Lesbian Dancing After The Show: An Improviser's Non Improvised Life

Who am I at Forty Nine? A Poem

My name is Shaun.

A name that I never thought would give me so much grief in a room full of White Irish Guys named Sean.

What are you, Irish? Sure. Why not? If this means a free Dark Pint on your Dime? I'm whomever you want me to be.

That is, until I finish this pint.

I'm black and sassy.

So says every talent agent wishing me to be.

I don't play well in that stereotype.

I learned about Nietzsche and Led Zeppelin and The Theory of Relativity and why Wolcott was important.

So you would have no idea what to do with me when you try to put me on that call asking me to pronounce "Ask" as "Axe."

Roll my eyes and stick out my ass. In 2014 circa Vaudeville 1899.

Because History Repeats Itself and you know nothing about history.

But I do. Because I wanted to.

I married a man named Hans.

You would think it would be someone named Darryl or something more Middle class Black apropos.

I don't play well in that stereotype either.

Married the man that made me laugh. Stuck a dollar down his pants and it stuck.

He just happened to be a man where now that you know me, you are four degrees from Adolph Hitler via his mother.

Whom, never expected me in her life.

Which, makes me smile. I like Schadenfreude.

I have my heart on a sleeve and never floated on the wind.

I planned things out and hoped for the best. My adventures were spontaneously planned.

Burned beyond recognition. Third degree imaginary burns up and down my back and heart.

Would not have it any other way.

How do you experience life without obligatory nicks and bruises?

And burns. Deep burns you display proudly to the person you know you are about to get burned by next.

I'm no saint. I'm not the devil.

I'm not a prize. In Grand prize or Boobie prize form.

I've never been the first girl to be picked up.

I've never been the last girl standing with the guy sporting Beer Goggle Glasses.

I'm the woman who you find in the corner holding court and waxing tales of some far off land I accidentally got to.

Making men wonder: I wonder what that is like.

I like that. It's the relationship Schadenfreude in me.

I'm the person who doesn't give a rat's ass.

You don't have to pump yourself up or downgrade me to get what you want.

Because, I know that trick. All too well.

I just shrug and say I don't care.

What...you can't get me a gig because no one knows me? I'm not on the Q Rating? I'm not on the A List? I'm not even on the Alphabet List?

I don't care. Hit delete. Shrug and move on.

I'm a 49 year old black woman in 2014.

As though I don't know the game.

As though I don't know the game of NO as much as I learned the game of YES AND.

As though I haven't heard the words You're Not Black Enough

You're not funny enough

You're not well known

You're too young

You're too old

You're not thin enough

You're not fat enough

Give me another reason, then move on.

I have the 49 year old Rolodex of Reasons.

Next to that Rolodex is the Good Rolodex.

The one that is open.

Of the people who believed and believe in me.

My family. My friends. The people who said you are just the right person.

Put me in that closed Rolodex of Never minds

Because somewhere there is a Rolodex that says: Let her in.

I'm also a person who does give a rat's ass.

Mostly, on giving a rat's ass.

I love. I like to be loved. I try to be cordial. I hate with a passion. I fawn over you. With Passion. Passionate Passion. And all that Jazz.

Who am I?

I'm a black woman with a Male Irish name that does comedy.

Flipping you the finger or hugging you with love and affection.

Sometimes at the same time.

Call me when I'm fifty.

This might all change.

I got a year to find that out.

Meanwhile, I will be over here waiting for the next tune of The Lesbian Dance.

Wearing, my old, freckled, Low Hanging Balls.

END