There Goes My Social Life

by Stacey Dash

  A few hours later, I woke up from a Sunday afternoon nap, turned over in my bed, and turned on my laptop.

  “Oh my God,” I said. Normally, when I logged into Twitter, I’d see a few tweets and mentions. People would say something about one of my movies. Someone might ask about my life now. But now my Twitter feed was brimming with notes and messages.

  Had I hit upon an enormous Romney-supporting demographic in Hollywood?

  i unfollowed stacey dash dumb ass

  That’s how the first tweet read. Hum. So I guess you win some, you lose some. Everyone’s entitled to an opinion.

  so Stacey Dash supports Shitty Mitty . . . more power to her.

  That was a bit better, I guess. But as I scrolled down my feed, I realized the reactions were overwhelmingly critical.

  I’m just going to hope that Stacy Dash (@REALStaceyDash) has had her Twitter account hacked . . .

  Stacey Dash need to start coppin pleas ASAP.. say she was hacked, popped a Molly something

  @REALStaceyDash just want attention because your career is played out.

  An to think u were my favorite masturbation fantasy as a child @REALStaceyDash. I’m so disappointed in you!

  Shut up bitch.

  There was a time when I would walk through fire for @REALStaceyDash Now I wanna throw her in a volcano

  Bitch, you rich. Fuck them n-ggers.

  @REALStaceyDash . . . . . . .how can u..as a woman. . . . support Romney? All racial issues aside . . .

  @ guess u didnt read the black bible

  Doesn’t matter one way or the other. Stacey Dash is irrelevant . . . and has been irrelevant for SOME TIME NOW.

  There were several that wished me death by suicide . . . oddly, the sentiment was always the same, but the spelling and capitalization wildly varied:

  kill yourself

  Kill urself!

  Kill yourself

  Kill yo self

  Others got personal. Really personal.

  This hurts but you a Romney lover and you slutting yourself to the white man only proves why no black man married u @REALStaceyDash.

  She’s an indoor slave. You know that Sis. You ready to head back to the fields, jiggaboo?

  Stacey Dash has probably been thinking she’s white since her Clueless days. All the signs were there.

  So Stacey Dash buck tooth ass really voting for Romney!! Bitch, you black and Mexican . . . do yo think yo bloodline gone survive or something

  The famous actor Samuel L. Jackson even piled on.

  Wait, did Stacey Dash Really endorse Romney today?! REALLY????! Is she CRA . . . . . . . . . . .??!

  I pulled the covers up to my chin. My home was located in Studio City, a neighborhood in Los Angeles named after an old 1927 studio lot. The San Fernando Valley has been home to many celebrities, such as Ed Asner, Ryan Gosling, George Clooney, and William Shatner. My home was tucked safely behind gates and was very private, but I could hear the wind blowing through the bamboo trees I had planted outside my window for privacy.

  The autumn afternoon sun poured in through the window, warming the room that suddenly felt cold. I got up and lit the logs in my fireplace before sitting back down and reading more messages.

  The more I read them, the angrier I got.

  “Don’t read it anymore,” Gina said. “It’s not good for you!”

  What had I done?

  The vibration of my phone snapped me out of my reverie.

  “You okay?” I heard on the other end of the line.

  My attorney, Darcy.

  “People are calling me Uncle Tom. Oreo Cookie,” I said.

  “Tell them to come up with something you haven’t heard before.”

  It was true. Over the course of my life, I’ve been called every racial slur, I’ve been insulted, I’ve been mocked. But this?

  “I’m used to criticism, but I can’t believe how . . . much there is,” I said.

  “You’re ‘man bites dog.’”

  “What’d you just call me?”

  “You’ve heard of that phrase,” Darcy said. “It just means that unusual events will get more attention than ordinary occurrences.”

  “What’s unusual about someone talking about the presidential race during campaign season?”

  “If a black woman had tweeted out support for Obama, that’s ‘dog bites man,’” she said. “No big deal. But a black woman tweeting support for a Republican against America’s first black president?”

  Darcy paused, so I filled in the blank for her.

  “‘Man bites dog.’”

  “You got it.”

  I tucked the phone between my shoulder and my ear and reopened my laptop. I clicked on the notifications tab on Twitter and watched in awe as the tweets kept coming and coming.

  “They’re saying that I’m just doing this for the publicity,” I said.

  “That’s actually why I’m calling,” she said. “My phone’s been ringing off the hook. Everyone wants you on their show—Fox News, Piers Morgan, The View, Good Morning America, everyone.”

  “But I didn’t do this for the publicity,” I said.

  “I know,” she said. “But the media wants to hear from you. They want to understand.”

  “They shouldn’t have to ‘understand.’ Hell, look at the state of this nation. Voting for the other guy is not the most unimaginable thing. It’s only because I’m black.”

  “We’ve established that, Stacey.”

  “But we haven’t established that this is absurd,” I said.

  The phone was silent for a moment, and I was too mad to apologize. “What do you think I should do?”

  “Pick one show, go on there and explain yourself, and be done with it,” she said. “You’ll get your opinion out there even more and you’ll insulate yourself from the criticism of being a media whore.”

  “I think you’re the only one who called me a whore.”

  “You apparently haven’t read all of your Twitter feed.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I laughed at that one.

  “You can lead a whore to culture,” I laughed, quoting Dorothy Parker. “But you can’t make her think.”

  My Twitter feed continued to light up the entire week. The next day, Sandra Fluke—a Georgetown law student (now an attorney and women’s rights activist) whom Rush Limbaugh had made famous when he called her a “slut” for demanding free contraception—tweeted out support for me.

  So disappointed to see people attacking @REALStaceyDash for voicing her opinion. Disagree politically, but #racist attacks are unacceptable.

  I was criticized by people I didn’t think would criticize me—including my former co-star Vivica A. Fox, who said my endorsement wasn’t done “with class.” But on the other hand, I got support from places I never imagined. On The View—not known for being hospitable to conservatives—Whoopi Goldberg defended me.

  “She’s entitled—and she’s a nice girl . . . this isn’t someone who went out and killed somebody. What the hell you people sending her crap like this for?!”

  That’s when the matriarch of The View, Barbara Walters, spoke up to try to explain the backlash.

  “The reason she is being attacked is because she is black and the feeling is black people should not be voting for Romney,” she said.

  But Whoopi, God love her, wouldn’t have it.

  “Barbara,” she said softly.

  “Whoopi,” Barbara replied.

  “She is being attacked because she has a different view from other people,” Whoopi said. “And I think you don’t like somebody’s views, that’s okay, but to hand somebody death threats because . . . what the hell! What’s wrong with us that this is what we do?”

  I’ll love Whoopi forever because of her strong, true words.

  The excitement continued. One afternoon, I was sitting in my home, trying to deal with all of the Internet backlash. I decided to fight back on Twitter. It’s not like me to sit back and let people talk shit.

  It’s my
humble opinion. . . . EVERYONE is entitled to one

  I tweeted. Then, I selectively responded to some of the snarky comments in my feed.

  Later, I got a phone call from a number that wasn’t already put in my phone. Thankfully, Darcy had given me a heads up.

  “Hello?”

  “Stacey, this is Paul Ryan.”

  My heart raced. I was talking to—hopefully—the next vice president of the United States. Ryan, of course, was the young—and I have to add hot—running mate on the Republican ticket.

  “I just wanted to call and thank you so much for your support,” he said.

  “It’s caused a lot of excitement,” I said.

  “Yes, I’m really sorry about the backlash,” he said. “I actually can’t believe the hate you are getting.”

  “Oh, it’s okay,” I said. “I’m used to it. Mainly, I want people to know I believe in what you’re doing. I love your plan.”

  “Well, we just want you to know that we believe you’re brave, and we support you,” he told me.

  “I just want our country back,” I said. “And I hope you are able to do that.”

  When I put down the phone, I couldn’t have felt better about my choice. The Romney/Ryan ticket was classy, kind, and lovely. Plus, they knew a thing or two about creating jobs. I decided to sit down and write out my thoughts more completely for my blog:

  I am an American citizen, who exercised her first Amendment right.

  I am self realized and believe that hard work and faith will allow me to achieve my American dream.

  I believe that Governor Mitt Romney believes in the American people. That we can be self evident, that we are capable of achieving the American dream. That there is enough for everyone. I believe that because he has proven his ability to lead, and his ability to be excellent as a CEO and as the Governor of Massachusetts. Governor Romney is the best choice to be our next President. He has achieved the American dream, he knows how to lead us the American people to realize our potential. By creating 12 million jobs, giving equal work for equal pay, by giving incentives and cutting loopholes, by keeping us safe and strong as a country of Super Power. Yes, it is true, he is rich. So what better person to lead us to economic prosperity than someone who has attained it.

  I believe that his faith and strong moral character will serve him very well as he Leads us to being the great United States of America we can be.

  And so the saga continued. Online, on television, and around kitchen tables across America. I wanted to settle it once and for all. I didn’t want my life dominated by politics or racial tweets. I wanted to have a normal life.

  I believed one step toward normalizing my life again was to do one definitive television show. I chose Piers Morgan’s show, because I’d always thought he was charming. (I guess I—like most Americans—have a thing for British accents.) As I packed my bags, I knew I wanted to take Gina. But the simple fact of the matter was that I couldn’t afford her airfare.

  Some of the tweets were saying I was “washed up” and irrelevant. I had to face facts. They weren’t far from the truth. I’d had a great career. Most notably, I was in the now classic Alicia Silverstone film Clueless as Dionne, a character, like her friend Cher, “named after great singers of the past who now do infomercials.”

  But since that great role, I had made a few bad decisions. Actually, a lot of bad decisions, almost all because of men. My career had suffered, and my life had suffered. Actually, I’d just gone through a pretty terrible breakup when I sent that tweet.

  It was okay. I was used to doing things alone.

  I gave Gina a hug good-bye and headed to New York by myself. I might not have known a ton about politics, but I was sick of people saying that black people have to act in a certain way. I considered this more of an all-encompassing issue. This was about life.

  As I walked onto the set of the Piers Morgan show, I was excited to finally be able to speak out.

  “Joining me now, possibly the most controversial woman in America right now. She had the audacity as a black actress to vote for Mitt Romney,” Piers said. “Can you believe that?”

  I smiled at his obvious tongue-in-cheek introduction.

  “She’s never been known particularly for her politics but she is now. And it’s all because of one tweet. . . . When I read about this, I felt offended for you,” he said, “. . . . the idea that you as a black actress would come under such venomous attack . . . is extremely objectionable.”

  Piers asked me a series of questions—whether I was offended by the tweets, whether I thought the outrage was due to my color or my occupation, and—most important—why I had changed from supporting Barack Obama to Mitt Romney.

  “I would say because of the state of the country and I want the next four years to be different. And I believe him. . . . I watched him, the governor and his wife on Meet the Press . . . they spoke to me and they seemed authentic and genuine.”

  “I really don’t understand the fury,” I said. “I don’t understand it. I don’t get it.”

  “Were you shocked? Were you saddened?” he asked.

  “I am. I am shocked. Sad, not angry. Saddened and shocked . . .” I said. “But you know what, you can’t expect everyone to agree with you.”

  The interview was fun, light, and I got across all of the points I’d hoped to convey. Plus, my Twitter followers skyrocketed, an added bonus. All in all, I was glad to put that chapter of my life behind me and get on with life.

  Life, as it would have it, was about to get interesting.

  Since I was in New York, I called my friend, hip-hop magnate Russell Simmons.

  “Want to hang out?”

  Within minutes, he rolled up in his jet black Maybach.

  “Get in,” he said.

  TWO

  THE PRETENTIOUS UNPRETENTIOUS

  If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And when I am for myself, then what am “I”? And if not now, when?

  —Hillel the Elder

  I’d never been in a Maybach before and was amazed at how much room was in the back.

  “This is bigger than some Manhattan apartments,” I said as I settled in. There was a cooler in the console, brimming with drinks.

  Russell was a co-founder of Def Jam Recordings—and a founding father of hip-hop. He helped power the Beastie Boys, Run DMC, Public Enemy, and LL Cool J to stardom. But as successful as Def Jam was, it was just the beginning of his hip-hop empire. He also started a clothing company, produced television shows, had a management company, ran a magazine, and even began an advertising agency.

  He offered me a drink, which I readily took. It had been one hell of a day, but he wasn’t ready for small talk.

  “So, you’ve been shilling for Money Mitt?”

  “I was on Piers Morgan Tonight, if that’s what you mean, but I’m hardly ‘shilling.’”

  “What do you call it?”

  “Free speech?” I said.

  “I guess technically you’re free to support someone who couldn’t care less about 47 percent of our country?”

  “That 47 percent would be better off with a President Romney,” I said. “Plus, you know Obama’s full of shit.”

  “You can’t say that,” he said. “You’re black.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “And why’d you bring that fur coat in my car?”

  “It’s New York in October,” I said, looking out the window at the well-heeled women walking on the streets of Manhattan. “I’m hardly the only one.”

  “You know I was PETA’s person of the year, don’t you?”

  “I’m not going to be cold,” I said, “because you want to pretend to give a fuck about a fox. You don’t give a shit!”

  I could faintly hear Russell’s driver stifle a snicker. I bet he doesn’t often hear anyone talk to Russell in this way. I didn’t care if he was rich as hell. I’d known him for years, since back when he lived in Queens . . . before he was a yoga master, a vegan
, or a mogul. I’d known him my whole life, and I wasn’t going to put up with his shit.

  “I guess you’re gonna tell me you’re still hunting?”

  “Only pheasants,” I said.

  “Stacey, you know it’s not right to kill those animals.”

  “And what are these seats made of?” I said, running my hand over the cool leather.

  He threw his head back and laughed heartily. “You always have a way of turning things around.”

  The driver pulled up to the front of a beautiful bar that was reminiscent of a 1920s speakeasy. The ceilings were high, and the lights from the chandelier twinkled off the worn bar’s mirror and bounced off the cocktail glasses in the hands of well-manicured patrons.

  I walked in ahead of Russell, who stopped to give his driver instructions. Immediately, I heard, “Oh my God! Stacey Dash!”

  There, seated with a friend, was Kristen Wiig—the talented and funny actress made famous by Saturday Night Live.

  “I love you,” she said, standing up to greet me.

  “No, no, no,” I said. “I love you!”

  Before I could tell her how much I enjoyed her work on television and film, she was literally bowing down to me.

  “You’re the best,” she said.

  “No,” I said. “You are.”

  “What kind of love fest am I interrupting?” Russell said as he walked in and saw us chatting. “Kristen, you’ll have to join us.”

  After she sat down next to Russell and two of his girlfriends, he steered the conversation to politics. “Did your new friend Stacey tell you she was in town to promote Mitt Romney?”

  Russell couldn’t help himself. “Yeah, she’s been busy on Twitter telling everyone that Obama needs to be fired.”

  “Wait,” Kristen said, putting her hand up. “I love Stacey Dash, I don’t want to hear you making fun of her.”

  Russell’s two friends laughed.

  “Why are you bringing this up,” I demanded, “in front of people I just met?”