The Mother of Black Hollywood Read online

  The security guard at the gate shouted, “Hey, Flo! Hey, Mama Odie!” Disney is a home away from home for me. I am more famous here than at any other studio. And most Disney employees, from security guards to the chefs in the commissary, are huge fans of Disney animations; they know every movie, actor, and voice.

  I smiled at the security guard as I fantasized that I was the great Gloria Swanson playing Norma Desmond in the movie Sunset Boulevard when she returns to Paramount, the studio she had made famous. In my fantasy, I wanted the guard not to recognize me so that, like Norma Desmond, I could say to him, “Open the gate and watch your manners, because without me, there would be no Disney studio.”

  I pulled into the parking space marked “Jenifer Lewis” in front of Stage Four, thinking, Wow, you’ve come a long way, baby! Still in my Norma Desmond fantasy, I thought, Oh my God, will anyone remember me?

  The answer, thank goodness, was yes, yes, and yes. They came and they came and they came. I was encircled by the cast and crew welcoming me, smiling and gushing. After all my years in show business, I had worked with damn near every one of them in some capacity or another: wardrobe, makeup, set designers, the drivers, the assistant directors. Even the dialogue coach was my dear friend Iona Morris, a talented actress and director. I knew and loved them all.

  And on they came—embracing, reminiscing: “Hey, Jenifer, remember when Tupac had all them girls in his trailer on the set of Poetic Justice? Remember me? I was the stunt coordinator when you clocked Jim Carrey with that rubber skillet on In Living Color. We’re so excited you’re here. We’ve been waiting.” It wasn’t only about show business. One crew member said, “Hey, Jenifer, my brother loves you. When he saw you on Oprah talking about having bipolar, he went and took care of himself.”

  Even the executives from the front offices came down to the black-ish set to welcome me. I was lit up.

  I had of course worked with the oh-so-very-talented Tracee Ellis Ross on Girlfriends and Five, a wonderful Lifetime movie that Alicia Keys had directed. I knew Anthony Anderson’s brilliant and funny work in everything from Law & Order to Hustle & Flow to Barbershop. Of course, there was Laurence Fishburne, who had not only played Ike Turner, the son-in-law to my Tina Turner’s mama in What’s Love Got to Do with It, but whose body of work was beyond impressive, including some of the most important films of our time, from Apocalypse Now to Boyz n the Hood and all of the Matrix films. I was thrilled to reconnect with Kenya Barris, the creator of black-ish, who was just a young writer when we’d first met on Girlfriends. I dub him “Genius.”

  Following the warm welcome, it was time for the usual television routine: two hours in the makeup and hair trailer. And, of course, the last-minute rushing. There’s always so much hurry up and wait. I sat in my dressing room, miked for sound, zipped into Ruby’s clothes—only to wait.

  All the waiting gave me way too much time to fret. Would I fit in? The rest of the cast was already a family. I was only a guest star at that point. I would have to gauge and get in sync with their rhythm. Could I do it? Finally a knock at the door. “They’re ready for you now, Miss Lewis.”

  I entered the soundstage trying to look cool. After a few preliminaries, including my last-minute pause to look at my script, shooting began. Now fully confident in my lines I stepped onto my blue tape-mark, opposite Laurence. The set was “put on a bell,” signaling all cast and crew to fall silent.

  The first AD shouted, “Rolling!” I inhaled, shoulders back and spine straight. I felt the entire company lean in, smiling expectantly as all eyes fell on me, the mother of black Hollywood, the veteran of nearly three hundred productions, the woman they hired without auditioning.

  The director shouted, “Action!”

  I exhaled, thinking of that kiss I’d blown to the full moon over the Adriatic.

  I go inside. I become Ruby Johnson. I deliver my first line. Within seconds, I hear the sound I’d been listening for all my life—the rising, swelling lion’s roar as dozens of people collapse in laughter and applause.

  And the bitch is back.

  TWO

  SHOULDERS BACK, TITTIES FIRST

  I am a born entertainer. Even as a little girl, I dreamed of being a star. I would be an entertainer had I been born a hundred years earlier or later. Had I been born a unicorn or even been born on Neptune, I would be somewhere singing in somebody’s universe, filled with music and fire.

  I started early: I was five years old when I went to Miss Vera and asked to sing a solo in the annual church program called “The Old Ship of Zion.” About ten choir members started in the back of the church, singing a song as they moved one by one down the center aisle. After they reached the choir stand, they “boarded the ship,” in recognition of the vessel in the Bible that carried believers to the Promised Land. When the last soloist had reached the stand, the entire choir sang “ ’Tis the Old Ship of Zion.” I asked Miss Vera if I could sing a song called “Oh, Lord, You’ve Brought Me a Mighty Long Way.”

  Miss Vera said, “Jenny, you’re only five years old, honey.”

  I said, “But that’s the one I listen to on my pink close ’n play record player.”

  The day of the program, there I stood in the back of the church, in my black patent leather shoes and folded-over lace socks. I had on a blue skirt and a white blouse, the standard choir uniform. I knew this was my moment, and I was totally prepared to show out. My mama, aunts and uncles and cousins, as well as the deacons and the mothers of the church, the entire congregation—all had their eyes on me.

  Miss Vera played a glissando on the organ to give me my note. I leaned back and did an exaggerated backbend in an effort to fill my little lungs. Gradually returning to an upright position, I slowly released my first note, “Ohhhh—” and held it for what seemed an entire minute. “Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . Lord, you brought meeeee a miiiighty looooong waaay.”

  I grabbed the side of the back pew, steadying myself in dramatic fashion. “They said I couldn’t maaaaake it, but you brought meeeee. Jesus, you brought meeee a mi–hi–ty loooong waaaay.”

  I knew I had them all in the palm of my hand when I heard my aunts Katherine, Louise, Rosetta, Jean, Shirley, Gloria, Janice, Mary, Margaret, and even my own mama shouting, “Sing, Jenny! Go ’head on, sing, baby!”

  I two-stepped down the aisle past five more pews to the spot where an usher, Sister Lorraine Parks, stood erect waiting to catch anyone who got the Holy Spirit and fell out (love me some black church, y’all!). I grabbed Miss Parks’s fan from her hand, leaned against her, and fanned myself furiously, singing, “sum–um–bod–yy help meee.”

  Then going limp, I bent over and sucked in a huge breath so I could growl the next phrase as I heard pastors do in their sermons: “Grrrzzyuh yassss, Lawd, a mii-hiii-ty luh-onng waaaay!” One of the deacons jumped up and guided me aboard the “ship.” When I turned around at the standing microphone, I really cut loose. I leaned the mike over like James Brown. I waved it around like Sarah Vaughn. Then I did a little praise dance like I had seen Sister Moten do every Sunday morning to show off her new clothes. When I saw Sister Ethel Miller snatch her big, big hat off her head and throw it in the air, well that was it. I riffed one more time, “Thank ya, Lord. Thank ya, Jesus.”

  My solo flowed from my five-year-old self with force and feeling so great the entire congregation of First Baptist Church in Kinloch, Missouri, exploded in a standing ovation. I knocked them out doing my best imitation of the great gospel artist Dorothy Love Coates singing with the Gospel Harmonettes. In that moment, my destiny as a singer was sealed. Though we were there to praise God, I loved that I was getting some praise, too. I plugged my mouth with my thumb and stood there a bit cross-eyed. I felt steeped in love and secure in the knowledge that I was indeed a child of God.

  My family didn’t have much money for extras, but music was a constant presence in our home. We were all good singers. And between Mama and my older siblings, I spent hours listening to the greatest of the greats in
gospel, jazz, and popular music. Mahalia, Ella, Aretha, B.B. King, Ramsey Lewis and, for comic relief, there was lots of Moms Mabley! I felt a profound soul connection with them all.

  As I grew up, my burning desire to be a star flourished. I told any and everybody who would listen that I was going to be famous. And baby, I was real serious about it. I’d grab my hairbrush, stand in front of a mirror, and “Aretha Franklin” your ass all day. I studied and imitated the old classic Hollywood movies, especially musicals, that came on the late, late show. I watched with fierce intensity, reveling in the magic of multitalented superstars such as Judy Garland, Ethel Merman, and Sammy Davis Jr. I identified with these twentieth-century greats—with Bette Davis, with Tallulah Bankhead. Their flair. Their power. As a kid, I sought to emulate Hattie McDaniel’s timing in Gone With the Wind and Danny Kaye’s mastery of tongue twisters.

  When I got a little older, the whole town anticipated my monthly talent shows. I had bothered Father Siebert over and over to let me use the Catholic school basement. I worried that poor man (who was Kinloch’s sole white resident) so much, one day he just said, “Anything you want, Jenny.” I cut up brown paper bags to make signs and in black Magic Marker I wrote: “Jenifer Lewis Sings. 7:00 pm Saturday, 35 cents.” I taped the signs to telephone poles all over town and, baby, you couldn’t get in for the crowd! People would come all dressed up. The talent shows became so popular, folks would barbecue outside in the parking lot and sell rib tip sandwiches, pigs’ feet, and hot dogs, with orange and cream sodas. It was the Saturday night event in Kinloch.

  I would sing songs by Aretha, Fontella Bass, and Gladys Knight with my cousins as my Pips. Years later, my cousin Ronnie reminded me that I never paid my Pips. I would just run out with all the cash at the end of the show. Let’s just say I didn’t deny it. These talent shows—starring me, of course—allowed me to practice for the time I, like Dionne Warwick or Nancy Wilson, would make my grand entrance on The Ed Sullivan Show.

  I could see myself in a class with these greatest of the greats because I felt that my gift, my talent, my ability to entertain was so innate, so powerful, so evident, that God had given me something special. Judge me if you must, but it was my reality. Call it delusional, call it grandiosity. Call it what you will, but it was my dream—and it kept me going through some dark times.

  I used what I learned from these legends in many of my most popular roles. When I played Will Smith’s Aunt Helen on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air I mixed in shades of Pearl Bailey. In the Cars animations, my character, Flo, is a mix of Edward G. Robinson’s nasality, Mae West’s sass, and Lauren Bacall’s sultriness. In my scene with Denzel Washington in The Preacher’s Wife when we’re talking outside in the cold, my character is pure Bette Davis. In the sit-com Girlfriends, Tony’s drunk mother is Lucille Ball, and the sorceress Mama Odie in The Princess and the Frog is straight-up Moms Mabley.

  The point is, that I am aware that I stand on the shoulders of many great entertainers. I still study the greats. It’s what keeps my game on point. I do not consider it boastful to say I am a great entertainer. Look, it’s just a fact: I can sing you a song and tell you a story. I can make you dance and shout. I can hold you in the palm of my hand and make you feel alive. I can get you weak in the knees, catch you, say I’m sorry, and then rock you to sleep. But above all things, I can make you laugh, and I mean laugh your ass all the way off! Apparently, the only thing I can’t do is stop talking about myself!

  On May 25, 1979, I headed to New York City, having graduated the day before with a degree in Theater Arts from Webster University, just outside of St. Louis. Finally, I was leaving St. Louis for good and pursuing my destiny. Finally, I was taking my shot at fame and stardom.

  My whole family, six siblings and my mother, came to the airport to send me off. St. Louis to New York, TWA nonstop! I used my graduation money to fly first class—it just felt appropriate. On other trips to New York for auditions I had seen and envied the grandness of first class. Now it was my turn to recline, sip champagne, and smoke my Virginia Slims.

  Lambert International Airport was a hub for Trans World Airlines, and Kinloch was right under the flight path. Looking through my first-class window, I felt a twinge of irony as the plane roared over Kinloch and I gazed down on the narrow streets and small houses of my childhood and then turned my attention toward the future—and the fulfillment of my lifelong dreams.

  In my mind, I was unstoppable. My freshly minted degree certified me as a classically trained actress. I believed I could sing like nobody else and felt that although I wasn’t the best dancer, my presence on stage was riveting. I roared into New York confident, thirsty. What’s next, bitches? If it’s got anything to do with performing, or with being funny or fabulous—I’m your girl. If it’s got anything to do with Shakespeare, Ibsen, Molière, or Chekhov—I’m your girl. Oh, and by the way, watch me kick my foot above my head then slam it to the floor in a full split! And if you’re not feeling me, just tell me what note, what key, and how fast or slow you want it. How many Hula-Hoops around my neck?

  I hit New York prepared to conquer, to win, to slay. And why not? All my life I had been hailed for my abilities, made to feel special, singled out. As a kid, I was a born leader, the alpha of the pack. In high school, I ruled as class president and captain of the cheerleading squad. At Webster, I had dominated the theater department. I was a stand-out even in my first professional job, when I took a sabbatical during sophomore year to tour the country performing in a vaudeville-style revue, Baggy Pants.

  I got off that plane at LaGuardia with ten thousand songs in my heart, envisioning my life unfolding before me. I was hell-bent on first conquering Broadway, figuring Hollywood would come later. Black Broadway was at its height. The late 1970s had seen a string of successful African American–themed shows such as The Wiz; Ain’t Misbehavin’; Don’t Bother Me, I Can’t Cope; and Bubbling Brown Sugar.

  I was a Midwestern girl who found New York City thrilling, but absolutely overwhelming. I had been there a couple of times before, but for only a few days. I mean I was street smart and knew how to watch my back, but still it was a huge culture shock. Nobody spoke to each other. In my hometown, I was used to saying good morning to total strangers, but New Yorkers didn’t even make eye contact.

  Wherever I went in the city, I felt surrounded by twenty million people. I remember standing in the shopping mall beneath the World Trade Center and feeling the sensation of an oncoming stampede, an earth tremor. I said aloud, “What the fuck is that?” The guy at the newsstand nearby heard me and calmly said, “Rush hour, lady.” Mouth agape, I flattened myself against the wall as thousands of commuters surged past to board their trains on the levels below.

  From day one in the Big Apple, I was swept into the whirlwind life of an aspiring actress, driven by my dream. Shoulders back, titties first. Every day, rushing to auditions all over Manhattan and one or two dance classes at Frank Hatchett’s famous studio at Broadway and 55th Street.

  I had won a voice scholarship funded by the actor Richard Kiley, the “Man of La Mancha” himself. The scholarship provided vocal lessons with Ray Smolover, whose genius as a voice teacher was well known in the theater community. Ray taught me how to keep my vocal apparatus healthy and flexible; his lessons have sustained me to this very day.

  In fact, I have lost my voice only twice. The first time was in 1984 when I got pissy drunk singing and carrying on until the wee hours at a bar in Cologne, Germany, and had to miss the next day’s matinee. The second time I lost my voice was during my first week performing on Broadway in Hairspray in 2008. I thought I would take a lovely walk through my old stomping ground—Central Park. The park was gorgeous. It was springtime and the trees and flowers were in high bloom. From Columbus Circle, I walked to the boathouse, stopping to admire every variety of tree, stone, child, street artist, and horse-drawn carriage. Just plain skippy-happy! As I walked through Sheep Meadow, my thoughts went back to that horrible day, years earlier when I didn
’t get cast in Saturday Night Live and collapsed in sorrow in the cool meadow grass. I smiled a bit, thinking how meaningless rejection becomes as the years roll by.

  By the time I reached the boathouse, I realized my throat had constricted. What the flying fuck was I thinking? Jenny, you have allergies this time of year! I hacked mucus out of my throat all the way back to Columbus Circle, because taxis were no longer able to go through the park. My vocal cords were strained, but I went on to the theater anyway, knowing that my voice would come. Surely, it would come.

  It did not.

  I made my entrance on the stage, opened my mouth to sing, and no sound came out. Silence. Everything went into slow motion. I pushed for the notes. Praying, I lowered the register an octave.

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  There I stood, the great Jenifer Lewis, voiceless in front of fourteen hundred people in the Neil Simon Theatre. To add insult to injury, as I coughed and gasped through this train wreck of a performance, a woman front row center turned slightly to her excited son, who looked to be about ten years old and who was clearly gay. Without taking her eyes off me, the woman said to her son in a voice that was quite audible over the music, “This is not how it’s supposed to be.”

  Thank God it was the end of Act I. The curtain came down, I ran up the concrete staircase in that old theater, fell into my dressing room, and sobbed uncontrollably. To add more insult to injury, Marc Shaiman, Hairspray’s co-lyricist and composer, had been in the back of the house and witnessed the entire catastrophe. He walked into my dressing room and said, “Your contract says three months, not three performances.” It was a brilliant line, but I was in no mood to laugh with my best friend. Asshole.

  When I first hit town, fresh from college, I was sobered by the competition, especially in dance class. Y’all, they came from the four corners of the nation and they were the best—the motherfuckers of the motherfuckers. They danced like Shakafuckingzulu’s children; like kings and queens. They were long and they were graceful—the Adonises and Aphrodites of Juilliard, Alvin Ailey, and Carnegie Mellon. They strode across the dance floor like Thomson’s gazelles on the Serengeti. They stared at themselves in the wall mirrors like they owned the world. They walked in first position. They wore tights to show their perfectly formed muscles. They were beautiful, gods almost.