فصل 03

3

Laugh Factory Comedy Camp

I started doing comedy at fifteen. I was getting in trouble in school, that’s what got me into it. It was all because of this one teacher.

I was talking too much in class, and my teacher was always sending me to the principal’s office. The social worker was getting tired of coming up to the school, and the principal was tired of calling the social worker.

Come to think of it, it wasn’t just talking. This teacher kept saying I was racist, but I didn’t think I was being racist. I thought I was being funny.

My whole thing was just to make everybody laugh. If I could do that, then they’d let me copy their homework and they’d help me on tests.

One of the ways I made everyone laugh was to make up these imaginary friends. I had a female imaginary friend that I called Carmelita and a little bird that I called Cracker. I would talk to them in the hallways and during class, and if somebody sat down next to me, I’d be like:

Tiffany: “Wait, watch out. You’re sitting on Carmelita’s lap. She likes that, though. Wiggle on her.”

And they would jump up and be like, “What are you talking about?” And then, eventually, they would become my friends. People would be like, “You crazy. You silly. I like you.” It worked really well for me. It’s basically how I made it through school.

Every time we would take a test, I would turn my head toward my shoulder, and I would be like, “Cracker want a Polly?” I had some crackers, and I would crumble them up on my shoulder for my imaginary bird, and people would be laughing. Then they’d let me cheat off of them.

The teacher didn’t know I was cheating though, that’s not why she was always sending me to the principal’s office. During one test, I said:

Tiffany: “What’s the answer to number seven, Cracker?”

You know, because that was my imaginary bird’s name. But my teacher thought I was being racist against her.

Teacher: “You go straight to the principal’s office. You can’t be racist in here.”

This happened a few times, and everybody would laugh. I would just tell the principal the same thing each time.

Tiffany: “I was talking to my friend, my imaginary bird.”

Principal: “Oh, God, again with the imaginary friends?”

After like the fifth time, my social worker couldn’t take it anymore.

Social Worker: “Tiffany, you got two choices this summer coming up. You can go to the Laugh Factory Comedy Camp, or you can go to psychiatric therapy. Which one do you want to do, ’cause something is wrong with you.”

Tiffany: “Which one got drugs?”

Social Worker: “Therapy.”

I didn’t want no drugs, I had seen how those fuck people up. So I went to the comedy camp.

Laugh Factory Comedy Camp was kinda perfect, except how long it took to get there. I’d have to catch the bus up there from 54th and Western, and I would ride all the way up to the Laugh Factory camp. Riding that bus, you would see the demographics of the people change, as you went from South Central through Hollywood. I remember getting on the bus feeling poor. But as we would get to Hollywood, I would see a little bit higher class of people boarding the bus. I felt like I was literally moving up in the world.

I would go up there every week, and I got to meet a lot of different comedians. A lot of mentors would come in. Dane Cook showed up. Chris Spencer. All the Wayans brothers came one day. Harland Williams came by, and Quincy Jones.

I remember the day Quincy Jones came in there, I was like:

Tiffany: “What is he doing here? He ain’t funny.”

But he was saying how comedy is like music, and it’s about the rhythm of the words. Like if you really listen to a joke, it has a melody to the punchline. I got that, it really helped me.

Charles Fleischer was there. I was so excited about Charles Fleischer, ’cause he does the voice of Roger Rabbit. The character I’ve been emulating the most, just trying to be funny—and now, the guy who does this character’s voice is teaching me, talking to me.

I liked Charles Fleischer a lot, but he was all intent on telling me not to do bathroom humor, which I did not agree with. He was like:

Charles: “You’re a pretty girl. You shouldn’t do bathroom humor.”

I had a joke about going to a public bathroom, and then an old lady comes in the stall next to you, and she be making weird noises, and I imitated the lady’s noises and stuff. He said I shouldn’t do bathroom humor.

When he said I was too pretty to do bathroom humor, at first I was flattered. That was the first time a man told me I was pretty. Come to think of it later, that might have been a little creepy. But I think he was just trying to be nice, so it’s cool.

Being in that comedy camp was the first time I felt safe. I didn’t think anything bad was gonna happen. That was maybe my favorite part about Laugh Factory Comedy Camp.

By that point, I had lived in a few foster places and knew a few things. If a grown man tells you that you pretty, he’s gonna be trying to touch on you soon, and all kinds of terrible stuff is gonna happen.

But at comedy camp, that man told me I’m pretty, but I didn’t feel like it was dangerous. He cared about me and was saying a nice thing. He was trying to help me.

My biggest influence was probably Richard Pryor. He came in there, and I’m telling my jokes, and he stopped me in the middle of telling my jokes:

Richard: “Stop, stop, stop. What are you doing?”

Tiffany: “I’m telling a joke.”

Richard: “No, you’re not.”

Tiffany: “Yes, I am.”

Richard: “No, you’re not.”

Tiffany: “YES, I AM!”

Richard: “NO, YOU ARE NOT!”

Me and Richard Pryor. Squabbling back and forth right onstage.

Tiffany: “Well, what’chu you think I’m doing up here?”

Richard: “You’re getting on my goddam nerves, that’s what’chu doing! Look, people don’t come to comedy shows because they want to hear about your problems, or about politics, or what’s going on in the world, or celebrities. They don’t care. They come to comedy shows to have fun. So when you’re onstage, you need to be having fun. If you’re having fun, they’re having fun. If you not having fun, they looking at you like ‘what the hell did I spend my money on?’ So you need to have fun.”

Richard Pryor gave me that advice, at the Laugh Factory Comedy Camp, when I was fifteen.

I’d had a pretty rough life to that point, and I’d had some bad shit come my way, but I was pretty lucky for that experience. I try to take that philosophy and apply it to everything I do in life. That’s why I think my life turned out as good as it has. Because all the time, I’m just trying to have fun.

Wherever you are, thank you, Richard. That meant so much to me, and to this day I try to have fun every time I’m onstage, because of you.

• • •

When I was in Laugh Factory Comedy Camp, the Channel Two news came, and they did a story on me. But since I was a foster kid, I had to go to the courthouse to get permission to be on television. Since foster kids are technically state property, I couldn’t be on TV without the court’s permission. It’s just like you would have to have your parents’ permission to be on television, I had to have the court’s permission. That was my parents at the time—the state of California.

My social worker didn’t want to go down to the courts to help me. It was summertime, so I was out of school. I decided I was gonna go down to the courthouse and get this permission myself. I caught the bus and took about three transfers to get all the way to the family courts, which is, like, in the city of Alhambra or some shit.

I went to the clerk, I found out who my judge was, I went into his courtroom. He wasn’t noticing me, not paying me any attention, the bailiff wouldn’t talk to me. I was like, Wow, just like my real parents, my state parents don’t care either. Then, I finally stood up, and I asked the bailiff:

Tiffany: “Can I talk to the judge?”

Bailiff: “What you got?”

He took the papers to the judge, and he came back.

Bailiff: “It’s not one of the cases on file, so we can’t do it.”

I went back down to the clerk’s office.

Tiffany: “Can you make it so I can see the judge?”

Clerk: “We’ll send your case up to the courtroom. But you have to come back tomorrow.”

I went through all that again the next day, and they were still not paying attention to me.

But this time, I was prepared. I had brought a Walkman, a magazine, chewing gum, a soda—all the stuff they say not to have. Today, I was going to get their attention. They were not gonna ignore me.

So I was flipping the magazine, popping the bubblegum, and drinking a soda, and the judge was trying not to notice. Then all of a sudden, he kind of snaps:

Judge: “Who are you? What are you doing in my courthouse?”

Tiffany: “I’m Tiffany Haddish. I’m here so you can sign my papers.”

Judge: “What are these papers for?”

Tiffany: “I’m trying to be on the news. I need to be on the news.”

Judge: “What do you need to be on the news for?”

Tiffany: “I’m at the Laugh Factory Comedy Camp, I’m gonna be a world-famous comedian, and I need you to sign this paperwork, so that I can be on the news story they want to do about me.”

Judge: “And why do you need to be on the news to be a world-famous comedian?”

Tiffany: “Because, then that way, my dad’s gonna see me, he gonna be really proud, then everybody gonna be really proud. I’m gonna be really funny, I’m gonna make people laugh, and that’s gonna be my job forever, and I’mma be a world-famous comedian, and then I’ll be happy.”

He looked at me over his glasses, staring at me for a second. Everyone in the courthouse was dead quiet.

Judge: “Are you sure about all of this?”

Tiffany: “Yes, I am very sure. I know this.”

Judge: “Well, if you act onstage as funny as you act now, then you probably will be a world-famous comedian.”

Then he read my case. He asked me:

Judge: “Do you know who your father is?”

Tiffany: “Nope. I haven’t seen him since I was three.”

Judge: “Where’s your mom?”

Tiffany: “She’s locked down in a mental facility. She crazy.”

Then he signed the paper.

I was all happy. That bus ride back felt much shorter.

• • •

The news came, and they filmed me. It went real good, and they told me when it would be on, and I was real excited.

Then the day it was supposed to come on, that day, Princess Diana goes and gets killed in a car wreck.

I got bumped. It’s cool, though. I wasn’t mad. She was a princess, I get it.

It was two months before it finally came on the air. I was so happy watching it. I felt like a star already. It was the first time I had ever seen myself as valuable, worth people’s time or attention.

After that comedy camp, they started letting me do stand-up. Like, onstage. Sometimes, I would get to MC, sometimes do a set. At first, it was all during the day.

Later, I was going up to the Laugh Factory on a Friday or Saturday night. Night shows are much bigger. I was too young to go real late, but they would let me go up on the eight o’clock show and get like five minutes. I would do my set, and I would leave. I wasn’t allowed to stay in there, ’cause of the alcohol.

And they would give me like ten or fifteen bucks. That was just enough to cover bus fare, but it was cool. I was getting paid to tell jokes. I was on my way.

I did that all through high school, till I was like eighteen. And then, I had to quit.

I had to quit comedy, because I was homeless, and I was supposed to go to NYU, and I had no idea what to do.

I know, it’s confusing. Here’s how it went:

Once I turned eighteen, my grandma sat me down.

Grandma: “Since I ain’t getting paid for you now, you need to go to school. You grown. Go on, get out there. You got friends. You’ll make it.”

I had gotten accepted into NYU, but they weren’t paying my way. I didn’t have no money, and my grandma was still taking care of my brothers and sisters. I was like, What if something happens to her? Who’s gonna be here for them?

So I decided I’m gonna go to Santa Monica Community College, and I’m gonna get a job.

I was basically couch surfing then. I was just going to all my friends’ houses. Homeless as hell, just traveling around with my plastic bins. The ones with wheels on them and stuff.

At that point, I had to stop doing comedy. I was only making $10 or $15 a show. I couldn’t live off of that. I was emancipated, and I needed a roof over my head. Getting paid $10 or $15 wasn’t gonna cut it. I could not find time to go to college, and work, and then also take a bus to do comedy. It just didn’t work.

I was eighteen. To survive, I had to quit comedy.