“Something’s going on with you, Jenifer. It’s like you’re hiding the real Jenifer.” What? It pissed me off. Instead of responding like an adult, I said, “Yeah, it’s that ‘other’ Jenifer who gets the great reviews that keep you your job, ain’t it?” I stood up and stalked out of the restaurant and walked for hours, trying to absorb Breelum’s comment.
The next morning, The Boston Herald featured me in a spread with a half-page photo taken in front of the theater. I was ecstatic and mailed copies of the review to Mama, as I always did. But my joy was fleeting. I was feeling unnerved, isolated, and alone. Now that I was living my dream, why was I sad and confused all the time? I especially could not brush away the dark moods at night. Even as a child, I had experienced extreme sadness, often sobbing silently into my pillow before sleeping. I’d sometimes awaken in the middle of the night and write in my journal or doodle, doodle, doodle. Otherwise, I often felt as though I could not control my anxiety, my scattered brain, or my impulsive, rushing speech. I spent a lot of time alone engaged in activities that would bring me peace, such as cleaning the apartment or braiding, unbraiding, and rebraiding my hair.
Things reached a low point after the showdown with Breelum in the restaurant. I got even more depressed when Miguel called to say he could not come to Boston for a visit. I missed him so much. Then my crazy ass called Jack, of all fucking people. He answered, mumbled, and the line went dead. Alcoholic!
JOURNAL ENTRY: I feel so scared, empty, lonely. Not really alive. No real cause. Nothing. But on stage, nothing can hurt me!
Toward the end of the Boston run, I flew to NYC a couple of times to spend time with Miguel. I was disappointed to find he was not in the mood for making love. He had more pressing issues on his mind; nobody was hiring Dominicans, even one with a PhD and two master’s degrees. I felt for him deeply.
JOURNAL ENTRY: As God is my witness I love this man.
The next morning, I flew back to Boston on the shuttle, did the show, got drunk, and called Maurice (Mr. Garden Gnome) in Chicago. Within two days, I met a new man at a disco, an Ethiopian named Joe. I wrapped my legs around him as we danced, reaching for his third leg. I took him straight home. But, God bless him, his dick was so small that I told him, “Honey, the only place you can put that is in my ear!” I faked a sudden headache and escorted him out with a smile. Poor bastard.
Boston was done, and we moved on to Toronto, Canada. I was excited the entire trip to Toronto because it was the first time someone in my immediate family had left the United States. We stayed at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, with a pool and sauna. It was a lot nicer than the usual dumps they put us in.
I had yet to meet a man in Toronto, so I hung out a lot with the other gypsies—the museum with Donna Ingram, a street fair with Billy McDaniels. My friend Roderick Sibert and I went to see Alien. He was from Toronto, so his mother cooked dinner for us at her home. I gobbled up her delicious stuffed cabbage, sweet yams, and cornbread. Later, Roderick and I went and did the show. The reviews were great, singling out my performance. I was getting ovations, but it was becoming the “same ol’ same ol’.” A routine. In addition, the pressure of the backstage drama was getting tough. I was seriously thinking about leaving the tour.
I was unhappy and welcomed some one-on-one time with Terry, a true friend. She invited me to her room, and we talked about me becoming more aware of other people’s space and being more disciplined. I asked her if the other cast members liked me. She said, “Jenifer, everybody loves you. You’re talented, you’re fun, you’re fabulous. You just come off as intimidating. You need to calm down, girl.”
Thank goodness we got off the subject and started sharing our excitement about going to see Tina Turner the next day. I splurged and bought a beautiful blouse for the occasion for $29.99. We pulled up at the York Hotel. We knew we’d have good seats, as we received special attention in every city because we were performing at the big theaters.
When Tina came onstage and opened with “Disco Inferno,” my own body was so filled with electricity, my head damn near exploded. There she was, all legs, hips, arms, and hair. So much fucking hair. It was all I could do not to just run the fuck up there and fall to my knees and weep. All hail the queen.
We were allowed backstage. Tina’s assistant opened the door and led us into her dressing room. And there she stood—THE Miss “Rollin’ on the River.” Miss “Shake a Tail Feather.” Miss “Nutbush City Limits.” Miss “Rock Me, Baby, Rock Me All Night Long.”
Tina’s legs were as long as the Mississippi River. Though she was just standing there, it was as if her hips were still gyrating. As she opened her arms to embrace me, her wingspan was that of a golden eagle, and in that raspy voice, she said, “How’s everybody?”
I was speechless. Here was my opportunity to bow, and I bowed lower than I ever had. We all hung out in her dressing room for a little while, and when we left, our feet never touched the ground.
By the way, there’s a rumor on the Internet that I auditioned to play Tina in the 1993 movie version of her life, What’s Love Got to Do with It. I did not. The reason I wasn’t asked to audition for the role of Tina was because my titties were too big. Too bad, because I could’ve sung that motherfucker and acted the hell out of it! Bitch better have my money. Anyway, nobody could have played the role as well as Angela.
Lo and behold, the director of What’s Love called me during the casting process to tell me they wanted me to play Tina Turner’s mother. I was just about to say “fuck you” when he told me how much I would be paid. Before I hung up, I told him, “Well, for that kind of money, I’ll play the daddy.”
That, ladies and gentlemen, is how I began my career as the mother of black Hollywood. I played the hell out of Zelma Bullock. The real Zelma Bullock loved me in the role—even if she didn’t like how the film portrayed her overall.
A year or so after the movie came out, I was in a vitamin store. I heard a woman say: “Alline, come over here in this aisle and show me which one of these vitamins I should get.” Wait a minute, do I recognize that voice? And the name Alline, could it be? Oh my God, my God, my God. I stage-whispered to my friend, “I think that’s Tina Turner’s mama . . . It’s Zelma Bullock!” I went into the next aisle and saw an older woman in tight pants. She had Tina’s form and was quite fit for a woman of her age. I approached her timidly. I said, “Ms. Bullock?” She turned around—the spitting image of beautiful Tina—grabbed me, and hugged me so tight. She pulled back with water in her eyes and said, “I wanted to be so dressed up when I met you.” I knew what she meant and felt humbled. When she passed in 1999, it was an honor to sing at her funeral.