background is when I was trying to land a job on the sketch comedy show In Living Color a few years after I graduated. I was told by my agent, who worked out of his one-room apartment and had a metal index-card box of contacts (two cards), that In Living Color was looking for a “black guy to replace Damon Wayans.” So, naturally, who better than me? I begged for an audition. And was turned down repeatedly. “But I’m a character actress! Have you seen my Ben Vereen?” I responded. Finally, I was given an opportunity to humiliate myself. It helped that I was my agent’s only client; apparently he harassed the receptionist at the casting agency until she broke down in tears.
I arrived in a black dress the size of a cocktail napkin, with a duffel full of dime-store wigs, costumes, and a ghetto blaster with a cassette of the James Bond theme music. I performed six original monologues, the final of which concluded with me hurling myself against the wall and falling into a heap on the floor. Well, having no shame paid off, and after weeks of performing for every Fox TV Armani suit–wearing executive, my final step was to meet Oz himself, Keenen Ivory Wayans (creator and star). Now this was a comedy show that ridiculed white people, and white women were the comedic bottom feeders. I wasn’t going to meet Keenen as some Debbie Debutante with a monogrammed blazer and topsiders. No, not when the show had musical guests who sang lyrics like “kill whitey.” I wore a polyester miniskirt, stiletto heels, and a tube top with a unicorn on it. (Keenen later told people I wasn’t wearing any underwear, but that is not true; what if I were in a car accident on the way home?) I smacked gum, swore like a truck-stop whore, and wore stiletto boots that made me walk like a newborn colt.
When I found out I’d gotten the job, my agent and I were so ecstatic, we both ran tiny victory laps around his studio.
My mother didn’t understand the show’s brand of humor, but then again, she wasn’t the target audience. She used to ask me why I wasn’t working on a movie with Meryl Streep, like it was my choice. I must note here that recently I had the privilege and luck of playing in a film alongside Meryl Streep. (And from that moment on, my mother referred to me as her “actress,” and not “her other daughter.”) Perhaps because I played many strippers and prostitutes (nothing my college performances of Chekhov and Brecht had prepared me for), when I wasn’t working I preserved whatever humility I had left. I had plenty of rest. I had a balanced breakfast. So when Tupac shot his driver at one of our tapings or a guest star flashed me in his dressing room, I could power through such moments with composure that would have made my mother proud. And when not dressed in a stripper thong and pasties, I was my usual modest self. Or at least I tried. One day I had to go to my annual gynecological appointment. I called the stage manager and told him I would be late for rehearsal because I was taking my dog to the vet. When I returned from my appointment, I walked onstage to find the cast and crew getting ready to rehearse a Jim Carrey sketch. The stage manager spotted me and yelled, “Hey! How’s your pooch?”
Eventually my repertoire of scantily dressed characters expanded into celebrity impersonations. I was given the opportunity to play such famous women as Cindy Crawford, Sharon Stone, Hillary Clinton, and Cher. I found it challenging and exciting to morph into real people and capture their idiosyncrasies and characteristics. One day, a production assistant from the office came skipping onto the set with a letter from Cher. Well, of course I assumed she wanted to meet for sushi in Malibu or maybe cut an album together. At the very least, invite me to come backstage at her next Vegas show!
I ripped open the envelope: “Kiss my ass, Cher.”
Never fly too close to the flame.
I t was embarrassing, when discussing my background with
I arrived in a black dress the size of a cocktail napkin, with a duffel full of dime-store wigs, costumes, and a ghetto blaster with a cassette of the James Bond theme music. I performed six original monologues, the final of which concluded with me hurling myself against the wall and falling into a heap on the floor. Well, having no shame paid off, and after weeks of performing for every Fox TV Armani suit–wearing executive, my final step was to meet Oz himself, Keenen Ivory Wayans (creator and star). Now this was a comedy show that ridiculed white people, and white women were the comedic bottom feeders. I wasn’t going to meet Keenen as some Debbie Debutante with a monogrammed blazer and topsiders. No, not when the show had musical guests who sang lyrics like “kill whitey.” I wore a polyester miniskirt, stiletto heels, and a tube top with a unicorn on it. (Keenen later told people I wasn’t wearing any underwear, but that is not true; what if I were in a car accident on the way home?) I smacked gum, swore like a truck-stop whore, and wore stiletto boots that made me walk like a newborn colt.
When I found out I’d gotten the job, my agent and I were so ecstatic, we both ran tiny victory laps around his studio.
My mother didn’t understand the show’s brand of humor, but then again, she wasn’t the target audience. She used to ask me why I wasn’t working on a movie with Meryl Streep, like it was my choice. I must note here that recently I had the privilege and luck of playing in a film alongside Meryl Streep. (And from that moment on, my mother referred to me as her “actress,” and not “her other daughter.”) Perhaps because I played many strippers and prostitutes (nothing my college performances of Chekhov and Brecht had prepared me for), when I wasn’t working I preserved whatever humility I had left. I had plenty of rest. I had a balanced breakfast. So when Tupac shot his driver at one of our tapings or a guest star flashed me in his dressing room, I could power through such moments with composure that would have made my mother proud. And when not dressed in a stripper thong and pasties, I was my usual modest self. Or at least I tried. One day I had to go to my annual gynecological appointment. I called the stage manager and told him I would be late for rehearsal because I was taking my dog to the vet. When I returned from my appointment, I walked onstage to find the cast and crew getting ready to rehearse a Jim Carrey sketch. The stage manager spotted me and yelled, “Hey! How’s your pooch?”
Eventually my repertoire of scantily dressed characters expanded into celebrity impersonations. I was given the opportunity to play such famous women as Cindy Crawford, Sharon Stone, Hillary Clinton, and Cher. I found it challenging and exciting to morph into real people and capture their idiosyncrasies and characteristics. One day, a production assistant from the office came skipping onto the set with a letter from Cher. Well, of course I assumed she wanted to meet for sushi in Malibu or maybe cut an album together. At the very least, invite me to come backstage at her next Vegas show!
I ripped open the envelope: “Kiss my ass, Cher.”
Never fly too close to the flame.
I t was embarrassing, when discussing my background with
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