That Time I Met Dorothy Allison

This weekend was CIMMfest, and I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to cover a few of the events. I chose the events that I wanted to attend at random, or at the suggestion of friends. I am overwhelmed by too many choices, and I wanted to see everything, so my method was kind of a spin-and-point one. Sophisticated, I know.

A friend told me to go see Sister Spit, and I agreed without thinking too much about it. I had a press pass. I like performance art. I like writers, I am one. I like independent artists. Sure, I’ll go see Sister Spit.

I didn’t know that Dorothy Allison was going to do a reading. I wrote a paper on Dorothy Allison and censorship in high school. Dorothy Allison comes from a huge family in the south. Dorothy Allison is outspoken and doesn’t give one single shit what you think of her. A lot of people hate Dorothy Allison. I love Dorothy Allison.

Her reading was powerful. She writes about things that most people never ever talk about, and the emotion that she writes about not being able to show come through in her writing and her voice. Her reading was long, but it kept my attention, which is rare and so refreshing. She talked about abuse, oppression, and self-hatred. Things that many people can relate to, but again, never speak of or know how to express. I cried several times throughout her reading, for reasons that I don’t even entirely understand. I’m still sorting through it.

I mustered up the courage to shake her hand after the show (thanks, Alex), and I thanked her for being so brave. I told her that her piece was wonderful and her response was “I saw you. You were in the front row. Those eyes are intense.”

My eyes, Dorothy Allison?

I thanked her, and told her that her piece moved me to tears. I don’t know why that’s what came out of my mouth, but it felt like an important thing to say. I’m not sure what I would feel if someone told me that, but she responded without skipping a beat.

“It’s all good for you, honey.”

I thanked her again and left the room. And that was it. That was the moment that I met Dorothy Allison. Dorothy Allison, who was the first person in her enormous southern family to graduate high school. Dorothy Allison who was the writer in residence at Columbia College the year that I dropped out of Columbia College. Dorothy Allison, who has endured so many awful things in her life I’m amazed she can speak at all, let alone write memoirs, poetry and essays about it with the eloquence of a poet laureate.

I left the building and headed directly to a bar for a very hard drink, a gin and soda with lime to be exact. I could barely speak for an hour, and it took an hour and a half before I could talk about Dorothy Allison.

I want to talk to Dorothy Allsion again, and this time for longer than 30 seconds. I have so many questions for her. I want her to tell me stories and teach me how to be a writer. That reading and that meeting knocked something loose in me, something that I hope doesn’t go away anytime soon. Something that, as soon as I figure out, I will write about.

God, Dorothy Allison is so cool and brave and smart.

“Understand me. What I am here for is to tell you  stories you may not want to hear. What I am here for is to rescue my dead. And to scare the hell out of you now and then. I was raised Baptist, I know how to do that.” – Dorothy Allison

Dear pretty girls,

I think I owe you an apology. I have misjudged you. Since the early 90′s, I have been under the assumption that you are all on this planet for the sole purpose of making my life hell. Actually, in the 90s, you did make my life hell. You made fun of my horrible curly mullet in 7th grade (and, in retrospect, I get it), you told everybody I had fleas in 8th grade and in high school you, well, you just existed, and that was enough.

I think I’ve had it all wrong, though. I should be grateful. It was the mean, pretty girls who caused me to step up my funny-game. That was always the one thing I had on pretty girls. I was smarter, funnier and could use way bigger words, in a sentence even*. Unfortunately, wit and sarcasm are not qualities that are as highly regarded in tweens as pure beauty. I was conditioned to believe that when I saw a pretty girl coming, I had to guard my ego and prepare my best snarky comeback. Seeing a pretty girl set off a battle cry inside of me, and it’s how I built my amazing gift for quick insults.

I have been trained to hate pretty girls since puberty. That’s over 20 years of hate! What I didn’t realize is that I had become a full-fledged pretty girl hater. I hate prejudice, and I lecture people regularly about how prejudice is for rednecks and the un-educated. What a hypocrite. I was just jealous.

Something I’m learning in my 30′s is that you’re not all mean girls.

I mean, some of you are still awful. But you peaked in the 90′s when you were telling everyone that I had fleas, so I barely even care about you anymore. Also, my curly mullet looks great now, so we’re even. But a lot of you can’t help it. You’re just pretty – you were born that way. Who am I to judge and pre-hate you for the way you were born?

I’m sorry, pretty girls. I’m sorry that I automatically assumed you were the devil for most of my life. It turns out that you’re just like everyone else, but prettier. In fact, some of my favorite people are pretty. My best friend is pretty. I don’t hate you, pretty girls. You just make me uncomfortable, I’m not used to seeing you roaming the streets with the rest of us. I wish I could tell you to just “keep it to yourself”, but that would be unfair. Wave your pretty flag, pretty girls. You should be free to be balls-to-the-wall pretty in public.

Go on with your pretty-selves, pretty girls. I’m convinced that we can all co-exist, at our varying levels of pretty. In fact, let’s be friends. You can teach me how to do that thing that you do with your eyeliner that makes it look like you’re not even wearing eyeliner. I can teach you the art of pun-writing.

I’m sorry I hated you for so long. You seem really nice, actually.

*I am in no way implying that pretty girls are dumb. The pretty girls who were awful to me in junior high were pretty dumb, though.

On vulnerability and other silly things

Performing is scary for me. Not because I have stage fright or a fear of being in front of people – I don’t, really. Performing is scary because it means being 100% honest and vulnerable, and that is where I tend to choke.

I don’t like being vulnerable. I know what you’re thinking – nobody does – but slow your roll – I have a lot of really talented friends who love being vulnerable. They are great at it. They are amazing on stage. Honestly, I would never even go on stage with most of my talented performer friends because they would blow me out of the water (ahem evermainardcareycallahancandylawrence). The only thing I hate worse than the fear of being vulnerable on stage is having a fear that is holding me back. I hate feeling like I’m losing to some unseen force, and I sort of like feeling just a little bit uncomfortable, so I decided to push myself.

This is where my fear of mortality comes into play. If we could die at any moment, then it doesn’t matter if we’re vulnerable on stage or embarrassed or fail or even do really well. It doesn’t matter. That’s what I keep telling myself.

It. Doesn’t. Matter.

I submitted my typed, formatted journal entry to Mortified yesterday, which means it’s official. I have agreed to get on stage in front of a large crowd and read an awful journal entry that I wrote in 1997 at the tender, bitter, cynical age of 17. Here we go.

I can’t show you the entry because that would ruin the surprise. If you want to see me embarrass myself publicly, come to Schubas on May 5th at 7 pm and watch for yourself.

Vulnerability, here I come.

Dear Food,

I miss you.

It’s day two of the juice fast and I…want a slice of pizza. Not because I’m hungry, but because I love pizza. I can go without food and not really be phased, but I do not enjoy not chewing. I really want the delicious, amazing texture of cheese pizza in my mouth. Or avocado. Or a donut. Or a sandwich. I just want to eat. To physically chew something in my mouth.

I’m learning a lot about myself, and my eating habits. I have a hard time sitting without eating. If I sit down to write, I want a snack. If I put on a movie, I want a snack. If I write a blog post about how badly I want to eat, I want a snack. I miss snacking.

Today was the first time that I actually felt hungry, and I started to resent this stupid juice. I don’t want any more stupid juice. I want food. I would even settle for a salad right now. But a really big salad, with lots of  hard boiled eggs and croutons.

Tomorrow is day three, the last day of this juice fast. My bones hurt. My skin is greasy and my eyes feel like they are going to swell shut. I hear that those are all good things, but they feel like death. If I make it through tomorrow, it will be a miracle.

If you see me in the next 24 hours, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I might slap your food out of your hand and into the dirt. I don’t care if you are upset with me – who brings food around someone who is halfway through a three day juice fast? That was pretty inconsiderate of you. Also, don’t talk to me about food. And for the love of god, please stop grilling within a six block radius of my apartment. I can smell that, and it makes me hate you. But hey, in a few days I’ll be as good as new and I’ll have the skin of a 22 year old.

It’s almost over, and I promise to not be angry and greasy for much longer. And if you’re looking for me on Saturday, I’ll be the one at the buffet.

I’m Mortified

I’m in, you guys!  If you’re in Chicago and you would like to see me embarrass myself publicly, come to Schubas on May 5th and watch me in Mortified! It’s going to be…angsty.

Mortified Chicago Promo from Shay DeGrandis on Vimeo.

Bitch, please.

An open letter to my former employer,

I used to have a blog that I posted in a lot. I used to share my intimate feelings, experiences and thoughts with the world, and I really enjoyed it. Then one day, four years ago, you found something that I wrote about you. I didn’t use your name, I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true and I didn’t say anything that would harm you or your family. I’m still not sure how you found my blog, since it wasn’t under my name, nor was it published publicly – that part still creeps me out. You hunted me down like an animal.

What followed after you read that entry, which was buried at least 10 entries deep, was a string of emails and phone calls that were the impetus to me shutting down my blog, changing my phone number, blocking you on every website possible and worst of all, not writing for a very long time. You made me afraid to write.

I was talking about that experience tonight, how scared and hurt I was and how afraid I have been to write about my true feelings ever since, and I got really angry. I never said this to you then because it was my first day at a new job, in a new city, with new babies and I was shaken to the core, but that was some real bullshit.

You freaked out on me, you insulted me, you bullied me and you tried to intimidate me. I could have probably pressed charges with those emails, but I didn’t because I was scared. Worst of all, you almost ruined writing for me. Just typing that made me angry, and that’s not an anger I’m going to let go of anytime soon.

If you did that to me now, I would not hesitate to answer the phone one of the half-dozen times you called and tell you to go F yourself. I would tell you how out of line you were, and that if you continued to contact me against my wishes, I would not only press charges, but I would file a restraining order. I’m a different person now, and I wouldn’t ever allow that to happen.

If you’re reading this, and god, I hope you are, know that you don’t stand a chance anymore. One day I will write a memoir and you will be at least one chapter of it. I still won’t use your real name, don’t worry. Nobody will know that you were a nightmare to work for. But you’ll know who you are, and that’s all that matters. And listen, should you decide to attack me, know that I’m not afraid of you anymore. I’m going to write about you and I’m going to be 100% honest. I have a lawyer now. I’m older, I’m smarter, and I’m not afraid of you.

I guess I owe you a thank you. Ultimately what I learned is that if I tell the truth, people might get upset, but as long as it’s my truth it doesn’t matter. You scared the shit out of me, and I almost never wrote again.  You almost took something from me that I have treasured my entire life, and I’m still mad about it. If you’re reading this, all I have to say is this: please stop stalking me on the internet and pay attention to your children. If you want people to write nice things about you, be a nicer person.

Mortified

Tomorrow is my Mortified audition. Even if I don’t get to participate in the show, I plan to start sharing some nuggets from my childhood journals with the internet. This shit is cathartic. Here’s a taste:

Dear Diary circa 1991 (I was 11)

I’m sorry I haven’t written in so long, but I’ve been really busy.

The day before yesterday, we started sex education class.  We are learning about why you have your period, and how it happens, we are also learning about male & females reproduction systems and so on.

Besides that, the science fair is coming up, and our projects have to do with saving the environment.  Our projects are due the 29th. I’m finished with mine, Its an aluminum windmill.

Chicago comedy is where it’s at right now

For a couple reasons.

The very kind folks at Mayne Stage, where I produced Atomic Comics, are letting me produce two more shows (February 10th and 11th). I have aptly named the shows Double Header, which may be the closest I have ever come to knowing a sports reference. Kelsie, Adam and every single comic in this lineup, and I’m so excited to work with all of them. I’m very excited for this show, and hopefully it will lead to many more shows in the future.

Next, and this is kind of a big deal so stay with me, Ever Mainard had a moment on stage at Chicago Underground Comedy that will not only change her career, but is starting conversations and creating a buzz like nothing I’ve seen in years. It was a set that made me remember why I love comedy so much:

Most of this set is improvised. She may have started with her written jokes, but very soon into it, she just started ranting. Normally I wouldn’t support ranting, but this was one of the best rants in the history of all rants. She even used character voices and act-outs on the spot.

This is an important set because she inadvertently started a conversation, several conversations; about the word “rape”, about racism and about her, as a performer. Anything that makes me think and laugh at the same time is what I consider good art. Good art and good comedy are the reasons why I moved to Chicago, and Ever is the future of stand-up comedy. I give you my word that, someday, Ever will be famous (whatever that means).

I’m so proud, not only of Ever, but of my peers. To watch the ripple-effect of support take over my facebook feed was incredible. Between the time that I left work (6 p.m.) and the time I got home and checked my email (7:30ish), Ever’s video had made it onto Jezebel, The L Stop facebook page and several blogs, with over 6,000 hits in under 20 minutes. As I write this, Ever’s video is filling my facebook feed and inbox.

You guys, Ever Mainard is going to be famous.

I love Chicago Comedy.

that time that i followed a thoughtful, angry entry on feminism with a totally vapid entry on hair.

i’m getting a haircut tomorrow. i can not remember the last time i was genuinely this excited. getting a  haircut is like an olympic event for me. i prepare for it. i think about it for days before it happens. i should probably stretch first.

i’m going to be honest. i love hair cuts because i am a maniac about my hair. i joke around a lot about how egotistical i am, and everyone knows that i’m joking, usually. but listen. when i say something like “i have great hair”, even if i smile or laugh after i say it, i mean it sincerely. i have really good hair. i am an ego maniac about my hair.

from the moment i sit down in that stylists chair, it’s the nellie show.

“so much hair!”

“it’s so thick!”

“you straighten this? oh girl.”

i act all coy and answer as earnestly as i can muster.

“yeah. takes forever to straighten.”

“my father. i get it from my father.”

“i KNOW. so unruly” *feigned eyeroll*

after i am showered with compliments that i pretend to be too humble to accept, the best thing happens. i get to perform and then i get to shop. it has been my experience with anyone who works in a salon that, if you are funny and engaging, you will be a celebrity for an hour every two to three months. and if you laugh at all of my jokes and tell me how pretty my hair is for an afternoon, i will buy the most expensive aveda products you can wave under my nose. it’s the perfect cocktail of validation + marketing.

i can absolutely guarantee you that i will leave the salon tomorrow with approximately three more products than i will ever need. it’s like my achilles heel. if you tell me how good my hair is and indulge me in talking about updos for a while, i will do whatever you tell me to do.

i should rub this through my hair and then stand on my head while holding a flat-iron that is 350 degrees to the touch, and straighten my hair in 3/4 inch sections while repeating a mantra in Sanskrit? sure, okay. now here’s too much money. good day.

i thought about becoming a hair stylist for a week in my early 20′s and then again when i had my quarter-life crisis. it seemed ideal. i could do something that i loved and get paid for it. the problem here is that i don’t love anyone else’s hair as much as i love my own. if you have really good hair, i will want to talk to you about it and ask questions and trade secrets. but if you have bad hair, go to a different stylist! i don’t have time for that. i only want to see what i want to see, and what i want to see is jennifer anniston, circa 1996.

i know what you’re thinking. this is all so self-referential and egotistical. shut the hell up about your hair. but listen, i can justify it:

i’m short. my fingers look like sausages. i can’t do a single sit-up. i have a huge head, literally. my weight has yo-yo’d since i was 9. i didn’t get off easy, in any way. so  let me be indulgent and talk about my hair, okay?

god.

it’s okay for me to be a jerk about how good my hair is because i’m aware that, at any moment, i could lose one of the only things that keeps me afloat in the shallow waters of self-esteem. this hair was my saving grace in what could have been a genetic disaster ( i am of german, irish and scottish descent, by way of canada and the appalachia’s. i can’t believe i’m not transparent.)

what i’m saying, you guys, is that i can not wait to get this haircut. and while you may be better looking and cooler than me, i probably still have better hair. it’s okay, though. you probably look better in suspenders.

 

 

in which i tell off everyone who made me mad today

an open letter to the idiot who wrote that one article and one to the idiot who commented on the article that i wrote. i don’t usually waste my energy responding to poorly informed, uneducated idiots, but today i’m mad and my inner hippie is as good as dead.

first things first. dear jackass who wrote this article,

are you a woman?  do you know any women? because this piece of garbage that you spat out while you sipped miller light in whatever shitty bar you hang out in is not only infuriating and misinformed, but it’s poorly written. that might actually be what offends me the most.

listen, everyone is different. but for you, someone who is writing for FOX news (eyeroll), to tell men what me,  a feminist woman, and my female counterparts really mean when we talk, makes me want to slap you with my mixing spoon, while i wear this apron.

you put quotes around the words “independent ladies”. do you understand what quotes are for, and how they work? i didn’t think so. moving on.

Enter you, the lucky guy who is thrilled at the prospect of a non-clingy girlfriend. Not so fast. While the notion of the sexy feminist isn’t completely false, you need to be aware of those pesky feminist demands that even the most independent of women is expecting you to ignore. Why don’t women just tell you what they want, you ask? Silly rabbit, then they wouldn’t be women!

clearly, this article must have been written by a 7th grader parading around as an educated man or woman…right? this paragraph has all of the intellect of a larry the cable guy joke. are all women really not saying what they mean, does no really still mean yes? if you believe that, do you know what that makes you? it makes you a lot of things, but first and foremost it makes you a jackass. this is the 21st century, Archie Bunker. i dare you to walk into any bar or club or wherever you hang out and say those words to a group of “independent” women. i triple dog dare you.

this piece of garbage goes on to list the 5 things that women don’t really mean:

1. i can carry my own bag
2. don’t objectify me
3. i’ll pay my share
4. i can think for myself
5. i won’t be shackled into a marriage

i’m not going to dissect each of these paragraphs, because i don’t want to give you any more of my time and energy than you gave this article. i would love to have a public debate with you, oh wise author, and i would also like to see the results of the extensive study that i’m sure you did in an effort to fairly represent the opinions of all women. that’s such a large demographic to cover, and you have done it so effortlessly. it only took you a few paragraphs, while silly anthropologists have been working at it for decades.

this last paragraph, in which you depart your endless wisdom, is where i take the most issue.

Gender roles continue to evolve every day. It used to be almost heretic to suggest that a man be a stay-at-home father while his wife worked, but now it’s something people don’t even blink at. However, no matter how independent women get, there will always be that part of them that wants to be treated like an old-fashioned lady, whether that means letting her take the backseat in some decision-making or complimenting her on the hot new dress she bought. Sound contradictory to you? Well, that’s because it is. Women are a complete contradiction in terms and that’s one thing they’re likely never to evolve out of — like men and leaving the toilet seat up. We all have our crosses to bear.

clunky, painful writing aside (seriously, is this someone’s high school term paper?) i really thought and hoped that this sort of prehistoric mindset was long extinct. i guess i live in a bubble of supportive, intelligent, educated people. i don’t live in the world that you live in. i don’t live in a world where men and women will always be from mars and venus, respectively. i live in a world where men and women are all people, and people should behave and treat each other as such.

forget your stupid gender rules, forget how convinced you think you are of what women really want. if we ever meet in person, don’t you dare treat me like an old fashioned lady. when i say something, i mean it. i’m not a confused, adorable lady who just needs to be decoded. you know who says things like “women mean one thing when they say another”? abusive people, rapists and the uneducated. that’s who.

moving on.

an open letter to whoever left that last shitty comment on my article,

last fall, i wrote an article (rather, gapers block let me write an article) about the five women who have most influenced me in my chicago comedy journey.  interviewing those women, writing that article and posting that article for the whole world to see and judge, were some of the most amazing, terrifying and defining moments that i have ever had. i got a lot of positive feedback, both from the comedy community and from friends and family who knew how much the piece meant to me. i stated, in the very first paragraph, that this piece was not fair journalism by any means. it was an homage. it was me taking a side-step from writing about upcoming shows and doing q&a’s to talk about *gasp* my own journey, as well as the journeys of the five women who have supported me these past few years. was it indulgent? yes, absolutely. and i loved every minute of it.

i expected to receive some negative feedback. i’m not naive. i would never expect to post a piece of writing for the whole world to see and receive only positive feedback. i get that. up until very recently, i refused to acknowledge any of the negative comments. i’m not going to fan the flame of any insecure or hateful person who either a) did not read my piece carefully enough to understand what the word homage means, or b) has a clear and obvious chip on their shoulder. the good feelings that i walked away with were much more powerful than any stupid comment that was left on gapers block, criticizing me for not being fair in choosing who i interviewed.

most importantly, i don’t care about your uninformed opinion. i wrote that piece for me, and i shared it because i wanted to. i didn’t write about you, or your friend, or more middle-aged women or whatever it is that you’re mad about simply because i don’t know them. that’s it. there’s no other reason for my decision. it wasn’t a malicious act on my part. the five women in that article are people who have personally impacted me and my life. if you think i’m leaving someone out, by all means, write your own article. or better yet, introduce me to them. i would love to meet them.

months have gone by since i wrote that article, and i haven’t really given it much more thought. i stopped looking at the comments after i challenged my critics to come forth and have a public discussion with me, which they didn’t do. conversation over. then, last week, i logged into gapers block and noticed that i had another comment.

it was marked january 9th, nearly three months after i posted the original piece. that leads me to believe that whoever left that comment first had to seek me out, search for the gapers block piece and take the time out of their day to leave a disgruntled comment. i have an angry stalker, which probably means they’re going to read this blog post, as well. so hello, whoever you are. thank you for reading my article, driving traffic to gapers block and giving me a piece of your mind.

angry reader, if you are reading my blog (and i hope that you are), i want you to know that i deleted your comment from gapers block. not because i’m a bitch or i don’t believe in public criticism. that was the first time i’ve ever deleted a comment, even in my blog. in fact, i left the other comments up because i actually do believe strongly in taking the readers opinions into consideration. i took it down because your comment was deliberate, ignorant and accused me of things that i will not leave on a public forum. things like poor research and ignorance.

listen, i’m going to say this one last time. this was not a piece about the best women in chicago comedy. this was a piece about five women in chicago comedy who have influenced me over the past few years. i don’t know how to make that more clear. if you feel so strongly, i urge you to email me personally. send me a press release, or a pitch, about whoever it is that you think i excluded. i would love to write about every deserving person who exists. unfortunately, i can’t possibly know all of the people in chicago. so tell me about them. i’m listening.

better yet, write it your damn self. write for a site like gapers block, or start a blog. then you can write about whatever you would like to, as opposed to breathing down my neck about my intellectual property.

angry reader, if you are reading my blog, please subscribe. i need the traffic. also, let’s talk. let’s have a conversation. my goal is to support other women, not exclude anyone. i’m sorry that i didn’t cover every square inch of chicago, as  you think i should have. i’m sorry that my life’s path didn’t lead me to your friend.

i will never address this again. i didn’t sleep a lot last night and my patience is wearing thin, so today i am more confrontational than usual. more importantly, i have more writing to do. i’m not giving any more of my energy or time to this conversation. if you would like to email me personally and have an adult discussion about it, then do that (nellie.huggins@gmail.com), otherwise kindly shut up.

if you would like to write your own article, please, by all means, send me a copy. i will share it with everyone i know and will gladly support you in your journey. but if you don’t have something legitimately constructive (it doesn’t even have to be nice) to say, please stop clogging up the internet with your tantrums.

“Don’t waste your energy trying to educate or change opinions; go over, under, through, and opinions will change organically when you’re the boss. Or they won’t. Who cares? Do your thing, and don’t care if they like it.” – Tina Fey (from Bossypants)