Angels with Dirty Phrases... by Kenny Robinson
By the end of last summer it was obvious that Toronto would set a new record for homicides.
The majority of these were in the Black community.
Too many young kids....
I asked myself how could I help make a difference? What could I do? How could I help to change things?
I hosted a boxing event for an anti-violence community organization ONE BY ONE. Great, but how can I find a way to help some kids find a different outlet? One night a week with me would be one night less with a crew looking to be bad.
Standup comedy has been my saving grace. Without it, I probably would have pursued a life of petty crimes. Too chicken to steal... but I liked fencing. Not a tough guy…but the logical one amongst psychopaths. I have pimp DNA in my veins, but my mother raised me too tender-hearted to ever be a true Mack.
Kenny Robinson’s Nubian Show happens the last Sunday of each month at Yuk Yuks in Toronto
I knew that young men, without a sense of identity or purpose would naturally drift to the streets. Women, clothes, jewelry and a pocket full of cash... all of these things many of my hoodlum friends had hoped to obtain by crime... I had managed to obtain these things over the years through standup.
With the Nubians, I had spoken and written letters of support to judges and probation officers on behalf of comics that had fallen in with bad company. I felt I had enough of a name in show biz, and just enough street cred that I might be able to reach out.
I’m very fortunate to be long-time friends with an energetic Community minded woman named Itah Sadu. Years ago she helped the Nubians obtain a grant, and was hooked up with an organization named WINDOWS TO OPPORTUNITY. We met and decided I would run Comedy workshops for kids at risk.
Our first attempt at finding our workshop was a middle school in the Jane and Finch area.
I sat in the school office waiting for my handler to show me to the assembly. The kids were wearing uniforms… louder, more rambunctious than I remember kids being.
I overheard a mother leaving a meeting with the vice principal. She started to chide him for not remembering her from her days as a student.
“Maybe you don’t remember me cause I changed my hair style after I got shot in the neck.”
What?
The Mother got shot in the neck?
THE FUCKING MOMMA AT RISK.
What have I gotten myself into?
These kids had very little interest in taking a workshop. One of the few questions I was asked was if I had a Gucci hat. When I replied no, the verdict was that I wasn’t shit, so what could I do for them?
Fair enough.
Over the next six weeks my attempt to mentor became even more of a lost cause. I had posted the free workshops in many Black Facebook groups.
Nothing.
Many of the hottest standups in the country had taken my workshops, or paid for coaching. Fuck a workshop, any more of this rejection and I would be needing therapy. Part of the project’s selling point was that we offered free food after the classes. Somehow, I wound up with kids from shelters and halfway houses.
I had a brother and sister combination that were too shy to speak. I’m not talking about performing, but when asked a simple question like who is your favourite comic, they would just stare and softly nod their heads, a kid from Afghanistan who had been beaten with walkie talkies by the police for kissing a woman he didn’t know, and three dudes that were stoned and smelled of liquor. One session and they were gone.
Sure is hard to be a mentor without someone to mentor. I got lucky when my old friend, Mista Mo, sent me another shy kid who held his hand in front of his face. Not Jeremy Hotz style, but genuinely self-conscious. Good sense of humour though, used as a self defence mechanism. That, I imagine is a common denominator with most comics.
A couple of open mic comics who often messaged me for suggestions were added, things started to show some promise. But I wasn’t prepared for what happened next.
Two Grade 10 girls from Central Tech were recruited. Some kind of after school credit was given, and of course, the promise of free food. You’d never know that there were so many hungry teenagers in this city. One girl could recite all of Katt Williams specials, a potty mouth without any filters. The other, heavy set with no desire to ever perform comedy, but with natural timing and almost everything that came out of her mouth was funny.
The workshop included sessions where I would just have the people speak about their experiences, to help them find the funny that was within. The two girls spoke about flirting with pimps at the Eaton Centre, shop lifting, Child Services, younger siblings getting robbed at school dances. Race, pop culture. They spoke of sex in the rawest of terms. One boasted of being pan-sexual. They had expressions this old man had never heard. Neither young lady would ever write anything down, they both riffed shamelessly filthy stream of consciousness. I tried to take notes of the material that they could work with, but these ladies had me whooped. I sat in horror as the gals did five minutes on how bad a classmate’s “pussy stanked” When they were done, I was still staring at a safe space I found on the way. Now I had an idea of what some of the bookers and club owners must have had to suffer.
I had wanted to help kids at risk. And I finally got what I asked for. I thought I’d be dealing with dudes who were class clowns, running with wolves. What I got was young women who were still little girls.
They spoke of the easy money they could make selling their bodies, I told them how they could end up in a suitcase on the side of the 401.
“Do you really think I could fit in a suitcase, as big as I am?”
“Yup, after he chops you up.”
I saw a light go on in their eyes.
The program ends the first week in June, with a performance by members of the workshop. I’ve made compromises, they could still say bitch, but no feminine hygiene stuff.
That’s fine, because the one is starting to love her riff about stealing from her church to buy hair weaves. Her partner in crime has the makings of a fine MC. Her crowd work is excellent, she called me an old retired pimp without a car.
I got a car.... little bi.... hold up Kenny, you’re the adult here.
The two young ladies have grown and matured much during the workshops. Two days ago as i was still trying to put this article to bed, one came and kissed me on the cheek and gave me a yellow tulip the other one had stolen. My eyes welled up a bit, as I imagined Lulu singing To Sir With Love in my head.
I’m hoping that Toronto does not have a long hot summer of the gun. And I’ll start this shit all over again, come September.
