by Kim Fields
* * *
It was literally a blackout, like I lost consciousness, which I probably did, and when I woke up, we were facing the opposite direction. The car had done a complete one-eighty. The windshield was shattered and I was covered in glass. I still had my seat belt on. I looked over at David. His eyes were closed. I saw a little trickle of blood coming out of the right side of his mouth, the side closest to me. I do not remember if I realized I was all right. Instinct just took over. I realized we had been in a car crash, a very bad one. I undid my seat belt, slowly got out of the car, and saw cars stopped around us, and screamed, “Help us! Help us! Help us!”
I noticed the rain had stopped. Traffic was at a standstill as I wandered in the street.
Why wasn’t anyone coming to our aid? To David’s aid? He was hurt.
“Please!” I screamed again. “Somebody help.”
Just then I felt a hand on my back and heard a woman’s voice say, “Just praise Him.”
What? I was in shock.
“Just praise Him,” she said again while gently guiding me out of the street. She led me to the curb on the opposite side of the street and sat me down. She continued to rub my back, trying to calm me. “Just praise Him.” I never turned around to see her. I never saw that wonderful woman, that wonder of a woman.
Two ambulances rolled up. I was placed on a metal stretcher, with my head secured in case I had suffered a neck or spinal injury, and placed in the back of an ambulance. I wanted to say thank you to the woman who had helped me. I looked for her as best I could, but didn’t know who I was looking for. I do not even know if she really existed. I believe she did/does. As the ambulance drove off, the EMTs began working on me. One of them started to cut my catsuit. “Hey, wait a minute,” I said. “Why are you cutting my catsuit? Do you know how hard I worked to get in this outfit?” As I said, I was in shock; they ignored me and continued to do their job.
As I entered the hospital, I was conscious, but I had disappeared into a semi-there cocoon of shock and stillness until someone asked if there was anyone I wanted them to call. I snapped to. I thought of my mom, obviously, but there was no way I wanted her to experience the shock of a stranger from a hospital calling and saying her daughter had been in a car accident, even if my injuries were minor. I told them to call a family friend, Louis, the man who had chauffeured me and Loy to his senior prom in high school.
Louis was like a big brother, and I knew if anybody could say to my mom, “Kim’s been in a car accident,” he was the one. He made the call, and soon both of them were on their way to the hospital.
In the meantime, a doctor came into my room to address the difficulties I was having breathing due to what turned out to be a bruised sternum. He also checked the swelling and pain in my arm, due to a severely sprained wrist. I recognized him immediately; his girlfriend was my neighbor in my apartment building. I saw him all the time. “You’re okay,” he said reassuringly.
My eyes filled with tears. “Are You putting angels around me right now?” I said to God. “Of all the people. Of all the places. Of all the timing.”
After he asked a few questions, I asked one of him, the one I dreaded. “How’s my friend? How’s David?” He took a deep breath before offering me a slight, solemn shake of his head. “He didn’t make it.” David had died from internal bleeding and injuries he sustained from the steering wheel slamming into his torso. Apparently he was breathing upon arrival at the hospital. But he passed a short time after.
I screamed—a long, guttural, pain-filled, primal scream like I had never heard come out of me before. Then I broke down into a hard, sobbing cry. The doctor held my hand as my cries were occasionally punctuated by more screams.
When my mom came into the room, I suddenly cried even harder. Wordlessly, she took my hand and held it tight. She had heard the news and helped me by being there. Just by holding my hand the way a mother does with her child, being present, and letting her strong heart beat for mine.
I stayed in the hospital overnight. Before I went home, doctors warned that I might experience post-traumatic shock and suggested that I see a therapist. I took names, but returned to my life without any serious side effects. Though I didn’t cry, I thought about David constantly. I replayed the accident as best I could. I thought of him picking me up and the way we talked. I could hear him telling me about Seal. And then everything stopped.
This tragedy was profound on so many levels, and I felt like the tears I didn’t cry were replaced by questions, starting with the obvious—why David and not me? I thought about it constantly and concluded there probably wasn’t an answer, not one that was within my grasp anyway. The randomness of life was impossible to fully understand. It underscored the mystery of life. Why was I born to my mother? Why was I a Christian instead of a Hindu? Why was I an actor rather than a mathematician? Why was I still alive and my friend dead?
For one reason or another, everyone asks these questions. Most are not easily if at all answerable. I decided David left us gifts, including the opportunity to reflect on the meaning of life. What was the meaning of his? What was the meaning of mine? I knew the answer. Life had to be lived with purpose, gratitude, kindness, and love—the love of each other and love for God, who loved us back so we could live.
* * *
My twenty-second birthday arrived soon after the accident. My mom and aunt had a small get-together for me at my Aunt Pat’s apartment. Guests included my roommate, Theresa, and her boyfriend, Marty, who had introduced me to David; my friend Marlo Underwood, Blair’s sister; and several others. It was very small, and it seemed less of a birthday party than an effort to lift my spirits, though I was not down or despondent as much as I was walking in neutral.
Marlo helped take care of me. I was sore to my bones and stiff, and unsure on my feet. Seeing this close up, she stayed with me for days and helped me move around and care for myself using the bathroom and the shower. It was a whole different level of friendship. It was really sisterhood. I was incredibly grateful but not surprised, in that her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Underwood, had raised their children to be individuals whose actions and deeds reflected such values.
David’s funeral was held in Houston, his hometown. I said that I wanted to go. Most everyone around me thought that was a bad idea. They said I was too shaky physically and emotionally. My mother said she would not stop me if the doctor cleared me for travel, but I could tell she was concerned. But those fears were allayed when Marlo offered to accompany me. “I know it will make Mama Chip feel better,” she said, before adding to me, “And I know you can use the help.”
We flew to Houston and met up with what I called my Houston family—tennis great Zina Garrison; her dear friend, sports reporter Kim Davis; Zina’s coach, tennis pro Katrina Adams, who would go on to become the first black USTA president; and others from their circle. After another low-key birthday party with all of them, I got myself together for the funeral. Marlo stuck close to my side throughout the service. Then David’s mom wanted me to travel with her and her husband to the burial site, and of course I got in the car with them. David was their only son, the prince of their family, and they were devastated.
Standing beside the gravesite, I was overwhelmed with guilt. As David’s casket was lowered into the ground, I wept uncontrollably, the way I had in the hospital. All the emotions I had been carrying around came out. I was staring at the ground and asking, “Why wasn’t it me?” when David’s mother wrapped her arm around me and drew me toward her. “Please don’t say that,” she said. “Don’t say that. You were the last person to be with my son. You are somebody’s child. You are still here. You can’t wonder why that is. It just is. You have to live your life.”
I could not fathom how this woman who was burying her son was able to summon the strength to comfort me. But she did. I held on to her and let myself cry, as everyone there did, until the well ran dry again. I know her words were what finally helped me begin the climb out of the lingering fog of th
at tragedy, and perhaps, in a way, we helped each other.
The flight back to Los Angeles continued the catharsis. Something about gazing out the window at thirty-five thousand feet and looking down on the clouds with nothing but blue sky above let me say a final goodbye. Watching the casket get lowered into the ground was one thing, but I had the feeling I was closer to my friend up in the sky, closer to heaven, where my awareness in my faith and in my spirit allowed me to stop asking questions and instead settle back in my seat, close my eyes, and feel the comforting power of God’s hand.
Years later someone asked why that incident seemed to strengthen my faith instead of shattering it. I responded by saying I could not have imagined getting through it otherwise. It was my faith that enabled me to stop trying to make sense of a terrible, inexplicable tragedy and move on. While people often have good, logical, and personal reasons to break with a particular church, God is either in your life or not, and if He is, He is omnipresent and omnipotent.
Up in the air, on the way back to Los Angeles, I realized David’s grieving mom had told me the same thing. “You have to live your life.” Ruminating on those words, I stared out the window at the clouds and the sky and thought back to that feeling I first experienced at the Ward AME Church, back to the warmth of feeling safe, protected, and loved. I needed to get there. I would get there. No matter how hard it got or how alone I felt, He was there with me.
That is faith. He is always there.
God lights the way.
God is all-knowing.
God is love.
11
Regine
It was 1993, and I was in the second week of rehearsals for my friend Tommy Ford’s play South of Where We Live. I was in jeans and a T-shirt. My stage costume, a casual dress of mine, was on a hanger behind the door. As I began to apply my makeup, a young girl—someone’s daughter, I supposed—looked at me through my open dressing room door. Seated in front of a makeup mirror in this small South-Central theater, I had a sense of déjà vu.
I flashed back to myself as a child, watching my mom and the other actors get ready for Hello, Dolly! and saw that I had gone back to the beginning, my roots, unconsciously returning to where I was most comfortable and needed to be. It was my way of processing something horrible, healing, and moving forward.
Following David’s funeral, I directed several music videos and worked on various ideas, but acting jobs were what I wanted and they were scarce. I did not understand why. I read for Poetic Justice, and while I was happy to be considered and get in front of John Singleton, who was red-hot coming off Boyz n the Hood, I was frustrated when I got the script and saw the role they wanted me to read for was clearly written for Regina King. I heard her voice on the page; it was perfect for her, and she turned out to be superb. Why bring me in?
Afterward, John asked me to stay and read for the part of Justice. I was given time to study the sides and then did my best. Apparently, John and his team liked me. But the role eventually went to Janet Jackson. It was, I suppose, poetic justice. I got the Mrs. Butterworth’s commercial, and she got the movie.
I had a similar experience reading for Keenen Ivory Wayans’s movie A Low Down Dirty Shame. I auditioned for Peaches, the female lead that Jada Pinkett Smith ended up so wonderfully playing. Rejection is one of the realities of acting—and in any type of job. In order to advance, you have to put yourself out there, and that means risking disappointment. I understood the deal. I had a thick skin. Still, it was hard and hurtful. I had to remind myself that I had chosen this profession.
Back when I was dating Jonathan Jackson, I would sometimes muse about the uncertainty of my career and the lack of job security. He would say, “But you’re Kim Fields. You’re Tootie. Everyone knows you.” Yes, and while I did enjoy a degree of recognition, it could also work against me because I was Kim Fields and everyone did know me as Tootie. Imagine the best part of your life also being a detriment.
There were more challenges. I was a woman—and a black one, two facts of my life that made roles scarce and scarcer. After auditioning for a coming-of-age comedy that I discovered had an all-white ensemble—they’d seen me as a favor to my agent—I called a friend and vented. “Where are the black folks in these pieces? You got The Breakfast Club. You got St. Elmo’s Fire. Where are the black stories? This is why I want to make movies. This is why I want to produce. We’ve got stories to tell, too.”
Guest-starring parts on Martin, Roc, and The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air kept me on the map, but it was Martin costar Tommy Ford who gave me a much-needed boost of confidence when he asked me to be in a play he was directing called South of Where We Live. It was about young African American professionals at a one-day workshop who confront social issues they thought they escaped after moving from their old neighborhoods. The cast featured Wendy Raquel Robinson, Michael Beach, Pat Belcher, Gigi Bolden, Tommy—and me. I played a sophisticated, sexy woman who seemed superficial but was much more complex beneath the surface.
We performed in front of the hometown audiences that inspired the story at the Ebony Showcase Theater, which had been founded by Amos ’n’ Andy’s African American actor Nick Stewart. No one got paid. We did it for the love of acting and theater. I was thrilled to have such a layered role to explore. It was a welcome change from sitcom punchlines. At the same time, no one was more surprised that Tommy thought I could handle it than me. “You’ve got so much in you,” he said. “You don’t even know it. You don’t know how deep you go—but I’ve got a sense.”
Inspired by the play and encouraged by Tommy, I set out to create my next TV series. I wanted to play a grown-up and was sketching out a black version of The Mary Tyler Moore Show—a young black girl trying to make it on her own—when I came up with another idea, Love Byrds, a weekly half-hour show about a newly married couple whose last name was Byrd, inspired by Mad About You, the NBC comedy. I took it to Rocky Carroll, who was red-hot as Charles Dutton’s younger brother on the new FOX series Roc. I knew him through my sister, Alexis, who was also on the show and was spectacular!
Rocky loved the idea, but he was tied up with Roc. He also said my treatment still needed more work to get to the place where a network would seriously consider it. My agent advised partnering with a network-approved writer, someone who could create and actually run a show based on my idea. I knew he was right. I phoned contacts and asked who was great. I kept hearing one name come up—Yvette Lee.
She was described as a really terrific, super gifted writer. She had cut her teeth on A Different World and was working on Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper. Mom, who happened to be working on Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper as a consultant, coaching Mark Curry, knew Yvette and arranged for us to talk.
The call started out well enough. She thought my idea was an interesting take. I felt good the several times I made her laugh. I looked for little clues that she might say yes. However, when I asked point-blank if she would help develop the show, she declined. She was already committed. “I’m working on a project right now for FOX,” she said. “I’ve got Queen Latifah and Kim Coles attached.”
Figuring we were finished, I started to thank her for taking the time to hear my pitch when she hit me with, “There’s a role in this show I just mentioned that I can hear you doing,” she said. “Actually, as I think about it, I kind of had you in mind for it as I was writing her. She’s a bit of a diva from the hood.”
I wanted to hear more. “The show is called My Girls,” she continued, explaining it was about the lives and loves of six twentysomething African American friends in Brooklyn. “FOX and Warner Brothers are doing it. I just finished the script. Latifah and Kim are attached, but the other two girlfriends have not been cast. We haven’t started that process. I’d love to tell the studio and the network that we spoke.”
“Please do,” I said, and from then on everything moved quickly. I received the material and a date to meet with the show’s producers. After I read, I saw smiles and nods from all the executives in front of me
, starting with Yvette. “Yup, that is exactly what I heard,” she said. “You’re Regine.”
* * *
Soon after my meeting, Yvette arranged for Queen Latifah, Kim, and I to get together at a restaurant in Marina del Rey. We had fun and conversation was super spirited. From the moment Queen Latifah made sure we knew she was most comfortable being called by her real name, Dana, it was obvious we had chemistry. From the get-go, I think we all sensed something good was going to happen.
Then the great Erika Alexander was cast and the show had its four female leads and the indisputable magic that you hope for because it can’t be faked. Dana and Kim played cousins/roommates in a Brooklyn brownstone. Erika and I were frenemies. Yvette also added two fantastic guys, T.C. Carson and John Henton, as friends from college who lived in the second apartment in the Brooklyn brownstone.
I liked the statement Yvette and the show itself was making about the portrayal of African Americans: the characters were hip, college-educated, ambitious young professionals, and included a magazine publisher-editor (Dana), an aspiring actress (Kim), a strongly feminist attorney (Erika), a stockbroker (T.C.), a handyman (John), and a fashionista (my character) obsessed with finding a rich husband.
Yvette was the catalyst. Thoughtful, strong-willed, brilliant, and lightning fast with a good line, she’d worked her way up the ranks, understood the process, and conveyed her vision in such a way that we all wanted to get in line and deliver. Then there was Dana. As Queen Latifah, she was the rap star who exuded a charisma and strength that was like a superpower. I could see how she rose up in the male-dominated music world. She was also warm and down-to-earth, and her sense of humor was one in a million.