December 17, 2024Poem in Which I Pursued My Dream of Doing Stand-up
When articles I read in 1980 demanded
a woman comic make fun of her appearance,
I went for it. I embraced my fat because John Waters
thought fat was hilarious. In fact, I ate so much
I doubled my size and wore small, unflattering
T-shirts to highlight my stomach rolls. I wasn’t afraid
to be raunchy or gross. I even farted
on stage, becoming a caricature of everything ugly
I dreaded inside me. I teased my frizzy hair to make it
even frizzier. I took my cues from Joan Rivers
and Phyllis Diller—On my honeymoon I put on
a peekaboo blouse. My husband peeked and booed.
I tried to repel men as much as possible
with my awesome, non-conforming physicality.
I didn’t care if I embarrassed my family.
I didn’t care anymore about diets or dates.
I ate whole cakes and didn’t even think
about throwing them up. I went to late night
open mics, wisecracking through the jeers and booing
until audiences got used to me. I took their abuse,
gave it right back. I wore down the drunks and soon
they were laughing, even snorting sometimes.
Though still controversial, I was on the cover
of Paper and Ms. while The Golden Girls
made its TV debut. By the time Roseanne Barr
came around, I’d already taken all up the space
in that roly-poly lane. I let her open for me anyway.
At the end of each of my Comedy Central specials,
I would invite her back into the spotlight
and we’d bump our humongous bellies.
Roseanne grew bored. She was a deep thinker,
growing more profound with each gig.
When Jane Austen came back in vogue
with the movies Clueless and Sense and Sensibility,
I started my own production company
and hired so many women—even skinny
pretty comics, ones I never imagined
could break through. My wide ass opened wide
doors for everyone. Finally I had boyfriends,
handsome and loyal and attracted to my big fat
bank account. But by the time Beyoncé reunited
with Destiny’s Child for the Super Bowl halftime,
my overeating and slovenly ways caught up
with me. When I had bypass surgery and lost
two hundred pounds, I knew my career in comedy
was over. Fans called me a traitor and my latest
boyfriend lost interest too—no more drunken parties
and freezers stocked with Haagen-Dazs
and Tombstone pizzas. I had to pivot so I straightened
my hair and changed my name to give myself
a second act. Roseanne had just won the Pulitzer
for her verse. I put my efforts into becoming a minor poet.
from In Which