It had been ten years since Mahalia Jackson had transitioned, and I knew if anybody was running around heaven, it was her. In my book, and those of many others she is the greatest gospel singer that ever lived. This amazing songstress created the blueprint for twentieth-century gospel, building worldwide appreciation for the genre through her tours and many albums. I also admired her for her political activism. She was there with the Civil Rights Movement from the start and sang at the 1963 March on Washington just before Dr. King gave his famous “I Have a Dream” speech.
Mahalia was everything. Among all my mother’s albums, Mahalia Jackson was the one I would play over and over and over. This woman was so embedded inside me, I felt her joy was mine and that her sadness played into my own. I listened intensely and began to mimic her voice. But Esther Marrow, not I, was given the lead, and I was tapped to understudy the role. I was thrilled and honored to be a part of the production, which included Danny Beard, a singer I became friendly with, the fierce Keith David, and my close friends Tucker Smallwood, Ebony Jo-Ann, and Yolanda Graves.
To my surprise, during rehearsal one day, Danny became unnecessarily rude to me, commenting snidely while I was at the piano, mocking me in the funeral march scene. I’d heard he’d been doing a lot of coke. I stepped to him and warned him about karma. My spiritual studies with Phil had inspired me, and I was working to get the rage out of my soul.
A couple of hours passed, and Danny was all up in my face again. I broke and said, “That was some fag shit.” Y’all, that boy slapped the pure shit out of me! I didn’t return the slap, because deep down, I probably knew I deserved it. Plus, fighting with my hands is not my thing. Instead, I turned the other cheek, smiled, and went to put cold water on my face. Ow, that shit hurt!
When I told Mark Brown about the incident, he said I asked for it for using that awful slur. Mark’s response cut deep because I wanted his respect. I didn’t intend to be homophobic; a “faggot” in my mind was a nasty person, not a homosexual. Poor excuse, I know. It sickens me that I once said that terrible word in anger to someone I loved.
The next day, with my eye swollen, I was pissed. I planned to head down to Centre Street to get a summons against Danny’s ass. Just in time to avoid that drama, Danny called with apologies. I was silent.
I went to the rehearsal studio and warmed up as normal while the vibe among the company was as tense as I was calm. Some women in the cast laughed at me as they gathered around Danny. That made me vengeful.
Miguel was furious when he heard about the confrontation. He immediately assembled several bad-ass Dominican friends he’d made in the underground movement to kick Gulf and Western out of the Dominican Republic. They were prepared to fuck Danny up. But then Phil Valentine said, “You don’t want that kind of karma, baby.” I swallowed my anger and pledged to just forget the whole thing.
The show premiered at the Hartman Theatre in Stamford, Connecticut. I had decided that in order to get through the run of the show, I just wouldn’t speak to Danny or Thomas. But on the show’s third night, an hour before the curtain went up Thomas burst into my dressing room, looked me dead in the eye, and said, “Esther’s been in a car accident. She’s all right, but do you think you can go on?”
Even though my stomach turned inside out with anxiety, I looked at him with the confidence of the great Helen of Troy and proclaimed, “You know damn well I can do it.”
He knew better than anyone that understudy rehearsals always begin the day after opening night, meaning I had a total of forty-five minutes’ rehearsal for the lead role. The challenge would be huge. When Thomas gave me a brilliant, heartfelt pep talk just before I took the stage, I knew he still loved me.
A critic for the Greenwich Times was in the audience and wrote, “Although [Miss Lewis] carried the script throughout, she handled it with such grace that after a while it went unnoticed. What became noticeable was the reaction of the audience and the outburst of applause, coupled with a standing ovation . . .”
When the show moved to Boston the next week, I was just about ready to try to make formal amends with Danny, but as we stood backstage in the wings, where it was very dark, Danny started taunting me again. I ignored him until he deliberately stepped on my foot. Rage welled within my soul as I reached for a broken steel pipe leaning against a nearby wall. Raising up to swing the pipe against Danny’s head, I somehow violently banged my own head against an overhang and immediately blacked out. When I woke up a few hours later in Boston Medical Center I knew Phil had been right—karma is a bitch.
The cabaret scene in New York City was heating up with many new piano bars and small nightclubs that offered fertile ground for Broadway gypsies to take the spotlight. Yours truly was the first headliner when the New Ballroom, a trendy restaurant located at 253 West 28th Street, recast itself as simply 28th and 8th.
Who Is Jenifer Lewis? HOT! was a campy hour of original songs, jokes, and connective patter. Otis Sallid produced the show. I knew my show would be good, but would people come? If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s empty seats. Therefore, I worked as hard to promote my shows as I did rehearsing. I printed at least a thousand flyers and addressed and stuffed the envelopes. I licked the stamps and then carried it all to the post office. And y’all, I did not have anywhere near one thousand names on my mailing list, so I sent flyers to random strangers I found in the telephone book, too! (Yes, I was a twentieth-century spammer!) I made a huge effort, although most cabarets hold only about one hundred people.
I took to the streets and avenues of Manhattan in my gym shoes and sweat suit (remember those ’80s nylon sweat suits?). If you were human and had a heartbeat, I put a flyer in your hand. I went through Bloomie’s, Macy’s, and I hit all the street fairs and tourist attractions from the Statue of Liberty to the Empire State Building and Rockefeller Center. The most fertile spot was the TKTS booth in the middle of Times Square, where I belted songs Merman-style and did high kicks for the folks waiting in line for discount Broadway tickets.
I’d spot a couple and say, “Where y’all from? Oh, honey, you guys are so far back in line, there’s not gonna be any tickets left for a GOOD Broadway show. You might as well come see me.”
I’d sing eight bars of “Don’t Cry Out Loud,” do a shuffle-step ball change, three high kicks in succession, a lay out, and snap my fingers in the Z formation.
“Y’all come on now. And my show is cheaper, too.”