Thank God our wedding was fun. Honestly, our wedding saved our marriage. I fell in love with him five different times that night. When I say I had the time of my life, I really mean every word. After our reception, all the guests were given candles. And then a gospel choir led us in a march, singing “God Is Trying to Tell You Something” from The Color Purple. So we marched with our candles, and people shared wishes for us and wishes for themselves. The choir led us into a supersized 1930s juke joint we created just for the night. Questlove was DJing, and one of my favorite bands, Guy, was on the stage. We had a rocking chair rest area for the older folks, and we were surrounded by all of our favorite people—the people who valued us for our real worth. The best thing was that people danced all night. If you left the dance floor it was just to get more booze and then you went right back. It went on for hours, and Dwyane and I were the very last to leave.
I think about our vows sometimes. “If you’ve ever wondered if I’ll leave you, the answer is never,” Dwyane said to me in front of all those people. “And if you’ve ever wondered what I value, the answer is you.”
I needed to hear that, and I needed to tell him what I said in return. “This day is about the two of us coming together and being the best team possible,” I said. “So today, I vow to love you without conditions.” And I had to add one very important promise:
“I vow not to watch Scandal or Nashville without you.”
Even under the rules of big bank take little bank, so far, so good.
nineteen
THE ROOM WHERE IT HAPPENS
The text came from a number I didn’t know. Prince’s invites would always be this way. Last minute and straightforward, with the address of a house he was renting in Los Angeles for awards season, or later, a hotel he was taking over for the night.
My first came in 2005. I grabbed my friend’s hand and showed her the text. We were at a Grammy weekend party in L.A. and were having a great time, but this was a much better offer.
“We’re going,” I said. “Now.”
The whole way to the mysterious address, I was sure the invitation was a prank. Maybe, I thought, it would be better that way. I was terrified of showing up at Prince’s house and being lame. I was sure there were going to be way cooler people than me there, and I was going to be the idiot who said the wrong thing.
The house was at the end of a steep driveway up Mulholland, and my friend and I made our way to the door. I was still waiting for the “Oh, there must be a mistake.” But the security guy gave me a nod. Then he looked at my friend.
“Did you get a text?” the large man asked, as politely as possible.
“No,” she said.
“I’m sorry” was all he said.
Now, my friend is dope as hell and also happens to be someone famous. You know her, and if I told you her name you would immediately know that of course she could hang. But Prince planned his invite list like a precision instrument. And I had the golden ticket that night.
“You have to go in,” she said.
“Okaythecarwilltakeyouhomeloveyou,” I said, because there was no way I was not going in. And I felt lucky to have a friend who understood what this invitation meant.
The first thing I noticed as I walked through the door was that this was definitely Prince’s house. Purple tapestries, music blasting, candles everywhere . . .
“Dearly beloved . . .” I said to myself.
To my right was a huge staircase, and to my left, just beyond the crowd, stood Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, and Mary J. Blige in a small circle. They were still in their Grammy party gowns, looking like my nineties soulful-pop fantasies come to life.
“Oh my God, Gabrielle,” Mary said, waving me over. “That picture we took at Quincy’s party, I have it on my mantel. I see you every day.”
“Really?” I asked, meaning it. Mary J. Blige had a picture of me?
“Come, come,” she said, drawing me into their circle. I don’t really get starstruck, but as I was doing air kisses with these icons, I thought, How in the hell is this even happening? These gorgeous, important women were in the middle of having a legit kiki. I think that word gets overused, but this was a kiki of epic proportions. Mariah was sipping champagne and telling a story about some guy trying to come on to her. She is an amazing storyteller—deadpan, but landing the details about this chump perfectly as Whitney let out that amazing roar of a laugh of hers. It was like being invited to sit at the cool table. I had grown up watching all these women, dying to meet them, and here they were, having girl talk like at a slumber party with friends and inviting me in. Just some normal superstars, talking about life. Stars, They’re Just Like Us, only not at all, because this was Prince’s house.
I spotted our host across the room, sitting on the stairs and talking intently to Anthony Anderson. I later asked Anthony what they talked about.
“Jehovah,” said Anthony.
Prince was, as he would say, living “in the truth.” As a Jehovah’s Witness rooted in his faith, he recognized that there were elements of his beliefs that could touch other people. You didn’t have to buy the whole faith, lock, stock, and barrel. But there were aspects that he found comfort and guidance in that he wanted to share. As he talked to Anthony, Prince moved his head ever so slightly. Even his smallest movements were musical.
I was mesmerized watching him, and it took Matthew McConaughey to break the spell, running by with a set of bongos. “Wow,” I thought, “that is a thing that guy actually does.” Then I saw my friend Sanaa Lathan talking with Hill Harper. I spotted Damon Wayans making Renée Zellweger guffaw, and Salma Hayek dancing with Penélope Cruz.
Suddenly, Prince just appeared in front of me.
“Thank you so much for inviting me,” I said. Oh God, I thought, what am I supposed to call him? “Mr. Prince.”
He smiled. Stop! I screamed in my head. Shut up! I was petrified of saying something stupid. So I did.
“I feel like I should have brought a tuna casserole,” I said. Fuck, you idiot.
He raised one magnificent, exquisitely sculpted eyebrow.
“We’re both from the Midwest,” I said, unable to stop myself from talking. “That’s what we do, right?”
His face broke into a smile. “I love tuna casserole,” he said, in his low, deliberate voice. “And I liked you on that episode of ER. I really liked it.”
“How are you watching ER?” I said. “You’re Prince.”
“I see everything,” he said.
And I believed him, looking around the room at a completely random collection of faces from music, television, and film. His parties also included writers, directors, and producers of all types of content. There was always a random athlete or two in the mix as well. It was all over the place, and completely inclusive at the same time. I’d never seen anything like it.
THERE WAS A REASON. HOLLYWOOD IS EXTREMELY SEGREGATED. The whole idea of Black Hollywood, Latino Hollywood, Asian Hollywood—it’s very real. And it all stems from who is with you in the audition rooms as you are coming up. Because you are generally auditioning with people who look like you, over and over again, simply because of how roles are described. When it got down to the wire for the role of “Sassy Friend #1,” these were the people I saw. That’s how I got to know Zoe Saldana, Kerry Washington, Essence Atkins, Robinne Lee, Sanaa, and all the Reginas. Sassy Friend #1 was a black girl between x and y age, and that meant a very shallow casting pool. When it came time to cast a family, I would meet an array of actors who all looked like me. Sitting in those rooms for hours at a time, multiple times a week, you get to know people.
As you all start to rise, it’s the same people, who are now deemed the “it folk,” who you sit in better rooms with. And those people become your community; they know the struggle you went through, because they went through it, too. And the rooms pretty much stay that way, no matter how high you rise, because for the most part Hollywood doesn’t really subscribe to color-blind casting. What Lin-Manuel Mirand
a did with Hamilton is literally unheard of. We black actors meet in the room into which we are invited, but we are often barred from, to steal from Lin, the room where it happens. The spaces where deals get made and ideas get traded. Half the time you get picked to do something in Hollywood, it’s because someone cosigned for you. “Oh yeah, she’s talented, but more important, she’s cool,” someone with more pull than you will say. “I hung out with her this one time.”
But how do you hang when you’re not at the same parties? The biggest award show parties come with very rare invites, and the brown people you see there are the same brown people that have been starring in things forever. Unless you spend at least five grand a month on a power publicist to help land a spot, it’s not gonna just “happen.” Black actresses are rarely deemed the ingénues, or even the up-and-comers. So your work or even a spark of public interest isn’t a guarantee. But let’s say you make it into the room, whether through pay-to-play or luck. You’re in. You got the golden ticket.
So, let’s go in together. First off, the light is amazing, but you’re too wired from the red carpet to do anything but rush to find the closest drink. These red-carpet appearances are timed to the second, so that there won’t be a big collision of big stars. Performers are scheduled and served up like courses at a meal. If your entrance is set for eight thirty and your car gets there at eight? Circle the block, bitch, because someone more important than you has a better call time. And unfortunately, if you have a late call time, a lot of people will have left the party by the time you cross that threshold. That feeling though, when this wall of cameras fires at you and you hear the machine-gun rat-a-tat of clicks, is exhilarating. Your every move creates a new wave of shots.
Once inside, you’re just another beautiful person in this beautifully lit room full of writers, producers, directors, and studio heads. Yes, this is a great chance to network and get to know people, but if you are one of only a sprinkling of black folks in the room, how does that even happen? Just because you’re there doesn’t mean anyone’s gonna talk to you—trust me. No one has vouched for you in the way that Prince had. You feel like an interloper, and you go for the familiar. Because you know who is for sure going to talk with you? The other brown people.
Here’s the thing about the #OscarsSoWhite discussion. Hollywood films are so white because their art happens in a vacuum. It is made by white filmmakers, with white actors, for imagined white audiences. No one even thinks of remedying the issue through communal partying. Inviting one black actor to the party isn’t enough—sorry, folks. We all know you can create even better art by truly being inclusive, but you’re never going to get inclusive in your work if you can’t figure out how to get inclusive in your social life. If you’re an actor of color and you’ve never had the chance to hang out with somebody and show them you’re talented and fun and enlightened and deeper than what you can submit on a résumé, you never have the opportunities to be included. Prince created those opportunities just by throwing a better party. When he included you, you literally found yourself in the bathroom line with some of the world’s biggest names in entertainment. How we gauge what success is supposed to look like is different for white actors than it is for black actors. And I am aware that half my résumé looks like crumbs to many white actors.
The films Deliver Us from Eva and Two Can Play That Game—these are hood classics, if not cult classics like Bring It On. A lot of people appreciate these films, but because there aren’t any white people in them, they get marginalized and put on a separate shelf. They are underappreciated, but they never lost money. And I will continue to do these movies—ones I call FUBU, For Us by Us—because I love them and I am grateful for them.
I made lifelong friends on the sets of these films. The black Hollywood community is so small that we all came up together and created opportunities for each other. These movies set the stage for twenty-plus years of careers. It’s a testament to the community that we, over the years, have always looked out for each other and pitched each other for jobs. I am incredibly grateful for that love we have for one another and the mutual respect of talent that we bring to the table. None of us benefit from tearing each other down. There aren’t enough of us. We need each other to lean on.
Now, a lot of white people have been like, “I have loved you since Bring It On.” But the ones who made sure I had a career were black people. White people will say, “Oh, Taraji just came on the scene with Benjamin Button, and now look at her on Empire!” The truth is, Taraji has been working for a thousand years. White people just met Cookie, but black people have known and supported and loved Taraji forever.
I remember when Taraji got her first invite to one of Prince’s parties. Prince was renting Cuttino Mobley’s place and gave an outdoor concert. Taraji was pure joy, dancing and singing. Every single person at that party looked around and thought, “Why isn’t it like this all the time?”
I WAS LUCKY TO GO TO ENOUGH OF PRINCE’S PARTIES THAT WE DEVELOPED a friendship. By that I mean that I went from saying “Mr. Prince” to, at least, “Heeey, Prince.” His gatherings were always held around some event or awards show I was going to, and the invites never came directly. One of the last times I saw him, he invited me to a small dinner party in Las Vegas. He was doing a residency at the Rio, and they had provided him with a palatial suite to use for his stay. In attendance that night were Ludacris, Hill Harper, Shaun Robinson, Dave Chappelle, Toni Braxton, Atlanta DJ Ryan Cameron, and me. I was sitting between Luda and Toni, and we were all starving, waiting for Prince to come in and take his seat at the head of the table.
Finally, he arrived and we were served a squash soup. Before we started, he asked us all to join hands in prayer.
“Dear Lord . . .” he said, pausing dramatically, “Jehovah.”
Luda, Toni, and I squeezed each other’s hands at that. Honestly, I don’t remember any other food because I couldn’t shut up about how good that soup was. But I remember the conversation. Again and again, over this epic three-hour dinner, Prince kept looping back to spirituality and social responsibility. Even when I told him how much I loved his parties, he explained there was a religious component.
“I want to understand people,” he said, “to see what unites them.”
He was also funny, repeating phrases he found comical, like “I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’.” Melodic punch lines, over and over, keeping us all laughing.
Then we went to watch him perform. It was after midnight by then, at a small venue so we could get up close. As his guests, we were closest to him, and it felt like as he improvised his set that night, he chose the songs based on the conversations we’d had at dinner. It was like the music was the soundtrack to us.
I OWE MY MARRIAGE TO PRINCE. THAT’S WHAT A CONNECTOR HE WAS. In January 2007, Prince announced, with just a few hours’ notice, that he was hosting a Golden Globes after-party on the rooftop of the Beverly Wilshire hotel. When the text arrived, I knew where I had to be. I was heading up in the elevator with Diddy—always Puff to me—and Nia Long, when Dwyane’s brother Donny stepped on.
“Oh my God,” said Donny. “My brother is your biggest fan.”
“Who’s your brother?” I asked.
“Dwyane Wade.”
“No shit?” said Puffy.
“That’s nice,” I said.
“Listen,” said Donny, almost at his floor. “We’ve been trying to get in touch with your people about cohosting a party with him for the Super Bowl in Miami. Would you be interested?”
I was already seeing someone in Miami and was head over heels for that guy, so I thought, Why not? I was not thinking of Dwyane as a love interest at all, and I didn’t even meet him before the party. I brought Sanaa and Patti LaBelle. I was taking Miss Patti to the bathroom and D happened to be standing at the top of the stairs.
“Oh, hey,” I said. “I’m throwing this party with you.”
“Hey,” he said shyly.
“Um, we’re gonna be over there
if you wanna come join,” I said. It was just courtesy. He seemed nice enough, but quiet. For me, there was no chemistry.
I didn’t take D seriously until much later. He became a friend, and then he became my best friend. We were talking about something completely unrelated to us, and I looked at him and I just knew: I didn’t want to be on this planet without him. I didn’t want to not bear witness to him succeeding. I chose him.
When Prince died in 2016, Dwyane took his death hard. He hadn’t spent any time with Prince, and frankly I was a little like, “Hey, there is a hierarchy of grief, you know . . .” Shortly after Prince died, someone got hold of an old, little-heard Australian radio interview with one of Prince’s protégés, Damaris Lewis. She was ballsy, quite funny, and she bragged during the interview that she could call Prince and get him to talk. She did, and basketball came up.
“Well, Dwyane Wade is my favorite player,” Prince had said.
Someone played it for D right before a game, and minutes later he teared up over it during the National Anthem. I know this message from Prince said to him, “I am on the right track.” For me, it cosigned every wonderful thing I feel about Dwyane. We were both welcome at the party.
The world mourned an icon, playing “Purple Rain,” a song I adore but I know he made thirty years before his passing. As tributes froze him in that amber, I noticed that stories of his parties started popping up on entertainment blogs. Whitewashed accounts of people begging Justin Timberlake to sing, with barely a mention of the black or brown guests at the parties. Either the authors didn’t notice them, or they just didn’t know our names.
I mourn the icon, too, but I grieve the vital connector who brought so many communities together, long after he recorded those radio hits everyone knows by heart. He gamed the system to provide access for talented people to access each other. Perhaps if he were white, he would be celebrated as a modern Warhol, famous not just for his own art, but for creating a space where interesting people with money and talent, or just one or the other, could meet and create. His own diverse Factory. Instead, the parties are reduced to jam sessions, just as the women he gave opportunities to—artists like Sheila E., Wendy & Lisa, Vanity, Apollonia, Chaka Khan, Susanna Hoffs, Rosie Gaines, Misty Copeland, Janelle Monáe, Damaris—are reduced to haremlike roundups. Prince’s women. I’m not saying, I’m just saying.
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