The Last Black Unicorn

by Tiffany Haddish

  Being in that comedy camp was the first time I felt safe. I didn’t think anything bad was gonna happen. That was maybe my favorite part about Laugh Factory Comedy Camp.

  By that point, I had lived in a few foster places and knew a few things. If a grown man tells you that you pretty, he’s gonna be trying to touch on you soon, and all kinds of terrible stuff is gonna happen.

  But at comedy camp, that man told me I’m pretty, but I didn’t feel like it was dangerous. He cared about me and was saying a nice thing. He was trying to help me.

  My biggest influence was probably Richard Pryor. He came in there, and I’m telling my jokes, and he stopped me in the middle of telling my jokes:

  Richard: “Stop, stop, stop. What are you doing?”

  Tiffany: “I’m telling a joke.”

  Richard: “No, you’re not.”

  Tiffany: “Yes, I am.”

  Richard: “No, you’re not.”

  Tiffany: “YES, I AM!”

  Richard: “NO, YOU ARE NOT!”

  Me and Richard Pryor. Squabbling back and forth right onstage.

  Tiffany: “Well, what’chu you think I’m doing up here?”

  Richard: “You’re getting on my goddam nerves, that’s what’chu doing! Look, people don’t come to comedy shows because they want to hear about your problems, or about politics, or what’s going on in the world, or celebrities. They don’t care. They come to comedy shows to have fun. So when you’re onstage, you need to be having fun. If you’re having fun, they’re having fun. If you not having fun, they looking at you like ‘what the hell did I spend my money on?’ So you need to have fun.”

  Richard Pryor gave me that advice, at the Laugh Factory Comedy Camp, when I was fifteen.

  I’d had a pretty rough life to that point, and I’d had some bad shit come my way, but I was pretty lucky for that experience. I try to take that philosophy and apply it to everything I do in life. That’s why I think my life turned out as good as it has. Because all the time, I’m just trying to have fun.

  Wherever you are, thank you, Richard. That meant so much to me, and to this day I try to have fun every time I’m onstage, because of you.

  • • •

  When I was in Laugh Factory Comedy Camp, the Channel Two news came, and they did a story on me. But since I was a foster kid, I had to go to the courthouse to get permission to be on television. Since foster kids are technically state property, I couldn’t be on TV without the court’s permission. It’s just like you would have to have your parents’ permission to be on television, I had to have the court’s permission. That was my parents at the time—the state of California.

  My social worker didn’t want to go down to the courts to help me. It was summertime, so I was out of school. I decided I was gonna go down to the courthouse and get this permission myself. I caught the bus and took about three transfers to get all the way to the family courts, which is, like, in the city of Alhambra or some shit.

  I went to the clerk, I found out who my judge was, I went into his courtroom. He wasn’t noticing me, not paying me any attention, the bailiff wouldn’t talk to me. I was like, Wow, just like my real parents, my state parents don’t care either. Then, I finally stood up, and I asked the bailiff:

  Tiffany: “Can I talk to the judge?”

  Bailiff: “What you got?”

  He took the papers to the judge, and he came back.

  Bailiff: “It’s not one of the cases on file, so we can’t do it.”

  I went back down to the clerk’s office.

  Tiffany: “Can you make it so I can see the judge?”

  Clerk: “We’ll send your case up to the courtroom. But you have to come back tomorrow.”

  I went through all that again the next day, and they were still not paying attention to me.

  But this time, I was prepared. I had brought a Walkman, a magazine, chewing gum, a soda—all the stuff they say not to have. Today, I was going to get their attention. They were not gonna ignore me.

  So I was flipping the magazine, popping the bubblegum, and drinking a soda, and the judge was trying not to notice. Then all of a sudden, he kind of snaps:

  Judge: “Who are you? What are you doing in my courthouse?”

  Tiffany: “I’m Tiffany Haddish. I’m here so you can sign my papers.”

  Judge: “What are these papers for?”

  Tiffany: “I’m trying to be on the news. I need to be on the news.”

  Judge: “What do you need to be on the news for?”

  Tiffany: “I’m at the Laugh Factory Comedy Camp, I’m gonna be a world-famous comedian, and I need you to sign this paperwork, so that I can be on the news story they want to do about me.”

  Judge: “And why do you need to be on the news to be a world-famous comedian?”

  Tiffany: “Because, then that way, my dad’s gonna see me, he gonna be really proud, then everybody gonna be really proud. I’m gonna be really funny, I’m gonna make people laugh, and that’s gonna be my job forever, and I’mma be a world-famous comedian, and then I’ll be happy.”

  He looked at me over his glasses, staring at me for a second. Everyone in the courthouse was dead quiet.

  Judge: “Are you sure about all of this?”

  Tiffany: “Yes, I am very sure. I know this.”

  Judge: “Well, if you act onstage as funny as you act now, then you probably will be a world-famous comedian.”

  Then he read my case. He asked me:

  Judge: “Do you know who your father is?”

  Tiffany: “Nope. I haven’t seen him since I was three.”

  Judge: “Where’s your mom?”

  Tiffany: “She’s locked down in a mental facility. She crazy.”

  Then he signed the paper.

  I was all happy. That bus ride back felt much shorter.

  • • •

  The news came, and they filmed me. It went real good, and they told me when it would be on, and I was real excited.

  Then the day it was supposed to come on, that day, Princess Diana goes and gets killed in a car wreck.

  I got bumped. It’s cool, though. I wasn’t mad. She was a princess, I get it.

  It was two months before it finally came on the air. I was so happy watching it. I felt like a star already. It was the first time I had ever seen myself as valuable, worth people’s time or attention.

  After that comedy camp, they started letting me do stand-up. Like, onstage. Sometimes, I would get to MC, sometimes do a set. At first, it was all during the day.

  Later, I was going up to the Laugh Factory on a Friday or Saturday night. Night shows are much bigger. I was too young to go real late, but they would let me go up on the eight o’clock show and get like five minutes. I would do my set, and I would leave. I wasn’t allowed to stay in there, ’cause of the alcohol.

  And they would give me like ten or fifteen bucks. That was just enough to cover bus fare, but it was cool. I was getting paid to tell jokes. I was on my way.

  I did that all through high school, till I was like eighteen. And then, I had to quit.

  I had to quit comedy, because I was homeless, and I was supposed to go to NYU, and I had no idea what to do.

  I know, it’s confusing. Here’s how it went:

  Once I turned eighteen, my grandma sat me down.

  Grandma: “Since I ain’t getting paid for you now, you need to go to school. You grown. Go on, get out there. You got friends. You’ll make it.”

  I had gotten accepted into NYU, but they weren’t paying my way. I didn’t have no money, and my grandma was still taking care of my brothers and sisters. I was like, What if something happens to her? Who’s gonna be here for them?

  So I decided I’m gonna go to Santa Monica Community College, and I’m gonna get a job.

  I was basically couch surfing then. I was just going to all my friends’ houses. Homeless as hell, just traveling around with my plastic bins. The ones with wheels on them and stuff.

  At that point, I had to sto
p doing comedy. I was only making $10 or $15 a show. I couldn’t live off of that. I was emancipated, and I needed a roof over my head. Getting paid $10 or $15 wasn’t gonna cut it. I could not find time to go to college, and work, and then also take a bus to do comedy. It just didn’t work.

  I was eighteen. To survive, I had to quit comedy.

  Family and Foster Care

  The Car Wreck

  Where do I even start with my family?

  I should probably start with the car accident. That’s when everything changed.

  Before the car accident, my mom had it together. She had two small businesses going, she was a manager at a U.S. post office, and she owned two houses on the same street.

  At that point, she was married to my stepfather. I’ll call him Step-Father. He sucked. He was always cheating on her, but it didn’t matter to her. She worshiped the ground he walked on. Whatever mistakes he made, she didn’t care. He knocked up one of the employees of her businesses. She argued with him, but she didn’t leave him. She just loved that man. He could never do wrong, even when he did a lot of wrong.

  She had three kids by him, all younger than me. I was the oldest. I felt like she loved them way more because she loved their dad. She didn’t love my dad. He left when I was real young.

  I was around seven when Step-Father knocked up my mom’s employee, so he and my mom moved us all out to Pomona, and then to Colton. She was still trying to work in Marina del Rey after she had my sister. It was like she was working the graveyard shift. She had to drop us off at my grandmother’s every day. This one day when I was eight I told her she didn’t have to do it.

  Tiffany: “Mom, let me babysit. I know how to make bottles. I know how to change diapers. We’re going to go to bed in about two hours. I know how to make hot dogs, rice. I know how to cook everything. We’re about to go to bed, and when you get home we’ll be waking up.”

  Mom: “I’m running late. Okay.”

  She never came back.

  Two days went by. She did not come home. Step-Father didn’t come home, either. No one came home. Step-Father used to come home every night, but he didn’t come home at all.

  I called my grandma, and my grandma said she hadn’t heard from my mom. By the third day, my grandma came out to where we were. She called Step-Father’s auntie and his auntie said:

  Auntie: “Oh, she’s in the hospital in Pomona. She had a car accident on the 10 Freeway. You didn’t know?”

  Grandma: “Why didn’t nobody tell me? How do you know and I don’t know?”

  Auntie: “Well, Step-Father knew.”

  Step-Father knew, and he didn’t do nothing.

  They wouldn’t let me see my mom for two months. The accident was real bad. Her head was open and all this stuff. They didn’t tell me the details, they just looked at me and told me my mama would be fine. I would always think, If she’s gonna be fine, why can’t I see her?

  When we finally got to see her, I was not prepared. She looked like a monster. Her eyes were black, and she had bandages across her head. She was swollen. Her whole body was swollen.

  She didn’t look like my mama.

  She had to learn to walk again. And talk, and eat, and everything. She did not remember any of my brothers and sisters. She just remembered me, and she was saying things like:

  Mom: “You look just like my daughter, Tiffany. You should meet my daughter. She’s only three.”

  Tiffany: “I am Tiffany. I am your daughter.”

  It kind of made me feel really good, because I didn’t necessarily like my brothers and sisters that much. I felt like she loved them way more than she loved me.

  When she was in the hospital for three months, learning how to do all that stuff again, me and my siblings were with our grandmother.

  When she got out of the hospital, me and my siblings went back to live with her. Everything was totally different after that.

  I had to grow up fast. I taught her how to tie her shoe, like she had taught me how to tie my shoe. I taught her how to put her pants on, like she had taught me to put pants on. I was showing her how to make hot dogs like she showed me how to make hot dogs. Everything she had taught me, I was teaching her back.

  That was bad enough, but after that accident, oh my God, she would say the worst things to me. I felt like all of the inner thoughts that she used to have before the accident, but she never said out loud, would all come out. She’d be like:

  Mom: “Oh, you look like your ugly-ass daddy. Oh, God, where’s my husband at? I’m so sick of looking at your ugly ass.”

  I guess that is common for people with a brain injury. They talk crazy, and all kinds of mean stuff comes out.

  It was pretty clear that my mama did not like me. She did not. She loved me but she did not like me. I think it was because I reminded her of my father.

  Mom: “You look like your father’s ugly ass. I hate him.”

  All like that, all the time, until I was twelve. Constantly telling me I’m ugly, I’m stupid, I’m not worth nothing. I just felt stupid and not important, but I loved this woman so much. I’d just do whatever, ’cause I loved her. She was the first person I’d ever loved.

  And now, after this car wreck, she hated me. She even said that to me at times.

  Tiffany: “Mom, how are you feeling?”

  Mom: “I hate you.”

  It took her maybe two months to really get acclimated with my brothers and sisters, so during that time I was nurturing them. I was nurturing everybody.

  And because of this, I was doing really bad in school.

  My grandma, though, she would come and help. And my great-granny would come, and they would help. My grandma would always be like:

  Grandma: “I’m proud of you. Look at all you did, you’re a good daughter.”

  She could see what I was doing for the family. She and my great-granny saw it. My mom would cuss me out in front of them:

  Mom: “Get that ugly-ass girl out of here. Why you don’t comb your hair? Ugh, you’re so ugly.”

  Tiffany: “I’ll try. I’ll try to comb my hair.”

  Grandma: “Come here, I’ll comb your hair. You are not ugly. Your mom is just tired. She’s bad when she’s tired.”

  They would make excuses for her, but they didn’t need to, ’cause I loved her. As bad as she was to me, I still couldn’t help but love her.

  Then she started beating me. By the time I was nine, she got her motor skills back. She couldn’t get all her words out, so she’d just punch me. Just full on. Because of her, I can take a punch like nobody’s business.

  I feel like I’m so strong in the chest area, mainly from her punches. I have always thought that’s why my titties never grew. My sisters, all of them got titties. She punched mine down. Every day, I knew I was getting punched in the chest, slapped in the back of the head.

  She liked to whip me with the bath brush, that you wash your back with. That’s why I don’t have one in my house now, because she liked to beat my ass with that wooden thing. She liked to get you right out of the tub, too. Soon as you got out:

  Mom: “Didn’t I tell you to wash the dishes?”

  Tiffany: “I did wash the dishes.”

  Mom: “No, you didn’t. You didn’t wash nothing.”

  Tiffany: “Yes, I did. Yes I did.”

  It’d be like two dirty dishes that my sister had put in the sink after I’d washed the dishes. She’d just light my ass up.

  When I was like ten or eleven, she would send me to school with all kinds of problems, like a busted lip or cuts or whatever. They’d call her up to school to get me, and the teacher’s like:

  Teacher: “Why’s Tiffany’s lip busted? What’s going on with Tiffany? Did she have a fight or something?”

  I didn’t say anything. When the teacher asked me, I just didn’t say shit.

  Mom: “She’s fine. She’s fine. You know kids is clumsy. She just clumsy.”

  Then my mom started beating me on the bottom of my feet. I don’t know
if you ever been hit on the bottom of your feet, but you feel that through your whole body. You always pee on yourself, when somebody beats you on the bottom of your feet. Nobody should do that.

  Then she became a super-crazy Jehovah’s Witness, where she would talk about sex and then she’d be like, “We got to read the Bible now.” One minute she’d be reading Bible scriptures, and you’d be feeling good and comfortable. And the next thing you know, she’s snatching you by your hair, yelling, “Go wash these goddam dishes!” Go do this or that. You just never knew. “We have to go to church right now!” She’d drag your ass right off the bed at 4 a.m. to go to church, even though it was closed.

  It was like living with a mean teenaged girl, who was hormonal and boy crazy. She used to talk to me about the weirdest things. I didn’t understand it, but she would always talk about sex and stuff, like I was her friend. I guess because she didn’t have any friends. After that accident all her friends fell off. She would talk crazy to everybody, because of the brain injury, and no one wanted to be around her.

  She was boy crazy, but just for my stepfather. My mom was still having more kids. My baby brother Justin had just been born. She still was hooking up with my stepdad because she still said that’s her husband, even though they were divorced now. She was fucking him in a Volkswagen.

  At the time, I had no idea why he didn’t come back to the house after the accident.

  Then I found out, maybe.

  For my twenty-first birthday, Step-Father took me out for drinks. I was real depressed then. Around this time I had a breakdown and I was physically ill. This was also the first time I got drunk. He had certainly had more than a few too.

  Tiffany: “I don’t know if I’m going to make it, man. I don’t know if I’m going to live any longer. I know I’m twenty-one and everything, but I just don’t feel like I’m going to make it, you know.”

  Step-Father: “Look, you are fine. You’re going to make it. You’re supposed to be here on Earth. God has a purpose for you.”

  Tiffany: “Man, God ain’t got no purpose with me. I’m just God’s punching bag. I feel like I’m a punching bag.”

  Step-Father: “Nope, you got a purpose, ’cause you’re supposed to be dead. I’ll tell you that right now. You and all your brothers and sisters. Y’all was supposed to be dead. Justin’s not even supposed to be born. None of y’all supposed to be here.”