by Donald Bogle
In the summer of 1976, Cliff Barrows asked if she was well enough to attend a Crusade in San Diego in August. After she agreed to go, she told a friend, “Well, this is probably659 my last Crusade. So I’ll be looking for ya’ in heaven.”
During this time, she was in and out of the hospital. Twila Knaack recalled that shortly after the Crusade in San Diego, Waters entered the City of Hope Hospital in Duarte, California. It had not been an easy decision for her to make, but she had almost no energy now, and she was racked with pain. After undergoing tests, she was informed by a physician that she had cancer of the uterus; it was inoperable, but it was arranged for her to undergo daily radiation treatment. At one point, the doctors suggested that she take a ride around the hospital grounds in a wheelchair. “I’m not about to660 go outside,” she told Knaack. Ruth Graham came to the hospital to see her, but Ethel was too weak to fully respond to her friend’s visit. She stayed at the City of Hope Hospital for three months and then the doctors let her return home. There was nothing more they could do for her.
Now she was faced with another dilemma. She was too weak to remain in the Bunker Hill apartment alone, but under no circumstances did she want to enter another convalescent home. Ethel recalled that a married couple, Paul and Juliann DeKorte, whom she had known for several years and referred to as her children, once had offered her a place to live in their home. For Ethel, the decision to move to the DeKortes’ had to have been a hard one. It meant the days of her independence had come to an end. It also meant that she was about to make the last stop on her long life’s journey. Though she was in great pain and often questioned why her Lord had not yet taken her, though she let those around her know that she was ready to go and not afraid to die, she nonetheless would be saying good-bye to the people and places she had known for so long.
Paul DeKorte was a singer who, along with pianist Dick Bolks, had performed with Ethel at some of her sacred concerts. Juliann DeKorte was a registered nurse. With their two children, the DeKortes lived in a home in Chatsworth, California. One of Ethel’s physicians told Juliann DeKorte, “Might I say, while661 we all love her, she has been a very difficult patient.” The very day she was preparing to leave the hospital, Ethel had fussed with a nurse who had offered her a wheelchair. “No!” Ethel brusquely told her. ‘I don’t want any wheelchair. I’m going to leave this place the same way I came in—walking!”
In a room that had been Paul DeKorte’s study, a hospital bed and, later, oxygen tanks were installed. So too were Ethel’s television and radio. Here Ethel would live for the rest of her life. Juliann DeKorte remembered that the radio was on continuously, playing at all hours of the day and night. The paintings that originally were on the walls were in time replaced by photographs of Ethel at various times in her career. Ethel also requested that her recordings be brought from her Bunker Hill apartment. Eventually, her furniture was also moved to the DeKortes’, but Ethel did not immediately give up the apartment. Insistent on paying rent to the DeKortes, she clearly still wanted it known that, contrary to the published reports, she was not broke. She still had her nest egg.
“One thing I found663 out right away,” said Juliann DeKorte, “was that it was impossible to win on a point in which I differed in opinion from her.” DeKorte said that she gave up on trying to understand Ethel, who was such a “complex personality.” “She could be stern664 and stubborn—yet gentle, loving, and kind. She could be blunt, unyielding, and strict—yet wise, generous, and forgiving. She even became frustrated at times with her own many-faceted personality. She once admitted, ‘I’m more comfortable with Ethel Waters, now that she’s a Christian. But I don’t understand her all the time.’ ” And Ethel appreciated her time with the DeKortes—with all the activity in the house with the children. “I want to be a part of things,” she told Juliann. “I’ve been a loner all my life, and I’m tired of it.” When visitors came, she gave away her possessions.
When Joan Croomes learned that Ethel was in Chatsworth—and nearing the end of her life—she called her. “I talked to her once or twice. But I never went out there. That’s why my husband said—I got the call to go—but he said, ‘I wouldn’t go. I want you not to go.’ And I said, ‘Well, yes, we must go.’ And he said, ‘I’m not going.’ And I know I couldn’t have made it without him or somebody like that. I just couldn’t go.”
While she was living at the DeKortes’, there were other hospital stays. At one point, she was admitted to Westpark Hills Hospital to be treated for blood clots in her right leg. At another time, gangrene developed in her foot, and she was taken to the Motion Picture County Hospital in Woodland Hills. There, physicians discovered that her kidneys were failing; therefore, they couldn’t operate on her foot. There was another trip back to Westpark. Eventually, she returned to the DeKortes’. For a time, she refused pain medication, but when the pain became even more intense, she did take medication for relief. Juliann DeKorte remained by her side.
On September 1, 1977, Ethel Waters died. Juliann DeKorte recalled that her last words were: “Merciful Father—precious Jesus.”
The news of her death, though certainly not unexpected, seemed to surprise many. She had lived so long amid so many ills and severe discomforts—for almost twenty years—yet she had remained a figure on the nation’s cultural landscape. It had looked as if she couldn’t die. The New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, the Philadelphia Bulletin, and other newspapers ran front-page obituaries. Later, writers Leonard Feather, Gary Giddins, Alvin White, Sally Placksin, Susannah McCorkle, and others gave fine appraisals of her work.
Some two hundred mourners gathered at Forest Lawn Cemetery in Glendale, California, for her funeral services. Arrangements for the service and burial had been made by Twila Knaack. The funeral rites were conducted by members of the Graham team, led by Dr. Grady Wilson. Billy and Ruth Graham were traveling in Eastern Europe at the time and were unable to attend. But the couple sent a cablegram “praising Ms Waters, as ‘a superstar’ not only onstage and screen but in her personal religious faith.” Some show business friends were in attendance as well: Reginald Beane; Pearl Bailey, who had always been open in her admiration of Waters; actress Lillian Randolph; pianist Dorothy Donegan; actor Joel Fluellen; Ethel’s friend from Philadelphia, Sue McDonald; and a woman identified as Oletha White, who said she was Waters’ foster sister and had traveled as a dancer in Waters’ tours in the South. Flowers had come from Pearl Bailey, Sammy Davis Jr., Irving Berlin, and MGM. The Graham team also sent floral arrangements. According to Twila Knaack, the ribbon on the arrangements said “Mom.” During the service, a tape was played of Waters singing.
Later it was revealed that on August 20—less than a month before she died—Ethel had drawn up a will. Its executor was a Los Angeles attorney, John Caldwell. Her assets, listed at approximately $10,000, were to go to the Ethel Waters Trust Agreement. Her only heir was her half-sister, Genevieve Howard, who was to receive for the rest of her life $175 a month plus $100 a month for living expenses. To the very end, Ethel had been determined to take care of her family. Upon Howard’s death, the trust was to be distributed to the World Evangelism and Christian Education Fund of the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association.
Later generations would often think of Waters, if they thought of her at all, as an elderly matriarch who had occasionally appeared on television—and who, so they had been told, had once been a singer. Few might realize her great contributions to popular culture. On those songs of the late 1920s and 1930s when she spoke to the guy in her life, laying down the law, she had surely been a precursor to rap—with her insistent, steamy, rhythmic messages about the way life should be lived. When she sang with that crystal clarity, she had led the way for countless other stars who strove to do as she had: to tell a story in song; to express through lyrics an emotion or an attitude; to carry in melody the sweet rhythm and drive of a popular song—and to make her listeners sometimes swoon and wander off into a sweet dream all their own. In her music, she had als
o challenged attitudes and assumptions about a woman’s place and a woman’s sexuality. Her independence and assertiveness were an integral part of her style, her presence, her allure. Her glamour had been important too, especially at a time when most African American women, especially browner Black women, were thought not to possess it. She had thrown such assumptions aside and lived like a queen, like a daring goddess—and set the stage for decades of gorgeous ”dark divas” to follow. As an actress, she had, for a time, gone where no African American woman—and few African American men—had been able to travel: to use a role to unlock her personal agonies; to make visible the otherwise invisible torment of seemingly ordinary people, her people; to force open the doors of Broadway to a highfalutin powerful African American actress. Through it all, she may have kicked and screamed and raised holy hell in a way that mystified and even frightened those around her. But she had to claim her turf; she had to do that from the time she was a girl in Philadelphia and Chester. And throughout, her humor—self-deprecating and ribald—had never failed her. In that later period of her life, her religious faith and endurance had been a source of inspiration for millions.
Later generations might have forgotten or never learned who she was. But all anyone had to do was see her in Cabin in the Sky or Pinky or The Member of the Wedding to understand her power and supreme talent. All anyone had to do was hear her sing “Am I Blue?” or “Stormy Weather” or “Heat Wave” or “Taking a Chance on Love” or “Happiness Is a Thing Called Joe” to understand as well. Better still, all anyone had to do was hear “Shake That Thing” to know, as Joan Croomes said Ethel liked to say, that even with divas of a later age, Miss Ethel Waters could still show those bitches.
Acknowledgments
No book is ever completed without the assistance, generosity, and encouragement of others. It is a pleasure to acknowledge the many individuals and research institutions and archives that proved important during the four years it took to research and write Heat Wave: The Life and Career of Ethel Waters.
Foremost I would like to express my gratitude to those who graciously consented to be interviewed about Ethel Waters. Joan Croomes, Leslie Uggams, Lennie Bluett, Marni Nixon, George Maharis, and Clisson Woods all discussed the experience of working with Waters. Some also shared personal impressions. Emery Wimbish, James Sheldon, Martha Orrick, Jim Malcolm, and Miles Kreuger provided telling comments on the thrill of seeing Waters perform. Also helpful were perceptive observations that sprang out of seemingly casual conversations with Cicely Tyson, Diahann Carroll (whom I had unexpectedly encountered one afternoon in New York), and the wonderful Olga James.
Other comments and firsthand observations were drawn from lengthy interviews (or occasionally conversations) that were conducted as I researched and wrote earlier books, including: Dorothy Dandridge: A Biography; Bright Boulevards, Bold Dreams: The Story of Black Hollywood; and Brown Sugar78: Over 100 Years of America’s Black Female Superstars. Other comments have come from conversations and interviews I conducted for the PBS/German Educational Television documentary adaptation of my book Brown Sugar. Among those previously interviewed were Fredi Washington, Ossie Davis, Ruby Dee, Maude Russell, Fayard Nicholas (who possessed an absolutely astounding memory), Harold Nicholas, Bobby Short, Herb Jeffries, Alberta Hunter, Phil Moore, John Hammond, Dorothy Nicholas Morrow and her husband, Byron Morrow, Clora Bryant, Dorothy McConnell, Isabel Washington Powell, Mantan More-land, and the great director King Vidor. Highly intelligent and highly political, Fredi Washington, who had worked with Waters in the drama Mamba’s Daughters, was of special help. At her home in Stamford, Connecticut, she still bristled at the very thought of Ethel’s behavior, but she respected her searing talent and provided insights into Waters’ complications. Spending time with Washington was always an altogether extraordinary experience, not only for her insights on other performers but, of course, for her enlightening comments about her own career. Also extremely helpful was Bobby Short. With his stunning knowledge of Black entertainment history, Bobby was always generous and able to provide the proper historical context and perspective for so much of what he discussed. At their home in New Rochelle, New York, Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee were thoughtful and splendidly reflective. Ossie clearly (and with admiration) saw Ethel in a larger context. I also have to express my gratitude to actor Wren Brown, who hails from one of the great families in entertainment history (in general) and Black Hollywood history (in particular). His maternal grandfather was the great Lee Young. Wren’s great-uncle was Lee’s brother, the extraordinary saxophonist Lester Young. His paternal grandfather was the actor Troy Brown. During one of our conversations, Wren mentioned his aunt Joan Croomes, at whose home Ethel had once resided in her later years. Thanks to Wren, I was able to meet and interview Croomes, who was a real find and an absolutely wonderful person to spend time with. My gratitude is also extended to Stephanie Wills, the secretary to Reverend Billy Graham. Though Reverend Graham was unavailable for an interview because of his health, Stephanie was quite helpful in suggesting sources for information on Waters.
Of course, no biography of this scope could be written without the resources of research institutions and archives. One can get lost in the rich treasures (sometimes having little to do with the subject at hand) found in such places. Research always moves more smoothly when you are fortunate enough to have librarians and staff members who open more doors for you. I’d like to express my gratitude to the staffs of the New York Public Library for Performing Arts at Lincoln Center, where I did my initial research and especially to Edie Wiggins there; the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, especially my friends Sharon Howard and Betty Odabashian, who are among the most knowledgeable and helpful librarians I encountered while researching this book; the Beinecke Library at Yale University, where I immersed myself in the James Weldon Johnson Collection and where Patricia Willis as well as June Can were quite helpful; the Margaret Herrick Library of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences; the Free Library of Philadelphia, especially Andy Kagan and Geraldine Duclow; the Institute of Jazz Studies at Rutgers University; and the Music Division of the Library of Congress. My research at the film and television archives of UCLA—while I was working on my book Primetime Blues: African Americans on Network Television—also proved important for this volume.
One of my great research delights was spending time at the Paley Center for Media, where I was able to screen a number of Ethel Waters’ television appearances. At the Paley Center, curator Ron Simon proved gracious and helpful, as did Richard Holbrooke, who assisted me during screenings. There was also the rather incredible Jane Klain, who helped me locate TV programs and made special screening arrangements for me at the center. Always it was a pleasure to talk to this very knowledgeable and engaging woman. It was also interesting to hear Jane’s recollection of the time she had seen Waters while studying at UCLA. Also delightful were the times spent with Jean Franz, formerly of Turner Classic Movies, who took me on a guided tour of Pasadena, where I was able to see one of the homes in which Ethel had once lived. Jean also accompanied me on one of my visits to the Institute of the American Musical, where its director, Miles Kreuger, led me on a glorious tour of the institute’s collection and also screened brief rare footage of Ethel in At Home Abroad. Miles also recounted his experiences when—while still very young—he met and sketched Waters during the run of The Member of the Wedding at the Empire Theatre. It was also a pleasure to search for photographs at Photofest. Howard Mandelbaum and his brother, Ron Mandelbaum, as well as their staff, which includes Theresa Demick, could not have been more helpful. It was a joy to discuss films and personalities with them.
A number of my former students provided invaluable research assistance. The enterprising David Aglow did some of the very early research and also came to my rescue by securing CDs of a number of Ethel’s important recordings, most of which are no longer commercially available. I cannot thank him enough. Then there was Dreysha Hunt, my former student a
t the University of Pennsylvania, who studiously went through microfilm of weekly articles from the African American newspaper the Pittsburgh Courier. It was long and tedious work but she came up with some real discoveries that were of great use. At New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts, a rather casual conversation with graduate writing student Ayanna Maia Saulsberry led to an interesting adventure as she found information on the location of the Brooklyn home where Waters once resided. Energetic and industrious, Wesley Barrow found contact information for some of Waters’ associates. Zac Kline plowed through clippings files at Lincoln Center’s Library for the Performing Arts. Then there was Mia Kai Moody, my teaching assistant, who made sure that while I was working on the book, everything pertaining to my classes at Tisch was kept in excellent shape. It was also good to bounce ideas off Mia, Ayanna, and another former Tisch graduate student, Robin Williams, all of whom have a great interest and enthusiasm for my work and also for the field of African Americans in film and television.
My gratitude goes also to Kim Mason, who used her remarkable Internet skills to great effect, locating rare and significant material; Rick Scheckman, who provided DVDs of Waters’ films, including the very obscure Gift of Gab; Becca Bender, who labored tirelessly to find Waters’ marriage/divorce records. Also important is my dear friend, the fantastic entertainment correspondent Marian Etoile Watson. Over the years, there have been many occasions during which we have observed up close, thanks to her ingenuity, the famous and the fiercely creative, which has often been an eye-opening experience.