I turned and walked out to the waiting room, grinning smugly at the three or four women waiting to audition. “Y’all might as well go home. I got this bitch.” Like I said, therapy doesn’t work right away.
Poetic Justice starred Janet Jackson and Tupac Shakur, the hip hop legend. I played the mother of Tupac’s character. Of course I had been a fan of Janet’s for years, but Tupac, and the whole rap thing were pretty foreign to me. Mostly, I associated the hip hop scene with guns and danger.
The day we were set to shoot our scene together, I walked to Tupac’s trailer to rehearse. I could hear the music pounding before my knock was answered by an eighteen-year-old girl in hot pants and bikini top. As she opened the door, a huge cloud of weed smoke engulfed me. I entered the trailer and I swear, there must have been eight girls in there. The smoke was thick, the music was deafening and I felt intimidated by Tupac’s thuggy bodyguards and their tattoos. I stood there a second, not knowing what to do. Then I guess the contact high kicked in, because I shouted above the music, “You motherfuckers get the hell out! This son of a bitch has got to rehearse!” There was a moment of shocked silence, then Tupac said, “Ahh man, I love her! Y’all get the fuck outta here.” We rehearsed, then shot our scene. Tupac was a total professional; a very impressive young man.
Nineteen ninety-three was one of the biggest years in my career. I was still filming What’s Love Got to Do with It when the producers from In Living Color came to see The Diva Is Dismissed at the Hudson. They asked me to bring two of my characters from Diva to their comedy sketch show. My contributions to In Living Color were Snookie (“Who’s a woman got to sleep with to get something to eat?”) and Ms. Sheridan (“That just proves my point!”). The Wayans brothers had left by then, so unfortunately I didn’t get to work with any of them. But Jim Carrey, Jamie Foxx, and T’Keyah Crystal Keymáh were still there, and we had a blast.
I had steady work as a regular on A Different World and was filming Poetic Justice. I also had a small part in Robert Townsend’s Meteor Man, and rejoined Whoopi as her backup singer in Sister Act 2.
Whoopi was in the middle of doing The Whoopi Goldberg Show, a late-night talk show that ran for about a year. She called me: “Come on down to the studio and hang out.” When I pulled up to the studio, Eartha Kitt was leaving and Patti LaBelle was pulling up in a Rolls-Royce. Take a deep breath, close your eyes, and imagine: Eartha Kitt, Patti LaBelle, and Jenifer Lewis occupying the same space. When Patti LaBelle saw me, she said to Whoopi, “Ain’t she the Dean?” It was a lovely day.
Whoopi got married on October 1, 1986. The celebs poured in: Steven Spielberg, Jeffrey Katzenberg, Richard Pryor, Mark Hamill, Ray Liotta, Jon Voight, and certainly most impressively, Jenifer Lewis. I went upstairs and zipped Whoopi into her pretty dress and we had a good laugh that she had had the words “fuck you” spelled out on her rooftop for the paparazzi.
Whoopi has always had my best interest at heart. I’ve been lucky, for the most part, in terms of the quality of my friendships. I believe the company you keep is incredibly important. I have surrounded myself with loving, giving people. And, of course, they have to be smart and talented.
One morning I went into Whoopi’s trailer on the set of Corrina, Corrina. I was crying and I told her that I needed to get Ricky (someone I was dating and had allowed to move in with me) out of my house, and I didn’t know how. The next day was per diem day. I went to Whoopi’s trailer to rehearse the scene and saw $2,000 cash sitting on her coffee table. I said, “Girl why you got all this money sitting around? I’m going to steal this shit.” She said, “You don’t have to steal it, it’s yours.” I said, “What, girl, I don’t . . .” She said, “Take that two thousand and get that Nigga outta your house before it costs you two million, like it did me.”
My success in movie and television roles allowed me to become a first-time homeowner. It was a huge deal for a poor girl from Kinloch. I bought a beautiful, spacious condominium in Studio City.
I had never lived in anything bigger than a one-bedroom apartment. The living room was huge. There were three bedrooms, two baths, a pool, and a tennis court. It seemed so cavernous. I’m not gonna lie to y’all, it scared me a little bit. I slept in the smallest bedroom for a long time.
I had a mortgage. I now belonged to the homeowners’ association. I had two parking spaces; no more of that parking-on-the-street shit where somebody steals your car, takes it on a joy ride, and three days later, the police return it with Taco Bell wrappers in the back seat. Assholes.
I bought a new Camry. The only precious possession I brought with me from the bungalow to the condo was an upright piano. I had been sleeping on a futon and was looking forward to new, more grown-up furniture. My cousin Ronnie came from Kinloch to help me get the place together. I went antiquing with Whoopi in Santa Barbara. We saw a sofa I admired. The next day it was delivered to my house, a gift from Whoopi. I also employed my first housekeeper. However, once you’ve been a “have not,” you’re forever subject to moments that take you back. Gladys, my housekeeper, would bring her son along as she worked in my condo. Being with them made me melancholy and nostalgic, recalling the occasions when I went to work with my mother as she cleaned white people’s homes.
JOURNAL ENTRY: Getting my ass kicked in Hollywood sometimes felt like getting my ass kicked in Kinloch. I’ve been trying to kill myself for thirty-three years. I awoke choking on my very crime.
I took a little vacation to St. Maarten with Deborah Dean Davis. She was always trying to get me to try new activities so I’d have something to focus on besides my career and therapy. This was the reason we lay, inappropriately, on the beach naked for all to see. I was thirty-five years old, a brick house in these streets: 36-24-36, with skin like a baby’s ass, almond eyes, perfect nose, black-girl lips in full throttle, titties up (well, sagging a little), ass tight, and pretty feet. That’s right, goddammit. Look at me and get your life.
JOURNAL ENTRY: Stop waiting for something or someone to come and make you happy. Meditate daily. Breathe. Come on. You’re okay. You have friends. Love them. Respect them. Go out and play. Learn to be alone.