I could see myself in a class with these greatest of the greats because I felt that my gift, my talent, my ability to entertain was so innate, so powerful, so evident, that God had given me something special. Judge me if you must, but it was my reality. Call it delusional, call it grandiosity. Call it what you will, but it was my dream—and it kept me going through some dark times.
I used what I learned from these legends in many of my most popular roles. When I played Will Smith’s Aunt Helen on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air I mixed in shades of Pearl Bailey. In the Cars animations, my character, Flo, is a mix of Edward G. Robinson’s nasality, Mae West’s sass, and Lauren Bacall’s sultriness. In my scene with Denzel Washington in The Preacher’s Wife when we’re talking outside in the cold, my character is pure Bette Davis. In the sit-com Girlfriends, Tony’s drunk mother is Lucille Ball, and the sorceress Mama Odie in The Princess and the Frog is straight-up Moms Mabley.
The point is, that I am aware that I stand on the shoulders of many great entertainers. I still study the greats. It’s what keeps my game on point. I do not consider it boastful to say I am a great entertainer. Look, it’s just a fact: I can sing you a song and tell you a story. I can make you dance and shout. I can hold you in the palm of my hand and make you feel alive. I can get you weak in the knees, catch you, say I’m sorry, and then rock you to sleep. But above all things, I can make you laugh, and I mean laugh your ass all the way off! Apparently, the only thing I can’t do is stop talking about myself!
On May 25, 1979, I headed to New York City, having graduated the day before with a degree in Theater Arts from Webster University, just outside of St. Louis. Finally, I was leaving St. Louis for good and pursuing my destiny. Finally, I was taking my shot at fame and stardom.
My whole family, six siblings and my mother, came to the airport to send me off. St. Louis to New York, TWA nonstop! I used my graduation money to fly first class—it just felt appropriate. On other trips to New York for auditions I had seen and envied the grandness of first class. Now it was my turn to recline, sip champagne, and smoke my Virginia Slims.
Lambert International Airport was a hub for Trans World Airlines, and Kinloch was right under the flight path. Looking through my first-class window, I felt a twinge of irony as the plane roared over Kinloch and I gazed down on the narrow streets and small houses of my childhood and then turned my attention toward the future—and the fulfillment of my lifelong dreams.
In my mind, I was unstoppable. My freshly minted degree certified me as a classically trained actress. I believed I could sing like nobody else and felt that although I wasn’t the best dancer, my presence on stage was riveting. I roared into New York confident, thirsty. What’s next, bitches? If it’s got anything to do with performing, or with being funny or fabulous—I’m your girl. If it’s got anything to do with Shakespeare, Ibsen, Molière, or Chekhov—I’m your girl. Oh, and by the way, watch me kick my foot above my head then slam it to the floor in a full split! And if you’re not feeling me, just tell me what note, what key, and how fast or slow you want it. How many Hula-Hoops around my neck?
I hit New York prepared to conquer, to win, to slay. And why not? All my life I had been hailed for my abilities, made to feel special, singled out. As a kid, I was a born leader, the alpha of the pack. In high school, I ruled as class president and captain of the cheerleading squad. At Webster, I had dominated the theater department. I was a stand-out even in my first professional job, when I took a sabbatical during sophomore year to tour the country performing in a vaudeville-style revue, Baggy Pants.
I got off that plane at LaGuardia with ten thousand songs in my heart, envisioning my life unfolding before me. I was hell-bent on first conquering Broadway, figuring Hollywood would come later. Black Broadway was at its height. The late 1970s had seen a string of successful African American–themed shows such as The Wiz; Ain’t Misbehavin’; Don’t Bother Me, I Can’t Cope; and Bubbling Brown Sugar.
I was a Midwestern girl who found New York City thrilling, but absolutely overwhelming. I had been there a couple of times before, but for only a few days. I mean I was street smart and knew how to watch my back, but still it was a huge culture shock. Nobody spoke to each other. In my hometown, I was used to saying good morning to total strangers, but New Yorkers didn’t even make eye contact.
Wherever I went in the city, I felt surrounded by twenty million people. I remember standing in the shopping mall beneath the World Trade Center and feeling the sensation of an oncoming stampede, an earth tremor. I said aloud, “What the fuck is that?” The guy at the newsstand nearby heard me and calmly said, “Rush hour, lady.” Mouth agape, I flattened myself against the wall as thousands of commuters surged past to board their trains on the levels below.
From day one in the Big Apple, I was swept into the whirlwind life of an aspiring actress, driven by my dream. Shoulders back, titties first. Every day, rushing to auditions all over Manhattan and one or two dance classes at Frank Hatchett’s famous studio at Broadway and 55th Street.
I had won a voice scholarship funded by the actor Richard Kiley, the “Man of La Mancha” himself. The scholarship provided vocal lessons with Ray Smolover, whose genius as a voice teacher was well known in the theater community. Ray taught me how to keep my vocal apparatus healthy and flexible; his lessons have sustained me to this very day.
In fact, I have lost my voice only twice. The first time was in 1984 when I got pissy drunk singing and carrying on until the wee hours at a bar in Cologne, Germany, and had to miss the next day’s matinee. The second time I lost my voice was during my first week performing on Broadway in Hairspray in 2008. I thought I would take a lovely walk through my old stomping ground—Central Park. The park was gorgeous. It was springtime and the trees and flowers were in high bloom. From Columbus Circle, I walked to the boathouse, stopping to admire every variety of tree, stone, child, street artist, and horse-drawn carriage. Just plain skippy-happy! As I walked through Sheep Meadow, my thoughts went back to that horrible day, years earlier when I didn’t get cast in Saturday Night Live and collapsed in sorrow in the cool meadow grass. I smiled a bit, thinking how meaningless rejection becomes as the years roll by.
By the time I reached the boathouse, I realized my throat had constricted. What the flying fuck was I thinking? Jenny, you have allergies this time of year! I hacked mucus out of my throat all the way back to Columbus Circle, because taxis were no longer able to go through the park. My vocal cords were strained, but I went on to the theater anyway, knowing that my voice would come. Surely, it would come.
It did not.
I made my entrance on the stage, opened my mouth to sing, and no sound came out. Silence. Everything went into slow motion. I pushed for the notes. Praying, I lowered the register an octave.