On closing night, after the piece ran in Jet, I got a phone call from Oprah—actually her producer, Jackie Taylor. “Miss Lewis, I am calling for Oprah Winfrey and we’re doing a show on bipolar disorder. And Miss Winfrey was wondering if you would be a guest.” I flew to Chicago.
I woke up at the famous Omni Hotel where all the guests of The Oprah Winfrey Show stayed. I was a nervous wreck. To compose myself, I looked in the mirror and said these words, “Jenny, today is not the day the diva meets the queen.” This was some serious shit. I saw the show as an opportunity to perhaps help someone with bipolar disorder find their way out of the darkness. I felt it was my responsibility.
As the car drove us to Harpo Studios, I still had butterflies. To settle myself, as we got out of the car, I looked at my friend Gay Iris Parker and proclaimed, “I may be in her arena, but she’s in my territory. I’ve suffered with this shit all my life and all I have to do is go in there, sit down, and tell the truth.”
What I remember most about Oprah’s studio was the enormous photograph of Nelson Mandela near the entrance. Mr. Mandela’s commitment to humanity inspired me to give what Oprah later characterized as a “GREAT” interview.
Afterward, I called Rachel from the car and thanked her for helping me find the courage and the strength to be comfortable in my own skin. Going public with my mental disorder on Oprah led me to use my platform as a public figure to help others facing mental health problems. The following spring, I was asked by a pharmaceutical company that makes medicines used in the treatment of bipolar disorder to become a spokesperson for a mental health awareness campaign. I did nearly three dozen interviews with media from all over the country. The experience was amazing, and it contributed to my understanding of just how many people are affected by depression and anxiety. People are always coming up to me and telling me they appreciate the fact that I went public. Bottom line, y’all—Ain’t no shame in my game. Like Mr. Mandela said, “Your playing small does not serve the world.” If your “crazy” aunt never leaves the basement, or your friend is too depressed to go to work, play it “big”; reach out and touch somebody. I will be right beside you.
Stigma about mental illness stops people from seeking help. I believe widespread stigma, fear, and just plain ignorance about mental illness, particularly among African Americans, has taken a terrible toll on our families and communities.
I didn’t have a name for what my condition was until I was thirty-three-years-old. We’re each works-in-progress for as long as we live, and I was no different. When you’re in emotional distress, your life can feel like you’re spiraling up or down at any given moment. If these ups and downs are extreme and chronic, they do damage to your mind, body, and soul, and your relationships with other people, including those who care about you most.
Recovery and healing require patience, something that is difficult for many people, and certainly was difficult for someone like me. But, I learned to submit to patience because it was either go step-by-step or die. Having patience means knowing that it is never too late to get well.
FIFTEEN
ON THE BACK OF A TWO-HUMPED CAMEL
What does an artist do when she gets a role bigger than she ever imagined? I faced this question when Dr. Elizabeth Stroble, the president of my alma mater, Webster University, called to invite me to deliver the 2015 commencement address. This was big; what could I possibly say to all those beautiful young graduates about to embark on their lives? What knowledge could I drop that would inspire them?
I panicked about the speech. I went straight to YouTube and watched a bunch of commencement speeches by people I admired, like Michelle Obama, Hillary Clinton, Tom Hanks, Oprah Winfrey, and Jim Carrey, who also lives with mental illness. The speeches were amazing, but finally, I decided to just be myself and speak from my heart.
At the outdoor ceremony in Forest Park in St. Louis, I stood before more than six thousand graduating students. This was a homecoming. In the audience, I could see the beaming faces of all my siblings: Wilatrel, Vertrella, Robin, Jackie, and Larry. My late brother Edward was there in spirit. But my mother was not present. She had been rushed to the hospital the evening before.
As I approached the podium to deliver my speech, my heart felt heavy thinking about Mama lying in the hospital. Then I thought about how despite it all, if there was one thing Mama did, it was to instill us kids with a reverence for education and learning. I wanted to honor Mama and this grand responsibility before me, so I centered my speech on the three best nuggets of advice I could give.
Number one: the elevator to success is broken—take the stairs.
Number two: it is when you’re hardest hit that you mustn’t quit.
Number three: love yourself so love will not be a stranger when it comes.
My speech brought to mind the words of the love of my life, Miguel, when he’d said, “Yenifer, joo have thees great ability to get zee attenshoon of zee people, but den, joo say nothing.”
Ah, my love, you’d be so proud of me now.
Toward the end of the speech, I blew the roof off (metaphorically of course) with an a capella rendition of “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” The crowd cheered my speech, my singing, and my jokes. The entire day is a glorious memory. Oh, and by the way—during the ceremony, I received an honorary doctorate. That’s right, please refer to me henceforth as “Dr. Jenifer MothaFuckin’ Lewis”!
My mother passed away the following September 11th. After her death, my sisters sent four large boxes containing what I thought were some of mama’s belongings. I was speechless when I saw what was inside. It was scrapbooks of my life—every picture, every article, every report card, every review. I dug through the softball trophies, a baby shoe and locks of my baby hair. At the bottom was a blue ribbon I had stolen so long ago. Mama had kept me with her, collected me, saved me from earliest childhood to right before she died. The scrapbooks brought me a recollection of Christmas some years earlier, when Mama came to Los Angeles. There she stood in front of my Christmas tree, holding Charmaine’s little poodle. She was so small; so fragile; so vulnerable. In that moment, I realized my mother loved me; she just had her own way of showing it. Or perhaps not showing it. She did her best and my life was a testament to the values and determination she had instilled in me. I whispered to myself, Let it go, Jenny. Let it all go. And I did.