Lesbian Dancing After The Show: An Improviser's Non Improvised Life

The First Time I Was Told I Was Black

I remember when my mother informed me I was black. She put me in bed, tucked my little feet in, and said "Honey, you're black. I will tell you this now: You will have to work doubly hard in this world for everyone to consider you mediocre." She kissed me on the forehead and gave me a Sweet Dreams shout out.

Thus began the nightmares of mediocrity.

I remember when I was informed I was black in an improvisation class at The Second City in Chicago. We were improvising a scene regarding a marching band. I took it upon myself to play a baton twirler (which I actually did do in High School, as there is always truth in comedy).

One of the actors onstage in an angry huff at my character said to me in the scene: "What do you expect from a Spear Chucker?"

You know when someone gets punched in the private parts on television and the people who are watching it let out a unanimous OH!!? Well, that was this class. En masse. Me shooting a look to the teacher of that class and his head dropping low into his neck.

After the scene was done this young man sheepishly said, This is what we called the baton twirlers at my High School. I just laughed and said "What High School did you go to so I can remember to never send my kids there?" Not as much because of the connotations of what my kids would be hearing, but to never have my kids grow up and be caught saying terms that are nowhere near the context of what they are talking about.

Really. Who calls baton twirlers Spear Chuckers? If you do? Really. Stop it. The moment a baton twirler vaults a baton with a sharp edge towards your face? I will let it slide.

I remember when I was reminded that I was black when I started the improvisational theater company Oui Be Negroes. We have been considered the first African American Improv/Sketch Comedy Ensemble. I was reminded that I was black (as though I needed to be reminded, with an ensemble called Oui Be Negroes) by a woman who called us for tickets. Not really looking at the listing in the Chicago Reader, she stumbled quite a bit on the name of our company. Quite a bit.

Me: OBN Productions, How may I help you?

Her: Yes. I saw your ad for your show at Improv Olympics (now iO Chicago) and would like to reserve two tickets for...uh...erm...Oy Be Niggers?

Me: (Screaming laughing) YOU REALLY READ IT LIKE THAT?? REALLY? (Howls of laughter)

Her: (Sheepishly, backpedaling and blatantly lying) I thought that's what it says here.

Me: Riiiight. Yes. You can have two FREE tickets! I want to meet you.

She never came to the show with her free comps. I always wondered why.

I was reminded that I'm black in Boston where a woman made a beeline to the only all black table in the restaurant (ours) to ask us about the O.J. Simpson Trial. I was reminded that I'm black when I walked into a Stuckey's in Knoxville Tennessee to find an almost surreal display of black face Aunt Jemima/Uncle Remus/Black Face Kid on Toilet with Watermelon porcelain dishware, only to turn to the bright red and embarrassed counter person, who probably never expected a black person to stop into this Stuckey's.

I bought an Aunt Jemima sugar bowl on my Platinum Visa Card, just to watch this woman twist in pain.

Every once in a while now I'm reminded that I'm black. When I find hair products with so many devices on it to not steal it. When I get asked if I need help a little too often to be considered Friendly Help. When people find it appropriate to touch my hair like it is cool to touch the belly of a pregnant woman.

I'm reminded when people make a beeline to me to ask me Black Questions like: "What do you think of Oprah, or, Michael Steele...what's up with him... right? Right?" Or any question that has a current day popular African American Person involved.

As of this writing, the Black Question of the week is not even geared towards an African American Person but my culture as a whole: What do you think of this Cliven Bundy Guy and him thinking it would be better if poor black people were slaves? What do you think of The Los Angeles Clippers Guy?

Questions that are pretty much a no brainer, like why someone shouldn't call a Baton Twirler a Spear Chucker. The response is another question: How stupid are you?

I'm also reminded every year of my life that I'm black every February: The shortest, coldest month of the year. That leaps.

I don't need to be reminded of the fact that I'm black, or of the history of being black. I know the history and in theory, every African American is walking history. Though, there might still be a reason we need to have Black History Month.

Maybe, just maybe, it's for the people who I mentioned above. Who feel they need to remind me I'm black.

Sans of course my mother, who gave me the gift of those nightmares that force me to try to be better than mediocre, and who was the first one to remind me that I'm black and to always, always be better than the herd.