In her new memoir, “Rabbit,” Patricia Williams writes that there is no “simple answer” to the question of how she went “from living in an illegal liquor house, to running from the cops, to living in the suburbs with a flock of ducks outside my window.” This standup comedian, who performs as Ms. Pat, grew up in Atlanta during the crack epidemic, one of five children of an alcoholic single mother. By 15, Ms. Williams had two children of her own. She went on to sell crack (she was shot twice) and spent time in jail.
Now, living in Indianapolis, she is a regular guest on comedy podcasts and has appeared on television shows like “Last Comic Standing.” “The only way I can explain how it happened,” Ms. Williams writes of her life’s unlikely trajectory, “is to tell you exactly what went down.” Her book tells how it went down with brutal honesty and outrageous humor in unexpected places. Below, she talks about finding the right tone for her story, protecting the people who abused her, the influence of Richard Pryor and more.
When did you first get the idea to write this book?
When the co-writer, Jeannine Amber, approached me, maybe three years ago. She heard me on Ari Shaffir’s podcast, and she ended up coming to a show and introducing herself. In this business, you hear all kinds of stuff about what people think you can do, and I come from a place where you don’t believe half of what you see and none of what you hear. She said, “I’ll call you in two weeks.” And she called. I thought, “Oh my god, she called.” I always thought I had a unique story, but that’s when I really thought, “Hey, maybe this could happen.”
We had some ups and downs, because she’s Canadian and I’m African-American, and those two blacks don’t know much about each other. She didn’t even know what a food stamp was. I was like, “What?” I had to explain a lot of things to her. Now I tell her that she’s the sister I never had.
What’s the most surprising thing you learned while writing it?
When you’ve been abused, a lot of times you protect the person who abused you. I had no idea I was protecting those people, which is my mom and my kids’ father. Jeannine would say, “Do you understand you’re protecting the person who hurt you?” That really opened my eyes to the control they’ve had over my life, and I’m 45 now. I wanted them not to look bad. So I learned to let go a little bit more. I told some stories I thought I was going to my grave with. I thought I had already healed; this book broke down some walls that I couldn’t have done on my own.
In what way is the book you wrote different from the book you set out to write?
When we first set out, it was nitty-gritty, we didn’t hold anything back. And the editor said, “You’re a comic now, and you don’t perform like it’s a pity party,” so she made us kind of start over and I tried to tell it with humor. I’m 15 years into comedy, and that’s helped me talk about crazy stuff. First, I had to get over embarrassment; then I had to get over worrying about people judging me.
Honestly, I thought only black people went through what I went through. But that’s not true; this stuff happens to everyone. I thought teenage pregnancy was just in the black community. I didn’t know anything about white people; I just knew about where I was from. When I was talking about me and my daughter being 13 years apart, people started coming up to me and talking about their stories, people from every race. I’d tell them: “I’m glad you can laugh at it. Find a way to laugh at it, because when you laugh at it you have control of it.”
Who is a creative person (not a writer) who has influenced you and your work?
A comedian friend of mine, Tom Simmons, and Avery Dellinger, who works at Morty’s Comedy Joint, the comedy club here in Indianapolis. They told me to really dig deep and just be honest. When I moved here from Atlanta, Avery said, “You should tell those stories.” I said, “People won’t get it.” He said, “It’s horrible, but they’re funny stories.”
When people told me I was a storyteller, I started to study Richard Pryor. I was never into comedy before. He’s the greatest storyteller, him and Bill Cosby. And I would look at Richard a lot, because I was more of his style: blunt, in-your-face and honest. Watching his DVDs influenced me to open up even more. I thought, “He gets paid to do this, and they don’t check his criminal background history?” That’s what moved me toward comedy — they don’t care about your criminal background check. They just give you a mike and say, “Be funny.” They don’t give a damn that I’ve been shot. My brother’s a convicted felon, and I tell him all the time: “You should really do comedy. They don’t care what you did in 1987.”
Persuade someone to read “Rabbit” in 50 words or less.
It’s about a young black woman growing up in America who felt like she was invisible. It’s a very honest book. Every story I told, I told from the heart. I didn’t care what people thought about me. And it might make you want to tell your story.
This interview has been condensed and edited.
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