The Last Black Unicorn(63)

Rumpelstiltskin: “Girl, you must be about to start your period. I’m gonna call you back.”

Two days later, he called back.

Rumpelstiltskin: “We put the offer in to your people, Tiffany. Now you just gotta tell them you want to do it.”

Tiffany: “Yeah, okay. But it sound like to me, somebody is trying to eat off of my plate. I don’t know if a thousand dollars a minute gonna get it anymore. I really don’t know if that’s gonna get it. You know?”

Rumpelstiltskin: “Well shit, if you do forty minutes, that’s forty thousand dollars.”

Tiffany: “I know, right? And if you sold out an arena, and you selling tickets for $50 to $150 a ticket, shit, that’s going to be more than that. That’s going to be a lot more. Well into the six figures. I mean, I’m going to need to make some money, too.”

Rumpelstiltskin: “Who are you right now?”

Tiffany: “I’m Tiffany-Motherfucking-Haddish, who I always been! Rumpelstiltskin, I like you, I really do, but you not going to take advantage of me, Rumpelstiltskin. That’s not going to happen.”

Rumpelstiltskin: “Ah baby, you hilarious. You hilarious.”

Tiffany: “Nah, but for real, go talk to my team, and I will discuss it with them, and they will get back to you later.”

I just hung up the phone.

Oh BOY, that call felt good!!

I was so close to saying this to him: “Yeah, I’ll do it, if you open up that booty hole. You gotta open up that booty hole for me, though.”

I didn’t say that, though. I sure wanted to, but I didn’t. Rumpelstiltskin may not be a great person, but he’s not a bad person. He’s all right, he doesn’t deserve that sort of treatment. And it’s unprofessional, and I’m not going to be like that.

But seriously, that’s the kind of stuff that’s been going on. A lot of people that told me I couldn’t make it, or tried to take advantage of me, now they are trying to figure out a different way to take advantage or be on my team in some kind of way.

But that’s not going to happen. I’m a survivor, and all this struggle I went through—while it sucked at the time—is really helping me now. It has helped me get to where I am, and it will help me continue to improve and do better.

It didn’t always feel like it at times, but I truly believe 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.”