damn daddy. He is brute force incarnate. Any man who can pick up a washer and dryer without a dolly and carry it is a bit of a damn heathen.
I have a recurring nightmare about my husband taking me on Maury Povitch demanding a DNA test on me and David Banner of the Incredible Hulk Banners. I see the husband sitting there all smug, telling Maury the kids have superhuman strength, so there is no way he is the father. We cut to a commercial for Binder and Binder, while I rack my brain, “Did I do shots with that dude at Bud’s? Damn you, bartender for overserving me, again! “
Back from commercial, Maury is waving the DNA result packet around like it’s a flag on Puerto Rican Day in the Bronx. And I want to go upside his head something fierce. Old David is sitting there chameleonizing from lime green to spring maple leaf. Maury makes on last ditch effort to get me to come clean about creeping with David. “Maury,” I say, “ There is no way I had relations with THE HULK. I’d remember that, even after the Jager!” Maury slowly opens the envelope, looks at Mr. Rene, “YOU ARRREEE The Father!” I get my cobra neck roll on, as only the animated baby mamas on this show can. The audience is shouting, the Hulk is sweating green food color everywhere, and I wake up to the sound of something breaking. It’s not the Hulk, it’s one of my beloved, beautiful cherubs, knocking a picture frame off of the mantle. The Mantle. What kind of lizard toes does a kid have to climb up on a damn mantle?
Since we’ve been in OK, the boys have taken a ceremonial leap off of their bunk beds onto their ceiling fan, leaving it minus a blade. Five minutes after my new to me sofa arrived in the house, Adam bled on it. Daniel, in an effort to prove asthma can be contracted by an entire family in one sitting, sprayed an entire canister of Glade all over the bathroom to mask the smell of a heinous stinky.
There is no reason why I should have to seek employment. My children are baby model beautiful, but I don’t take them on model calls, because I’m afraid of them drop kicking a photographer or burning down a modeling agency. I think it’s a cruel joke that the big guy has given me such cute kids, yet, I’m unable to profit from them. Hell, the Lohans ain’t as cute as my boys, yet the Deena gets to spend all of her young ‘uns earnings on new clothes…I want a chance, too! In the words of Daniel the Destroyer, “Not Fair!”
Beat them. I know that’s what you’re thinking. Beating them only makes them stronger, and turn a strange shade of chartreuse. Mr. Rene says that’s all the proof he needs. I tell Mr. Rene’ it’s a side effect of race mixing. It happens to all biracial kids. It’s what the klan tried to warn you about. Then I remember sitting next to a green dude at the World Famous Johnny Zip Lounge.
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