Is You Okay? (14 page)

SAG card issues aside, I found myself liking Jacqui a lot.

She was my age, in her late twenties, and she was studying for her theater degree at the University of Central Florida (she already had multiple degrees). She came from a family of doctors, I learned, but also found that she enjoyed performing—not in the way a lot of us did, though. She
was an introvert who liked to sit back and take everything in, then find her opening and come in with something low-key but really smart.

Weirdly, her combination of beauty, intelligence, and talent made people dislike Jacqui. Through no fault of her own, women were jealous of her, and men were intimidated by her, and instead of handling their own business, they took it out on her. Beauty and brains were for Jacqui what black and bold were for me:
hater catnip
.

Sometimes, when you meet someone as amazing as Jacqui, it takes either a big, formative event to make your friendship solid or a whole stretch of time when you're joined at the hip. Until one of those things happens, you're really just friend-
ly
. Your real besties are the people you've shared
real,
numerous experiences with.

Over the next couple years, Jacqui and I acted in various plays all over northern Florida—we even got jobs playing characters at Universal Studios Orlando. I was Storm and she was Rogue. We never won Employee of the Month, but we were superfun to work with, and kids loved taking pictures with us. The best part of the job was in the off-season, or on shift breaks, when we'd go on all the rides. I swear we were the most fun Storm and Rogue Universal Studios ever had. If you went to Universal Studios in 2002, looking to take
pictures with all the X-Men characters, I'd be willing to bet you had the biggest smiles in your pictures with Storm and Rogue.

In 2003, everyone from the Du-Plex theater group relocated to Los Angeles. Almost immediately we lost touch—all of us, including Jacqui and me. I was busy with stand-up comedy and being married (for a while longer at least), while she was going to cosmetology school. I wasn't worried—Jacqui and I are different in a number of ways, but we shared some essential character traits: We didn't like other people's drama; we didn't trust a lot of people, thanks to things from our past; and we didn't have many close friends. And we were both spiritual.

Then in early 2005, I got a call from Jacqui out of the blue. She told me that Becca, our original ringleader, had moved to New York City, and that she wanted to meet up. We met at a Starbucks in Studio City and I must have talked nonstop for an hour catching her up on everything that was going on in my life. Jacqui barely said a word. I thought to myself:
What is up with this girl? Did I do something wrong?
A week later I got another call from her. She wanted to meet up again. We met at the same Starbucks, and again I did all the talking and she sat there stone quiet.

Jacqui is an introvert—a little meek, maybe even a little scared—but she isn't a mute. Did all the L.A. smog fry her vocal cords? Did she take a vow of silence?

As we left, she finally cracked, and it was something small, but huge.

It was her phone—it wasn't broken, but it sure wasn't working right, and the people at the store wouldn't replace it for her. They were going to make her pay full price for a replacement, which she couldn't afford at the time, and she needed that phone for her work and for callbacks on auditions.

Hearing this, something in me clicked over. I said to myself,
Okay, this is my homegirl from Florida. I can't be letting these people take advantage of her
. I had her take me straight to the phone store. I was a girl possessed, like Straight Outta Orlando, Kevin Hart “psychopath girl” possessed.

“Hey! HEY! Who here in charge?!” I was shouting in the middle of the store, like I was robbing a bank. “Who here told my homegirl you ain't fixin' her phone, tryin'ta get over cuz she's just some pretty little white girl?”

Let's pause and remember that this was a cell-phone store in the Valley in the middle of the day in the middle of the week. The employees were community college kids and senior
citizens trying to stay active. They had no idea what was about to hit them, and even less of an idea what to do about it.

“Don't make me come back here rollin' deep with my brothers!” [I don't have “brothers.”] “And don't make me go online and be tellin' everybody how racist y'all is!” [I didn't have a computer then, and Jacqui was whiter than a Katy Perry concert.] “You best be fixin' this phone right quick or I'ma come correct wit my crew and make it correct!” [Crew? It was me and Jacqui. “Correct?” There was nothing “correct” about the things coming out of my mouth.]

I thought for sure I would get arrested.

Once I'd finished yelling, the manager came over, took the busted phone out of my hand, and replaced it with a new one right out of the box. We didn't even have to fill out any of the long paperwork that used to come with cell-phone contracts. He just wanted us gone, and his life back to normal.

Girl power!

Jacqui and I had walked into the store like friendly reacquaintances, but we walked out as
friends
. It was like we hadn't skipped a beat from our Florida days. We were Storm and Rogue again, only a little older and with a cell phone that worked.

We even got jobs together again—this time at the same spa.

We were two weird peas in a very different-shaped pod who from that day forward became each other's support system and biggest cheerleader. We understood each other; we knew what the other person needed even if she didn't know it herself. Jacqui helped me get over Tike and back into the dating game, and I helped her meet people. She helped me with my Jay Leno blog, and she taught me about YouTube. I taught her . . . how to meet people.

She needed a lot of help.

I probably needed the help even more than she did.

The years between my divorce in late 2003 and really finding my voice on YouTube with stuff like the challenge videos in early 2012 were the scariest, most exhilarating, and most uncertain times of my whole life. Looking back at them, if I hadn't reconnected with Jacqui in 2005—if we hadn't been there for each other—I don't know if I would have had the courage to share my feelings with Tina, the woman from my church in L.A. who worked at NBC. I don't know if I'd even have had the energy to accept the invitation to her July Fourth barbecue. I don't know if I would have had the
strength to recover from being banned from
The Tonight Show
potentially by one of my heroes. I don't know if I would have had the wherewithal to recognize the opportunity that YouTube represented, and then take advantage of it. I honestly believe that my friendship with Jacqui, and our deep, spiritual connection, is a huge reason I've been able to accomplish so much and achieve so many of my dreams.

It's easier to accept and love your true self when someone else has beaten you to it. It's way harder to hear the haters when you have a best friend whispering love in your ear. It's not as scary to walk the path in front of you when your friend can see it too, and she promises to be there to guide you back if you ever get lost.

Since my popularity on YouTube really grew I've done a lot of meet and greets across the country and around the world. In the early days, a few dozen people would show up, maybe as many as one hundred. Then, it got into the multiple hundreds. Then, it got big enough that we needed to hold an official event—GloZell Festival—to accommodate everyone. Every event was mostly young fans who wanted a hug, and a picture, and to tell me their favorite video. They'd come up in groups of friends, and soon enough they were talking
excitedly to one another while I just stood there smiling. Each one of those young people is amazing, and I love all of them.

But every once in a while, fans who were by themselves would approach me. They were usually a little shier, and maybe a little more awkward, and their hugs were always a little tighter. They'd tell me their names, and then they'd ask me a question that was always some version of: “How do I get to do what you do? How can I be like you?”

Knowing very little about any one of these lone fans, I could tell they were unique, they were creative, they were driven . . . and they were completely lost. My advice was the same to each of them: you need to find that one person in your life who knows the true you better than anyone else, and who will support you no matter what, as you pursue whatever dream keeps you up at night. You don't need a million fans or friends—you just need to find
that one person
.

This is not a revolutionary idea, I know that. It's not just for young people either. It took me
thirty years
to figure it out! If you want to find your true self, and if you want to find your future, you need to find your Abby. You need to find your Jacqui.

Then, you need to hang on to them like a koala bear for dear life.

     
Q:
  What is the best pickup line?

     
A:
  [Seductively] Is you OK? Is you? Good . . . 'cause I want to know.

When the doctors amputated my dad's first leg, he stopped working day to day at the pharmacy. When they took the second leg the following year, he had to stop working altogether. That didn't mean he stopped caring about his family, however. In fact, I think he started to care
more
.

For my dad, family filled the hole created by forced retirement. We each became one of his little projects, and we were okay with that. The only time we weren't okay
with his impulse to help fix things was when he turned his attention to home improvement projects.

My dad was very proud of the home he'd built for us, and he, in turn, wanted us to be as proud of our home and as comfortable in it as he was. So whenever something broke or wore down, my dad turned immediately into Mr. Fix-It. Remember that time I watched him climb up a ladder with shoes on his knees? He was fixing a broken shelf. As he put it, it was an easy patch job, so why bother strapping on the prosthetics? He'd be up and down in no time.

Every time he pulled out that dang ladder we held our breath. We weren't afraid he might fall off it changing a lightbulb or tumble off the roof fixing a leak—no, our concern was based on the fact that brainy science guys who are good at chemistry are usually horrible at being handy. Remember
The Smurfs
? Remember that one hilarious episode when Brainy Smurf and Handy Smurf got together to solve a big problem for Papa Smurf? Of course you don't—because you've never watched
The Smurfs
and have no idea what I'm talking about. My point is, nothing like that ever happened on the show because brainy and handy almost never go together, and my dad was living proof of that. Where the house was concerned, he literally made everything he touched worse.

If he tried to freshen up the paint job on the windows, he'd accidentally paint them shut. If he tried to unclog the big U-tube under the sink, he'd forget to put a bucket underneath to catch all the water that came pouring out after he separated the two pieces of pipe. Hanging pictures on the wall wasn't a chore, it was an adventure! And forget about anything related to electricity—the fact that our house was never responsible for knocking out the power to the entire block, or that my dad never electrocuted himself (seriously), may be the greatest testament to God's grace.

My dad spent practically every waking moment of his retirement worried about, and caring for, his family and friends. He even dipped into his savings to help people. I don't know this for certain, but I think he helped every single person in our family except for one. Do you want to guess who that one person was? That's right—he never worried about himself.
Stress. Anxiety. Tension. Exhaustion.
Those weren't words that you'd ever use to describe his mood. Dad was old school—he just did what needed to be done and made no excuses. Mentally, emotionally, and spiritually he could handle the load. Physically . . . well, that was a different story.

The circulation issues that resulted in my dad's double amputation didn't stop at his knees. They affected his heart, too. Not its capacity to love—he had the fullest heart of anyone I've ever known—but its health and longevity. The restricted circulation put extra strain on his heart. The wear and tear took years off his life.

Imagine trying to drive a car with the parking brake on. You can do it, but you have to push the engine extrahard. Do it for too long and the brakes will wear out, then the motor. The amputations were like taking the parking brakes off to help him ease up on the effort his heart (the motor) had to put in to keep his body (the car) going at normal speed. There was only one problem: he never took his foot off the gas. He did the opposite, actually. He put the pedal to the metal.

Eventually, my dad's heart started to give out. He was tired a lot and then had bouts with shortness of breath. Still, he pushed through it, doing his thing as the head of the family, until the doctors had to go in and do major bypass surgery. This was his third big procedure in less than ten years. (I rotate my mattress less often than that!) Strong guy that he was, he survived the surgery. When they were done, the
doctors came out into the waiting room to tell all of us the news.

“He did great,” the surgeon said. “He'll live another ten to fifteen years at least.” Everyone was relieved. There were hugs and kisses and tears.

Less than an hour later, he was gone.

My family was beside themselves, falling out all over the floor in the waiting room, wailing into each other's chests asking each other, asking God, asking no one in particular, “Why? Why?! WHY!??” The doctors were speechless, too. There were no complications during the hours-long surgery; his vital signs had been stable the whole time. They had no idea why he died.

But I did. I knew why he died: my dad had worked himself to death. His heart had just run out of gas.

Knowing the kind of man my father was, I'm sure he had no regrets about the way he lived his life. He accomplished many firsts for his family name. He built a successful business and a good reputation in the community. He did a lot of great things for a lot of different people. His life had been a full one. But it was still shorter than it should have been, and the reason is because he never put himself first. Everyone and
everything came before his own needs. It's why everyone loved him, and why he was gone too soon.

Had my dad put himself first at any point in his adult life, even for a little bit, I'm certain he would have lived several more years. If he made his health and comfort as much of a priority as he made DeOnzell's or mine, I won't say he'd still be here (it's been a long time), but he might have gotten to see some of the biggest moments of my life as an entertainer and a YouTuber.

By the way, I don't know how old any of you are reading this book, but let me tell you something: As a kid, you have all sorts of big ambitions for yourself. You want to be an entertainer, or write a book, or make it to the Olympics. At the same time, most of us don't always have the greatest relationships with our parents. When we're young, we're frustrated with them and feel like they're always up in our business. Then something happens: you eventually get up there on that podium or accomplish that thing you've been dreaming about, and more than anything you want your parents to be there—proud of you. It'll break your heart if they're not there. So appreciate them now, while they're still here.

Did I understand that at the time? Of course not. How many pieces of advice did your parents or teachers give you when
you were young that didn't make sense until you were older? Like a
million
? (If you're still young,
wooo child, just wait!
)

When my dad died, I was in my late twenties, married to Tike, doing plays, dreaming of making it out to California. I wasn't thinking about
how
to live a long, full, happy life; I was just hoping it
might
happen.

It wasn't until several years later when I was in Los Angeles, doing
The Tonight Show
thing, that the notion of putting yourself first, of being the number one person in your own life, started to make some sense to me. The first time was on a plane. I forget where I was flying to—probably back to Florida for a holiday or a birthday—but I remember I was actually paying attention to the preflight safety demonstration for once. Most people, myself included, usually tune those things out, all that stuff about the seat belt buckle and flotation devices:

To fasten your seat belt, insert the flat metal end into the buckle. To release, lift up on the top of the buckle. Seat belts must be worn low and tight across your lap. Whenever the “fasten seat belt” sign is blah blah blah . . . . . . zzzzzzzz.

But that particular day, when the flight attendant got to the oxygen mask part, one sentence in particular sent a little shiver down my spine:

If you are traveling with a small child, or someone else that requires assistance, put your mask on first, and then assist the other person.

She was saying that you need to take care of yourself first, then you can go take care of everybody else. The physical reason for that instruction is because at high altitude, it only takes three or four seconds to lose consciousness if the cabin loses pressure. You're no use to the people who need your help the most if you're unconscious!

But my dad would totally have been the guy to put his mask on second . . . or third . . . or not at all. He'd have been running down the aisles making sure everyone in our family was set, then every other woman and child and then maybe,
maybe
if there was time, he'd think of himself. In his short life, he put the mask on every one of his family members multiple times before he ever thought of putting his own on.

There's a very famous saying that I have thought a lot about in my own life since my dad passed. It goes: “God helps those who help themselves.” Have you heard it? I bet you have, probably from your parents when you asked them for help with something and they tried to make you figure it out for yourself because they were busy doing something else.

You: “Dad, can you please get the cereal down for me?”

Dad: “God helps those who help themselves, sweetheart.”

You: “But Dad, it's on the very top shelf, and I'm seven.”

What it means is that you can't expect other people to fix your problems if you don't at least try to fix them yourself first. This applies to every kind of problem: friend problems, love life problems, math problems, money problems. The solving part should always start with you.

This is hard for a lot of people, but not because they are lazy, or they want to make excuses, or they're selfish. No, I think it's hard because too many people aren't selfish
enough
. They don't put themselves first, and as a result, when things get bad in their lives, they have no idea what to do because it feels like it's happening to somebody else. Or worse, they get blindsided by the problems because they never saw them coming. How could you, really, when you're not focused on your own priorities?