My lack of political consciousness was appalling to my Boat sisters, who had spent their lives in the Civil Rights Movement. They pressed me: What’s in there, Jenifer? What is your foundation and purpose? Echoes of Miguel’s “Joo say nothing” rang in my head.
One of the members of the Boat, a family therapist named Jeanne King, took me to address a group of teenage mothers she was counseling in East L.A. The young women seemed hungry for the stories about my career, my travels, and hardships. In turn, it was gratifying to hear them open up and speak honestly. The afternoon became a very sweet memory for me.
Fast forward to 2016, when I’m at a track meet with my great-nephews somewhere on the outskirts of Los Angeles. As I was leaving the stadium, someone called to me. “Miss Lewis!” I turned, expecting the greeting had come from a fan requesting a picture. But instead, the smiling fortyish woman immediately launched into her story: “Miss Lewis, I don’t know if you remember, but about twenty-five years ago, you came and spoke to a group of us who had just had babies. I was the one that was really quiet and sad because I wasn’t ready to be a mother and they had made me keep the baby.”
My heart started to melt as she continued, “I never forgot that day and always hoped that I would meet you again to thank you. You went around the room and asked us what our favorite song was; when you got to me, you said, ‘Why don’t you sing it for us.’ I did, and I been singing ever since, Miss Lewis. My baby’s all grown now. I got two more out on the track and my husband up there in the bleachers.” She looked at me meaningfully and said, “And I am doing all right, Miss Lewis. Doing real good.”
I’ve learned in life that what you give to others is what provides the most value to your life. There I was, a mess myself, yet I still had something to offer that would have an effect on another person’s world.
Shortly after being embraced by the women of the Boat, I received some of the worst news possible. The love of my life, Miguelito Hermongez Henquez Gomez, had died of a massive heart attack after leaving Washington Square Park, where he had played his last game of chess.
It had been six years since I’d seen Miguel. He had aged, but he was still fine and still mine. I had sublet my New York apartment, so we went to a hotel near the Museum of Natural History. It was a dump, and they dared to charge $120 a night, but we knew we wanted to be together. We were kind of shy with each other at first. But, God help me, it was a one-thrust orgasm for us both. That’s love.
The next morning, I walked him to the train station. Before he went down the dirty staircase to the N train, he turned back and said, “Joo have to have some babies, Yenifer. So joo’ll have somezing to live for when joo get old.”
The fact that I needed psychological help became even more evident after losing Miguel. During my nervous breakdown following my visit to Quitman’s hospital room, Beverly told me “there is no greater journey than the journey within.” Her words touched me deeply. I trusted and loved her enough to know that I should follow her advice. I agreed to let Beverly help me find a therapist. It’s one thing to decide that therapy can help you. But, it’s another thing to actually take the necessary steps to get it. I had a few good auditions and callbacks, making it easy to just put the “therapy thing” on the back burner.
One day, as I packed up the six loads of laundry I had done at Beverly’s house, she really pushed me about it. Feeling guilty, I got home, picked up the Yellow Pages, and randomly chose the name of a woman psychotherapist nearby. A few days later, I entered the therapist’s elegant office, and we shook hands. She was confident and composed, her blond hair carefully coiffed. As she asked me a question, I noticed the Harvard diploma on the wall. As my lengthy and increasingly intense response flowed forth, the therapist started inhaling deeply through her nose as if to manage her rising emotions. Her widening eyes seemed incapable of looking away from mine. I recall no details of the content of our conversation, but I swear when I left forty-five minutes later, her hair was sticking straight out like she had stuck her finger in a socket. She said, “We’ll be in touch.” She wasn’t.
Another Boat member gave me the name of a middle-aged woman shrink whom her friend had been seeing for some time. But within five minutes, I knew that therapist was more depressed than I was! I felt frustrated about the whole damn thing.
A nasty argument with Bob Wachs and Tess over some bullshit sent me plummeting. Jesus, was I immature. I told Bob I had to be true to myself. He shouted back, “What the hell is that?” His scorn hurt me deeply.
At this point, the dark night of the soul came to a head. There was nothing left but this masked entity, this “life of the party” who sobbed into her pillow every night. The depression was all-encompassing, even as I raced through every day at full speed.
Probably, I should not have attended the opening-night party for the wonderful show Loretta Devine was starring in about Billie Holiday, called Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar & Grill. With several of my Boat sisters, I drove down to San Diego where the show opened at the famous Old Globe Theatre. The party after the show was loud and boisterous. I got drunk and jumped up on the table, ordering everyone to shut the fuck up! The entire crew, especially my buddy Loretta, was soon falling out with laughter as I recounted my experience of searching for a therapist, adding all sorts of outrageous exaggerations. “Oh, honey, then they sent me to this fine black man who had been educated at Harvard. And he was poised to put me straight. I knew the only thing that was going to be straight was his back on that sofa with me straddling him!” It was clear that I was an entertaining motherfucker, and that something was wrong, especially when I wrapped up the mini-performance with a monologue about being so poor, I lost my virginity to a rat. When I finished, Jeanne King pulled me aside and said, “Honey, you’re about as crazy as you can be. I have a friend I sent a schizophrenic to, and she worked wonders with him. Let me give you her number.”