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Then there’s the famous story of Mom and Dad taking Grandpa Albert to their usual haunt, the Rainbow Room, to see his idol Ella Fitzgerald. Ella had been told that a major fan was in the audience, so halfway through the set, when she started singing “Someone to Watch Over Me,” she extended her arm to hold Grandpa’s hand and began looking into his eyes. He froze. He was so nervous that he just stared at her like he was going to pass out. He couldn’t even think to give her his hand.
After the show, Grandma Bessie was disgusted with him. “Albert,” she scolded, “you finally had your chance with your girl, and you blew it.”
That’s the only time I can remember my grandfather speechless. At Mets games, for example, he wouldn’t stop talking, shouting at the umps, cheering on his boys. Before we took off for Shea Stadium, I’d put on the Mets jersey Mom had customized for me. She’d stitched on “23,” the number of Cleon Jones, my favorite player. These were the days of Tom Seaver and Rusty Staub. No matter the score, we stayed till the last out and left the game hoarse.
I also liked the game of chess, introduced to me by my friend Michael Lefer. I caught on quickly. I was never as good as Michael—he was training to be a pro—but I could hold my own. I joined a chess club, learned strategy, and developed my technique, eventually playing with a timer. It took a while, but once I understood the structure, there was freedom—like with jazz. Chess connected to the musical side of my brain. It was all about rhythm. Think, move, click. Think, move, click.
Grandma Bessie’s game was bingo. She’d take me to her church, where I learned it wasn’t as easy a game as it looked. That’s because Grandma worked five bingo boards at once. She’d sit me by her side and claim me as her lucky charm. She won regularly, and as a reward for my patience once, she took me on the subway to the Radio City Music Hall Christmas pageant to see the Rockettes.
The cultural stimulation never stopped. Grandpa Albert, who loved classical music, kept his radio tuned to WQXR. He and Mom were always taking me to Lincoln Center to see artists like André Watts, one of the first African Americans to claim fame as a concert pianist. Then there was Stephanie Mills in The Wiz; Sherman Hemsley in Purlie; Linda Hopkins in Me and Bessie; Clifton Davis in Two Gentlemen of Verona. And always the biggest thrill of all: going with Mom to see Off-Broadway productions like Dream on Monkey Mountain with Roscoe Lee Brown.
Some sights I discovered on my own, mainly because the Metropolitan Museum of Art was just across the street. I loved racing my bike around the two fountains flanking the main entrance. Weirdly, the only time I got mugged didn’t happen in Bed-Stuy, but right in front of the museum, when a couple of kids pulled a knife on me and stole my bike. But that didn’t keep me away.
I took painting and sculpture classes at the Met. I roamed around the enormous galleries on my own. I gazed up at the statues of heroic warriors and horses covered in armor. I was there the opening day of the famous King Tut exhibit. I made little notes and sketches of things that caught my fancy, like Roman frescoes and majestic Renaissance landscapes and portraits, religious paintings that felt alive, often inscribed with a plaque reading “Volto Santo.” I would chant it as I walked around: “Volto Santo. Volto Santo.” “Holy Face.” There was a huge exhibit called From the Lands of the Scythians, with glistening treasures from ancient Greece and the Middle East and all over the globe. I pretended it was my kingdom.
I’d have to call it a golden childhood.
“AND YOU BETTER NOT FUCK UP!”
Yes, I had those scary dreams. And I butted heads constantly with my dad. Yet it wasn’t even close: the good times far outweighed the bad. I was one joyous kid.
Mom was the main reason for my happiness. Sometimes stern, always protective, she raised me right. Her main method was simple: she loved me with all her might. She spoke so gently and calmly that you can understand my shock when, sitting at the Brooks Atkinson Theatre at the end of a Broadway play in which she starred, I heard her speak words that I never would have imagined coming out of her mouth. I had no way of knowing then—and neither did Mom—that that performance would alter her life and the life of our family.
Mom was playing Mattie Williams, the female lead in The River Niger, a production of the Negro Ensemble Company written by Joseph A. Walker and directed by Mom’s costar Douglas Turner Ward. My mother received rave reviews, was nominated for a Tony, and won an Obie. And the play itself won the Tony that year. It was 1974.
At age ten, I was used to watching Mom perform. She was a consummate professional, flawless in all kinds of roles. But this was different. This time, she transformed herself into a woman with deadly cancer whose husband, an alcoholic poet, was at odds with their soldier son. The play reflected big issues: poverty, militancy, police brutality, the tension between Black matriarchy and Black masculinity. At the very end, the husband sacrifices himself for the good of his community. It is left to his wife, Mattie, to demand that the survivors carry out her husband’s plan. And so, just before the curtain came down, my mom, as Mattie, rose up to shout, “And you better not fuck up!”
With that, the audience leapt from their seats and gave her a standing ovation. That would have been enough to create a memory to last a lifetime. As it turned out, though, behind the scenes something bigger was brewing.
Television producer Norman Lear was in the audience. This was when his show All in the Family was a national sensation. Lear was planning a spin-off featuring Archie Bunker’s nemesis George Jefferson, played by my parents’ friend Sherman Hemsley. Watching Roxie Roker on Broadway, Lear envisioned her as Helen Willis, a neighbor of the Jeffersons, which was also the name of the new sitcom.
A week or so later, Lear’s office called to ask Mom if she was willing to read for the part. She was. Some friends warned her that TV would steal her soul. They looked down on situation comedies. But Mom was no snob. She was practical. Although an exceptional thespian, she’d never earned much money doing theater. This was an opportunity to make a decent living. Her father had raised her to be self-sufficient. She loved quoting the Billie Holiday song that said, “God bless the child that’s got his own.”
Besides, she respected Norman Lear. As it turned out, Lear respected her. When she flew to L.A., he attended her audition. On the spot, he offered her the role. But, he said, she had to understand a key element: she would be playing the wife of the first interracial couple in the history of prime-time television. Her character, Helen Willis, is married to a white man whom she’d have to kiss. Would that bother her? Instead of answering, Mom pulled out a picture of Dad. “This is my husband,” she said. Lear smiled. The deal was done.
Back in New York, she said she’d have to return to Hollywood to shoot the pilot. I wasn’t all that happy. Did that mean we’d be moving to L.A.? That was the last thing I wanted. I was about to go into sixth grade, the “senior year” at P.S. 6, the school I’d been attending for five years. Sixth-graders had the most status and the most fun. I also didn’t want to leave my friends at school or my friends in Bed-Stuy. I didn’t want to leave Grandpa Albert and Grandma Bessie.
Not to worry, Mom said. Lots of pilots are shot, but most never get picked up. There was an excellent chance this would simply be a one-time trip to the coast. She’d be back in a week. Let’s just take it one step at a time.