The adventures we had traveling through Colombia, Easter Island, Solomon Islands, Tahiti, and the Philippines could be a book! When we got to Mongolia, we spent time in a yurt visiting with a family of nomads. During one precious moment, the interpreter informed us that when a camel is giving birth, her herders sing a special song to her. I sweetly asked the man who owned the yurt to please sing that song. He was shy, but after a little Jenifer Lewis snuggling and carrying on, he began to sing. It was like nothing I had ever heard. His notes echoed, even in this tent made of cloth. It wasn’t the acoustics; it was because his vocal cords were powered by the love that he had for his camels. He held one pure, clear note as long as any prima donna could. His song wrapped my soul in grace.
Grace turned to “what the hell?” when I stepped outside of the yurt. There before me stood a two-humped camel, waiting for me to climb up between his humps for an afternoon romp in the Gobi Desert. It was a very bouncy, long ride. Upon descending from this ancient creature, I jokingly said to Marc Shaiman, “I think I broke my pussy bone.” He in turn, being the great songwriter that he is (and the funniest; okay, and the cutest!), went into action by writing a song. Wanna hear it? Here it go!
My pussy bone broke on the back of a two-humped camel
This ain’t no joke
I heard it crack
On the back of that mammal
This ain’t no time for a laugh
My pussy done broke in half
And next week we ride a giraffe?
God, help me and my pussy bone
I wish that camel had a microphone
So I could tell the world
My pussy bone broke
On the back of a two-humped camel.
I swear, the video got more than a half-million views on Facebook. Pure foolishness!
The trip continued through Uzbekistan, St. Petersburg in Russia, and Reykjavik, Iceland, where I sang “Amazing Grace” in a chapel inside a three-hundred-year-old glacier. Talk about acoustics!
I flew home to blue skies, my bichon Butters, and black-ish. Trust me, it don’t get no better than that! As I stood at the baggage carousel, a young man leapt in front of me and began to sing in an accent I later learned was Kenyan: “I don’t want nobody fuckin’ with me in these streets!” I was surprised. In 2016, when Brandy, Roz Ryan, and I recorded “In These Streets” while fooling around one night at my piano, we had no idea it would become an international viral sensation. The fuckin’ Internet, y’all.
On the ride from the airport, I looked out the window, thinking about how different my life would have been without the ups and downs, the fabulous, and the terrifying. I was never one to wait for life to happen. I took a lot of risks, grabbed hold of opportunities when they came along, and even kicked down some doors when they didn’t. I dared to dream and damn if the dream didn’t come true—I am become a “star.” It happened on the day I realized that everybody is a star.
I asked myself a hard question of the type we ask as we grow older and more wise. For much of my life, I swore I would never be satisfied until I had it all—Grammy, Oscar, Tony, and Emmy. But I don’t have any of those. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. So I asked myself, “What could I have done differently to get those awards?” The answer came easily: “Not a goddamn thing.” I no longer need them to be happy, you see, because I am Jenifer Lewis, the Mother of Black Hollywood. It is an honor that eclipses all that other shit. And I wouldn’t change it for all the world, y’all. Not for all the world.
A LETTER TO THE READER
Dear Reader,
I was pulling into my driveway after spending a Christmas, alone, in South Africa. I’d run off to get away from the pain of a broken engagement, or so I told myself. While there, I toured Robben Island and stood looking at the cell where Nelson Mandela had been locked up for twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven goddamn years, stuck in a cell. It was deeply moving. It wasn’t until my car rolled into the garage of my home that I really took in the fact that while Mandela may have been in a cell for twenty-seven years, he had never been imprisoned. I, however, had no jail cell, but had been emotionally caged all my life—constricted by my own secrets.
I turned off the ignition, looked around, and thought, I owe.
Because I have survived, I owe.
Because I still have a smile on my face and am in good health, I owe.
Because I live with bipolar disorder and thrive, I owe.
Because I made it to the other side of sex addiction, I owe.
Because my generation has left behind a world of chaos and environmental deterioration that the next is being made to clean up, I owe.
Because while my role as the Mother of Black Hollywood started out as just that—a part to play—the platform has afforded me the opportunity to have so many young people come to me seeking answers to why, how, what, when . . . please, Miss Lewis?
I owe.
I owe it to the world to share what I have learned on my journey.
People love gossip.
I don’t.
I know the pain gossip caused me and those around me. After all the shit I’ve been through, I now know no one is better or worse than anyone else. We are all God’s babies.
It’s the reason I chose not to write a Hollywood tell-all. The Mother of Black Hollywood is a life tell-all, an unburdening of secrets that have kept me captive for far too long. I’ve told you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth of my life as I saw it. As I felt it, tasted it, touched and smelled it. This is my story, my song. Yes, I’ve suffered, but no more and no less than anyone else. So, since we’re all in this together, my prayer is that if any of you can take away even an ounce of comfort and joy by having read my story, then I will peacefully pass this plain knowing that I have stepped up, stood up, and stayed up, and done what I set out to do—help somebody because somebody helped me.
You have your own story, your own song to tell and sing. Don’t sit back and hold it in. Secrets made me sick, stress held me back. I’ve witnessed fear ruin so many lives. Then we pass it on to our kids, and they pass it on to theirs, then on and ridiculously on until it’s so big, it destroys us all. We can easily feel that even in this world of 7.4 billion people that there’s no one out there who will listen. No one who has your back, even when you feel you had theirs.
I’ll tell you like I tell my daughter—we are never alone. When I was young, I just knew somebody was coming to rescue me. A knight in shining armor, an angel, a guru, a priest, a director, a producer, a bird, a flower, a tree, a cloud, the moon—anything. And after all that praying and hoping and wishing, it came down to looking in the mirror, taking responsibility for my choices—every last one of them. And it wasn’t until I asked, asked, asked—you have to ask—that someone did listen with a sincere smile and stood by my side and guided me gently. So, go beyond yourself and fight for it, damnit. Ain’t nobody promised you a rose garden without painful-ass thorns. Go beyond yourself, reach out, and you will touch a hand that will lift you up. This kind gesture will give you the courage and strength to lift others.