In April of 2025, just days after her 40th birthday, Jackie Keliiaa stood on stage at Chico State University’s Laxson Auditorium. She was hosting the Good Medicine comedy showcase, with a lineup that featured comedians Brian Bahe, Monique Momoreau, Marc Yaffee, and Deanna Mad. Jackie addressed the crowd, warming them up prior to the evening’s main acts.
“It’s funny being bisexual,” she said to the theatre full of people, “because you really have to switch it up for different audiences, just like comedy routines.”
Laughter flowed as Jackie appeared between each act, keeping the event going by addressing the current political climate and her own dating woes, her deep Bay Area roots, and her time spent with cowboys at a Subway in America’s heartland. She even mixed in stories of her Indigenous heritage and her European ancestry.
“I found a grey hair recently,” Jackie said, holding the microphone in one hand and shielding her eyes from the theatre’s bright lights with the other. “I called my dad and told him. Without skipping a beat he says, ‘That’s that white man in you–you’re going to age hard and fast.’”
When the audience erupted in laughter, the medicine had taken effect.
At the intersection of comedy and community stands Jackie Keliiaa.
An event host and show writer, as well as a standup comedian and producer of the Good Medicine comedy series, Jackie’s art comes directly from her love of her people and deep connection to the Bay Area.
Her family has ties to the region dating back to the early 20th century.
Jackie’s mother’s family, of Italian and Portuguese ancestry, was here before the 1906 earthquake. Her father’s side, Indigenous folks of Washoe and Paiute lineages, has roots in Hawaii and Nevada but has called the East Bay home since WWII.
“No wonder I’m a comedian,” she says, imitating a loud introduction. “I’m here everybody! I’m right here!” Lowering her tone, she reflects on the ways in which she seeks validation through her work, simultaneously using the craft of comedy to understand the world around her and her place in it.
“I feel like so much of my life,” she says, “is just me trying to understand who I am as an individual.”
Jackie’s family plays a huge part in her identity. Not just her ancestors and elders, but her generation as well.
“I’m the youngest of four,” Jackie says, sitting on a couch in her living room in Oakland. “And I have a twin,” she adds, noting that her sister Katie is 28 minutes older than her.
“They didn’t know I was there until the day I was born,” Jackie scoffs, explaining that the family had an inkling that her mother–“as big as a house” at the time–was carrying twins. But the doctor denied it until her mother was in labor. That’s when a nurse overrode the doctor, scanned her mother and revealed two spines in her womb.
“They thought we were conjoined twins,” says Jackie. “It turns out,” she explains, “our hearts were beating in unison for the duration of the pregnancy.”
And during labor the heartbeats took to a new rhythm.
Unprepared for a twin birth, Jackie’s parents scrambled for a name. Her mother asserted that her name would be Jacqueline. “I feel like a Jackie,” she quips, pointing out that the story of her birth is on par with the person she is today.
“No wonder I’m a comedian,” she says, imitating a loud introduction. “I’m here everybody! I’m right here!” Lowering her tone, she reflects on the ways in which she seeks validation through her work, simultaneously using the craft of comedy to understand the world around her and her place in it.
“I feel like so much of my life,” she says, “is just me trying to understand who I am as an individual.”
Her approach to comedy is self-soothing, as is her approach to community service. “The work that I do,” she says, “has become such a huge part in my life, because I want to help the audience.”
The comedic relief is mutually beneficial; it’s part her getting heat off of her chest and part her being in the moment and having fun. “Simultaneously,” she says, sitting on her couch, “I think my work, dare I say, can be healing.”
During her comedic sets she regularly pokes fun at patriarchy and roasts the current presidential administration. She makes light of American history, identifies with nerds, jokes candidly about her breast size, and laughs off her own toxic traits in relationships.
After years of living with a “scarcity mindset,” only recently has she learned to embrace the fruits of her labor and relish in the idea that it all might work out.
“I’m really honoring more of what I need,” she says with a laugh and smile, noting that at one point she was treating herself like a succulent. “We don’t need that much,” she says, moving her hand as if she were watering a plant.
Now, she recognizes that she’s more like an orchid. “I need light just so,” she says. “I need a little bit of mist, but only so much. I’m very much a delicate creature that has operated on this other thought about myself, and now I’m kind of like: what do I need to bloom?”
A flawed human, as we all are, she’s far more open than most. But there are some topics Jackie doesn’t broach on stage.
“You’re being vulnerable as fuck in comedy,” Jackie exclaims. “I’m telling you what I want you to hear. You don’t know the whole story,” she says, adding, “I don’t even know if I want the whole story.”
On stage she only covers topics that are comfortable for her. As extreme as they might be, there’s so much more she chooses not to share. “I can’t talk about my mom on stage,” says Jackie, opening up about her mother, who passed away in 2010.
Jackie’s apartment is adorned with photos of her mother, and the bright colorful aesthetic is a direct result of her mother’s influence. “Her vibe is everywhere,” Jackie says, looking around the room. “She’s here with me, but I don’t bring her on stage because I would fall apart.”
Yes, the stage is a place to process, but there are some things that need to be worked through in private. This is something Jackie has to come to learn.
And still, at this stage in her life, she knows there’s more she wants to share–things that don’t have to do with her family, her heritage or her hometown–things that have to do with her intimate inner-workings.
“I’m starting to want to talk about my ADHD,” Jackie admits. “It’s been something that I’ve kind of held tight to,” she says, noting that “not everything is a show that everyone gets a ticket to, but now I’m ready to start talking about my stuff.”
Medically confirmed to have ADHD in 2023, Jackie postures herself as the classic late diagnosis. “Because,” she explains, “women are really good at masking our symptoms, because we’ve been taught to be agreeable, taught to go with the flow.”
The diagnosis has been liberating. And attending classes with other people living with ADHD has been a gift that she didn’t recognize at first. “Initially,” she recalls, “I was offended by the language and how we talk about it. Mental illness!? Bye.” But now she sees it as a superpower, one that aids her comedic craft.
“It’s how I kill it at crowdwork, because I’m going ‘boom, boom, boom’,” she says, using her finger to point at people in an imaginary crowd, likening her method of making observations to that of the extraterrestrial sci-fi film character, The Predator. “When he’s scanning the scene,” she says, “that’s me.”
But having an ever-flowing list of observations is exhausting. And, like every superpower, there’s a darker side to her ADHD diagnosis.
“Also,” Jackie says, “there’s some hard times. I will have straight up meltdowns.” Her attention scatters, she’ll forget to eat or drink water. Locked in on planning an event or working on a project, she’ll hit a wall and be forced to retreat. “I will literally have to turn off all the lights, cocoon, and then reset.”
Being overstimulated and undernourished is something that has impacted her professionally and personally in the past, causing her to be distracted at work or not fully present in relationships. As a result, she’d be hard on herself. Now with a diagnosis, Jackie has learned to ease up on her expectations of self.
After years of living with a “scarcity mindset,” only recently has she learned to embrace the fruits of her labor and relish in the idea that it all might work out.
“I’m really honoring more of what I need,” she says with a laugh and smile, noting that at one point she was treating herself like a succulent. “We don’t need that much,” she says, moving her hand as if she were watering a plant.
Now, she recognizes that she’s more like an orchid. “I need light just so,” she says. “I need a little bit of mist, but only so much. I’m very much a delicate creature that has operated on this other thought about myself, and now I’m kind of like: what do I need to bloom?”
Jackie has this one joke that hits really close to home. It’s about how we all have our own “operating system.” It regularly gets updated as time passes, a parallel to the maturation process. But, she says, “When you go back home for the holidays, all the sudden you revert back to Windows ‘97.”
Elaborating on her theory, Jackie says, “Whoever you were in 1997, that’s who you are right now at Christmas. It could be 2025, but you are back to that person.”
And with that, Jackie has identified the next step in her journey: re-introducing herself to her loved ones to show them who she is at this stage in her life. And, as a comedian, that re-introduction might happen on stage.
“I’m coming into my own and understanding so much about myself,” she says, poking fun at the concept of “being your authentic self.” It sounds deep, she says, but really since the pandemic, when she was forced to sit with herself, she’s learned what makes her tick.
She’s not a fan of loud noises, doesn’t always like being in large crowds, and as a people pleaser, has learned to exercise healthy boundaries. “I’ve realized,” she says, “that sometimes I’m different from what my family has seen me to be.”
Family, they know you. Or maybe what they think they “know” is just a charade, and the real you? Well, that comes out because of the time you’ve spent refining your act.
When people say they want to start doing comedy Jackie asks them: “What are you mad about?”
She says, “Start off with shit that gets you fucking hot, the shit that gets you angry. ‘Cause that’s what I do on stage.” And then, when she’s done, she feels a sense of release.
“I can’t just stare at a window and figure it out,” Jackie says, referring to the problems in life.
“I have to really get it out there. If I don’t have a set, I feel itchy. I gotta say something…And then after I’m done I’m like, ‘Oof. Thank God.’”
She calls it a “psychic dump,” one where she can openly talk about the price of eggs and tech bros, as well as her own issues. And as she leans deeper into understanding and healing those issues, Jackie has realized how the process has aided her relationship with her loved ones. More specifically, her sister.
Jackie believes the twin dynamics can often breed codependency. Afterall, for nine months their hearts beat at the same cadence. So, over the years, Jackie has had to figure out who she is and what she’s about. Through the work on stage, off stage, in medical offices, and on her couch, Jackie now sees the bigger picture.
“The thing is,” she says, exhaling, “I’ll never go back to what I was. I’m not that person anymore.” Instead, she forecasts a future where she’s taking care of herself, resting, and being present in her body. “So that’s my journey right now,” she concludes, “putting Humpty Dumpty back together.”
At the end of her Good Medicine show in Chico, Jackie was joined on stage by the comedians who performed that evening. She thanked the crowd and was met with a thunderous applause. They paused for a photo, and then she let everyone know that they’d be hanging out in the lobby after the show.
As they exited the stage, she briefly reflected on the show. Hi-fiving the people who performed alongside her, she let out a resounding “Hell, yeah guys!”
