Tina Friml performs at Here-After on Friday, September 27, and Saturday, September 28. by Mindie Lind In November of last year, I was scrolling through my Instagram feed when I saw a post by The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon of a redheaded woman—wearing clothes I wish I owned—coming out from behind the curtain. A fan of comedy, I held off on moving on before I heard her say, “I am a fully functioning disabled adult living in NYC, I’ve got very ‘You go, girl’ energy.” My eyes widened, and she continued: “A lot of people see me and then think I suffer from cerebral palsy, which I don’t.” A compelling line coming from a person with impacted speech and CP hands. “I have cerebral palsy. I suffer from people.” I was stunned. A woman with visible disability chumming up a crowd and cracking Jimmy Fallon up about living her best life as a disabled person left me asking: WHO IS TINA FRIML? I moved on to more of her stand-up work. “Having a disability is the best decision I ever made. Everything I do is an inspiration. I can’t lose! I wasn’t even on this show. I was on my way to the bathroom. What are they gonna do? Stop me?” I completely lost my mind. MAYBE THE REVOLUTION WILL BE TELEVISED. This magical unicorn has broken through the impenetrable wall between prime time and the disabled experience, delivering lines so smart, so cunning, so potently real that entire universities have spent decades trying to distill these ideas into hundred-page dissertations—only to reach a small few who are so lost in the theoretical that, if it lands, it’s like a small tree falling in the woods. Who cares?! When I saw that Tina’s tour is taking her to Seattle, I knew I had to use this as an opportunity to meet my new best friend. Because, alongside being a savvy champion of crip culture myself, I too am a crip performer. I know where we came from and the lineage from which this moment was born. You see, the first times crips ever had jobs—were out of the house, being paid, and living independent lives—we were onstage. We were performers. In the 19th and early 20th century, freak shows featured “The Elephant Man,” “Lobster Boy,” and “Camel Girl”—people with visible disabilities who were seen to have profitable traits for amusing the middle class. At the time of ugly laws in the United States, banning crips from public view—except for “in exhibition”—meant that being onstage, for the profit of showmen, became our only viable way to make a living. Even though it was our first job, it seems to be the last place you expect to see us today. And as the most mis- and underrepresented population in the media, we are still not in charge of our own stories. Tina Friml performs at Here-After on Friday, September 27, and Saturday, September 28. JOHN CAFARO Which is why, in my conversation with Tina, we started off talking about the crip history of performance and how our lineage creates a unique and ubiquitous experience of imposter syndrome, exceptionalism, and internalized ableism, for all performers with disability. Mindie: So one thing that I’ve noticed is that to be a crip is to be famous… we already have the spotlight on us. Knowing that, walk me through the journey or feeling called to be a performer and putting an actual spotlight on yourself. Tina: My parents were in theater, and I always wanted to be a performer. It’s a high [unlike] any other, that I felt powerful. I’ve never been outgoing, I’ve never been a very good conversationalist. It was a way that I could control the impressions I made… among people I felt inadequate and inferior. It was always about taking that back. Mindie: When you were a kid, how did you feel about your disability? Were you trying to hide it, or were you always like “Fuck yeah, this is me”? Tina: One hundred percent not. For the vast majority of my childhood and teenage years, I was in denial. If anyone brought it up, even mentioned it in conversation, I would spiral. I would literally have a breakdown. When I talk, in my head, I don’t sound disabled. I sound normal. So it was this haunting thing of wanting to perform and then watching back a recording and hearing something so different, and seeing something so different than how it looks and feels for me. It was that “Oh, I just need to try really hard, I just need to be hyper-good at acting, hyper-good at songwriting. I can be so good, I can get beyond it.” Disability was nothing except an obstacle, something to break through. Or conquer.  Now, let’s be clear here. She is not saying “I needed to overcome CP,” but instead, “I needed to be so good that people watching it could actually see me, not my CP.” This forced her and most other crip performers like her into a quiet burden and hyper-obsession with exceptionalism, which also feeds a very specific kind of imposter syndrome. Tina: One time I came home from an open mic, and I asked my mom, who was there, “Were they clapping because I was actually good, or were they clapping because I’m disabled and it was ‘inspiring’?” And she said, “Well, maybe a little bit of both.” And that sent me into a total breakdown. Her journey in performance began as a singer-songwriter, coveting careers of Vanessa Carlton, The Killers, and fellow Vermonter Anias Mitchel. She says she felt self-conscious of her singing voice—even though music was far more cathartic than comedy ever was.  Tina: I never thought that I could be good at being a comedian. It was never something that interested me. But I fell into it on a whim, something to do. Comedy was a bucket list thing, some way to get on the stage. I never thought I would get a little into stand-up comedy, but that it would maybe ease my anxiety for stage, and I could finally sing onstage and bring myself to perform. But the knack I had for it, and the external validation. People were telling me I had something here.  Mindie: You really do. Did you always lean into disability as part of the set—or is it something you moved into? When did you cross over into “exploiting” yourself, or utilizing your disability for laughs? Tina: Pretty quickly. I remember the first couple of times doing an open mic, I didn’t talk about disability. And it only took a matter of a few weeks. It was one tag at the end of one joke: “Oh, I’ve got a good life, great friends, great family, I live in this beautiful state. I’ve got a little bit of brain damage, but that’s okay.” Mindie: And it hit! Tina: It hit! It hit like no other joke! In a way that was like an icebreaker. And then quickly after that, I wrote the joke of “I’m disabled. Don’t worry, you’re gonna be okay.” And all the jokes orbited around that one concept. Mindie: Yeah, so what is that? Like... are we giving other people permission? What is it?  Tina: You know, for me, it’s like the shit I wish I could say to people in person. On the bus. Across the counter. And it comes from rage. This quiet rage that I would just try and go about my life, and it would make people uncomfortable constantly. And that’s why I say I suffer from people. It’s got nothing to do with my disability, but all of these micro-reactions…  Mindie: All the time. Tina: All the time. Mindie: All day, every day. Tina: All day, every day. I never set out to write this comedy so people could walk out with an enlightened perspective. I didn’t want to change them or their outlook, I just wanted to call them out. And sort of, like, get above it. Mindie: I appreciate it so much. It’s like, I’m tired of feeling like an asshole because you’re just trying to be nice. Tina: Oh yeah. I’ve been noticing that as my life progresses, the things that enrage me change. When I was younger, it was about people asking me for help. Lately, it’s when people think I am drunk. I used to think it was funny, but now it enrages me. I think it’s mostly because I am no longer drinking.  Mindie: Right, like no matter how much work you do, they just can’t fuckin’ see you. Tina: Yep! I’m doing all this work, and I’m getting this dirty eye. It’s not lost on me that part of why people think I am drunk is they are taking visual cues that I am a young woman, often dressed attractively. I look like a woman who would get drunk. Mindie: Right, you’re, like, out to party!  Tina: Exactly. Just living her best life. So people start taking cues. And people don’t expect to see attractive disabled people. Mindie: A thousand percent yes. Let’s talk about confronting our internalized ableism.  Tina: If I’m being honest, I think not wanting to be put in a box comes from some internal ableism. It’s a little ironic that often in interviews, I’ll say one thing, which is that I do not want to be seen as a disabled comic, and yet in my actual comedy, a lot of it revolves around disability. Mindie: It’s interesting, because comedy is mining your life. So it is offensive to say “female comic.” She’s a comic, mining the experiences of being a woman. You are a person who is mining the experiences of a person with a visible identity of disability. You aren’t a disabled comic; you’re a comic. Tina: You know—you hit the nail on the head. People don’t say “Jewish comic.” Mindie: Or Black comic. Even if their comedy is that. That’s what comedy is! That’s what comics do! And you’re really good at it. But it doesn’t mean you don’t experience imposter syndrome. Tina: I do get moments of crisis and think I always will. Like what am I doing—am I actually funny, or am I a human-interest story? Part of that does come from people on the internet. People have made entire YouTube videos of people saying my career is built out of pity. Tina: Thankfully, it doesn’t bother me too much. But part of me does wonder: Is that true? Am I actually doing the opposite of what I think I’m doing? In terms of defining myself by my disability? Mindie: Yeah.  Tina: But what brings me out of that thinking is looking at what I’ve achieved. I got signed to WME, which is a fantastic HUGE agency, and Jimmy Fallon. Even in this day and age, to have a disabled comic with a very prominent speaking disability take six minutes of airtime—that’s actually quite revolutionary. Mindie: Dude, I fuckin’ know. I am all about cultural icons. It’s what actually changes legislation and society. But also, I’ve gotten great opportunities—like six months into my career—that my non-disabled counterparts just weren’t getting, and it just makes you think. Tina: Exactly. The way I put it is: “It doesn’t get you the opportunity; it gets you in the room.” Mindie: Right, you got that. Tina: And I don’t think there’s any shame in that. Mindie: Hell no. Might as well. Okay, so when I learned I was going to be interviewing you, the first question that came to mind is: ”What’s so funny about disability, anyway?” Tina: You know what? The funniest thing about disability is how close it really is to VIP. I then raise my fist to the camera, showing the letters “VIP” tattooed on each of my three knuckles. Tina: What!? No way! Can I just say it’s so weird to be interviewed by someone who gets it. The funny thing is people don’t always realize the perks… Mindie: Front row, backstage, first in line. Tina: Right. Also the social perks. It’s helpful to be a person who’s “unforgettable.” I am not lost in the fray. Tina Friml performs at Here-After on Friday, September 27, and Saturday, September 28.