I tried to keep my mind on what Temi had said. Was I really “extraordinary”? I felt guilty about Miguel, at odds with my castmates, and completely fucked up.
A couple of days later, I met Temi and Billy for drinks. They brought along an older man named Jack. He was an alcoholic, which I saw as dangerous and exciting. I thought, So what, I’m all those things too. I brought him back to my room and had sex with him. I might have gotten gonorrhea from him. Or maybe it was Nick from Kansas City. It scared me and I was much more careful from then on.
On matinee days, I left the theater and aimlessly wandered the streets of Chinatown. Traveling and working with people in close quarters every day was becoming increasingly difficult. The thing is, while I was clearly an asset to the company, I didn’t know how to be part of a team offstage. Ever since childhood I had been the lone wolf. There were seven kids in my family, and they paired up into three couples, leaving me the odd one out. With the neighborhood kids, I put myself above the crowd in order to lead. I became the alpha wolf. I was running the show. I would get loud and bullying and shut the shit down!
In high school, my nickname was “Killer” on account of my sharp tongue and pushy nature. In college, I was dubbed “Majestic” for my commanding theatrical abilities and queenly behavior. Throughout my adolescence and young adulthood, people had catered to me because I was talented, cute, and charismatic. Often, I received special treatment or I would get people to laugh and be forgiven for my transgressions. As a result, I did not develop certain social skills—collaboration and conciliation—that were necessary in a touring theater company, and in life in general.
When I became a professional and show business added glamour to a persona that was already bullying, killer, and majestic, I emerged a diva. Now there’s a two-edged term! It can be the ultimate compliment, indicating a woman’s mastery of her art and, often, her “fabulous” demeanor. But the term can also be an insult, describing despicable grandiosity and disregard for others. Yes, a diva is admirable and a “Qween.” But she is also a self-centered, demanding bitch. During the Eubie! tour, my diva-tude flourished, unfortunately in both senses of the word.
My shortcomings, combined with a working culture that breeds drama and competitiveness, caused me to continue to have friction and disappointment with the other gypsies. I was sort of the baby, straight out of college. They had been pounding the pavement and surviving for years, and here I come—fresh from four years of classical training and living in a dorm. In an unconscious move to protect myself, I became obnoxiously overconfident: “I am the best whether you know it or not.”
JOURNAL ENTRY: I wish I knew who I really am. Why the fuck am I here?
Speaking of divas, when I went with several company members to see the incomparable singer Carmen McRae, the great George Benson was in the audience. Following the show, I went to Miss McRae’s dressing room to tell her how much I appreciated all that she’d contributed to the art of singing. To my surprise, she squeezed my hand and openly flirted with me. It made me uncomfortable. Remember, it was 1980, and lesbianism was still pretty taboo. I have never had a problem with people’s sexuality, but be you man, woman, goat, rooster, or rhinoceros, don’t be squeezing my hand with your sweaty palm!
I left the nightclub in a foul mood, feeling frustrated that Carmen McRae was a big star and I wasn’t. During dinner with Terry and a couple of others, I boasted endlessly about my own talent and grandeur. It quickly became too much for my companions to take. I wound up in a showdown with the Eubie! hairstylist Breelum Daniels.
“Something’s going on with you, Jenifer. It’s like you’re hiding the real Jenifer.” What? It pissed me off. Instead of responding like an adult, I said, “Yeah, it’s that ‘other’ Jenifer who gets the great reviews that keep you your job, ain’t it?” I stood up and stalked out of the restaurant and walked for hours, trying to absorb Breelum’s comment.
The next morning, The Boston Herald featured me in a spread with a half-page photo taken in front of the theater. I was ecstatic and mailed copies of the review to Mama, as I always did. But my joy was fleeting. I was feeling unnerved, isolated, and alone. Now that I was living my dream, why was I sad and confused all the time? I especially could not brush away the dark moods at night. Even as a child, I had experienced extreme sadness, often sobbing silently into my pillow before sleeping. I’d sometimes awaken in the middle of the night and write in my journal or doodle, doodle, doodle. Otherwise, I often felt as though I could not control my anxiety, my scattered brain, or my impulsive, rushing speech. I spent a lot of time alone engaged in activities that would bring me peace, such as cleaning the apartment or braiding, unbraiding, and rebraiding my hair.
Things reached a low point after the showdown with Breelum in the restaurant. I got even more depressed when Miguel called to say he could not come to Boston for a visit. I missed him so much. Then my crazy ass called Jack, of all fucking people. He answered, mumbled, and the line went dead. Alcoholic!
JOURNAL ENTRY: I feel so scared, empty, lonely. Not really alive. No real cause. Nothing. But on stage, nothing can hurt me!
Toward the end of the Boston run, I flew to NYC a couple of times to spend time with Miguel. I was disappointed to find he was not in the mood for making love. He had more pressing issues on his mind; nobody was hiring Dominicans, even one with a PhD and two master’s degrees. I felt for him deeply.
JOURNAL ENTRY: As God is my witness I love this man.
The next morning, I flew back to Boston on the shuttle, did the show, got drunk, and called Maurice (Mr. Garden Gnome) in Chicago. Within two days, I met a new man at a disco, an Ethiopian named Joe. I wrapped my legs around him as we danced, reaching for his third leg. I took him straight home. But, God bless him, his dick was so small that I told him, “Honey, the only place you can put that is in my ear!” I faked a sudden headache and escorted him out with a smile. Poor bastard.
Boston was done, and we moved on to Toronto, Canada. I was excited the entire trip to Toronto because it was the first time someone in my immediate family had left the United States. We stayed at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, with a pool and sauna. It was a lot nicer than the usual dumps they put us in.
I had yet to meet a man in Toronto, so I hung out a lot with the other gypsies—the museum with Donna Ingram, a street fair with Billy McDaniels. My friend Roderick Sibert and I went to see Alien. He was from Toronto, so his mother cooked dinner for us at her home. I gobbled up her delicious stuffed cabbage, sweet yams, and cornbread. Later, Roderick and I went and did the show. The reviews were great, singling out my performance. I was getting ovations, but it was becoming the “same ol’ same ol’.” A routine. In addition, the pressure of the backstage drama was getting tough. I was seriously thinking about leaving the tour.
I was unhappy and welcomed some one-on-one time with Terry, a true friend. She invited me to her room, and we talked about me becoming more aware of other people’s space and being more disciplined. I asked her if the other cast members liked me. She said, “Jenifer, everybody loves you. You’re talented, you’re fun, you’re fabulous. You just come off as intimidating. You need to calm down, girl.”
Thank goodness we got off the subject and started sharing our excitement about going to see Tina Turner the next day. I splurged and bought a beautiful blouse for the occasion for $29.99. We pulled up at the York Hotel. We knew we’d have good seats, as we received special attention in every city because we were performing at the big theaters.
When Tina came onstage and opened with “Disco Inferno,” my own body was so filled with electricity, my head damn near exploded. There she was, all legs, hips, arms, and hair. So much fucking hair. It was all I could do not to just run the fuck up there and fall to my knees and weep. All hail the queen.
We were allowed backstage. Tina’s assistant opened the door and led us into her dressing room. And there she stood—THE Miss “Rollin’ on the River.” Miss “Shake a Tail Feather.” Miss “Nutbush City Limits.
” Miss “Rock Me, Baby, Rock Me All Night Long.”
Tina’s legs were as long as the Mississippi River. Though she was just standing there, it was as if her hips were still gyrating. As she opened her arms to embrace me, her wingspan was that of a golden eagle, and in that raspy voice, she said, “How’s everybody?”
I was speechless. Here was my opportunity to bow, and I bowed lower than I ever had. We all hung out in her dressing room for a little while, and when we left, our feet never touched the ground.
By the way, there’s a rumor on the Internet that I auditioned to play Tina in the 1993 movie version of her life, What’s Love Got to Do with It. I did not. The reason I wasn’t asked to audition for the role of Tina was because my titties were too big. Too bad, because I could’ve sung that motherfucker and acted the hell out of it! Bitch better have my money. Anyway, nobody could have played the role as well as Angela.
Lo and behold, the director of What’s Love called me during the casting process to tell me they wanted me to play Tina Turner’s mother. I was just about to say “fuck you” when he told me how much I would be paid. Before I hung up, I told him, “Well, for that kind of money, I’ll play the daddy.”
That, ladies and gentlemen, is how I began my career as the mother of black Hollywood. I played the hell out of Zelma Bullock. The real Zelma Bullock loved me in the role—even if she didn’t like how the film portrayed her overall.
A year or so after the movie came out, I was in a vitamin store. I heard a woman say: “Alline, come over here in this aisle and show me which one of these vitamins I should get.” Wait a minute, do I recognize that voice? And the name Alline, could it be? Oh my God, my God, my God. I stage-whispered to my friend, “I think that’s Tina Turner’s mama . . . It’s Zelma Bullock!” I went into the next aisle and saw an older woman in tight pants. She had Tina’s form and was quite fit for a woman of her age. I approached her timidly. I said, “Ms. Bullock?” She turned around—the spitting image of beautiful Tina—grabbed me, and hugged me so tight. She pulled back with water in her eyes and said, “I wanted to be so dressed up when I met you.” I knew what she meant and felt humbled. When she passed in 1999, it was an honor to sing at her funeral.
Apparently, in all that heightened excitement, while we were in Tina’s dressing room I cracked a joke that was insulting to one of the cast members, Cheryl. When I got to the theater the next day, she ambushed me. I was shocked by her fury over what I saw as innocent joking and teasing. She looked so hurt and I felt so sorry. I apologized profusely. It was rare that anyone would confront me at all, especially like this. As Terry had said, I had a way of distancing people when they’d get too close. It was a moment of insight for me. I wanted to make amends immediately. Fortunately, she listened when I explained that I meant no malice toward her. She softened, and after the show we went to the hotel and watched TV together.
The TV news headlines were all about the eruption of Mount St. Helens in Washington State. Volcanic eruption seemed an appropriate metaphor for my demeanor in those days. Show after show; man after man; the blindness of persecuting my colleagues and thinking they would be okay with it. I felt sorry for myself. I knew I wasn’t a bad person, but it did not stop me from carrying on and being argumentative. I felt out of control of my behavior or blamed others for my treatment of them. I felt my brain was moving too rapidly and I was constantly chasing after myself. Except for Terry, nobody seemed to be on my side. I hung around Roderick a lot, even though he got on my nerves. One time he tried to undermine me by telling everyone I was a lesbian. Foolish boy! Given my track record, how far do you think that rumor went?
Hanging out with the girls and the gay boys was fun, but I was on the hunt for a straight man. I had started to recognize that I “needed” regular sex. Without it, I felt scattered and moody, like I was coming apart at the seams.
As they say, the show went on. I was invited to sing “My Handyman” on Canada’s national morning TV show. I was so happy afterward that I called Miguel, but we fell into the same old fight as he pleaded the usual: “Come back to me. Let’s get married. We should have cheeldren, Yenifer . . .”
FIVE
LOVE VERSUS DREAMGIRLS
A couple of weeks into the Toronto run of the Eubie! national tour, the earth turned over. I met Thomas Linzie, the tour’s new stage manager. Our eyes locked, and everything changed for both of us. Thomas was smart, generous, sweet, short, and freckled. I couldn’t wait to kiss his lips. I couldn’t wait to feel his skin. And maybe Terry suggesting that I calm down helped me not to jump his bones immediately.
Thomas was a really great stage manager who everyone liked. We talked until 2:30 a.m. the first time we met. We had dinner the next day. It was so nice to be with him. On our day off we went to the Yorkville neighborhood, had ice cream, and saw The Empire Strikes Back. We walked home. It was a beautiful, romantic night.
Around this time, a woman I knew, Kimako Baraka, called about a musical revue, Foreplay, that she wanted to produce with me and Loretta Devine in the cast. I was intrigued by the title alone. Kimako, also known as Sondra Lee Jones, was the sister of the famous writer and activist LeRoi Jones, now known as Amiri Baraka.
I saw Foreplay as my way out of Eubie! and arranged with Kimako to fly to NYC later in the month to audition. I told Terry that I planned to give my notice to quit the show.
I didn’t tell Terry about Thomas. She would have said, “Don’t shit where you eat.” I knew I was falling in love with him. He was a good man, born and raised in the Midwest. A gentleman, even, he always opened the door for me, wouldn’t let me carry anything. And, yes, he gave me the last bite of food. I always found that so sexy. I had become a pool shark in college, but when we played, I let him win, because when the real moment of truth came, I wanted to be sure I had never threatened his manhood. I wanted that first time to be real good.
Thomas had so much going for him that I wanted this relationship to grow and last. I didn’t really know a lot about the internal workings of men. My father had been mostly absent and my older brothers pretty much had nothing to do with my little crazy ass running around making trouble.
One memorable evening, Thomas and I went to a club called the Chicken Deli to see Earl “Fatha” Hines, the great jazz pianist. We still had not made love, which was an indication that he was special to me. I was a bit tipsy when we returned to the hotel, but we parted and went to our separate rooms.
When Thomas and I finally made love, it was wonderful. We had both known it was inevitable. In the morning we had breakfast on his balcony. I wanted Thomas to know who I was, what he was getting himself into. Rather than have an adult conversation with him, I tried to shock him by sitting on the balcony topless. Topless, while workers in the building across the way watched us eat. My inability to tap into my emotions and talk about them warped my thinking and caused me to “test” Thomas by pushing him away. “This is who I am. Run while you have the chance!” But he stayed. He accepted me.
The company had rented a bus to take us all to Niagara Falls that morning. So when my castmate, the ever-so-fierce Leslie Dockery, went to my room to get me, of course I wasn’t there. She, along with the rest of the company, figured I’d spent the night with Thomas. They all sat on the bus and gave me the side-eye because I had had sex with the stage manager.
At Niagara Falls, the sound, the roar. It was my first waterfall ever; one of the most overwhelming experiences in my life. The falls were so unbelievably loud, I swear I thought I had died. When I got off the bus I said, “What the fuck is that sound?”
“Jenifer, it’s the falls.”
“Where is it?” I ran like a crazy person in the direction of the sound and found myself looking straight at the famous Horseshoe, Niagara’s largest waterfall. At that moment, I knew there was a God. It was a sight to see, ya’ll. A sight to see.
I took a brief break from my new love affair with Thomas to fly home to sing “You Light Up My Life” at my aunt Janice’s wedding i
n St. Louis. Later that night, Mama and I watched TV and I talked to her about Daddy, life, and love. I was hungry for anything that made sense. In passing, I asked about her pastor at First Baptist. I was sidestepping. Pastor Heard had molested me as a teenager. When it happened, I told Mama, but the issue was never resolved and we never discussed it. The experience shattered our already tenuous relationship and for many years, I wondered whether Mama was in my corner.
The next morning, Mama made me breakfast and told me she had arranged for Pastor Heard to take me to the airport.
In his car, I disconnected from my history with this person in order to survive the present situation. I repressed my rage and chitchatted with him. This is what trauma does to you—it shuts you down and shuts you up, just like the hundreds, thousands, and millions of women who are molested and say nothing.
On the way back to Toronto, I stopped in Manhattan and turned out the Foreplay audition. Foreplay was planned to tour several capital cities of Europe. I was excited at the prospect of becoming an international star like Josephine Baker. When I returned to Canada I immediately called Kimako and learned I got the part. I hardly had time to celebrate before I was on the stage belting “Roll, Jordan, Roll.” I started to call Mama to tell her the good news but instead called one of my mother figures, Graziella Able, the producer and choreographer I’d worked with a few years earlier in Baggy Pants. I knew that she would express authentic happiness and pride in my accomplishments. Then I quickly showered and ran to Thomas’s room, where I had him, and had him, and had him again.
It was like Thomas and I were on our honeymoon. We spent all of our time together enjoying Toronto’s great restaurants and cultural venues. Once we declared our love for each other, my interest in other men disappeared. I was a demanding partner, but Thomas didn’t mind, and we made love morning, noon, and night.
As soon as we were back in the city, Thomas took me to the Bronx to meet his family. It became obvious that Thomas was less interested in introducing me than in proving to his older brother, who was a nightmare combination of cigarettes, liquor, and barbecue, that Thomas could get a hot girlfriend.
The Mother of Black Hollywood Page 6