by Pam Grier
When I got home, though, Mom picked up where David and Marty had left off. “They think you have outstanding qualities. They like that you’re unassuming and unaware of your beauty.”
“Do you really think I should go to California?” I asked her. “It sounds awfully expensive.” Mom was no stage mother, but she recognized an opportunity when she saw one. “We’ll figure it out. You can go to school there.” She paused. “Pam, this could be the chance you’ve been waiting for, an opportunity to find out who you really are. You can always come back home if things don’t work out.”
I spent the rest of the day thinking about the cadets and how inferior I’d felt around them. I thought about the beast who had attacked me, and I wondered why I would stay here in Denver. What opportunities did I have in a state like Colorado? I wanted to expand my understanding of the world and find out what was out there. I wanted to move to Hollywood and take my chances. I always had a safe home and loving mother to come back to, so what did I really have to lose?
I’ve noticed that when we make life-changing decisions that are right for us, the universe seems to give us a helping hand. The moment another aunt—her name was Mignonne—learned that I was considering moving to Hollywood, she offered to drive me there.
And so, while the sun was rising in the east very early one Friday morning, I grabbed my suitcase with my single pair of jeans and my purple coat, and I kissed Mom good-bye. Then Aunt Mignonne and I bought a bucket of fried chicken and, with thirty dollars for gas, off we went in my blue Pontiac. I was leaving the people I loved behind me, and I felt a sense of free fall, as if I had cut myself loose. I was slipping through the rabbit hole, and there was no turning back. But that was fine, because I didn’t want to turn back. I knew that as scary as it seemed, I could not resist the powerful draw to head west, and I didn’t intend to return until I had satisfied that pull, made my fortune, and discovered my version of utopia.
ACT TWO
’Fros and Freaks 1970–1989
CHAPTER 10
Going Hollywood
Aunt Mignonne and I drove west until we were too tired and hungry to go on. We’d polished off the chicken along the way, and then, as the sun was setting, we ate at a roadside diner and then continued traveling along the famous highway Route 66. “Get your kicks on Route 66.” So went the lyrics in Nat King Cole’s hit song. There was great romance and promise connected to the image of Route 66, and there we were, driving down the highway that was beckoning us farther and farther west.
The sun was setting on the Painted Desert with its magentas, golds, and coppers. Overlooking the mesas, we could see the statuesque cacti and scrub oaks, while a fragrance of sage and desert flowers filled the air. We stopped and picked some sage for cooking and burning for its musky aroma.
When we were too exhausted to see straight, we got a room with two double beds and a gadget called “Magic Fingers” that vibrated the bed if you fed it a nickel. I lay back and dropped off to sleep amid Aunt Mignonne’s storytelling. Though in her mid-seventies, she was still lively and fun, and we both woke up early the next morning, ready to devour bacon and eggs and get back on the road. It was a great adventure, between the motel, the dives where we ate, and the sense of freedom and possibility as we headed into the unknown west.
When we finally pulled into Los Angeles, I was awestruck by the luxurious palm trees, the blinding sunshine, and the deep blue skies. Not at all like Watts! People cruised around in their convertibles, tops down, their skin glowing a healthy golden tan. We found Sunset Boulevard and drove along the Sunset Strip, a mile and a half of storefronts, restaurants, and clubs made famous by the huge numbers of hippies who walked the streets all day and night in the sixties. We drove beneath the huge billboards that reached toward the heavens and practically shouted out the latest blockbuster movies that were opening within the next week or two.
When we drove through a section called Pacific Palisades, we passed sprawling mansions, exotic greenery, and restaurants that exuded wealth and elegance. We had never imagined anything like it. We followed the curving boulevard all the way to the Pacific Coast Highway, where we stopped at the beach, parked the car, and took a barefoot walk along the shore. It was like a dream come true as we inhaled the salty air, buried our feet in the clean, fine, white sand, and sat together, side by side, staring out at the vastness of the Pacific Ocean.
For a moment, we were silent, musing on the journey that had gotten us where we were—truly another world from Denver’s majestic mountains, pine trees, and rivers. We were in a brand-new world. Aunt Mignonne took out our lunch that she had bought at a deli at our last rest stop—corned beef sandwiches, kosher dill pickles, and sauerkraut. As a caterer for wealthy Jewish families, she had developed a taste for their ethnic food. Believe me, I wasn’t complaining as we wolfed down the biggest sandwiches I’d ever seen while we watched surfers, people on boats, and soaring seagulls that gathered their courage to fly nearer and nearer to us, hoping we might leave them some scraps. The ocean was a foamy blue, the air smelled marine salty, and the sand was warm and comforting under our feet.
I stared at a boat swaying back and forth in the ocean and wondered what it would be like to just keep on sailing forever. I could have sat there all day long and into the night, dreaming and fantasizing. I understood why so many people were drawn to the sea; it was hypnotic. Eventually Aunt Mignonne gathered up our stuff and we reluctantly headed back east toward the part of Los Angeles where I would be staying for a while. A cousin on my father’s side had a home there, just off of La Brea Avenue, with a pool house that had an adjoining bathroom. This low-ceilinged little apartment had been converted from a garage, and after I tearfully said good-bye to Aunt Mignonne, I unpacked my few articles of clothing.
When I looked around at my new digs, I smiled to myself at the rules and regulations my cousins had given me: no boys, no drinking, and no acting crazy. This one tiny room I’d be calling home was not exactly an ideal place to bring a date. It didn’t matter anyway, because that was the last thing on my mind.
First on my agenda was getting a job, so I contacted David Baumgarten, the agent I’d met in Denver after the beauty pageant. He proved true to his promise to help me, and he hired me as the receptionist in his office, allowing Mom some peace of mind. The job description was simple: answering phones and directing the calls to the right people. That was perfect for me, a young woman with very few business skills. What I did have, though, was discipline and consistency. I showed up every day, taking calls and looking for more work to pick up the slack while I tried to settle into a world that moved very fast, cost a great deal more than I was accustomed to, and was extremely unfamiliar to me.
Despite the obstacles, I kept my sights set on attending film school at UCLA. There was no way I could afford it yet, but I heard about some students who were meeting on their own to do what they called “guerrilla filmmaking.” I took a risk, striding onto the campus, my back straight, my eyes focused directly ahead; I acted like I was part of the school. I found the group that was making films and pretended like I belonged there, as I learned all aspects of filmmaking, including directing, doing stunts, how to hold lights, and how to check for sound. We would stage scenes on Hollywood Boulevard and see what happened when we started shooting. It was so stimulating and creative, my interest in filmmaking was piqued even more than before.
I would have been content being a part-time student, but I couldn’t even afford that. I dreamed of becoming a legal resident of California so classes at UCLA would be inexpensive, and I continued to work and study, hoping for the best. It was very discouraging at first. I remember calling my mom one night, crying. “Mom, I don’t think I’m gonna make it. It’s so expensive here. I have two more jobs, I’m working three in all, and I still can’t bring in enough money to save for school. Gas is high, I’m paying seventy-five dollars a month for my room, and I need to live here for two years to be a resident so I can afford classes in case I get accept
ed at UCLA.”
“You have to keep trying, Pam,” she said soothingly. “You never know what will happen, and you can always come back home.”
I decided to keep moving forward, and I met new and fascinating people each time I covertly attended the film lab along with many other off-campus students starving to learn the film business. Although I wasn’t actually enrolled in UCLA, I had a sense of community since I knew people there who were like-minded. While I wasn’t getting an accredited education, I was getting a life education, and I was eager to learn even without pay or credit. I was the kind of student who was willing to go anywhere, just to learn something new.
I’d been in Los Angeles only a few weeks when I stood outside Judy’s, an upscale women’s West Los Angeles clothing store in Century City—the most beautiful store in the world, as far as I was concerned. I’d just been hired as a receptionist at a highly respected theatrical agency called the Agency for the Performing Arts (APA) on Sunset Boulevard, and I needed some appropriate work clothing. I gazed at the luxurious window designs featuring the hippest styles as I took a deep breath and got ready to walk inside. My hands were shaking. I suddenly wished my British coworker from the office had come with me. She’d offered, but I’d declined, deciding to do this one alone. I wanted to spare her and myself the ultimate embarrassment and humiliation.
Shopping for work clothes should have been business as usual, and it probably would have been—if I didn’t have dark skin and hadn’t grown up when I did. Back then, in the early sixties, blacks were not allowed to try on clothing in any store in Denver or a lot of other U.S. cities. We could go through the racks and choose what we liked, but we were barred from entering the dressing rooms. We had to buy the outfit (that eliminated choosing from several different things, because we didn’t have enough money), take it home, and try it on. Apparently it was okay to try on the clothes, as long as the general public didn’t have to witness it. Then we could keep it or return it—if it was still in the original bag with the receipt. No exceptions. If we lost a receipt or the bag, we didn’t bother trying.
It was the same thing with shoes. What did we think—that we could put our common black feet into brand-new shoes in front of a white woman who might eventually purchase them? We had to buy the shoes, too, and try them on at home, out of view. Imagine the humiliation we went through just to go shopping. But then, hundreds of years ago, before the Civil War, an early Congress had deemed a black person to be three-fifths of a human being. These perceptions and labeling leave their scars, so I couldn’t believe I was standing outside of Judy’s, about to buy clothes like a regular adult.
I was accustomed to wearing jeans and Krista’s hand-me-downs, which mostly consisted of wool sweaters, heels, and Timberland hiking boots for temperatures that would freeze your butt off. These boots were functional back then, not the fashion craze that they are today. The irony is that I was ahead of my time, wearing Timberlands when they cost $9.95 at Sears instead of $175 at Nordstrom. But no one wore wool or heavy boots in balmy Southern California. I needed something new and different. Since the secretaries at APA didn’t bat an eyelash when they heard I was heading over to Judy’s, maybe it was true—they really did let anyone try on clothes here.
I exhaled, pushed the door open, and stepped inside the store. I remained skeptical, even when a young white saleswoman walked toward me with a big smile. “Can I help you?” she said pleasantly.
“Well,” I almost whispered, “I’m looking for a white blouse and a black skirt. Something simple, comfortable, not expensive, that I can wash by hand and iron. They’re for work.”
The saleswoman continued smiling as she took a moment to look me up and down, not to judge me but rather to assess my size. Then she began gathering several blouses and skirts for me to try, casually chatting all the while. “The fitting rooms are right over there,” she said, pointing behind the checkout counter. “Oh, here’s something you might like.” She pulled a few more outfits from the rack, walked toward the fitting rooms, and hung the clothes on the hooks inside, expecting me to follow her.
“Really?” I said, standing where I was. “Are you sure?”
She looked confused as I stood there, hesitating. “Just go ahead,” she said, “and let me know how they fit.”
I tried to look nonchalant, covering my amazement as best I could. When I stepped inside the fitting room and the saleswoman pulled the curtain closed, I had to catch my breath. My mother would never believe it, and neither would my friends back home. This is what we’d been protesting and marching for—to be treated like anyone else—and it was actually happening. I stood in the fitting room, holding back tears. This was how it should be in the world, the way my mom had envisioned it, and I couldn’t wait to tell her.
CHAPTER 11
A Tall Gentleman
One of the first jobs I got in Los Angeles was being a backup singer for R&B artist Bobby Womack. I had sung most of my life, and I got the gig when I called Rosey Grier (not my cousin, by the way!), whom I already knew from radio promotion. He offered to call Bobby Womack for me, and I figured, why not? Rosey’s word was enough. Bobby hired me without hearing me sing, and he paid me the huge sum at the time of three hundred dollars a session. I could hardly believe my luck.
As if that weren’t exciting enough, Bobby said to me, “I have a friend, Sylvester Stewart, who needs some backup singers for a recording session at CBS studios. Do you want another gig?”
I agreed, but I had no idea that Sylvester Stewart was actually Sly Stone. I only found out when I arrived for work and there he was. It was good thing I didn’t know who this man was because I might have backed out from intimidation. I sang with Stevie Wonder’s backup group, Wonder Love, and the guest drummer was legend Buddy Miles. Late into the night, Jimi Hendrix himself walked into the studio to jam with Sly. I could barely tolerate so much celebrity in one room. Remember, I was the girl from Colorado, and truly had just gotten off the turnip truck.
I didn’t do much more recording at that time, but I was busy moving among my three jobs, and my friends were concerned that all I ever did was work. They were right, but I couldn’t figure out how else to survive. I was in a fog of desperation, working to make as much money as I could at every waking moment and avoiding dating. It wasn’t easy to make ends meet in an expensive city like Los Angeles, while I also tried to save money for my future college tuition—the goal that mattered to me the most.
During this time, I downplayed my looks as much as I could. Well, to be perfectly honest, I wanted to dress like a fashionable, sophisticated woman of the world instead of a starving student, but I had no money at all for clothing or makeup. And I looked like it! I had a vague idea that I looked good to men, but since being attractive meant being a vulnerable man magnet, I was in self-protection mode, and I must have been getting pretty boring.
“You need to get out, girl,” some friends told me. “Start having some fun. It’s no wonder you look depressed.”
Two rapes in my past, one that had occurred only nine months prior, might have had something to do with it. But I never talked about that. “I don’t have any clothes,” was all I said. “All I have is my white blouse, a black skirt, and some sensible shoes.”
“Go put them on, then, and we’ll pick you up.”
They took me to a smoky nightclub in the Crenshaw District called Maverick’s Flat, a favorite meeting place for contemporary black luminaries like Lionel Richie and the Commodores and basketball player Wilt Chamberlain, reputed to be an insatiable womanizer. Since trying on clothing in a store was a revelation for me, imagine how it felt to learn that wealthy, well-educated blacks were living in the Crenshaw District with sprawling mansions, swimming pools, and housekeepers. Instead of cleaning other peoples’ homes and doing their yard work, they were hiring nannies, cleaning ladies, and gardeners of their own.
When we entered Maverick’s Flat, crowds of revelers in chic and glitzy clothing and women with long, red, elega
nt nails, teetering in chunky platform heels, were buzzing around, all gathered to dance, to listen to music, to see and be seen, and to brush elbows with prominent black movie stars, musicians, and sports figures. My friends got a drink and headed for the dance floor while I sipped on a soda and sat in a corner, a wallflower, completely curious about everything and everybody. Then I noticed the tallest man I’d ever seen approaching me. I’d been watching him dance, and I have to say, as long and lanky as he was, he had great rhythm and he knew all the moves. God, was he tall! And he was wearing shades inside the club, in the evening, in the semi-darkness! He looked like a basketball player. At his towering height of seven feet two inches and the way he moved, what else could he be?
He leaned forward so his mouth was close to my ear. “Would you like to dance?” he asked, trying to make himself heard over the din of loud conversation and drum beats.
“O… kay,” I said, cautiously, wondering if he felt sorry for me.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” he said.
I shook my head. Of course I wasn’t, since I had on no makeup, I was dressed like a Sunday school teacher, my heels were only two inches high, I was drinking soda, and my hair had a simple, rather conservative curl to it. Clearly, this man was not looking for a glamorous girl to dance with. They were all over the place like a scene out of Soul Train, in their Rudi Gernreich miniskirts and mod platform shoes, ripe for the picking, if that was his pleasure. But he was talking to me, and he wanted to dance.
“You can really move out there,” I said.
“I love to dance, and I love listening to jazz,” he offered as he led me onto the dance floor.
During the evening, I learned that my dance partner’s name was Ferdinand Lewis Alcindor Jr. “Call me Lew,” he said. A burgeoning basketball star who was completing his last year at UCLA, he’d been drafted by the Milwaukee Bucks and would be moving to Wisconsin in less than a year. I told him I was trying to survive in Los Angeles, living in my cousin’s garage that had been converted into a small pool house. It had faux luau decor with a sofa bed, a tiki bar, and soft lighting. “The garage door goes up and down sometimes while I’m asleep,” I told Lew, “when the gardener comes in to get the lawn mower. ‘It’s just me,’ he tells me, ‘go back to sleep.’ ”