SHOULDERS BACK, TITTIES FIRST
I am a born entertainer. Even as a little girl, I dreamed of being a star. I would be an entertainer had I been born a hundred years earlier or later. Had I been born a unicorn or even been born on Neptune, I would be somewhere singing in somebody’s universe, filled with music and fire.
I started early: I was five years old when I went to Miss Vera and asked to sing a solo in the annual church program called “The Old Ship of Zion.” About ten choir members started in the back of the church, singing a song as they moved one by one down the center aisle. After they reached the choir stand, they “boarded the ship,” in recognition of the vessel in the Bible that carried believers to the Promised Land. When the last soloist had reached the stand, the entire choir sang “?’Tis the Old Ship of Zion.” I asked Miss Vera if I could sing a song called “Oh, Lord, You’ve Brought Me a Mighty Long Way.”
Miss Vera said, “Jenny, you’re only five years old, honey.”
I said, “But that’s the one I listen to on my pink close ’n play record player.”
The day of the program, there I stood in the back of the church, in my black patent leather shoes and folded-over lace socks. I had on a blue skirt and a white blouse, the standard choir uniform. I knew this was my moment, and I was totally prepared to show out. My mama, aunts and uncles and cousins, as well as the deacons and the mothers of the church, the entire congregation—all had their eyes on me.
Miss Vera played a glissando on the organ to give me my note. I leaned back and did an exaggerated backbend in an effort to fill my little lungs. Gradually returning to an upright position, I slowly released my first note, “Ohhhh—” and held it for what seemed an entire minute. “Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . Lord, you brought meeeee a miiiighty looooong waaay.”
I grabbed the side of the back pew, steadying myself in dramatic fashion. “They said I couldn’t maaaaake it, but you brought meeeee. Jesus, you brought meeee a mi–hi–ty loooong waaaay.”
I knew I had them all in the palm of my hand when I heard my aunts Katherine, Louise, Rosetta, Jean, Shirley, Gloria, Janice, Mary, Margaret, and even my own mama shouting, “Sing, Jenny! Go ’head on, sing, baby!”
I two-stepped down the aisle past five more pews to the spot where an usher, Sister Lorraine Parks, stood erect waiting to catch anyone who got the Holy Spirit and fell out (love me some black church, y’all!). I grabbed Miss Parks’s fan from her hand, leaned against her, and fanned myself furiously, singing, “sum–um–bod–yy help meee.”
Then going limp, I bent over and sucked in a huge breath so I could growl the next phrase as I heard pastors do in their sermons: “Grrrzzyuh yassss, Lawd, a mii-hiii-ty luh-onng waaaay!” One of the deacons jumped up and guided me aboard the “ship.” When I turned around at the standing microphone, I really cut loose. I leaned the mike over like James Brown. I waved it around like Sarah Vaughn. Then I did a little praise dance like I had seen Sister Moten do every Sunday morning to show off her new clothes. When I saw Sister Ethel Miller snatch her big, big hat off her head and throw it in the air, well that was it. I riffed one more time, “Thank ya, Lord. Thank ya, Jesus.”
My solo flowed from my five-year-old self with force and feeling so great the entire congregation of First Baptist Church in Kinloch, Missouri, exploded in a standing ovation. I knocked them out doing my best imitation of the great gospel artist Dorothy Love Coates singing with the Gospel Harmonettes. In that moment, my destiny as a singer was sealed. Though we were there to praise God, I loved that I was getting some praise, too. I plugged my mouth with my thumb and stood there a bit cross-eyed. I felt steeped in love and secure in the knowledge that I was indeed a child of God.
My family didn’t have much money for extras, but music was a constant presence in our home. We were all good singers. And between Mama and my older siblings, I spent hours listening to the greatest of the greats in gospel, jazz, and popular music. Mahalia, Ella, Aretha, B.B. King, Ramsey Lewis and, for comic relief, there was lots of Moms Mabley! I felt a profound soul connection with them all.
As I grew up, my burning desire to be a star flourished. I told any and everybody who would listen that I was going to be famous. And baby, I was real serious about it. I’d grab my hairbrush, stand in front of a mirror, and “Aretha Franklin” your ass all day. I studied and imitated the old classic Hollywood movies, especially musicals, that came on the late, late show. I watched with fierce intensity, reveling in the magic of multitalented superstars such as Judy Garland, Ethel Merman, and Sammy Davis Jr. I identified with these twentieth-century greats—with Bette Davis, with Tallulah Bankhead. Their flair. Their power. As a kid, I sought to emulate Hattie McDaniel’s timing in Gone With the Wind and Danny Kaye’s mastery of tongue twisters.
When I got a little older, the whole town anticipated my monthly talent shows. I had bothered Father Siebert over and over to let me use the Catholic school basement. I worried that poor man (who was Kinloch’s sole white resident) so much, one day he just said, “Anything you want, Jenny.” I cut up brown paper bags to make signs and in black Magic Marker I wrote: “Jenifer Lewis Sings. 7:00 pm Saturday, 35 cents.” I taped the signs to telephone poles all over town and, baby, you couldn’t get in for the crowd! People would come all dressed up. The talent shows became so popular, folks would barbecue outside in the parking lot and sell rib tip sandwiches, pigs’ feet, and hot dogs, with orange and cream sodas. It was the Saturday night event in Kinloch.
I would sing songs by Aretha, Fontella Bass, and Gladys Knight with my cousins as my Pips. Years later, my cousin Ronnie reminded me that I never paid my Pips. I would just run out with all the cash at the end of the show. Let’s just say I didn’t deny it. These talent shows—starring me, of course—allowed me to practice for the time I, like Dionne Warwick or Nancy Wilson, would make my grand entrance on The Ed Sullivan Show.