I hurriedly slipped on my shoes and took my position as the music director counted down, and when he got to “one,” I hit every last one of the steps and notes with a jubilance that made the entire cast cheer me on. When, finally, they all quieted, I looked over at Professor Malone, eager to hear the magical words. “Well,” he said, “I guess you got the part.”
The next thing I knew, the show was such a hit, it was selling out every night, with fans from near and far coming to see the wonder that was the Howard University Theatre’s Dreamgirls production. So successful was the first run that Professor Malone revived it for a second run the next academic year, catching the attention of a major theater producer from Hong Kong who happened to be in DC. That producer loved the play so much that he paid for our entire production—the actors, the directors, the wardrobe, the props, everything—to fly to Hong Kong for a two-week run, which, too, quickly sold out, upstaging even a professional production of 42nd Street. Fans were showing up to our fancy hotel, waiting in the lobby to get our autographs and take pictures with the cast. It was surreal—until then, except for summers down south with my family, I’d never been out of the country, but there I was, living out loud every fantasy I’d ever had of traveling the world as an actress. “Shoot, I’m on the right page,” I said, hugging myself as I gazed out the window overlooking the hills of Hong Kong, my best friend by my side. You couldn’t tell us a single, solitary thing; the hotel was lovely—on par with the Mandarin Oriental in New York, which meant it was first class all the way, with beautifully appointed rooms I’d never before seen or experienced. The shades and curtains opened electronically with the push of a button; this twenty-year-old girl, a product of southeast DC, had never seen anything like that. “This right here is it—exactly how we’re supposed to be treated,” I said to Tracie, who nodded furiously in agreement. “I can get used to this!”
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It was my strong work ethic that earned me a spot on the Dreamgirls stage, but it was my confidence and hustle that got me into the camera line of a scene in Spike Lee’s Malcolm X, smack-dab in front of Denzel Washington. That particular hustle started back at Howard, during a workshop Spike gave at our university’s drama department. Spike was the gawd back then—an African American filmmaker whose unflinching, unapologetic commentary on black American life not only ushered in a cinematic and cultural renaissance for moviegoers, but also opened doors for black folk both in front of and behind the camera. By the time he made it to Howard, he’d already gotten crazy accolades for She’s Gotta Have It, School Daze, Do the Right Thing, and Mo’ Better Blues, and everybody on campus was trying to get next to him, knowing he was still casting for Malcolm X. So my girlfriend Tracie and I got ourselves all super-cute and hightailed it over to the lecture hall. Though we tried, we couldn’t get anywhere near Spike. We settled for making nice with a guy in his entourage, some bugaboo who was trying to holler. I practically held my nose and gagged while I shoved both my and Tracie’s headshots into his hands. “Look, just take these pictures and give them to Spike,” I said, with an attitude and half a smile.
I knew he wasn’t a casting agent, and I have no idea if he actually gave those pictures to Spike Lee or not, but in my mind, what we did worked. A few weeks later, I was in dance class doing pliés when Tracie put in a frantic call to the drama department office and made herself sound super-official. She told whoever answered the phone that Spike Lee wanted me in a movie. The girl from the office hoofed it down the stairs and burst into the studio with the news. “Taraji!” she said, barely able to catch her breath. “You got a call from New York about Malcolm X!”
“Oh my God,” I screamed, cupping my hands over my mouth and falling down to my knees like I’d just hit the lottery and won an Oscar, an Emmy, and a Grammy all in the same night. The class erupted into a gaggle of squeals and high fives as I hurriedly squeezed myself into my street clothes: a fabulous all-leopard outfit featuring a vintage coat with a matching skirt and, yes, the hat. I tipped out of that dance class fresh dressed like a million bucks, hopped in my car, and crushed a few speeding laws rushing to my apartment to pack my clothes and hightail it to New York on a seventy-five-dollar plane ticket my mother purchased for me because as I had to pay both my rent and tuition, I was too broke to buy it on my own.
When I think about that particular moment, I fall out in fits of laughter because, really, the audacity of me—some drama undergrad with no professional experience outside of the Howard University stage, a ThighMaster infomercial, and my job singing Tina Turner songs on that dinner barge—thinking I could book a job off a résumé and headshot! Spike Lee had never, to my knowledge, been to one of my plays, he’d never pulled up a seat on the Spirit of Washington while I belted out “Proud Mary,” and he sure as hell didn’t know me from a hole in the wall. I was wet behind the ears—didn’t know any better. I just knew somehow I’d impressed Spike and he wanted me. My mother, too, was in lockstep on that assessment: just before she drove me to the airport, she was racing around her office, telling anyone within the sound of her voice, “Spike Lee picked my baby to star in his movie!” In our minds, Taraji P. Henson was about to blow up.
I arrived in New York with my outdated suitcase, big and burgundy and all kinds of wrong, dressed in that same head-to-toe leopard suit I was wearing when I got the call from Tracie back at dance class, looking country as shit, standing on the sidewalk outside Lincoln Center, sucking in that thick air and crackling energy buzzing like lightning all around me while I waited for Tracie to pick me up. I wanted to shout to everyone who walked by, “I’m starring in Spike Lee’s new movie!” But I knew enough to at least play it a little bit cool on those streets, where New Yorkers are always in a rush and woefully unimpressed by pretty much everything in general and wet-nosed tourists in particular; I saved my ninja kicks and cheerleader jumps for Tracie, who also had secured a role.