The Mother of Black Hollywood

by Jenifer Lewis

  I ran into Bette one day while hiking the Hollywood Reservoir with my friend Thom Fennessey. She had just started work on a new movie, which turned out to be Beaches. She got me a featured role in a number written by Marc Shaiman called “Otto Titsling” (a fictional account of the invention of the bra), wherein my already-oversize bosom was costumed in outrageously huge falsies. During a break, Marc, Bette, and I walked out onto Wilshire Boulevard. Still in full costume, I stepped to the curb, where I pretended to hitchhike while bouncing up and down to jiggle the enormous breasts. We three fell out at the faces of the passing drivers!

  When I wasn’t working, I grasped for anything that might help me feel whole—crystals, face reading, moon baths, the Ouija board. What a mess I was! Longing for Thomas. Longing for Miguel. Confused as to why I was not elated at the progress of my career. God help me. Nothing was ever enough. And, of course, it didn’t help that I was having sex with far too many men: Adam, Tim, Tucker, and Eddie (Green, not Murphy!).

  Tucker introduced me to porn, but I never really liked it. It gave me a headache. The videos showed too much banging and not enough foreplay. The action always looked painful to me. Okay, maybe I like to see a little hair pulling, but not all that oversize extra. You know you’re bored with porn when you find yourself criticizing the acting skills of the participants.

  Tucker also introduced me to the waterbed thing. He liked waterbeds because he had back problems courtesy of the Vietnam War. All that splashing around spoiled the rhythm. I pretended to fall on the floor so we could finish up on solid ground.

  I discovered how annoying it was to have sex wearing Lee Press-On Nails. I had to wear them for a television show, but they made sex difficult. A few men complained. Poor bastards.

  I flew to New York for an audition and while I was there, made my appearance at a few of my old haunts, including Possible 20.

  JOURNAL ENTRY: Rude waitress tells me Elaine Swain is dead. Horrible moment.

  I returned to the West Coast and was in a downward spiral for weeks. The inevitable breaking point came after a huge long-distance fight with Thomas the day before I had an important audition for a role on Thirtysomething, the drama series about yuppie angst that was the hottest show on television at the time.

  I was already in emotional distress when I arrived for the audition at a nondescript office building. My scene was with Peter Horton, the director and one of the show’s stars. Right from the start, things went south. I was auditioning for the character of Rosie, but I was drowning in the character of Jenifer Lewis and wearing a mask. I felt like my entire career depended on this one audition, a crushing weight that made it impossible for me to focus on the character or remember the lines. I became overwrought, and for the first time in my life, I said, “I can’t do it.”

  Peter Horton was lovely. “Yes, you can, Jenifer.” I started over but simply could not get the words out. I thanked Peter and, barely holding myself together, walked blindly out of the room. As soon as I stepped into the elevator, I completely lost all control, sobbing and gulping as I slid down the wall and melted into a puddle on the floor. The suit-clad people in the little compartment just looked at me.

  Back in my Mazda and still sobbing uncontrollably, I could barely see the road as I drove through Laurel Canyon. When the red light stopped me at Ventura Boulevard, I collapsed on the steering wheel. I looked up when I heard two beeps from the car adjacent to mine. The older white driver looked at me compassionately, and I could see him mouth, “I’m sorry.” It was just the sweetest little toot-toot on his horn and a simple acknowledgment. I had been seen by this stranger, and it uplifted me, just enough to get home.

  Everything was crashing in on me. I spent a lot of time alone watching rented movies on my VCR. One of these was Frances, starring Jessica Lange. It was about Frances Farmer, a mostly B-movie actress during the 1930s and 1940s. Sadly, she is famous largely for having been the victim of an involuntary lobotomy following a diagnosis of manic-depressive disorder.

  From the first scenes, Lange’s brilliant portrayal of Frances Farmer’s descent into mental illness triggered recognition in me, especially her crippling depression, the dark cloud that lay over her very existence. Her impatience and impulsiveness. Her lonelinesss. Her inability to handle failure. Her blaming others for her own mistakes. It was all familiar.

  I cried through the entire movie. Subconsciously I knew it was my story, but still, I did not—could not—acknowledge that I, too, could be “mentally ill.” I turned the video off with one thought: Damn, I don’t want to be like that.

  I never mentioned my reaction to Frances to anyone. I convinced myself that I could make myself better on my own and continued to search for answers in metaphysical spirituality.

  Around this time, I got a call from Shirley LeFlore, the dean of students while I was at Webster. Shirley, a wonderful poet and excellent dean, had been extremely supportive of me in college. As a freshman, I went to her office in tears because “every time I do something that gets applause, people steal it.” Shirley didn’t make fun of or patronize me. Instead, she said, “Jenifer, you should be flattered because by the time they’ve stolen your material, you’ve gone on to create something new anyway.”

  Shirley was my connection to Beverly Heath. They had been best friends in St. Louis. Shirley had flown out to Beverly’s house in Pasadena for a few days. Like me, she was a native Kinlochian. As soon as I met Beverly and her family, I knew I had found home. Beverly is a social worker and artist and her husband, Albert “Tootie” Heath, is a world-renowned percussionist and was a member of the acclaimed Heath Brothers jazz group.

  Beverly drew me into her circle of friends, which to this day I credit for saving my life. These were educated, professional women who came together on a regular basis to exhale, share their stories, eat, laugh, and support one another. They were the most sophisticated women I had ever socialized with. Several were therapists or social workers. Their talk of politics, their Afrocentric clothing, and their worldliness were new to me. I wanted to drink up every drop of their wisdom.

  Tootie, observing how Beverly and her friends kept one another afloat, dubbed the group the “Boat.” These women were mighty ships. Some were freighters; others, tall ships with sails. They became new mother figures for me. Beverly, along with Jeanne King, Dr. Medria Williams, Azhar, Myra Lebo, and Dr. Barbara Richardson, gave me levels of practical, professional, and spiritual guidance that I had never encountered before.

  I was the youngest member and the entertainer of the group, but the women cut me no slack when it came to honestly assessing my life. When I regaled them with stories of my sexual escapades, they laughed but clearly grew tired of hearing me proclaim again and again, “I am a star and dick is my life.” And when I described some of the esoteric methods—such as trance channeling and Tarot cards—that I believed could help me find direction, Beverly told me, “Jenny, I don’t believe none of that shit! You need to carry your ass to therapy!” I half-nodded, feigning interest.

  My lack of political consciousness was appalling to my Boat sisters, who had spent their lives in the Civil Rights Movement. They pressed me: What’s in there, Jenifer? What is your foundation and purpose? Echoes of Miguel’s “Joo say no-thing” rang in my head.

  One of the members of the Boat, a family therapist named Jeanne King, took me to address a group of teenage mothers she was counseling in East L.A. The young women seemed hungry for the stories about my career, my travels, and hardships. In turn, it was gratifying to hear them open up and speak honestly. The afternoon became a very sweet memory for me.

  Fast forward to 2016, when I’m at a track meet with my great-nephews somewhere on the outskirts of Los Angeles. As I was leaving the stadium, someone called to me. “Miss Lewis!” I turned, expecting the greeting had come from a fan requesting a picture. But instead, the smiling fortyish woman immediately launched into her story: “Miss Lewis, I don’t know if you remember, but about twenty-five years ago, you ca
me and spoke to a group of us who had just had babies. I was the one that was really quiet and sad because I wasn’t ready to be a mother and they had made me keep the baby.”

  My heart started to melt as she continued, “I never forgot that day and always hoped that I would meet you again to thank you. You went around the room and asked us what our favorite song was; when you got to me, you said, ‘Why don’t you sing it for us.’ I did, and I been singing ever since, Miss Lewis. My baby’s all grown now. I got two more out on the track and my husband up there in the bleachers.” She looked at me meaningfully and said, “And I am doing all right, Miss Lewis. Doing real good.”

  I’ve learned in life that what you give to others is what provides the most value to your life. There I was, a mess myself, yet I still had something to offer that would have an effect on another person’s world.

  Shortly after being embraced by the women of the Boat, I received some of the worst news possible. The love of my life, Miguelito Hermongez Henquez Gomez, had died of a massive heart attack after leaving Washington Square Park, where he had played his last game of chess.

  It had been six years since I’d seen Miguel. He had aged, but he was still fine and still mine. I had sublet my New York apartment, so we went to a hotel near the Museum of Natural History. It was a dump, and they dared to charge $120 a night, but we knew we wanted to be together. We were kind of shy with each other at first. But, God help me, it was a one-thrust orgasm for us both. That’s love.

  The next morning, I walked him to the train station. Before he went down the dirty staircase to the N train, he turned back and said, “Joo have to have some babies, Yenifer. So joo’ll have somezing to live for when joo get old.”

  The fact that I needed psychological help became even more evident after losing Miguel. During my nervous breakdown following my visit to Quitman’s hospital room, Beverly told me “there is no greater journey than the journey within.” Her words touched me deeply. I trusted and loved her enough to know that I should follow her advice. I agreed to let Beverly help me find a therapist. It’s one thing to decide that therapy can help you. But, it’s another thing to actually take the necessary steps to get it. I had a few good auditions and callbacks, making it easy to just put the “therapy thing” on the back burner.

  One day, as I packed up the six loads of laundry I had done at Beverly’s house, she really pushed me about it. Feeling guilty, I got home, picked up the Yellow Pages, and randomly chose the name of a woman psychotherapist nearby. A few days later, I entered the therapist’s elegant office, and we shook hands. She was confident and composed, her blond hair carefully coiffed. As she asked me a question, I noticed the Harvard diploma on the wall. As my lengthy and increasingly intense response flowed forth, the therapist started inhaling deeply through her nose as if to manage her rising emotions. Her widening eyes seemed incapable of looking away from mine. I recall no details of the content of our conversation, but I swear when I left forty-five minutes later, her hair was sticking straight out like she had stuck her finger in a socket. She said, “We’ll be in touch.” She wasn’t.

  Another Boat member gave me the name of a middle-aged woman shrink whom her friend had been seeing for some time. But within five minutes, I knew that therapist was more depressed than I was! I felt frustrated about the whole damn thing.

  A nasty argument with Bob Wachs and Tess over some bullshit sent me plummeting. Jesus, was I immature. I told Bob I had to be true to myself. He shouted back, “What the hell is that?” His scorn hurt me deeply.

  At this point, the dark night of the soul came to a head. There was nothing left but this masked entity, this “life of the party” who sobbed into her pillow every night. The depression was all-encompassing, even as I raced through every day at full speed.

  Probably, I should not have attended the opening-night party for the wonderful show Loretta Devine was starring in about Billie Holiday, called Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar & Grill. With several of my Boat sisters, I drove down to San Diego where the show opened at the famous Old Globe Theatre. The party after the show was loud and boisterous. I got drunk and jumped up on the table, ordering everyone to shut the fuck up! The entire crew, especially my buddy Loretta, was soon falling out with laughter as I recounted my experience of searching for a therapist, adding all sorts of outrageous exaggerations. “Oh, honey, then they sent me to this fine black man who had been educated at Harvard. And he was poised to put me straight. I knew the only thing that was going to be straight was his back on that sofa with me straddling him!” It was clear that I was an entertaining motherfucker, and that something was wrong, especially when I wrapped up the mini-performance with a monologue about being so poor, I lost my virginity to a rat. When I finished, Jeanne King pulled me aside and said, “Honey, you’re about as crazy as you can be. I have a friend I sent a schizophrenic to, and she worked wonders with him. Let me give you her number.”

  I didn’t even look at the paper Jeanne gave me before stuffing it in my cleavage. But at yoga class the next day I began to sob uncontrollably, and I went straight home and called that number.

  A few days later, when I met Jeanne’s friend Rachel, I was in an extremely agitated state. I could not look Rachel in the eyes and was unable to sit still. I dropped to the floor and began to do push-ups as she watched from her small armchair. She asked a couple of superficial questions. I batted them away as I rose from the floor to look out the window. Her incisive eyes followed me around the room, obviously assessing my every move. My modus operandi is to scare a bitch when I feel vulnerable, and I felt my hackles rise. She calmly told me to take a seat, which I did—on the back of the couch with my bare feet on the seat cushion. I responded to her next question dismissively. Then, Rachel dropped the bomb: “Tell me about your mother.” Seeing red, I lunged off the couch into Rachel’s face, yelling through clenched teeth and pounding my chest: “I came here to talk about my career! Don’t. You. Ever. Mention. My motherrrr!!”

  NINE

  KINLOCH

  My earliest memory of Mama is her roughly pulling a white ruffled shirt over my head when I had the measles. “Mama, it hurts,” I said, referring to the shirt on my tender skin. She softened, but just a bit. She had no time for coddling.

  Dorothy Mae Johnson Lewis, the eldest of sixteen children, was herself the mother of seven by the age of twenty-six. To say Mama was strong-willed and outspoken is an understatement. Once, ADC (“welfare”) sent a white male investigator to our house. When Mama opened the front door, the social worker peered in and said, “Nigger, how can you afford a piano?” Mama calmly said, “Just a moment” and closed the door. Thirty seconds later she reopened the door and threw a bucket of piss dead in his face.

  My mother was the sort who found my father in a bar with another woman and took his cash from him right on the spot. She told his date, “You’re gonna buy your own drinks tonight because this money is going to feed his seven kids.”

  Edward James Lewis, my father, was a sharply dressed, good-looking man the color of the walnuts that grew plentifully around town. The story goes that my mother was walking home from high school one day when Ed rode up on his bicycle, put her on the seat, rode her to a romantic spot and proposed. She was nineteen years old when they married in 1949. I arrived in 1957, after Wilatrel, Vertrella, Larry, Edward (Ba’y Bro), Robin, and Jackie.

  My parents separated when I was just two weeks old, and Daddy wasn’t around a lot as I grew up. Like many men in Kinloch, Daddy drank. He was often out of work, again, like a lot of men in Kinloch, and when he did work, it was for low wages.

  Kinloch was the first self-governing black town in Missouri. We were a racially segregated island of poverty surrounded by the white St. Louis suburbs—Berkeley and Ferguson. Yes, that Ferguson, where the murder of a young black man by a police officer in 2014 reinvigorated a nationwide movement against police violence.

  The Kinloch of my childhood consisted of little wood houses, some not more than shacks, outhou
ses, and rocky roads. Most residents were so damn poor they couldn’t afford to go to the doctor unless they were damn near dead. It seemed that people were always dying just walking down the street or coming out of the Threaded Needle, the only legal bar in town (there were many underground juke joints that sold moonshine). Diabetes, high blood pressure, and heart attacks took out all kinds of folk, young and old. Drugs weren’t pervasive during my formative years, but there were plenty of liquor stores and alcoholism was the norm, along with the violence and despair that often occur when people see no way out of their lives. No one could afford a gun, but there were plenty of knives, bricks, and baseball bats. People were always on edge in Kinloch, and a fight was always breaking out, sometimes right there at home.

  Don’t get me wrong; there were a lot of good things about Kinloch, too, especially the benefits of growing up in an all-black town. The people in authority came from our community and were part of our culture. We had our own mayor, a police force, school system, post office, stores, and churches, of course—everything but a bank. No need for a bank when no one had more cash than what was in their pocket. We had wonderful black teachers who cared that we were well educated and classes small enough for this to be possible. Kinloch produced many high achievers, including Congresswoman Maxine Waters, entertainer and activist Dick Gregory, R&B singer Ann Peebles, and my good friend Beverly Heath.

  People knew each other in Kinloch. We were a tight community with half of the folk in town related in some way. We sat on front porches, calling out to each other from the road or across the yard. We had some characters, too. There was Huckabuck, Kookoo, Chicken Neck, the Pigfeet Man, and Cat Johnny, who always drove a Cadillac. We had a number of small shops and restaurants—Shack Pappy’s for barbecue, Hal’s Drive-In for delicious garlic fried chicken, and Uncle Dick’s, where we bought dill pickles, Lay’s potato chips, and penny candy. My favorites were Mary Jane’s, nut chews, and watermelon suckers. We all ignored the sweat that dripped off the owner, Mr. Harris, and into the ice cream buckets when he bent to scoop cones for us.