The Mother of Black Hollywood

by Jenifer Lewis

  And then, of course, there was church—the First Missionary Baptist Church of Kinloch, Missouri. We had to attend every function—Sunday school, Bible study, choir rehearsals, junior usher board meetings, and on and on. Church turned out to be a refuge for me because I found many kind women there who took me under their wings, including Miss Parks, head of the usher board, and, of course, my great-aunts Ida and Membry. In addition to singing in the choir, I energetically joined in on all sorts of tasks and projects, basking in the smiles and praise of these substitute mothers.

  First Baptist Church was full of drama, much of it revolving around competition for the pastor’s attention. My mother, like so many women in the church, was in love with her pastor. The pastor was like the chief of the village infallible, like the pope. Women who lack support and love, who yearn for husbands and self-esteem, often fill the void with church. The problem is that many pastors know this all too well and take full advantage. It’s a tired old story that’s been played out forever.

  My mother maintained good friendships and an active social life in and outside of church. In 1962, she was a founding member of the Wild Rose Social Club, a dozen women who would get together regularly for the next fifty years. These were hardworking women who cherished a few hours a month to socialize and sip cocktails. And baby, the Wild Roses were fabulous! They would work to out-dress each other, usually in outfits they had whipped up on their Singer sewing machines. I dreamed of being as stylish, hip, and fun loving as these ladies. When the club met at our home, Mama sometimes would call me in to demonstrate the new dances, like the Jerk and the Funky Four Corners (not to be confused with the boring-ass regular Four Corners). The night I showed them the Boogaloo, I knew Mama was proud of me, but also knew she wanted to be the one in the spotlight. Nearly forty years later, Mama said as much when she came to see me in Hairspray. When someone asked how she’d enjoyed my performance, her response was, “She may have the money, but I’m the one that’s funny.”

  In junior high school, when I was elected class president, I began keeping a journal as an organizing tool. I’d note who would bring the soap and rags to car washes at the local gas station, whose mama would bake a cake for the bake sale, who would bring the record player and 45s for the dance in the basement of the YMCA, and who had lost their virginity.

  As seventh grade class president, I was chosen, along with a boy in my class named Lenier, to go on a trip to Okalona, Mississippi with our teachers, Miss Downey and Mr. Griffin. During the trip, I decided Lenier would be the one to take my virginity. We were staying at the home of a cow farmer. Lenier and I walked out into a cow patch, started fooling around, and soon were naked. Lenier sat in an old, worn chair that was leaning against a poplar tree and I straddled him like I knew what I was doing. He had a dick as hard as the stolen obelisk robbed from the Temple of Karnak that now stands shamelessly in the heart of Paris. I lowered my body onto his. An unexpected pain shot through me. I saw blood and thought I was going to die. Nobody had told me about this part. I had absolutely zero sex education. Once I got over the pain, I began to like it. I felt like I had conquered. Like I was in control.

  Later that semester, I started organizing talent shows in the basement of the Catholic school. I’d both MC the shows and perform. I would do two songs, let someone else sing half a song, then I’d come back to do three more. If a song in my act had multiple parts, I’d do them all. At any given time, fifty or more people would pay thirty-five cents admission. Like I said, I admit I took all of the proceeds and usually went straight to Miss Bubbles for fake Chinese food.

  Everyone at John F. Kennedy Junior High School knew I could sing and that Aretha was my favorite. One day, Mr. Santos, who was one of the few non–African American teachers, saw me with my head down on my desk, crying. “What’s wrong, Jenifer?”

  I raised my head and said, “I’ll never hit those high notes like Aretha Franklin! I’ll never be famous!” He smiled gently and continued the lesson.

  Three days later, as we changed classes after the bell, Mr. Santos called after me in the hallway. He looked strange: both shaken and smiling. It was weird, and I drew back a little when he started to speak: “Last night when I was washing dishes, I broke a plate. It broke into several pieces. As I bent to pick up the pieces, I had a vision: you will be known, Jenifer. You will be famous in this world.”

  Mr. Santos’s vision wasn’t enough. “Do you think I can be a star?” was the question I asked every authority figure, including our pastor. I was in the front seat of his car, getting a ride back to Kinloch from the youth choir’s visit to a church in the city. Riding with the pastor was a feather in my cap; anybody would jump at the chance to ride with Pastor Heard.

  After I asked the question, my pastor pulled the car over to the side of the road and stopped. He leaned over to me and suddenly pressed his lips to mine. I clenched my teeth and leaned away from him. He persisted in trying to push his tongue between my teeth. He groped for my breast with the hand he wasn’t sliding over my shoulders. I tightened up, pressing myself backward as far as the car door would allow. I pushed against his shoulders, and he finally stopped. He scooted back to his place behind the wheel and said nothing as he drove onto the freeway. As we got closer to home and he slowed the car onto an exit ramp, I opened the door on the passenger side to spit. I’d been holding it back for as long as I could, disgusted by the taste of his mouth. He must have thought I was going to jump out. He grabbed me by the left arm. I snatched my arm from his hand and thought, Don’t touch me, motherfucker! But I didn’t say anything. I had been conditioned to respect and revere my elders, especially my pastor.

  I told Mama as soon as I got home. She looked at me and said, “Go to your room.” About ten minutes later, she came to my room, pulling the telephone extension cord as far as it could reach. When she got to my doorway, she aimed the receiver at me. She had called Pastor Heard.

  “Now tell him,” she said, “what you told me.” I took the phone. But before I could say anything, she snatched the receiver out of my hand, walked into her bedroom, and closed the door. I was devastated, betrayed by my pastor and my mother.

  By the time I entered Kinloch High School, my brothers and sisters were either working, in college or married. The house was quieter. I had fewer people to hide behind so I spent most of my time trying to avoid my mother.

  My teachers at Kinloch High School knew about me before I even got there. As my friend Rose Wilson put it: “You were number one, Jenifer, our role model. We all wanted to be you.” I soon ruled high school much as I had junior high. I was bossy (but not mean). I was captain of the cheerleaders, and no school could bring it like the Kinloch High squad! Of course, yours truly made up all the cheers. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We hate to beat you, but we must, we must!” For the fourth year in a row, I was elected president of my class. I was fine with my grades, but never got straight A’s like my sisters.

  We were living in times of great upheaval and promise. A spirit of rebellion could be felt everywhere. The Civil Rights Movement had won some big battles, and the Black Power and anti–Vietnam War movements were ever present, even in our small town and even smaller school.

  Racism hit close to home when some men from Kinloch went fishing in Illinois. They never returned and we heard they’d been lynched by the Ku Klux Klan. We never felt far from the threat of those hooded murderers.

  “Free Angela!” was our rallying cry when I staged a walkout in tenth grade in support of Angela Davis, the brilliant young university professor and revolutionary whose huge Afro and miniskirts were unforgettable in the photos that captured her on the news. Davis’s image hung in the homes of black people as a hero and in the post office on the FBI’s list of the Ten Most Wanted Fugitives.

  Now, in January 1972, Davis was being held without bail on charges of murder and conspiracy because she had purchased guns that were used in a courtroom shootout in Marin County, California, about a year and a half earlier. The s
hootout took place during the trial of George Jackson, a Black Panther and political prisoner who became famous as one of the Soledad Brothers. Angela wasn’t a member of the Panthers; she was in the Communist Party, which was just as bad in the eyes of the FBI. She was also in love with the compellingly brilliant Jackson, who died, along with five others, in the courtroom tragedy.

  Mind you, I had no knowledge of these details when I organized the walkout. I knew that Angela was a powerful black woman. I loved her Afro and had begun to wear one myself a few months earlier, as had my mama and some of my sisters. When I heard about the nationwide protest on the black radio station that morning, I was ready! With my big mouth and social power, it wasn’t hard to get most of the students out of their seats.

  When Davis was acquitted of all charges a few months later, I don’t think I was aware of it. I was consumed by a million activities for church and school, staying out of the house as much as I could.

  There was one teacher who didn’t like my take-charge attitude and tried to take me down a peg when she could. He took my gym uniform and threw it on top of the lockers where I couldn’t find it. Losing possession of your uniform could earn you an F. I had put my uniform on the bleachers next to my books while I went in the hallway and held court with some fellow students. When I went back to get my stuff, my books were there, but my uniform was gone. My name was sewn inside the collar, so I knew no one had stolen it.

  After looking everywhere, I climbed on a chair so I could see the top of the lockers. My uniform lay in the dust and cobwebs. I was mad, but I shook the dust off and emerged with my uniform looking sharp and my nicely shaped Afro intact.

  JOURNAL ENTRY: Got her ass! Bitch. I am Dorothy Mae Lewis’s daughter. You can’t come for me and win.

  Just before my junior year, my mother’s hard work and determination paid off in a big way. Jackie, Robin, and I discovered there was an empty split-level house on Smith Street. It belonged to a man who bought it for his family shortly before he lost his job. As a consequence, he had to sell the house.

  In the days after Mama learned this, she prayed that she could qualify to buy it. She had been saving money while trying to get us into a housing project, but she heard someone had blackballed her. Her application for the project apartment was rejected, but she got a mortgage to buy the house. She cried some happy tears then.

  The house was brand new, with four bedrooms and not one but two bathrooms. I shared with Robin—who was on her way to Lincoln University, in Jefferson City, Missouri. Vertrella and Larry were already attending Lincoln. Wilatrel had moved out of Kinloch with her husband, David, a Baptist minister. Ba’y Bro was at Florissant Valley Community College and Jackie got married shortly after we moved in.

  I found my first job with the Neighborhood Youth Corps, cutting weeds, clearing out lots, and picking up litter. From time to time I would babysit Wilatrel’s children. One of the kids broke my mother’s stereo. My mother said to me, “You’re going to pay for that.” I responded with “No, I’m not.” She slapped me and said, “You forgot who you were talking to.” I was so mad, I was ready to walk. I had saved $30 and planned to take a bus somewhere. Sister Robin was sitting on a lawn chair reading a magazine when I walked down the driveway with my stuff packed. She didn’t even look up when she said, “Jenny, don’t do it.” She knew that if I walked out of our yard, Mama would come for me and it would not be pretty.

  The fall of senior year, I sought to complete my perfect record as class president for six years straight. My opponent, Dickie (one of my ninety cousins), was the smartest in our class, but I figured I was a shoo-in to win. I was the one who ran the car washes and bake sales that funded our junior prom. For years, I had organized our dances, and as a consequence, I had to work through them while the other students partied. I figured the classmates who liked me would surely vote for me and the ones who didn’t would be too scared not to.

  When the votes were counted, I had won, but by only one vote. Again, I felt betrayed. I cussed out several friends for their lack of loyalty.

  That night I cried myself to sleep as I thought about what happened. But I didn’t need a reason to cry into my pillow. It had become habitual, comforting almost. Here I was the shining star at school, but wracked by sadness at night. I was disappointed that my prayers to Jesus had been unanswered; it made me feel unworthy. I began to pray to my friends, in particular Mary. Unlike Jesus, she at least seemed to like me.

  Midway through my final semester, I met a guy at the Northland Mall. He was a few years older, wore a sharp blue suit, had a gold front tooth, and was called—wait for it—“Goldie.” I was enthralled. We went on a few dates, and he taught me how to drive. He asked me for money, telling me he needed $50. I gave him $35. It made me feel even closer to him. Finally I went to his apartment and we had sex. I couldn’t feel his small penis. I actually couldn’t tell if it was in or not. Midway through, I felt him do something down there, but I couldn’t tell what. Later, I figured out he had broken the condom.

  My guidance counselor, Miss Butler, gave me the moral support I needed when I went to her crying about my plight. She helped me arm myself to tell Mama. The first thing I said to Mama was, “It’s gonna cost two hundred dollars. But I have it. From the gifts.” A few of my teachers had given me money for my upcoming graduation. They were women of modest means themselves, but they held great hope for me. They believed in my dream. Of course, Mama was disappointed, but she didn’t dwell on it. I guess she sort of expected it.

  I wasn’t valedictorian. Dickie was. I was chosen as one of the speakers at our graduation. It was a crowning achievement for a girl who’d been elected class president, voted class clown and most likely to succeed, and dubbed “the loudest” (what a surprise!). I delivered my speech with all the fervor and dramatics that I could. I stood before my classmates and their families, my fist raised. “Now is the time to move forward and go out into the world,” I proclaimed. Two months later, I left Kinloch for Webster University and my life ahead.

  The summer after my freshman year at college, Mama wanted me to come home, but I felt my place was out in the world, not back in Kinloch. I decided to stay on campus and get a job at a nearby McDonald’s. After two days of cleaning toilets and mopping floors, I begged the manager to change my duties because “I am going to be famous.” He assigned me to bun detail. All I had to do was lower the toaster onto the buns, wait for the beep, remove the toasted buns, put the next batch in, and lower the toaster again. Easy enough. But then I began telling my co-worker at the beverage station about my future as a movie star. I described the songs I would sing, the shows I would do, and the awards I planned to win. The toaster beeped and I lowered it while continuing to talk. It beeped again and I lowered it again, never missing a beat in my monologue about my future success. Suddenly, flames shot out from the toaster and the buns turned to charcoal because I had lowered the toaster on the same batch about four times. I was fired on the spot. After that, ladies and gentlemen, I never had a job outside of show business.

  Kinloch receded into my past as the years rolled by. I grew closer to my siblings and was grateful when I could make it home for family reunions, kids’ birthday parties and graduations. I returned for the sad times as well. Years later, when I was living in Los Angeles, the phone rang at 5 a.m. It was my niece calling from Dallas, Texas. She said, “Aunt Jenny, my daddy had a heart attack this morning,” and then she screamed, “AND HE DIDN’T MAKE IT!” I, of course, flew immediately home to comfort Mama and siblings. Dear God, our Ba’y Bro, Edward James Lewis Jr., was gone. Ba’y Bro and I were never superclose, but in my travels, I would always plan a layover in Dallas to visit him and his beautiful, sweet wife, Annette, and their amazing two children, Eddie and Ashley.

  At Ba’y Bro’s burial in Texas, I admitted to the crowd that I had stolen quarters out of the drawer where he kept his tips from working at the Ramada Inn during 1966. I apologized to him that day, confessing I had been driven to the crime by
my addiction to Hostess Twinkies.

  TEN

  “IT AIN’T THAT KIND OF CALL, MOTHERFUCKER”

  Fifteen years had passed since I had left my hometown when Rachel, my therapist, began to help me explore the details of my childhood and my relationship with my mother, despite my protests. At this point, Kinloch was a ghost town, sold off to the airport and its residents scattered around the country. Rachel had broken the shell; she cracked me open with her questions, and over the next few months I began to talk about Mama. Rachel did not see me as an alpha woman, head cheerleader, or Broadway star with ferocious talent. She saw me as a little girl—stuck in childhood pain. Her sympathetic response allowed me to begin to trust her and the process. I felt that Rachel liked me and that she could, and would, help me find those answers I’d been seeking for so long.

  To say therapy was difficult is an understatement. The sadness and anger I felt while talking to Rachel permeated every moment of my life for months. During some sessions I could not speak; during others I lay sobbing on the couch, exhausted from digging down to the roots of my pain. Therapy became a burden. Just a couple of months into it and I was through! I just did not feel like having another big crying jag in that little fucking room. One Tuesday afternoon I lay with the bedcovers over my head, depressed and dreading therapy. As the hour approached, I decided I wasn’t going and allowed myself to drift back into catatonia. Six minutes after the appointment time, Rachel called:

  “Jenifer, are you on your way? Did you forget we had an appointment?”

  “Wha? Huh?”

  “You are supposed to be here in my office!”

  I couldn’t believe she spoke to me so directly. People rarely confronted me in that way.

  “I, um, I don’t feel so well.”

  “Jenifer, it is disrespectful for you not to show up or call.”