Paula Kelly, who had starred in Sweet Charity with Shirley MacLaine and Chita Rivera, was in attendance one Sunday. As I started to sing a Stevie Wonder song, “They Won’t Go When I Go,” I could hear her humming and singing along with me. I looked at her in the audience and smiled. It was a cue to all the other gypsies and singers in the audience to join me. They knew I was singing about the many people we’d lost to AIDS. Never in my life had I experienced something so loving and supporting, so uplifting and beautiful. I was supposed to climb some stairs at the end of the song, and let’s just say their harmony made me believe I could fly.
In 1992, a horrible thing happened: 704 Hauser. It was a late spinoff of All in the Family, about a black family that was to occupy the row house the Bunkers had lived in. Television legend Norman Lear, who’d seen The Diva Is Dismissed, said he wanted to cast me in the lead role. I worked with Lear on the script and the character, even going to his home. I started to see him as a father figure; I just knew he was going to make me the next Maude. But lo and behold, he gave the part to Lynnie Godfrey, with whom I’d done Eubie! on Broadway. He offered me a small role, which I declined. It was a cruel Hollywood nightmare.
George C. Wolfe saw The Diva Is Dismissed in Los Angeles and invited me to do the show at the esteemed Public Theater in New York City. We opened in October 1994 to rave reviews. Variety wrote: “Jenifer Lewis could no more give up diva-hood than she could give away her big, rich voice.” Stage Review said: “Lewis commands the stage . . . not only with her explosive personality and infectious humor, but with a glimmering jewel of a voice . . .”
This was an amazing time. Everyone from Morgan Freeman to Ashford and Simpson to Josephine Premice and Madonna—everybody showed up to see me at the Public. I won the NAACP Theatre Award for The Diva Is Dismissed, and I won an Ovation Award for the production later on.
Norman Lear heard about my success in New York and called to congratulate me. I proceeded to tell him, “Please don’t ever call my phone again.”
I would swim every evening before the show. My diet had to change completely in order to deliver the goods at the theater. This was not TV or film. This shit was live and in person. You either step up or it will eat you alive. I thought about seducing the hunky lifeguard at the pool, but then I would have had to tell Rachel. Bitch.
I was throwing tantrums in my phone sessions with Rachel. I was getting tired of analyzing every goddamn thing I did. I was working hard on my abandonment issues during this time. The grind of Diva was taking its toll on me. I only had a few more weeks, but it was cold in New York and my voice was starting to go. And damn if I didn’t catch an all-out flu. I slipped into a full-blown “woe is me” depression.
One day, I believe for the first time in my life, I just couldn’t get myself together mentally, physically, or emotionally to get to the theater. It was really a bad day for me. I called Rachel from my apartment and told her, “I just don’t think I can do it.” She said, “Yes, you can.” I walked out into the freezing cold. I had always walked to the theater at a fast pace to warm up my lungs. This time I walked two blocks and my legs felt heavy. My heart sad. My will faltering. Every three blocks I had to stop at a phone booth to call Rachel for more encouragement to keep moving and get to the theater and do my job. I knew better than anyone in the world that the show must go on. I applied my makeup through tears that evening. The standing ovation did not uplift my spirit.
New Year’s Eve was closing night, and what a late Christmas present to have Ruby Dee and Ossie Davis attend! I apologized to Ruby that my voice had been hoarse. She said, in her fabulous Ruby Dee slur: “Well, I didn’t have anything to compare it to. I thought it was wonderful.” I joined Phyllicia Rashad and few others and a few others for the New Year’s Eve celebration at Café Beulah. I went to the ladies’ room, and as I rejoined everyone at the table when I returned, I asked them, “Are you guys talking about the show?” Lynn Whitfield said, “Jenifer, I’m going to tell you like I tell my daughter Grace, ‘It’s not always about you.’?” I looked at her and whispered, “Oh, yes, it is, bitch. And happy New Year to you, too.”
Back on the West Coast that spring, I was doing my act at clubs like Nucleus Nuance and the Rose Tattoo. In the early ’90s, lots of New York gypsies had moved to Los Angeles to take advantage of the surge in black sitcoms. They all showed up for my shows.
The political climate got hot in Los Angeles. Rodney King, a black man, was beaten by police on video. It became international news. Riots broke out in the South Central area in the aftermath when an all-white jury acquitted the cops involved in the brutality. Like so many people, I was deeply concerned by what I saw on that video and how the authorities handled the matter. It was stressful to say the least. My urge was to do something to help. The horror of that incident and everything else I was going through in my life caused me to break out in hives. Even with all that itching, I was determined to go to South Central; it was the least I could do to volunteer to help clean up the rubble left by the rioting. It was me and five young white kids sweeping together. At some point, a homeless man approached us and screamed, “You motherfuckers never come down here for nothing else!” I stepped to him, “Get the fuck on where you going.” I felt bad. He could’ve been my own daddy.
I soon turned my attention back to my life and work. I auditioned for I’ll Fly Away, and Regina Taylor got it. I auditioned for Passenger 57 and Alex Datcher got it. My over-the-top-ness was still an issue. A big mouth and a deep backbend weren’t cutting it in television. I auditioned for Against the Law and Family Matters and didn’t get hired for either one. I wanted to win at show business, but toning myself down for work in front of the camera was difficult.
I could go from zero to ten thousand in a minute and was still experiencing mood swings and rageful incidents, like when I was in a restaurant in London with my friend Thom Fennessey and the man next to us was speaking too loudly. I almost took the guy’s head off.
Every now and then I would still fuck up with the people I loved the most. And they loved me enough to tell me when I did. My beloved Marc Shaiman invited me to an event. I showed up after it was over. I hadn’t understood that it was a commitment ceremony with his partner, Scott Wittman. Hurt and furious, Scott read me the riot act the next day. All I could say was, “I am working on myself, Scott, and I am so fucking sorry.” These were very close friends I had disappointed. I felt horrible.
Therapy became harder and harder. I was digging up memories, reaching down to rediscover the tough and tender stuff of my childhood. I threatened to leave many times.