Walking with the Muses

by Pat Cleveland

  “Sorry, we have to wait on this one,” Sleet announced. “A few of the dresses have to go back to the designers immediately, so we’ll do the fashion shots first and get back to the ad afterward.”

  “Too bad,” Kenneth said. “I was just enjoying sitting here with Miss Cleveland.” I removed my hand, and he stood up and said, “See you in a while.”

  I held on to that promise as I went back to the dressing room to try on the clothes, each piece more beautiful than the last. I posed in several outfits, listening carefully to Sleet’s directions, sometimes waiting for the flash to work, and showing off the dresses as best as I could. My mom and I changed my hairdo for each of the outfits.

  “That’s great, Miss Cleveland, just great,” Sleet said. “This is the last shot, then we’ll get back to the shot with Kenneth.”

  “You’ll wear the pink Givenchy again,” Sandra said.

  I felt as though it were mine now, forever. I still get that feeling sometimes; once you’re photographed in a dress, seen in it, it’s as if it belongs to you.

  Back on the set, Kenneth was waiting. “So you’re going with the show, too?”

  I still didn’t know what the show was, but I didn’t care as long as we were both going. I opened my mouth to say something, but Sleet called out, “Okay, you two, take the same positions.” I settled my hand on Kenneth’s shoulder as if it had never left. “Miss Cleveland, you need to look at Kenneth in an adoring way in this shot,” Sleet explained, “as though you are in love with him because his hair is so well groomed.” It most definitely was. I put all I had into loving Kenneth’s hair, never once thinking about the photo or the product we were supposed to be endorsing.

  Sleet took a few shots and reloaded his camera to take more. Back in 1966, there were only six to twelve shots on a roll of film. “Great work,” he said. And we were done.

  Mom and I went back to the dressing room. “I’m so happy,” I told her, twirling around to accentuate my point. “This is so much fun.”

  “I guess so,” she agreed. “Getting to wear these beautiful clothes!” She was busy packing our bags.

  “Mom, I don’t ever want this feeling to end.”

  On the way out, we passed Kenneth washing his hair over the sink, shirtless. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said. “Don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to get this gook out. Does anybody actually use this stuff?”

  He stood upright, and as he did, I saw his half-nude body, the shampoo suds trickling down his bare chest. My heartbeat accelerated, and all at once I was in the middle of a scene from Splendor in the Grass with a darker-skinned, half-dressed Warren Beatty. Kenneth was drying his hair roughly with the big towel, and as he moved, the muscles flexed in his manly arms. He was as toned as an athlete.

  Sandra and Mom had gone ahead, but I couldn’t move. Kenneth flashed that glittering smile and said, “Hope to see you again soon.” That was enough to send me out the door on a cloud.

  In the hall, Sandra told Mom and me about the next photo shoot. She said she’d call with the details about the upcoming Ebony Fashion Fair. This was “the show” that Kenneth had alluded to—Ebony magazine’s revolutionary traveling fashion tour. Started by Mrs. Johnson in 1958 as a fund-raiser for a hospital in New Orleans, the show brought all the newest clothing trends directly to black women around the country via a bus filled with girls like me who modeled the clothes on temporary runways set up in hotels, convention centers, auditoriums, and theaters. At the time, it was the best (actually, pretty much the only) chance for middle-class black women to experience high fashion or for unknown black designers to gain recognition. The idea of being part of such an historic and important milestone in the lives of African-American women was exciting. Then, too, there was the not insignificant fact that Kenneth would be along for the ride.

  Sandra said goodbye and Mom started walking. I dawdled, unwilling to leave this magical place. Everything felt different now that I’d been struck by Cupid’s arrow.

  “Are you okay?” Mom asked. She dropped her bag and put her hand to my forehead. “You feel warm,” she said. “Are you tired?”

  “No, Mom.” I paused, then decided to just spit it out. “I’m in love!”

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m in love.”

  “Really? Who’s the lucky guy?” Mom seemed amused.

  “Kenneth.”

  “But you just met him.”

  I was in a dreamy mood. “This must be love at first sight. That’s what makes it so special.”

  Mom laughed. “Oh, isn’t that cute—puppy love,” she said, picking up her bag. “You’ll see him again, but for now, let’s go home.”

  chapter 10

  TICKET TO RIDE

  This Greyhound bus—a.k.a. “The Hound”—was my home from September till December 1966.

  My teachers weren’t thrilled that I’d be gone for most of the fall semester, but the Fashion Fair was a big deal. I was able to get all my assignments in advance; I’d keep up with my schoolwork on the bus. Because of my age, I couldn’t make the trip without a chaperone, so Mom was taking time off work to accompany me. I felt so lucky that I would have her to myself for a few months. Not only would it be a new adventure for us, but she would also be getting a break from Sonny. She never said so, but I’m sure she was as happy about that as I was.

  Finally, the big day arrived. On a Sunday at six in the morning, with the streets of New York nearly deserted, Mom and I made our way to Rockefeller Center. We each carried one personal bag and one big suitcase—all we were allowed, since the clothes for the show were traveling with us and took up most of the space in the bus’s luggage compartment. My case was a hot-pink Samsonite, which had busted our budget, but Mom wanted me to have the best. She thought of it as an investment.

  We boarded the brand-new silver Greyhound (henceforth known as “the Hound”) and claimed two seats near the front, stuffing personal items into the overhead racks. I looked out the bus window and noticed a group of seven gorgeous girls in varying shades of brown, coming out of 1270 Avenue of the Americas. I realized they were the other models on the tour. Quickly, they boarded, and we made our introductions. There were eight of us in all: Gertrude, Allene, Joanna, Diane, Theresa, Irma (from Trinidad), and Peggy (from Italy). And me, of course.

  There were also, among others, our art director, Herbert Temple, and, bless their hearts, the wardrobe ladies, Cooper, Lily, and Virginia—older women who sat in the back between the hatboxes and extra hanging bags and kept the clothes in good shape with their sewing, ironing, and packing talents.

  Now I just had to wait for the most important person to arrive: Kenneth. Everyone was really friendly with each other; most of the girls had been at the Ebony offices since earlier that morning. Except for Theresa, who was nineteen, they were all in their late twenties and stuck together the way single women of that age tend to do.

  We were just getting settled when the stage/road manager, Albert—a small black man with a booming voice—got up and announced, “Ladies, we’re going to have a great time together, so let’s have a cheer!”

  We all clapped and shouted.

  “Before you get too excited, I have to let you know that I’m also the bad guy,” he said with a smile. “I’m the one who’ll be behind you like a sheepdog. So, ladies, here are the rules of the road. Rule one: Don’t miss the wake-up calls. Rule two: Don’t miss the bus, because we won’t wait for you, and you won’t get paid your weekly allowance. Oh yes, and rule three: I’m the one who gives you that check at the end of the week, so don’t make any mistakes. Be nice to me no matter what happens.” We all laughed, acknowledging the good humor with which he delivered the rules. “I’m not kidding,” he added in a serious tone. He seemed so stern that we shut up like birds in a cage with the cover thrown on top. Then he laughed, which broke the ice, and he walked through the bus like an inspector.

  “Who’d be afraid of him?” Mom whispered to me. “He’s so little!”

  T
rue, Albert was small in stature, but we’d discover that he was courageous and had a huge heart.

  Next up was Ben, our bus driver. He climbed on board, took his seat behind the large steering wheel, and spoke into a mike that was connected to loudspeakers. “Good morning, ladies. I want you to know that I’ve driven buses for fifteen years, so you’re safe with me. And I pack a pistol, so if there’s trouble, I’ll take care of it.” He adjusted the mirrors. “Don’t be afraid to come up here and keep me company so I won’t fall asleep when it gets late.” Right then and there, I knew what my number one job was: to keep Ben awake.

  I looked around the bus and didn’t see Kenneth anywhere. Perhaps he’d boarded through the back door and I hadn’t noticed amid all the commotion. But no, everything in the back was closed up tight. Albert started to count heads, and I started to worry. “Mom, where’s Kenneth?” I asked. Just then I looked out the bus window and saw him running toward the bus. He climbed the steps and stood in the center aisle. My entire body heaved with relief.

  “Hey, man, what are you doing here?” Albert said.

  “I just came to say goodbye to the ladies.”

  Goodbye? He was kidding. He had to be kidding.

  “Hey, girls, have a good trip,” he said. All of them (except for me) waved as he stepped off the bus. I heard one say, “Did you know he’s Billy Eckstine’s son?” That got my attention, because Billy Eckstine was one of the singers Mom had known back when she was part of the Harlem jazz scene.

  Ben closed the bus doors behind Kenneth and started up the motor. “We’re all here, Ben,” Albert said. “Full speed ahead.”

  “What about Kenneth?” I nearly wailed, knowing how pathetic I sounded, like a small child who’s lost her blankie and can’t bear the thought of leaving home without it.

  “He’s not coming, sugar. He’s off the list.”

  My face fell. No Kenneth? He was my main reason for wanting to go on this tour. It would be so romantic! Four months on the bus together, getting to know each other, gazing into each other’s eyes . . . Well, so much for that little daydream. I felt as if I’d been putting my pennies into the wrong piggy bank. I curled up in my seat and pouted while everyone else let out a whoop as Ben wheeled the big Greyhound into the traffic.

  Peering out the window, I kept my eye on Kenneth as long as I could. Then we turned the corner and headed off to our first show, which was in Staten Island, New York. Goodbye, love, I thought. And Hello, Colorballoo, which was the theme of this, Ebony’s ninth annual fashion show. My mood lifted as I thought about what a privilege it was to be part of the cutting edge of black culture.

  The first show was in some sort of meeting hall with a makeshift runway that looked as though it had been constructed on top of a bunch of tables, and one large spotlight. The tickets were around fifty dollars a head, and the proceeds were going to one of the American Negro college funds. The backstage was so narrow, there was almost no room for the clothes. But we girls were pros now, and we dressed quickly in our show clothes, which Mrs. Johnson had purchased on her shopping trips to the finest couture houses in Italy and France, as well as in New York. The designers included Balenciaga, Ungaro, Pierre Cardin, Madame Grès, Marc Bohan for Christian Dior, Yves Saint Laurent, Roberto Capucci, Jacques Heim, Chanel, Nina Ricci, Jean Patou, Jeanne Lanvin, Givenchy (my personal favorite, simply because he’d been my first), Ken Scott, Emilio Pucci, Valentino, Jacques Tiffeau, Geoffrey Beene, Donald Brooks, John Kloss, Anne Klein, Norman Norell, Bill Blass, and Chester Weinberg. Mrs. Johnson was the only African-American to attend the couture shows in Europe, so she never had to worry that her audiences would see similar clothes elsewhere.

  Dave Rivera, our bandleader, started rehearsing with the jazz quartet he’d put together that day (he used local musicians on every stop of the tour), and backstage, all of us girls started singing to the live music while we put on our makeup. It was hard for the girls with darker complexions to find makeup that matched, so they had to create their own. This was an art in itself; they’d mix various shades of brown eye shadow into foundation to get the right shade. This was back when skin-tone foundations for women of color were not widely available, and crayons labeled “flesh” were a pinkish-peach color. My own skin definitely was not that flesh color, but it was much lighter than that of the other girls in the show.

  Mom caught a lucky break before the first show even began. After doing my hair—she always used wigs so my actual hair wouldn’t be destroyed during the tour—she helped me dress and then started helping the wardrobe ladies. She decided to put herself forward for the job of dresser and wardrobe lady, and Mrs. Johnson agreed to the deal. It was all arranged very quickly, and before we left Staten Island, Mom was on staff, making money. It was a good thing, too, since she’d taken a leave from her regular job to come with me, and without that income, Sonny would have had a hard time paying the rent and other expenses back home.

  My first time onstage as a model was disorienting. As the curtain parted, Dave started up the music. The band played an accented beat whenever a new girl was to appear onstage, and Carole DiPasalegne, the commentator, would describe the outfit the girl was wearing. Carole’s voice was so velvety, and she made everything sound so good, that her commentary became my favorite part of the show.

  When I stepped into the spotlight for the first time, I had no idea the light would be so strong. I couldn’t see a thing; I had to literally feel my way down the narrow platform by walking extra carefully so as not to fall off. It was my first lesson of the runway: Think with your feet. To make matters worse, the stage was on a slant, so I anchored my hands on my hips to keep my balance and distract the audience from what was going on with my feet.

  And so it went for the next two hours, back and forth to the dressing room, tearing off the clothes at breakneck speed, pulling on stockings and boots, juggling and almost suffocating as the tight dresses were pulled over my head, which my mom covered with a cheesecloth bag so my makeup wouldn’t smear all over the fabric. Out I’d go again, turning and spinning and flying the chiffon, as I like to say.

  The frenzy didn’t matter, because the audience was so enthusiastic. The joyful spirit in that place was contagious, full of soul. These were folks who genuinely loved fashion, and they looked it, too, all dressed up in their finest hats, long satin gloves, and fur stoles reminiscent of the fifties.

  As the show progressed, the jazz got better and better, and so did the applause. And before I knew it, I was in my last dress of the evening—a bridal gown—for the finale. The male model who’d replaced Kenneth, Jorge Ben Hur, was about thirty, South American, and so handsome that the women in the audience swooned whenever he appeared. The show’s climax was the moment when Jorge lifted my bridal veil to kiss me, or at least that was what he was supposed to do. I was not expecting it and was caught off guard. Remember, I had never kissed a guy. Not once. I saw Jorge’s face zooming into mine, and while he wasn’t bad-looking, and he was also nice, he wasn’t Kenneth. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. He leaned in, and I turned my cheek toward him. I continued to stall as Dave the Jazzman kept giving me the musical cue to do the deed already. Jorge came in again for the kiss, and I squinted and finally conjured up Kenneth’s face in place of Jorge’s. Smack, he landed one right on my lips, and I puckered up and kissed him back.

  The audience erupted. I guess those women in the audience were living vicariously through me, fantasizing about being a young bride and locking lips with a Latin lover just like Jorge. I had no such fantasies, but there it was: From that evening on, every show on the tour ended with Jorge Ben Hur kissing me and the women going wild. I felt nothing; it was my job. My mother, of course, kept a sharp eye on him, especially since our dressing racks were close together during the whole trip. But he was a perfect gentleman, and he stayed on his side and I on mine.

  chapter 11

  MAN OF THE HOUR

  Muhammad Ali and me in Miami, 1966.

  Our Fashion Fair t
our bus spiraled its way around the Northeast from New York to New Jersey, Long Island to Connecticut, Boston to Baltimore, Washington, DC, to Philadelphia. As we passed through Virginia—Roanoke, Newport, Richmond—everyone on the bus slept all day. Except for me. I had schoolwork to do; my seat on the Hound was my classroom. As I studied my American history textbook, I looked out the window and saw the very land I was reading about. It was a great feeling to experience my lessons firsthand.

  In Winston-Salem, North Carolina, we were overjoyed to be invited to a private dinner party at the home of a prominent black surgeon, his gracious wife, and their handsome teenage son (who was too young to interest any of the other girls, so I had him all to myself that evening). We were grateful to have a home-cooked meal—our first in a month and a half. Often dinners consisted of whatever leftovers from motel breakfasts we’d managed to stuff into our pockets. We rarely had time to stop because we had to get from one city—or one state—to the next in time to put on the show. So we’d wrap pieces of fruit and bread in paper napkins and picnic on the bus. Another lesson from the road: Always have food in your bag, but watch out for bananas; they get squashed. Oh, and be careful what you eat. The trips were long, and the bus had only one restroom, which was usually broken or packed up with hatboxes. More often than not, we had to answer nature’s call by the side of the road, which I despised.

  The day after Winston-Salem, we headed for Miami, where we had one last show before getting a three-day break. Finally, some time off! We had been in thirty-four cities, done some fifty shows, and were beginning to look the worse for wear. Even so, we knew how lucky we were to be on the tour. Whenever Albert chided us for being even a minute late, he’d say, “Someone else could have taken your place,” and we knew he was right. We also knew that if we broke the rules, we could be replaced like that. That’s why there were basically no problems among us girls. We were buddies, at least for the time being.