In a quiet convent setting, I began healing for the first time in my life, under the guidance of a nun who preferred to work anonymously. I lived and worked in her home, tending the garden and myself at the same time.
In the weeks that followed, I thought often of a comment that had been made to me some years earlier by LaTanya Richardson Jackson, then a very close friend who evolved into much more—enlightened mentor, earth mother, and soul sister all in one, who would be there for me in my toughest, darkest days still to come.
“You know what, Vicki,” she had said to me, in a voice that resonated with depth, wit, and downright brilliance, not to mention the Atlanta, Georgia, accent she’d never quite lost, “you work like a dark-skinned girl.”
What she meant, I understood. In my most vulnerable, contorted state of mind, as I slogged it out in the trenches, while layer upon layer of self-applied bandages were ripped off like linoleum being stripped from an old floor, the knowledge that I had always worked hard was intact, such that remembering LaTanya’s vote of confidence in me lifted an enormous weight off me.
LaTanya had seemingly appeared in a divine assignment in my garden in 1995, a stunning rose among many other beauties, radiantly shining above the rest. She herself was a hardworking woman, only one of the reasons that her husband, actor Samuel L. Jackson, was smitten with her when they first met while both were starting out in their respective acting careers. Standing in my backyard at an afternoon charity gathering, LaTanya so clearly owned her own skin, her femininity, her power, her razor-sharp intelligence, and rapt interest in supporting a cause that was obviously close to my heart.
For all the years that I had been in Hollywood and had established one community that was connected to my work and another community that was connected to activism, what I had yet to find was that family connection, that true belonging that I sought above all else. LaTanya, without being told, understood that, and in the ensuing years would frequently invite me and my children to be part of her family celebrations and holiday gatherings. At so many junctures, her generosity was medicinal.
My first Thanksgiving at LaTanya Jackson’s glorious table, impeccably set with Wedgewood china and Waterford crystal, Towle silver, upon a Belgian lace tablecloth, was a concert of laughter and passionate, intellectual conversation—complete with her aunt Edna’s cranberry Jell-O mold. This was the music of my soul, weaving together traditions from all the women who had raised me, with echoes of former foster mothers’ Thanksgiving tables: Agatha’s roast turkey, Esther’s crystal and china, Rosa’s collard greens, Sylvia’s linens. The swirl of many cultures and many faiths rose up inside me, filling me with grace and a feeling of being at home, safe and loved with a daughter and son at my side who felt as I did.
Mysteriously, even though we had both been in New York at the same time, our paths had never crossed. LaTanya had graduated from Atlanta’s Spelman College, the historically black all-women’s school, with a B.A. in theater, before going on to earn a master’s in drama from NYU. In the same years that I was beginning my scholarship at ABT, she was discovered by the visionary Joseph Papp, whose Public Theatre and New York Shakespeare Festival revolutionized world drama. Starring in several productions for Papp, LaTanya became the toast of the town when she starred in the Broadway run of Ntozake Shange’s landmark For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf.
From there she was off to the races, performing with such companies as the Negro Ensemble Theater and the Manhattan Theatre Club during a fantastically fertile period for African American playwrights and drama in which she was a leading light. After marrying Sam in an Atlanta wedding ceremony attended by more than five hundred well-wishers, she made the inevitable leap to Hollywood, where initially it seemed that LaTanya would be offered the lion’s share of work while Sam was slowly making a name for himself. In time, those positions changed, although she would continue to be revered in many circles as an actor’s actor, working very consistently on the stage, in film, and in television with the slight luxury of being able to pick and choose projects, and even to try her hand at directing and producing.
Sacrifice for the betterment of family was a dominant theme in a long-running conversation that LaTanya and I held about where our goals and ambitions stopped and where those of loved ones began. I learned everything that I could about parenting from how she and Samuel raised their amazing daughter, Zōe, who would later become a Vassar graduate.
Though LaTanya and I had different realities and different priorities, we loved pampering ourselves just a little—in excursions that indulged our shared love for art, antiques, fashion, and travel—as we discussed juggling all the balls in the air we both had. If I thought that I was good at turning over every stone to find that diamond in the rough, LaTanya made me look like an amateur. She proved to have the eye of an eagle.
LaTanya paid her own form of homage to the women who raised her, most notably what had been taught by her grandmother—the sacred knowledge of roots in all the meanings of that word, how to tend a garden, how to grow, become resilient, and share the bounty of success with others. As an activist and philanthropist, serving as a trustee for Spelman College and on numerous boards for organizations in the arts, including Artists for a New South Africa, and many children’s groups, which included my charity, LaTanya would continue to inspire and challenge me not to become bogged down in intraorganizational politics but to be about the work itself.
Returning to such undertakings was still not in my realm of acceptance as the hardest phase of life drew to a close. In the stillness and serenity of the cloistered setting, I had come to feel safe and clear. I had taken that foot off first and wanted to believe that I could steal second. The shift in my thinking was the solid knowledge that I was not my birth mother. But I could love her and grieve for her. I could find compassion for Dorothy without blaming myself for not being a better daughter, without having to be the keeper of her memory anymore. The truth, at least as I grasped it theoretically, was that what happened to her wasn’t and isn’t my truth. But forgiveness of self would require much more work. How to cut myself some slack?
Some days I was ready to return, other days I couldn’t imagine leaving that place, asking myself—where was that fearless person willing to risk all to love and be loved when deciding to have hyperhidrosis surgery? Where was that nine-year-old girl who got on a bus alone, with no guarantees whatsoever? Not here.
It was LaTanya who came to visit me at the convent, spiritually tuned in to my despair, determined not to allow me to be left alone in the dark. With the light she brought, the dark disappeared. Her voice soothed a weak heart.
You measure up, LaTanya insisted. You count.
Taking my callused feet in her cocoa butter hands, she massaged love into those frayed nerve endings of toes that I didn’t think would ever dance again, let alone walk out the door to go home.
A woman whose word is her life, LaTanya promised me something, placing a cloak of protection around me by letting me know that I could rest at her house for as long as I chose. That she would feed me and look after me. Because sometimes sisters need to be mothers.
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that you will walk out of here, and you don’t have to do it alone, anymore. I am going to adopt you.” She looked at me intently and waited to make sure that I knew what she had just said.
Of course, I did.
This symbolic adoption when I was forty-three years old was the ultimate gift that anyone had ever given to me.
Worth every second of the wait, it couldn’t have come any earlier or I would have missed out on all the women who raised me, all of whom, living and not, sent me waves of hope and strength to follow their lead and to now become one of them.
TWELVE
VICKI LYNN BEVAN SAWYER COLLINS ROWELL
Without conscious decision, I began writing The Women Who Raised Me in diaries and on notepads in pubs and on planes dating back to 197
5. It was during that time of self-discovery that I began documenting my life and those who had influenced it. The art of correspondence has always been a lifeline for me, and it continues to be today. For the price of a postage stamp, my grandmothers, mothers, aunts, mentors, fosterers, grande dames, and sisters always found me; their steadfast voices carried and delivered through letters. My nomadic life always made my entry in their neat and organized telephone books a mess of scratched out addresses, but they never gave up searching for me or believing that I was worth finding. Each letter contains its own brand of wisdom and guidance, love and faith, history, honesty, and sometimes sorrow. I preserved every letter and every envelope that I could; each woman’s penmanship permanently imprinted on my memory. I took their letters with me wherever I moved, like necessary articles of clothing. The words, scribed by my life teachers, were words I attempted to live by; in that way, I returned to the women, some posthumously, whenever I needed advice or simply wanted to remember joy.
At long last, I acquired my first home at the age of thirty-seven. I always believed it was possible, even if it was a photograph that I kept in my wallet for inspiration. During the year that I formerly began writing my memoir, I embarked on another long term goal—transforming my house into a homestead, eight years spent making it something that was authentically me, yet possessing all the influences of The Women Who Raised Me.
This required everything I was ever taught. The process also meant that I had to return to the root of my being and in doing so, pass it on to my loving children, Maya and Jasper. Many months into construction, I realized that we could no longer live in our house. I moved my family into a one-room bed-and-breakfast space that had just enough room for my two children and our leopard gecko lizard, Yellow. It was there that I taught my children about minimalism, that space, no matter how small, was big enough. That room became a gift, and maintaining it with integrity, their responsibility. I promised them that the rewards, born out of our adventure and patience would be great. Eights months later, we emerged victorious, and moved back into our 1923 home with profound gratitude.
I began the laborious and emotional task of unpacking boxes that had been sealed for many years along with forgotten memories and the energy of treasured belongings. Yet, I was excited, because for the first time, I had a place to put on display, my life and the people who breathed selflessly into it. This cathartic process gave me the vision I needed for my book. It crystallized the simple truth I had already been taught by so many mentors, that when we unearth, look just beneath the surface, “bend at the hip,” go the extra mile, get on our hands and knees to give thanks and praise, we will discover our naked dreams waiting to be realized.
One of the most difficult parts of writing this book was having to go deep and remember each and every one of the women and our relationships. To say it was an emotional experience would be an understatement. Sharing what had sustained me for so many years was yet another hurdle I had to overcome. The best part about writing my story was also what made it as difficult—the visits, the letters, the photographs, the articles of clothing still holding a scent. With the support of many women and some very special men, I was able to responsibly take the necessary steps to honestly write this book. I passionately believe that what I shared with these women could inspire others to adopt, foster, or mentor themselves, and gently challenge all students everywhere to reach out to their perspective and beloved teachers and thank them for recognizing and fostering the tiniest of flames we all are born with.
As I organized my “ephemera,” I found that my memory of scenarios was very accurate and much better than I had thought. I rediscovered many treasures throughout my research, and I recommend this search for anyone wanting to write a life story. Physical history conjures up memories and instigates, assists, and inspires thought.
Some of my most favorite mementos include an early American cut crystal vase Agatha loved and used for special occasions; she believed that her prized possessions should be used and not left on a shelf to be admired. I found an array of books over the years at garage sales and used book stores across America and even one in Capri, Italy, titled, John Sargent by The Hon. Evan Charteris, K.C., published in 1927. Other books include, Days with Ulanova: A Unique Pictorial Portrait of the Great Russian Ballerina signed by Albert E. Kahn, published in 1962; Pictorial History of Television by Daniel Blum; Lil Gal by poet Paul Laurence Dunbar, illustrated by Leigh Richmond Miner of the Hampton Institute Camera Club in 1904; and a 1927 publication of The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar, two of my favorite poetry books. Yes, the Internet is a peerless reference bank, but I love using a good old-fashioned dictionary. So, I turned to my 1967 Funk & Wagnalls Dictionary, my Yankee Dictionary by Charles F. Haywood, and my Technical Manual and Dictionary of Classical Ballet by Gail Grant. In total, I relied on more than forty reference books, and research trips to Maine, Massachusetts, and New York. Other treasures include my coin collection, Booker T. Washington’s coin being one of my favorites, and a 1929 silver dollar my brother David mounted in my 1929 Ford which I still drive. I cherish the Eleanor Roosevelt antislavery envelope I received from a woman who thought I would appreciate it. A perfect stranger. A perfect act of giving and mentoring. Lastly, two Coalport cups and saucers, elite-platinum pattern, that I received as a gift from a former employer in New York City nearly three decades ago. I make a point of drinking out of one of those cups every morning, so never to forget working for $100 a month.
I grew up loving photography, realizing the power of photojournalism. Through Agatha’s tutelage, I was introduced to a way of seeing my life differently—an adventure—a miracle rather than an obstacle. I came to understand that I could see my world with one eye open while the other was shut. I chose not to wait, instead empowered myself, took responsibility, documented my own living history. There it was, blurry at first then coming into focus—my life. I took pictures and still do of everything; culinary design, faces, landscapes, architecture, hands, feet, pictures of pictures—nothing was or is exempt—resulting in a robust personal archive spanning more than thirty years of images. The landscape of Mother Earth is my church. Everything is worth photographing. I was taught that I didn’t need a Hassleblad to snap off a shot. A Polaroid, a disposable camera, or whatever you have is all you need. Just take the picture. The perfect photograph in my opinion embodies lighting, imagination, timing, and passion—poetry frozen in an image—the light and darkness of life. The honesty. The composition need not be staged but shot in real time. Some of my favorite photographers include James VanDerZee, Sheila Metzner, Ansel Adams, Jacques Henri Lartigue, Howard Bingham, Carol Friedman, and Gordon Parks.
I appreciate my special relationship with the Hollywood press core. So many of you have shown up over the years to support foster and adopted children when perhaps glossy events were going on simultaneously across town.
A special thank you:
Dear Arnold Turner,
We have traveled thousands and thousands of miles together over the years, advocating in support of fine arts, foster care, and adoption. Never once did you complain, always focused on what we knew we had to do—getting the shot and getting the word out through photography. Whether it was on Capitol Hill with the Congressional Coalition on Adoption Institute or in New York City with Americans for the Arts and Aretha Franklin or The House of Blues Foundation Room in Los Angeles for the Rowell Foster Children’s Positive Plan Annual Christmas Party or even a simple gathering in my home, it was never too small for your calendar. You have always remained connected to all that matters. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Knowing that some of my mothers and mentors were frail and elderly, I, with the assistance of Richard Armstead, began amassing interviews and photographs in the early 1980s. In 1990 I enlisted the photographic expertise of respected photographer, Robert Hale. At the dawn of the new millennium, we began an ambitious East Coast shoot tour. Many of the portraits featured in The Women Who Raised Me we
re beautifully shot by Robert Hale who resides in France and New York City.
I have long relied on my library of new and used books and always found fascinating histories, quotes, and snippets from magazine articles, not all of which I could fit into this book. The Ladies of the White House, or In The Home of the Presidents, written by Laura C. Holloway, published in Philadelphia by Bradley and Company in 1881, tells a harrowing story of the fourteenth First Lady, Mrs. Jane Abigail Pierce, wife of President Franklin Pierce. I was struck by her strength and resilience after losing her thirteen-year-old son in a tragic Boston & Maine Railroad train wreck. Early on, I included Mrs. Pierce in my contemporary gallery of strong women who influenced me, who endured in the face of the tremendous loss of a son, Agatha, Kay, Barbara, Sylvia, Francine, Gayle, and Little Joanie.
Another treasure is a book titled The Mothers of Maine, published by the Thurston Print in 1895, that tells the stories of so many strong pioneering women of the fourteenth state in the Union. One of my most coveted treasures of all is my archive of more than 500 cards and letters from the women who raised me. One that stands out for me is from Agatha.
June 18, 1981
Hi Vicki,
It was so nice hearing from you, where are you? It sounded so far away. Were you visiting a farm?…They always say buy a woodlot next to your house so that you will have plenty of logs if you have a fireplace. That’s all Auntie Kay used for heating last winter…I see you remember gardening. You talk about your radishes that look like ‘zip in distress,’ you should see Peter’s okra. The stems look like stings…I wish them well. I really miss the garden…You should have felt the heat here last week. It was so hot you could hardly breathe. The humidity was terribly high. For contrast, Aunt Ruth says it was cold on the Cape…I was very happy you heard from your brothers. Lori was pleased too. Your mother got your Aunt Lillian to write me which she did. I heard from your mother this morning. She says you and Sheree want to pay her a visit. Forget it. Her sister Lillian will not allow it (quote): Lil doesn’t want the girls coming here to her apartment. Says it will only cause talk all over again like in years past (unquote). Your mother feels sad. Says if she could travel she would come to see you. She said after David got in touch with you, he called her after 22 yrs. She was so happy to see him. I wish there was some way you all could get together for a family reunion. Your mother must be terribly lonely.
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