Getting away from your people
In the suburbs where I grew up, women did not shop in their pajamas, with their hair in curlers, and men did not go to church in purple outfits. Yes, purple, shoe to hat. That's Harlem on a Sunday and I love it. And while I want KilBaby to be a city kid, the burbs where I was raised were not so dull.
On Juana Ct, in Walnut Creek, the minority family was whoever was living in the white house at the end of cul-de-sac, because that meant they were renters. Its most memorable occupants were the Watkins. Johnny Watkins was a teenager with a rock star name, and Nancy Watkins was his nasty sister who wouldn't let my friend Sally or me join her club unless we ate dog food.
It tasted awful.
Around the corner, on Elena Ct, were the only Jews in the area, the Adlers. Across the street from the Adlers was a guy who would paint "KKK" on their garage door every two or three years. If I remember correctly, his parents owned the house and he stayed in his room, which was painted black, according to a kid who had peeked inside it once. Like a reverse Boo Radley. Down the street was a family of eight kids, two of whom, Miko and Masako, were my among best friends growing up. I think one of the parents was from Japan, and the other had spent time as a child in an American concentration camp. I would always get free food at their booth at the Japanese Festival.
There was a family of Irish drinkers, and a divorced Mom. The Mom's husband left her and three kids for a younger woman. Then they reconciled, she had another kid. Then he left again. Jerk. We had both a Cookie Lady and a Candy Man. Both the Cookie Lady and the Candy Man provided name-appropriate treats for us kids, as a reward for a long day at school. The Cookie Lady's last name was Kuhl, as in "Mrs. Cool." Her husband, Mr. Cool, was killed by bees. A giant tree in his front yard toppled, exposing a hive. He was stung numerous times. After he died, the cookies stopped and she moved. There was the family of two adopted kids- one good seed (the girl) and one bad (the boy). The boy was in and out of juvenile detention, and it was common knowledge that this was not the fault of his parents, who were the nicest people on earth.
Then there were the Baptists, who I have written about before. Seven kids, no television and at Halloween, they passed out Bible verses. They refused to open the door when we Christmas caroled. That did not stop us from singing outside their door every year, just to be assholes. They owned a Christian mechanic shop, and the oldest son was caught masturbating to porn down by the creek.
My son's neighborhood is different. We take a walk to get to a lawn, and we often share it with a group of forty people and their bar-b-ques. At the Jackie Robinson Park, we met a woman whose 15 month old daughter has a French au pair (just like Alex from Real Housewives of New York City). She lives kitty-korner, and her daughter understands French. Another time at JR Park, I took pictures of a 7 or 8 year old girl who was pushing KilBaby on the swing. I offered to email them. The girl, named Bayisha, (probably spelled wrong) found her mother, who said they didn't have a computer, much less internet. The mom called a friend on a walkie-talkie, who took down my email address. The friend was going to email me so I could email her back, but she never did.
My great-great grandfather, William Kilmartin, son of Irish immigrants, was the Battalion Chief of Albany's Fire Department. The New York Times published his obituary after he died in 1935. His son John, (my grandpa) was one of six kids. His wife (my grandma) Marguerite Dowling, was one of seven. One of the Dowling brothers shot himself- gambling debts, we've been told. Another fought in World War 1 and died from the effects of mustard gas poisoning. After they married, John and Marguerite left New York.
Sometimes, you have to get away from your people.
My dad's parents settled in Topeka, Kansas, and got the Adler treatment from the local KKK. Instead of cranking out ten Irish kids, they had two, nine years apart. My dad grew up hunting. My mom, from Chicago, had a million girlfriends, all of whom were Catholic. Most were named Betty. My dad's childhood sounds like some Laura Ingalls-Andrew Jackson fantasy while my mom's sounds like Peggy Sue Got Married.
Now, we live in New York, in the city. I, too, had to get away from my people.
Aqui, Team Obama
So, a few weeks ago, when Hillary Clinton was threatening to take the campaign all the way to Puerto Rico, I suggested 23/6 mock up fake "Hillary '08" campaign posters. The premise being that she is craven and will say anything to win. (Point proven on Friday with her allusion to the RFK assassination). All three posters can be seen here, but the strongest is to your left. For the reader who is a native Kansan (hi Dad), it imagines a Clinton campaign that would exploit the tension between Puerto Ricans and Dominicans, many of whom are black.
This poster, which I reiterate is a joke, began to make its way into Puerto Rican inboxes, without context. Last week Ad Age investigated it (I jumped in on the thread), followed by Gawker.
The Puerto Rican primary is next Sunday.
And now, for those of you who want your babies to look half Mexican:
What did you call my mom?
Two thoughts at a time
Comedy isn't fun anymore.
It used to feel exciting and wild, big like a sky. An adventure. I was always driving or flying, planning or plotting. Hoping. There was a moon to lasso, the sitcom. Like Roseanne or Seinfeld. Your original persona, padded with writers and actors. Fame, money, revenge on the people who ignored you.
Even after that bubble burst years ago, I could still feel alive onstage, excited. New things to say, new feelings to explore. I wanted to kick down more doors, be the funniest woman alive. Then, slowly that enthusiasm started to trickle away. Some rejuvenation during my pregnancy. I was rough, I was open with the crowds, not sure I wanted the baby in my body, hoping for a miscarriage if it was weak. Stuff that was true and made people laugh or gasp.
After the baby, I explored the same issues onstage but not in theory anymore. Still exciting, still dark. Then a depression began to break my spirit. You can love your child more than anything in the world and wish you'd never had him, simultaneously. When other loved ones in my life die, I will be sad, devastated, grief-stricken etc. But if my son leaves this earth before I do, I will be gone. Nobody else can ruin me like KilBaby. Nobody. Even if he's a great kid, generous, happy, honor roll, athletic, all the things you want, he can ruin me by getting run over by a drunk driver or skydiving with a broken parachute or a million other things.
I don't know how to live with this possibility swinging over me like Damocles' sword.
In the year after swimming and before comedy, I cleaned houses for Merry Maids or some such company. One afternoon, I was sent to a house with photos of a teenage girl in the living room. I recognized her, although today I cannot remember her name. She was a swimmer, and she had been murdered about ten years prior, walking home from somewhere, maybe even swim practice. She swam for Aquabears, the team I would swim for a few years after her death. The school photo in the living room was the same one I'd seen in the newspapers. She was in her early teens when she died. And here I was, cleaning her house. When I finished, her mom sat down and wrote me a check. I didn't say what I knew, I didn't want to make her feel sad.
What does this have to do with stand-up comedy? Or the four shows I have on this beautiful Saturday night?
I have no idea.
A few nights ago, I tried to find out that swimmer's name, to see if her killer had been found. My swim coach, who was her swim coach, ended up getting fired for sleeping with or trying to sleep with many of his female athletes. I'm sure it wasn't him, he was just a gross groper.
The job of comedy, and grief for a dead girl I never knew, occupying equal time in my thoughts.
At St. Nicholas Park, on Mother's Day.