The Lost Daughter: A Memoir

by Mary Williams

  Though being in that filthy house and taking care of a cranky old man was a challenge (I had to help him go to the toilet, dispense medication, clean and dress his stump and prepare meals), it was far better than what I had to put up with at home. Soon a few weekends a month turned into nearly every day when Clara Jean got a boyfriend and began spending more and more time with him.

  A home health aide took care of China during the day and I relieved her after school. I slept on a worn-out couch in the living room that harbored a family of mice. China and I spent the evenings watching TV and bickering over his cigarette smoking, which his doctor forbid him. Though I knew it was bad for him, and for me since I had to breathe his secondhand smoke, I knew he’d keep me up all night banging a cup against the frame of his metal hospital bed if I didn’t get him his smokes.

  When summer rolled around, Clara rewarded me for helping her out with China by taking me to see a performance of the musical Dream Girls. It was the first play I’d ever seen and it inspired me to think about becoming an actress and using acting as my way out of my mother’s house and even out of Oakland. I’d had a bit of experience acting in plays at Laurel Springs, but I knew I’d need more training if I was going to make it as an actress. When I told Clara that I wanted to act, she offered to enroll me in a class at the Young Conservatory, an acting program for young people between eight and nineteen at the American Conservatory Theater in San Francisco.

  I was the only black person in the class and initially felt uncomfortable, but the experience I had interacting with other races at Laurel Springs made adjusting easier. Like at Laurel Springs, I was embraced by the class and treated just like everyone else by the teacher—a cheery, openly gay man who used huge sweeping motions with his arms whenever he talked. My secret nickname for him was the Human Fly Swatter.

  He selected scenes from Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, about the day-to-day happenings in a small American town in the 1930s, as our first group piece. I found the plot and the dialogue extremely boring. The most exciting things going on in the town were people going off to war and eloping, but nothing happened that I thought worthy of having a whole play written about it.

  I thought it would be a much better play if it were set in my neighborhood. The play could open with a slumlord getting shot to death in a drug deal gone wrong. There could also be a scene in which a young teenager was arrested for shoplifting and, after a short scuffle with police, was able to break free and outrun the two overweight officers while being cheered on by neighborhood residents. Now that was a play I could have gotten into! Though I would have liked to share my ideas for spicing up Wilder’s play with the teacher, I kept my thoughts to myself.

  I was paired with a boy my age to practice a scene. He was kind of nerdy and reminded me of Danny Bonaduce’s character in The Partridge Family, with his flaming red hair and annoying personality. He was a talkative fellow who, were he born a decade or two later, would have been a good candidate for Ritalin. After working with him a few times, I got the feeling he had a crush on me. Because he was so nerdy and I’m sure I could have kicked his ass if I had to, I didn’t feel too threatened by his attentions.

  Then one day during a break, he sneaked up behind me and grabbed me playfully by the waist. It startled me, and instinctively I turned around and punched him in the chest hard enough to send him pinwheeling backward a few feet. I was so angry I called him a stupid nigger. I was using “nigger” as a generic term, not to describe a black person but in place of a word like “jerk” or “asshole”; the white folks who saw me gave me the oddest looks. Looks that said to me, “We thought she was different, but it turns out she’s just like the rest.”

  I immediately regretted my overreaction. I apologized to my partner and later apologized to the whole class at the behest of the teacher, but they never looked at me quite the same. I didn’t blame them. I knew I was slowly becoming a product of my surroundings. The constant stress and need to protect myself was causing me to have a short fuse. I was having trouble controlling my temper, which could be set off by the slightest insult, eliciting a very violent response. It was a defense mechanism that was necessary for survival in my hood, but I was learning it would serve me ill anywhere else. If I didn’t get away soon, this side of my personality would spread like cancer and take me over, leaving me unfit to live anywhere but places like East Oakland. When the course ended, Clara Jean offered to pay for another course. I declined.

  When the summer came around, I decided not to go to Laurel Springs. I was focusing on getting my acting career off the ground. I was sure that if I worked hard at it, in a few months’ or a year’s time I could claw my way to Broadway or even motion pictures. I spent the summer auditioning for plays in Oakland and San Francisco. The first role I got was a small part in a Langston Hughes play. It was in a tiny theater in Oakland with barely enough seating for thirty people. The stage was about the size of a California king-size mattress. It might as well have been Broadway for how proud I felt.

  I was only fourteen but because I looked old for my age, I was able to lie and get the part. The director was an African-American woman who was very supportive of me and often pulled me aside to give me encouragement. I was a nervous wreck the first performance but was able to get it together enough to do well in the five following shows. My role called for me to kiss a grown man, and during one performance he decided to put his tongue in my mouth. It took everything I had in me not to go into a rage right there on the stage in front of an audience. After the performance was over, I cussed the man out and went to complain to the director. She seemed shocked by how angry I was and told me I shouldn’t get so riled up over a kiss. I saw it as just another instance in which I was being taken advantage of, with no one coming to my defense. I stormed out and never went back.

  Though my first experience ended badly, I was still determined to make it as an actress. I read the paper daily looking for open auditions and found one for a new musical. I read they were looking for African-American females who could sing, dance and act. I had no formal training as a singer or dancer but I didn’t see how that should get in the way of my getting the part. I practiced singing Whitney Houston’s rendition of “The Greatest Love of All.” After I felt I’d mastered the piece, I asked Teresa to come with me to the audition, which was in San Francisco. We arrived at the location, signed in and took seats in a crowded waiting room. When the first person was called in to the audition room, we could hear her performing through the thin walls. It gave us waiting an opportunity to size up the competition. There was a young girl sitting next to me. She was short, a little chubby and wore glasses. An older boy sat with her, who I presumed was her brother because they shared a similar geekiness. I quickly dismissed her as a threat.

  When she was called in, I listened closely. But it turned out I didn’t have to because that munchkin had a good set of pipes on her. She belted out “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story in a voice that rang out so sweet and true it was as if there wasn’t a wall separating us. It was magnificent. She was able to show great range and personality. When she finished, we could hear the producers and the director applaud her performance. Even some of the people in the waiting room were applauding. When she came out, I prayed I wouldn’t have to follow her. Of course they called me next.

  Teresa wished me luck and I entered the room. It was devoid of furniture except for a long table with three men and a woman facing me. They asked my name and asked about my experience. I told them about the Langston Hughes play, my classes at Laurel Springs and ACT. Then I sang my song. I forgot the words after the first few lines and asked to start over. When I started over, I remembered the lines but found I couldn’t sing above a whisper. They told me they’d give me one more chance. I took a moment to center myself. I was letting the performance of that little troll doll who went before me get in my head. Then I let out the first few words in a clear melodic voice that quickly devolved into atonal gibberish when my nerves got the best of
me and I forgot the lines again.

  I left the audition room thoroughly humiliated and entered the waiting room where there was no applause. In fact, no one even looked up at me. My sister and I slunk out together.

  I went to my next audition alone. It was for a part in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It was requested that we pick one of several preselected monologues from the play to perform. I’d heard of Shakespeare but I’d never read anything by him. I went to the library and checked out A Midsummer Night’s Dream and selected the longest of the suggested female monologues and memorized it. I didn’t know what many of the words meant or even how to pronounce them, but I did my best to memorize it and spent hours practicing until I felt comfortable. The last thing I wanted was to forget my lines again or let my nerves sink me.

  I arrived at the audition, which was being held in a small university lecture hall, an hour early. The room was empty. It had high ceilings and tiered seating arranged in a semicircle like at a movie theater. The place where the professor lectured was where we would be auditioning. I took a seat front row center. The room smelled comfortingly of old books and chalk. I sat in the humming silence for a while taking account of my feelings. I wasn’t nervous. I knew I had my piece memorized. I got up and went to the front of the room and looked out onto the empty seats. My adoring fans. I went through the piece twice without a hitch. I was about to do a third run when people began to trickle in.

  I returned to my seat and watched as folks began to fill up the first few rows of seats. They arrived in groups of twos and threes, chatting and joking. Many were practicing their monologues with their companions. The serene silence of the room was gradually pushed back by chatter, laughter and sudden bursts of surprised yells that rang out like bird calls every now and then when one person called to another across the room.

  I could see they were all older than me—early to late twenties, some even older—and seemed very sure of themselves as they joked and greeted one another. They also looked like real actors. Most were dressed in loose-fitting black clothes and looked a bit underfed, dirty and disheveled, as if they spent all their free time studying their craft. There were at least forty people auditioning.

  Then the room fell silent when a man entered carrying an armful of papers and an old leather bag with a long strap slung low across his chest. He had the disheveled look too. I could hardly see his face, which was partly obscured by floppy black hair. He made his way to the front of the room, greeting people he knew along the way. He was tailed by a young woman with stringy blond hair equally laden with papers, who stood by his side when he reached the front of the room. He introduced himself as the director. He was in his early thirties (old) but had a boyish look due to the mop of hair and twinkly, curious eyes.

  He told us that he’d like us to take the stage, give our names and any other information about our acting background before performing our monologues. After the performance he would thank those he did not wish to hire and they could leave. Those he wanted could return to their seats. Then he and his companion made their way to seats a few rows behind the actors.

  When he sat and settled himself, he called out, “Who’s up first?” There was a bit of nervous laughter and chatter from the actors. Heads swiveled back and forth looking to see who’d rise first. After a few seconds I found myself on my feet and walking toward the stage. It was like my body was on automatic pilot. One moment I was in my seat, the next I was looking out into an audience of curious white faces.

  I gave my name and talked a bit about my limited experience. I told them I was really serious about acting. Then I went into the monologue. I found myself staring at the ceiling a lot but forced myself to look out into the audience from time to time like my acting teacher instructed. When I was finished, I thanked the audience, bowed and waited. When I looked into the audience, I saw that several people were talking to each other behind their hands. Some were staring at me like I was a circus freak but most were looking in their laps. I stood there in front of them with my head held high. The room was as silent as the moment before the Big Bang. Every millisecond I stood there felt like hours as I waited for the director to tell me to stay or go. Then, after what felt like a week and a half, I heard him clear his throat and say, “Lawanna?”

  “Yeah!” I responded, unable to keep a defensive tone out of my voice, as I was sure he was about to send me on my way.

  “I’d like you to come up here and sit by me.”

  The audience was suddenly humming with urgent whispered conversations.

  “Uh . . . OK,” I replied. I went back to my seat to gather my coat and bag and made my way toward the back of the room with every eye in the place tracking my progress. When I got to the back, the director stood and shook my hand before waving me into the seat next to his. He remained standing and, with his hand on my shoulder, he called out, “Next!”

  I sat there next to him not knowing what to think. I just stared ahead stiffly, pleased that I had been asked to stay. After a while I relaxed, relieved to be released from the anxiety of performing, and watched the auditions. I sympathized with a woman whose voice warbled with nerves the whole way through her piece and a man who struggled to remember the lines. Both were thanked and sent on their way. When a woman took the stage and brilliantly performed the same monologue I had, I was mortified. I realized that I had pronounced a lot of words incorrectly and I sank into my seat. The director noticed and patted my hand encouragingly.

  Over the course of the evening many people were thanked for their time and shown the door. A few, like me, were asked to stay but none were invited to sit with the director. When the auditions were over, there were less than a dozen people, including me, who were asked to stay. That’s when the director turned to me and told me I didn’t have the part. He’d asked me to stay as an inspiration to him. He let me know I’d done a terrible job with the monologue but he admired my guts and told me that he knew experienced actors who didn’t have a tenth of the courage and confidence I had. He encouraged me to continue to practice and go after my dream. Then he gave me a pat on the back and sent me on my way.

  I smiled all the way home.

  CHAPTER 6

  I WAS VISITING TERESA at UC Berkeley when I saw an ad tacked to a crowded bulletin board in the student union. I almost didn’t see it through the overlapping layers of flyers seeking roommates and selling used furniture. I pulled the flyer down, folded it and stuffed it in my back pocket. That night back at China’s house, I took it out and reread it. It was basically a call for actors to audition for a new acting company. There was a phone number and the first name of the contact: David.

  I called the number. The man who answered identified himself as David and seemed pleased when I told him I was interested in auditioning. His voice was warm and had a smile in it. He asked me to share more information about myself—my age, where I was from and my acting experience. I told him everything and was happy to know he was OK with my being only fourteen.

  He told me he was an actor turned director and had done a lot of theater in the Bay Area but had recently decided he wanted to start his own acting troupe that he hoped to fill with actors of different races and ages.

  We talked for about thirty minutes, with him asking a lot of questions about my family. I felt comfortable and he seemed sympathetic, so I told him about my problems at home. He listened and said the best actors have had troubled lives because they can draw on those experiences to enrich their craft. He said I seemed like a good fit for his company and invited me to a group audition he was holding the following week. He told me to come prepared with a monologue of my own choosing and apologized that the audition would have to be held at his house in San Francisco because he was still in the process of looking for a theater space to rent. I told him I didn’t mind and wrote down his address along with the day and time of the audition. Before we hung up he asked for my phone number and my address and I gave it to him. I let Clara Jean know I couldn’t wat
ch China that day and she wished me luck.

  The next day I was at the library looking for the perfect monologue. I didn’t want anything to do with Shakespeare or Wilder. Since I could choose, I wanted to do something by a black person. I asked the librarian for suggestions. She handed me a book of the collected poems of James Weldon Johnson opened to the poem “The Creation.” I sat down and read it. It is long, twelve stanzas about the creation of the earth, that begins:

  And God stepped out on space,

  And He looked around and said,

  “I’m lonely—

  I’ll make me a world.”

  And far as the eye of God could see

  Darkness covered everything,

  Blacker than a hundred midnights

  Down in a cypress swamp.

  Those powerful lines sent chills down my spine. I told the librarian I loved the poem but it wasn’t a monologue. When she told me the husband-and-wife acting duo Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee performed many poems of African Americans as dramatic pieces, I was sold.

  I spent the week memorizing and performing it. I practiced projecting my voice and infusing it with what I thought was a godlike resonance. My practice was interrupted repeatedly by China telling me to shut the hell up because he couldn’t hear the TV over the racket I was making.

  When the day of the audition came, I felt confident. The audition was set for four o’clock, so I gave myself plenty of time to get there and have a bit of time to rehearse beforehand. The address brought me to a pretty Victorian house in a nice neighborhood. I rang the bell and a big white man dressed in jeans and a T-shirt answered. He was clean-shaven, with dark curly hair, well over six feet tall and a bit chubby. He identified himself as David and smiled broadly, waving me in.