The Last Black Unicorn - Tiffany Haddish Page 0,79

I am blessed.

We Not Done

Growing up, I just wanted to feel wanted.

I often think about having kids. Since I am single as fuck and getting older, I’m thinking I will adopt a kid. Maybe an eight-year-old or a nine-year-old, something like that.

I was in that spot. When you’re like ten and a foster kid, nobody wants you around, because they think you’re done. There’s no way you’re going to come out from that situation undamaged.

I remember when I was in school, the social worker was like, “Her comprehension is not good.”

I comprehended very well. I knew what they was talking about. I was just quiet, because I didn’t want to get popped. Because there was popping at the school back then, in the hood in South Central. Them teachers would slap the shit out your ass.

Before high school, I didn’t talk much. When I did talk, I was on the playground. I would want to play with the boys, because if somebody picked on me while I was playing basketball, the other dudes would be like, “Man, leave her alone. She’s with us.” They would protect me.

That’s what I wanted. Someone to protect me. Something to be part of.

Eventually, I realized the only thing I could really be a part of was drama or being the mascot or working the Bar Mitzvahs. That’s the only way I could feel included.

What did they all have in common?

Entertainment. Performing. Being something that other people wanted me to be. Those were the only things I’d be included in.

Not to be Tiffany. To be outside of myself. Because myself wasn’t necessarily . . . I felt like I wasn’t good enough. Just being me wasn’t good enough. Not for my parents, not for school, not for anything.

I got into the entertainment business so I could feel accepted. And loved. And safe.

When I go onstage to do comedy, it’s about me. I feel accepted for who I am. I can go onstage with my hair fucked up, no makeup, ugly-ass clothes I’ve been wearing for three days, and people still appreciate me. They still laugh.

Being onstage is my safest place. It’s the only place I’ve ever felt like nobody’s going to jump up and beat me, and if somebody do beat me, there’s so many people in here they’re going to stop it.

And it’s onstage where my voice is heard. I’m not being shut out. It’s where I am accepted.

I just shot my special in a theater that seats four hundred people. They had to turn lots of people away. Those people came to see me. Whether it was to see me succeed or to see me fail, they still came for me.

It’s a safe place, like I’m being loved and admired. I know it’s not really that, but it’s the closest I’ve ever really had, so far.

I didn’t start out with the intention of writing about all this painful stuff. I just wanted to write a funny book.

I don’t normally like getting all deep into painful shit. I like to skip across the ocean of emotion. I feel like that’s better.

But once I started working on this book, I got into all this shit. If something comes up, I’m going to talk about it. I’m going to tell you about it, and if it hurts, that’s too bad. I’m going to be like, “Yo, that shit hurt, but let me tell you though.”

That’s who I am.

I feel like, honestly, that’s the only reason I’m still alive. Because I’m willing to talk about my stuff. Whether it’s onstage, or with friends, or in this book.

I think that’s why I came back to comedy, after being out of it for a while in my teens and early twenties. So I had a place to talk about my painful stuff, to share it, and to do it in a way that worked, and helped out other people, too.

My friend told me that people who haven’t lived anything even close to a life like mine, even they think they are the fucked up ones, and that everyone else is normal:

Friend: “Tiffany, everyone has some version of this in their life. Everyone has their own personal pain and their own demons, and no one will talk about it, and that’s why they never get better. They’re all afraid to talk about it.”

I guess I’m not afraid to talk about it.

It just hurts a lot when I do.

I believe in God. And I believe I have a purpose in life. I believe we all do. I believe you do, too.

I believe my purpose is to bring joy to people, to make them laugh, and to share my story to help them. To show people that no matter what, they matter, and they can succeed. No matter how bad things go, no matter how dark your life is, there is a reason for it. You can find beauty in it, and you can get better. I know, because I’ve done it.

That’s why my comedy so often comes from my pain. In my life, and I hope in yours, I want us to grow roses out of the poop.