“Yes, ma’am,” Mama said, nodding her head. “Some devil out here killing our babies. It’s a terrible thing.”
Miss Kaufman looked down at a slim white notepad she held in her hands. “Miss Williams, it’s my understanding that two of your children broke curfew last night. Is that correct?”
I could feel my eyes grow wide. It was true! Sweetie and Dre had come home the night before in the back of a police cruiser, with a couple of stolen bicycles sticking out of the trunk. I thought for sure they’d been arrested for stealing, but when the cop carried the bikes up to the porch, all he said to Mama was “You need to keep the children inside. It’s for their own safety.” Mama told the officer, “Thank you.” But the minute he drove away, she beat Sweetie and Dre from the rooty to the tooty for bringing the gotdamn police to her door.
On the porch, Miss Kaufman was telling Mama that her kids were the first ones in the whole city to break curfew, and would Mama be willing to talk about it for the evening news. She smiled at Mama, reached over, and touched her arm. “It must be so very challenging to raise children during this difficult time,” she said. “I’d like to hear your story.”
Behind Miss Kaufman, leaning up against a white van with the Action News logo painted on the side, was a heavyset man with a TV camera on his shoulder. Mama’s eyes shot to the cameraman, then back to Miss Kaufman.
“Just give me a minute to freshen up,” Mama said, gently closing the door. “I’ll be right back.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mama move so fast. She ran to the kitchen and grabbed her fake teeth off the counter, then ran to the bedroom to put on her curly wig. She pulled her multicolored woolen shawl with the fringes from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders. “How I look?” she asked, standing before me.
“Real good!” I told her.
Mama pushed open the door and stepped into the sunlight to tell her story to the world.
“To tell you the truth, Miss Kaufman,” Mama said, looking directly into the camera, “I had sent my two children to the store. I told them, ‘Y’all make sure you come home by curfew. There’s a killer on the loose!’” She turned to Miss Kaufman. “I take good care of my babies. But you know how kids be, wanting to be out in the world like they grown. I’m just tryna do my best.”
When the interview was over, Mama ran back inside and straight to the black rotary phone hanging on the kitchen wall. She dialed Aunt Vanessa’s number. “Girl,” she said breathlessly, “I’m gonna be on TV!”
I used to wonder why Mama was so excited for folks to see she lost track of her own damn kids. But I came to think that it didn’t matter what Miss Kaufman was asking. All that mattered was that somebody was paying attention. As long as she lived, nobody except caseworkers and police had ever asked Mama about her life. Nobody gave a damn. But Miss Kaufman leaned in close and really listened to Mama. For a moment, my mother was important.
When most folks think about the problems of growing up in the hood, they think about what it must feel like to be poor, or hungry, or to have your lights cut off. The struggle nobody talks about is what it feels like to be invisible, or to know in your heart that nobody cares. Mama didn’t want to be famous; she wanted to be seen. All those years I thought we were so different, but when I stepped onstage and saw all those facing smiling back at me, I realized Mama and I craved the same thing.
I took the stage name “Ms. Pat,” which is what my kids’ friends called me, and started hitting open mics around Atlanta. I didn’t plan my material; I would just get up onstage and run my mouth. If something got a laugh, I’d use it again.
A local comic, Double D, saw me perform and asked me if I would drive him to his gigs out of town. In exchange, I’d get ten minutes of stage time. Double D was working the Chitlin’ Circuit, which basically means everybody in the place—from the comics and the audience to the doormen—is black. Usually, these are one-night shows at a mainstream comedy club, a hotel lounge, or in a bar. Some folks call them “black night,” or the “urban show.” But I’ve heard it called other things, too.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my people, but those rooms are not easy. You gotta come out of the gate swinging. If you don’t hit the crowd with a joke in the first thirty seconds, they’ll boo your ass right off stage. I once saw a doorman damn near choke out a comic for not being funny. One club I played gave the audience Nerf balls to throw at the stage if the jokes weren’t good. I got hit right in the middle of my forehead.
To avoid the humiliation, I quickly figured out that if I strung together a bunch of one-liners, mostly about sex, I could get some good laughs. “I told my husband I’d suck his dick” is how I started one joke. “But I told him, ‘You gotta dip that shit in some blue-cheese dressing first.’”
Michael didn’t know I was making jokes about our sex life. While I was out at the clubs, he was at home watching CNN. He thought comedy was a phase I was going through. That’s because I didn’t tell him about my plan to make comedy my career. I reasoned if Sinbad could earn a living telling jokes, why couldn’t I? Never mind that Sinbad was selling out arenas and I was telling dick jokes to a room full of people who would throw their car keys at me if I didn’t make them laugh.
They say it takes at least ten years to really “find your voice” as a comic. The first time I heard that expression I was confused as hell. I thought it meant my actual voice. “My neighbor says I sound like Moms Mabley,” I told Double D. But he explained that “voice” is the thing that makes a comic different from everybody else. “You know,” he said. “Your point of view.”
I didn’t find my voice in Atlanta, or while I was working the Chitlin’ Circuit. It wasn’t until 2006, when the General Motors plant in Atlanta closed. Michael’s job got relocated, and we had to pick up and move to Plainfield, Indiana, a little town outside Indianapolis. That’s when I finally figured it out.