The Mother of Black Hollywood

by Jenifer Lewis

  My dear, talented, sweet cousin passed away. Shame had prevented him from speaking about his illness and from getting treatment. Once again, I had witnessed how secrets destroy lives.

  To help Charmaine, and myself, recover from Ronnie’s death, we took a short trip to Hawaii. I wanted to show Charmaine that I trusted her, so I gave her freedom there to stay out late if she wanted. I was nervous though, and pretended to be asleep when she came home a little too late for my taste. (She still claims she was sooo not late!)

  I received a call while in Hawaii that the role I wanted in Lackawanna Blues had gone to my friend S. Epatha Merkerson, who turned in a brilliant performance. When I got home, Glory Hallelujah, I was offered five movies, including Nora’s Hair Salon, The Cookout, and Antwone Fisher.

  In Charmaine’s junior year of high school, she got herself into a not-so-good relationship with a pretty white boy. She was in emotional pain for nearly a year but couldn’t find the strength to end it. To get Charmaine’s mind on other things, I snatched her up and took her to Italy. This was the first time I’d taken her to a foreign country and maybe I was a little too protective. She was 18 now and I had to let my baby girl grow up. Damn.

  We visited Florence, drove through Tuscany, and when we got to Pisa, I rushed her out of the car, shouting, “Come on! Come on before it falls,” as we laughingly rushed toward the Leaning Tower. In Rome, we went shopping around the Spanish Steps and I bought her two prom dresses. We were lucky enough to catch the last tour of the Vatican before it was announced that Pope John Paul II had died. We were scheduled to go home the next day, but flights had been cancelled because of the onslaught of people who had rushed to Rome for the Pope’s funeral and selection of the new Pontiff. We even saw the smoke from the chimney.

  Between having to stay a couple of extra nights and the long trip back to Los Angeles, I totaled four days off my medication, which triggered a manic episode when I got home.

  That first morning, I took a spin in my car, still thinking about the wonderful trip to Italy, but happy to be back in our beautiful neighborhood which was awash in purple Jacaranda blooms. I turned a corner and found myself looking at a brand new tile-roofed home that reminded me of Tuscany. The house was beige with green shutters and in classic Tuscan-style, every window had a different shape. I had to see inside.

  When the man who built the house walked me through it, I began to sing. The house matched what was going on inside of me. I was inside a manic episode and this house was as big as my feelings. The contractor, Joseph Aviv, brought his father, Moses, with him. Joseph and Moses—what an audience! I started singing “You Raise Me Up” by Josh Groban at the top of my lungs ahh, the acoustics in an empty house! I fawned over Moses and asked if he knew the Ten Commandments and who Nefertiti was. Apparently other people were bidding on the house, but Moses was entranced by my joy and told Joseph to sell it to me. Thus, in a highly manic state, and without due consideration, I bought the house. But when my manic mood subsided, one night I sat straight up in bed and thought, “How much did I just spend? What the fuck have I done?”

  We moved into our new home a few weeks before Charmaine finished high school. She enrolled in college that fall, but dropped out two years later. I was terribly disappointed. She promised to return to college, and I set her up with an apartment, car, and an allowance. But when she told me she wasn’t going back to school, our relationship hit a low point. Nearly three years passed, during which time LaRhonda passed away. When Charmaine and I finally reconciled, we talked about the great and not-so-great times. From her perspective, I gave her a voice in the way that I raised her, then I took that voice away. From my perspective, I encouraged her to have a voice, but when she used it to be disrespectful, I had to shut it down.

  I wasn’t the perfect mother, but I am grateful that Charmaine understands I did my best. Working through all this with Charmaine has helped me come to terms with my Mama; to see that she also did her best—even if I felt it wasn’t enough.

  After Charmaine moved out, I had time to face the fact that things with Terrence were pretty bad. For one thing, I realized I was getting a little tired of picking up the tab all the time. This has been a running issue in my life. Though I’ve never minded sharing my success, we all must be careful of becoming a damn fool. Another thing was Terrence couldn’t really talk about his deepest feelings. I realized that his horrible experiences as a child caused him to become emotionally disconnected. There was nothing mean about Terrence. Though intelligent, he was still a scared little boy that had major arrested development.

  But I wasn’t willing to give up on us yet. I was asked to perform on a gay cruise to Alaska. But like a damn fool, I took Terrence with me. What came of that? Me threatening gay men left and right. When I thought I caught them looking at Terrence, I’d say: “this one’s mine. Fuck with him and I’ll sink this ship like the Titanic.” They laughed, not realizing I was dead serious. (I love my gay babies!)

  Ultimately, Terrence broke up with me. The first man who ever did that. It was usually me, who ended my relationships. In a last-ditch effort to heal our relationship, we ran off to Japan—Tokyo, Kyoto, Kamakura, Osaka, and, dear God, Hiroshima, where the United States dropped the atom bomb at the end of World War II. As I entered the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, I saw a banner hanging low. It was written in Japanese, but in my mind it read, “Look upon this shame. Look what you did to us.” There was a concrete block that still had the shadow of a man who had been disintegrated in less than a second. There were photographs of children and families and animals that I cannot begin to describe nor will I try. Just know I vomited when I came out of the museum.

  After nearly eight years together, Terrence abandoned me half way up Mount Fuji. We had taken the train out from Tokyo one afternoon and then grabbed a taxi from the station to the base of the mountain. We did not realize the taxi driver took us to the wrong side of the mountain, leaving us at the path reserved for expert climbers and military training. Thus, not only was the trail of crushed lava rocks difficult to walk on, the angle of incline was extreme. Nevertheless, it was beautiful and the cumulus clouds gathering at the mountaintop seemed to call us upward. after about an hour of climbing, despite my athleticism, I was out of breath, drenched in sweat and knew that I couldn’t go on. When I told Terrence, he half-heartedly offered to descend with me. I said, “Nah, you go on, I’ll be okay,” trusting he would, of course, insist on accompanying me back down, especially given my obvious physical distress. To my surprise, however, he was relieved. “That cloud is calling me,” he said. “I want to go all the way to the top, Jenifer, so you go on and I’ll meet you back at the hotel.” I slowly and precariously crunched my way down the mountain. The temperature dropped a good ten degrees as the sun set. Within moments, it was damned near pitch black and I could neither see or hear anyone else on the trail. Okay y’all, my alpha ass was no match for Miss Mighty Mount Fuji. JeniferMothaFuckinLewis became plain old scared. Worst of all, I could not avoid acknowledging that “actions speak louder than words.” Terrence’s actions had shown me what he was not man enough to tell me: that he was no longer there for me, that he no longer prioritized my well-being, and that our relationship was, in fact, over. I managed to climb down the dangerous trail by myself and make it back to the hotel okay.

  JOURNAL ENTRY: Help me God that I was ever with a man like this.

  The bottom line is I was too much of a goddamn man myself. There was a part of me that chose men I could dominate. It wasn’t my fault that I made more money than they did. Dumb bastards. Why couldn’t they enjoy it and just be nice?

  After appearing for six years as a regular cast member on Strong Medicine, the top-rated show on Lifetime, I got the horrific news that it was being canceled. There were many “what the fuck?”s thrown around by me. I soon calmed down when Ruben Cannon called and offered me Tyler Perry’s Madea’s Family Reunion. I really needed this job, but the offer came in extremely low. I was disappointed, b
ecause I had already done so many low-budget, independent films for Ruben Cannon. I don’t know where I got the balls from, but I said, “No.” I was thinking to myself, “Fuck the mortgage. I want to be respected in this business.” I’ve worked hard, worked hard on myself, and found the strength to just say “No.”

  Two hours later, Tyler Perry called and said, “What do I have to do to have you in my film?” I gave him my quote, and he said, “Yes.”

  Merry Christmas, bitches!

  A few months later, I went to the premiere of Cars, in which I voiced a 1957 Cadillac named “Flo.” The premiere was in Charleston, North Carolina, at a NASCAR event. Jesus Christ, what a scene; the roar of the car motors was deafening and everyone in the stadium seemed to be eating fried turkey legs and drinking kegs of beer.

  Around Christmastime, I was hired to sing at a private party in Beverly Hills. Norman Lear was there. He approached me respectfully. “I’d like to apologize to you. I’m so sorry you were hurt. You’ve grown into a beautiful woman.” I felt so grown up when I responded sweetly. We went on to have a lovely conversation about our children.

  Bertolt Brecht, a German born at the end of the nineteenth century, was known for stories steeped in history and told from the perspective of the poor and downtrodden. He wrote a play called Mother Courage and Her Children while in self-imposed exile from Nazi Germany.

  Mother Courage was produced by the Public Theater in the outdoor Delacorte Theater in Central Park. I was asked to play the part of Yvette Poitier, performing opposite Meryl Streep. Before casting me, George C. Wolfe, the director, auditioned dozens of women. Every actress in the world wanted to work with Meryl Streep.

  George’s assistant told me that after auditioning about 30 women for the role, George put his head in his hands and said, “Who can I get to play Yvette?” She has to have classical training, be able to sing, and have enough presence to share the stage with Meryl and Kevin Kline.” He suddenly flashed back to me, clowning during the run of The Diva Is Dismissed and entertaining the office staff by reciting Portia’s monologues from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. George shouted at his assistant, “Get Jenifer Lewis on the phone!”

  I was thrilled to face the challenge of Mother Courage. I had my doubters. Artists are quickly labeled, and my label was “force of nature,” not so much “serious actor.” I didn’t doubt that I could tear up the role. But, I was stressed and highly intimidated by Meryl Streep. Mark Brown named my condition “Streep Stress.” I kidded with Mark that Ms. Streep would show up to the first rehearsal with one of her Oscars in hand. You know, just plop the gold statue on the table to establish the pecking order. That fool turned my anxiety into a monologue for a one-woman show the following year:

  I walked into the first rehearsal of Mother Courage and planted my solid acrylic Ovation Award right in front of Meryl Streep.

  “Murl Gurl. You got one of these?” I said.

  “No,” she said.

  “Okay Murl Girl, then we gonna be ah’iiiight.”

  “My name is Mer-yl.”

  “What now?” I asked.

  “My name is Meryl.”

  “Yes honey, that may be,” I said. “But Murl rhymes with girl. So, it’s Murl Girl.”

  Meryl looked at the director, George C. Wolfe. He looked at the play’s translator, Tony Kushner. They all looked at me, and I said, “Look, she may be playing ‘Mother Courage,’ but I’m the Mothafucka up on that stage they’ll be looking at.” I was promptly shot in both knees and taken out.

  In reality, despite my nervousness, I had the time of my life working with Meryl Streep. She was generous, brilliant, warm, and appreciative of my talents. She wrote me a note on opening night, calling me “the great one.” It brought me to tears. In the few weeks we ran, more than three thousand people saw the play. Celebrities, average folks, and all my gypsy friends. I felt honored when Tom Hanks brought his wife, Rita, backstage to meet me.

  The reviews of Mother Courage were good. I was honored when Ben Brantley said of me in The Times that “Her interpretation of Yvette’s bitter song of remembered love is a stunningly calibrated blend of smoothness and harshness, of filigree irony and primal emotion, that suggests what Brecht was trying to achieve.”

  Another critic said that I was “the only one who could handle Brecht’s dialogue.” Meryl Streep may have been the draw, said critics, “but they’re going to see Jenifer when they get there.”

  The only bad review I received was in The New Yorker. Flashback to a couple years earlier when I met with journalist Hilton Als to discuss his idea for a musical about a larger-than-life woman who was at the center of the party scene in Harlem. I was pretty underwhelmed by the idea and stated dismissively, “I don’t want to be on stage with other people.”

  Turned out Als, who reviewed Mother Courage for The New Yorker, got the opportunity to give me my comeuppance for my insensitivity about his idea:

  “The only distraction here is Jenifer Lewis, as the business-minded whore Yvette. Lewis is not an actress but a personality. She plays the part like a refugee from the chit’lin’ circuit. From time to time, her braying throws even Streep off.” Some day I hope to meet Mr. Als in a dark alley where we can sit down and eat some chitlins together!

  I was so happy when my four sisters agreed to come out to Los Angeles to see my wonderful new home. I wanted the house to look and feel special for them, so I ran around madly shopping for linens and home accessories. I called Mark Brown, rattling off all the stuff I needed to get. He let me talk until I ran out of breath. Then he asked where I was. “Bed, Bath and Beyond,” I answered. Immediately, Mark knew I was in manic mode. He said, “No you aren’t. You’re at bipolar, bath and beyond.” Well, of course that moment led to another one-woman performance piece called: Bipolar, Bath & Beyond. The show was about my turning fifty years old, surviving failed relationships, and, of course, therapy, as in the following monologue:

  I put in so much time on the couch, I’ve earned an honorary doctorate in human behavior. I can spot a disorder at fifty paces. I diagnosed my manicurist as having borderline personality disorder. I could tell by the way she trimmed my cuticles. And the boy who does my hair, he’s a motor mouth with a nervous tic—a dead giveaway—schizoid affective disorder. Sexual addiction, borderline personality, narcissism, oh yes, I call it like I feel it. I’m not judgmental about it. I support my charges in every way I can. I put my arm around ’em and say, “Baby you wanna borrow my drip?”

  After one of the shows, an audience member introduced herself as a journalist with Jet magazine. She told me the show resonated with her because her brother had bipolar disorder. Naturally, I said yes to her request for an interview.

  On closing night, after the piece ran in Jet, I got a phone call from Oprah—actually her producer, Jackie Taylor. “Miss Lewis, I am calling for Oprah Winfrey and we’re doing a show on bipolar disorder. And Miss Winfrey was wondering if you would be a guest.” I flew to Chicago.

  I woke up at the famous Omni Hotel where all the guests of The Oprah Winfrey Show stayed. I was a nervous wreck. To compose myself, I looked in the mirror and said these words, “Jenny, today is not the day the diva meets the queen.” This was some serious shit. I saw the show as an opportunity to perhaps help someone with bipolar disorder find their way out of the darkness. I felt it was my responsibility.

  As the car drove us to Harpo Studios, I still had butterflies. To settle myself, as we got out of the car, I looked at my friend Gay Iris Parker and proclaimed, “I may be in her arena, but she’s in my territory. I’ve suffered with this shit all my life and all I have to do is go in there, sit down, and tell the truth.”

  What I remember most about Oprah’s studio was the enormous photograph of Nelson Mandela near the entrance. Mr. Mandela’s commitment to humanity inspired me to give what Oprah later characterized as a “GREAT” interview.

  Afterward, I called Rachel from the car and thanked her for helping me find the courage and the strength to be c
omfortable in my own skin. Going public with my mental disorder on Oprah led me to use my platform as a public figure to help others facing mental health problems. The following spring, I was asked by a pharmaceutical company that makes medicines used in the treatment of bipolar disorder to become a spokesperson for a mental health awareness campaign. I did nearly three dozen interviews with media from all over the country. The experience was amazing, and it contributed to my understanding of just how many people are affected by depression and anxiety. People are always coming up to me and telling me they appreciate the fact that I went public. Bottom line, y’all—Ain’t no shame in my game. Like Mr. Mandela said, “Your playing small does not serve the world.” If your “crazy” aunt never leaves the basement, or your friend is too depressed to go to work, play it “big”; reach out and touch somebody. I will be right beside you.

  Stigma about mental illness stops people from seeking help. I believe widespread stigma, fear, and just plain ignorance about mental illness, particularly among African Americans, has taken a terrible toll on our families and communities.

  I didn’t have a name for what my condition was until I was thirty-three-years-old. We’re each works-in-progress for as long as we live, and I was no different. When you’re in emotional distress, your life can feel like you’re spiraling up or down at any given moment. If these ups and downs are extreme and chronic, they do damage to your mind, body, and soul, and your relationships with other people, including those who care about you most.