Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“Girl, you fine. Canon and I haven’t had much privacy, even from the beginning. I am glad to wrap, even though it’s hard to leave Dessi. She’s taught me so much, ya know?”
“Yeah, I do.” I hesitate before plunging in with what I came to say. “I wanted to tell you how much I admired you for chasing your dreams and not letting your diagnosis stop you. Seeing you navigate chronic illness in this industry under such a bright spotlight gave me a lot of courage.”
“Really?” Neevah’s sweet smile prompts me to go on.
“I have bipolar disorder.”
Neevah’s eyes widen a little, but there’s no other reaction. So I plunge on: “And now I have a shot at running my first show, so I told the studio executive overseeing it. She’s making some accommodations but not counting me out.”
“That’s all we want, right? A chance not to be counted out just because our bodies and minds aren’t like everyone else’s?”
“That’s all we want,” I agree softly. “You and the women of this movie reminded me what we’re capable of when we don’t give up, even when they try to stop us at every turn. Take Hazel. At the height of her career, she was making more money than she ever imagined, but she was also blackballed after she shut down The Heat’s On until they agreed to dress the Black actresses in something better than rags.”
“God, she was brave,” Neevah mutters. “Harry Cohn said she’d never be in another movie, and she wasn’t.”
“And though she was the first Black person with her own television show, a full six years before Nat King Cole, people always attribute that to him. The week after she testified before the House Un-American Activities Committee, they canceled her show and did everything they could to erase her contributions, but her sacrifices mattered. No one can take away her impact.”
“I’m so glad you found a way to highlight her and Gladys in Dessi’s story,” Neevah says.
“Some people think Gladys caved, compromised, but I see a woman who did what she had to do to survive. All she wanted was to perform, and that was taken from her because of who she loved.”
I try to imagine living then. Feeling so desperate that I would write a piece like Gladys’s “I Am a Woman Again” in Ebony magazine, literally renouncing her queerness in the most public way, while still reportedly maintaining relationships with women. The piece even featured photos of a “domesticated” Gladys in dresses, cooking and cleaning for a man she claimed was her husband. Declaring herself “cured” of homosexuality, hoping to continue performing and to escape the effects of McCarthy’s Lavender Scare. I can only find compassion for a woman navigating bigotry even beyond what I’ve encountered.
I know how it is to feel exhausted by your own existence—feeling so miserable and at the end of yourself that you don’t necessarily want to die, but you want to flee the thing that’s fucking you up. But how do you flee from yourself? What do you do when your body, your own mind, is what confines and tortures you?
You hold on. That’s what Hazel was ultimately able to do.
“You know Hazel insisted that in any movie she wore her own clothes,” I offer. “She wasn’t going to let them white folks dress her in rags. And she insisted that she be billed as ‘Hazel Scott appearing as herself.’”
I pause and gulp at the emotion rising in my chest and throat before going on. “That’s what I want. I want to appear as myself. I don’t want to apologize for my condition, but I will advocate for myself. I don’t want to hide, but to show up fully and authentically as myself. I’m Black. I’m queer. I have bipolar. Deal with that shit.”
I laugh, but don’t quite catch the tear before it sneaks from the corner of my eye.
Neevah reaches over to squeeze my hand, tears trembling on her lashes. “They gon’ deal with our shit.”
I nod and reach to hug her at the same time she reaches for me.
The trailer door pops open and Takira walks in.
“They’re ready for you, Neevah.” Her eyes widen in horror. “Are those tears? Biiiiiiiiitch, your makeup!”
Neevah and I laugh, slowly letting each other go.
“Lucky for you,” Takira says. “It’s not bad and I can fix it.”
“I’ll see you out there,” I say, sharing a smile with Neevah. “One more time for Dessi.”
She meets my eyes, her mouth trembling with emotion. “One more time for Dessi.”
FIFTY-FIVE
Dessi
INTERIOR – PARIS – NIGHT – 1957
Dessi and Cal are in the back seat of a car that zips through Paris. Dessi peers out the window as they pass the Champs-Élysées, Arc de Triomphe, and other landmarks of the iconic Left Bank.
CAL
Would you like living over here?
DESSI (TURNING HER HEAD FROM THE BRIGHT LIGHTS AND LANDMARKS PASSING OUTSIDE TO STUDY HER HUSBAND)