A Man from Another Land: How Finding My Roots Changed My Life (7 page)

I was cast as Henry Antrobus in a production of Thornton Wilder’s
Skin of Our Teeth
. The experience of Harry’s death was still raw within me and was the driving force behind my performance that scared and
intrigued the theatergoers at the Goodman Theatre in Chicago.

It was a very special production, not only for its color-blind
casting, but it was also the fiftieth anniversary celebration of the Pulitzer Prize–winning play that originally debuted in
1942. My performance as the rejected and angry son was so visceral and ominous that it produced a great deal of controversy
and left both the blue bloods and the African Americans boiling. The white season-ticket holders who “didn’t get it,” who
misunderstood what we were trying to do, demanded we attend a special press conference to address the issues. The charge from
some theatergoers was that we were destroying the true meaning that Wilder intended for the audience to receive. They bitterly
accused me and the very talented director, David Petrarca, of changing the dialogue for Henry Antrobus.

We had not.

The African American theatergoers were outraged that Petrarca would cast me as Cain, the first killer, and for having the
third and final acts set in postriot Los Angeles. To see so much sensitivity and ignorance exposed was great. It was exactly
the kind of impact I had hoped to have when I became an actor. I think Mayor Harold Washington would have been proud of the
play. The production was breaking down strict barriers, challenging septic attitudes, and changing perspectives in the city
that he loved. There was just one problem. Someone didn’t get the memo.

One particular night, after receiving rave reviews and a rousing fifteen-minute standing ovation, I floated off the stage.
I hugged and congratulated everyone. Marcia Gay Harden had delivered a blistering performance that night as well.

I slowly got dressed, savoring every moment of the evening, and was the last to leave the Goodman Theatre. I asked the stage
manager to call me a cab. Sure enough, it was there waiting for me by the stage door. I skipped down the stairs with the applause
still ringing in my ears, and reached for the door handle.

It was locked.

I leaned down toward the passenger side window and looked in at the driver and asked him to open the door. The cabdriver looked
me straight in the eyes, turned away, and stepped on the gas, nearly driving over my right foot and almost tearing my arm
off.

I stood there in complete shock, motionless, as I watched that fool screech his tires and speed off down the empty street.
My pants and peacoat kept the brisk, frigid Chicago air from cutting through my body, but my soul was left ice cold that night.
I was too hurt to be angry. I had fallen in love with this city, its museums, its restaurants, its garlic festival, its people,
and I thought it loved me.

“Hello? Yes. I’m still holding.”

“Yes?”

“I would like to speak to the mayor, please…. What? No, he doesn’t know me. My name is Isaiah Washington and I am in the play
Skin of Our Teeth
at the Goodman Theatre.”

“Excuse me?
Skin of Our Teeth
?”

“Yes, at the Goodman Theatre.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I would like to file a civil complaint against a yellow cabdriver.”

“What?”

“A taxicab driver refused to let me in his taxi and ran his car over my foot.”

“Excuse me. Will you hold on, please?”

“Yes. I’ll hold.” Then, “Hello? Hello? Hello?”

This incident played itself out in places all over the country every day. A black man in America who couldn’t get a cab was
not an uncommon occurrence. Still, on this night in particular, when I felt so proud of what I had accomplished in the play,
it only served to strengthen my resolve to change the way people viewed me and my dark skin.

When the play eventually ended I returned to New York.
I was lucky enough to be cast in the HBO film
Strapped
, Forest Whitaker’s directorial debut. Interestingly enough, I canceled what would have been my first trip to West Africa
to audition for him. I give him credit for helping start my film career. It was through my work in this film that Spike Lee
first took notice of me. Years later, Forest would play another pivotal role in my life and provide me with the chance to
publicly thank and honor him through another kind of work, work that had little to do with acting but had everything to do
with celebrating and empowering black people in Africa.

Another dream manifested in my life a year later. It was one of the hottest summers on record in New York when I got a part
in Spike Lee’s critically acclaimed film
Crooklyn
.

As I stood on the set during a scene, a flying camera crashed right into my head! The scene required me to walk up a flight
of stairs, outside a brownstone, while shaking hands with some neighborhood kids who idolized my character, Vic Powell. I
chose to wear shades during the scene and wasn’t clear on the direction of the camera.

It was my very first scene on my first day and I was a nervous wreck. I heard “Action!” and I took one… two… three… four steps,
then WHAM!

Everything stopped.

I thought to myself, “What the hell was that?”

“Cut! Cut! Cut!” Spike bellowed.

I tried to maintain my composure as Spike ran up to me screaming.

“What the hell are you doing? You missed your mark! Look, this is your mark! I gotta camera on a Louma Crane and it’s going
to fly over your head and stop in front of you! You understand?”

“Yeah, I got it.” I said. “Hit my mark.”

“Do you know what a mark is?” Spike asked.

I lied and said, “Yes, of course I know what a mark is.”

“What is it?” he barked at me.

I paused and, then guessing, pointed down at the bright yellow piece of tape on the upper step where he and I were standing.

“Well then hit it and don’t fuck up my shot again. If you do, you will be out of focus.” And with that he ambled away.

I never missed my mark again.

My opportunity to work with Spike Lee blew the minds of many of the people who, when I pronounced back in 1986 that I would,
told me, “You’re dreaming!”

Much has been written and said about Mr. Spike Lee and not all of it is good. Spike isn’t perfect, but none of us are. I’m
confident that his body of work, rather than what the critics write, will stand the test of time and ultimately define his
legacy. His passion inspired me to become an actor, to be bold, be beautiful, and be intelligent, to stand up for what I believed
in and creatively challenge systems that marginalize all people. And for that, I remain eternally grateful to him.

Thanks to Spike and the second film I made with him,
Clockers
, Hollywood and the world took notice of me. I set my sights on Los Angeles and my friend and mentor, John Amos, was there
to support me.

One night, while I was staying at his home in Sherman Oaks, John invited me to take a late-night drive with him. As we drove
around Los Angeles’s Crenshaw district, in his dark green Volkswagen Beetle, he pointed out places to eat cheaply like the
M & M Soul Food restaurant near Village Green and Phillips Barbecue in Leimert Park; he showed me the Eso Won Bookstore at
900 North La Brea and then the future home of the Magic Johnson Theater.

As we drove, he shared some valuable insights about his expe
riences in Hollywood, some good, some bad, and some funny. That night I told him that, as a child, I always knew that I would
meet him. He seemed a little uncomfortable at first. “Where are your people from?” he asked. I told him mostly Louisiana and
Virginia on my father’s side and that my great-grandmother Miss Della’s maiden name was Amos. She was born August 1, 1888,
and married my great-grandfather, Mr. John Brown, born June 11, 1888. Her brother, a Mr. Otto Amos, was born October 15, 1874.

John pulled the car over and said, “Damn, son, we may be family.” We both sat in silence marveling at this serendipitous moment
and watching some firefighters battle flames on the roof of a burning house. We didn’t say a word. We just sat silently watching
the silhouette of one of the firefighters engulfed by the smoke. His shadow was cast high up onto the smoke as if it were
a canvas. It made him look as if he were a twenty-foot-tall giant. He seemed determined to save the sanctity and tranquillity
of that home but was rendered powerless by the sheer ferocity of the flames dancing and searing their way through the wood-shingled
roof. We could feel the heat from where we sat in the car.

The smell of the burning wood and the sight of this firefighter’s battle brought tears to my eyes. “There will be no wins
tonight,” I thought to myself, “only losses for the family that lived there and for the firefighters who struggled so hard.”

We drove on.

The next day I found myself alone in John’s cavernous house. It was a sunny, beautiful California day. I stood at the kitchen
sink making myself a turkey sandwich and marveling at how great life was. Suddenly, a loud rumbling seemed to come from the
back of the house. It sounded as if the floor were going to erupt and explode beneath me. I instinctively grabbed my case
knife tighter to protect myself.

Silence.

Then again, the rumbling came toward me and continued on under my feet. I ran out of the kitchen, terrified. It was so loud,
so foreign, and so threatening. I reached for the telephone, preparing to dial 911, then suddenly felt ridiculous and cringed
at my stupidity standing there holding the case knife and the phone tightly in my hands. What the hell was I going to say?
“Hello, Operator? There is a giant noise rumbling under my house, can you send someone to help me please?”

I soon calmed down, realizing this was one of the tremors or shock waves I had heard about, stemming from the 6.6 earthquake
that hit Northridge, Sherman Oaks, and other surrounding areas at 4:30 a.m. on January 17, 1994, Martin Luther King’s holiday.

When I later told John about my reaction, he didn’t laugh at my fear at all. He told me that during the earthquake he walked
outside and saw that all of the water in his pool had been thrown completely out. He said that he slept in that same pool
that night, too afraid to go back inside the house. I walked outside and looked at the very large pool and tried to imagine
its contents forced out of it. I couldn’t.

I called B. Mark Seabrooks, whom I knew from my Ebony Impromptu Theater days, and told him that I was going to try to make
a go of it in LA. Mark had been a fixture in Harry’s duplex long before I showed up. Harry had a seemingly unquenchable sweet
tooth and Mark supplied him with a never-ending stream of cakes that he baked himself.

I tried desperately to find an affordable car and my own apartment. I felt as if I had overstayed my welcome at John’s place
and tried to split my sleepovers between there and Mark’s house. Eventually, I ran out of spending money and had to cash in
a few stocks to purchase a plane ticket back to New York.

A few days before I planned to leave Los Angeles, I had a conversation with a woman at a party. She said, “You must come
back next year for the Pan African Film Festival in February.” I thought, “You gotta be kidding me…. There is this Pan African
Film Festival thing again.”

As soon as I returned to my humble apartment in Fort Greene, “the Rerun” was back and in full force. Though it was usually
a sign that I was back on to discovering something new and important in my life, I would later learn that the dream was a
sign that I was on track to fulfilling my destiny.

I didn’t make it to the Pan African Film Festival in 1995, but I did meet Jenisa Marie Garland. And on February 14, 1996,
we were married.

When Jenisa saw my framed copy of
Portrait of a Negress,
even she had to acknowledge her resemblance to it. She also shivered at the powerful likeness that I had to
The Moorish Chief.

F
inally, in 1996, I made my first appearance at the fourth annual Pan African Film Festival. I remember walking the red carpet
directly behind the actor Laurence Fishburne. I admired his ceremonial African dress and was awed by how regal he appeared
in it. These kinds of encounters only fanned the flames of my desire to know as much as I could about Africa. It deepened
the still undiscovered connection I felt to African people, and my dream of visiting the continent.

In addition to the powerful films and art I saw at the festival, this is also where I met a woman who would, soon after, literally
change my life. Her name was Moza Mjasiri Cooper. Moza is a stout, caramel-colored woman with braided hair that she always
pulls up elegantly atop her head. Her Tanzanian accent fluttered through the air like a hummingbird’s wings making a sound
that called to me. Moza could convince me to do her bidding in thirty seconds flat. She is one of the most incredibly positive
human beings I have ever met. Whenever I see her she is smiling
and happy; she is like a breath of fresh air. I had only just met her when she invited me to come to her native Tanzania and
meet her relatives. I think, like the lady on the bus in Brooklyn who decided I was from Senegal, she had decided that Tanzania
was my homeland.

Because of Moza, I made every effort to attend and support the PAFF every year. I had resigned myself to the fact that this
would be my only way to ever see Africa. At the time, I was an actor trying to build his career, and I had no money and no
contacts to make such a trip on my own. I thought that by attending this festival I might meet someone who could open a door
of opportunity for me. I saw the PAFF as a form of international networking.

I was right.

In December 1998, I received a call from a director named Elaine Proctor. She wanted me as a lead in her new film
Kin.
It would be shot entirely on location in Namibia. I was blown away! The timing, however, could not have been worse. It meant
leaving my pregnant wife for three months.