I was soooo glad to be back in New York City. My days were once again a blur of activity: rushing to and from dance classes and voice lessons, spending time with Mark Brown and Bobby, or hanging out at popular watering holes like Possible 20 and Barrymore’s. My favorite restaurant was a Chinese-Cuban place called Numero Uno, just a block away from my apartment. I swear I ate their shrimp egg foo yung almost daily. I also took great pleasure in sneaking into Broadway shows after the intermission to see the second and third acts for free.
Despite being home, my bouts of sadness seemed to be getting worse. There were nights when I would allow sorrow to consume me, making a mini-production of it by watching in the mirror as the tears streamed down my cheeks. The crying became habitual, familiar. It was a place of comfort in itself as I spoke aloud to my reflection, “Tomorrow will be a good day, Jenny.” The tunnel was dark and long.
Meanwhile, Foreplay rehearsals were starting soon at the Minskoff Theatre. The composer-director was Chapman Roberts, a highly respected Broadway actor, music director, and arranger. The cast included Loretta Devine, Edmond Wesley, Nat Morris, Jackie Low, and Steve Semien.
But then a day passed and I realized I hadn’t heard from Thomas. When we finally connected on the phone, he told me he wanted time off. I listened as he talked about needing time for quiet reflection, alone. I rushed directly to his apartment and we made sweet, beautiful love.
I was hoping our relationship would work out, but the impact of Thomas’s flagging interest was that I reopened my life to other men. If I couldn’t get my drug from Thomas, then I had to find another pusherman.
In late summer, Michael Peters phoned and asked me to audition for a new show he was co-choreographing with the director Michael Bennett called Project #9. Four years earlier, in 1976, Bennett had garnered worldwide acclaim as the director and co-choreographer of A Chorus Line, which won nine Tonys and the Pulitzer Prize for Drama.
Project #9 was the brainchild of playwright Tom Eyen and the composer Henry Krieger. The two had been inspired by the actress Nell Carter to develop a story about black back-up singers titled One Night Only. The show was renamed Project #9. But then Carter left in 1978 to appear in the soap opera Ryan’s Hope, and the idea was abandoned.
The next year, the show was renamed Big Dreams—and brought back to life because Michael Bennett became interested. The workshop resumed with Jennifer Holliday, a gospel singer, as Carter’s replacement. In the cast also were Ben Harney, Obba Babatundé, and Cleavant Derricks. Holliday became upset that her character, Effie White, died at the end of the first act, and she quit. Eyen, Bennett, and Krieger continued to develop the musical while they looked for a new Effie.
Between dance classes, I taxied to a rehearsal space on 19th Street to audition for Effie. I was thrilled that my friends were involved—Sheryl Lee Ralph, Loretta Devine, and Shirley Black-Brown, who had become Michael Peter’s assistant. Nevertheless, in my mind, this production was not a huge opportunity. After all, I had already been in two Broadway shows, so the idea of being part of a “workshop” seemed a bit of a step backward.
When I met Tom Eyen at the audition, I immediately disliked him. He came across as a stereotypical cruel queen who found joy in belittling his actors. The next day, Michael Peters and Shirley Black-Brown called to tell me that I had turned out the audition and they suspected I would get the role.
I didn’t have time to worry about Big Dreams. I was rehearsing Foreplay and taking classes, but mostly I was being forced to come to terms with the fact that Thomas wanted to end our relationship. I was hurt and numb when he told me, “I never said this was a steady thing.” But when I went to his place, we made love. We just could not let each other go. And for the next eight fucking years, we became locked in that old song by the Stylistics, “Break Up to Make Up.”
In September, a whole month after the audition, I got the call and started working on the Big Dreams workshop. The music was outrageously fabulous! I remember listening to Krieger create the chords around the bassline for “Steppin’ to the Bad Side.” Ahh, the colors and the levels! How he decided to stop the music and allow Loretta to riff in “Ain’t No Party” was phenomenal. This wasn’t Hollywood. These were thespians. Giants-to-be of the theater.
I loved Michael Bennett. He said to me, “Your mind is like a computer—not to mention your talent!” It was clear also that Michael Peters believed in me, while the other bosses were lukewarm. By the time I joined, the rest of the cast had been rehearsing for weeks and were quite polished. I was intimidated and did a lot of overacting and overcompensating. Where Eubie! had been a musical revue, Big Dreams was my first “book” musical as a professional. This meant the show had more lines and required more acting. Plus, Effie was the lead character—the pressure!
And that song—“And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going”—the expectations! I just couldn’t sing it like Jennifer Holliday. Nobody in the world could. I always felt they hired me, the trained actress, to develop the character, knowing all along they were going to hire Jennifer Holliday back for that voice.
I played Effie in two mildly successful workshops of Big Dreams for the Nederlanders and the Shuberts, major producing companies in the theater world. Shortly thereafter, when Tom Eyen called and said, “We’re going with Jennifer Holliday,” it was clear he wanted me to break down on the phone. He was that kind of person. But it felt good to say to him, “I’ve got a job. I’m fine,” as I was working on Foreplay.
Thank you. And fuck you very much, Mr. Eyen.
What I’d missed out on didn’t hit me until the billboards went up all over the city for the show, which had been renamed Dreamgirls. A spasm of pain went through me as I saw those images, thinking it could have been me. It was my first major professional disappointment. However, my pain was lessened by the knowledge that I would be paid throughout the entire run of Dreamgirls on Broadway for my contribution to creating the role of Effie in the workshop production. God bless Michael Bennett and God bless Actor’s Equity.
Foreplay had unraveled, but unfortunately not before a couple of my paychecks from Kimako had bounced. I was disappointed but resumed my routine of dance class and auditions. During this period, I had begun to realize how soothing I found nature and I began spending a lot of time during the day in Central Park. Almost every night you would find me holding court till the wee hours at piano bars and clubs like the Horn of Plenty and the Grand Finale. My crowd included Mark and Bobby plus a revolving assortment of fabulous gypsies—Jackée Harry, Shirley Black-Brown, Pi Douglas, Yolanda Graves, Ebony Jo-Ann, Julia Lema, Mel Johnson Jr., Janet Powell, Jeffrey V. Thompson, and Pauletta Pearson (who, of course, later married Denzel Washington).
I got the call to go back on the Eubie! national tour. I was seeing a few guys, but I was still trying to make things work with Thomas. But then he told me he planned to be “all business” (meaning no sex) when we went back on the tour. It didn’t help things when he ran into Miguel in the lobby of my building. It was inevitable, I guess.
Despite Thomas’s pledges of celibacy, when we got to San Francisco we were having daily sex; sometimes even in the dressing room, which, I must admit, was made hotter by the possibility of someone catching us. But more, it was a loving, romantic time for us in that beautiful city—Ghirardelli Square, Sausalito, the enchantment of foggy nights. San Francisco is still one of my favorite cities!
The show was doing well, and yours truly was enjoying herself! I was a fucking beast on stage, laser-focused on my performance from the moment I set out for the Curran Theatre each evening. I was staying at the apartment of Jo Kalmus, a friend from Webster. Jo was my scene partner when I competed for the Irene Ryan Acting Scholarship (y’all know “Granny” from The Beverly Hillbillies, right?) while I was in college. Before we went on stage at the semifinals in Nebraska, I took Jo aside, gripped her arms, and said, “Fuck this up and I will kill you.” Pretty nasty thing to say to someone who’s helping you out, huh? Well, Jo didn’t fuck it up,
but karma is a bitch because I fucked up and lost at the finals later that year at the Kennedy Center in Washington, DC.
After Thomas and I had a fight one day, I went with Roderick to a small gathering at the hotel suite of the legend herself, the incomparable Lena Horne. After the show, Miss Horne invited us for a visit at the Fairmont Hotel, where she was staying at the time. She welcomed us into her suite and then, wrapped in at least two robes with several lush, textured scarves around her neck, she reclined majestically on her long chair. She was coming down from her show and had three humidifiers running.
I sat at Miss Horne’s feet and drank every syllable of every word she spoke that night about show business, music, and politics. I was in the presence of someone I wanted to emulate. She was not just a performer—she was an activist who had stood up for black soldiers in the Second World War, and she had marched with Dr. King. This wasn’t just a legend in front of me—this was a goddess. It was Lena Horne who turned her back on Hollywood, vowing to never play either a maid or a hooker.
She was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Ageless. I asked her, “Miss Horne, how do you stay so young?” She pointed to the humidifiers. “I live in moisture and I surround myself with young people, baby.”
’Nuf said.
When the tour got to San Diego, there were more great reviews: “Then there’s the stunning Jenifer Lewis [whose] delightfully naughty number . . . leaves no doubt about what she means”; “It is impossible to tell whether the women in this show were chosen primarily for beauty or talent . . . Lewis’ ‘Handyman’ number is . . . merely a prelude to her sensational rendition of ‘Roll, Jordan, Roll.’ ”
I flew home over Christmas and then back to beautiful San Diego. Thomas and I were still going back and forth. I had had words with Terry and was feeling pretty lonely. As we welcomed 1981 amid glittery hats and horns at a New Year’s Eve party, Terry drank a few too many and told me I was a superficial bitch. My feelings were hurt. I got drunk on Black Russians, wobbled back to my room, and handled things, if you know what I mean. The orgasm took me to the cold, linoleum floor. Happy New Year, motherfuckers!
The Eubie! tour had a break, and I went back to New York. Around this time Phil Valentine, who I’d been seeing since the previous year, became a big influence. I had not known anyone like him up to that point. A gorgeous man, Phil was a black cultural nationalist (if you don’t know what that is, Google it!) and vegan who owned a holistic health center in Brooklyn. I was searching for stability, a sense of clarity, and inner peace. Phil provided some answers.
Phil wanted me to get over the “Jesus stuff.” He believed Christianity had been forced upon enslaved black people as a way to control African Americans forever. He said what was most important was to take care of my health, especially my diet. He told me to try not to eat meat and to stick with more vegetables and fruit. He encouraged me to move my body every day with some kind of physical activity.
“And whatever you do, throw these cigarettes in the trash.”
He said firmly, “Look inside, Jenifer. Pay attention to your instincts. There’s a song in everyone.”
I was really searching at this time. Along with Thomas and many friends in the theater community, I started attending services offered by the Unity Center of Practical Christianity, an organization that combines elements of Christianity with Eastern philosophies and metaphysics. Unity publishes the well-known and respected Daily Word.
The church I grew up in had let me down, as it failed to be the safe and loving place it was meant to be when Pastor Heard molested me. I sought God and thought Unity might hold some answers.
The services were held at Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center on Sunday mornings, led by Reverend Olga Butterworth and her husband, Reverend Eric Butterworth. I felt like I was going to church. I don’t know that I fully understood what Unity was talking about, but I was captivated by the idea that the “answers” I desired about my purpose might, in fact, be inside me. I had not quite abandoned Jesus. I still hoped He would appear and let me know what the fuck I was supposed to do with this gift God had given me. But Unity fed me what I needed at the time. One Unity phrase that stayed with me for many years was “say yes.” The concept jumped off the page and into my soul—to be all right with being all right. It comforted me. It meant to breathe. It meant be kind and forgiving. Pay attention to the world around you. It meant everything I wanted for my spirit.
Although many friends attended Unity, we did not discuss what we were learning. We had been raised Christian, but our religion was Theater. We read the Daily Word, but really our bibles were Variety and Backstage.
Jesus wasn’t the only one I was waiting for. I expected to be rescued by my career savior—the person who would “discover” me. The one who would recognize my superior talents and take me to unseen heights of stardom. You know, like in the movies and all the books I’d read. Like Lana Turner at the counter in Schwab’s pharmacy. I imagined that I would be having drinks at the Russian Tea Room or doing high kicks in some nightclub and my Aaron Russo or Mike Nichols would show up. Russo was the manager credited with boosting Bette Midler from performing in gay bathhouses to superstar status. Mike Nichols, the brilliant producer, director, and writer, took Whoopi Goldberg from street-corner artist to a one-woman Broadway show. Incidentally, I first met my dear friend Whoopi when she was doing stand-up in a tiny off-off Broadway theater. Like my gypsy friends and I repeatedly said to one another, I was just “waiting to be discovered.” Waiting for that one big break.
During these days of the early ’80s, I had no career guidance. No strategy. In fact, my whole life was all over the place. I couldn’t sit still. I moved fast and talked fast, acting on every impulse. My thoughts raced from one thing to the next. I knew that my high energy helped me get a lot of stuff done, but the energy often came hand in hand with high anxiety. So, even as I rushed here and there, it always felt incomplete, hollow, like it was not enough.
SIX
“MA’AM, ARE YOU A DELEGATE?”
In early January 1981, the Eubie! tour went to Washington, DC. It was the week of the inauguration of Ronald Reagan. Even though I was not a fan of the new president, I appreciated the city’s celebratory atmosphere. I visited the Rayburn Building, where members of Congress have their offices. I was excited to meet Bill Clay, a black congressman from St. Louis; Charles Rangel, who represented districts in New York; and Shirley Chisholm, the first black woman elected to Congress, in 1968. Chisholm became a huge role model for me when I was in high school and she later became the first woman to run for the Democratic Party’s nomination for president. The title of her memoir says it all: Unbought and Unbossed.
African American political “firsts” mean a lot to me. It’s no surprise, then, that years later, I used every trick up my sleeve to be front and center at the Democratic National Convention in Denver, to see my baby (yes Lord!) Barack Hussein Obama become the Democratic Party’s first black nominee for President of the United States.
It was a last-minute decision, and every hotel was booked, of course. I stayed with my dear friend Brian Norber, whom I had performed with at Six Flags over Mid-America when we were both seventeen years old. He even did my hair for this historic event—teased it up as only a gay boy in show business could. There was a bus for celebrities, but it was leaving for the Pepsi Center far too late for my taste.
See, ladies and gentlemen, having been in the theater for a hundred years, I knew that when an event is this big, get your ass there early! I got on a bus with forty celebratory civilians. It was six hours before Barack Obama would accept the Democratic nomination. Everyone on the short bus ride was laughing and carrying on, spouting our hopes and wishes for a new era.
As the bus neared the stadium, I saw that CNN had been right when they predicted forty thousand people would attend, because I swear to you, all forty thousand were standing in a line, in the sun—and in my way. Yours truly would not be number 40,001. Yes, I admi
t I have entitlement issues, so don’t even go there. We got off the bus. It was hotter than a whore from hell that day. The sun was blazing and Brian had teased my hair so high, I was unable to wear one of my famous large straw hats to keep the sun off my (yes Lord!) pretty skin. I heard a high-pitched voice to my left. “Lana Hawkins?” That was my character on Strong Medicine.
In all of that heat, I had one thought: A fan! Merry Christmas, bitches.
I rolled up on the woman who I’m sure had attended every Democratic National Convention since Franklin Delano Roosevelt won. She had ten thousand buttons on her orange security vest and a hat sporting ten thousand more. She was classic. She was sweet . . . and she was my ticket to get to the front of the line.
I said, “Hey girl, yeah it’s me, Lana. Ooh, girl, ooh, girl, ooh, girl . . . ooh . . .” I whispered, “I can’t stand in this line. I got plantar fasciitis—”
Her Southern drawl was real: “Plantar what now, baby?”
“Plantar fasciitis, and I’m allergic to the sun. Help me, girl. Help me, girl. Ooh.”
She twanged, “Well, honey, the only way I can get you through this mess is to roll you across the parking lot in a wheelchair.”
Other people were looking on at this scene, so when the wheelchair came, I knew I had to at least limp. In my own desperation, I proceeded to drag my right leg behind me like Dracula’s servant, Igor. I’m sure it was the worst performance of my life. But fuck y’all, like I said, I wasn’t standing in that goddamn line. My therapist Rachel herself would have killed me had she witnessed this great lie and manipulation.
When I rolled up to the checkpoint, a sizable woman security guard spotted me and said, “Hey Tina Turner’s mama! Get over here and come through my line.” She swiped that security wand one second across my body and said, “Go-on in, baby. Go-on in there.”
The Mother of Black Hollywood Page 7