Foxy

by Pam Grier

  In fact, I was getting accolades tantamount to his. I had become one of the most recognizable female stars of the blaxploitation genre. My characters pulled out shotguns and blew away armies of abusive pimps, aggravating johns, corrupt politicians, pushy whores, and anybody else who got in my way. This movement of which I was such a prominent member was shadowing the women’s movement, where women were demanding equal rights to men in art, business, family, and all aspects of life. My movies featured women claiming the right to fight back, which previously had been out of the question. My roles were written as vanguard personalities who were the first to defend themselves against violence and prejudice. At the same time, these women were determined to bring peace to a situation rather than engage in the draconian ways of war in the lower income communities.

  Freddie’s and my fame were rising at the same time, but while I felt I didn’t really deserve the accolades and was generally wary, Freddie seemed to be eating them up. I understood, because we were both being exposed to a new kind of life that was hard to turn one’s back on. I was being given entire floors of hotels and first-class plane tickets whenever I needed to travel, and so was Freddie. But for me, the ugly racial prejudices were still at play in my world when, for instance, a flight attendant didn’t recognize me and questioned why a woman of color should have the right to sit in first class. She was about to escort me to the back of the plane when my film rep stood up for me. Some things never change.

  While Freddie and I were enjoying our ascension to stardom and were very attracted to each other, I refused to sleep with him at first. I made it clear that I really liked him, I was very attracted to him, but I was also aware of his reputation. I was not interested in a “booty call” or becoming a notch on his belt. I wanted more than that from a man, and getting pregnant was not an option at the time. I was still determined to keep my goals in sight.

  As a result, before we ever got into bed together, I insisted we get to know each other. We went to different restaurants each night and talked about our lives. Freddie was fascinated with skiing, which I loved and he wanted to learn. He loved my stories about the Black West, and he wanted to come to Colorado and meet my family. I found that romantic, and so was going to Catalina Island for dinner one evening.

  We sailed there on a tour boat. Freddie played in the arcade, and we checked out the town and ate in a great Italian restaurant for which Catalina was famous. We also walked up and down the marina, where Freddie admired the extravagant yachts. He suddenly took on the persona of a yacht owner, speaking with a British accent, pretending to wear a monocle, and ordering his phantom crew members around with a slight lisp. He made me laugh so hard, I begged him to stop until he beckoned me to join him as the lady of the yacht, the captain’s wife. He often took on alternate personalities and created scenarios until it seemed like he was giving me a private stand-up routine, always encouraging me to play the game with him.

  We spent a lot of time talking about our dreams, where we had come from, and where we wanted to go. Freddie was part Puerto Rican and Hungarian, and he turned to me to be one of his mentors in life. I took the job willingly, entranced with his romanticism and his passion for life. I loved that Freddie constantly told me how beautiful I was, asked me questions, and actually listened to the answers. He may have been chronologically younger than I was, but he often showed a maturity beyond his years. When we finally became lovers, we were truly in love, deeply affectionate, and eager to support each other in any way we could.

  It turned out that Freddie had the best taste in clothes of any man I knew. While I was more rural, he was more urban, and he really knew how to put an outfit together. I showed him how to hold his own in his various business dealings and new projects, and he helped me pick out my clothes and take on the glamorous affect of a movie star, in keeping with the advice I was getting from Tamara, my other mentor.

  It was a powerful time for me when feminine activist and editor Gloria Steinem decided to put me on the cover of Ms. magazine. I was thrilled, and stunned when I found out that she had to fight her own company to feature me, a woman of color, in her magazine. Her board consisted of a group of old-school publishers who thought a black face would not sell makeup or anything else, no matter how good she looked. Gloria Steinem defied them, and my cover article was a hit, not only for the quality of the photo but also because of Gloria’s chutzpah in using me as her lead story.

  Another great honor was being offered the job of emcee at the NAACP Awards. This was prestigious because it celebrated my success as a leading actress. I was being honored for determination as a woman of color with no mention of blaxploitation. It was enough to simply be a woman of color.

  I asked Freddie to be my escort, and he helped me pick my clothes and rehearse my speech. “You have to wear fur,” he told me.

  “Why?” I asked him. Wearing fur was a prestige symbol for most movie stars, but I was against it. I was accustomed to seeing living fur running in the wild, not dead fur hanging in my closet. I left that to runway models, who seemed as comfortable in fur as the animal who had unwittingly sacrificed its life. I, on the other hand, got queasy wearing suede, so forget about mink or sable. “Don’t you feel empathy for the little animals that were killed?” I asked Freddie.

  Apparently he didn’t, so I bent to Hollywood’s customs and agreed to wear fur that night, to please Freddie and the people who wanted me to represent the glamour and glitz. I could only imagine how my dogs would bark at me if they ever saw me wearing one of their cousins on my back.

  The night of the awards, Freddie came to pick me up wearing his tuxedo, a shiny pair of black shoes, and an expensive tie. He stood about six feet tall, and I could hardly believe he was my date when I met him at the door, still in my robe. He strode in with a huge smile and helped me with my hair, my makeup, and my speech. I remember him asking me to stand on the couch in my robe, my hair still in rollers, while he had me practice my talk. He was trying to instill confidence in me, and the next thing I knew, he was trying to kiss me and take off my underwear.

  I playfully pushed him away. “C’mon, Freddie,” I said, giggling, “I really have to get ready.”

  “Let’s be late,” he said, trying to unhook my bra.

  “No,” I moaned. There was no way I would be late for an honor like this. Freddie knew that, and although he was joking, I took a mental note that he was acting frivolous about something very important to me. “Do you want me to get there with nappy hair?” I teased, feeling a little anxious.

  “We’re not going,” he teased back. “I can see the headlines now: ‘Pam Grier is a no-show at the NAACP Awards. She and her lover stayed home and fucked each other’s brains out.’ ”

  I couldn’t help but wonder if he was trying to control me by making me late. My mom had warned about men trying to control me. Would I have to encounter this with every relationship? I had never thought Freddie fit into this category; I didn’t think he would even joke about making me late. After all, the show was live. But I paid attention.

  He finally let go and helped me do my hair and put the finishing touches on my makeup. I wore a designer dress from Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, a cream knit with sequins, and despite my protests, I wore a silver fox fur that he had bought me. My Charles Jourdan gold high heels with straps that wrapped around my ankles and a platform sole were identical to a pair once worn by Tina Turner. But I refused to wear diamonds. I was a political activist, aware of the oppressive diamond industry in South Africa, and I wanted no part of it.

  Freddie tried to sway my decision, but I was adamant. “I can’t support a diamond industry that’s oppressing its people to the point of slavery,” I told him.

  “But they’re mined in Amsterdam,” he argued.

  “No,” I said. “They get processed in Amsterdam, but they come from South Africa.”

  “That’s why I love you,” he said. “You really care about other people.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Fame
and Relationships

  Freddie and I were getting amazingly close, and I considered marrying him—not that he had asked. We had become inseparable when we were in the same city, and he had gained enough trust to really confide in me. He was truthful to a fault, he was punctual, and we shared a professional work ethic. When either of us was working, we supported each other by refusing to be an impediment to the other’s dream. Freddie was never jealous of my success, and I was not jealous of his, one of the overwhelming issues present in almost any romantic relationship. We both enjoyed fast cars, great movies, and watching other stand-ups work.

  As much as we cared about each other, however, there were some serious obstacles that emerged the longer we dated. No matter how much I was growing to love Freddie, in the back of my mind I couldn’t help but wonder about fame and relationships. How could two people stay connected and raise children when we were both so goal and career oriented? We were often on different sides of the country. When you have children, someone needs to be home to see them off to school each day and put them to bed at night. Would one of us have to give up our dreams to raise a family?

  The drug culture was another major obstacle. It was on the rise, and many comedians (along with a whole lot of other people) were doing a lot of cocaine as well as LSD and other hallucinogens. Coke was becoming a daily thing for Freddie and the rest of his friends, but I couldn’t accept it. The more coke Freddie did, the more he dropped his inhibitions, suddenly acting rude and unrestrained, with no filters to his language. He became less prudent when he was high, speaking in stream of consciousness and losing all track of time. His trustworthiness disappeared, and he became capricious and undependable. And he wanted me to indulge, too. But if I did what he did, how would we ever get home without a designated driver? Would we be photographed by the paparazzi, sitting at a bus stop together, all high and raggedy, waiting for a ride home?

  When I continued to refuse to do drugs with Freddie, he became paranoid. “Why won’t you play with me?” he asked. He jumped into his Groucho persona to lighten up the mood.

  “This isn’t about you,” I told him. “I have to keep my mind clear.”

  As if he hadn’t heard me, he said, “You should go to New York and do Broadway.”

  I appreciated his confidence in me. He really seemed to have faith in me, and when he was sober, we got along great. But one night, as we got into bed at his place, I asked Freddie, “Where are the condoms?”

  “I forgot them,” he said.

  “C’mon, where are they?” I asked again. I knew there was a drawer full of them. I also knew how much Freddie disliked condoms. Was he being lazy, or was he trying to get me pregnant?

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll pull out.”

  “Do you know how many ‘pull out’ babies there are? You and I might be pull-out babies.”

  A pattern was emerging. He would start wrestling with me, the energy would get sexual, and he would want to have sex without contraception. Each and every time I refused to be with him without a condom, he said, “Don’t you want to have my baby, Pam? I thought you loved me.”

  “Do you see your big head?” I joked with him. “I better be really drunk when I give birth to your Fredito, with a head as big as yours. I’m not ready for no big-headed kid.” And we both hollered with laughter. But this condom conversation, a continuing saga in our relationship, was no laughing matter. Did he want to be the man to “knock up” Pam Grier, the star of Coffy? I knew Freddie loved me, but he was a man, and he was capable of that kind of ego trip. When I realized he really was trying to get me pregnant, I made it very clear that no, I did not want to have a child right now.

  One night, when we had finished off a bottle of champagne, I asked him if he had brought a condom. It seemed like the champagne was acting as some sort of truth serum when he admitted, “I am trying to get you pregnant. I love you, and I’m afraid you may not marry me. You may want out because I’m not cool enough. Or this or that enough. But if you have my baby, I’ll have a connection to you that will never go away.”

  “You need to be as committed to your work as you are to me,” I told him.

  He shrugged that off. He was so caught up in the drug culture, he was neglecting his work and going for more fame and fortune. But his misery and pain were surfacing. I was learning that while comedians brought joy and laughter to the people around them, they were often tragic figures with a great deal of sadness in their lives. I saw this playing out when Freddie called me from the set at NBC, pleading with me to take him away from it all. “Pam,” he said, “come and get me. I’ll give this up right now if we can move to a farm in Colorado, get married, and have kids.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after he had filled his nose with enough white powder to forget his pain, he called back to say, “Hey, I just made a great deal. They want me for a comedy special.”

  The roller-coaster ride was on, and as far as I could see, there was no end in sight. How could I bring a child into the world with a parent as unstable as Freddie? I couldn’t do it to a child, and I couldn’t do it to myself. I was also upset because it seemed that the bigger a star Freddie became, the more his reps discounted me. They might have seen me as a threat. I was a woman of color. I was also a threat because I was a positive influence on him, encouraging him to clean up his life, whatever it took. What if I talked Freddie into quitting drugs and taking off ?

  Between Freddie’s management and his denial concerning his drug addiction, I had to step back. I asked him if he understood that what he was doing was illegal. Freddie believed that his fame catapulted him to being above the law, but I tried to explain to him that there are natural laws that cause your body and mind to break down when you neglect your health and well-being.

  The day I pushed him away for good was one of the saddest days of my life. When I look back, I can say without a doubt that Freddie truly was one of the great loves of my life. But I really had no choice. “You let yourself become a commodity instead of a human being,” I told him. “Now they see you as a product or a brand. I love you too much to continue to watch this.”

  He knew I was right, but he couldn’t muster the inner strength to do anything about it. Everyone was fighting over him while all he could do was withdraw and drug himself even more. There were so many people pulling at Freddie, I finally realized there was no place for me. Freddie insisted I was being dramatic, but I held my ground. When I finally ended it, he was inconsolable.

  “We’ll still be friends,” I told him. “I love you and I’ll be here for you. I just can’t let you get me pregnant.”

  “I don’t want to be friends,” he said. “I have enough friends.”

  I must have sounded patronizing and condescending to him. No lover wants to hear the words “We can still be friends.” It feels like a consolation prize.

  As his depression escalated, I distanced myself by filming Foxy Brown, an action/adventure film about a sexy black woman who seeks revenge when her government-agent boyfriend is shot down by gangsters. Jack Hill, my old friend, was the director, and I understood the role since Foxy Brown was a fighter and so was I. While my role in Coffy had reminded me of my mother, a nurse who stood up for herself, Foxy Brown was my aunt Mennon, who had a bad temper and was quick to pick a fight.

  When I signed on for Coffy and Foxy Brown, the leading role in Sheba, Baby was the third of a three-part deal. I played a woman named Sheba Shayne who returned to her hometown to find thugs trying to steal the family business from her father. I also did a film called Friday Foster, where I worked with the iconic Eartha Kitt. I was also honored to play a role in the blockbuster TV miniseries Roots. I had made it. I was a working actress, and I took roles that appealed to me and did the best I could with them.

  CHAPTER 21

  John and Harry

  During the time between my breakup with Freddie and his tragic death, I was true to my word as he and I stopped being lovers and stayed in touch. When he was considering getting
married to someone I didn’t know, I was the one he called to talk it over. I asked him, “Are you sure this is the right woman for you? Will she be there for you when you need her?”

  In the end, he didn’t pay much attention to my advice. It was his time of jet-setting, squandering abundance, and moving fast and furiously without thinking things through. The Eagles’ lyric “Everything, all the time” from their famous song “Life in the Fast Lane” rang true as the sexual revolution was in full swing.

  Women were clamoring for their independence, and for the first time we talked openly about men’s penises. We wanted equality in everything: work, friends, and sexuality. It’s as if we walked out of the kitchen, took off our aprons, put on our platform shoes, bell bottoms, and halter tops, and we were ready to play like men—and with men. Freedom of expression was the main focus back then. Suddenly whites could listen to James Brown without being called “nigger lovers,” and blacks could sing along with the Beatles and the Rolling Stones without being called “Uncle Toms.” A new era was unfolding, and the message was “Love your body. Love your breasts. You are beautiful exactly as you are.”

  Who offered more to this explosive era than the Beatles, and particularly John Lennon? We were all Beatle crazy, and I could not believe my luck when I had the opportunity to meet John Lennon himself through a mutual friend, Jack Haley Jr., who went on to marry Liza Minnelli.

  It was 1974, when Victoria Principal, one of the stars of the future hit show Dallas, and I had been chosen as Oscar Girls. Our job (considered a great honor) was to dress in long white gowns and guide the stunned stars who had just won an Oscar across the stage to the backstage area, where they would be photographed by the press. That year, Jack Haley was producing the show, Marty Pasetta was directing, Peter Lawford was a presenter, Burt Reynolds was one of the emcees, and we were even graced with the presence of a streaker, a buck naked man who ran behind David Niven when he was introducing an award. For some unknown reason, streaking was all the rage right then, and our award show was definitely one of the main marks for any streaker worth his salt.