Great Bastards of History

by Juré Fiorillo

  Based on a poem written by a white Jewish schoolteacher, “Strange Fruit” told the story of the lynching of an African American man. “Strange fruit” was a metaphor for the swinging bodies of black lynching victims. It was a powerful, haunting, provocative song; it also broke new ground musically. Holiday referred to it as a “personal protest” against the evils of racism. Alarmed by the subject matter, and worried about a potential backlash from Southern retailers, Columbia Records refused to record “Strange Fruit.” But Billie was determined. Eventually, Commodore Records agreed to record it. The song became one of Billie’s hallmarks. Decades after it was recorded, Time magazine dubbed “Strange Fruit” the “song of the century.”

  “The first time I sang it, I thought it was a mistake,” Holiday said. “There wasn’t even a patter of applause when I finished. Then a lone person began to clap nervously. Then suddenly everyone was clapping and cheering.” According to scholar and political activist Angela Davis, the song “almost single-handedly changed the politics of American popular culture and put the elements of protest and resistance back at the center of contemporary black musical tradition.”

  Saxophonist Lester Young and Billie Holiday were kindred spirits who remained lifelong friends. Holiday referred to young as the “President of the Tenor Saxophonists.” Getty Images

  Billie Holiday began abusing drugs and alcohol in the early 1940s; she developed a heroin addiction that would plague for the rest of her life. In 1947, Holiday was sentenced to a year and a day in a West Virginia jail for drug possession.

  HEARTBREAK, ABUSE, AND ADDICTION

  After being rejected by her father one too many times, Billie finally gave up on Clarence Holiday. Of course, once her fame eclipsed his, Holiday began boasting that she inherited her talent from him. His crowing was too little, too late. During her career, Billie hired hundreds of musicians—and nearly every guitarist in Harlem—except her father. He was bitter about this slight, conveniently forgetting how he had abandoned Billie as a child. For Billie it was a form of payback.

  Professionally, Billie’s star was on the rise. Her personal life, however, was rife with heartbreak and disappointment. She seemed desperate for someone to love and accept her. She was drinking heavily, and she developed an addiction to heroin. Billie carried on a string of love affairs, each one more disastrous than the last. Her lovers, several of whom were female, preyed on her insecurities. They also drained her growing bank account. She married trombonist Jimmie Monroe in 1941 but left him for another musician, trumpet player Joe Guy.

  In 1947, Billie Holiday was tried and found guilty of drug possession. She was sentenced to a year and a day in West Virginia’s Federal Reformatory for Women. The drug treatment the judge promised Billie would receive was not forthcoming. Billie quit heroin cold turkey, sweating and writhing in agony on a thin mattress in her cell for nearly three weeks. When she recovered, she was assigned prison cleaning duties. The facility was made up of a half dozen buildings, each housing fifty women. Holiday washed the floors and windows and kept the prison tidy.

  She refused to sing, even when the warden asked her to participate in the prison talent show. “The whole basis of my singing is feeling. In the whole time I was there, I didn’t feel a thing,” Holiday said. A model prisoner, Holiday was granted early release after eight months. Her manager arranged for her to sing at Carnegie Hall two weeks later. According to a music critic for Down Beat magazine, she received “one of the most thunderous ovations ever given a performer in this or any other hall.”

  In 1957, Billie married Louis McKay, a man with alleged ties to organized crime. McKay tried his best to help his new wife stay off drugs. He wasn’t successful. Billie continued in a sad downward spiral. Her dreams of having a loving, supportive family died with her parents. She was depressed and unable to kick her heroin addiction.

  Billie Holiday gave her last concert in Manhattan in May 1959. Two months later, on July 17, she died in Metropolitan Hospital while under arrest for drug possession. She was forty-four years old. Doctors attributed her death to lung congestion and heart failure.

  All her life she longed to be loved, never realizing that she was beloved by everyone who heard her sing. Fifty years after her untimely demise, her voice continues to captivate and deeply move listeners. In his autobiography, President Barack Obama described the first time he heard her sing: “Beneath the layers of hurt, beneath the ragged laughter, I heard a willingness to endure … and make music that wasn’t there before.”

  In 1972, Diana Ross portrayed Billie in the film version of her life story, Lady Sings the Blues. Holiday influenced countless singers, from Ella Fitzgerald to Frank Sinatra, Peggy Lee, Nina Simone, and Janis Joplin. In 2000, Billie Holiday was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. She remains a seminal figure in jazz music.

  One of the first African American singers to perform with an all-white band, Billie Holiday broke down racial barriers in the music industry. Offstage and on the road however, she experienced discrimination because of her color. Redferns / Getty Images

  CHAPTER 14

  EVA PERÓN

  A STRUGGLING ACTRESS REMAKES HERSELF INTO A CULTURAL ICON

  1919–1952

  SHE BEGAN LIFE POOR, PLAIN, AND ILLEGITIMATE. AN IRON WILL, RELENTLESS AMBITION, AND HER OWN SEXUALITY TRANSFORMED HERSELF INTO THE WEALTHY, GLAMOROUS, AND CONTROVERSIAL FIRST LADY OF ARGENTINA.

  THEY WAITED OUTSIDE FOR HOURS, FILLING THE STREETS IN THE CENTER of Buenos Aires. It was spring 1944, and the weather in the capital of Argentina was perfect. The women stood shoulder to shoulder, clasping the hands of their small children. The men gathered on the sidelines, smoking cigarettes and feigning disinterest. The soft rumble of a pair of automobiles filled the air.

  An excited murmur spread through the crowd as two sleek, freshly polished black sedans approached. Four military officers exited the first car and approached the second, out of which emerged Juan Perón, the handsome secretary of labor. At forty-eight, he cut a dashing figure in his crisp uniform. He carried himself with an air of relaxed authority. His power was evident in the way he walked and in the deferential way the officers treated him.

  “You are very popular, sir,” one of the officers said. “The people love Perón.” It was true: Juan Perón’s popularity was growing, a fact that pleased the man who aspired to be president of this southern South American country. However, he was fully aware that the crowd was not there for him. No, they were there to see Evita. Their intense affection for his lover was unprecedented. Evita’s brilliant success with the poor and the working class pleased him. A vain man, Perón thought of Evita as his creation, and as creator, he basked in her reflected glory. Without him, the twenty-four-year-old would still be a struggling actress. Of course, Evita viewed her success much differently.

  Born in a rural town and raised in poverty by a single, unmarried mother, Eva Perón carved out her own destiny—and a place in history when she became Argentina’s First Lady. The Granger Collection, New York

  The crowd surged forward, pushing, craning their necks for a closer look. And then suddenly, she emerged, slipping from the darkness of the car into the night air. Her golden hair, pinned up to resemble a conch shell, glistened under the street lamps. Perón moved aside, allowing the crowd an unobstructed view of Evita. Women cried out, children sung out her name. Perón grinned broadly, clearly enjoying the effect his lover had on the Argentine people.

  As they called out her name and reached forward to touch her hands, it was clear that she belonged not to this proud, powerful man, but to them, the people. The officers gently pushed the crowd back. But Evita was not afraid. She waved, and then bowed deferentially to the crowd.

  Evita’s clothes were a stark contrast to the threadbare rags worn by many of the people who called out to her. Her gown, custom designed and created, rivaled that of any Hollywood movie star. A string of precious gems embraced her neck. The shoes that adorned her feet, and raised her height sever
al inches above her five-and-a-half feet, were handmade from the finest Italian leather. Those shoes cost more than some Argentines made in a year.

  Yet, rather than begrudge Evita these excesses, the crowd cheered its approval. She hailed from humble origins, just like they did. When she draped herself in furs and jewels and donned the latest European fashions, she did it as much for them as for herself. She represented them—having been born poor and raised in the most unpretentious circumstances. Her success was their success, and they wanted her to look every bit as glamorous as she did. No one understood this better than Eva herself.

  Despite her dazzling appearance and the adoration of the common people, Evita was persona non grata with many Argentines. In hopes that her beauty and haute couture would gain her acceptance by the oligarchy—the elite group of Argentines that ran country—Juan Perón had spared no expense on Evita’s wardrobe that night. But they openly snubbed her. They saw her as common, an illegitimate girl from the rural Pampas—worse still, as a social-climbing actress who used sex to gain entrance into the most vaunted circles.

  Evita was not ashamed that she had escaped a life of insignificance and obscurity. She held her head high and continued to appear at Perón’s side, as if she had every right to be there. If the oligarchy thought she would simply go away, they were terribly wrong. If Evita could not make the upper classes love her, then she would do without their love. And she would make them pay.

  HARDSHIP AND HUMBLE BEGINNINGS

  Evita came into the world on May 7, 1919. Named María Eva Duarte, she was the youngest of five illegitimate children born to Juana Ibarguren and Juan Duarte, a wealthy, married man who maintained another, legitimate family in another town. The Ibarguren-Duarte family lived in a small house on the ranch that Juan Duarte operated on the Pampas, the vast fertile Argentine plains near the rural village of Los Toldos. They lived like any other family, if not a little better, as the income Duarte earned from the ranch enabled him to buy his children good, leather shoes. Most children in the area wore espadrilles. Straw-soled, fabric shoes with fabric ankle ties, espadrilles were the shoes of the lower classes.

  Eva never forgot her roots. As First Lady, she expressed a deep affection and understanding for the poor and underprivileged classes known as los descamisados—who in turn, adored her. She helped enact social welfare programs to support the indigent and her suffrage campaign was instrumental in winning women the right to vote. AFP/Getty Images

  Eva was a small child who often accompanied Duarte as he made his rounds on the ranch. He hoisted her high on his shoulders, providing her with an unobstructed view of the vast Pampas. Juana was a heavy-set, voluptuous woman who viewed herself as a wife, not a mistress. The children had the run of the ranch and considered their family to be like any other. Their contentment was shattered with the arrival of the real Mrs. Duarte. While she visited her husband, Juana was relegated to the role of a cook, and the children were ordered to remain out of sight.

  Not long after that visit, Juan Duarte returned to his legal family, leaving Juana and the children destitute. Forced to vacate the ranch, they moved into a one-room apartment in a rundown part of a nearby town, Junín. Juana did her best to support her large brood, working as a maid during the day and making alterations on her sewing machine at night for money. Sometimes she would hint that Duarte would be back. In fact, the family would never see him alive again.

  Although they were poor, Juana kept her children well dressed and well scrubbed. She was vigilant about their appearances and made all their clothes herself. They outgrew the leather shoes Duarte bought them and now wore espadrilles instead.

  In Junín, people stared whenever the Ibarguren-Duarte family passed by. Many of the townspeople shunned them. Some children were forbidden from playing with Eva and her siblings. A classmate told Eva it was because of Juana. A rumor spread through town that Eva’s grandmother had sold Juana to Duarte, like one sells a horse to a rancher, or a cow to a farmer. In school one day, two classmates teased Eva and her sister Erminda about their last name. “You’re not really Duartes,” the girls said. Eva didn’t understand. Later, her brother Juancito explained their illegitimacy to her. Seven-year-old Eva had trouble sleeping that night. She curled up on her side listening to the hum of her mother’s sewing machine and wondering whether what Juancito had told her was true.

  Eva was quiet and well behaved, though she resented her humble home, her espadrilles, and the way the townspeople whispered about her family. She spent hours poring over glossy star magazines. She loved the Hollywood style and fantasized about becoming a movie star. Canadian-born Norma Shearer was her favorite actress. Eva knew she was special—but no one else seemed to notice this. She knew that one day the world would see how special she was. She would wear the latest fashions and the best leather shoes, and walk with her head held high.

  She was seven when Juan Duarte died. Juana felt it was their duty—and their right—to attend his funeral. Juana dressed in black, like a widow, and shepherded her children to Duarte’s house in time for the funeral. Eva and her siblings stared at the palatial home in awe. Juana knocked on the door. A woman answered and began yelling. Frightened, Eva hid behind her mother. A man with a hard face gently ushered the woman back inside. He told Juana she alone could come inside to view the body. He seemed to look through the children as if they were glass. Absently brushing Eva’s hand from her leg, Juana followed the man, leaving her children outside waiting on the doorstep.

  Eva heard raised voices inside the house and then wailing. Juana left the house a few minutes later, her posture erect and proud, her eyes red and swollen. Eva knew she had been crying. The Ibarguren-Duarte family waited outside, like beggars, for what seemed like hours. Finally, the people inside the house emerged. A few of them stared at Eva’s family with angry eyes. There were children, too; Eva would later learn that these were her half-siblings. The man who had closed the door on them spoke to Juana in hurried, hushed tones. Juana nodded silently.

  Several men carried out a coffin. Juancito told Eva that their father was inside the coffin. Eva was silent. She had little memory of her father. But seeing her mother and sisters cry made her cry, too. She and her sister Erminda huddled together, wishing they were elsewhere.

  Eva was not sure which was worse—being stared at by angry eyes or being invisible. She had trouble understanding the business of adults, but she did know that these rich people hated her mother, Eva, and her siblings. The strangers scared her, but they also made her angry. Eva’s clothes were homemade, but she was just as good as these people in the fancy house.

  Even at that age, she had a keen awareness of the injustice of their situation.

  Decades later, she recounted the ordeal in her autobiography. “I remember very well that I was sad for many days when it occurred to me that in the world there were poor and there were rich; and the strange thing is that it was not so much the existence of the poor that made me sorry as the knowledge that there were rich at the same time.”

  DETERMINED TO REMAKE HERSELF AND TRANSCEND HER CLASS, EVA NEVER FORGOT HER BEGINNINGS AND MADE IT HER PRIORITY TO HELP THE LOWER CLASSES WHEN SHE BECAME FIRST LADY OF ARGENTINA.

  Eva was unsettled that some people could have so much while others had so little. The inequality rankled her. Determined to remake herself and transcend her class, she never forgot her beginnings and made it her priority to help the lower classes when she became first lady of Argentina.

  A TINY GIRL WITH BIG DREAMS

  With Eva’s older siblings working and pitching in financially, the family was able to move into a small house in a better section of town. Money was still tight, and to make ends meet, Juana began taking single male borders in. Eva tried to ignore the whispers of peers and townspeople, who said her mother did more than cook for these men. It hurt Eva to hear such talk, and she felt deeply ashamed—of her mother and of herself, for being Juana’s daughter. These feelings aroused a sense of guilt in the young girl. Juana w
orked so hard to support the family; Eva knew she should be thankful to have a roof over her head. She was conflicted: She loved her mother, and she was embarrassed of her.

  In the rural towns and villages, most girls stayed at home, married local boys, and repeated the pattern their parents had established. Eva was not like these girls; a mundane life in a small town was not good enough for her. She was afraid of spending her life in obscurity. The images in the Hollywood magazines she pored over filled her head. Eva dreamed of wearing glittering designer gowns, hobnobbing with movie stars, and leading a life of pure glamour. She longed to emulate the beautiful screen goddesses she read about.

  Evita was a mediocre actress who found success as a radio host. Her slightly nasal intonation and plain way of speaking appealed to the masses; the upper classes, however, found her voice and on-air delivery distasteful and “common.”

  When Eva was fifteen, she left Junín for Buenos Aires. Like much of her life, the manner in which she arrived in the Argentine capital is uncertain. Several biographers contend that the teenager hooked up with a much older, married singer named Agustín Magaldi, and that it was Magaldi who brought Eva to the big city. However, an equal number of historians argue that Eva never met Magaldi, and that she moved to Buenos Aires on her own.

  Whatever the truth, within a year Eva was living on her own, eking out a meager living as a theater actress. Her roles were small, and most were nonspeaking. A mere slip of a girl, the brunette Eva purposely starved herself, perhaps afraid of looking, and thus becoming, like her fleshy, morally ambiguous, stout mother. Eva looked nothing like Juana, but as a young adult she followed her mother’s lead and used her sexuality as a means to survive and get ahead in a strictly patriarchal society. One lover cast her in a play, another helped her land work as a print model, and yet another gave Eva her big break in radio. Every new role, every new lover, and every new connection brought her closer to her dreams.