The Mother of Black Hollywood

by Jenifer Lewis

  Recovery and healing require patience, something that is difficult for many people, and certainly was difficult for someone like me. But, I learned to submit to patience because it was either go step-by-step or die. Having patience means knowing that it is never too late to get well.

  FIFTEEN

  ON THE BACK OF A TWO-HUMPED CAMEL

  What does an artist do when she gets a role bigger than she ever imagined? I faced this question when Dr. Elizabeth Stroble, the president of my alma mater, Webster University, called to invite me to deliver the 2015 commencement address. This was big; what could I possibly say to all those beautiful young graduates about to embark on their lives? What knowledge could I drop that would inspire them?

  I panicked about the speech. I went straight to YouTube and watched a bunch of commencement speeches by people I admired, like Michelle Obama, Hillary Clinton, Tom Hanks, Oprah Winfrey, and Jim Carrey, who also lives with mental illness. The speeches were amazing, but finally, I decided to just be myself and speak from my heart.

  At the outdoor ceremony in Forest Park in St. Louis, I stood before more than six thousand graduating students. This was a homecoming. In the audience, I could see the beaming faces of all my siblings: Wilatrel, Vertrella, Robin, Jackie, and Larry. My late brother Edward was there in spirit. But my mother was not present. She had been rushed to the hospital the evening before.

  As I approached the podium to deliver my speech, my heart felt heavy thinking about Mama lying in the hospital. Then I thought about how despite it all, if there was one thing Mama did, it was to instill us kids with a reverence for education and learning. I wanted to honor Mama and this grand responsibility before me, so I centered my speech on the three best nuggets of advice I could give.

  Number one: the elevator to success is broken—take the stairs.

  Number two: it is when you’re hardest hit that you mustn’t quit.

  Number three: love yourself so love will not be a stranger when it comes.

  My speech brought to mind the words of the love of my life, Miguel, when he’d said, “Yenifer, joo have thees great ability to get zee attenshoon of zee people, but den, joo say no-thing.”

  Ah, my love, you’d be so proud of me now.

  Toward the end of the speech, I blew the roof off (metaphorically of course) with an a capella rendition of “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” The crowd cheered my speech, my singing, and my jokes. The entire day is a glorious memory. Oh, and by the way—during the ceremony, I received an honorary doctorate. That’s right, please refer to me henceforth as “Dr. Jenifer MothaFuckin’ Lewis”!

  My mother passed away the following September 11th. After her death, my sisters sent four large boxes containing what I thought were some of mama’s belongings. I was speechless when I saw what was inside. It was scrapbooks of my life—every picture, every article, every report card, every review. I dug through the softball trophies, a baby shoe and locks of my baby hair. At the bottom was a blue ribbon I had stolen so long ago. Mama had kept me with her, collected me, saved me from earliest childhood to right before she died. The scrapbooks brought me a recollection of Christmas some years earlier, when Mama came to Los Angeles. There she stood in front of my Christmas tree, holding Charmaine’s little poodle. She was so small; so fragile; so vulnerable. In that moment, I realized my mother loved me; she just had her own way of showing it. Or perhaps not showing it. She did her best and my life was a testament to the values and determination she had instilled in me. I whispered to myself, Let it go, Jenny. Let it all go. And I did.

  This year, I turned sixty years old and I am feeling pretty damn good about life. And y’all know I didn’t come to this realization because my journey’s been easy. I overcame enormous challenges to have peace of mind and thank God, I have never forgotten from whence I come. Charity and “giving back” are constants for me, whether in the areas of mental health, AIDS, or young people in need. Even on a one-to-one basis, I love to help when people ask my opinions or advice about their lives. But I also know you can’t help nobody who ain’t ready to be helped!

  But peace of mind and trying to do good deeds can’t stop some fucked-up shit from coming around the corner right into your life. On the very day Mama died, September 11, 2015, I learned that a con artist had slithered into my life. He had been scamming women for twenty-five years and had spent four years in federal prison for fraud. Fortunately, I have surrounded myself with very good friends. When one of my girlfriend noticed that I was not acting like my usual self since I’d been dating this man, she took action and gave me proof that I was this man’s latest victim.

  Never in a million fucking years could I have imagined this kind of unspeakable evil finding its way into my life. Let me say this to you: there are sociopaths in this world. Please don’t suspect the worst of people, but do pay attention, pay attention, pay the fuck attention! Listen to your instinct. If a romance or any opportunity, seems too good to be true, it probably isn’t true.

  It took months for me to come out of the abyss into which I fell on the day Mama died and, rather than mourn, I had to go to the police station to report that I had been the victim of a con artist. That winter, as my numbness finally began to recede, a dear friend was diagnosed with HPV cancer of the throat. It pained me that work prevented me from being by her side through the ordeal. Fortunately, she is now cancer-free. Shortly afterward Charmaine’s sweet little poodle, Cashoo, had a stroke, fell in the pool, and drowned. When the next year my best friend’s young niece overdosed on heroin, I wondered whether my love was adequate to help him and his family cope with the loss.

  This wonderful, amazing thing called life can take you through hell and back, but I’ve seen so many lights at the end of so many tunnels that my soul is full to the brim. Though I have been through the fire more than once, I know that coming out on the other side can be glorious and beautiful. With aging comes clarity; I see that had one man, one show, or one breakdown been different, I wouldn’t be the woman I am today.

  But all those flowery thoughts can’t reverse the fact that aging can be a bitch on your body! Not long ago on the set of black-ish, my right knee, Arthur, went out. I screamed bloody murder! Ruby was taken down, y’all! At this point I had been a regular on the show for two years and had become an integral part of the Johnson family. Everything I had wished for that night on the Adriatic had come true; I was co-starring in a prime-time network show that tackles the issues of the day with gravity and humor, working with talented castmates, and portraying a character I could really sink my teeth into.

  Over the past couple of years, I have sought to find Ruby Johnson, to capture her flow and define the colors and levels of her personality. My favorite aspect of Ruby is her relationship with her daughter-in-law Rainbow, played by Tracee Ellis Ross. Oh, how the two of us love creating the Ruby-Rainbow battle for superiority in the Johnson household! I am so proud of Tracee. Not just for handling her role so beautifully, but also for her activism. She is a role model for so many young women.

  Anthony Anderson, who plays my son Dre, and I are just damn fools together. I’ll never forget the scene in the “Old Digger” episode when Dre fakes a heart attack when he encounters Ruby and her young lover in the hallway. As Dre lay on the floor and Ruby tapped his head demanding that the “devil come out!” I couldn’t stop laughing, because Anthony kept bobbing his head in sync with my hand. Nothing like great chemistry; or should I say two happy fools in harmony! Thank you, Black Jesus!

  The best thing about playing Ruby is that she loves kids as much as I do. It has been extraordinary to work with the four young actors who portray Ruby’s grandchildren. Often working with kids can wear you out. But I am very happy that Yara Shahidi, Marcus, Miles, and Caila (Marsai) are exceptional in every way.

  People often ask what it’s like to work with Laurence Fishburne. Here is the answer: it’s ice cream, cotton candy, and Christmas morning.

  Black-ish is a happy set, thanks to the extraordinary leader
ship of its creator and showrunner, Kenya Barris. The entire black-ish family the crew, producers, writers, props and wardrobe teams, to the young production assistants, is amazing. And where would I be without makeup artist Martha Callender and hairstylist Tinisha Meeks, the two angels who are trapped in my trailer with my cappuccino-needing, crazy ass every morning?

  Before I became part of the black-ish family, I would be recognized mostly by black people. In testament to the universality of black-ish, these days the fans approaching me are every shade of American. I am humbled when they compliment me on my portrayal of Ruby.

  I am proud of Ruby. To me she is the exemplification of what “Mother of Black Hollywood” means. She represents how far we’ve come. I grew up watching black women play characters that, in some ways, stereotyped black womanhood—Hattie McDaniel in Gone With the Wind, Juanita Moore in Imitation of Life. Don’t get me wrong: those actresses were well aware of their positions and were doing an honest job. My point is the heritage is real. Ruby incorporates the most positive parts of those characters and mixes in accurate representations of African American women, like those delivered by Cicely Tyson in Sounder, Diahann Carroll in Claudine, and even Pam Grier in Foxy Brown. Ruby brings it all into the modern world. Sure, Ruby’s got the traditional, down-to-earth, God-fearing, outspoken (but always loving) profile that is usually attributed to black mothers on screen. But she also has her own life, has strong political views, and moves frequently and easily from braids to head-wraps to her ’fro. Plus, I would bet that Ruby, God bless her, always checks the meat before getting her alpha wolf on with her newest sweet young thang!

  After we wrapped the third season of black-ish, I decided to reward myself with another luxury trip. This time it was around the world by private jet for a month! I had been saving for this extra-special vacation for ten years. I was so happy that Marc Shaiman and his husband, Lou Mirabal, joined me.

  The adventures we had traveling through Colombia, Easter Island, Solomon Islands, Tahiti, and the Philippines could be a book! When we got to Mongolia, we spent time in a yurt visiting with a family of nomads. During one precious moment, the interpreter informed us that when a camel is giving birth, her herders sing a special song to her. I sweetly asked the man who owned the yurt to please sing that song. He was shy, but after a little Jenifer Lewis snuggling and carrying on, he began to sing. It was like nothing I had ever heard. His notes echoed, even in this tent made of cloth. It wasn’t the acoustics; it was because his vocal cords were powered by the love that he had for his camels. He held one pure, clear note as long as any prima donna could. His song wrapped my soul in grace.

  Grace turned to “what the hell?” when I stepped outside of the yurt. There before me stood a two-humped camel, waiting for me to climb up between his humps for an afternoon romp in the Gobi Desert. It was a very bouncy, long ride. Upon descending from this ancient creature, I jokingly said to Marc Shaiman, “I think I broke my pussy bone.” He in turn, being the great songwriter that he is (and the funniest; okay, and the cutest!), went into action by writing a song. Wanna hear it? Here it go!

  My pussy bone broke on the back of a two-humped camel

  This ain’t no joke

  I heard it crack

  On the back of that mammal

  This ain’t no time for a laugh

  My pussy done broke in half

  And next week we ride a giraffe?

  God, help me and my pussy bone

  I wish that camel had a microphone

  So I could tell the world

  My pussy bone broke

  On the back of a two-humped camel.

  I swear, the video got more than a half-million views on Facebook. Pure foolishness!

  The trip continued through Uzbekistan, St. Petersburg in Russia, and Reykjavik, Iceland, where I sang “Amazing Grace” in a chapel inside a three-hundred-year-old glacier. Talk about acoustics!

  I flew home to blue skies, my bichon Butters, and black-ish. Trust me, it don’t get no better than that! As I stood at the baggage carousel, a young man leapt in front of me and began to sing in an accent I later learned was Kenyan: “I don’t want nobody fuckin’ with me in these streets!” I was surprised. In 2016, when Brandy, Roz Ryan, and I recorded “In These Streets” while fooling around one night at my piano, we had no idea it would become an international viral sensation. The fuckin’ Internet, y’all.

  On the ride from the airport, I looked out the window, thinking about how different my life would have been without the ups and downs, the fabulous, and the terrifying. I was never one to wait for life to happen. I took a lot of risks, grabbed hold of opportunities when they came along, and even kicked down some doors when they didn’t. I dared to dream and damn if the dream didn’t come true—I am become a “star.” It happened on the day I realized that everybody is a star.

  I asked myself a hard question of the type we ask as we grow older and more wise. For much of my life, I swore I would never be satisfied until I had it all—Grammy, Oscar, Tony, and Emmy. But I don’t have any of those. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. So I asked myself, “What could I have done differently to get those awards?” The answer came easily: “Not a goddamn thing.” I no longer need them to be happy, you see, because I am Jenifer Lewis, the Mother of Black Hollywood. It is an honor that eclipses all that other shit. And I wouldn’t change it for all the world, y’all. Not for all the world.

  A LETTER TO THE READER

  Dear Reader,

  I was pulling into my driveway after spending a Christmas, alone, in South Africa. I’d run off to get away from the pain of a broken engagement, or so I told myself. While there, I toured Robben Island and stood looking at the cell where Nelson Mandela had been locked up for twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven goddamn years, stuck in a cell. It was deeply moving. It wasn’t until my car rolled into the garage of my home that I really took in the fact that while Mandela may have been in a cell for twenty-seven years, he had never been imprisoned. I, however, had no jail cell, but had been emotionally caged all my life—constricted by my own secrets.

  I turned off the ignition, looked around, and thought, I owe.

  Because I have survived, I owe.

  Because I still have a smile on my face and am in good health, I owe.

  Because I live with bipolar disorder and thrive, I owe.

  Because I made it to the other side of sex addiction, I owe.

  Because my generation has left behind a world of chaos and environmental deterioration that the next is being made to clean up, I owe.

  Because while my role as the Mother of Black Hollywood started out as just that—a part to play—the platform has afforded me the opportunity to have so many young people come to me seeking answers to why, how, what, when . . . please, Miss Lewis?

  I owe.

  I owe it to the world to share what I have learned on my journey.

  People love gossip.

  I don’t.

  I know the pain gossip caused me and those around me. After all the shit I’ve been through, I now know no one is better or worse than anyone else. We are all God’s babies.

  It’s the reason I chose not to write a Hollywood tell-all. The Mother of Black Hollywood is a life tell-all, an unburdening of secrets that have kept me captive for far too long. I’ve told you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth of my life as I saw it. As I felt it, tasted it, touched and smelled it. This is my story, my song. Yes, I’ve suffered, but no more and no less than anyone else. So, since we’re all in this together, my prayer is that if any of you can take away even an ounce of comfort and joy by having read my story, then I will peacefully pass this plain knowing that I have stepped up, stood up, and stayed up, and done what I set out to do—help somebody because somebody helped me.

  You have your own story, your own song to tell and sing. Don’t sit back and hold it in. Secrets made me sick, stress held me back. I’ve witnessed fear ruin so many lives. Then we pass it on to our kids, and they pass it on to
theirs, then on and ridiculously on until it’s so big, it destroys us all. We can easily feel that even in this world of 7.4 billion people that there’s no one out there who will listen. No one who has your back, even when you feel you had theirs.

  I’ll tell you like I tell my daughter—we are never alone. When I was young, I just knew somebody was coming to rescue me. A knight in shining armor, an angel, a guru, a priest, a director, a producer, a bird, a flower, a tree, a cloud, the moon—anything. And after all that praying and hoping and wishing, it came down to looking in the mirror, taking responsibility for my choices—every last one of them. And it wasn’t until I asked, asked, asked—you have to ask—that someone did listen with a sincere smile and stood by my side and guided me gently. So, go beyond yourself and fight for it, damnit. Ain’t nobody promised you a rose garden without painful-ass thorns. Go beyond yourself, reach out, and you will touch a hand that will lift you up. This kind gesture will give you the courage and strength to lift others.

  Do your best and leave the rest. I want you to stand up in these streets, resist the forces that will taint this beautiful world, and immerse yourself in the experience, and sing the fuck out of that song in your heart. Be good to your body and your mind. If you need therapy, get it. If appropriately prescribed medication will help you, get the damn medication. Rest when you are tired, eat when you are hungry. Go into everything with an open heart while being smart with how and with whom you share yourself. Above all, remember that we are all human. We will all grow old, we will all feel pain, and hopefully get laid. Gotcha!!

  When I started writing this book, I told my editor, Tracy Sherrod, that if after I’m dead and gone, a little boy or girl is walking through some war-torn country and sees a tattered copy of my book on the side of the road, picks it up, and finds even one sentence that makes it possible to take one more step because of something I said, my life will not have been lived in vain. (Just hope they don’t read the “Dick Diva” chapter first!)