If I want to be the girl that belongs in Hollywood, I not only have to have talent, but I also have to signal to Hollywood that I belong.
By wearing cheap, low-class, knockoff stuff, I’m telling people that they can treat me low-class. That maybe I don’t belong on that higher level.
I have to value myself properly. That’s something I have had a hard time with in the past, but I’m getting better.
Jada: “Tiffany, I’m also going to need you to be wearing makeup when you’re out or onstage. And can you at least glue on some lashes and put on some lips daily?”
Tiffany: “I don’t feel like it. If it’s an audition? Yeah. If it’s an interview for something? Yeah. Otherwise, I feel like I should be able to walk around here naked-faced.”
Jada gave me that look you give a child when they are mad that gravity exists.
Jada: “Tiffany, that should be how it works. And it would be great if it was true. But it’s not how Hollywood works. You need to start wearing makeup. You’re a pretty girl, you need to let yourself look that way.”
Tiffany: “Okay, well when we get closer to the premiere of the movie, I’ll start wearing makeup, I promise. And it’ll be good makeup too, not the stuff I buy from the pharmacy.”
She laughed at that, too.
Daddy
My father just died on May 13, 2017.
I’m looking at him right now, his cremated remains, as I write this. He’s in a priority mail box, sitting on my dresser.
He didn’t want me at the hospital or anything. When he visited me in LA, he went to the hospital. He told the doctors not to tell me anything that’s going on with him. I know that he had congestive heart failure, but he wouldn’t tell me anything else.
Tiffany: “Dad, well, if you don’t let them tell me, what do you want me to do? What if you die?”
Dad: “I want you to cremate my body and take me back to Africa and put me next to my mother.”
He told the hospital not to call me or contact me until he was dead. They called me just before he died, because they felt like that was wrong. I flew up there, paid for the mortuary, everything.
I called one of his cousins to tell him. He started telling me about all this property I got in Africa, and that I’m actually a princess in his old village. That my dad was like a king in the village, but he ran away because of the war. Then he was saying, there’s back taxes that I need to pay and all this stuff. And if I come, I have to come with some type of security, because it’s still a war going on in the village, where my grandmother’s grave is. And I have to claim this land for the family, before the government finds out my father is dead, because they’ll confiscate it from the family, and then we won’t have nothing, and that’s what they living off of.
I didn’t know about any of this. This feels like it’s a movie. Hopefully, not a tragedy.
I just know that I married a man who promised to find my daddy. I got ten years with my dad. I learned a lot, but I also feel like he punked out on me.
Now he wants me to go to Africa. I don’t know. I am trying to find the funny in that. I still can’t find nothing funny about it, but I’m trying.
She Ready Now
The movie Girls Trip came out in July 2017, did thirty million in the opening weekend, and my life totally changed.
This used to be my normal conversation with directors and producers:
Tiffany: “Hey, I would like to work with you one day.”
Producer: “Ha, yeah, you’re a good comedian.”
Tiffany: “You best get on the Tiffany train while you can, because it’s about to take off.”
Then they all just blew me off.
Now those same directors and producers are blowing my phone up.
The day after the movie came out, I had a hundred text messages.
The next morning when I woke up, four hundred text messages.
That week, I got probably fifteen hundred different people texting me wanting to get together or work together or pitch me on something.
Now, mind you, fifty of the texts were from my ex-husband, trying to get me back. Three of them were from Titus, trying to have lunch and sit down with me at some point, and four other ex-boyfriends sending all kinds of stuff. But still, most were from real Hollywood people.
I gotta admit, that shit feels real good.
Honestly, part of me doesn’t want to work with those people. The people that I asked to give me a chance, the ones who said no, I kinda want to just ignore them. I mean, I’m not going to do that, it’s not professional, but still—I kinda want to.
The funniest part is that Rumpelstiltskin is all over me now. Remember that dude, the one who said, “The only way you can go on tour with me is if you putting out”?
Rumpelstiltskin called me the week after the movie came out:
Rumpelstiltskin: “Hey Tiff, my mom said that you amazing and that I’m a fool for not having you on my shows and stuff. I should have been working with you a long time ago.”
Tiffany: “Your mama right, she a smart woman. I told you that, too.”
Rumpelstiltskin: “Yeah, so how would you feel about doing a tour with me, you, some other comedians. How do you feel about that?”
Tiffany: “I don’t know. You headlining it?”
Rumpelstiltskin: “No, no, no, no, no. I’m going to host. You be the headliner. You the main attraction. You the big deal.”
Tiffany: “I’m listening.”
Rumpelstiltskin: “I talked to your people, they say you get a thousand dollars a minute.”
Tiffany: “That’s right. It used to be a dollar a minute. Now it’s a thousand dollars a minute. That’s right.”
Rumpelstiltskin: “Oooo, that’s a little steep. How about if we do thirty-four shows, and half of them will be in theaters and the other half will be in arenas. How would you feel about making eighteen-five a show?”
Tiffany: “Eighteen thousand five hundred dollars?”
Rumpelstiltskin: “Yeah.”
Tiffany: “Mm, I don’t know. That’s half my normal fee.”
Rumpelstiltskin: “Yeah, but all you got to do is show up!”
Tiffany: “I can’t even say that I’m going to be able to show up at all. See, Kevin Hart just called me and asked me to do a movie with him. So, I’m gonna do the movie. ’Cause that’s a A-list movie.”
Rumpelstiltskin: “Well, maybe we can work around your movie schedule.”
Tiffany: “Well, see, I already have my own shows booked. A bunch of them. I mean, you have to work around the dates I already have booked. You know how it is—I’m headlining my own shows. They’re already sold out, most of ’em. So, I don’t know what to tell you, man. I don’t know what to tell you.”
Rumpelstiltskin: “You can tell me yes.”
Tiffany: “I think you really shouldn’t even be talking to me. You need to be talking to my team.”
Rumpelstiltskin: “But I’m talking to you first, because I want to make sure it’s cool with you before I present it to your team.”
Tiffany: “Well, you need to present it to my team. Then if they present it to me in a manner that it seems like it’s financially feasible, then I will take that on.”
Rumpelstiltskin: “Okay, okay, I will do that. Right away.”
Tiffany: “Also, I need you to tell my people who’s putting out on this tour. I’ll need to know that.”
Rumpelstiltskin: “What?”
Tiffany: “Who’s putting out on this tour, ’cause I know it ain’t me.”
Rumpelstiltskin: “Tiffany, Tiffany, those was jokes. Those was jokes. You KNOW those was jokes.”
Tiffany: “Yeah, maybe. Except, you never did let me come on tour with you. If it was a joke, you would have booked me, if it was a joke.”
Rumpelstiltskin: “Don’t be holding on to old shit. Let that shit go now. Just let that shit go. Let it go. That’s the past. That’s the past. We living in the now.”
Tiffany: “Yeah, I don’t know abo
ut that, Rumpelstiltskin, sound like somebody about to make a whole lotta money, and it ain’t gonna be me. I don’t know.”
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.”
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.
Acknowledgments
TIFFANY HADDISH
I want to thank:
My Grandma.
My Mama.
My Aunties.
My Daddy for donating the sperm that made me.
All my brothers and sisters.
My best friends Selena, Shermona, Aiko, Shana, Richea.
My old agent, my current agents and managers, and Tucker Max.
Department of Children Services and the court system for taking care of me when no one else would.
I want to thank EVERYONE who ever said anything positive to me or taught me something. I heard it all, and it meant something.
All the dudes I ever slept with, I appreciate the experiences, but I ain’t naming none of you!
I want to thank God most of all, because without God I wouldn’t be able to do any of this.
TUCKER MAX
Fir
st, I have to thank Tiffany.
I’ve turned down every other celeb who asked me to cowrite their book, but I took on this book because I believed Tiffany would do something no one else would do.
She promised me she would lay it all out there . . . and she did.
This book is deep and so real in a way that very few other books are. She’s created something special. I’m proud of her and proud to have worked on it.
The other group I have to thank is my team at Book in a Box. I cofounded a company that helps people write and publish their books, and though I am the name behind it, they do most of the work and deserve the props. Without them, this doesn’t happen.
If you like this book, the credit goes to Tiffany, and to my team. Enjoy.
About the Author
TIFFANY HADDISH is a breakout star of Girls Trip, alongside Regina Hall, Jada Pinkett Smith, and Queen Latifah. She appears opposite Tracy Morgan on TBS’s The Last O.G.; plays Nekeisha on NBC’s The Carmichael Show; costars with Jordan Peele and Keegan-Michael Key in Keanu; and has made appearances in Mad Families, Chelsea Lately, My Name Is Earl, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Def Comedy Jam, and New Girl, among others. Her first Showtime stand-up comedy special, She Ready, premiered in August 2017.
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