by Bailey Thomas, Cynthia,Thomas, Peter,Short, Rochelle,Saunders, Keith
RHOA is a roaring fire that I don’t want to extinguish before Cynthia and I use its flame to see our way to the other side. It’s a unique opportunity in that no one ever tries to block whatever hustle you want to feature. Win, lose or draw – they shoot it and allow your ambitions to be shown. When I built and opened my newest restaurant, bar ONE, I was given several occasions to highlight it. As a result, around 60 percent of bar ONE’s traffic is from people who watch us on television.
I talk to customers all the time who walk through the doors hoping to see me or Cynthia, mostly me. After three tough years and a social media lashing out of this world, it’s refreshing to meet supportive, sympathetic fans. Some come just to congratulate me on bouncing back with another business venture. It’s a blessing to have the support of people who don’t even know you. They just want to see us win.
Some days, their encouragement is just what I need to hear to make it to the next juncture. My bold female admirers also show up with a determination to check me out in the flesh. Many like my aggressive, strong character and just come with the hopes of touching, squeezing or pressing their titties against me. They ain’t shy about letting me know that they don’t see my behavior as arrogant. They make it a point to tell me if Cynthia can’t make it work, they’d love the company of a Mandingo like me.
Whatever that means!
I’m just sayin’.
Cynthia’s Turbulences
By the kickoff of my second season (the show’s fourth) I was getting acclimated to the flow and felt equipped to tackle some of my mean-girl cohorts. Though I hadn’t completely come out of my shell, the demands were becoming more manageable. I was jumping out as my own woman and promoting my newly opened modeling school, The Bailey Agency. It was a relief not to be the new girl on the block anymore.
After joining the cast of Glee, NeNe had gone to California and wasn’t around as much. Her absence allowed our audience to see a different a side of me. Before joining the show, I’d been known as a trailblazer in the fashion arena. I was all too happy to press the reset button and showcase a fresh perspective of myself as an Atlanta Housewife. I went into my sophomore year decked out in a Teflon corset with steel backbone reinforcement. Especially after social media bandits had reduced me to nothing more than NeNe’s spineless whipping girl.
Viewers weren’t privileged to the backstory of how scenes were orchestrated. I filmed with whomever I was scheduled to be with on a given day. It wasn’t The Cynthia Bailey Show, and I didn’t call the shots. NeNe was the starlet and fan favorite. We were usually paired off because she wasn’t talking to the other girls as much. As a result, we were more often featured together than with any of our fellow housewives. Even with me being a newbie, most of our scenes made it past the editing room floor. The producers knew we had a lot of fun and they liked our chemistry. The fact that we were friends and NeNe was outrageously hilarious only added to the entertainment value. The bottom line was that NeNe was the veteran headliner, and producers wanted to make sure she was featured as much as possible.
I could never figure out how being a loyal friend was all of a sudden synonymous with being gutless. The adoration and respect between NeNe and I was quite mutual. She cared about and depended on me, just as much as I relied on her. Our friendship worked on and off camera. We knew we could work through any situation. We had a real bond that was often coerced or manufactured in reality TV. Ours wasn’t the type of friendship that was built for the dramatic purpose of severing ties in a soap opera-style season finale.
The break during my first season’s hiatus provided some much needed time to reenergize and prioritize. It prepared me for the pivotal occurrence of including Noelle in more of my storyline. It was an easy and logical decision for me. Noelle was the center of my world, and I couldn’t show the true me if she wasn’t included. I made it a point for her to mostly be in scenes that included her dad. I wanted there to be no question of how instrumental Leon was in her life. I was concerned about her presence making sense in the big-picture narrative of my life. I didn’t find it acceptable to have Noelle sitting at the kitchen table doing homework or standing under me while I was gossiping or throwing back a bottle of wine. Still, once you put your kid on television, it’s almost impossible to appease everyone’s opinion on your mothering choices.
The attention brought on by the show was a major adjustment for her. In Atlanta, most celebrity children attended school with kids of other famous people, but I didn’t buy into that concept. I never considered that the show would make us famous or even recognizable for that matter. I was wrong and blindsided by our popularity. When your child is the only one in the classroom whose parents are on television, it can be met with really unfavorable consequences.
Noelle started to get bullied. She was drowning between two extremes – those who loved her and had her back, and those who switched sides in the hallway when they saw her coming. I thought my strict instructions to never discuss the show at school would make her life easier. I didn’t want her to feel it was a card she needed to play or that she was better than anybody else. I wasn’t looking for her to get special treatment or privileges.
I did everything I could think of to eliminate the possibility of adolescent locker chatter in Noelle’s school life. The big uh-oh moment was that I didn’t anticipate parents and teachers who would be bold enough to interrogate her. “Did we have to audition? Was it fun being on TV?” The adults got caught up and began making her feel more uncomfortable than the kids. It all contributed to an environment where Noelle could not flourish. The situation became bigger than her and she hated going to school.
Having skipped a grade in primary school, Noelle was already a year younger than her classmates. Prior to attending school in Atlanta, her age had never been a problem in assimilating with other children. She was always a leader, very talented singer and drama student. In her new environment, I noticed that she wasn’t adapting socially. Her grades were falling and she stopped eating. Although she wasn’t big on having breakfast in the morning, she was naturally a healthy eater. By lunchtime she should have been starving, but her packed lunch was coming back home untouched.
Parents would rotate shifts to serve the kids during lunchtime. I was friendly with most of them and began receiving calls asking if Noelle was okay. A few shared that she didn’t seem like herself, and was frequently sitting alone and not eating. As a mother, I knew the reports were serious red flags.
I had proudly placed Noelle in that school because it was touted as an exclusive, private institution. The year she enrolled, she was one of only twenty-five students selected from more than four-hundred hopefuls. In hindsight, I realized the way the school operated was far too militant for Noelle’s learning style. I’m one for tough love, but not to the point where it breaks the spirit. The manner in which the kids were taught proved to be too great of a contrast against how Noelle was reared. We had raised her to believe she was strong, beautiful, amazing and could accomplish anything.
This was a child who had eaten at the table with A-list movie stars and grown up around icons that ran multi-million-dollar companies. At her young age, her exposure had been greater than many adults would experience in a lifetime. While at school, she was hearing that she “wasn’t good enough for the play…couldn’t do this…or wasn’t at the level to do that.” When in actuality, my daughter lived in a world where one phone call could have put her on Broadway and bypassed all the formalities.
Noelle was sinking into the walls, so Leon and I decided to explore homeschooling. It removed a lot of the distractions and anxieties that were stagnating her growth. I loved the sense of control, but very much disliked the lack of socialization and peer interaction. A small part of me was also thrilled to have more one-on-one, mother-daughter time. She was growing up too fast, and I looked forward to having our weekly mani-pedi breaks.
Unfortunately, I missed the memo that twelve ye
ar olds prefer to experience those luxuries with friends, not their moms. I couldn’t continue to ignore the value and necessity of Noelle being around other kids. After six months of homeschooling, she was ready to return to regular school. We found a great new charter school that she loved. Only this time, the tables turned and Noelle was getting into trouble for being too social! We traded one extreme for another, but she started to thrive in her surroundings. I was ecstatic to see her make new friends! Her father and I agreed that a well-adjusted and content “B” student was a better deal than a depressed and unhappy “A” student.
By the time our second season kicked off, all the stresses of getting Noelle settled were behind me. Dealing with a fresh batch of housewives became my new hemorrhoid. My first meeting with Porsha was a taping at her grandfather’s home. I thought she was pleasant, but young-minded in a lot of ways. At times, she didn’t seem to be aware of what she was saying or the effect her words carried.
I loved that she would get so excited to be a part of a conversation that her mouth would often write a check that her butt couldn’t cash. From my own experiences, I knew Porsha had a lot of learning to do to gain reality-TV traction. She was like a picnic in the park swarming with flies – beautiful and thoughtful, but aggravating as hell. In all fairness, Porsha turned out to be a harmless sweetheart and definitely the kind of girl I could have fun with 265 days a year. (Or is it 365 days?)
Then there was Hurricane Kenya. Losing Sheree in the previous season, and learning that Kim didn’t want to be involved in the upcoming one, made us all anxious to find warm bodies. NeNe and I especially wanted things to hurry along, knowing that the longer it took to find replacements, the longer it would be before filming started. I’d heard that Kenya Moore, a former Miss USA, was being vetted as a possible addition. It isn’t uncommon for producers to ask current housewives for recommendations on new blood. They didn’t always know where to find women in Atlanta who could bring it – but they knew we did.
The only exposure I’d had to Kenya was attending the premiere of a movie that Boris starred in and she produced. I called him to get the scoop on her and satisfy my curiosity on whether she would be a good fit. I have an apparent vested interest in the show doing well. It’s no secret that successful reality TV is about provocative, drama-infused storylines. Lack of harmony and mismatched chemistry is a heavenly formula.
Everybody knows a crazy, cussing, funny, sexy, quirky bitch is ideal housewife material. It’s a gift to see someone come on the show and go to extraordinary lengths to beat out everyone else in being the craziest. I don’t get too deep into whether I like or dislike someone. For me, it’s always about what’s best for the show. If it’s good for The Real Housewives of Atlanta, it’s great for me!
Boris had nothing but glowing things to say about Kenya. He suggested the two of us talk, and gave me her number. During my initial phone conversation with her, she was nothing less than normal and amazing. She definitely seemed like someone I wanted to put in the mix. I decided to throw her a bone by inviting her to a JET Beauty of the Week casting I held at The Bailey Agency. It was a scene I’d put together; producers had no input on the cast or judges. In fact, their interest in Kenya had waned and they weren’t particularly excited for her to be there. As a totally random coincidence, Kenya was a former JET Beauty of the Week, but JET executives knew nothing of her coming until I told them.
The casting call was a nightmare! There were moments where Kenya was straight up channeling Evillene, the wicked witch from The Wiz. Instead of bringing security to The Bailey Agency, she should’ve bought a broom to fly back to wherever the hell she came from. It was ridiculous how disrespectful she was to some of the participants. At one point, she was even barking advice on how they should walk.
I was pissed off to the highest level of pisstivity! We exchanged words after the casting, and I hoped I would never see her again. Hardly! My invitation to Kenya ended up solidifying her position, and her lunatic-girl-next-door recital was enough to land the deal. It turned out that Kenya Moore was just the shot of tequila with a twirl (I mean twist) of lime that the show needed.
Seeing Kenya’s inaugural performance at the JET casting taught me it takes all kinds to produce good reality TV. I think Kenya is a smart businesswoman who knows exactly what she wants and isn’t afraid to go get it.
It’s all good, clean fun that I would not change for anything. No matter how contentious the cast interactions became or social media criticisms escalated, I always felt it would have been a fatal lapse in judgment to exit the show after my first season. When that initial episode depicting my face aired, the seal was already broken. I would forever be a part of Bravo’s Housewife sorority. More importantly, people would always feel some entitlement to cross into my private space. If my life was going to be forever changed, I needed the number of zeros in my checking account to change too.
When my Housewives ride is over, I want people to see that even in my highest of highs and lowest of lows, I never comprised my dignity as a woman, mother or wife. I want people to know that I portrayed the real me and never felt the need to depict a character. Even if I wanted to, I don’t know how to be anybody else. I’m not a southern belle, incessant drinker or bully. I’m not even an actress. And for those who are still wondering, The Real Housewives of Atlanta is not a scripted show, but it is my and Peter’s reality.
CHAPTER V
Three-Hour Layover
Our Wedding
Cynthia’s Descent
Marriage had never been on my bucket list, nor had I even seen the possibility in my distant future. I’d always felt solid in my independence and enjoyed my life as a solo act. When I uprooted Noelle and left New York, I knew I was seriously devoted to more than just a courtship with Peter. Before him, I’d focused my romantic search on finding Mr. Right, rather than trying to become someone’s Mrs. Until Death Do Us Part. The two were mutually exclusive in my mind.
The title of wife never offered me a sense of security I didn’t already have, but turning forty and raising a kid alone had definitely triggered a shift in my values. Taking that walk down the aisle began to sound like not such a bad idea. Peter saw marriage as the ultimate commitment between two people. In every place I was nontraditional he was surprisingly a traditionalist – marriage being no exception. It wouldn’t have sufficed for me to have just been his woman; he wanted me to be his wife. I guess there’s some merit to the theory that when a woman doesn’t pressure a man about marriage, he innately pursues the matter even harder.
I’d always attributed my apathetic views on matrimony to the abuse I watched my mom suffer in her marriages. Her first, to my father, was just after he’d turned twenty. She was only seventeen and already pregnant with me. Growing up, she never dated or even hung around boys her age. Her unfortunate fate was that she ended up pregnant and having a shotgun wedding with the first man she had slept with. Birth control wasn’t an option at her disposal, because she and her mother never had such “ungodly discussions.” During 1966 in Alabama, when women got pregnant, they got married. As a result, by the age of eighteen, my mom found herself trapped in an unstable marriage with two babies eleven months apart.
My mother has always been a strikingly beautiful woman. In her heyday, she could’ve doubled for the character Diana Ross played in Mahogany. My dad was incredibly handsome, but he was insanely jealous and insecure. If ever he didn’t know my mom’s whereabouts, he would recklessly assume she was with another man. He used every control tactic possible to keep her checked – from compressing her self-esteem to verbally and sometimes physically abusing her.
I was too young to remember a lot of the unhealthy disharmony in their relationship. When I became of age, my mother started to share stories about my dad’s physical episodes. She carefully detailed the mistreatment she had withstood and the cruel discipline he administered to me as a child. One particular story happened during my
potty-training years. My daddy was old school and saw a training toilet as a waste of money. He had a wild hair to train me on a restaurant-size vegetable can that had exposed jagged edges. Never mind the fact that gangrene could have taken my behind to be with Jesus at three years old! Thank God my mom had the good sense to put the plastic top back on to protect me and cut a hole in the middle. According to my mom, it took me a minute to master potty training, but it only took my brain a split second to know not to sit on that damn can. I was told the price of my refusal was a spanking from my foolish father.
As a mother myself, I know that women sometimes tolerate unjust things for the sake of keeping their households together. However, most won’t allow those wrongs to affect the lives of their children. Sadly, my mom was too afraid to challenge my father’s insensible authority. She had been raised to honor her husband’s decisions and manage whatever burdens came along with raising children.
She was from the school of Divorce Ain’t An Option. She didn’t have many examples of healthy relationships or amicable conflict resolution. Her mother was reared to be a submissive wife, who in turn subconsciously raised her own daughters to stay in a marriage at all costs. It was a long line of suppressed teachings. It would compare it to Stevie Wonder and Helen Keller being professors at a school for the blind. Everybody functioned in the dark!
Women didn’t welcome domestic violence, but it alone was not grounds for a divorce. In those days, abuse was more commonly tolerated in exchange for food on the table and a keeping a roof over one’s head. While the door of my maternal grandmother’s home was always open for my mom to retreat with us, it came with my grandmother’s criticisms. She would somehow find a way to blame my mom for her inability to make her marriage work. As much as my mother detested my father’s handling of us, she felt stuck.