The air in the Georgia backyard is thick with the scent of fried catfish, industrial-strength hairspray, and the looming threat of a physical altercation. Under a rented white tent that is visibly straining against the wind, a "Class of 1970-Something" banner hangs crookedly.
"Look at all these old people," Madea whispers loudly. "Hattie, is that you? I thought you died in '94. I sent a card! Give me my stamp money back." The Program Madeas Class Reunion
"We’ve all come so far. Some of us are doctors, some are educators..." Madea (from the back): "And some of us are on our third ankle monitor, Brenda! Keep it moving!" The air in the Georgia backyard is thick
She then stands up, fires a single warning shot into the air to signal that the party is over, and heads for the Cadillac. Another reunion survived. "Hattie, is that you
"We still here," she grumbles to herself, taking a sip of "special" punch. "Most of 'em are ugly now, but we still here."
As she watches her old classmates dance—some with walkers, some with rhythm—she softens for exactly three seconds.