“Leave the room, honey,” Daddy said, punctuating his words with a blow to Jennifer’s head. “We’re just having a little grown-up argument. Nothing to worry about. I just want to make sure this bitch gets her mind right once and for all.”

Jennifer was lying on the floor, whimpering, and at that moment I felt genuinely sorry for her. My dad hit her again. “That’s right, bitch!” he said. “I’m the head nigger in this house, and you better not fucking forget it!”

My father had a history of violence, of course, but this was beyond violence, and it was beyond comprehension, too. If he hated her so much, why didn’t he get rid of her once and for all? And if she hated him, why did she stay? But then it struck me. No no no. They don’t hate each other. Dad and Jennifer are in LOVE.

I said it a moment ago, and I’ll say it again: talk about fucked up!

I decided to try to make the best of life with Mom, and with Herb and Bunny, and I tried to make friends at school. I auditioned as a cheerleader but had trouble with the flips, so I ended up on the drill team. I liked music, too, and I was certain I had loads of untapped talent, so I begged my mother for piano lessons and she finally caved in.

The lesson didn’t last long, though. My teacher was a stern woman with pudgy fingers, and she’d yell at me whenever I made a mistake. One day, sick of all the yelling, I yelled right back—“Don’t fucking raise your voice to me, you fat bitch!”—and that was the end of that.

Funny what a kid learns from his parents.

In retrospect, though, I think it was more than that—I think it was a case of misplaced anger. I was angry with my father, and I was angry at my mother, but I couldn’t yell at them without facing serious consequences. My piano teacher seemed like a good third choice. And it wasn’t a total loss, anyway, since I wasn’t as musically talented as I’d imagined.

In fact, my greatest talent, back then, anyway, seemed to be my talent for denial. The way I suffered at the hands of both my parents sometimes felt relentless, but I always managed to make excuses for them. Mom is depressed. Dad is busy with work. It was my fault. They didn’t mean it. I should try harder.

I don’t like to dwell on this because it makes me feel like I’m wallowing in self-pity, and because I don’t like to think of myself as a victim. It was bad, yes, but I survived. And at the end of the day, isn’t that what it’s all about?

Plus you have to get over yourself, even if it takes you your whole life—which it kind of does, right? I think, when you’ve been abused, you spend a good part of your life looking for answers, and you tend to be pretty open-minded about where you look. I’ve done it all, believe me. Past-life regression. Meditation. Buddhism. Crystals. And I’m still looking. But I’ve learned this much. There comes a point where you have to let it go. If you don’t let it go, it will never let go of you.

Even Mamma, whom I loved dearly, once turned to me and said, “Your Daddy beats you cuz he loves you and because you’re always fucking up. Now go on. Dry your tears. Get over it.”

Get over it. She may have been a whorehouse madam, but she gave good advice.

Get over it.

Hey, I’m trying!

I also suffered through more than my fair share of sexual abuse, including one memorable experience with a guy who was close to the family. Fortunately, Mamma stepped in before anything really happened, but my father took over and proceeded to teach me a lesson by giving me a good whipping.

“What you beatin’ me for?” I said, trying to block the blows. “I didn’t do nothin’!”

“Yes you did,” he said. “You was flauntin’ your stuff!”

Flauntin’ my stuff? The man was truly crazy!

There were several incidents at my mother’s house, too. When I was five, she hired a babysitter with two teenaged sons, and they used to give me baths and touch me inappropriately. And five years later I had another babysitter who enjoyed putting gobs of makeup on me and dressing me up like a pint-size hooker. I never told my mother about either experience, because I was too young to understand what was happening, or to even realize that it was wrong, and because I knew it would only get me into trouble.

Years later, in high school, I saw a documentary on sexual abuse, and I was stunned to discover that I’d gone through every single stage described in the film: Guilt. Shame. Self-loathing. Rage. Sorrow.

I didn’t blame my parents, though. I blamed myself.

Then I heard Mamma’s voice in my head, just like my Daddy used to hear it, and I did what she told me to do: Now go on. Dry your tears. Get over it.

 

When my father was fully recovered from his fiery little accident, he took a trip to Africa. I don’t know what he was looking for, but he came back changed. He told people that he would never use the word nigger again. Motherfucker, on the other hand, motherfucker was okay. As far as Daddy was concerned, that was still a term of endearment.

In 1982, Daddy filmed what he said was going to be his final stand-up show. It was called Richard Pryor, Live on the Sunset Strip, and in his act he used the same story he’d told me after his accident: Two different types of milk. A cookie. Explosive results.

He also made another joke to show that he knew what people were saying behind his back. “What’s this?” he said, lighting a match and waving it erratically. Then he answered his own question: “It’s Richard Pryor running down the street!”

My daddy was one cool cat. “I’ll tell you this,” he said. “When you’re running down the street on fire, people get out of your way.”

Richard Pryor was back, and he was badder than ever, and success was not only addictive, it was contagious. I wanted some of that for me!

Richard Pryor: Live on Sunset Strip (1982)

The truth is, I had wanted to be a performer ever since I was born. When I was only four or five, Daddy gave me a rainbow-colored Afro wig and a microphone and told me to go wild, and when I was six I got a small part in an amateur production of The Wizard of Oz.

I loved acting, and I knocked myself out, auditioning for everything that came along, but it was tough going. All through grammar school, I got parts in the school plays, but they were never the parts I wanted.

Still, the entire family supported me. Mom, Dad, Grandma Bunny, and Grandpa Herb came to almost every single one of my performances, acting like a regular family. I don’t know what it was, or why—maybe because all of them were in show business—but there wasn’t a kid in that school who had a louder cheering section than me. My family made me feel that I was Josephine Baker, Ethel Merman, and Katharine Hepburn—combined.

And of course everyone knew who my daddy was. And if they didn’t, his loud, raucous laugh got their attention soon enough.

When I was twelve, I landed a role in a professional production of Runaways, a musical by Elizabeth Swados, an award-winning playwright. I was convinced I was on my way. The following year, seeing that nothing much had happened, I concentrated on pop vocals and opera. If I wasn’t going to act, then by God I would sing.

My parents really believed in me, and my father paid for me to attend the Interlochen School of the Arts, in Michigan, where I studied acting and singing two summers in a row. We had to wear uniforms—powder blue polo shirts and blue knickers, with loafers and calf-length socks—and I loved the feeling of belonging. I made a few friends there, and I got my first crush on a cute boy, and I did what a lot of girls were doing at age thirteen—writing in my diary.

I had received one as a present the previous Christmas—it had one of those big B. Kliban cats on the cover, under the words, “These secrets are protected by a fierce and ferocious cat!”—and I had started writing in it almost immediately.

Unfortunately, I still have the diary, and I am now going to subject you to some entries, dating back to 1982. I addressed my entries to Myrtle, my land tortoise, which continued to survive and thrive over on Parthenia Street, but I wasn’t much of a speller, and I even got the turtle’s name wrong.

The themes, if you can call them themes, are not particularly surprising: I was upset with my mother, who drank too much and always argued with me and blamed me for everything. I was upset with my father, who always promised to spend more time with me and never did. I hated homework, and there was too much of it. My hair was unmanageable. And, finally, my life was boring.

That said, a few of my ramblings follow, unedited.

JANUARY 1: I had a realy great time in Hawaii. The people are so nice. It’s the first time in my life that I every felt close to him. But I realy do with that with [wish?] that me and my sister Elizabeth got along better it would have realy been even more great. I with surly miss all though that I miss has left behind. Because finally in my life a had niece friend.

JANUARY 9: Today was great me and my mother just went out we saw a movee it was called victor Victoria. It was realy funny. But oh let me tell ya when we got into the teater these lady sitting in back of use were being realy rude. They were talking about the bun on my head and about the way my mom ate fried zukini. They were real Jewish yenta’s. I couldn’t believe it. Sorry it’s a very short day but there will be more.

JANUARY 12: That jerk I was telling you about toled me I was a 60s reject I could have slapped the nerv of that creep. Oh my mom got a job this wonderful holiday. That makes me kinda sad well. In school we are learning about slavery. It hurts inside to know how people could take atvantage of someone who’s different from them but I guess my pain doesn’t matter anyway.

JANUARY 13: Today that jerk called me a reject so I called him a poser so he decided to call me a nigger. [Author’s Note: I’m not sure which lame boyfriend I’m talking about.] My friend and person my mom most admired called me a nigger what a asshole! My body was totally parilized. I had dinner at my grandparents’ house and I slept over. I realy can enjoy my grandparents sometimes—oh fame was to good to night it was realy touchin Oh well another short day.

JANUARY 22: I’m not suppose to write but I am. I’ve been cooped up in bed all day. Do you know how boring that is! I hardly can’t wait at 3:00 my daddy is coming to see me it really means allot to me. My mother realy seems nervous and uncomfortable. She has kinda an attitude. Well any way they got along. He bought me a bunch of juices and lots of candy well bye.

JANUARY 23: Another boaring day and boy is my butt sore. My arm was realy buggen me last night. I could hardly sleep. My dog Flopy is realy horny. You see his [penis]. In a state where he needs a girl friend. My dad came again today, except this time we had lots of fun. My aunt was there and all. My mom and dad had a long talk it was quite a nice one she said. I think its good that my mom and my dad are opening up to each other. Well bye.

JANUARY 29: Today I woke up bright and early watch tv. And had an argument with my mom. At 12:45 my dad come to my house and toled me that today was my day. I said I wanted to go into Westwood and see a movie. I said I wanted to see Tootsie but instead we saw his movie Time Rider. Then after I said I wanted to get tapes but instead we went to pick up his girlfriend. The we went to eat a Rock o Roll resterount. He said the reason he was upset is because I made my sister go home.

FEBRUARY 2: After school today I got my hair colored hot pink. It looks pretty good. Boy do I feel good about the way I look. I was supposed to get my period today but I didn’t but that’s ok its only my third time, me and my mother got into a big fight it all started like this when I got home From getting my hair done I put my close in the wash to be cleaned but I didn’t know there was other stuff. Mom got mad and yelled I called her ass__

Boy do I feel like an ____

Okay. Not exactly fascinating, I admit, but if nothing else it helps you see what a long way I’ve come. And I never said I was a writer, anyway. I’m an actor.

The acting bug stayed with me all through high school, and I tried out for all those plays with similar results. I began to feel I wasn’t quite as good as my family thought I was, and it depressed the hell out me, and then my teenage hormones kicked in and I kind of lost my mind.

It was minor stuff. Drinking. Smoking a little dope. Sneaking out of the house in the wee hours to go dancing at underage clubs.

But I’ll tell you this: Daddy wasn’t too happy about the fact that I was turning into a young woman.

Where you goin’ dressed like that, girl?! Put a turtleneck over them teenaged titties! Put a scarf over your head like them women in Afghanistan. Okay, that’s better. And don’t smile at nobody neither, or I will kill you and make you wish you was white. Okay. That’s all. The Great Nigger has spoken. Now go out, but don’t have too much fun.

My father was busy making movies, and making money, but he didn’t seem all that happy. The old energy was gone, and looking back I think it may have had something to do with the quality of the work.

He was in a movie called The Toy, for example, in which he plays a guy who is purchased as a toy for a rich man’s spoiled son. The reviews were lousy, and one reporter even said that Daddy had lost his edge. I don’t know if that pissed him off, because I don’t know if he read the reviews, but I know it pissed me off, and I began to have serious doubts about this whole acting thing.

I decided I was too cool to be an actor, so I started hanging out with the too-cool crowd at an underage dance-club in Santa Monica. Sometimes my grandpa Herb would drop me off, saying he’d be back in two hours, and I would race inside and dance and flirt with boys and smoke clove cigarettes. When I emerged from the club, two hours later, Herb was always waiting for me in the exact spot where he had dropped me off, and it finally dawned on me that he never left. I think he was worried that something might happen, and I guess he wanted to be on hand if he was needed. He would wave when he saw me coming, and I’d wave back, kind of embarrassed, the way kids tend to get, and when I climbed into the passenger seat he always said the same thing: “What is that smell? You haven’t been smoking, have you?”

“No,” I said. “But some of the bad kids smoke, and it gets on my clothes.”

With Teresa Ganzel and Jackie Gleason in The Toy.

That same year, my mother got a job in Tahiti, with Club Med, the resort people, and I got a short break from Hollywood (and everything it represented). She was an activities coordinator for the organization, and she really enjoyed the work, and I got to be a kid for a while. I learned how to snorkel and water ski, and I had fun doing it—partly because I didn’t feel like such an outsider in Tahiti. Nobody seemed to care about the color of my skin, or about my religion, or about anything else for that matter. I was just a kid, and my job was to be a kid, and I did it admirably.

Toward the end of the summer, when it was time to go back to the States, where I was supposed to start freshman year at Beverly Hills High School, my mother suggested that we stay. She could continue to work, and I would go to the French school in Papeete, the neighboring island. I could either commute by boat, or we would find a French Polynesian family to take me in during the week.

While we were considering this, Mom got a second, part-time job on the island of Bora-Bora, where she met the king, with whom she proceeded to have a torrid affair. She claims that the king proposed to her, and I don’t disbelieve her, but things didn’t work out—for reasons that remain unclear—and we headed home. Still, for a short time I wondered what it would have been like to be the princess of Bora-Bora.

Before we left the island, I lost my virginity. I report this matter-of-factly because it was kind of matter-of-fact, despite the unusual circumstances: my virginity was taken not by one boy, but by two. And they weren’t just boys, they were brothers. And they weren’t just brothers, they were twins.

I have to say, though, that it was unexciting in the extreme—but I was glad I did it. Losing my virginity seemed like something I needed to get out of the way, so that when the time came, and I was genuinely interested in having sex with someone, I wouldn’t have to worry about the technical details.

And that’s all it was, really. Sex wasn’t much of a mystery to me. By the time I was ten, I’d seen just about everything you can imagine—and some things you probably wouldn’t want to imagine. I’d walked in on oral sex. I’d watched my dad having threesomes. I’d seen men chasing naked whores through our living room on Parthenia Street. And I’d watched my daddy beating women up while he was having sex with them.

It didn’t loosen me up, though. On the contrary—that hyper-sexed atmosphere had the opposite effect. I grew up feeling awkward about my body and uncomfortable with nudity. I was so confused, in fact, that for the longest time I didn’t see the connection between sex and love.

It’s strange, because both my parents thought it was “hip” to be open about sex. My dad had told me when I was five that fucking was fun. And a year later my mother was sitting on my bed, flipping through a book called Show Me, which was filled with close-ups of naked adults touching themselves and touching each other. I remember thinking, Eeeew, this is so gross! Please don’t make me look. But my mother was such a goddamn flower child that she thought she was doing me a favor. Mom! Hello! I’m six years old! Can I have a few years to be just a kid?

Sometimes, when I think about the two people who brought me up, I wonder how I survived.

When you become a parent, as I understand it, your whole center of gravity shifts, and suddenly your children take center stage.

But that never happened in my case.

In my case, Mom and Dad always came first.