by Cicely Tyson
I have Mrs. Trimmings to thank for such a mighty yield. Had she not been so persistent, I might’ve missed out on what has become one of the single greatest bounties of my years now. Sadly, Mrs. Trimmings passed away in 2015. And yet I’ve kept her memory alive in a photograph that sits atop my dresser. The two of us stand arm in arm, elation on our faces at the school’s gala. When my eyes fall upon that photo, I whisper gratitude for her life. “Carve your name on hearts, not tombstones,” author Shannon L. Alder once wrote. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. put it another way: “Use me, God. Show me how to take who I am, who I want to be, and what I can do, and use it for a purpose greater than myself.” That is my aspiration. It is also Mrs. Trimmings’s abiding legacy.
* * *
Tyler Perry is another of my jewels. Hardly a week goes by that the two of us aren’t on the phone, cackling about one thing or another, swapping stories and scuttlebutt. Let me tell you something about Tyler. Long before he arrived in 1969 New Orleans, providence had already hewn his path. Born into poverty and abuse but refusing to be defined by either, Tyler struggled through his early years. Around 1990, he moved to Atlanta with the hope of becoming a playwright, but he instead found himself living in his car after being evicted from his apartment on Sylvan Road. Still, he kept on dreaming.
While watching Oprah’s show in 1991, Tyler heard that journaling could be cathartic. That epiphany wrapped his fingers around a pen, and before long, he’d filled a diary with letters to himself, creating a compendium that eventually became the basis for the play I Know I’ve Been Changed. He poured both his spirit and his life savings into that maiden production and soon ended up on the streets again. But Tyler, though broke, was unbroken by the defeat. He revised his play over and over, and by 1998, folks were swarming to experience it, elbowing their way toward the best seats. Other successes followed, including his introduction of the razor-tongued, bosom-drooping, pistol-packing, make-you-laugh-’til-you-cry Madea, the Southern matriarch who first appeared in Tyler’s 1999 play I Can Do Bad All by Myself.
A lot has since changed for Tyler, all of it for a higher purpose. In 2006 when he opened Tyler Perry Studios, he became the first African American to ever own a major film production company. Then in 2019, he took another giant leap forward when he reopened his studio as a fifteen-thousand-square-foot symbol of fortitude on 330 acres in southwest Atlanta. Along Georgia State Route 66, a green exit sign now bears his studio’s name, alongside another sign for Sylvan Road—the street on which he was once evicted. I’ll tell you, boy, every aspect of Tyler’s journey shouts destiny. “The studio was once a Confederate army base,” Tyler has said, “which meant that there were Confederate soldiers on that base, plotting and planning on how to keep 3.9 million Negroes enslaved. Now that land is owned by one Negro.” If we are ever to prosper as a people, the path to the Promised Land runs through self-ownership. Tyler astutely retained full rights to his intellectual property, a move that catapulted him to billionaire status. As Billie Holliday once musically testified, “God bless the child that’s got his own.”
At the studio’s majestic opening gala, Tyler named one of his twelve soundstages after me, an honor I cherish as much as I do him. Though his sprawling complex and his platform dwarf those of his contemporaries, Hollywood’s white power brokers have always dismissed him. That’s how he got into the great habit of ignoring the naysayers early on. “If they don’t give you a seat at the table,” Shirley Chisholm once said, “bring a folding chair.” Tyler did one better and built his own dining set, complete with all he needs to finance his storytelling. It is precisely what I’ve spent much of my career hoping for: that we, as a people, would one day be able to reflect our own varied experiences on the screen, rather than accepting this nation’s one-dimensional, erroneous depictions of who we’re not. Tyler shares the stories he knows best. Yet that leaves room for other Black scriptwriters to sharpen their pencils and render their takes. Directors such as Ava DuVernay, Steve McQueen, Issa Rae, Lee Daniels, Barry Jenkins, Ryan Coogler, and Jordan Peele are doing just that. Viola Davis and her husband, Julius Tennon, are creating content through their own JuVee Productions. Decades-long directors such as Denzel Washington, Spike Lee, and Kasi Lemmons continue to delight and challenge us, while Angela Bassett, Regina King, Halle Berry, and others are now rightfully seated in directors’ chairs. As someone who has been in the industry for as long as Moses was old, I applaud every one of these efforts. What some white folks never seem to understand is that we’re not a monolithic group. While there are certainly rich cultural traditions that bind us together, there is no singular “African-American perspective,” just as there is no one way to be Black. There are as many viewpoints as there are glorious Black faces.
Tyler and I first worked together on 2005’s Diary of a Mad Black Woman. He now tells me he had the shakes before asking me to play Myrtle, mother of Helen, portrayed by the gifted Kimberly Elise. (And incidentally, many moviegoers began believing Kimberly was my real-life daughter. She isn’t, but even I see our resemblance.) When Kimberly was first cast, she said to Tyler, “Miss Cicely and I have always wanted to work together. What do you think about having her playing Myrtle?” Tyler loved the idea, but it intimidated him. He mentioned it to Reuben Cannon, the producer. “I don’t think she’ll do it,” Reuben told him. “She’s very selective.” But he pushed past his nerves and called me anyway, and I asked him to send me the script. To his astonishment—and in line with my goose pimples—I answered yes.
After filming wrapped, Tyler and I stayed in touch. In 2006, he invited Sidney Poitier and me on a (long!) transatlantic flight to Johannesburg, South Africa, to attend the splendorous unveiling of the Oprah Winfrey Leadership Academy for Girls. That gave us plenty of time to kick off our shoes and connect. I shared some of my best stories as a wide-eyed Tyler listened, laughing hardest at my skirmish with Liz Taylor. Our friendship has blossomed from there, and so far, we’ve done six films together. And he’s the world’s greatest tipper. When he heard how little I was paid for Sounder and The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman, his mouth fell open. From then on, he decided to double, and sometimes even triple or quadruple, my asking price for any role he requested that I play. He padded my pay in 2012 when he hired me to portray his mother in the crime drama Alex Cross. In one scene, his character turns his back on me and walks away, and faster than you can spell pivot, I grabbed him by the arm and spun him back around. He tells that story all the time. He can’t get over the fact that I, this little bitty woman, could set a strapping six-foot-five-inch man back on his heels. A few years following that collaboration, Tyler placed another crown on my head when he asked me to become the godmother to his son, Aman. You should see that child and me down on the carpet together, doing handstands, with a nervous Tyler standing by to be sure I don’t crack my neck. What a joy.
And speaking of godchildren, my cup runneth over with too many to name, though I will share one other who fills me with pride. Years ago while I was walking down the street, minding my own business as I am prone to do, this rather handsome young man approached me. “Good afternoon, Ms. Tyson. My name is Denzel Washington,” he said, flashing a wide grin. “Oh,” I said, thinking, I guess I’m supposed to know who he is. “I was once in a movie with you,” he said. I lifted my brows. “You were?” I asked, flipping through my mental Rolodex to recall which one. “Yes,” he said, reminding me that we’d both played in the 1977 television film Wilma about iconic track sprinter Wilma Rudolph, who rose above physical handicaps to earn three gold medals in the 1960 Olympics. “I also met my wife on that film set,” he told me. My conversation with Denzel that day flourished into a decades-long friendship, one I hold dear. He and sweet Pauletta thought enough of me to name me the godmother of their first daughter, Katia. How time goes. The little Katia I once bounced on my knee has now grown into an independent young woman, a Yale graduate who has lent her production talents to films such as Django Unchained and Fences. What a treasure she i
s, as precious to me as Tyler’s babe.
One of my fondest Tyler memories came in December 2018. “Would you consider doing a role for just one day?” he asked me. “Of course,” I told him. “Send me the script.” I read it and immediately called him back with a question: “When do we begin?” “Let me discuss it with your team,” he told me. I later received word from my current manager, Larry Thompson, of the start date. When I arrived, Tyler’s entourage escorted me through his fortress to a studio upstairs. I just about fainted when I rounded the corner. There, under a massive banner that read “Happy Birthday, Cicely Tyson!” the entire production crew had gathered to surprise me. The “one-day role” had been a ploy to get me down there, though I did end up playing Alice in A Fall from Grace, the script he’d sent me. His crew had wanted to scream “Surprise!” when I came around that corner, but Tyler had altered their plan. “We’ve gotta be careful,” he told his team. “She’s over ninety. We don’t want her falling out.” Even minus the shout, my heart toppled out of my chest. He got me good. That Tyler is the devil.
* * *
The 2011 film The Help brought me a gem of a role, however tiny the part. For me, the work is never about the size of the portrayal. It’s about the passion I pour into it. If I decide to take on a project, it is because I feel there is something in it that may move viewers. I immediately felt that about Constantine, the elderly maid and nanny I play. Though I will always have my misgivings about portraying domestics, I sensed this character had a deeper emotional backstory than is usually evident in such characters. That is why I agreed to take the part. The script, based on Kathryn Stockett’s novel of the same name, chronicles the experiences of four Black maids in 1960s Mississippi. The illustrious cast includes Viola Davis, Octavia Spencer, Sissy Spacek, Emma Stone, and Jessica Chastain.
The role came along a couple of years after my school’s new campus had opened. I met several times with the director, and if memory serves me as well as it typically does, Viola had not yet been cast. When she and I later spotted one another on the Mississippi set, which marked our first time in each other’s presence, she embraced me. Through tears, she conveyed how she’d watched me in Jane Pittman in 1974, when she was a child with stardust in her gaze. That day on set, sweet Viola fell right into my arms and heart, which is where she is still. Sometimes, I can’t even believe just how old I’ve gotten to be. I was eighty-seven when I met Viola, feeling as spry as a fifty-year-old. And yet there she stood, this dynamo of an artist in her prime, recalling how, at age seven, I’d inspired her. I never take such gifts for granted or feign modesty. When the harvest flows, honey, you’ve got to let it tumble forth.
I prepared as I always do, by reading and rereading the lines until they jumped off the page and slapped me in the face. Then on set, even between takes, I stayed in character, insisting that the crew refer to me only as Constantine and never as Ms. Tyson. That’s the only way I can remain in someone else’s skin, and that is also why I choose to stay in my own place while I’m working. That used to drive Miles crazy. Even if I was in town, I’d lock myself in my own apartment and away from him, often for long stretches. Anyway, I’d allowed Constantine’s spirit to crawl inside of mine, which is what comes through during her most pivotal moment in the story. She has loyally served a white family for much of her life, and in one intense scene, she is suddenly sent away, with no chance to say goodbye to a child she has come to love as her own. She’d reared that girl from infancy, charted her growth with pencil markings on a wall whenever the girl visited her place. As Constantine packs to leave Mississippi, she runs her weathered, trembling hands along those markings as she chokes back tears. While filming that scene, I stayed right in the emotion of what any woman would’ve been feeling if she suddenly had her child and livelihood wrenched away. When Constantine sees those markings, she doesn’t just see lines. Rather, she sees that girl, standing right there with her. Her hands quiver because she’s reliving the memories.
I of course never watched the film, but when it premiered, everybody seemed to be talking about my portrayal. After Viola and her husband, Julius, saw a screening, Julius said to me, with his hand over his heart, “And you . . . oh my God.” I kept asking myself, What is all the fuss? I’m still asking myself that. If I was on that set for three minutes, I was there plenty. That’s how brief my appearance was.
Viola, beacon of brilliance that she is, delivered a performance that earned her a well-deserved Oscar for Best Supporting Actress. She has since said that although she will always cherish her experience on the set and her relationships with her castmates, she feels, in hindsight, that the voices and perspectives of the maids weren’t fully represented. In short, the story line doesn’t have the nerve to utter the ugly truth, to speak of what it actually must’ve felt like for those Black women to eke out an existence in the Jim Crow South. I concur, particularly in light of our times now, as well as with the knowledge of how our stories have historically been diluted to make white audiences feel comfortable. The scarcity of work for Black actors has much to do with why we even consider certain roles. As artists and as a people, we’ve come this far by faith—and yet, up ahead, we’ve got many more seeds to plant.
A few years after Viola and I embraced on the set of The Help, we reunited on the television series How to Get Away with Murder, created by Shonda Rhimes, otherwise known as the most powerful woman in television. I’d received a call from the ABC team, asking me to play Ophelia, mother to Viola’s character, Annalise. Without hesitation, I accepted. When I later heard that Viola had personally requested that I play her on-screen life force, my mouth fell open and my eyes moistened, which is how they remained during our six-season run.
I have such respect for Viola’s instrument. Few living actors can so convincingly capture what it means to live a life, how it feels to truly ache. Her depth of emotion has no floor. On set one day, she recounted a memory from her childhood, one sprinkled with joys and difficulties. I cannot recall the story, but I will forever remember that she spoke with such feeling. “You know,” I told her, “that is what makes you the great actress that you are.” That child’s roots run deep. During our final episodes of filming together, I refused to bid either her or her character farewell, though I knew I’d miss them both terribly, which I have. I hate endings, which is why it has taken me decades to get around to writing this book. Thankfully, though the curtain has closed on the groundbreaking series, my friendship with Viola will never take a final bow.
* * *
A strong harvest is meant to be shared. During these years, as I stand in awe of my abundance, I’m always looking for ways to resow its seeds in the rich earth of others. My school is one. My stage work is another. And my camaraderie with a vast network of soror sisters keeps me grounded in what matters in this life—service.
I never intended to join a sorority, just as I never set out to have a school or pen this autobiography. I’m grateful that God often laughs at our plans and substitutes his better ones. My close friend Jeanne Noble, an education pioneer, served as the national president of Delta Sigma Theta sorority for several years. Long ago, I vowed I’d never join a sorority because I have great friends in all of them. I wanted to remain neutral. But when Jeanne fell quite ill in 2002, she whispered her dying wish: she wanted me to become a Delta. Given how dearly I loved Jeanne, it was a request I could not refuse. That year, I became an honorary member, and I’m now delighted that I did. I stepped into an organization steeped in the activism I so cherish. Among my sisters are political powerhouses such as Shirley Chisholm, Barbara Jordan, and Mary McLeod Bethune. “If the time is not ripe,” said civil rights trailblazer Dorothy Height, the longest-serving Delta president, “we have to ripen the time.” Her words perfectly capture the spirit of the Deltas, as well as serve as a rallying call for elevating our community.
My lifelong friend Ruby Dee was a Delta. Following a journey defined by her pioneering work on stage and off, she passed away in 2014. My h
eart still weeps at the loss. Several years later in 2019, I received the Ruby Dee Renaissance Award for Artist Activism, an honor given to me by Ruby and Ossie’s daughter, Hasna Muhammad. The ceremony was organized by the New York Alumnae Chapter of the Deltas, a number of whom that day donned the sorority’s splendorous colors, crimson and cream. (Civil rights activist Betty Shabazz, wife of Malcolm X, was also once a member of the New York chapter.) During my remarks, I mentioned my friend Jeanne Noble. As soon as I spoke her name, everyone in that room stood and applauded loudly for a full thirty seconds! The outpouring of exuberance reflected just how many lives she pressed her thumbprints into, how many paths she altered. When you give yourself away, when you surrender yourself as a divine vessel, as my beloved Jeanne did, you impact lives eternally.
23
Trip to Bountiful
ONE Sunday way back in 1985, I was wandering around Hollywood when I passed a marquee for the film The Trip to Bountiful, which Horton Foote had adapted from his 1953 play. I stopped, studied the poster, and noticed the name of Geraldine Page, an actress I’ve long admired. I bought a ticket for the matinee, slid into a seat in the last row, and settled in. From the first scene, Geraldine was mesmerizing as Mrs. Carrie Watts, a feisty elderly widow who yearns to return to Bountiful, her rural, fictitious hometown in Texas. Her hovering son and daughter-in-law, however, aim to keep her in Houston. So stirred was I by Geraldine’s performance that I left the theater and took a cab straight to the office of Erwin Moore, who was then working for my manager, Larry Thompson. “You get me my Trip to Bountiful,” I told him after detailing the merits of the role. “I just want one more great character like Carrie Watts,” I went on, “and then I could retire.” He nodded and chuckled, since we both knew I’d likely never quit acting.
