Promoter: “YES! My homegirl work at Southwest, she sets me up, she do everything, that’s the only airline I use.”
Turns out, homegirl canceled everything. Why? Because she caught him with another bitch the day before. He neglected to mention that shit about his “homegirl.”
Marlow was having none of this. I don’t know who Marlow called, but the next thing you know, an hour and a half later, the promoter showed up at the airport, and he paid cash for these tickets. And he gave us the rest of our money in cash.
Promoter: “Marlow, please don’t have that man call my phone no goddam more. I don’t want no problems, and I ain’t never booking y’all for nothing again. Please, just leave me alone and let me live my life.”
Marlow: “Yeah, motherfucker, we don’t never want to do your shit again, treating us like shit ’cause we women. If we was men, you wouldn’t treat us like this, motherfucker!”
I never asked Marlow who she called. I just know that Marlow’s from Compton, and she knows a lot of motherfucking gangstas. She knows Suge, all them. I don’t know who she called, but I will tell you, this promoter had the fear of God in him.
All this shows, it’s really hard as a woman in comedy. But I don’t want to make it out like all dudes is bad. Some guys are amazing. Like Kevin Hart. He’s like, my comedy guardian angel.
There was a time, early in my comedy career, when I was homeless. I was living in the Geo Metro. I used to be homeless in Beverly Hills, and I thought, If I’m homeless, I’ll be homeless with class. Keep my nails done. Keep my hair pretty, baby wipes, I’m fresh, it’s okay. I’m in Beverly Hills. As long as I’m sleeping in Beverly Hills, I’m safe.
I pulled up to the comedy club one night, and Kevin Hart saw all that shit in my car.
Kevin: “What the fuck is going on with you?”
Tiffany: “Nothing. I’m good. I’m just in between houses.”
Kevin: “No. What the fuck is going on?”
I told him what was up. I cried and everything, I opened up to him.
Kevin: “Tiff, you can’t be living like this. You a pretty girl. Like, you a beautiful woman. Why are you living in your car? Any dude will be happy to let you live in his house.”
Tiffany: “I’m not fucking for a roof. I fuck people to heal them. Okay? I’m a healer. That’s why I fuck, not for no roof over my head. I got a car. I got a roof.”
Kevin: “Tiffany, you crazy as fuck. You should not be sleeping in your car. Here is $300, get yourself a hotel room for the week.”
That was so nice of him, and I should have been more appreciative, but I had to point something out:
Tiffany: “What? I cannot get no hotel room nowhere for no week for three hundred bucks?”
He told me to write out a list of the goals I wanted to accomplish, like what I want out of life. I wrote the first thing on my list, “I want my own apartment.”
The next day, I got a phone call from one of our mutual friends:
Friend: “Girl, there’s an apartment for you. You should check it out. Kevin talked to some people, you should go check it out.”
I went to check it out, and like—it was wack. The neighborhood was terrible. There were crackheads everywhere. It straight looked like the Walking Dead set or something. I pulled up to the apartment building. There were bars everywhere.
But I had this weird feeling—this place is secure. It’s safe.
I ended up taking the apartment, and I fixed it up, and I still have it. The neighborhood is actually really nice now.
All thanks to my comedy guardian angel, Kevin Hart.
Tiffany’s True Hollywood Stories Scientology
I think everyone who lives in LA has a Scientology story. Mine is pretty short. A lot of people think it’s funny, but I didn’t at the time. I still kind of don’t.
I don’t remember how I found Scientology. They offered me a place to stay for free, and this was during the period I was living out of my car. They said they would give me $50 a month to live there, and they would help me become a superstar.
That was cool and all, but I was really only interested in them because they told me they could take the hurt out of memories. I got some hurtful memories, that’s for sure.
They were trying to get me to go do that thing they do, where you talk about your bad memories as you hold these metal handles, and they give you little electrical charges. You talk about what’s making you so mad. I kept talking about my shit, and it was still reading high. They said, “Do it again, tell it again, tell it again.” I must have told it fifteen times, twenty times, the thing was still reading off the charts. They told me to try again the next day.
Then they took me to the dorm. It was nothing but little white girls. I think the youngest one was seventeen and the oldest one was thirty. I was twenty-three or something. It was just me and them.
They took me to where I was going to sleep. It was bunk beds.
Tiffany: “Uh-uh. I can’t live here, I cannot do that. You need to find me another place to sleep.”
Scientologist: “No, Tiffany, this is where you sleep. It’s very safe, and—”
Tiffany: “I don’t fuck with bunk beds. Bad shit happens in bunk beds. I do not do that.”
Scientologist: “Well, this is all we have, after all—”
Tiffany: “HELL NO! I’m gonna be trapped, y’all gonna let motherfuckers trap me. For what? $50 a month? That’s how you’re going to get me to sleep in a bunk? I don’t think so, motherfucker. I AM OUT!”
I’m not a prima donna. Remember when I was in the orphanage—in state custody—we had bunk beds. And that was where the beatings happened.
Those older bitches used to beat my ass in the bunk bed. If somebody is beating you up, and you get in that corner—you can’t get up out of there. If you’re in that bottom bunk and they’re beating your ass, and there’s walls on both sides, you cannot get out. There’s no way out, you’re trapped. You just get beat.
I know it’s not rational, but those bunk beds just triggered it for me. I was going to be trapped in there. These weirdos started talking about Scientology to me.
Scientologist: “If you leave Scientology, you’re breaking your bond, you’re breaking—”
I went straight hood on them. I was screaming up and down the hallway.
Tiffany: “YOU MOTHERFUCKERS CAN’T PUT ME IN A BUNK BED TO GET MY ASS WHIPPED FOR $50 A MONTH!! THIS IS WHY THERE AIN’T NO BLACK PEOPLE IN THIS MOTHERFUCKER!!!”
Scientologist: “Tiffany, please, we’re going to have to, you’re going to have to go to the infirmary.”
Tiffany: “Y’all said you was going to take the hurt from the memories. I’m still fucking hurt. SO FUCK YOU AND FUCK BUNK BEDS!!”
I know other people had problems leaving Scientology, but they let me the fuck out pretty quick.
Will & Jada