by Amber Ruffin
Ooh! Side story. Once, another Black actress at that theater was asked out to lunch by the owner and he started the lunch by saying, “So! How’s your family in Omaha?” She said, that’s Amber Ruffin. Not me. She excused herself, went to the bathroom and cried, sucked it up, came back, and was a delight to be around. The two of them had a fun lunch. Now, did he think she was me? Who’s to say? But he definitely did.
Footnotes
1 I have no business making a Designing Women reference. But if you got it, I need you to tweet at me and say, “Fear not, Amber. I, too, am old.”
2 Do you spell it ho or hoe? I’ve seen both and I prefer adding the extra “e.” It just feels more fun. But I bet the most fun way to spell it is “heaux.” I’m gonna try that one day.
I Do Not Care for These Stories
I wouldn’t believe these stories either, but hey, they happened. In this chapter, things are about to get gross, y’all. We’re gonna take a look at some stories that still have me saying, “What the fuck?” Most of these have special surprise endings. I mean, they would be surprising if you read them anywhere other than in this book.
We were taught how to handle unfair situations by our mother. She was very Mrs. Huxtable about everything. She always calmly presented idiots with proof that they were being idiots and let them trap themselves. It’s masterful. She’s a very smart lady. She’s an extremely intelligent and extremely cool dude. There are countless times when I watched her handle a teacher or furniture salesman who was being racist or sexist like a boss. It was the best way to learn. And, unfortunately, a necessary thing growing up in Omaha. I’ve seen her handle a million situations with grace, but there were three times in my whole life when I remember her really sticking it to someone. Now, you would think if you spend years and years of your life taking care of your kids, sacrificing, being the perfect mommy, they would, bare minimum, not write a book that has the three times you were less than cordial to someone who deserved to be punched in the mouth, but here we are. That’s why this section is called:
My Mother, the Executioner
One afternoon, the day before Thanksgiving, I was working on my homework in the living room when the doorbell rang. At this time, our neighborhood was maybe 50/50 Black/white. There was little to no crime, my elementary school was great, and there was no reason for me not to open the door. I looked out the window and saw a white woman and her daughter. The woman was forty-something and her child was a teenager. They were dressed like they had just come from church. I opened the door. When you’re a kid, there’s nothing better than opening the door to a stranger. What do they want? Why are they here? Is it Dad’s coworker? Did we order a pizza? It could only be fun. Now, these people were all smiles and so was I. I was a kid and the world was good. There’s no way someone would ever show up to your house to deliver racism! The woman had a big box of food. A turkey, canned goods, dessert stuff, treats. It was a huge box of goodies! I looked at the box and was so excited at the thought of free food. The woman said something like, “This is for you! We at [whatever church she was from] are doing our best to make sure every family has a great Thanksgiving!” I took the box from her and I exclaimed, “You’re just giving us all this food for free?”
What I didn’t understand was that sometimes churches go to poor neighborhoods and give out Thanksgiving care packages. This woman and her child came to our neighborhood and thought they were in the ghetto. OUR NEIGHBOR HAS A POOL WITH A SLIDE. These people are too lazy to go where their gift might actually be needed. Omaha has real project housing, people who may really need this food, and they decide to come to our neighborhood ’cause it has some Black people in it. And some is more than the none they’re used to.
My mother heard me shout to some white lady about “giving us food” and knew instantly what was up. She tore down the hallway, snatched the giant box from me, and told me to go to my room. As I did, I remember hearing her say with a level of disgust I’d never heard before, “You brought your child with you?” My mom continued to enlighten this woman, but she was speaking in hushed tones so I wouldn’t know how bad the world is yet, and she was likely destroying this little white girl’s faith in her mom.
It wasn’t until years later that I understood what had happened. This poor idiot and her kid were pretending to do good and, worst of all, wasting all that food.
When I was in maybe third grade I was really into arts and crafts. I tried a little bit of everything. I loved looking in our children’s encyclopedias for different crafts you can do and the countries they come from and other boring PBS crap. I liked learning about different arts and crafts and what they were called so I could use the word macrame. It never came in handy; I’m pretty sure this is the first time I ever used that word. I would sit in my room for hours with old magazines, cut them up and put the tiny pieces in separate piles sorted by color, slather a piece of cardboard with glue, and make mosaics. It was truly the most fun, and, writing this, I realize crafts are what my life’s been missing.
***Googles “scrapbooking,” realizes it’s just too much, decides life’s full enough.***
So I came home with this library book and I was enthralled. It was some old arts and crafts book from, I think, the sixties? I sit on the couch and get to planning my next adventure! As I’m reading this book, I come across something I’ve never seen before. Something called a golliwog. A doll with a black face and big red lips, hair in five poofy, short ponytails, and raggedy clothes. I immediately hate the fact that there is a craft that I am not familiar with. I’m a third-grade craft expert! How could this happen? And it is presented in a way that’s like, “Everyone knows what this is and here’s our version of it.” So I wonder if this is a real thing or if these people just made it up. There’s only one person to ask: Mommy! I walk up to her and give her the book and ask her about this doll. She is immediately infuriated. This woman picks up the phone to call our elementary school. A little insight into who Mom is—the school’s phone number is memorized. Simultaneously, she opens the book, looks at the copyright date, and asks for the librarian. Bit of backstory: my mother has helped out a lot around the school and I’m the youngest of five, so these people know my mom by now. Perpetual Room Mother, Cafeteria Cashier, Head Baker for All Bake Sales, Teacher’s Assistant, PTA President, Safe House before and after school. They have to know something bad’s about to happen. So Mom gets the librarian on the phone and calmly rips her a new one for exposing her child to racist imagery. She tells this librarian exactly what golliwogs are and where they come from and what it means to Black people. Y’all, if I could’ve written down what she said to this librarian, I would’ve gotten an A in African American studies. Before she hangs up, she explains what danger this seemingly harmless book puts Black and white children in. She takes the book and explains to me that we live in a house full of books and there are a lot to choose from. I would need to read one of those. This ancient arts and crafts book is no longer an option.
My stories about Mom verbally executing people are like these artful, well-thought-out, beautiful speeches she made that have just the right amount of meanness and spunk. I learned so much from watching her shake people out of their ignorance with her words. But, once, things went a little differently.
I have heard what is known in the Ruffin family as “The Tale of Disneyland’s Parking Lot.” It goes as follows: We five children were in the van with Mom, excited and ready for a fun day at Disneyland, when Mom pulled in to a parking spot that someone felt they had a right to. That person was very mad. So mad that he yelled, “Fuckin’ n*****!” He yelled that to a woman in a van full of children! Mom, without missing a beat, flips this dude the bird and replies, “I got your n***** right here, bitch.” And this little bitch proved his supreme bitchtitude because he drove away silent, scared of a five-foot-one-inch 120-pound woman. She then turned to Lacey and Angie, the only ones who heard, and said, “Don’t tell your father I did that.”
Which brings us to an
unexpected part of this book called “Your Options.”
Your Options
When you are in a racist situation, you have many options. It always depends on what situation you’re in, what they’ve said, who’s with you, and how far you are from home. Your safety comes first. So sometimes it seems as though you’re making a crazy decision but what you’re really doing is staying safe. Here are some of your options:
You can do nothing.
Doing nothing is always fun. You just let whatever racist thing that happened happen. The person looks you dead in the eye after having said some nutzo stuff and, unbothered, you return their gaze, forcing them to think you haven’t been listening. If done right, it can be pretty fun.
You can walk away.
This one is one of my favorites. When someone says something crazy nowadays, I like to, midsentence, walk away and never return. You can also wait until they’re done speaking and hold eye contact. They’ll expect you to start talking but you never do! In fact, you leave!
You can calmly talk to the person and hope they’ll see your side of things.
This is for religious people or young, good people who are full of life, laughter, and love. I don’t do this one anymore, so Godspeed.
You can expose them as the dumbass they are.
This can simply be accomplished by telling the truth! I think this is the most common thing to do. It’s still fun and you don’t have to feel like you acquiesced.
You can hurt their feelings.
They really crossed the line or you’re drunk or you have just had it. And this is the risk people run when they say something racist—they don’t know where they fall on the list of dumb racist stuff you’ve heard that day. They could be the first or the fortieth thing! And, because eating shit is bad for you, if it happens frequently enough, at some point you’re just gonna snap on a racist. The good thing about it is, it’s a moment they learn from and will likely never forget. And you are always completely justified.
You can invite them to make their words match their actions, or back the fuck off.
When people say the n-word, they’re looking for something. You might feel like giving them what they’re looking for! Now, this last option comes in handy more than you’d think. See, when you’re a little, nicely put-together Black lady, a lot of people think you are to be messed with. They think they can bring their racism to you, so they can get the—high?—of being a big bad supremacist. They think you can be played, and if you shy away from them, they may just see how far they can push you. It’s like handling a bully at school. Sometimes the way not to get your ass beat is to demand a person fight you. And when they realize they are too big a wimp to do that, they understand the world a little bit better. In some ways, it’s more helpful than calmly talking to them!
My dad is gonna be so disappointed at the amount of foul language in this book! Side story: Here’s who Dad is: He is, like, the happiest, nicest, most soft-spoken man in the world. Which, frankly, opens him up to a lot of being bothered for fun. Dad likes to take a nap when he gets home from work. He has sleep apnea and is no good without his nap. Whenever he sleeps during the day, I bother him for fun. He’s too tired to get up, so you can’t get in trouble. It’s a great time. I like to knock on his door and serenade him with the same song every time. The hit song “Sleepy Daddy” to the tune of the most beautiful song in the world: “Reflection” from the Disney musical Mulan. It always goes like this:
(I knock on the door. Dad wakes up to say:)
DAD: Yes?
AMBER: Look at me. You may think you see that dad is awake.
But my daddy’s sleepy. Every day, he sleeps at the same old time.
Now I see, if I wake him up, I can have some fun, but it’s gonna make him maaaad.
DAD: Amber, get out of here with that. I’m trying to sleep now.
(I leave. Five minutes later, I knock on the door.)
DAD: Yes?
AMBER: I am now in a world where I have to hide my song and how loud I sing it.
But somehow I will show my dad just how loud I sing until he tells me to stop.
DAD: Why are you doing this? If you don’t get out of here, you’re gonna get it.
(I leave. Five minutes later, I knock on the door.)
DAD: Amber, you better not be—
AMBER: WHOOOOOO IS MY SLEEPY DAD? IS HE DREAMING? IS HE MAD? WHY IS SLEEPY DADDY SOMEONE I DON’T KNOW? I WON’T PRETEND THAT I’M GONNA STOP FOR BEDTIME.
DAD: (Throws shoe) Get out! Get out! This isn’t funny. I’m trying to sleep!
AMBER: When will sleepy daddy show who Sing it, Dad!
DAD: No. Get out of here.
AMBER: Who he is insiiiiide!
Not my best parody but it’s the only way I can get my dad to sleep. And then, at the end, I take a bow and, I’m not kidding, after all that, he APPLAUDS! He gives me a literal round of applause because the song is over and he feels his child did a good job. He can’t help it! He’s too nice! Anyway, in case you’re wondering, that’s who Dad is.
Speaking of Mom and Dad, we aren’t going to get into their stories but I do think I have to tell this one. My parents were both in the air force, and that’s why our family lives in Omaha. There’s an air force base in Bellevue, right outside of Omaha, that they had been stationed at and they just decided to stay here. Our parents saw that North Omaha was underserved in many ways, so they decided to start a day-care center.
They moved to North Omaha in the 1970s and bought an elder-care center and converted it into a day-care center. In the basement was a cafeteria, outside was a whole playground, and the main floor was a giant playroom. It was a pretty cool place full of books and toys.
Turns out, North Omaha had no other real day cares at that time. So their place filled up fast. It got to the point where almost every Black family in Omaha had a kid there. To this day, people pull me aside and say, “Are you a Ruffin? Your mom and dad used to babysit me! Tell them my family says hello!” Then you come home and tell Mom and Dad that their family says hello and, without fail, they go, “Oh! I remember them! What a sweet child. Just a joy to have around.” If a person exists who Mr. and Mrs. Ruffin don’t like, you don’t wanna meet ’em.
So the day care is going great. Mom and Dad are the first day care to offer flu shots in the Midwest, they figure out how to accept government assistance for child care so a lot of parents in the neighborhood can afford them; they really feel like they’re a part of the community. They even get a day-care van to pick up and drop off children. In fact, before their day-care van, State Farm had no other such vans in the Midwest, so Mom, Dad, and State Farm had to sit down and invent their insurance policy. Neat, huh?
Anyway, Mom and Dad are making a lot of money at this day care and doing quite well. I mean, it’s a lot of money. They renovated our house. It was the picture of seventies glamour: shag carpeting, woven wood curtains, and an orange fun-house-mirrored bar. I can’t describe it; it was just so very cool. They have our oldest two sisters and things are looking up.
After years of success, they have two facilities, twenty-two staff members, and around 200 children. They are visited by the woman whose job it is to decide which facilities can receive money from the government. Jill Bratcher. She sees Mom and Dad and their success and is not pleased. During her visit, she looks at the books and, out loud, says, “How could you have cleared this much money? You cleared this much money?” She runs the numbers again and again, sure that they’ve got it wrong. Mom steps away for a second and comes back and Jill Bratcher is cussing out one of the teachers. Mom tells her that we don’t talk to our staff like that. Jill Bratcher says, “Come on. You know you guys use profanity.” This woman thinks it’s okay to come into this place with Black people and start cussing at them. Because we are Black and Black people cuss a lot. Even in a frigging day-care center full of children! She’s crazy. But Mom’s standing up for her employee has made Jill Bratcher very upset.
Jill Bratcher wor
ks in an office next to one of Mom’s good friends, Sheila. Later that same day, Sheila calls Mom and says she just heard the woman in the next office say, “Theresa Ruffin doesn’t know who she’s dealing with.” Sheila and Mom have a talk about Jill Bratcher. Mom remembers her saying that Jill was “very punitive.” She had never heard anyone use the word punitive about a person. Mom starts getting phone calls from kids’ parents saying, “Someone visited my house and told me I have to pull my kids out of your day care.” Now, ninety percent of the kids in the day care received government assistance. If the government took them off of the list of subsidized day cares, there wouldn’t be enough kids to keep the day care open. But, more importantly, there would be a period of time where 200 children had nowhere to go to be taken care of while their parents worked.
There are different health inspectors assigned to different zones. And after Jill’s visit, when it’s time for the health inspector to come, everyone sees it’s a brand-new guy. Not just any guy, the guy who is in charge of inspecting the boys’ home way out in West Omaha. He was famous for giving them failing grades and that place has the support of millionaires. So Mom and Dad know what they’re in for. This man is visibly grossed out to even have to be here. And even though they never have before, this time, they fail their test. But, like, not over little stuff. Over big stuff that would take some renovation to fix. Jill Bratcher immediately takes Mom and Dad’s day care off the list and shuts them down. This woman takes away twenty-two jobs and leaves 200 kids without a place to go. She could not deal with Black people being this successful. My parents sell it, and it re-opens later with different owners and zero renovations.
