The Mother of Black Hollywood Read online

  FRONTISPIECE

  DEDICATION

  To Julia Walker, who saved my life . . .

  and then saved her own.

  EPIGRAPH

  “Your playing small does not serve the world. Who are you not to be great?”

  —Nelson Mandela

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Frontispiece

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  ONE

  black-ish to Greenish

  TWO

  Shoulders Back, Titties First

  THREE

  Don’t Tell Mama

  FOUR

  Dick Diva

  FIVE

  Love Versus Dreamgirls

  SIX

  “Ma’am, Are You a Delegate?”

  SEVEN

  A Doll Named “Killer”

  EIGHT

  Hollywood Not Swinging

  NINE

  Kinloch

  TEN

  “It Ain’t that Kind of Call, Motherfucker”

  ELEVEN

  Dismissing the Diva

  TWELVE

  Kicking Down Doors

  THIRTEEN

  Jackie’s Back!

  FOURTEEN

  Mother Courage

  FIFTEEN

  On the Back of a Two-Humped Camel

  A Letter to the Reader

  Acknowledgments

  Career Overview

  Photograph Section

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  Dorothy Mae Lewis was not a woman to mess with. One day, when I was about six, I held Mama’s hand as we walked home from Miss Woods’s store, where Mama had bought a bottle of Coca-Cola. Well, out of nowhere, her boyfriend at the time, Jelly Bean, pulled up in his station wagon and called out for my mother, “Hey, Dorothy! C’mere.”

  Now, my mother was pretty much the queen of Kinloch, Missouri, and the one thing you did not do is summon her to do anything, anywhere, at anytime. My mother ignored Jelly Bean.

  He said, “Dorothy, you hear me talkin’ to you?”

  She said, “Go on somewhere else, Jelly. Cain’t you see I’m with my baby?”

  Jelly Bean then made the biggest mistake of his life. He pulled the car over to where Mama and I stood, reached out of the window, grabbed Mama’s right arm, and said, “You gonna talk to me right now, Dorothy.”

  I was still holding her left hand tightly, aware of the time bomb that was about to explode. What I can tell you now is that it was all over in five seconds.

  It ended with Jelly Bean speeding away and a trail of blood that led to the corner where the station wagon had taken a sharp right and disappeared. And as small as Kinloch was, we never saw Jelly Bean again. And y’all wanna wonder where I get it from.

  ONE

  BLACK-ISH TO GREENISH

  After two weeks of intensely working out, I had lost not one fucking pound! Yet, ready or not, there I was, my first day on the set of black-ish. The show is what every actor dreams of—a prime-time hit on a national network. My first scene was with Morpheus from The Matrix—of course, I mean Laurence Fishburne, the brilliant actor who plays my ex-husband, Pops.

  I was about to deliver my initial line. One would think that this moment would be fun, easy, even fabulous. I mean, after all, I had been doing television for what seemed like a hundred years—from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air to Murphy Brown, from In Living Color to Friends, and on and on. But ten years had passed since I had worked consistently on the small screen.

  Once again, the gods of television had summoned me back. Back to bring the Jenifer Lewis magic. Back to deliver the take-no-prisoners attitude and deep, rich tone that made mine one of the most recognizable voices in Hollywood. But I’ll be damned if now, at the moment of truth, I could remember one line of the script I had studied.

  After 259 episodic television shows, 63 movies, and four Broadway shows, the great Jenifer Lewis could not remember one fucking line. I was a nervous wreck. No one on the black-ish set besides me knew it, though.

  I asked for a moment and grabbed my script. As I sat down and put on my glasses, I knew I would be forgiven for the pause. After all, I was new to the set and the rest of the cast had already shot several episodes together.

  Come on, Jenny, you can do this. I was not about to disappoint all these people—the cast and crew, the writers, the producers, and ABC/Disney, who had hired me without a single audition. To better focus, I took three deep breaths, finally got all the lines in my head, then whispered, Come on, Jenny, get up. Get your ass up and deliver.

  In the days before, like a fool, I had read the Facebook comments about the announcement that I would be on black-ish—“Awww, shit, here come Jenifer Lewis!” “She my play-auntie y’all.” “That’s right. They got the Mother of Black Hollywood.” OMG, she’s fabulous. She’s this. She’s that. Now I felt like I had to live up to all that love. I couldn’t let it shake me.

  I had to shut down all the internal noise and get in the moment of my character, Ruby Johnson. C’mon, pull yourself together, Miss Bachelor’s Degree in Theater Arts! I’d studied Stanislavski, Feldenkrais—and with the great Uta Hagen no less. Where did Ruby come from and what is her objective in this scene?

  I had been working on Ruby. I wanted her to be a whole person—warm, grounded, smart, quirky, and very, very funny. A woman who loves her son (perhaps a bit too much), never cuts her daughter-in-law any slack, and who loves her grandbabies above all else.

  And, of course, Ruby had to be fabulous! So again like another fool I’d said yes to the four-inch pumps—completely forgetting what they would do to my ever-present, aching plantar fasciitis. I stood there feeling fat. My right knee was throbbing. I felt old.

  What was I doing here anyway? My thoughts flashed back to a few months earlier—when I had seriously considered retiring. I decided to treat myself to a much-needed vacation and jetted off to Europe to have some fun and ponder my life—not only my career, but also the fact that at age fifty-seven I was still single. Despite being engaged four times, I had never made it to the altar. Of course, I kept the rings.

  I was off to Athens, where I boarded the Seven Seas, an exclusive luxury cruise ship. For three weeks it was just me, myself, and I, a little barefoot colored girl from poverty-stricken Kinloch, Missouri.

  I had worn one of my huge straw hats, expensive dark shades (trying to be incog-Negro), and a muumuu. I extended my passport and ticket to the young steward. He then stretched his neck and peered under my hat. Even though he was Italian, he proceeded to do an Irish jig, and with no care for his job security, screeched in front of all the first-class passengers, “Jackie’s back!” He was referring to the title of the 1999 Lifetime movie in which I had starred.

  News spread through the ship that a celebrity was on board. There was a knock at my door. It was my butler (yes, that barefoot little colored girl had a butler!), informing me I was invited to dine at the captain’s table. Though I hadn’t planned on it, I admit I enjoyed the celebrity treatment.

  I basked in my luxury suite and lounged on my private balcony as we made our way around the Aegean, the Mediterranean, and the Adriatic, but my joy was tempered by the decision before me—to retire or not to retire. I still bristled from the recent disappointment of not being chosen for several roles I had wanted. I didn’t get Orange Is the New Black, but my dear friend Lorraine Toussaint did. I didn’t get Getting On, but my dear friend Niecy Nash did. I hated the fact that after forty years in the business, I still even had to audition. And damn, could it possibly be true that as a singer, I had never even record
ed an album? On top of all that, I had just broken off another engagement. Okay, okay. Now I’m doing what my therapist, Rachel, would call “garbage collecting.” Stop bitching, Jenny!

  We soon arrived in Katakolon, Greece, the site of the original Olympics nearly three thousand years ago. I went to the fields where the games had been played. What impressed me most was the excavation of still-intact hovels and looming columns. There was a walk of shame where they carved the names of the athletes who had cheated. I was grateful that my name wasn’t there because though I’ve always been athletic, I was one cheating ass when I was a kid!

  A few days later, in Montenegro, we visited several magnificent wineries. Winding through the twisting roads, we had to take a sudden detour. There had been an accident up ahead and someone had been killed. A grim reminder of how so very fragile we are and how precious life is.

  As the Seven Seas approached the Croatian city of Dubrovnik, the view of the orange-roofed Old Town took my breath away. I visited the Church of St. Francis, where some local women were singing folk songs in the courtyard. I admired their beautiful harmonies, and when they beckoned me forward, I joined them. Actually, I just barged in and sang baritone! They good-naturedly allowed me to arrange them like the Supremes, drawing on poses I had been taught by Michael Bennett himself during rehearsals for the workshop production of Dreamgirls.

  On a small boat from Dubrovnik back to the Seven Seas, there was an older Caucasian American man who took it upon himself to extra notice me—a middle-aged black woman traveling alone on a VIP ship. He knew that if I was in fact alone, I had paid $9,000 more than he had (the nasty little single-occupancy fee).

  For some ungodly reason, this man yelled over the boat’s motor: “So where’d you get your money?” I turned slowly. Would he ask a white man this question? Was this mofo implying a black woman shouldn’t have money? I was this close to pushing him overboard. No doubt, the old Jenifer Lewis would have cussed him out in a rage-fueled tirade. But as a person with bipolar disorder who’d spent seventeen years in therapy, I had finally learned to control my rage and was grateful for the behavioral skills and medication that give me that control. I took three deep breaths and decided not to slap the shit out of him. Instead, I said, “Oh, you didn’t know? I own the Seven Seas.” His much-too-young wife, naively believing my statement, chimed in with a high-pitched “Oh, really?” I returned the “Oh, really” in the deep, low pitch Bette Davis used responding to Joan Crawford in the movie Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? “Oh, really.” The mike had been dropped on the shores of Dubrovnik. Another war had been won. And not a single life had been taken.

  The next stop in Croatia was the island of Hvar, where I swam at a rocky beach. I was very thankful that my friend Deborah Dean Davis had told me to bring special shoes for the stony beaches. A nice couple from Germany watched my belongings as I swam. Afterward, they invited me to have a drink. The friendliness of the people of Hvar put me in a peaceful mind-set. I felt ready to spend my final night at sea contemplating whether or not to retire.

  Later, on my balcony under a big fat moon, I had a frank conversation with myself. What are you gonna do, kid? Could I really face another “Thank you, Miss Lewis. Next!” or “We’re looking for a Jenifer Lewis type, not the real thing!” Fuck show business. Did I really want to continue watching myself age on a five-story-tall movie screen?

  I was blessed to have already realized so many wonderful dreams: an electrifying standing ovation at Carnegie Hall when I sang with the New York Pops orchestra; performing for royalty in Monaco; headlining in Hello, Dolly! at the esteemed 5th Avenue Theatre in Seattle; and, of course, working with great actors—everyone from Denzel Washington and Meryl Streep to Tom Hanks, Taraji P. Henson, and Matt Damon. I had sooooo many amaaazing memories to retire with.

  But wait. Be honest, Jenny. Is there anything else? Anything??? Shit. There is one more dream. I have wanted it all my life. A one-woman show on Broadway—like the great ones who had paved the way—the likes of Lily Tomlin, Whoopi Goldberg, Elaine Stritch, and Anna Deavere Smith to name a few.

  And maybe one or two other as-yet-unrealized dreams. Like I still hadn’t played Mama Rose in Gypsy. (My friend Marc Shaiman joked that the black version of Gypsy would be titled Nipsy. Asshole.)

  I guess I could live without playing Mama Rose. But without that one-woman show, I know in fact when I reach those Pearly Gates, St. Peter’s first words to me would be, “What happened with the one-woman show? Get your unheavenly ass on back down there and get that Tony!”

  How do I make it happen? A one-woman show on Broadway starring Jenifer Lewis? Jenifer who? Dear God, what an undertaking. People recognize me, but frankly, plenty of them don’t even know my name. Why would Broadway backers be willing to invest millions of dollars in me? Well, I’ll just have to become more famous. And there’s one sure way of doing that (besides a sex tape): prime-time network TV.

  I leaned on the rail and gazed at the perfection of the moon, the stars, and the Adriatic Sea. I howled up at that big fat moon true to the alpha wolf who runs through my veins: “I’m JeniferMothaFuckinLewis! I am the show in show business!” Who was I trying to kid? To retire from show business would be to retire from the act of breathing. I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer. Yes, a prime-time show. A show that’s top quality. In a role that recognizes my talent and experience; where I can show my chops and make people laugh, think, and cry. I wanted to work with great actors and writers I admired and could grow with. Now listen, God, I don’t want to be the lead in the show; I don’t want to work that hard anymore. Oh, and this is the most important thing: please let the show shoot close to home (don’t even let me get started about the LA traffic!). I blew a soft kiss to the moon, smiled, and took my ass to bed.

  Two days later, I touched down at LAX and was picked up by my dear friend and manager, Julia Walker. She allowed me to go on and on about my vacation. “Girl, I had a fabulous time. I hiked up the ancient city walls of Dubrovnik. In Montenegro, there was an unimaginable rainbow over the limestone cliffs in the Bay of Kotor. I’ll show you the picture later. And listen, Ju, there are these two islands just off Venice, right? The first one, Murano, is where they do a fabulous glass-blowing demonstration. On the second one, Burano, they make wonderful lace. Oh, and honey, I met this French boy in Athens up at the Acropolis. He was staring at my cleavage, but he was all hot and sweaty and you know I didn’t have time for a Parisian. It would have made for a good story, but it just was not going to happen. He was real cute, though.

  “In Corfu, your girl almost went hungry because my credit card wouldn’t swipe through at the food stand, so I deliberately showed that guy my cleavage and he let me have a turkey and goat cheese sandwich for free. And girrrrl, the food on the ship was incredible. I was so undisciplined, I ate like anybody’s and everybody’s pig. The chef was a Fresh Prince fan and would make me anything I wanted. And the desserts were stupid. I must have put on at least ten pounds. Thank God I’ve got two months to get in shape before the Human Rights Campaign honors me in St. Louis.”

  As we rode down Sepulveda to get on the heinous 405 Freeway, I saw a huge billboard for the new ABC show black-ish and asked, “Oh, how is that show doing?” Julia didn’t respond. When I turned to look at her, she had a silly, sweet smile on her face. “I was giving you a moment before I told you. They called. They want you to play Anthony Anderson’s mother. They want you for black-ish!”

  I said, “Well, black-ish better have some greenish!”

  Yeah, that quip was a good one, but underneath, I was thinking, Damn, I didn’t expect my Adriatic prayer to happen this fast! It had only been two nights ago when I was speaking to God. I guess I’ll be kissing the moon more often.

  Julia continued, “And you’re booked to start in two weeks.”

  I fell into a dead panic. “Bitch, are you insane? Did I mention I ate fried cheese every fucking day? And chocolate, and butter-drenched escargots, and crème brûlée for breakfast?
That camera’s gonna put another ten pounds on my ass. And oh my God, it’s all high definition these days, so everyone watching can see every pore and wrinkle.”

  It had been eight years since I had played Lana Hawkins on Strong Medicine, the hit Lifetime television drama. My memory had gotten worse, and I was going to have to learn lines, lines, lines. Not to mention my knees now had names—Arthur and Ritis Jackson. Shit. I needed at least six months to get ready.

  Look, was I excited to get back to steady work? Yes. Was I appreciative? Yes. But I was really scared at the same time. Come on, Jenny, time to slay.

  When I arrived home, I kissed and played with my bichon frise, Butters (named for the character on South Park), and collapsed from jet lag. Lying on my bed, my mind was racing. You got two weeks, Missy! I got out of bed, flew downstairs to my gym, and mounted the elliptical. I did forty-five minutes of cardio. Then it was on to the weights and sixty squats. Come on, Jenny! The next morning I rode my bike seven miles, thinking about the time I had joined Weight Watchers. I went once, sang all them big mamas a blues song (after all, they were a captive audience), and never went back. I had to get serious; I needed a regimen. I made an arrangement for my niece Michiko to start training me every day. I wanted to look like I had twenty years earlier on The Fresh Prince, when I was beautiful from every camera angle.

  But, like I said, I had not lost one fucking pound by the time, two weeks later, when I drove my big black S5 Mercedes through the gates of one of the most beautiful and historic movie lots in the world—the Walt Disney Studios.