Love, Daddy

The Smoking Gun from Twenty Years Ago Today

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 16:19:00 +0000

Recipe for Disaster?

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 15:22:00 +0000

A long while ago, I recounted a jailhouse visit with Dad where I smuggled in a pack of Wrigley's Juicy Fruit. (Read Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V of that story which isn't as long as all the parts would have you believe.)

At the end of that visit, Dad had me pick up a bag of his belongings. Quick prison lesson: inmates are only allowed so many papers in their cell due to fire safety regulations. Rather than throw the stuff out, he bagged them up in an empty onion sack and authorized me to take possession.

The contents of the bag were a hodgepodge of drawings, paintings, pictures, magazines, handbooks and legal documents regarding his appeal request. The latter was of great interest to me, since I luckily avoided having to testify against Dad and did not attend the trial. I scoured through the pages eager to learn the unflinching truth of what happened the night Dad attacked Gloria. I got to the last page (image at right) where the court rendered their decision:

The jury got it right; Dad was guilty.

No surprise there but something looked odd. There seemed to be something behind the paper. Upon closer inspection I discovered that Dad had somehow glued the sides of this last page to the heavier card stock to which the document was affixed. The bottom of the page remained unglued which, in effect, created a secret pocket. I slipped my fingers inside -- careful not to break the sealed sides -- and slid out the hidden paper. I flipped through all the other legal documents and, lo and behold, each and every one of them contained something off limits to prisoners...mostly nude drawings.

But one pocket contained handwritten instructions in Dad's writing on how to make something. Judging by the ingredients, it wasn't for anything good. Not wanting to end up on some FBI watch list, I have not Googled just what the recipe is for but I suspected it was for crystal meth.

So Dad had used the opportunity of my visit to rid his cell of illicit contraband. After I knowingly smuggled in gum, I unwittingly smuggled out Dad's incriminating documents for safe keeping. Dad isn't exactly learning marketable skills on the inside, so I guess he's making a game plan for how to survive when he's back on the outside. Judging by the instructions, it won't take much money to become an entrepreneur. Hopefully becoming a meth lab operator will seem less logical when he returns to the Free World. But let's face it, logic has never been one of Dad's strong suits.

Recipe for Disaster?

We Interrupt This Blog

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 01:55:00 +0000

A few folks have generously given me quotes for my LOVE, DADDY book proposal which I've added to a gratuitous praise page. I've added it to the basic link list menu on the right and will update it as some other quotes come in. My friend who works on book proposals for a living said that having good quotes can increase an advance substantially. Who knew? Not me, but now I'm glad I got them! I have even compiled a list of some of the great comments and emails I've gotten from some really amazing people who've dropped by my blog. So thank YOU, too.

Now, back to our regular schedule program of inconsistent blogging.

Six Years Ago

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 14:00:00 +0000

Six years ago today, I was out with a billionaire -- a "B" as in "boy" -illionaire -- till the wee hours. At one point he leaned over and whispered into my ear, "Kambri, when you live in my world, you can do anything you want."

Indeed, in his world, you can.

At the same time, 1,500 miles away, Dad was stabbing Gloria.

Happy Father's Day

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 04:15:00 +0000

It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was. --Anne Sexton

I remember Dad as a handsome, impulsive young buck who lived life fast and furiously and was a bundle of fun. If this picture doesn't say it, then I'll give you two examples:

When I was fifteen, Dad took me to the mall to shop for school clothes. He strode confidently through JC Penney’s and started pulling all the tops down off every female mannequin, occasionally tweaking a "breast". The mall police caught up to us, and I had to interpret the awkward conversation between Dad and the rent-a-cops:

“Who cares? They don’t have nipples,” Dad shirked.

“It's not right,” the officers awkwardly retorted, reluctant to have this conversation with a teenage girl and her dad.

Dad would not relent. "They're plastic," He signed, with a sly grin.

The officers resorted to pleading, "Please, just tell him to stop."

"Okay, fine," and we sped through the store out to the car where I laughed at Dad's animated mimicking of the exasperated faces of the security guards.

Then, during my junior year, my high school made it to the State championships for a one act play competition held at the University of Texas in Austin. Afterwards, we waited anxiously in the auditorium for the judges to make their decision.

I was chatting with my friends when suddenly I heard a smattering of gasps and giggles mixed in with familiar guttural noises and high-pitched nonsensical sounds reverberating through the sound system. I looked up saw Dad doing his best gyrating Elvis impersonation into the microphone. A few people rushed the stage and the emcee wrested the microphone from the Dad’s hands. This did not faze him one iota, and he continued to perform more enthusiastically to the crowd. Frustrated, the emcee announced, "If he belongs to you, would you get this monkey off the stage?!?!"

My friend Scott turned to me and queried, "Hey Kambri, isn't that your DAD?!"

My mother scrambled to the stage as Dad was taking his bows. Always the entertainer, Dad had left his lasting impression. Later when I asked him just what the hell was he thinking, he said that since the UT students had just bawdily spoofed all the plays -- a way to keep us occupied while the judges made their decisions -- it couldn't be all that big a deal for him to take the stage for a minute.

As the Chinese proverb states, "One father is more than a hundred schoolmasters." And, if there's one lesson Dad taught me, it would be:

It is easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission.

Happy Father's Day to him.

A Petty Officer and a Gentleman

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Mon, 26 May 2008 15:14:00 +0000

In honor of Fleet Week and Memorial Day, I'm telling a five minute story at the Moth tonight. If they draw my name out of the bag, that is. Here it is:

Moving in to your horse's barn because your trailer got repossessed is what some folks might call a low point. If you're my Deaf pot smoking parents, you might just call it Tuesday. Because, the fact, is we had lived in that one room tin shed before. This time around we had electricity and running water. Despite those luxuries, it was time for a drastic change, so my parents moved us to the big city of Ft. Worth, Texas.

It was there -- when I was 16 -- I met a 23 year old Sailor. The Petty Officer from Akron, Ohio, was shy, tan and muscular and drove a white Trans Am with a fake vent on its hood. Mom said he looked just like JFK, Jr. The movie Top Gun had just been released so when I first saw him covered in grease from working on an F-14 Tomcat I thought my uterus would crawl out of my vagina and snatch him whole and devour him like a hungry Venus flytrap from a Roger Corman flick.

But the movie that really predisposed me to falling for the Petty Officer was An Officer and a Gentleman. At 16, I was already either too bitter or headstrong to think that I, or any woman, needed a Prince Charming to save her but in the final scene when Richard Gere scoops up Debra Winger –- his love literally lifting her up where she belongs out of that factory –- well who hasn't at one time or another want to be rescued from their despair no matter how big or small?

Ft. Worth had not provided the reinvention we expected. In fact, things only got worse. Instead of driving 45 minutes one way to get drunk, now Dad just had to stumble across the street to Bennigan's.

It was the summer before my senior year in high school. Mom was making decent money working 80 hours a week building helicopters. I supplemented our income with a full time job at Malibu Grand Prix and was poised to graduate with summa cum laude honors. So, after 23 years of drunken, stoned mayhem and Dad's blatant adultery, Mom finally filed for divorce.

Dad didn't take the news too well and started stalking us. Mom allowing the Petty Officer sleep over only made Dad angrier. After all, it was Dad who gave me the sage advice on my first date: "Don't fuck. I don't want you pregnant I want you to graduate and go to college." Seeing his "baby girl" get swept up into the arms of an officer and a gentlemen made Dad more possessive than ever.

Being a in the Navy meant the Petty Officer had to go on leave once in a while. This time it was a two week stint on the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower. His first day away, Dad took the opportunity to break in and slash all of Mom's clothes with a knife. We were pretty rattled by this and needed stress release. That day, Mom asked with a glint in her eye, "Do you want to smoke a joint?"

My mother wants to get me, her high school daughter, stoned?! Are you kidding me?

Umm...YES?!

She whipped out a joint; we got high and then got the bright idea to go to Six Flags. We were dirt ass poor so we counted out all our loose change and found a buy one get one free admission offer on the back of a Dr. Pepper can. We got to Six Flags where a guy walked up and said, "Hey I bought these passes for the week but we're leaving town tonight so can't use them. You want 'em?" Good things happened to stoned people, I guess, because that meant we had money for FOOD! We ate ridiculous amounts of coney dogs, cotton candy and elephant ears and rode every roller coaster twice before coming home and collapsing. It was one of the best days of my life.

The next night my dad broke into the house again. This time he punched dozens of holes in the wall, held us hostage for four hours, strangled her and held a knife to her throat before I was finally able to stop the attack and call 911.

A few days later we were evicted for excessive noise disturbance and a few days after that the Sailor came back from sea. When he did, my uterus didn't devour him instead it smothered him with so much love he had no choice but to marry me.

So, Friday the 13th of January, after a long day of school and rehearsal for my role as "Lady Bracknell" in our senior play The Importance of Being Earnest we loaded into the Dodge Omni and Mom drove us to the courthouse. Mom signed the marriage license granting us legal consent. Basically a permission slip like a field trip to the zoo except with a dowry from the US Government in the form of housing and dependent pay. After a couple of quick "I Dos," a judge declared me a Navy wife. My knock off Richard Gere had saved my Debra Winger ass.

Soon after, Mom went on a much needed vacation. Before she left, she gave me a long hug goodbye then handed me a VHS tape, "Here, you and the Petty Officer can borrow this while I'm gone. I think you'll enjoy it."

My heart leapt when I saw the title. The movie?

Debbie Does Dallas.

Old Habits Die Hard

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 16:46:00 +0000

Yes, it is true, Dad is in jail for 20 years for the attempted murder of his third wife – or girlfriend. I'm not sure since he told me he actually never technically divorced his second wife. But when you're stabbing someone to death, do formal labels really matter?

Lovedaddy.org has garnered me lots of questions readers. Mainly: "Why do you still talk to him?"

Last summer, I was sharing some of this with my mom who asked, “Yeah, why DO you?”

Good question. Valid.

I said, "Well, he has always been a big champion of mine. He taught me how to drive in the Toyota and, even though there was never an ASL interpreter, he watched me in every single one of my school plays. He always told me how smart I was and encouraged me in my studies. Like when I was 15 and was going on my first date with Nick Quivers who is now a Christian rock star – Dad told me 'Don’t Fuck! I don’t want you pregnant. I want you to graduate.'"

He really pushed me to reach for the stars!

Plus, how often do you get to relate to a sociopath in a real human way? Examine up close and personal the nature vs. nurture debate. And since Dad contributed 50% of my DNA, understanding him helps me understand myself. Now I finally know why every now and then I get the overwhelming urge to slice somebody’s fucking throat.

So I try to make light with my mom and say, "And besides, he only TRIED to kill you and Gloria, it’s not like actually killed somebody."

Mom says, "Well … that we know of …"

"Uh, excuse me? What do you mean 'that we know of''?"

She replies, "Well. [SIGH] Do you remember Donna?"

Weird as it may be, I’ve gotten comfortable knowing My Jailed Deaf Dad tried to kill two women but what exactly is Mom insinuating?

Yes, I DO remember Donna.

The summer I turned 13, one of my jobs was working at a Fireworks stand. I didn't know it then but Donna, the woman who owned the stand, was Dad's mistress.

Donna ran a Country & Western night club named Johnny B Daltons. My parents took me there once and some guys in his 40s tried to pick me up which gave Mom and Dad a good chuckle. I was petrified as I sipped my fuzzy navel and played backgammon trying not to make eye contact with the potential pedophile.

Donna also had a cute son named Cash Price. Cash drove a convertible Mercedes and would let me sit on the top of the back seat as he drove with the top down to his other fireworks stands to pick up the day's take.

He really liked the song "Easy Lover" and always blasted it as loud as he could. I had a fleeting thought that maybe he thought of ME as the Easy Lover in the song but dismissed the idea quickly because who would want to be an EASY lover? Besides he was 21 and rich and drove a Mercedes. I was 13 and drove a VW Bug that had a dented roof and missing back windshield from the time my brother flipped it three times when he was high on Quaaludes.

The next summer I worked at the fireworks stand again. By then I wasn’t so innocent. A few months earlier, my mom told me of the Second Coming and that Christ would someday return to Earth. I thought she meant -- like – tomorrow. To make sure I didn’t die a virgin, I had my brother’s friend come take care of matters in the back seat of his Mom’s Buick.

Turns out I was an Easy Lover after all just not savvy enough to sleep with Cash Price. Instead I picked a 17 year old stoner who is now in jail not far from Dad.

This summer I never saw Cash. I spent most of my time holed up in an office that let us use their bathroom prank calling my then ex-friend Tina Yamaguchi. The cops traced the calls and figured out it was me and hauled my ass to the police station. I told them that Tina prank called me a few times first, so turn about was fair play. They pointed out that I called her over 1,000 times in an hour. I had two phones going at once. I was always an over achiever. A couple of days later they told me Tina said I was telling the truth –she had started it-- and her parents weren't going to press charges.

So, yes, I remember Donna and her son and her fireworks stand. What about her?

Well, when your father wanted to be with Donna, they would hang out at her other bar Thirsty’s over on Coon Hollow Road. There was this young bartender that your Dad would flirt with and he would just hover over her and tease her non-stop, you know how he is. Well, they found her dead under a bridge on Hwy 2854. She had been raped and then strangled to death with her pantyhose. I always thought maybe your Dad did it. But I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know the answer.”

Strangled? Dad’s M.O. is all about the neck…something to do with not being able to talk maybe? And 2854 is the only road he could take to get to our trailer on Boars Head from Coon Hollow Road.

Cash and his mom never asked us back to work their firework stand. All these years I thought it was because of the trouble I caused by prank calling Tina. Turns out it might not have been my fault…maybe it was because Dad might have killed Donna’s bartender.

I don’t know. What I DO know is that for those two years, we had the best 4th of July fireworks display anyone could ever ask for.

*Some names of people and places have been changed to protect the guilty.

Embryonic Selection

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 23:43:00 +0000

My friend, comedian Dan Allen, forwarded me this interesting article by Gaby Hinsliff and Robin McKie published in The Guardian.

"This couple want a deaf child. Should we try to stop them?

From embryo selection to abortion, fertility treatment to stem cell research, medical advances have created a furious ethical debate. Now MPs must decide how far science should be allowed to go."

...continue reading at The Guardian:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2008/mar/09/genetics.medicalresearch

Capote Redux

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Sun, 02 Mar 2008 01:43:00 +0000

After reading at the Family Hour last night in Ochi's Lounge, I was chatting with Sean McCarthy and Hy Bender about parallel thinking and industry trends. As an example, we talked about Capote coming out shortly before Infamous and how none of us watched the latter because of the tremendous success and riveting portrayal of Capote by Philip Seymour Hoffman. To top off, my love of the first was cemented by seeing it at the AMMI with a Q&A with the director. But we had heard about how great Toby Jones' take was. Lo and behold, as I sat on the couch going through hundreds of digital photos to submit with a feature interview of me in an upcoming magazine, Infamous came on. I watched it mainly due to the synchronicity. At first, I wasn't digging Toby but by the end I was wracked with just as much sorrow as when I watched Hoffman's version. The story hits close to home for me, obviously, due to my relationship with My Jailed Deaf Dad and how conflicted I feel about the Dad I know and the Dad who tries* to kill people. It's almost too much to bear.

--Kambri
*And who may have actually killed people.

Radio Clip of the Plug for "Love, Daddy"

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 19:35:00 +0000

Christian was on Elliot in the Morning in DC and plugged my Love, Daddy site. They just posted the audio clip and he made me laugh out loud a few times. Especially when he called my dad the Fonzie of the Deaf community. Here's the clip for you to enjoy. He starts talking about me and my family about mid-way through.

Hey, Stranger!

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 22:46:00 +0000

Welcome to all you folks in the Washington DC and Richmond area who heard my husband, comedian Christian Finnegan, pimping this site on the radio. He's a doll that one.

So I've been MIA for a while now due to Christmas in Paris, producing a sold out Saturday Night Live show, a comedian getting arrested at the comedy club I do publicity for (read the piece on TMZ -- I'm the "spokesperson" they allude to in their report) and another trip to Ft. Lauderdale.

Excuses, excuses, I know.

I hope to get back on the writing saddle this weekend. Meanwhile, I am still reading / performing every Friday in NYC if you ever find yourself this way. Details are:

Fridays @ 7:00 PM
Family Hour w/Auntie Sara
Ochi’s Lounge downstairs at Comix
353 West 14th St. just east of 9th Ave.
New York , NY
No cover / one item minimum

Official charity: the Comedy Cures Foundation (we accept donations to their worthy cause!)

Thanks again for stopping by and thank you all for the kind emails of support and encouragement. You, as they say, ROCK!

It Never Fails

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 03:50:00 +0000

Any time I go away whether on business or pleasure, I am always met with a new letter from Dad upon my return. A little calling card from the cross I bear as a way of grounding me. This time my trip was to Paris for Christmas. A more selfish and decadent spending of the holidays could not be found. Dad's card simply contained his brief note, "Send money. Love, Daddy." No thank you. No please. No sentimentality.

I sent him some just before leaving so maybe he hadn't gotten it yet when he sent his card. Or maybe he had and it wasn't enough. It is football season, after all. Parlays aren't free. Though since he is in solitary confinement until August for his assault against an officer I'm not sure he's even able to gamble. Either way, I don't care. An extra $20 here or $40 there isn't going to hurt me after the major cash drain that was a six day holiday in the City of Lights. A lovely trip it was and I made sure to send Dad several post cards so maybe he can make the journey in his mind.

For him and other inmates, what is worth more: money for the commissary or communication with someone from the Free World? If given the choice I am fairly certain they would give up the former in a heartbeat. What Dad most complains about is not hearing from his family so I know the best gift I can give him has nothing to do with cash. And when his notes are a brief demand of "Send money," well, I will. After all, I'm in the Free World. I traveled to Paris with my husband by my side and 2008 is looking to be our best year ever. So my "cross to bear" isn't a heavy load. I'll humbly carry it as a reminder of where I came from and how far one can fall.

And, Dad, there's another $20 on its way. Thank you. Love, Kambri.

This New Year's Eve, Drink Less. Smoke More Weed.

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Mon, 10 Dec 2007 21:14:00 +0000

One of my major goals for the last two years has been drink less, smoke more weed. I've actually written it out: Get an agent, write a book proposal, drink less, smoke more weed.

Growing up with my parents, nothing good ever really happened when drinking was involved but a lot of my fun childhood memories involve weed. I never really smoked it that much in comparison to my parents and brother but it was part of the family framework.

In fact, the year I was born my dad made a bong out of pewter and glass and engraved the year into it. This bong was so cool and my brother and I loved it so much that we actually argued over who would get it when our parents died.

My claim was that since it had my birth year engraved in it, it must have been a birthday gift for me and so I was the rightful heir. My brother's rebuttal was that he actually used it and so cared more about it.

Never mind that we were about 10 and six years old when we were having this heated debate. But this was normal for us. In our house, we had three cardinal rules to obey:

-- Don't open the door for strangers.
-- Check for snakes before sitting down in the outhouse.
-- Don't tell anyone where we keep the stash.

We lived in the middle of NO where on a road called Boar's Head with woods so dense that at night you couldn't see your hand even if it was an inch in front of your face.

We had the privacy needed for truly enjoyable pot smoking. When I was about 10 years old, we had one particularly bawdy Halloween party which included a big bonfire and four lesbians dressed as the members of Kiss. At one point "Gene Simmons" and "Paul Stanley" started making out in front of me. I don't know which was more of a mind freak: seeing two women passionately kiss or seeing the "Demon" & the "Star Child" go at it. I drank discarded beers and passed around the joints and got a huge contact buzz. Toward the end of the night, I was clearly stoned which made a few of the adults laugh hysterically and whip out their cameras to take pictures of me. It was the trailer trash equivalent of a college kid blowing pot in a dog's face.

One day I saw my horse Charlie Brown running in big graceful laps around the outer perimeter of our land. He was running but it was weird...like it was slow motion and his mane and tail looked so beautiful blowing in the wind. I called out to my mom and brother, "Hey y'all come here quick...something's wrong with Charlie Brown." They came to my side and my mom is like, "Yeah, something's not right with him." Kyle immediately flew off into the woods behind the shed and then I heard his blood curdling scream "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCK!" He had been growing these giant stalks of marijuana for weeks and Charlie Brown had eaten the tops off of every single one.

Growing this weed made my brother very popular with some undesirables...particularly Jerry and his older brother Eric. Eric was about 21 and was always in trouble with the law. He was short and thin with jet black hair and a bonafide moustache. He was really muscular and tan and liked to walk around shirtless with his t-shirt tied through a belt loop and his pants resting low enough to show the trail of black hair leading down to...I knew exactly what.

One night when we were living in our trailer, he hung out with Jerry and Kyle and he called me into Kyle's bedroom where they were all getting high. Eric wanted to share the joint with me but I had never actually inhaled a joint before so I was too chicken. So instead, Eric and my brother just blew their smoke in my face a few times. Pretty soon we were all high as kites and got the munchies. We ventured into the kitchen and Eric froze in his tracks. He was like "Holy shit, who the fuck are they?!" We had forgotten all about my Deaf grandparents who were in town and asleep on the hide a bed couch in our living room.

Eric was clearly freaked out – I don't know why. It isn't okay for a 21 year old man to be stoned with a 13 year old girl at two in the morning? I was like, "Don't worry they can't hear you they're deaf like my parents. See." And Kyle and I started banging all the kitchen cabinets screaming "FIRE!!!!" Eric flew out of the trailer like one of those cartoons where only a trail of burnt smoke is left in the wake. And I never saw him again. Ever.

The first and only time I got stoned with my mom I was sixteen years old.

My dad had been stalking and harassing us because my mom had filed for divorce and she was letting me sleep with a 23 year old sailor. She and I were so stressed out and one afternoon we found ourselves wanting to get away.

She asked me with an mischevious glint in her eye, "Do you want to smoke a joint?"

Are you kidding me!? My Mom wants to get me, her high school daughter, stoned?!

"Hell yeah!"

So she whipped out a joint and we got high in the dining room. A few minutes later we got the bright idea to go to Six Flags amusement park which was not far from our house. We were dirt ass poor due to troubles with the IRS and Dad not helping pay the bills, so we counted out all our loose change and found a Pepsi can with buy one get one free admission offer on it. We went to Six Flags and hoped we had enough change for us to get in when this guy walks up to us and says, "Hey I bought these passes for the week but we're leaving town tonight so can't use them...you want them?" Good things happened to stoned people, I guess, because that meant we had money for FOOD! We ate ridiculous amounts of hot dogs and junk food and rode every ride before coming home and collapsing.

About two nights later my dad broke into the house and tried to kill my mom. Guess what? He wasn't stoned. He was DRUNK.

So let this be a suggestion to all you out there when you're making your New Year's Resolutions:

DRINK LESS, SMOKE MORE WEED!

* Kyle ended up with the bong.

Family Hour Re-Cap & Weird Traits I Picked Up

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Fri, 16 Nov 2007 21:44:00 +0000

I'm sick this week so won't be telling any stories on the "Family Hour with Auntie Sara" show. So, here's a little re-cap and something I will tell on next week's show instead.

Over the past few Fridays, I've told stories about:

• my pot smoking parents, weed growing brother and Charlie Brown, my marijuana plant eating horse;

• my Dad's dating advice to me when I was fifteen ("Don't Fu*k");

• taking my husband to prison in Huntsville, Texas to meet my Dad who is serving 20 years for almost decapitating his girlfriend; and

• Dad ratting me out to the warden after he got busted with the gum I smuggled in for him.

And as fun and off the wall as that might be I haven't even touched on the one thing that I grew up with since the day I was born: my whole family is deaf. My mom, dad, aunts, uncles, and grandparents, everyone except my only brother and cousins are deaf and were all born that way.

The first thing people usually ask me is, "How do you say [insert curse word] in sign language." But after that novelty wears off, some of the more obscure, weird traits I like telling people about growing up with my deaf parents are:

-- That I walk around on my tiptoes all the time.

These days, I'm actually known for always wearing high heels. It just feels natural. In fact, on 9/11, I emailed my friends and family to say I'd made it home safely after walking home over the 59th Street Bridge. My friend Tom wrote back, "In those heels?!"

What does this have to do with deaf parents, you ask? There was a time after we lived in the tin shed that we had graduated to living in a mobile home. This meant our home was lifted off the ground a couple of feet and since a trailer is basically just paper and tin, every little vibration was exaggerated...especially footsteps.

I always walked on my tip toes but didn't realize it until one day I was fighting with my brother. I was poised to throw a plastic pitcher at his face and he turned and ran full speed but on his tip toes. Mind you he's well over six feet tall so I thought it was hilarious to see his giant gangly frame running away on tippy toes. That's when it struck me that I was chasing after him on my tip toes, too. It was something he and I instinctively did so as not to disturb our parents or get busted when we were up to no good.

Like when I snuck out of the house, I would shout at the top of my lungs, "Hey Mom! Hey Dad! I'm leaving!" But then I would very gingerly shut the door so as not to shake the trailer.

-- That I can read lips.

Growing up watching deaf people talk with their hands while moving their mouths without any sound coming out just trained me, I guess. I'm so good at it that my husband likes to play a game where he mouths out a sentence and I have to guess the phrase. He tries to trick me by coming up with outlandish / nonsensical phrases for me to decipher like "I lick giraffes every morning for breakfast." I nearly got us beaten up after I excitedly shouted out one answer on the subway. Apparently saying, "Dog vagina taste best served on Trisquits," around children is "Not cool, yo!"

-- That *some* deaf adults don’t know how loud they are....during sex.

To this day when I hear the theme song for the "Smurfs" the first thing I think of has nothing to do with Gargamel. Every Saturday morning my cartoon marathon was interrupted by a smattering of noises I care not to imitate for you today. I responded by cranking up the volume as loud as possible and when my mom put her hearing aids in she would be like, "Kambri! Why do you have the TV turned up so loud?"

One time, my parents, brother and I shared a hotel room with a deaf couple from France who were in town for the World Deaf Bowling Tournament. Around two or three in the morning my brother shook me awake, "Kambri, look!" The French people were going at it. I dove my head under my covers while my brother watched the whole show. In the morning, we told our mom what we saw. She immediately told the French lady, "my kids saw you having sex." The French lady replied, "Did you like it?"

ACK! Crazy hippies.

Full Spread

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Thu, 15 Nov 2007 22:35:00 +0000

ASL in the Raw got a nice plug in this week's Time Out NY with someone signing "vagina" in a full spread. Nice! Even better, they ran a step by step "yo mama" joke with Doug (one of the two deaf comedians) doing the signs and a quiz that you can take online. Check it out here.

Anyway, see this deaf comedy jam live at Comix on November 21st or 23rd at 8:00 PM. Tickets are selling fast so buy yours today.

--Kambri
The NY Post might run something, too. If so, I'll be sure to post it.

Love Daddy on the Radio

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Thu, 08 Nov 2007 16:15:00 +0000

Listen to my and Christian's appearance yesterday on the "Be Happy Dammit" Radio Show on Sirius. I'm in the first half and Christian comes in in the second half. Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 .

Tivo Alert!

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Thu, 18 Oct 2007 22:37:00 +0000

Tune in to MSNBC's "Countdown with Keith Olbermann" tonight at around 8:45 PM to see my husband and funny man Christian Finnegan talking about the Ellen DeGeneres dog adoption fiasco.

EDIT:

"Dog gate" controversy continues to grow

It's a Small (Deaf) World, After All

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Mon, 10 Sep 2007 19:25:00 +0000

When I was about 19, I moved to Ohio and worked as a teller during the day while attending paralegal school at night. An older deaf couple we'll call the Wilsons regularly visited the bank but never came to my window. Finally, one day I saw them come in and I waved them over. Of course, the first question the husband asked was how I knew ASL.

"Mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, aunts & uncles, everyone all Deaf," I told them.

Of course, the second & third questions were what my last name was and where I was from. I told them Crews but my mother's family surname is Worth, and I had just moved from Texas but that my family all lived in Oklahoma. He contemplated that for a moment before he asked, "Do you know a Carlus Worth from Tulsa?"

"YES! He's my grandfather!" Turns out, they worked together at a plant in Tulsa for many years before this gentlemen retired and moved to Ohio. This Deaf world is small, isn't it?

After that, the Wilsons visited my window every time they needed to do some banking. One day he told me, "I told my friend you worked here and knew ASL so he came with me. He'll be over to your window in a minute."

I completed his transaction and said goodbye as the next customer approached.

"I'm Deaf, too," the customer signed.

"Oh," I signed, "You must be friends of the Wilsons."

"No, I don't know them." He replied, puzzled.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I apologized. "The Wilsons just left my window and said they had friends here, but this must be a coincidence." I finished his transaction and waved goodbye as the next customer approached.

"Hello, I'm Deaf," the customer signed with a smile.

"Oh," I signed, "You must be friends of the Wilsons."

"No, I don't know them or the other man you helped."

"Huh, wow, who knew this tiny little town outside of Akron had so many Deaf people!" We laughed and chatted as I finished her transaction.

This went on for at least three more customers! What the heck was happening?

As I waved goodbye to a Deaf woman when the next customer, an elderly man, approached and signed, "Hello, I'm friends of the Wilsons, they told me you could help me."

"Oh, finally! I was beginning to wonder!" I helped him with his banking and waved him goodbye as the next customer approached very hesistantly.

He seemed very timid before he asked, "Can you hear?"

ASL in the Raw

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Mon, 10 Sep 2007 19:02:00 +0000

Saturday night I saw a childhood friend who was in New York on vacation. Our grandfathers and our parents grew up together at the deaf school in Oklahoma, and my brother & I grew up with him and his sister. The eight of us, at one time, were inseparable even moving into the woods of Montgomery together and eventually buying matching trailers. We talked and talked and danced and laughed till 4:00 in the morning. The next day I woke up and my hands were stiff and sore from all the signing!!!

I was excited to tell him about "ASL in the Raw," the show by and for the Deaf produced by and starring Doug Ridloff and Jason Norman (pictured below) which I am promoting this November at Comix. Maybe he'll come back to NYC for that one. For you New Yorkers or those in town for the Thanksgiving holiday, pencil it in your calendar. Or, better yet, buy your advance tickets at ComixNY.com.

Aren't they cute?

Oh, What a Feeling! Toyota!

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Thu, 30 Aug 2007 18:23:00 +0000

This is one of my favorite pictures of Dad taken Winter '86 in front of our Toyota. It captures everything I love about him.

Dad taught me how to drive in this truck. Well, technically he finished teaching me what Mom had started. She wouldn't let me drive the Toyota -- it was the nicest vehicle we had ever owned and I was only 13. Instead Mom took me out in our old VW Bug. Its red paint was faded and dull and the engine sounded like a go-cart. It had no radio or, more importantly in the Texas heat, a working air conditioner so it wasn't exactly the finest piece of machinery. Perfect for letting a young kid get behind the wheel and give driving a shot. To complicate matters, the Bug was a stick shift and my brother Kyle decided to tag along.

Four years my senior, Kyle was both my protector and abuser, friend and enemy. But 90% of the time, he chose to be the latter of those two descriptions, so his presence meant I was under extra scrutiny and pressure. Mom was in the passenger seat and Kyle sat in the back in the middle where he had room for his long legs and I could see his wry smirk and squinty brown eyes staring back any time I looked in the rear view mirror.

By 13, I had driven a go-cart, three wheeler, dirt bike, bare-backed bull, and steered our baby blue '66 Chevy down the busy Houston freeway on Dad's lap as he worked the peddles, but this was something wholly different. The Bug required the operation of a clutch and gear whilst steering and was bigger and faster than anything for which I had 100% control.

It was exhilarating.

For about five minutes.

Once I got us moving, there wasn't much to do except steer since we didn't exactly live in a place with stop signs and intersections. Mom was a horrible passenger. At every twist and turn on the winding dirt country road, she pressed against the dashboard with open palms and stiff arms as though I was hurtling us forward at 100 MPH headed toward an iceberg like the Titanic. Bracing for a collision any second, she screamed in varying degrees of seriousness, "SLOW DOWN!" "YOU'RE GOING TOO FAST!" "KAMBRI, I SAID SLOW DOWN!" The windows were rolled down which meant the breeze distorted her hearing aids so she shouted even louder than another frightened mother would. "I'M GOING TWENTY!" "WOULD YOU CALM DOWN?!" "YOU'RE MAKING ME NERVOUS!" I alternately shouted back.

Kyle remained pretty amused in the back seat laughing, I imagine, at how ridiculous Mom was being and how white my knuckles were from gripping the wheel so tightly. When we finally approached a busier, faster road, Mom said, "Okay now I want you to stop and turn around," then showed me where "reverse" was on the gearshift. I slipped the Bug into reverse fairly easily, that wasn't my problem.

My problem was that I had turned the Bug toward the ditch on the roadside which meant we were facing downward into the ditch and to reverse meant going uphill. I would like to say that it was a steep drop but it wasn't. It was just tricky to master the exact timing of letting the clutch up with just enough pressure on the gas peddle to get over the hump. Anyone who has ever driven a stick knows that this is the hardest part for anyone to learn, but that didn't matter to me when I sent us lurching and stalled the Bug. I felt like an incompetent idiot. Mom reminded me how to re-start it which took its own effort and again I lurched us forward and backwards and stalled and revved too hard or revved too little or was too quick on the clutch or not quick enough. Kyle's peals of laughter cut straight through the engine's loud whirs and the exasperated directions Mom was shouting over the noise. Finally too frustrated and seeing that I was never going to get it before getting us stuck in the ditch, Mom impatiently asked, "You want me to do it? Here, I'll just do it."

My face was so hot from the embarrassment and anger, I couldn't hear anything except my rapid heartbeat pounding my eardrums. I stomped around the car and got in the passenger seat with a big slam of my door and folded my arms tightly across my chest. Mom deftly got us out of the ditch as she tried to show me what she was doing with her feet. "See, this is how you do it. It's not so hard." I was too angry to look over and she drove us home in silence.

Dad was surprised to see us return home so quickly, "What's wrong?"

I signed a big, fierce, "Mom!" and launched into an animated, exaggerated account of how scared she was by bracing an imaginary dashboard and signing, "SLOW DOWN!" I stomped away as Dad couldn't help but chuckle since Mom had been his back seat driver since 1966. He knew exactly what I meant.

A few days later when Mom was too engrossed in a book to notice, Dad knocked on my bedroom door. "Come in," I yelled, but no one opened the door. I knew that meant it was Dad knocking. Since he couldn't hear my reply to his knock, he always took extra time before opening the door, careful not to invade my privacy. As he had dozens of times before he asked, "I going Webb's, you want Jack Crackers?" Reversing the word order of my favorite snack, Cracker Jacks.

"Yes, please. Thank you." I signed.

"O-K. You want drive?" He asked, with an impish grin.

"YES!" I leaped up, threw on my shoes and ran out of the trailer with Dad trailing behind me. I walked toward the Bug and waited for Dad to catch up but he was standing by the Toyota.

He swatted the air with a sour expression on his face indicating that he didn't want to use the Bug. He pointed at the Toyota and signed, "Better."

"Really?" I couldn't believe that he would trust me so much. I didn't know if it was a good idea. Dad could be pretty spontaneous which didn't always end well, but he said, "Come on, let's go."

I slid trepidatiously in the driver's seat and don't recall adjusting any seat or mirror, I just cranked it up and drove.

Perfectly.

Dad was navigator and would sign various instructions about turning down this road or that. At one point he told me I was going too slow and another had me turn around on a bridge. He even making me drive into a ditch so I could practice getting myself out. Defensive driving, you might say from his own experience since he had wrecked every car we had ever owned by driving drunk and going too fast. The irony was lost on me. I was driving.

I loaded up on "Jack Crackers", he on cigarettes and beer, before I drove us home. I shut off the car and handed him his keys when he signed, "Don't tell Momma. Get mad. Secret."

Oops. Not a secret anymore. (Sorry, Mom, but Dad said not to tell!)

Reporter's Record

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Wed, 29 Aug 2007 00:42:00 +0000

In part of my research for my book I ordered the court reporter's transcript from Dad's trial and punishment phase. I received it this morning and just finished reading it.

For the first time I read the testimony of the officers who responded to the 911 call and interceded in Dad's assault against Gloria*. For the first time I got the account of the medical examiner who treated and reported Gloria's wounds. For the first time I saw Mom's statements in the punishment phase and Dad's reasoning as he tried to explain all of his wrongdoings away to the jury.

Big sigh.

My GOD, it makes my heart ache for my mom, the teenage me, dad, and, of course,
Gloria.

__________
*The woman he tried to kill and for whose attempted murder he is now serving 20 years in TX prison. Not her real name.

Warrior for the Deaf

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Sat, 18 Aug 2007 19:29:00 +0000

I received a 25 page letter (!@!%#$!!!) from Dad yesterday. He has been in solitary confinement since Christian and I saw him in July for assaulting an officer. He insists the guard is trumping up charges and instigated the entire incident in the first place. Dad has become a "warrior for the deaf [inmates]" and spends most of his day in the library researching laws, the ADA and helping the other deaf inmates file grievances against the TDCJ.

Dad thinks the guard got him thrown into solitary for causing the guards grief in this regard and his punishment is excessive. Now, I know Dad places blame on everyone else for all of his troubles including, sadly, the two women he tried to kill: my mom in '88 and Gloria* in '02. But in this instance, I don't think Dad is entirely off base. Two main reasons:

(1) There are lots of documented cases in Texas and the US about deaf inmates not receiving fair or adequate treatment behind bars;

(2) During our first ever visit to see Dad, Christian had a long chat with a new guard, a very young man who wanted to pay his way through college. This guard was very well spoken, intelligent and seemed out of place entirely and told Christian in summary, "The inmates aren't the ones I'm afraid of; it's the guards." He said the guards definitely are mentally and physically abusive to the inmates and it worried him because the guards are so outnumbered.

Not really the kind of thing you want to hear from someone who is talking about the guards in charge of your own pop.

Regarding item #1, I found some excellent articles online at the Oxford Journals of Deaf Studies and Deaf Education. I was interested in research performed by Dr. Katrina Miller, in particular, as she has written articles pertaining to Deaf inmates. Further research led me to a book she published in 2003 based on this research titled Deaf Culture Behind Bars which includes interviews of Deaf inmates in, where else? Texas. I ordered a copy for myself and one for Dad. I'm sure he'll know many of the inmates she interviewed but it is highly doubtful that he's one of them as I believe her research was conducted just prior to Dad getting thrown in the clink. I also tracked her down at her current University and sent her an email. I hope she replies.

As for Dad's self-annointed title of "Warrior for the Deaf," it really makes me happy. I like knowing that he's investing his time in a more positive way and putting his intelligence and energy toward the greater good of helping Deaf inmates. Sure there's the motivation to help himself but isn't there often a selfish reason for being unselfish?

Another Kind of Anniversary

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Wed, 15 Aug 2007 03:17:00 +0000

"It was nineteen years ago tonight my Dad tried to kill my mom."

Sometimes when you try to say a sentence like that out loud it comes out all twisted and garbled because your throat knots up and simply won't cooperate.

It's very easy to type away and recount stories and try to make light but when I actually say a sentence out loud to someone I like and who likes me back, and I'm not trying to be sarcastic to make light but instead trying to relate why I might just be a wee bit melancholy today it strikes me: Nineteen years ain't all that long ago. In fact, it's right here and now if I let it.

For fun, here's a snippet from a letter I wrote to Rob, my then boyfriend of four weeks, that night...tonight, 19 years ago:

"[He] nearly choked my mother to death, then held a knife to her throat. God, Rob, I didn't know what to do! I couldn't call the cops, because he ripped my phone out of the wall and made us sit in front of him so we couldn't call anyone. I wish I could get away from here but I can't leave my mom and I still have school to think about. I need you so much right now, but you're not here. So, if I die right away...I love you with all my heart. Kambri Crews. =0) "

Yay! Happy Anniversary!

Happy Anniversary to Us!

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Sun, 12 Aug 2007 04:15:00 +0000

One year ago today, Finnegan & I got hitched during the most awesome party ever -- no joke, it was FUN and not stuffy or full of random strangers. We did it at Galapagos Art Space, a former mayo factory, and he & I came downstairs from their loft space and worked our way through the crowd to the main stage to the tune of "Head Over Heals" by Tears for Fears. The best wedding march song ever: great, dramatic opening piano/keyboard-y sound and the lyrics are great for schmaltzy romance, too.

For a laugh, here's the toast I read from My Jailed Deaf Dad:

--Kambri

Working Titles -- For Reals

kambri@kambricrews.com (Kambri) — Sat, 11 Aug 2007 23:24:00 +0000

I'm thinking of these as working titles:

Being Anything
Bone Collecting
Cranberry
Falling Upwards
Unheard Of

P.S. Tomorrow's our 1st year wedding anniversary, y'all!