The Mother of Black Hollywood

by Jenifer Lewis

  I soon turned my attention back to my life and work. I auditioned for I’ll Fly Away, and Regina Taylor got it. I auditioned for Passenger 57 and Alex Datcher got it. My over-the-top-ness was still an issue. A big mouth and a deep backbend weren’t cutting it in television. I auditioned for Against the Law and Family Matters and didn’t get hired for either one. I wanted to win at show business, but toning myself down for work in front of the camera was difficult.

  I could go from zero to ten thousand in a minute and was still experiencing mood swings and rageful incidents, like when I was in a restaurant in London with my friend Thom Fennessey and the man next to us was speaking too loudly. I almost took the guy’s head off.

  Every now and then I would still fuck up with the people I loved the most. And they loved me enough to tell me when I did. My beloved Marc Shaiman invited me to an event. I showed up after it was over. I hadn’t understood that it was a commitment ceremony with his partner, Scott Wittman. Hurt and furious, Scott read me the riot act the next day. All I could say was, “I am working on myself, Scott, and I am so fucking sorry.” These were very close friends I had disappointed. I felt horrible.

  Therapy became harder and harder. I was digging up memories, reaching down to rediscover the tough and tender stuff of my childhood. I threatened to leave many times.

  Rachel recommended I see a psychiatrist who could prescribe medication to level off my extreme moods. I looked at her as if she were insane. “You aren’t putting me on medication! I am JeniferMothaFuckinLewis; you aren’t going to turn me into a zombie.” I feared medication would take away my personality and restrain my ability to express emotions. Rachel wrote something down, and I’m sure she went to see her shrink right after I left.

  My negative attitude toward pharmaceuticals was affirmed by one psychiatrist Rachel sent me to. In his office, I saw a girl at the dispensary asking for her lithium. She looked out of it, fucked up. That stuck in my mind. I didn’t want to be sluggish and dull like that. The psychiatrist said he didn’t see anything wrong with my “edge,” referring to my mania. “You need that to do what you do.” He was right in the sense that performers are rewarded for being over the top, with boundless energy and extreme emotions. I decided against taking medication.

  My point is that even health experts can have different opinions and come to different conclusions about the same patient. This makes it all the more important for us patients to take charge of our own health care. We have to seek varying sources of information and advice, and most of all we have to listen to our own bodies. You must pay attention to your symptoms and responses. It takes patience and diligence, but it is the key to helping your doctors help you.

  I started to read more books about mental health and got back into spiritual books. Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés touched me and many other women deeply. The book presented ideas on the power and strength of women and puts the “wild woman” that is within each of us in a positive light. I, a self-proclaimed alpha woman, was attracted to that message.

  Hillary Clinton wrote a book that impressed me as well—It Takes a Village. The book refers to an African proverb about what it takes to raise a child. But the idea can be applied to taking care of all people in general and me specifically. I was saved by the fact that I was surrounded by a “village” of good people, including my family, therapist, and friends—and of course the Boat. My family may have been dysfunctional in my youth, but we loved each other and were never far apart for long. My friends were not only brilliant and talented; they showed me love and support—even in my darkest times. When you are not at your best, surround yourself with good people.

  In terms of my career, the better I understood myself and managed the bipolar illness, the more offers came my way, including Undercover Blues with Dennis Quaid and an HBO show, Dream On. Debbie Allen (oh fabulous one) swooped in and gave me a huge boost by asking me to become a regular on A Different World, playing Dean Dorothy Davenport. That meant my name would appear in the opening titles and I would be guaranteed a minimum number of episodes during the season. Cree Summer, who played a character named Freddie Brooks, and I started hanging out a lot. The depth of our inside ridiculous humor cannot be described. Let’s just say we were cutting the fool every moment we were together hiking in the hills.

  The icing on the cake was that I did Johnny Carson’s last Tonight Show, with Bette Midler. I had always dreamt of being on Johnny Carson’s show. I found it amazing that I was booked on the very last show, and with Bette Midler singing an upbeat rendition of “Miss Otis Regrets” (Ella Fitzgerald was known for her slower, mournful version). And our dear Marc Shaiman was on piano. Life was complete. I was so damn happy.

  Robin Williams was on the show, too. I had always been a huge fan of his, but his behavior backstage is what I remember most. He was in an extremely manic state, and in that moment I saw myself. I became aware how I failed to see anyone else when I was in that state. I felt unsettled. With all this good stuff going on, the rollercoaster of happy/sad, happy/sad became intolerable. I just got sick and tired of it. I finally told Rachel I was ready to begin medication. But even with medication, my depression lingered. I was trying to create more productive energy in my life; attending lectures on positive thinking and living in the moment. I had started meditating again and tried to stop smoking. (Rachel told me it revealed a lack of self-love.)

  I auditioned for The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and was hired to play Aunt Helen. I was excited to get a prime-time show that was already a hit. I had a blast working with the cast, especially Will Smith. One night I was backstage wearing a negligee. Will, with his big ears, saw me and said, “Oooh! You look good.” As always, he had a bunch of groupies hovering nearby. I motioned at him and said, “Come here.” I pointed to the young women. “You see all those little girls down there? You g’on and flirt with them, because if you flirt with me, I’ll fuck you.” In typical Will fashion, his response was, “Uh oh, uh oh.” And then he laughingly told everyone the story. It was a bonding experience and he became quite protective of me. Our mutual admiration for each other’s talent made it a joy to work on the show.

  I started hanging out with Janet Hubert, who played my sister and Will’s Aunt Viv on the show. Let’s just say that Ms. Hubert was not having any of it. From anybody. At any time.

  I was coming from a Boat meeting one night, and some kids decided they would roll a grocery cart out in front of my little white Mazda 323. There was no way I could hit the brakes in time, but when I pulled over, it was a relief to see my car had only minimal damage. I wanted to report the incident to the police and walked toward the nearest home to see if I could use someone’s phone. Just as I pressed the doorbell, I heard glass shatter and turned to see one of the kids reach in my passenger window, steal my purse off the front seat, and take off running. Damn, I was mad! But having been a little thief myself in my youth, I knew they only wanted the cash and would throw the purse away. The following day, I went back to the scene of the crime and put myself in the thieves’ minds. Where would I have thrown that purse? I mounted a concrete wall to the back of an apartment building, climbed across the balcony, and up onto the roof. I retrieved my purse and took my black ass home. I saw a couple of other purses up there, too.

  The next day, I had therapy and was then supposed to go to an audition for which I’d been studying for days. I told Rachel I planned to skip the audition ’cause my car window was broken and we were being hit hard by the rains of El Niño. She was not having it and told me I would be going to the audition. I drove all the way to Culver City with a plastic trash bag taped over the passenger’s window. I auditioned for a twenty-four-year-old director named John Singleton, for his film Poetic Justice. After I finished my reading, I looked at John squarely. “Little boy, just give me the fucking part, will ya?” He said, “Yes ma’am.”

  I turned and walked out to the waiting room, grinning smugly at the three or four women waiting to audition. “Y’
all might as well go home. I got this bitch.” Like I said, therapy doesn’t work right away.

  Poetic Justice starred Janet Jackson and Tupac Shakur, the hip hop legend. I played the mother of Tupac’s character. Of course I had been a fan of Janet’s for years, but Tupac, and the whole rap thing were pretty foreign to me. Mostly, I associated the hip hop scene with guns and danger.

  The day we were set to shoot our scene together, I walked to Tupac’s trailer to rehearse. I could hear the music pounding before my knock was answered by an eighteen-year-old girl in hot pants and bikini top. As she opened the door, a huge cloud of weed smoke engulfed me. I entered the trailer and I swear, there must have been eight girls in there. The smoke was thick, the music was deafening and I felt intimidated by Tupac’s thuggy bodyguards and their tattoos. I stood there a second, not knowing what to do. Then I guess the contact high kicked in, because I shouted above the music, “You motherfuckers get the hell out! This son of a bitch has got to rehearse!” There was a moment of shocked silence, then Tupac said, “Ahh man, I love her! Y’all get the fuck outta here.” We rehearsed, then shot our scene. Tupac was a total professional; a very impressive young man.

  Nineteen ninety-three was one of the biggest years in my career. I was still filming What’s Love Got to Do with It when the producers from In Living Color came to see The Diva Is Dismissed at the Hudson. They asked me to bring two of my characters from Diva to their comedy sketch show. My contributions to In Living Color were Snookie (“Who’s a woman got to sleep with to get something to eat?”) and Ms. Sheridan (“That just proves my point!”). The Wayans brothers had left by then, so unfortunately I didn’t get to work with any of them. But Jim Carrey, Jamie Foxx, and T’Keyah Crystal Keymáh were still there, and we had a blast.

  I had steady work as a regular on A Different World and was filming Poetic Justice. I also had a small part in Robert Townsend’s Meteor Man, and rejoined Whoopi as her backup singer in Sister Act 2.

  Whoopi was in the middle of doing The Whoopi Goldberg Show, a late-night talk show that ran for about a year. She called me: “Come on down to the studio and hang out.” When I pulled up to the studio, Eartha Kitt was leaving and Patti LaBelle was pulling up in a Rolls-Royce. Take a deep breath, close your eyes, and imagine: Eartha Kitt, Patti LaBelle, and Jenifer Lewis occupying the same space. When Patti LaBelle saw me, she said to Whoopi, “Ain’t she the Dean?” It was a lovely day.

  Whoopi got married on October 1, 1986. The celebs poured in: Steven Spielberg, Jeffrey Katzenberg, Richard Pryor, Mark Hamill, Ray Liotta, Jon Voight, and certainly most impressively, Jenifer Lewis. I went upstairs and zipped Whoopi into her pretty dress and we had a good laugh that she had had the words “fuck you” spelled out on her rooftop for the paparazzi.

  Whoopi has always had my best interest at heart. I’ve been lucky, for the most part, in terms of the quality of my friendships. I believe the company you keep is incredibly important. I have surrounded myself with loving, giving people. And, of course, they have to be smart and talented.

  One morning I went into Whoopi’s trailer on the set of Corrina, Corrina. I was crying and I told her that I needed to get Ricky (someone I was dating and had allowed to move in with me) out of my house, and I didn’t know how. The next day was per diem day. I went to Whoopi’s trailer to rehearse the scene and saw $2,000 cash sitting on her coffee table. I said, “Girl why you got all this money sitting around? I’m going to steal this shit.” She said, “You don’t have to steal it, it’s yours.” I said, “What, girl, I don’t . . .” She said, “Take that two thousand and get that Nigga outta your house before it costs you two million, like it did me.”

  My success in movie and television roles allowed me to become a first-time homeowner. It was a huge deal for a poor girl from Kinloch. I bought a beautiful, spacious condominium in Studio City.

  I had never lived in anything bigger than a one-bedroom apartment. The living room was huge. There were three bedrooms, two baths, a pool, and a tennis court. It seemed so cavernous. I’m not gonna lie to y’all, it scared me a little bit. I slept in the smallest bedroom for a long time.

  I had a mortgage. I now belonged to the homeowners’ association. I had two parking spaces; no more of that parking-on-the-street shit where somebody steals your car, takes it on a joy ride, and three days later, the police return it with Taco Bell wrappers in the back seat. Assholes.

  I bought a new Camry. The only precious possession I brought with me from the bungalow to the condo was an upright piano. I had been sleeping on a futon and was looking forward to new, more grown-up furniture. My cousin Ronnie came from Kinloch to help me get the place together. I went antiquing with Whoopi in Santa Barbara. We saw a sofa I admired. The next day it was delivered to my house, a gift from Whoopi. I also employed my first housekeeper. However, once you’ve been a “have not,” you’re forever subject to moments that take you back. Gladys, my housekeeper, would bring her son along as she worked in my condo. Being with them made me melancholy and nostalgic, recalling the occasions when I went to work with my mother as she cleaned white people’s homes.

  JOURNAL ENTRY: Getting my ass kicked in Hollywood sometimes felt like getting my ass kicked in Kinloch. I’ve been trying to kill myself for thirty-three years. I awoke choking on my very crime.

  I took a little vacation to St. Maarten with Deborah Dean Davis. She was always trying to get me to try new activities so I’d have something to focus on besides my career and therapy. This was the reason we lay, inappropriately, on the beach naked for all to see. I was thirty-five years old, a brick house in these streets: 36-24-36, with skin like a baby’s ass, almond eyes, perfect nose, black-girl lips in full throttle, titties up (well, sagging a little), ass tight, and pretty feet. That’s right, goddammit. Look at me and get your life.

  JOURNAL ENTRY: Stop waiting for something or someone to come and make you happy. Meditate daily. Breathe. Come on. You’re okay. You have friends. Love them. Respect them. Go out and play. Learn to be alone.

  I experienced a breakthrough in my psychological health when I got into a big argument with a makeup-artist friend named Sherry. It marked the first time a friend asked me to sit down and work through a problem rather than allow me or them to storm off. She was in therapy too—for an eating disorder. We both used the tools therapy had given us and processed our issues with each other. This was an important moment because it also showed how I was attracting more positive and adult people in my life. When I went to my next therapy session, I was proud to tell Rachel how I had worked through a disagreement with a friend in a healthy way.

  Therapy is a bumpy bitch, but it continues to unfold if you stick with it. I was starting to understand more of who I was taking into the audition rooms with me, and it allowed my career to grow. I stopped being so arrogant. I was dismissing the Diva, ripping off the mask to show my true self. But it sho’ wa’nt easy.

  TWELVE

  KICKING DOWN DOORS

  The artificial glitz of Hollywood is the least of living in Los Angeles. God spread her glory in this city, being generous with the bling of palms, golden sunshine, crashing ocean, and nearby mountains. And of course the purple jacaranda trees in May. Despite my moments of sadness, madness, and ambition, I aligned myself with nature like never before.

  Mother Nature had a surprise for me. The violent shaking started around 4:30 a.m. on January 17, 1994. Tai chi and yoga had taught me to go limp in these kinds of situations. I was still sleeping on the low futon-style bed, so I had nothing to fall from, but I was thrown over the thing like a rag doll.

  This was not my first earthquake, but it was the strongest I’d ever felt. The shaking seemed to go on forever. When it finally did stop, I was relieved to be in one piece, unhurt. I reached down and found the clothes I had dropped next to the bed the night before. There were matches in my pants pocket, and, foolishly, I did something you should not do in the aftermath of an earthquake—light a match. This could ignite any gas that had been released i
nto the air. In the few seconds the match was aglow, I could see the ceiling had dropped a little and was about to crash onto my bed. Everything was broken and scattered about, and I felt the cool January air coming through the broken windows. I blew out the match, and in complete darkness, blindly felt my way toward the living room. My upright Yamaha piano had fallen over and there was a wall in my way, but somehow I squeezed through. My phone rang. It was my brother, Larry, calling from Missouri. He was heading out early for his job teaching at Jennings High School when news of the quake came over the radio. “Larry, it’s bad. It’s real bad. Don’t tell Mama. I’m okay, but it’s so fucking bad,” I whispered to him because the silence in the moment was so great around me, I felt compelled to keep my own voice low. Mother Nature had just kicked our ass.

  I called Rachel. She lived just down the street. I was relieved to hear that she was fine. The phone went dead. I went outside into the corridor that opened onto a courtyard. Across the way lived an eighty-year-old couple. I went to check on them. They were shaken, of course, but alive. They had a flashlight, which I asked for “so I can help these other people.” I was now hearing screams for help. I went to open one neighbor’s door only to find it was stuck.