Dad would sit me on his chest and tell me the way my grown-up life would be, and I’d love his attention but hate every word of his marriage-to-a-nice-Muslim-man plans for me. I was too American! He’d also draw beautiful houses for me in pen and tell me that one day he’d build that house for me to live in. Huts on the beach with blue-ink palm trees in the front yard. Stately mansions with a Rolls-Royce parked in the garage, drawn in black ink. I’d ask if I could color it in, and he’d say, “Of course! It’s your house!” When I was upset, he’d take my chin in his hand, and say, “What’s wrong with my princess, huh? My queen! What happened to my baby? Who did it?” I would frown harder to make my face look as pitiful as possible and lodge whatever complaint I had, and he’d say, “Come on! You’re a big girl now. You’re so pretty, my queen. All the time sad, that’s no good! Why you don’t smile?” “I HATE smiling!” I would answer back, and he’d laugh, and say, “You trying to hurt your daddy?” Then I’d feel horrible and hug him and start crying.
I loved the entire FUCK out of Dad. I loved Mom, too, and she was hella fun and everything, don’t get me wrong, but Dad had a bigger payoff for me. Getting him to laugh felt like a big accomplishment. I would ask him questions ad nauseam that he wouldn’t answer, and he would tell me that I was too smart for my own good, which I took as a compliment. I would insist that he would be much more handsome if he shaved his face. We would argue, and he’d say, “You just like your mammy! All the time talking!” Every now and then he would shave his ever-present mustache to satisfy me. He was right and I was wrong about it, but I would never admit that to him. I was too high on the power I held over his face. He was a better cook than Mom, and he’d let me help him in the kitchen. He’d tell me that he was teaching me to be a wife, and I guess I used to be down with that shit because I would stand on a chair in our tiny kitchen and watch everything he did. The best thing about my father was that when it came to my social coping skills he let me be me. Mom would try to teach me to use my words instead of my fists, but Dad would laugh every time I told him about beating up some boy in my class who had disrespected me. Dad liked that I was tough, so I liked that I was tough. I was Rocky and he was my Mickey. Mom would say, “You’re so mean, just like ya daddy.” She meant to shame me I’m sure, but it made me proud instead. I wasn’t mean. I was tough. Dad and I were Africans who had to live in America. We had African faces. African skin color. And we both had African names. My dad knew what it was to be different when everyone around you is the same.
I was Gabourey M. Sidibe in American elementary school, in a pre–Lion King world. I was Gabourey in a school of Jennifers, Stacies, Ericas, and Elizabeths. Brandons, Johnnies, and Anthonies. My round little belly and my dark chocolate skin made me look different, and the way I singsonged my African name made me sound different. Teachers would always mispronounce my name.
“Gab . . . Gob . . . GaborNay Sid . . . Side-Bee?”
“Gabourey Sidibe.” I’d probably say it with an eye roll.
“That’s pretty! What is it?”
“It’s African.”
“Oh! Where were you born?”
“Brooklyn.”
“. . .”
“My dad’s from Senegal.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a country in Africa.”
“Oh! Can we call you Gabby?”
“No. My name is Gabourey. It rhymes with cabaret.”
Everyone agreed that my name was pretty, but they also agreed that ain’t nobody got time to say it. I hated being called Gabby when I was in elementary school. It made my skin crawl. Mom had tried to nickname me Gabby when I was a baby, but legend has it that I refused to respond to it. I knew who I was, and letting others call me Gabby meant letting them call me by someone else’s name. I would not give that convenience to the kids and teachers in my school. They called me Gabby anyway. I just wouldn’t respond. I’d respond to all the other names they called me. Fatty, Pig, Black Pig, Hog, African Booty Scratcher. I usually responded with my fists. Later, I responded with tears and panic attacks on top of my fists. (Real quick, African Booty Scratcher is probably the most specific and regional insult ever. As if Europeans, Americans, and Asians don’t scratch their booties. Booties itch no matter where you come from! Logistically, that insult just doesn’t work. The other names were way better insults.)
It wasn’t until junior high school that I changed my mind about Gabby. Listen, I knew I was intense. I was a hard-core kid on purpose, and it left me lonely, reading books at lunch, and going straight home from school by myself every day. I knew I had to change my attitude about a lot of things in junior high. For some reason, junior high school kids seemed at least five years older than the kids who’d just graduated from elementary school a few months ago. I had to grow up fast! Also, I was now in a class with kids who didn’t know what an intense creep I was. It was a fresh start, and I could be anyone I wanted to be. Gabourey had failed at making friends in elementary, so I figured it was time to give Gabby a try. As long as it was my decision to allow people to call me that. I am stubborn that way. Gabby was certainly easier to say and apparently easier to deal with. She was friendlier and joked around a lot more than Gabourey. Gabourey was way serious and Gabby was not. Gabourey was like one of those super-expensive Barbies that you have to buy at FAO Schwarz, and Gabby was a Cabbage Patch doll that your aunt’s weird friend might give you because her ex-boyfriend’s daughter left it at her house and she just wants it gone. I was still Gabourey at home; I reserved Gabby for school and the outside world. Gabby wasn’t and still isn’t my name. Gabby is more like a character I play. Maybe that’s too complicated?
I’ve been to Senegal—where people can pronounce my name—with Dad and Ahmed more times than I actually remember. My first trip there, I was a baby in diapers. My only memory of that visit was finding a can of coffee and mistaking it for chocolate. It tasted horrible, but I kept eating, thinking that maybe after the fifth handful it would be delicious. My dumb little toddler body eventually shat coffee out of nearly every orifice. That’s not an easy memory to forget. But my memories of my last visit to Senegal are the reason I have vowed never to go back.