The Mother of Black Hollywood by Jenifer Lewis

Author:Jenifer Lewis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

I flew to New York for an audition and while I was there, made my appearance at a few of my old haunts, including Possible 20.

JOURNAL ENTRY: Rude waitress tells me Elaine Swain is dead. Horrible moment.

I returned to the West Coast and was in a downward spiral for weeks. The inevitable breaking point came after a huge long-distance fight with Thomas the day before I had an important audition for a role on Thirtysomething, the drama series about yuppie angst that was the hottest show on television at the time.

I was already in emotional distress when I arrived for the audition at a nondescript office building. My scene was with Peter Horton, the director and one of the show’s stars. Right from the start, things went south. I was auditioning for the character of Rosie, but I was drowning in the character of Jenifer Lewis and wearing a mask. I felt like my entire career depended on this one audition, a crushing weight that made it impossible for me to focus on the character or remember the lines. I became overwrought, and for the first time in my life, I said, “I can’t do it.”

Peter Horton was lovely. “Yes, you can, Jenifer.” I started over but simply could not get the words out. I thanked Peter and, barely holding myself together, walked blindly out of the room. As soon as I stepped into the elevator, I completely lost all control, sobbing and gulping as I slid down the wall and melted into a puddle on the floor. The suit-clad people in the little compartment just looked at me.

Back in my Mazda and still sobbing uncontrollably, I could barely see the road as I drove through Laurel Canyon. When the red light stopped me at Ventura Boulevard, I collapsed on the steering wheel. I looked up when I heard two beeps from the car adjacent to mine. The older white driver looked at me compassionately, and I could see him mouth, “I’m sorry.” It was just the sweetest little toot-toot on his horn and a simple acknowledgment. I had been seen by this stranger, and it uplifted me, just enough to get home.

Everything was crashing in on me. I spent a lot of time alone watching rented movies on my VCR. One of these was Frances, starring Jessica Lange. It was about Frances Farmer, a mostly B-movie actress during the 1930s and 1940s. Sadly, she is famous largely for having been the victim of an involuntary lobotomy following a diagnosis of manic-depressive disorder.

From the first scenes, Lange’s brilliant portrayal of Frances Farmer’s descent into mental illness triggered recognition in me, especially her crippling depression, the dark cloud that lay over her very existence. Her impatience and impulsiveness. Her lonelinesss. Her inability to handle failure. Her blaming others for her own mistakes. It was all familiar.

I cried through the entire movie. Subconsciously I knew it was my story, but still, I did not—could not—acknowledge that I, too, could be “mentally ill.” I turned the video off with one thought: Damn, I don’t want to be like that.

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