by Kim Fields
Kim Coles was hilarious. I was a major fan of her work from In Living Color and I started to laugh as soon as she began telling stories. I admired whoever at FOX had approved putting Dana and Kim together in a show. It was inspired casting. As was the very witty, irreverent, and clever Erika Alexander. She intrigued me, and as we spent more time together, I figured out why. She was incredibly comfortable in her skin, and that, as with the others, was positive energy I wanted to be around.
As for the guys, I knew of T.C. Carson from his most recent movie, Living Large, and once I met him in person, I was impressed. He had style. He could sing. He was funny. He had a presence. I knew he was going to play well amid all of the strong female personalities. I felt similarly about John, a seasoned comic and cool brother who was quick and proud to tell you that he was from Cleveland. He made everything funny and let everyone know he was happy to be on the show.
We all were.
* * *
The pilot was terrific right out the gate. It was a pleasure to read a script where the premise and the characters were well defined, fresh, yet familiar starting from page one, episode one. It was also very funny, but with an intelligence. The laughs were built from situations and relationships rather than setups and one-liners. Our table read highlighted the rapport we all had onscreen and off. We shot the pilot on the former Family Matters stage on the Sony lot, and I swear it filled with laughter every day we fine-tuned the pilot. I was referred to as the veteran—or the vet—which I accepted as a badge of honor. At twenty-four years old, I had spent half my life on TV, and I knew funny. This show was funny.
But I also loved that the show felt like a new style of storytelling in the sitcom space. The LA Times critic gave us mixed reviews, citing both “pearls” and “gross exaggeration,” and intimated the show would ride on the coattails of its lead-in, the popular sitcom Martin. FOX changed the name to Living Single and we debuted on August 29, 1993. Within two months, we had a bigger audience than Martin and ratings that made us the network’s fourth-most-popular series, behind only The Simpsons; Beverly Hills, 90210; and Married…with Children. All classics.
Then came the backlash—or blacklash. In a story criticizing TV for stereotyping black men and women, Newsweek magazine cited Living Single as an example, pegging the women as wisecracking man-haters and the men as sex-crazed cartoons. “This comedy…is supposed to be a black ‘Designing Women,’ but it’s got quadruple the sex drive and none of the smarts. Though all the roommates have college degrees and upscale jobs, they behave like man-crazed Fly Girls. The men fare no better.” We were outraged. Yvette most of all—and I stood right by her. We all did. “It seems that whenever there’s a black show, someone has to get the hairs on the back of their neck all up about something,” I told the LA Times. “I’m really tired of it. I mean, we have a woman who owns her own magazine. We have a female lawyer; we have a male stockbroker and one who owns his own business. Don’t we get brownie points for any of that?”
Yes, we were a show of black actors, with one of the few black showrunners, not to mention one of the few female showrunners, but I also thought—indeed, we all thought—Living Single dealt with universal themes and issues with broad appeal to all people, not just African Americans. As it turned out, we were right. Months later, the show was number one among black viewers, but beyond that, as Entertainment Weekly declared, it was “an unexpected hit.”
* * *
My confidence soared. The material Yvette and the writers created was an actor’s dream. It provided a green light to exploration, and I took full advantage. Starting with the pilot, in which Regine is seeing a man who is—yikes—married, and then going forward into the season, I had fun playing a grown-up. I loved the process of discovering Regine, figuring her out, reading between the brilliant lines Yvette and her writing team created, and working to make her real.
She was so different from me. She was viewed as sexy and superficial with deeper issues, none of which were really on my radar. Sexy was not even in the same room as my radar. How could I have known the role I was doing for Tommy Ford in his play only months before, in a tiny theater in LA, would prepare me for Regine? Lesson: Take time to nurture, pour into someone else’s vision or dream. Aside from being a blessing to them, you don’t know the blessing in it for you.
I also loved the way Yvette peeled away layers of Regine as the season progressed. Regine’s insecurities were revealed. She was given texture, like the show itself. No one was one-dimensional.
We took five days to shoot an episode—four days of rehearsal and a full day of shooting the show twice, including one time in front of an audience. This was everything I relished about being an actor, the process of discovery, creation, and transformation. The process of rehearsing and getting to try things day after day. The opportunity to work my butt off with our talented cast and crew. I loved driving to the studio. I felt good every time I pulled up to the gate and the security guard waved me in. I got to do something I loved. I got to work.
I would think of the frustration of not getting the jobs I wanted following my graduation from Pepperdine and fill with gratitude that I was now doing the thing I loved more than anything else. What was the reason life changed? Or did it? One of the things I would learn much later, after I was a parent and able to look back with perspective, was that life is a journey of ups and downs, thrills, disappointments, joys, losses, loves, and surprises. The only constant is the one I already knew and acknowledged when I closed my eyes and felt His love and thanked God for being there with me.
12
Creator
Our cast gelled instantly and relationships bloomed. We hung out after work. We went to movies and shows and traded CDs and mix-tapes. Dana rented a house in LA and had all of us over. T.C. loved to cook and also hosted impromptu dinners. I entertained, too. One night, someone asked, “What would our names be if we were African royalty?” Pretty soon we had silly nicknames. Kim was Princess Kalooky (she was kooky). Erika was Princess Dabooty (she had no butt). I was Princess Child Star (for obvious reasons; when said quickly and with an African accent, it became Princess Chester). John was Prince Yack (he loved cognac). T.C. was Prince Uh-Uh (he was famous for starting many sentences that way). And Dana was Princess I’ve Had It Up To Here (the girl had attitude when needed).
Older and more independent than when I was on Facts, I had more fun with these people than I’d ever had in my life. But they (completely unknowingly) gave me an inferiority complex. When I compared myself to them, I felt boring. John had wild tales from comedy clubs, not to mention he was laugh-out-loud funny. T.C. was ten years older, from Chicago, had majored in architecture, and danced on Broadway. ’Nuf said. Erika and Kim were like these superwomen, and Dana, well, she was Queen Latifah, with three albums, a Grammy, and stories about how busting rhymes got her African American behind from Newark to Hollywood. And my Mrs. Butterworth’s story, roller-skating across Eastland Academy and loving the Lord, was supposed to compete with all that?
I was a mix of insecurity and admiration. At one point, I considered asking Dana if I could intern at her production company, Flavor Unit, back east. I also thought about asking Erika if I could hang out with her. She had a strong Philly vibe, she was cool, and I thought maybe I could model some of that coolness. What I really needed was someone to tell me that I was not boring—or make me feel less so.
Enter John Henton. Somewhere during all that social interaction, my cast mate and I picked up on some off-camera vibes. I don’t remember the moment it started; not sure how I let him know there was a vibe. Knowing me, I probably said something along the lines of, “I’m kind of feeling you.” I do remember his reaction. He was surprised. “What? You’re feeling what?” Then he jokingly, tentatively acknowledged a similar attraction. “I’m feeling something, too. But maybe what I’m feeling is you feeling me.”
Once that was straightened out, we began hanging out and holding hands. I’m sure people saw us as an unlikely two
some. John did stand-up, smoked cigarettes, and drank cognac. He was older than me, had an edge, and I liked that. I was a collection of soft curves in search of a sharp angle or two. But don’t get the wrong idea. I wasn’t looking to change or willing to compromise my beliefs, as much as I wanted to grow. In that sense, John was perfect.
Both of us shared a strong work ethic. As a comic, he knew what it was like to create something from nothing. Putting together a stand-up act was hard work, requiring constant writing and rewriting, and risking failure in front of an audience to get the desired reward—laughter. He was sympathetic when I spoke of my frustrations and was supportive when I shared my dreams of producing and directing. He was in the audience when I directed a local production of the play Vanities, and he provided invaluable advice and help when I made a short film called Silent Bomb.
As John could attest, anyone who spent time around me knew that making a film was a dream of mine. When I spoke about my heroes, I looked not only at Hollywood’s greatest actors but also directors, producers, and studio moguls. I also looked at the young, black filmmakers putting out great work and wanted to play in that arena. I believed in my ability; I just needed a way in. Between John’s support and the resources I had through Living Single, the timing was right.
Midway through the first season, I came up with Silent Bomb, the story of a policewoman who becomes HIV positive from a blood transfusion after being shot while on duty. I made up the story while drawing from a variety of real-life influences, including my activist pal from the Jesse Jackson campaign Rae Lewis, whose dramatic story of living with AIDS acquired from a blood transfusion was revealed in a powerful Essence magazine cover story; dear family friend and NBA superstar Magic Johnson, who went public with his diagnosis as being HIV positive; and a friend of mine from church, Sunshine, who lost her twin brother to AIDS.
I wrote the script with Sunshine, then begged friends and coworkers for favors. A year before, I’d been a member of the crew on Blair Underwood’s short film The Second Coming and met some great production folks whom I called upon for my project. We shot it in a few days in and around downtown Los Angeles. Every spare minute after that was spent in the editing bay. So many people lent their time and talent for no remuneration, only the desire to help make my vision a reality. It was a reminder of the benefits of belonging to a community. As a final touch, I dedicated the film to my late friend David Green.
My intention was to get Silent Bomb onto the festival circuit and into as many screenings as possible, but I lacked the administrative support to keep up with all the requirements. As is my habit, I envisioned doing more than I had time for. Still, I managed to screen Silent Bomb at the Black Filmmaker Foundation at New York City’s prestigious Lincoln Center. I also earned Best Director recognition at the Black American Cinema Society Independent Filmmakers Awards in Hollywood. Silent Bomb would also receive an endorsement from the Magic Johnson Foundation. At the end of the day, I was very satisfied with the project.
* * *
Later that summer, I undertook one more project—my mom’s wedding to Ervin Hurd, a wonderful man she met while coaching Steve Harvey on the series Me and the Boys, where he was the technical director. Ervin (whom I call Dad) was laid-back but strong and cool, and I saw that he really loved my mom and likewise, my mom adored him. They knew what they wanted in their lives and when they felt that special connection, they leaned in—something I applaud them for doing.
They worshipped together at a fairly new and small church near Inglewood and courted under the guidance of that church’s pastor and his wife, both of whom gave their blessing to Mom’s and Dad’s relationship. After Dad proposed, I hosted my mom’s bridal shower at my new house in Toluca Lake and then got to work planning the fairy-tale wedding she never thought she would have. On August 20, 1994, she and Dad exchanged vows, as Alexis and I, her bridesmaids (along with our new stepsisters, Tyna and Nakeya), looked on with tears in our eyes, enjoying our parents’ happiness.
Not long after the wedding, I left my longtime place of worship, West Angeles Church, and joined my parents and sister at their church. It was a difficult decision, considering how long I had gone to West Angeles and how close I was to Bishop Blake, his wife, and their family. He was a commanding and clear preacher. I loved the church and the community work it inspired. I loved the way his teaching was relatable and applicable. His sermons are still etched in my mind and my soul, always guiding me and providing wisdom. But there was one thing missing from West Angeles—my family.
After I joined them, I realized that I liked the idea of being a family at church. I had a “family” at West Angeles, but there was something new and deep that I loved when I sat next to my mom and dad and my sister, when I was able to hold their hand, join them in song, and hear them say amen. I also liked the intimacy of the smaller church. The smaller environment was a nice change. Teaching-wise, I found the new pastor strong and practical, and I agreed when he said you couldn’t pick and choose which of God’s instructions you wanted to roll with. It was all or nothing—and that’s the way I felt. I was all in.
Unfortunately, as I got more involved in the church, my relationship with John Henton suffered. Actually, it changed. We were midway through Living Single’s second season and I was growing in my faith. It caused me to look at John in a more serious light. Neither of us were children—I was twenty-five and he was in his early thirties—and I wanted to know where our relationship was going. Soon we were having difficult conversations. “Okay, for real, what are we doing? Is this something that’s long-term? Where do you see this?”
As much as I asked John these questions, I was trying to figure out the answers myself. Late one morning at a coffee shop near my house, John and I had an intense, honest, and extremely difficult conversation. We loved each other without question. However, I had been asking myself if that was enough. Was it enough when one of us wasn’t into going to church and the other was committed? I would never push my beliefs on anybody, but I still had to ask, “Are we equally yoked? Are we on a similar page? Are we even in the same book?”
We were and we weren’t—and that ended a lovely relationship. As word of our breakup got out, I told people that it was not the result of hard times, only hard decisions. Since we were not fighting or running off to date other people, John and I continued to joke on the set and support each other away from work. We remained good friends, which was a relief.
* * *
I found myself in one of those places where I was ready to move on and more specifically, ready to focus on work rather than a new relationship. I had a slate of projects and ideas. Everything felt fresh and strong. With the platform of the show and the short film on my resume, I thought my time had come. However, none of the projects took off. I worked my butt off, yet every executive had a reason why the pitch wasn’t right, and the frustration and disappointment put me in a rut.
Marilyn Monroe said, “Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul.” In other words, it’s a tough business. I couldn’t see the big picture, only the immediate, and only disappointment. I compared myself to everyone else. No matter who I looked at, they seemed to be having more success, especially my friend Dana, who was starring in the thriller Set It Off, launching projects through her own production company, and just being Queen Latifah. I could only think, What about me?
It pains me now to even remember thinking this way. It’s like a cancer that takes over positivity and rational thought. Everything becomes, What about me? Why not me? I’m not jealous, just ready for my harvest. I had set a timeline for myself. By age thirty-five, I wanted to be living on a ranch with my kids and my husband. I wanted a production company, maybe my own studio, and a church, which I would build in the cute little town near my ranch. It seemed feasible. I was creative, hardworking, and determined. I had the tools. But when it didn’t happen, I was like, “What’s up, God? Where are you? When is it my turn?”
Being a person of faith and yet feeling like this anyway was the worst part. I knew everybody’s blessings were meant for them. I knew all the right things to say—and repeated them till I was deaf to their meaning. I told myself that it was not my season—and then I wondered when it would be my season. I wore T-shirts with proverbs (Better a patient person than a warrior). I filled my dressing room with pillows bearing consoling quotations (At the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up). I bought inspirational cards (The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still).
I kept up a running conversation with God—in the shower, in my car, between scenes on the set, and as I lay in bed trying to go to sleep. “You said you’d give me the desires of my heart. You said to whom much is given, much is required—and I feel like I’m living up to my requirements.” I ran down my resume to Him. “I’m at my church regularly. I’m tithing. I’m helping in the community. I’m studying. I’m giving it to others. I’m pouring it into their visions and dreams. It’s not all about me. But I’m ready for some of it to be about me.”
Really ready.
And then…
13
Bride
I first noticed Johnathon Franklin Freeman at church. Living in San Diego where he worked in sales and marketing for Calloway Golf, he had friends in LA who worshipped at our church and he joined them whenever he spent the weekend in town. He also took acting classes with my mom in a small theater in Hollywood. He was more of a hobbyist than a want-to-be star.
I liked him. He checked all the boyfriend boxes: handsome, smart, athletic, funny, and charming. I could see why he was good at his job. He fit easily into a small social circle I was part of at church. We were a mix of guys and gals in their twenties who hung out together, and Johnathon drove up from San Diego more and more frequently to fill the empty chair that was usually next to me as the only single member of the group. Before long, we were in a relationship.