I’m also a woman who can’t eat in places that remind me of slavery. My husband loves this soup buffet chain out here called Souplantation. He has tried to convince me to try it, but I’m adamant. Why would they call it Soup Plantation unless they wanted to keep black people out?
However, for all my desires to stay away from things that remind me of pre–Civil War America, those same things are hanging right on my family tree. While researching my ancestors online, I found some cousins in Minnesota who have an award-winning polka band. One of their hit songs is titled “Cotton Fields.” I am gathering up the nerve to contact them.
There is a part of me that still holds on to the positive things I acquired from hip-hop and Nation of Islam Lite. That part is certain that even if I choose a racial label other than black, it won’t make me blind to injustice. I also know that I don’t have to move to the hood to make a difference, but that I feel better when I’m doing something (hence the tutoring).
And, of course, I’m still partly that confused mixed girl, although now when my two identities clash, it often leads me to laugh at how surreal being biracial in America can be.
For example, on my first day of tutoring, the students automatically thought I was cool because my last name sounds exactly like the slang word rappers use for nigga. My Nissel.
“That’s your real last name? That’s hot,” a girl said, before blowing a gum bubble bigger than her head.
“Yes, that’s my real name,” I replied. I refrained from telling her that Nissel is not only slang for nigga, it’s German and one of the whitest last names around. Save it for another lesson, I thought to myself.
“We’re going to be late for the plane!” my husband shouted. My tanning had screwed me. My foundation no longer matched my complexion. I gave up on trying to fix my face and helped Reuben load our pets into the car. Thankfully, their kennel was right near the airport.
Our dog, Woody, is a stubborn old mutt who did not want to share the seat with the cats. When he started barking at them, they responded by hissing at him and trying to claw through their carriers.
“Honey, we don’t need to be talking about kids. Aren’t these kids enough for now?” I said, struggling to hold our dog in the backseat.
Reuben wasn’t listening to me. He was frustrated that we were running late. “I hate being late. People expect black people to be running late. I’m reinforcing the black stereotype, that we’re always running on CP time!”
I understood, but I had to hold back a giggle because I didn’t see the difference between his worry and the tanning he had gently admonished me for. It’s all worry over something that has to do with skin color.
“I remember this one time, I was late for a dinner reservation and the hostess gives me this look, you know the look?” Reuben said as he stopped at a red light and again helped me get hold of our ninety-pound mutt to keep him from jumping into the front seat. While I was still settling Woody, the light changed and my husband pulled forward, causing the dog and me to knock skulls. I could feel the beginning of a headache. My husband started telling another story, about a time he was late to Little League when he was twelve and a racist coach used that as an excuse to bench him for two games.
I needed to focus on something else besides race and my headache. Plus, my husband drives like he’s blind when he’s afraid of being late. I reached for an old newspaper lying on the floor and opened it to the World section. The feature story detailed the sky-rocketing rates of bulimia and anorexia among Black South African teenage girls. Really? Black girls from the motherland? My mind wandered to what ethnicity box a white South African who immigrated to America would check off on the census. Technically, he’d be African American.
“I remember when we were the only black family in La Jolla. I used to get pulled over so much, I seriously thought about getting a bumper sticker that said I LIVE HERE, OFFICER,” my husband said, eyeing a police cruiser.
I tried to laugh, but my headache was getting worse. I needed a break. Just one day of not thinking about race. But I knew it was impossible. There will always be police who stare at my husband and me in our own neighborhood, just like there will always be check boxes to fill out. I still have trouble finding a hair salon, and I doubt I will ever have to stop explaining to people what race I am. The other day, a white person at work told me that my opinion on a black character didn’t count because I’m “barely black.” I wasn’t sure if he was joking, but I went into the bathroom and cried with my head between my legs, where I noticed a new mole. I have skin cancer! I thought. Maybe I am barely black—I’m going to die from a white-person disease! I went to my desk and Googled “skin cancer and black people.” The first result was Bob Marley. I never knew he died of a malignant melanoma. I also didn’t know his father was white. No one would dare call him barely black.
Still, with my head throbbing and the dog barking, I decided to take the rest of the day off from thinking about race. For the rest of the day, I wouldn’t care if I was black enough or white enough. I gave up.
Suddenly my husband slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the car in front of us, which had stopped for no reason. I braced myself, preparing for a hit from behind. Instead, the car behind us swerved around us and pulled up to my side of the car. The driver rolled down his window. I rolled down mine.
The driver, a middle-aged white man in a business suit, studied Reuben and me for a brief moment and yelled, “Where did you learn how to drive? Go back to Mexico!”
I laughed so hard, I screamed. My headache suddenly went away. The man looked confused. You’re supposed to be insulted, the look on his face said. If he only knew that he had insulted us with one of the few ethnicities we have no ties to.
Well, I wanted a day without thinking about being black or white. I never thought about Mexican. I laughed again. Reuben started laughing, too. This made the driver even more pissed. He flipped us the bird, still looking for an explanation of why we were cracking up.
“I’m Italian!” I yelled out, through my laugh.
Reuben and I pulled off. We rode the laughter that only racial insanity can provide all the way to the airport.
Acknowledgments
To the Nissels, the MacCallas, and the Marshalls, for putting up with me and my deadlines. Thank you in advance for not disowning me because of anything contained in these pages.
To my agent Andy McNicol, whose enthusiasm kept me going. I couldn’t have done this without you. To Marc Provissiero at William Morris, for keeping me safe in Hollywood. Thanks for signing me even though I was “incredibly naïve and green.” You’re more than my Hollywood superagent. You’re my older brother, my friend, my cousin Vinnie (smile).
To Bill Lawrence and Randall Winston, for making the cutthroat entertainment business chockful o’ fun! I would be lost without you guys (yes, especially you, Bill). I feel too dorky to tell you how much I appreciate you in person (yes, I especially appreciate you, Bill).
To Melody Guy for everything. You changed my life with one e-mail. You’re like a good virus! Thank you!
To Brian McLendon, Benjamin Dreyer, Jennifer Jones, Danielle Durkin, and Janet Wygal, for working your tails off even when I was holding things up.
To the Mesa Refuge Writer’s Retreat for understanding that writers need a place without a television or a phone.
To the Scrubs writers for being so much smarter and more witty than me that I’ve lost my ego and developed a stutter.
To Tommi Crump for being the strongest, most supportive homegirl in the world.
To Neal Brennan for your brutal honesty, support, and patience.
To Uhuru Smith, Shani Lee, and Tanya McCrae for being born cool and mixed and for helping me laugh and pick out the right hair products.
ANGELA NISSEL was born and raised in Philadelphia, where she graduated from the University of Pennsylvania with a degree in medical anthropology. She later started a dotcom, Okay player.com, which is still alive and well, but she left it perman
ently to the care of its cofounder after The Broke Diaries was published. She decided to pursue writing full time and finally ventured out of Philadelphia to Hollywood.
Upon arriving in Hollywood, she learned that just because people call themselves producers and say they can give you a job writing the screenplay of your book, it doesn’t mean they can. Broke, she put a few possessions on eBay; the winning bidder on one item was an executive at Warner Brothers who had read The Broke Diaries and who then introduced Nissel to her television literary agent. This agent sent copies of The Broke Diaries to everyone hiring comedy writers, and soon Nissel had numerous job offers. She accepted a position as a staff writer on NBC’s medical comedy, Scrubs. She’s been there for four years and is currently consulting producer of the show.
This is the only job she’s had where her medical anthropology degree has come in handy.
Visit the author’s website at www.angelanissel.com.
The characters in this book are real, but it bears mentioning that I have used pseudonyms for a number of them, and in a few cases I have gone a step further by altering their descriptions (for example: in the book I imply that my husband is attractive, when in truth, he is frighteningly ugly and when company visits I hide him under the bed). Though this is a work of nonfiction, I have taken certain storytelling liberties, particularly having to do with the timing of events. Where the narrative strays from strict nonfiction, my intention has been to remain faithful to the characters and to the essential drift of events as they really happened.
A Villard Books Trade Paperback Original
Copyright © 2006 by The Broke Diaries, LLC
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Villard Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
VILLARD and “V” CIRCLED Design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
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eISBN: 978-0-307-41609-4
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