Charmaine’s mom, LaRhonda, had more on her shoulders than any woman should bear. Not only was she the sole provider for her children, but she had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. We didn’t become close friends, but we did sit down for long conversations. LaRhonda trusted me with all of her children. Charmaine’s three sisters all had Big Sisters, but I loved to scoop up all the girls myself and take them on special outings to the beach or Disneyland. But, there was tension among the siblings. It didn’t help that I was a well-off celebrity and that Charmaine was somewhat the “runt” of her sisters.
As LaRhonda’s health deteriorated, Charmaine came to live with me full time. Eventually, we all agreed that I would become Charmaine’s legal guardian. It wasn’t exactly adoption, but legal guardianship allowed me to assume all responsibility for the little girl I loved so much.
I promised LaRhonda that I would do my best for Charmaine, including getting her through high school and college. Immediately, I enrolled her in an expensive private school, because I wanted her to have the best.
JOURNAL ENTRY: Was my mother depressed everyday of her life? Is it what I learned? Can I live another way? I’m fighting so hard. These realizations and revelations mean nothing Jenny, unless you hold on to them and don’t drop the ball. Don’t drop the ball baby.
Becoming Charmaine’s parent helped me to better understand my mother’s predicament. I had just one child and could only imagine the pressure Mama felt trying to raise seven. Unlike Mama, I had the time and resources to focus on my child. I showered Charmaine with attention, listened to her, and encouraged her to talk about her feelings and what she wanted in life.
I saw that Charmaine felt pulled by the sometime opposing forces of her birth family and me. The life she led with me was the polar opposite of her family’s struggle. Having grown up poor myself, I certainly understood the conflict she was feeling. Because LaRhonda had become too ill to care for her children, Charmaine’s two older sisters had been sent to live with relatives and her younger sister, Angelica, had entered the foster care system. I think Charmaine felt guilty that she seemed to have lucked out in such an extreme way.
At first, as her Big Sister, I let Charmaine have her way on just about everything. She was quite artistic and when we made a birdhouse out of popsicle sticks, I let her stay up until midnight to finish it. I found out soon, however, that as Charmaine’s parent, I couldn’t always say “yes.” I now had to say “no” sometimes. That was hard for both of us.
I didn’t want to replicate my mother’s superstrict approach and struggled to find the right balance between “big sister” and “disciplinarian.” For instance, I grew up poor, but our homes were clean. My mother said, “When I get home, this house better be spotless” and we knew there would be hell to pay if it wasn’t. But Charmaine’s standards were different from mine and her refusal to clean her room to my liking resulted in my putting her on punishment. Worse, it caused anger and resentment between us.
My favorite cousin, Ronnie, who had become a professional hairstylist, came out to LA again to help with Charmaine. He was sweet as pie and so patient. He drove Charmaine to school, did the cooking, and styled Charmaine’s hair (which of course, she loved). Ronnie could dance. He could sing. He only had a high school education, but he was smart, fun loving, and a natural caretaker. It felt good to build a little family with Charmaine and Ronnie and the little apricot poodle, Cashoo, that I got Charmaine for her birthday.
Sheldon Epps, the brilliant artistic director of the esteemed Pasadena Playhouse, asked me to perform there in a play, John Henry Redwood’s The Old Settler. My castmates were Christopher B. Duncan, Sally Richardson and the incomparable C.C.H. Pounder. Settler was the first straight (meaning non-musical) play I had performed in since college; I had done only musicals and concerts since. One night, after the final curtain, a young man peeped his head in my dressing room while I was removing my makeup. Oh, was he cute! I had taken a bite out of a Chinese pear, it was a juicy one. He said, “Can I have a bite?” Well, let’s just say he came in and had a bite. For the next nine years we would continue to take bites out of that Chinese pear. God help me.
Enter Terrence Flack, my first boyfriend after a long dry spell. On our first date we hiked up Fryman Canyon, and he bent down to tie my shoe. I liked him on his knees. The rest, ladies and gentlemen, is history.
I dated Terrence for a month and a half before I actually slept with him. I was trying to be an adult and get to know somebody before I launch into bed with them. As you all know by now, that had not been my modus operandi in the past.
Over the months, I spent more time with Terrence. He was fun, he did not take my shit and he was not afraid of me. I could be myself with him and he made me laugh. Terrence was well-read and a true lover of music. He liked to tease me, making fun of my dramatics by calling me “Groan Crawford.”
There were some red flags, like his “woe is me” attitude, which wasn’t that surprising, given his background. Of all the men I dated, Terrence had been the most abused. His mother was overwhelmed by her parental responsibilities and agents from the children’s services bureau were trying to place her children with other relatives. With the agents on her heels, Terrence’s mother bundled up her toddlers and headed for the Greyhound station. Just as she was about to board the bus, the social workers caught up with her. Little Terrence was sent to live with relatives who were far too strict. Terrence had survived, pretty much raised himself, graduated from college, and come to Los Angeles to pursue acting.
I wanted to take care of him. I wanted him to take my hand and I wanted us to win. I wanted two little black kids who had grown up in poverty to go around the world and leave it all behind. Oops. We take ourselves with us, don’t we?