Dirty Laundry (Don Henley)

It was a dark and stormy night. Dad was working late. Wendell studied for AP Biology in the Florida room, Skipper did her spelling in the dining room and I glued stickers onto a geography poster with my mom paying bills feet away. Then the doorbell rang. Mom said, “April, could you get that?”

Knowing I was chosen because I was closes to the door, I got up to get it. The doorbell rang about ten more times. Either they were selling something and there was a prize involved or this was a lunatic. Standing on the front porch, soaking wet was the prized lunatic herself, Mrs. Tolanco, the most obnoxious of all the Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawk Football Booster mothers. A former Whiskey Rebellionette twirler, her senior class voted her ‘Most Divine.’ These days, she resembled the late drag queen Divine.

Opening the door I said, “Hi Mrs. Tolanco.”

Barreling past me and knocking me over like her son Frankie did an opponent on the offensive line, she said, “Wendelin, Gracie, I need a lawyer!”

As I got up, she still ignored the fact she knocked me over. Mom came running out ruing the day she asked me to answer the door, “Judy, I understand you are upset, but Wendelin isn’t home right now.”

Mrs. Tolanco said, “Grace, no can do. We need to sue in big court!” She held up a copy of The Hawk Wing, The Whiskey Rebellion High School newspaper. The headline read, “Blackhawks, Lady Hawks and Rebellionettes Get A Failing Grade by Sandra Angelina.”

Under the article was a picture of a girl who looked like Emily Dickinson The Belle of Amherst joined Sonic Youth with a by-line read, “Sandra Angelina wants to snuff out the patriarchy and write the great American novel.”

Mom said, “Okay Judy, I know you are extremely upset but I need you to calm down and take a few deep breaths. She’s an angry teenager. You know how tough it is to be that age.”

Mrs. Tolanco said, “Well wait until you read what she wrote. The Whiskey Rebellion Women’s Club asked me if it was true. It was about a boy shoving a baseball bat up another boys…”

Mom held up her hand, “Judy, please calm down.”

Mrs. Tolano said, “My Frankie plays football, works part time at the plant store and volunteers with our church to help the shut in at the end of our block with her grocery shopping and yard work. We have a few Rebellionettes and Lady Hawks who are a part of the youth group too. These are good kids and I won’t have them slandered!”

Wendell came running out, “Mrs. Tolanco, you okay?”

Letting it spray like Tammy Faye she said, “NO! Do you know this rotten Sandra Angelina?!”

Wendell said, “Yeah, she’s a weird chick who wears all black and writes death poetry.”

Mrs. Tolanco said, “A ha! The motive here is bitterness and revenge. She couldn’t make The Lady Hawks or the Rebellionettes. Maybe one of the guys wouldn’t date her. Or better yet, she’s a LESBIAN!” The way she said lesbian was louder, angrier and more punctuated than anything else.

Skipper poked her head out of the dining room, “Mrs. Tolanco, I don’t mean to be rude but I am trying to study.”

Mrs. Tolanco screamed, “ I AM BEGINNING TO DOUBT YOUR FAMILY’S COMMITMENT TO BLACKHAWK NATION!”

Mom walked over to the door and opened it, “Judy, I think you need to go home, get some sleep and if you still have legal questions call Wendelin in the morning.”

Mrs. Tolanco threw The Hawk Wing on the ground and made a dramatic exit out the door. When she was gone we let out a collective laugh. I said, “Wow, Dad’s gonna love that.” Dad hated Mrs. Tolanco.

Wendell said, “Oh I’ll bet. Frankie’s a nice guy, too bad his mom’s a freakshow.”

Mom said, “How do the guys feel?”

Wendell shrugged, “I’m ignoring it and the more level headed ones are too. But some of the others are pretty pissed. Anyway, I got to get back to studying.”

Later that night, I read the poison pen piece. Despite the hype it was a badly structured angry skree. Sandra Angelina alleged The Blackhawks and The Lady Hawks and Rebellionettes by extension were bullies who engineered a cheating ring and subjected underclassmen to violent hazing. She was correct. The previous year there had been a cheating ring involving some football players and a few Rebellionettes and Lady Hawks serving as inside people. And bullying had been an epidemic on the football team too. The violent hazing incident where the baseball bat was shoved up the butt happened as well. The only problem, it was last year. The players, cheerleaders, and Rebellionettes involved had graduated, and the coaches were fired so aside from a fact checking issue, there was nothing to be done. Matthias, while far from perfect, was zero tolerance for bullshit on the field or off.

Sandra did have some points I agreed with. Yes, the women’s sports and smaller teams fell to the wayside with little to no publicity for their events, but Whiskey Rebellion was in Steeler County so football was king. The glossy program sold at the home games raised enough money for a new weight room. Sandra claimed the football team kept other athletic teams out. Under the previous coach, the football players intimidated smaller, weaker students out of using the weight room. As far as I knew, Matthias’s squad didn’t behave this way, but Wendell and his teammates were the ones who primarily used it.

When I was finished, I handed Skipper the article. As she read it Skipper said, “Two words: spell check.”

Skipper, despite being grade levels ahead in math, was a terrible speller. I said, “That means a lot coming from you.”

Skipper shrugged, “Only someone of limited intellect would get mad at this like Mrs. Tolanco.” We both burst out laughing.

For the next week, Mrs. Tolanco blew up Dad’s phone demanding the boosters take The Hawk Wing to court. When Dad told her she had no suit, Mrs. Tolanco started a petition demanding The Hawk Wing be shut down. Gaining traction, she began to put pressure on Coach Matthias to approach the administration about disbanding The Hawk Wing.

Coach Matthias, who didn’t like Mrs. Tolanco but wanted to do damage control, approached Mrs. Callahan, The Hawk Wing sponsor, to clear the air. Smooth as sandpaper on a bed of nails Coach Matthias said, “I have no problem with the rest of weird kids that write. But that filly that wears black ain’t no good.”

Mrs. Callahan was indignant, “She has a name and it’s Sandra Angelina. Remember it.”

The two began to shout at each other. Hawk Wing staffers jumped to Mrs. Callahan’s defense. Blackhawks that were in the vicinity saw a Blackhawk down and aided their embattled coach. As the air filled with insults, threats and profanity, the school security guard tried to break up the shouting match gone wrong but failed. The long suffering vice principal Mr. Johns had to assist. When he was ignored, Bo the Janitor, a Vietnam vet with PTSD, jumped in.

As they were being separated, Coach Matthias vowed, “This is a day that will live in infamy! Blackhawk Nation has declared war!”

Mrs. Callahan replied, “Good! Because we not yet begun to write!”

That was the start of what would go down in history as The War of Words. The day after the first shots were fired, Mrs. Tolanco arrived at Principal Cicero’s office with her petition. What she didn’t count on was that Mrs. Angelina, angry her daughter’s locker had been vandalized with the word “CUNT” written in red nail polish, was also waiting to talk to Principal Cicero. The mothers got into a screaming match. When they tried to punch each other, school security had to separate them, escort them out and ban them from school property. Meanwhile, The Hawk Wing, previously ignored, was now flying off the shelves as sympathy for Sandra Angelina and her cause grew.

In what became known as The Battle of Dodge Ball, some Lady Hawk cheerleaders had informed Sandra that she cease and desist, “or else your time at Whiskey Rebellion High School will be hell.” Sandra refused. These same cheerleaders, who were in her gym class, this was Aztec Ball Court where it would be a fight to the death. Dodge balls became deadly weapons. However, what the cheerleaders didn’t count on was members of the women’s volleyball team, who were glad Sandra spoke up for them, would jump to the unathletic girl’s defense. Spikes were fired, resulting in several bloody noses. Volleyball players and cheerleaders were taken to the office, and in all six people were suspended.

Next was The Battle of the Band Room. What started it is not known, but a Rebellionette twirler and a flutist fought over the truth of the Sandra Angelina article. The baton gave the Rebellionette an advantage, but wielding a flute proved to be far more dangerous. The band director, aghast, separated the girls who continued to fight even as the principal suspended them both.

The penultimatum was The Battle of the Stairwell. Several Blackhawk football players had taunted Sandra in the hall with the usual round of insults that included, “Bitch,” “Rug Muncher” and “Tampon Eater.” The hockey team, which Sandra’s cousin Rudy belonged to, were lying in wait in the stairwell ready to pounce to defend her honor. When the time came they jumped three guys in Blackhawk letter jackets. The only problem was, these weren’t the three Blackhawks who had been taunting Sandra but three different guys who were not only at the wrong place at the wrong time, but were actually trying to stay out of The War on Words entirely. Seeing their fellow Blackhawks in trouble, others close by jumped in. Size wise, football guys had the advantage, but the hockey guys lived to get bruised, bloodied up and would not go down. In a match that was a draw, twenty students were suspended.

The War on Words soon spilled down into Constitution Middle School. It made clique divisions more divided and poured salt in wounds that were fresh, especially since several of my classmates had siblings who were suspended because of their participation in the conflict. Like Wendell, I was trying to stay as far out of this as possible, but it was becoming harder and harder as everyone demanded you pick a side. Trying to dodge the draft, I was on my way to lunch when Coach Douglass, my reading teacher and Coach Matthias’s second in command, poked his head out of his classroom, “RL Stine, do you got a minute?” That was his nickname for me because I was always writing something.

I said, “Sure Coach, wassup?”

Coach Douglass, who towered over me said in his thick West Virginia accent, “I don’t know about you, but this War on Words has gotten out of hand. Coach Matthias doesn’t want to call a truce which I think is a mistake. Where do you stand?”

I said, “I stand by the side that wants to stay out of it. No offense.”

Coach Douglass said, “But this is why I need your help. You’re kind of one of us because of Wendell but you are one of them because you are a weird girl who writes. Any ideas?”

I was being backhanded but I was being called to service, “Coach, you got to meet them at their level. Get a player to write a respectful rebuttal.”

Coach Douglass said, “How about Wendell? People like him and he’s smart.”

I said, “Ask him.”

Coach Douglass said, “Matthias is pretty adamant on this war. RL Stine, make him think it was your idea. Remember, Blackhawk Nation is counting on you.” I was charged with saving a country that didn’t exist. To quote the great Nancy Kerrigan, “WHY ME?!?”

That night, as Dad was working late again and Mom was running errands I pitched the idea to Wendell. He said, “Absolutely not! In the War of Words I am a conscientious objector.”

It was a reach but desperate times called for desperate measures, “Wendell, Blackhawk Nation is counting on you.” Then I told him about my conversation with Coach Douglass.

Wendell said, “I was afraid he would do something like that. A lot of the guys are getting into trouble. It sucks because some of them are really nice but people are just so angry that they are starting stuff or getting sucked in by other people starting stuff. It’s not fair. Yeah, some of us were jerks but a lot of us study, make the honor roll and just want to mind our business.”

I said, “Then put that in your editorial.”

Wendell said, “Eh, you know I hate writing.”

Skipper, who was feet away suggested, “Wendell, you like to draw, do a cartoon.” Wendell was a great artist and doodled frequently when he was bored.

A smile crossed his face, “Great idea, Squirt. I’ll do it in study hall tomorrow.” Then we both gave her a fist bump.

Wendell created a cartoon entitled "Don’t Box Me In." On one side it had the stereotype of a Blackhawk football player bullying kids, cutting class, cheating and partying until the wee hours with his friends. On the other side it had the same Blackhawk football player and his teammates helping special needs students, studying hard and having both his coach and mother remind him about work/sports/life balance.

"Don’t Box Me In" was a hit with everyone. Impressed, Mrs. Callahan offered Wendell the gig as Hawk Wing cartoonist which he glady accepted. He also got an unlikely new fan, Sandra Angelina. Away from the front lines she confided in Wendell that she was sick of The War on Words but some of the more overzealous Hawk Wingers were pressuring her to keep fighting, even though at this point it was a giant shitshow.

The two decided to negotiate an armistice. Wendell approached Mr. Napier, his guidance counselor who moonlighted as the football announcer about plugging the women’s sports and the smaller teams during the home games. Mr. Napier not only thought it was a great idea, but was embarrassed he hadn’t thought of it himself. The women’s volleyball team especially enjoyed the new publicity, and during their championship season found the stands packed. Smaller sports also took out ads in the glossy football book to show their appreciation, but also to let the town know that football players weren’t the only Blackhawks.

In return, Sandra talked Mrs. Callahan into apologizing to Coach Matthias. As an olive branch, Coach Matthias offered to do an exclusive sit down interview with Sandra where he consented to being recorded and didn’t dodge the hardball questions. Coach Matthias didn’t deny the cheating and hazing incidents happened, but they were under the former coaching staff. He explained because the former players had been so out of control, the team had gotten a deservedly terrible reputation that he was working to change. Coach Matthias explained that unlike the coach who came before him, he stressed that both athletics and academics were equally as important. And while the previous football teams had excluded people from the weight room this wasn’t going to be the case when he was around. Yes, the football team had raised the money to build the new weight room but all students, regardless of what sport they played, and even those that did not play a sport, were both welcome and encouraged to come work out.

Several Lady Hawks and Rebellionettes wrote editorials apologizing for their roles in The War on Words, but felt dragged in because they resented being stereotyped, but also the boogeyman of peer pressure played an active role. Hawk Wing staffers and people who were on the other side respectfully rebutted, saying they too were sorry, but they resented being ostracized and treated like a second class citizen in their own school. Together, the different voices had an honest conversation about bullying, peer pressure and labels. The Hawk Wing issue, entitled Cliques, won state wide Quill and Scroll prize.

Sandra Angelina went on to attend Sarah Lawrence. After she graduated she freelanced with Mother Jones reporting on crisis pregnancy centers and the conditions of women’s prisons ruffling even more feathers before she opened a socialist bookstore. She recently self-published her opus, “Toppling The Patriarchy.” While not quite the great American novel, it is a hit with the social justice crowd. I’m glad she’s finding her muse. I just hope she uses spellcheck.

Like my writing, check out my books on Amazon

Ray of Light (Madonna)

Pre-season training for the Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawks meant a strenuous August. Two weeks before scrimmages, the team spent the week at California State University of Pennsylvania, aka Camp Hell. Staying in bunk bed style dorms, the Blackhawks had three practices a day plus conditioning and strength training. As Coach Matthias explained to the Boosters in his thick West Virginia accent, “It separates the men from the piglet’s on their mama’s teet.”

The week before Camp Hell was roommate selection. My brother Wendell was an outsider having not played Pop Warner, and most of the guys had talked about rooming with their buddies at Camp Hell since the age of five as pee wees. Despite being new to The Blackhawks, Wendell’s easygoing manner and hard work earned him many fast friends so our parents werent worried.

It was four days before camp hell and our dad was out of town in Harrisburg working on a class action lawsuit. This meant a trip to the pool, take out from Sal’s Italian Too, and sleeping in front of the TV. Mom parked her mini-van and we walked to the practice field to retrieve Wendell. Standing next to Coach Matthias, Wendell’s dark brown hair was matted to his head and the expression on his face was hard to read. Matthias said, “Mrs. Brucker, the lady I wanted to see.”

Mom looked at Wendell, “What’s wrong? Is it another concussion?” My ten year old sister Skipper and I stood there hoping Wendell was alright. He had gotten a concussion the week before.

Coach Matthias laughed, “No. We like Wendell a lot because he works hard, keeps his head down and is respectful of everyone. He’s what it means to be a Blackhawk. So I was wondering if it was okay if he roomed with Ragni. The kid’s a little odd. Now I am asking you because Bobby and his mother don’t quite fit in if you know what I’m sayin.”

Wendell said, “It’s okay with me. We’re just sharing a room.” Mom said, “Coach, the kid seems harmless. We’re happy to help in any way we can.”

Coach Matthias said, “Good. Then it’s settled. See you tomorrow, Brucker.”

To say Bobby Ragni and his mother didn’t quite fit in was an understatement. Often mumbling to himself, he was a loner who cried at the drop of a hat. For career day, Bobby had done a report on being a terrorist. The last line of the paper was, “Timothy McVeigh really doesn’t seem like a bad guy. And following Tim’s lead, I want to put The Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawks on the map, even if I have to blow up a building.” Needless to say he got an all expenses paid trip to the school psychologist.

Bobby’s mother, when asked her name, explained, “my chosen name is Devorah.” My mom, seeing the bleach blonde Devorah who carried healing crystals and worked at Sheets was shunned by the rest of the Booster parents, tried to befriend her. My mom asked where Bobby’s father was, to which Devorah said that Bobby had never met him and he never came around. When Mom asked if he paid support Devorah explained, “He can’t, because Bobby’s father is a ray of light.” My mom laughed but then regretted asking when she realized Devorah was completely serious. Bobby was born with a bullseye in the middle of his forehead.

As we pulled into the pool I said, “Since he is half ray of light, maybe he can levitate, think of the stories.”

Skipper, who had tested genius level and was reading Greek myths all summer said, “But he might be Icarus.”

I said, “Nah, Icarus fell to his death and was too young to breed.”

Mom shut off the ignition to her mini-van, “Wendell, next week are Bobby’s only friend. Coach asked you because he trusts you. You need to eat with him and have his back. Being a leader isn’t easy. You understand?” Wendell nodded as we all got out of the car and headed to the pool for a refreshing dip.

The night before the team departed to Camp Hell, the Latham’s had their annual pre-season kickoff celebration at their house. Everyone on the team was invited as well as their family members. The food, cooked by Mrs. Latham, the head of the remedial reading department, was served buffet style. The desserts, cooked by Mr. Latham, head of the math department, had a table of their own and were worth the Type II diabetes one might get. Their blonde haired son Kyle, a starter on the offensive line, was the shining star for having his parents host such a glorious event. While he was still new to the Blackhawks, it helped Wendell’s standing among his peers that Kyle had adopted him as a surrogate baby brother, possibly because Wendell had been one of Mr. Latham’s favorite students of all time.

As we stood in the buffet line to get Mrs. Latham’s trademark lasagna, Kyle said to Wendell, “Little Buddy, tell Coach you can’t room with Ragni. He’ll understand. Millweather and I will figure out some way to squeeze you in. I would get into it what happened last year but we’re about to eat.”

Before Wendell could reply Mom flashed Kyle an I will cut you smile and grabbed Wendell’s arm dragging him to the side. Seeing Mom at barely five feet pull Wendell was a site in itself, “I raised you to include, not to exclude. And the bullying you just saw is why poor Bobby didn’t turn up today.”

I would have pointed out since the ray of light was his father maybe he had weekend visitation, but my mom would have also slapped me. Wendell said, “Mom, I said I would and I will. Can I get some food now?” Wendell yanked his arm, rolled his eyes and got back into the food line.

Mom said, “Good. Because I raised you to be a man of your word. Remember that.”

After getting some lasagna, Skipper and I took our food outside to the picnic tables in the Latham’s back yard. As the sun set and the lightning bugs hit the air, Wendell had taken a seat next to Casbar Renninger. One of three brothers named after The Three Kings, he had two brothers. Balthizar was in pre-season camp at Waynesburg College and Malkiar was in my grade. All of them bragged that they could get any woman they wanted and often did. Their father, who was an annoying blowhard who oversaw the local Pop Warner League, was head of the exercise science at the local community college and fancied himself an expert on everything.

Casbar shoved a piece of bread in his mouth and chewed as he spoke, “Brucker, I know you are bound and determined to be roommates with the freakshow but don’t let Ragni take the top bunk.”

Wendell said, “Do you ever get tired of being an asshole?”

Casbar continued to chew with his mouth full, “Call me an asshole but I am just stating the facts. I’m trying to warn ya. Balthizar let Coach talk him into it too so just do as I say.” Balthizar was an obnoxious loud mouth so whatever Bobby did Balthizar probably deserved.

Wendell said, “Since you are bound and determined to chew when you talk I will let you choke and won’t perform the Heimlich.”

Casbar said, “Good, cause that would be totally gay.”

Wendell said, “That’s mouth to mouth you idiot. Why am I even talking to you?!”

Casbar said, “Fine. Be his butt buddy.”

Wendell got up, flicked him off and walked away. As he did, Casbar, who still had his mouth full began to sing, “Quicker than a ray of light he’s flyyyiiinnnngggg!!!!”

The next morning the players gathered for camp. As per instructions, they showed up to travel in a suit and tie. Since it was Sunday, Wendell had just finished being a junior usher at church so he was dressed and ready to go after a McDonald’s dive through breakfast, or what he referred to as “the last meal” before Camp Hell.

After we pulled up, Wendell kissed my mom and popped out of our dad’s Buick and on to the bus with the rest of his teammates. My dad said, “Matthias had Wendell room with Ragni so no one else would kill him. You know that, right Gracie?”

My mom said, “I know Wendelin.”

A minute later, Bobby Ragni and Devorah pulled up. Getting out of their sedan, she wore a red sari with a red dot painted in the middle of her forehead. Years later, I would learn that was called cultural appropriation. Skipper said, “Why is she dressed like that when she is not Indian?”

My dad said, “Because she’s a Goddamn goof. That’s why.”

Devorah attempted to follow Bobby, who looked like a morose scarecrow in his wrinkled suit. Matthias said, “Son, did you get that off of a bum or a corpse?” Bobby said something and stood next to his mother, holding her hand. Devorah attempted to follow him and Coach Douglass, Matthias’s bigger assistant blocked the way.

Devorah screamed, “I’m not leaving! The kid he roomed with last year gave my Bobby a black eye and a bloody nose!” Devorah, although extremely eccentric, was telling the truth. Balthizar and any of the Renningers were about as understanding as concrete.

Coach Matthias said, “Ma’m, we put him with Brucker. He’s a nice kid. Ain’t nothin gonna happen.”

Devorah said, “Oh, another random assignment with a sociopath! GREAT!!!”

Coach Matthias said, “No. Brucker agreed he would do it. C’mon, Bobby. You comin or not.”

Bobby boarded the bus when all of a sudden the guys began to sing in an out of tune cacophony, “QUICKKKKEERRRR THAN A RAY OF LIGHHHHHHTTT HE’S FLYYYIIIINNNNGGG! AND I FEEL LIKE I JUST GOT HOME AND I FEEEEEEEEELLLLLL!!!!”

Mom said, “What on Earth is that song?”

I said, “Ray of light by Madonna. You know, because Devorah keeps telling people Bobby’s father is a ray of light.”

My dad rolled his eyes and rolled up his window, “That woman is one hundred percent the reason her son gets his ass beat.”

Devorah, after another minute of arguing, accepted that she would have to trust that Bobby was in good hands with Wendell. Then Matthias and Douglass boarded the bus, the doors closed and the team drove away. After the bus left our Buick joined the caravan of cars leaving the parking lot. As we pulled onto the street my dad said, “With a mother like that the kid is damaged goods and he hasn’t even started life. Wouldn’t be shocked if he grows up to become a skin head.”

Wendell called every night around 7:30 PM on the dot from Camp Hell. It was after dinner and lights out was at nine. For the most part, he sounded exhausted since he was doing three practices a day: one at 7 AM, the second at noon, and the third at 3 PM with strength and conditioning twice a day in between. Wendell talked about his teammates, the other teams and the new kids he was meeting. When asked about how rooming with Bobby Ragni was going he gave the same answer, “Fine,” and then changed the subject.

The following Saturday, Wendell returned from Camp Hell. Instead of having dinner with the family he asked to go to bed early. It was unusual for Wendell to miss a meal. The next morning, Wendell went to church while he usually was upbeat and affable as a junior usher, he moved like a zombie. At breakfast, he barely touched his food again. Mom said, “Eat, Matthias said you need to put on weight.”

Wendell rolled his eyes and ignored her. Dad said, “Come on, Son. Did Bobby levitate? You can tell us.”

I said, “Nah, he turned into a werewolf.”

Wendell said, “Shut up! All of you! Camp Hell was pure hell!”

Mom said, “Just what I was afraid of. They bullied Bobby and they bullied you too.”

Dad said, “Son, today was the gospel of Job. You are a lucky kid. God has given you a lot and could take it away.”

Wendell said, “Well God never roomed with Bobby Ragni!”

Mom said, “Your ugly teammates brainwashed you. Another thing I was afraid of.”

Wendell said, “Balthizar Renninger is a jerk but he beat Ragni up for a good reason.”

Dad said, “Son, the kid’s got issues, you know that.”

Wendell said, “He doesn’t have issues, Dad. He has a subscription. When we got to our room, he called the top bunk. I didn’t care because I was only going to be sleeping there and we went on and on about seeing his father who was a ray of light. So we go to practice where he gets his ass beat and then I sit with him at dinner because he has no friends and the guys just lay into him with that stupid Ray of Light song and Bobby starts crying. So I defend him and get into a fistfight with Casbar Renninger.”

Mom said, “Did you get him? I hate that kid and his family.” We all nodded as most everyone found the Renningers hard to stomach even on a good day.

Wendell said, “No, Coach broke us up and made the whole team do an extra run. And then Bobby started crying during the run so it was extra conditioning. And we got to bed at 11 and had to be up at 5. At this point I just want to sleep and all of a sudden I feel this dripping and soon it’s like a waterfall and it smells really bad. Then I realize…..HE’S WETTING THE GOODDAMN BED!”

We sat there shocked for a whole minute because we were not expecting this. Skipper raised her hand, “Wendell, did you speak to Bobby about seeing a doctor for his bladder issues?”

Dad said, “Skipper, be nice, he prefers Mr. Peabody.”

We all burst out laughing but Wendell did not find the humor in any of this, “SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU! THIS ISN’T FUNNY!!”

Dad said, “Son, you’re wrong. It’s hysterical.”

Mom said, “Enough, Wendelin. Sweetie, you should have told us. How did you get through the week?”

Wendell said, “You couldn’t have done anything. Besides, as a peace offering Renninger let me sleep in his room between practices because he figured I had learned my lesson. Latham and Millweather let me slip in after lights out and I slept in the bottom bunk with my feet facing Latham so it wasn’t weird. And I snuck in before Bobby woke up so you wouldn’t give me crap, I wouldn’t get in trouble with Coach and I wouldn’t make it on the hit list he told me he keeps in his dresser drawer at home. And I still ate with him. HAPPY?!”

Mom said, “Well I am still very proud of you.”

Wendell stood up and said, “I HATE YOU ALL!” Then he stomped out of the room.

Dad called, “Son, don’t be a pee brain!”

Skipper said, “That story was quite disgusting. But it would have been better if he levitated.”

The season came and went with Bobby barely saw any playing time. Some of it was the fact he was a mediocre player to begin with but then there was the fact he told several of the other seniors about the hit list he had in his drawer. Like every senior regardless of skill or position, at the end of the season Bobby was awarded a Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawk Letter Jacket that he wore everywhere regardless of the weather. One day as we were running errands and the temperate was a record high, we saw Bobby walking in his letter jacket and beeped. As Bobby waved, my mom said, “That kid will wear that thing every day until the end of time.”

After graduation, Bobby worked for a while at Sheets and then was fired for creeping out a female coworker and then fell off the map completely. That is, until one day I was eating pizza while watching Live PD and saw the department in Arizona had pulled over a soverign citizen.

As they ordered the suspect out of the car I heard a familiar voice say, “I am a citizen and I only adhere to Maritime Law.”

Wearing what looked to be a beaten up Whiskey Rebellion letter jacket with a military style crew cut I said, “Holy shit! That’s Bobby Ragni!”

Bobby ultimately got seven years for resisting arrest and assaulting a cop. He put Whiskey Rebellion on the map and didn’t even need to blow up a building. Behind bars, Bobby has become a hero in The Sovereign Citizen movement and his girlfriend who he met on a facebook group for other sovereign maintains a blog about Bobby’s incarceration and dedication to his cause entitled, “Ray of Light.” The blog recently reported three kids did a paper on Bobby for career day, so he is finally becoming the cool kid he always wanted to be. As an added bonus, prison is filled with people who hurt children, and you know there is some sadistic CO who puts them in the same cell with Bobby knowing he will call the top bunk.

If you like my writing please feel free to check out my books on Amazon.

Duck Soup

When I was a kid, my dad was obsessed with old movies. Because of my dad, I know about Mae West (visited her grave, hero worship) and the Marx Brothers. My first figure was a Groucho Marx figure. I still remember getting it under the Christmas Tree at the ripe old age of 13. It was my mom's present to me during a lost phase of my life. I had secretly been watching ventriloquists on TV, and looking them up on the internet, which was in it's infancy then. I also had been going to the library and reading about them.

Julius Henry Marx as a puppet

I was a weird kid, what can I say?

Truth: Loved the Marx Brothers. Brain Donors was a guilty pleasure of my sister Skipper and mine. During our brief careers as summer club swimmers, Michael Phelps we were not, we would watch the movie after swim practice. We knew it line for line for line. My dad pointed out it was a modern adaption of Night at the Opera. However, he told us the best Marx Brother's movie was Duck Soup.

I watched it as a kid, and feared it would be super, duper lame. Instead, it was funny. Very funny. The Marx Brothers were amazing as comedians. Groucho as a fast talking, verbal guy. Chico was just hysterical as the ethnic dude selling stuff and crashing the party. None could be complete without Harpo, the mute who stole every scene he was in by causing some sort of tomfoolery with Chico. Lastly there was Zeppo, the normal dude and love interest of the girl. "Hail, hail Freedonia." Note: I think this is similar to how the US does business sometimes.

When I was fifteen, I felt like my life was hell. I struggled with my weight. I yo-yoed like a bouncing ball and felt unpretty next to the bleach blonde cheerleader types I went to school with. I had a television show on cable access. Now people think it's cool I get on TV every once in a while. Back then, they made fun of you in school. I remember walking down the hall hearing how much I sucked. It was like being heckled in The Tunnel of Hate. Most of the time I would ignore them, but some days were easier than others.

I was also out as being a ventriloquist.  Doesn't exactly make you the most popular person to have at a party. I did shows at nursing homes and for kids. Some of my audience members thought my puppet was real, and asked Groucho to take them home. Maybe I wasn't the coolest girl in school, but one thing was for sure, I knew I was going to get the fuck out of there. I knew I was going to do bigger and better things than those idiots. In my mind and heart, I knew high school wasn't forever and I could get through. I was going to New York even if it was the last thing I ever did.

On TV as a kid in my hometown with Groucho. A little fatter and more awkward than I am now. Eh, screw it. I am less fat but still awkward. 

Some considered me a local sweetheart, and thought my adventures were cool. Other people thought I was weird because I wasn't obsessed with boys and other stupid teenage things. I had goals gosh darn it. Then there were those who outright hated me. I was too weird and didn't fit their standards for Middle American life. Or they were jealous of the things they could see coming to me. Either way, there were moments were I wanted to disappear but something told me hang in there. When I was seventeen, my sister's unused Charlie McCarthy became the first May Wilson. This is why I have the problems I do I suppose.

May after her first plastic surgery, Lynn Swann and myself. I couldn't rotate the photo. Yes, I am still an awkward failure in some ways. 

Years later I moved to the city as an old movie fan. One of the first guys to break my heart was a trust fund baby with a Murray Hill apartment. I hadn't dated much, and he was a lot older than I. What bonded us was our love of old movies, especially the Marx Brothers. I remember our first date, we went out and we both quoted Duck Soup. The relationship soured after that, because all I wanted was a boyfriend because I never had one and he was a jaded New York commitment phobe. Yet he would constantly talk about me to anyone who would listen, and would throw a hissy fit when I dated other guys. But whatever.....

After a lot of work, doors began to open for me. Last weekend, I headlined my first theatre. It was a two night thing. The first night was sparse, but the second night was packed. I killed both nights. Some of it was hard work, much of it was luck. On my way there, I saw a store where there was a Groucho Marx figure displayed in the window. Yes, it was the so called dummy I had as a child. I wish I had gotten a photo. I didn't know they still made them. It was a sighting that made my eyes well up. Either this was a crazy coincidence or an omen. I don't know.

Yeah kids, I followed Annie Ross and headlined a theatre. I just hope I remembered to shave my arm pits. 

When the second show was done, an audience member recognized me from TV. It was different than being a kid and going through the tunnel of hate. Instead, they thought it was cool. With that high, I booked something else. While I can't say too much it involves cameras and no, it's not a porno.

Yeah, May Wilson after the third plastic surgery. We got on national TV and got ourselves in some Duck Soup after this one, he he. 

Hint: In a month or two I will be back on national television. Basically, it's been an awesome last two weeks. I can't complain. And the sports broadcasting job is picking up. Getting paid to do what I love, becoming visible, and everything is coming together.

On TV again.

Then I got an email from my dad. All my mom has ever wanted since I was a kid was a pool. He is not a swimmer by the way. Anyway, it is warm and they just opened it up. Our neighbor's grandkids are there just about every chance they get. Well it rained the other day, and my mom had a covering on the pool. Some ducks took it upon themselves to get comfy because they thought it was a pond. While this was adorable and awesome, it was also awkward and problematic because ducks poop everywhere.

At that moment, I thought of everything in my life coming together. How things were happening. I thought of my journey with my first Groucho Marx figure and how my career was beginning to fly maybe US Air instead of Spirit.

Then I remembered Duck Soup. Then I remembered the Marx Brothers. Then I remembered the Tunnel of Hate that drove me to my dreams. And then I thought of the ducks on my parents pool cover.

No matter what happens in life, it is important never to take yourself too seriously. No one else does.

"Hail Freedonia."

Quack, quack, there are Donald and Daisy

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

Purchase my DVD Broke and Semi-Famous

Cleaning House

My birthday is coming up this week and it's a big one. I won't say the number. I don't know what is worse. That I don't really care that I am getting older. That I am so busy I didn't even notice my birthday was fast approaching. Or like a career minded woman I haven't cleaned my house in Lord knows how long.

Yesterday I started on this monolithic task. I made up my mind that there would be no more sorting out my audiobook upload drama, writing my musical, or doing anything else until my house was clean. Basically, my room looked like a drag queen had vandalized the place. There were sparkles everywhere. Oh and the eyelashes, please. Costumes on the floor. Puppet children thrown about missing their errant puppet mother and violating curfew. Cats and dogs getting married. Need I go on?

So I began the task yesterday and am doing more of it today. I guess I have this prejudice against people with clean rooms because growing up, all the girls with neat handwriting and clean rooms all had perfect skin. Of course I had cystic acne and they made fun of me, making school hell. I know I should get over it but sometimes the scars still remain. I always told myself while they would be getting stretch marks I would be a successful career woman. They are getting stretch marks.

 Am I a successful career woman?

Well I could list my credits and all the things I am up to but that would make me sound insecure. Fuck it, I am insecure. I am a woman with a chip on her shoulder. Read my blogs and witness the bitching. While it is not as miraculous as Jesus, let me tell you it's a miracle I stop sometimes. However, out of all the kids that I did acting classes with growing up, I am now the most successful. Out of my college class, not only am I one of the few folks still at it, but I am part of the group that is pretty successful. Some are more successful than me, most not. I think it is because while I have the chip on my shoulder, I have the ability to take my hits standing like John Wayne. Plus I am not a jiggle bunny who can easily be replaced. That will take you far in this world. I come about who I am honestly.

Now back to the topic. Yes. I am cleaning. No. I am not cooking yet. Maybe if I do both I will steal the husbands of those who made fun of me for having cystic acne. That would be pretty funny. Or not because then I would have to put up with a man telling me to cook and clean and fuck that shit yo. They say the best revenge is living well.

So I am back to cleaning my house. And I will live well in my spotless domicile.

Unstable woman out

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Person
www.aprilbrucker.com

Talking Funny

When I was younger I always got made fun of for the way I spoke. I sounded squeaky. The words I used were too big. The my tone was too high. It was just another stone mean kids threw. Nevermind I struggled with my weight. My mother also dressed me. I had cystic acne. Things were not going well. What I had going for me were my dreams, my love of writing, my love of creativity, and my skill to nose dive no matter how much of a fool it made me look.

When college came around, I was in New York. I asked someone for a gumband. In Pittsburgh, we say gumbands and mean rubber bands. So I asked for a gumband. These kids who were weaned on Prozac with doctor parents and went to private schools laughed at me. They didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. I already hated the way I talked and felt like a redneck who had hopelessly wandered into a Metropolis. Then there was the incident in the speech class where my sounds were hopelessly being corrected. That is when one of my teachers who was from Pittsburgh said, “It’s your accent coming out.”

The kids in my class said, “April isnt just weird.”

“No,” My teacher explained. “There is a whole city of people who talk just like this.” Awestruck and fascinated, my classmates went to a website where regional dialects were listed. That semester, our section at The Lee Strasberg Institute became obsessed with my accent and my slanguage. For the first time ever, I was alright with the way I talked.

The serenity would be short lived. During my junior year, I managed to get into a relationship with someone that was abusive. I have written about him. He made me give up my puppets and that was just the tip of the iceberg. When things were heating up between us, I was set to hang out with his friends. We were sipping coffee at Starbucks and my ex said, “When you hang out with my friends, just…..play it cool.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked confused.

“Look, my friends don’t like the way you talk.”

“What?”

“Yeah, they say you sound like a chipmunk.” My confidence was shot. It was an arrow. My ex wasn’t defending me against his friends and now I had to compromise. I sent the session with him and his boys silent as a mime. I soon tried to change the way I talked which just made me feel like a fraud. I swore a lot which made me feel fake. I tried to drop my voice which made me feel like a man. It didn’t work. I became a phony mute about a lot of things, like the extent of the abuse I was facing. I don’t know what was worse about that part of my life, the fact I had to endure it or the fact I chose to put up with it.

When the relationship ended, I was left a self-loathing mess. I remember doing a set where someone told me the way I spoke was distinct. I thought it was their way of saying annoying. When my ex and his friends began their relentless campaign of harassment, one thing they aimed at was the way I spoke. I remember thinking that I was smarter and better than they were, and one day I had the guts to realize it and that’s how I was able to escape. That is when I realized I had let him take away my sense of self-worth. The way I spoke was okay. It was alright. And anyone who didn’t like it could go to hell.

Slowly I began to embrace the way I spoke. It not only became a part of the new, confident me. As I became more confident in my speaking voice, my singing voice began to take a better shape. Granted, it was always it’s own animal, but I better understood how to make it more pleasing to the ear. I wasn’t afraid of what people would say about me. If they didn’t like the way I spoke we didn’t have to be friends, plain and simple.

This past winter/spring Metrophonic and Mercy Sound became a second home to me. My old college classmate and sound engineer Archie Ekong explained my fans would want to hear me reading my book. Archie told me it would have a unique flavor with me narrating. Then he said, “April, you are the only one with your voice. It’s pretty distinct.”

“Yeah, that’s what people tell me. I don’t think I will get away with prank calling anyone soon.” I said.

Archie looked at me dead in the eye and said, “No.” And we both burst out laughing. At that moment I realized that it was pretty cool that I was the only one who spoke like I did.

These past few years have also seen success not only in the realms of writing but also comedy getting me television time. Sometimes fans recognize me when armed with my puppets. Other times, I will get recognized by the way I speak. The other day, I was at a meeting for a pilot I am shooting. We were deeply emerged in a discussion when the waitress came over. She asked me, “Excuse me, I have a question for you.”

“Yes.” I asked.

“Are you a comedian?”

“Yes.”

“The guy who works with you in the back thinks he saw you on TV.” My jaw dropped open. He was in the back. There was no way in hell he could have seen me.

“How did he know it was me?” I asked.

“Oh, he recognized your voice and says you are very funny.” She replied. My jaw dropped open. This was awesome!!!! I made a new fan and friend. Something like this is double awesome when it happens at a pilot pitch meeting. My co-host and co-producer thought it was pretty cool as well.

Later that evening, I was running errands and heard two kids talking. They were taking fun of this young woman in their class at school and the way she spoke. These two mean girls mimicked her. It made me think of some of the people who gave me the same “star treatment” back in the day that now have the audacity to write me a facebook letter to congratulate me when things go well with the career. Actually, it was disgusting as it brought back a flood of hellacious memories.

Then I passed the theatre where Kinky Boots played. I remember when Cyndi Lauper did an interview where she spoke about being bullied for the way she spoke and dressed. She remarked in her Betty Boop-eque twang, “They used to throw rocks at me for my clothes, now they want to know where I get them.”

For the longest time my voice was like Rudolph’s nose. People made fun of me for having it, now it part of the package that is beginning to make me successful. Cyndi Lauper’s, it is part of the package that has made her a legend. Hopefully the young lady they were making fun of will just realize that those two are idiots who need to be ignored and won’t feed in.

Hopefully she won’t care and will always use her voice.

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

www.aprilbrucker.com 

Dreaming is Free (Blondie)

When I was thirteen I was at the end of my rope. School was hellacious. I got made fun of all the time. Between a weight problem and an acne problem I was a mess. At the time I was on this face medication that made my lips bleed. I tried wearing make up to sexy myself up. My blush was orange and my lipstick was more or less purple. I looked like a pumpkin. On top of that I wore this water proof mascara because at the time I was embarking on a failed career as a diver. Well I was not only a horrendous diver, move over Shamu, but I was allergic to water proof mascara. So my eyes swelled shut. Did I mention my mother picked my clothes? On top of that I had top and bottom braces with rubber bands, or gum bands as we call them in Pittsburgh.

I had bullseye all over my forehead.

School was a nightmare and I didn't want to go. I wasn't skinny and pretty like the popular girls. The guys didn't want me. If they asked me out it was as a joke.

Then my family got cable television. To make a long story short I was from a family of readers and educators. My dad was the first of seven, the first to get a college degree and the first to not only get an MBA but also to go to law school as well. His father had been a steel worker who had not graduated from high school, but when my dad was older went to school at night to obtain his GED in order to get a promotion. It was an odd father/son bonding moment but they did it. My dad was big on education because he had grown up poor and realized life without it sucked and made you a slave. My mom was a teacher and told us to aim high, as in Ivy League. So the week was reserved for reading and homework, and the weekends television. We didn't have cable because we were not big television waters. But when Friday came, it was television time.

My friends all had cable and were on the up and up with the MTV. My brother, sister and I, in the damn darkness. On a bus once we were talking and the subject of Coolio came up. I didn't know who or what a Coolio was and needless to say that ended in a barrage of terrible jokes.

But my brother Wendell was embarking on a football career and my dad wanted to watch the high school games. This required getting local cable. To get the local channel this involved getting thirty others. Finally we had cable. I had arrived. Yeehaw!

Immediately I became addicted to MTV. The pop culture on the screen, the musicians and the actors, opened my mind up. I wasnt as academic as my siblings Skipper and Wendell. I was more creative. These artists spoke to me. They were creative, thought out of the box, and were changing the world. When they spoke about school they all talked about how they were awkward and made fun of. This seemed to be a theme. I was creative, awkward, and made fun of. Suddenly I had a plan and a goal. I wanted to go to New York, to entertain people, and to change the world. While it sounds cheesy, MTV saved my life and my sanity during those terrible, crucial years.

As a part of this package we also got AMC. On the screen I saw Mae West, my idol and my hero. She had come into vogue during the flapper era, a decade of tall and willowy women. She was short and curvy. Mae West broke the mold by writing pieces for herself. She pushed the boundaries, going so far as to go to jail. She was an inspiration to an adolescent struggling with her weight in a place where different meant deadly. I suddenly didn't feel this stifling need to conform. Instead, I felt like different didn't make me wrong, but rather it made me right and special. I didn't have to be like the pretty popular girls. They weren't better than me, I was better than them.

From there I had a mission. I practiced in front of my mirror to death with my Groucho Marx figure. My parents worried about my loner ways, meanwhile I dreamed of a career as the next Edgar Bergen. I brought home ribbons in forensics as a master storyteller. I wrote stories and eventually got published in a local paper. I took acting classes and volunteered as well as produced a show on public access. I was on my way. So much so I just started a bunch of sentences with the  pronound "I".

I went on to move to New York City, and was even featured on F'in MTV Blocks. In addition, my puppet children and I have been on TV and we are beginning to fulfill our mission of reaching people. The producer for my audio book was exchanging emails with Naughty By Nature, a band I wasnt allowed to watch when they came on the TV. Lauryn Hill's former sound engineer stole my book. I had a convo with Deborah Harry. I live down the street from Broadway. I am writing a damn musical. People have recognized my puppet children and I and often ask for photos. A song I recorded was number one on internet radio for five weeks. Essentially I am doing every thing I set out to do. This is just the beginning.

I have been thinking about all the people who have made my life hellacious lately. It is because I receive a large number of fan letters from young people. Many are bullied. Bullying is an epidemic in this country and people are only beginning to understand the long standing psychological trauma associated with it now. One kid was even beaten into a coma by kids on a school yard. One recently sent me a letter that she was at the end of her rope and she needed hope.

So I posted something to this effect on facebook and this is what I would say to anyone. Growing up I wasn't allowed to watch cable television and everyone laughed at me. Now I am on cable television quite a bit as well as Netflix with my puppet babies, and hell I still don't own a TV. Because I wasn't allowed to watch television, I got good with making dolls talk and I developed an ability to write. Both are making me quite famous and quite successful. Kids made fun of me because I accidentally called the Notorious B.I.G. The Notorious Big. A year ago I hung out with one of this closest friends. I thought Snoop Dogg was a brand of kennel food and not only did he give me a pep talk when we met but he took my card. I thought a Fugee was a cold virus and Lauryn Hill's former sound engineer stole my book and is reading it. I watched a Deborah Harry rerun and I spoke to her in the hall. I not only walk passed MTV every day, but I have been on there. I walk passed Broadway every day, and I will be on there. I walk passed the Today Show every day with the people gathering at the front and smile because I know I have been on that show too. As for the mean girls they all got fat. As for the guys who asked me out as a joke, joke is on them. Maybe they laughed at me, but now they wish they had my life. I am getting the last laugh. So hang in there. It does get better.

Someone wrote me a sweet note back about how I shouldn't let people drag me down from my past and that there was no need to prove myself. And people over the years have also told me that junior high sucks for everyone.

But I would tell any kid in that place to just hang in there. Every dog has their day and their day will come. It does get better as I said. Now I only wish I could time travel and tell my thirteen year old self that. I wish I could show her my life now and give her a hug. Maybe that is why bullies make me sick and when I see that side of a guy he becomes so unattractive. Maybe that is why I stand by my friends, even when they do things like get arrested, because I know what it's like to be kicked by the world. Maybe that's why I don't exclude anyone. I know my thirteen year old self wouldn't believe it. She would tell me about her dreams, and I would tell her they would come true but she would have to work very hard.

Then she would ask me if I had any money. I would tell her, "Working on that."

Sigh, my bank account doesn't know I hang out with famous people. My bank account doesn't know who I hang out with. My bank account says I still need to save up for a TV and a bed.

But living the dream. And with the price of the suffering we go through, at least dreaming is free.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback, 877-Buy-Book, Amazon.com
Ebook Kindle and Nook
Portion of the proceeds go to RAINN

Loser of the Week: William Bailey

Well I came across this story in the news and this man is beyond stupid. He defines fucktard, dickwad, assweed, and cunt scab. Yes, I am talking about William Bailey, the Canton, Ohio man who made fun of a little nine year old girl named Hope Holcomb with cerebral palsy trying to get off the school bus. If that wasn't bad enough he got his kid to join in and encouraged his son to, "Walk like a retard."

Apparently,the two families have children in the same school and have been feuding. Even so, the feud is between the adults. This has nothing to do with the children you tremendous dickwad fucktard assweed cunt scab inbred mouth breather! This man had no words for his shiteous actions. Then again, COWARDS AND BULLIES NEVER DO!

Well he has entered the court of Brucker. This is my place and I propose they punish this feindish low life in the following ways.

1. Sentence him to jail like they have for a month.

2. Have him strapped to the wall in jail and have a bunch of angry, sex starved convicts probably looking at life sentences do what they will.

3. Make sure they beat him so badly that he walks with a limp for life.

Maybe the Geneva Convention will sue me for my Judge Dread style of justice but rest assured this man deserves an ass whoopin. A man who bullies a disabled little girl is not a man. He is a coward and a bully.

My bet is that his kid is a little asshole and a little bastard with a rat tail who terrorizes other children. Wonder where he gets it from? But then again behind ever jerkoff child is a jerkoff parent.

Anyway,the dude as I said got jail. Which relieves me to no end because in this ever changing world the people are making a statement. Bullying of any kind and any way,shape,or form is unacceptable. Hell, let me have a swing at this moron. I bet you I could beat his ass. But why should I? Ten other people will.

Of course I better be nice to this piece of white trash. He will be either pumping my gas or serving my fries.

Regardless of your political views this man deserves an ass whoopin. You don't believe me, watch the video right here. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ij8_hoZRSZY

Aaron Carter and Angus T. Jones, you have been dethroned. There is a new grand high fuck up in
town.

This is what I would call a professional asshole. He makes fun of a little girl with a disability. Someone needs to kick his ass pronto. Weekend trip to Canton, anyone?

Even your own kid doesn't want to be seen with you. I think he is plotting to run away and with good reason.

A smiling, happy, nice child does not deserve to be bullied. She might walk with a limp but that is the last of her problems. Go little Hope! You are a ray of sunshine and let us know if he bothers you again ;)


 

Love
April
I Came, I Saw,I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
877-Buy-Book
www.buybooksontheweb.com
Available on Amazon

Come to my signing
December 27 7pm
Bethel Park Public Library
5100 W. Library Ave
Bethel Park, PA

And for a more salacious selection: http://www.xojane.com/sex/i-am-a-female-ventriloquist-who-got-asked-to-have-a-threeway-for-money-with-my-female-puppet
 

Teaching Moments

This past week a friend of mine Melanie, who happens to be transgendered, made me think. After an adventure where I visited a close friend in Union Square and saw a trans woman who I believe was working as a prostitute with her frightening looking pimp in the Dunkin Donuts. Since the element of people were getting shady my friend and I left. In between fright and awe I made a glib remark on facebook that I thought was funny.

I got a few likes and that’s when Melanie came down on the thread like white on rice in a snowstorm on a paper plate challenging my perceptions. I did not know for a fact the woman was going to work as a prostitute. Even if she was who was I to judge her? Unfortunately trans people don’t exist on paper. While the state of NYC is making it easier to change the birth certificates it is still a long drawn out process therefore these people are pushed into the sex trade often against their own will and are often the subject of violence because sometimes they have to conceal their true gender identity such as Venus Xtravanganza of Paris is Burning.

Then a fan letter from a trans woman I received came flooding back to me. A few months back I had a transman on my show at the inception of Confessions on YouNow.com. This transwoman wrote me afterward thanking me for giving people like her “a voice.” She told me because she was trans, male biologically but female identified, she has been subject to verbal and physical harassment as well as violence. This fan letter not only brought tears to my eyes because not only did this woman reach out to me in a beautiful way, but also because people have made her life a nightmare because she lives in a world that often tells her there is no place for her. While she tells me her life has gotten better I know it was a long, dark journey into the woods to get to the end of the rainbow.

Then I thought of my own buttons and own triggers. This past year I was blessed to be on TV quite a bit. While he was the subject of a comedy act that has never failed me, for the first time in a long time I spoke about the verbal and physical abuse I suffered at the hands of my ex fiancé. I spoke about how he wanted to rob me of my ventriloquism, my family and everything that made me happy so he could have me to himself. After we broke up he started stalking me. The stalking was so terrible I wore running shoes in case he would make an appearance wherever I was. My mother kept his name on the refrigerator in case I disappeared. That is just the tip of the iceberg.

As a result of me being on TV and speaking about this I received fan letters from young people who have been bullied and young women who escaped abusive relationships as well as those trying to get out. What broke my heart was when one woman claimed she deserved this. For years certain rap songs with the lyrics “Smack up my bitch” drove me up the wall as well as songs where men spoke about women as sexual objects cutting them down. Not to mention jokes with punchlines like, “The bitch has two black eyes because you told her twice” made me want to hit the person back. It’s not because I was a tightwad with no sense of humor, it’s because I knew what those jokes perpetuated and I knew how harmful that behavior could be to people just as Delaney and many trans folk know how certain jokes can be hurtful and encourage harmful behavior as well.

A few months back I was on a radio show where the hosts joked about a guy who broke up with a girl and went so far as to post her number online telling everyone she was giving away free sex and even put her address up. The male hosts baptized him “the best guy ever” and talked about “how he ruled” and how “this bitch must have deserved it.” Meanwhile my ex had done something similar, putting a photo of me up online that I sent him in a bikini and wrote “Easy Slut” over it. I did nothing to this man except break off an abusive relationship and beg him to get the help he needed. I tried to speak up but after a few minutes gave in to the straight, white male privileged agenda. However that bothered me so much that when they asked me to come back to the show I couldn’t do it. Part of it was that I would just make myself angry, but the other part of it was that I was ashamed for not sticking up for that young woman.

However I would soon get my chance to have plenty of teaching moments as far as the subject went. I am not only a show host on YouNow.com but a regular broadcaster with these folks. On the site I interface with a lot of people, young people, from all over the world. I have spoken several times about being a survivor of dating violence and how it isn’t just an issue for young straight people but people of any gender, orientation and nationality. To my pleasant surprise not only do these young people get it but have written to me with their experiences.

Sometimes though, we get a few young ones on YouNow who use the “f” word in reference to gay people and make other homophobic remarks about how gay people deserved to be bashed. After seeing this a few times I decided to speak up and told these young offenders why such language was not only wrong but harmful. I talked about a friend of mine who was jumped by four men in his neighborhood because he was gay and one had a knife. My buddy tried to fight back and got away but he had a scar of his cheek as a result of the knife fight. Although he always wore cover up the scar remained. Roger only told me the story once but never told it again. Bottom line, saying gays deserved to be punched lets some wayward soul lets some wayward soul believe the abhorrent behavior is okay. I knew sharing the story could get these kids to turn on me. Drenched in disgust I was okay with that.

To my pleasant surprise the majority of the young people verbally lambasted the hateful hater and his buddy in the chat. Many of the youthful broadcasters that evening got on camera not only to back up what I was saying but also to let this person know that everyone deserved to have rights no matter who they were and that physical and verbal assault on a person regardless of their sexual orientation was NOT OKAY! It was not only a welcome relief but lead me to believe that this past year I have been given the exposure and platforms I have not only to entertain but to educate and speak up.

This let me know that perhaps I had to speak up more. I now crack down on people for any sort of hate speech in the chat as well as during their broadcasts. This is hate speech directed at women, minorities or anyone telling people to “smack a bitch.” To my surprise these kids have listened to me. While I could get on a soapbox and toot my horn which I am in effect doing now it reminded me that it only takes one person to speak up and to change things making the world a safer place for others.

My poppyseeds, as I have nicknamed my young fans, have written to me on various occasions for advice whether on mundane dating problems or more severe issues facing young people.  It is not only flattering that they reached out to me, but a blessing that they consider me a role model. I have also received countless letters this year from lots of young people and not only do I love hearing about my young fans but also like to know that I am helping people. Whether it’s letting someone know that even though they are being bullied for being different it gets better. Or letting that person know who was a victim of dating violence that there is light at the end of the tunnel. Or better yet, a trans person who saw my show and was thankful someone like myself gave someone like them a safe, welcoming place to show the world that they weren’t some freakish being but a person like everyone else.  Bottom line, my job has become much bigger than telling a few jokes and entertaining.

Now I know I am doing the right thing by speaking up and letting people know what is and isn’t okay. Every once in a while I have to tell people even joking about dating violence isn’t okay and that it is an issue for anyone regardless of orientation, gender or race. I have to remind people words and slurs are hurtful and encourage not only harassment of marginalized groups. Will I lose friends? Perhaps. Along my travels I already lost a few but at the same time have gained many true supporters and fans. Then again, as I recall not everyone liked Nelson Mandella for speaking up. That’s why they threw him in jail.

If at the end of the day someone calls me a “militant feminist” because I come down on deadbeats who abuse women so be it. If someone calls me sensitive because I lambast someone for homophobia, transphobia, racism or any other form of hate speech so be it. It lets me know I am doing the right thing and am making the world a better place. If that makes me crazy to some people oh well. There is not a reward for doing the right thing only knowing that you did it.

Oh and watch my show Confessions this Sunday night from 8-10 pm EST on younow.com’s talk 2 channel. See you there xo April

Dealing With People Who Suck

This is an open note from April and May. We are dealing with some people who hurt our feelings,typically an alcoholic sociopath who has been stalking us and spreading lies and hatred. He is stupid and makes us feel insignificant. I know being a bully makes him feel better about himself but what kind of man picks on two little girls trying their best to make it? We are so poor we have to pay for our Prada with laundry quarters. April's current squeeze is unemployed and May has yet to find a sugar daddy. This man claims to be much more accomplished than us, but he is stalking us. Plain and simple, he wants us both sexually. While this man claims to be gay, we believe he is only gay for pay and really wants to bone us. We both find this disturbing and not only hope this individual accepts his sexuality, whatever it may be regardless of money, and get the love and help he truly needs.

Sticks and Stones

About a year ago I made an amends to someone. I said something mean to him when I was in a drunken state. He always held it against me. In true form the guy told me he was glad I was staying away from the sauce and that I seemed to be in a better place with my life. We hugged and it seemed like we were cool again. While we weren’t friends, we never were before or after I was drinking, we weren’t enemies which was the most important thing, right?


Wrong. He turned around and said some very nasty things about me. This person basically said I was mentally disturbed, delusional, untalented, and “obviously had been touched by a male relative at some point.” Not to mention he went out of his way to take other cheap shots about my so called lack of talent and the sexual past that he perceives that I have. This guy also said that I used sexual favors to get where I got and that he is “much more accomplished” than I am. Not to mention he said he didn’t care about me or anything I did yet went around town ranting and raving everytime he could about how much he hates me and how little talent I have. It’s not like it was one or two people. It was a dozen or so who have heard this rant over the past few months. And this post amends mind you.

I guess the worst part was that he claimed I made other people’s problems about myself. Meanwhile he said all these things in response to a beef I had with one of his friends. Since then, me and this dude’s friend have made up and our disagreement is water under the bridge. This dude, being eager to fit in and not the brightest lightbulb in the closet, made this whole disagreement between me and someone else about him and his resentment towards me for absolutely existing.

What triggered this? Well aside from the fact that this guy is a drama seeker, I think it was jealousy. The old April who made bad decisions and was a mess was much more comfortable for him. Suddenly one day I woke up and I changed. No longer was I a perpetual mess but I was doing things with my life. I was on TV a few times. I published a few times. I was on Shovio for a bit. I opened for Aretha Franklin. I have a webseries where Michael Musto, Kate Clinton, Melba Moore, Jo Lance, Harmonica Sunbeam and many others appeared. For better or for worse, I am in the revival of the Gong Show. Not to mention I am pitching one TV series to networks about every other week. Then there is the pilot I shot. Of course there is my book I am writing. Basically things are going okay. I am not bragging though it seems like I am. Rather, I am enjoying the journey.

This person is one who thinks he should be further with his life and career than he is. The sad part about this whole thing is that I am not all the things he said I was. It is the other way around. This individual is a sad, pathetic excuse who wants people to be weaker than him. Not to mention that someone who would take the time to rant and rave about me in this fashion has severe mental problems and needs to seek counseling pronto. Then there is the fact that not only did he make a disagreement between me and another person about himself, but that he took low blows in doing it. This dude is one who needs a serious Al-Anon meeting. Not only does he not have the strength to be his own person, he gets a rise out of being extremely codependent and is a perpetual people pleaser. Then there is the fact that while I used to drink too much, he still does. All and all he is a sad soul and a trainwreck.

Earlier today I felt extremely angered that he threw a part of my life that I am not too happy about in my face. It was like for as much as I changed over the years and worked to get myself to a place where people know I am for real and talk more about my body of art that I create rather than the mess I make in my life, someone will always show up to remind me I am still all those bad things and more. For as much as I have achieved over the years whether it be turning my life around or career victories this person shows up to say, “Hey trainwreck, yeah you.” In my heart for as sick as this person was I wondered if any of the things he said about me were even true and went through every failure I ever had in my life, personal and professional.

It was a hit of cold water in my face. This was something that brought me back to the days when I let guys treat me like a third rate lean cut piece of meat on the rack. Of course it was also common for me to have boyfriends who had served time in prison, had drug problems, or were mentally unstable. Then there was the time I got engaged to a guy on the third date that stalked me and publically humiliated me for two years. Not to mention some of the other winners which included one guy who not only went to prison but managed to escape and live in an abandoned building at one point. As if professing his love wasn’t enough he came to my door asking me for drug money. I dated the worst guys decked out like Tammy Faye Bakker on crystal meth and only skinnier. I worked hard to change that picture of me in people’s eyes and this guy said that he had forgiven me. While he showed me who he was he didn’t let me forget who I was either.

Depressed I went to facebook for support. They say God speaks through people sometimes. One of my facebook friends, Yamaneika Saunders said, “Do NOT let someone get the best of you.” I stopped to think about it. This dude isn’t good enough to even get the worst of me. No matter what people say, I know in my heart that I have changed. I know in my heart I am not a mess anymore. This dude doesn’t have the right to make me upset and to make me cry. He’s a bully with no self esteem and is a ball of negative energy. Therefore he has no metaphorical money to rent space in my head and no right to ruin my life. With that in my mind I wiped my eyes, applied my mascara, and decided he wasn’t going to ruin that either.

They say people who matter don’t judge, and people who judge don’t matter. I know in my heart he doesn’t matter. Those who truly do matter have not only seen that I have mended my ways but have given me another chance. For the most part I have not let them down and in return they have been wonderful friends who have served as guides when I needed them. In addition, they have been vocal about telling other people that I have changed as well. Slowly and surely I did earn their trust which has taken work. It wasn’t easy but I still did it.

While this whole thing did hurt this morning, it doesn’t hurt this afternoon or this evening. Rather in a way it is a lesson that the better I get with my life and the more clarity I achieve with my head, it is a threat to some people. These people were ones who liked to see the old April sick and suffering so they could take advantage of her instability and make it a joke amongst their friends. At the time I thought some of these people were friends just like the kid with Down’s Syndrome who gets candy from the older kids for not ratting them out for smoking in the bathroom. However, the tables have turned. The old April is gone, dead, and buried. There is a new girl in town. She is not going to let words, especially from those that don’t matter, hurt her. Get used to it bitches. Love April