The Lost Daughter: A Memoir (7 page)

I was only fourteen but because I looked old for my age, I was able to lie and get the part. The director was an African-American woman who was very supportive of me and often pulled me aside to give me encouragement. I was a nervous wreck the first performance but was able to get it together enough to do well in the five following shows. My role called for me to kiss a grown man, and during one performance he decided to put his tongue in my mouth. It took everything I had in me not to go into a rage right there on the stage in front of an audience. After the performance was over, I cussed the man out and went to complain to the director. She seemed shocked by how angry I was and told me I shouldn’t get so riled up over a kiss. I saw it as just another instance in which I was being taken advantage of, with no one coming to my defense. I stormed out and never went back.

Though my first experience ended badly, I was still determined to make it as an actress. I read the paper daily looking for open auditions and found one for a new musical. I read they were looking for African-American females who could sing, dance and act. I had no formal training as a singer or dancer but I didn’t see how that should get in the way of my getting the part. I practiced singing Whitney Houston’s rendition of “The Greatest Love of All.” After I felt I’d mastered the piece, I asked Teresa to come with me to the audition, which was in San Francisco. We arrived at the location, signed in and took seats in a crowded waiting room. When the first person was called in to the audition room, we could hear her performing through the thin walls. It gave us waiting an opportunity to size up the competition. There was a young girl sitting next to me. She was short, a little chubby and wore glasses. An older boy sat with her, who I presumed was her brother because they shared a similar geekiness. I quickly dismissed her as a threat.

When she was called in, I listened closely. But it turned out I didn’t have to because that munchkin had a good set of pipes on her. She belted out “I Feel Pretty” from
West Side Story
in a voice that rang out so sweet and true it was as if there wasn’t a wall separating us. It was magnificent. She was able to show great range and personality. When she finished, we could hear the producers and the director applaud her performance. Even some of the people in the waiting room were applauding. When she came out, I prayed I wouldn’t have to follow her. Of course they called me next.

Teresa wished me luck and I entered the room. It was devoid of furniture except for a long table with three men and a woman facing me. They asked my name and asked about my experience. I told them about the Langston Hughes play, my classes at Laurel Springs and ACT. Then I sang my song. I forgot the words after the first few lines and asked to start over. When I started over, I remembered the lines but found I couldn’t sing above a whisper. They told me they’d give me one more chance. I took a moment to center myself. I was letting the performance of that little troll doll who went before me get in my head. Then I let out the first few words in a clear melodic voice that quickly devolved into atonal gibberish when my nerves got the best of me and I forgot the lines again.

I left the audition room thoroughly humiliated and entered the waiting room where there was no applause. In fact, no one even looked up at me. My sister and I slunk out together.

I went to my next audition alone. It was for a part in Shakespeare’s
A
Midsummer Night’s Dream
. It was requested that we pick one of several preselected monologues from the play to perform. I’d heard of Shakespeare but I’d never read anything by him. I went to the library and checked out
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
and selected the longest of the suggested female monologues and memorized it. I didn’t know what many of the words meant or even how to pronounce them, but I did my best to memorize it and spent hours practicing until I felt comfortable. The last thing I wanted was to forget my lines again or let my nerves sink me.

I arrived at the audition, which was being held in a small university lecture hall, an hour early. The room was empty. It had high ceilings and tiered seating arranged in a semicircle like at a movie theater. The place where the professor lectured was where we would be auditioning. I took a seat front row center. The room smelled comfortingly of old books and chalk. I sat in the humming silence for a while taking account of my feelings. I wasn’t nervous. I knew I had my piece memorized. I got up and went to the front of the room and looked out onto the empty seats. My adoring fans. I went through the piece twice without a hitch. I was about to do a third run when people began to trickle in.

I returned to my seat and watched as folks began to fill up the first few rows of seats. They arrived in groups of twos and threes, chatting and joking. Many were practicing their monologues with their companions. The serene silence of the room was gradually pushed back by chatter, laughter and sudden bursts of surprised yells that rang out like bird calls every now and then when one person called to another across the room.

I could see they were all older than me—early to late twenties, some even older—and seemed very sure of themselves as they joked and greeted one another. They also looked like real actors. Most were dressed in loose-fitting black clothes and looked a bit underfed, dirty and disheveled, as if they spent all their free time studying their craft. There were at least forty people auditioning.

Then the room fell silent when a man entered carrying an armful of papers and an old leather bag with a long strap slung low across his chest. He had the disheveled look too. I could hardly see his face, which was partly obscured by floppy black hair. He made his way to the front of the room, greeting people he knew along the way. He was tailed by a young woman with stringy blond hair equally laden with papers, who stood by his side when he reached the front of the room. He introduced himself as the director. He was in his early thirties (old) but had a boyish look due to the mop of hair and twinkly, curious eyes.

He told us that he’d like us to take the stage, give our names and any other information about our acting background before performing our monologues. After the performance he would thank those he did not wish to hire and they could leave. Those he wanted could return to their seats. Then he and his companion made their way to seats a few rows behind the actors.

When he sat and settled himself, he called out, “Who’s up first?” There was a bit of nervous laughter and chatter from the actors. Heads swiveled back and forth looking to see who’d rise first. After a few seconds I found myself on my feet and walking toward the stage. It was like my body was on automatic pilot. One moment I was in my seat, the next I was looking out into an audience of curious white faces.

I gave my name and talked a bit about my limited experience. I told them I was really serious about acting. Then I went into the monologue. I found myself staring at the ceiling a lot but forced myself to look out into the audience from time to time like my acting teacher instructed. When I was finished, I thanked the audience, bowed and waited. When I looked into the audience, I saw that several people were talking to each other behind their hands. Some were staring at me like I was a circus freak but most were looking in their laps. I stood there in front of them with my head held high. The room was as silent as the moment before the Big Bang. Every millisecond I stood there felt like hours as I waited for the director to tell me to stay or go. Then, after what felt like a week and a half, I heard him clear his throat and say, “Lawanna?”

“Yeah!” I responded, unable to keep a defensive tone out of my voice, as I was sure he was about to send me on my way.

“I’d like you to come up here and sit by me.”

The audience was suddenly humming with urgent whispered conversations.

“Uh . . . OK,” I replied. I went back to my seat to gather my coat and bag and made my way toward the back of the room with every eye in the place tracking my progress. When I got to the back, the director stood and shook my hand before waving me into the seat next to his. He remained standing and, with his hand on my shoulder, he called out, “Next!”

I sat there next to him not knowing what to think. I just stared ahead stiffly, pleased that I had been asked to stay. After a while I relaxed, relieved to be released from the anxiety of performing, and watched the auditions. I sympathized with a woman whose voice warbled with nerves the whole way through her piece and a man who struggled to remember the lines. Both were thanked and sent on their way. When a woman took the stage and brilliantly performed the same monologue I had, I was mortified. I realized that I had pronounced a lot of words incorrectly and I sank into my seat. The director noticed and patted my hand encouragingly.

Over the course of the evening many people were thanked for their time and shown the door. A few, like me, were asked to stay but none were invited to sit with the director. When the auditions were over, there were less than a dozen people, including me, who were asked to stay. That’s when the director turned to me and told me I didn’t have the part. He’d asked me to stay as an inspiration to him. He let me know I’d done a terrible job with the monologue but he admired my guts and told me that he knew experienced actors who didn’t have a tenth of the courage and confidence I had. He encouraged me to continue to practice and go after my dream. Then he gave me a pat on the back and sent me on my way.

I smiled all the way home.

I WAS VISITING TERESA
at UC Berkeley when I saw an ad tacked to a crowded bulletin board in the student union. I almost didn’t see it through the overlapping layers of flyers seeking roommates and selling used furniture. I pulled the flyer down, folded it and stuffed it in my back pocket. That night back at China’s house, I took it out and reread it. It was basically a call for actors to audition for a new acting company. There was a phone number and the first name of the contact: David.

I called the number. The man who answered identified himself as David and seemed pleased when I told him I was interested in auditioning. His voice was warm and had a smile in it. He asked me to share more information about myself—my age, where I was from and my acting experience. I told him everything and was happy to know he was OK with my being only fourteen.

He told me he was an actor turned director and had done a lot of theater in the Bay Area but had recently decided he wanted to start his own acting troupe that he hoped to fill with actors of different races and ages.

We talked for about thirty minutes, with him asking a lot of questions about my family. I felt comfortable and he seemed sympathetic, so I told him about my problems at home. He listened and said the best actors have had troubled lives because they can draw on those experiences to enrich their craft. He said I seemed like a good fit for his company and invited me to a group audition he was holding the following week. He told me to come prepared with a monologue of my own choosing and apologized that the audition would have to be held at his house in San Francisco because he was still in the process of looking for a theater space to rent. I told him I didn’t mind and wrote down his address along with the day and time of the audition. Before we hung up he asked for my phone number and my address and I gave it to him. I let Clara Jean know I couldn’t watch China that day and she wished me luck.

The next day I was at the library looking for the perfect monologue. I didn’t want anything to do with Shakespeare or Wilder. Since I could choose, I wanted to do something by a black person. I asked the librarian for suggestions. She handed me a book of the collected poems of James Weldon Johnson opened to the poem “The Creation.” I sat down and read it. It is long, twelve stanzas about the creation of the earth, that begins:

And God stepped out on space,

And He looked around and said,

“I’m lonely—

I’ll make me a world.”

And far as the eye of God could see

Darkness covered everything,

Blacker than a hundred midnights

Down in a cypress swamp.

Those powerful lines sent chills down my spine. I told the librarian I loved the poem but it wasn’t a monologue. When she told me the husband-and-wife acting duo Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee performed many poems of African Americans as dramatic pieces, I was sold.

I spent the week memorizing and performing it. I practiced projecting my voice and infusing it with what I thought was a godlike resonance. My practice was interrupted repeatedly by China telling me to shut the hell up because he couldn’t hear the TV over the racket I was making.

When the day of the audition came, I felt confident. The audition was set for four o’clock, so I gave myself plenty of time to get there and have a bit of time to rehearse beforehand. The address brought me to a pretty Victorian house in a nice neighborhood. I rang the bell and a big white man dressed in jeans and a T-shirt answered. He was clean-shaven, with dark curly hair, well over six feet tall and a bit chubby. He identified himself as David and smiled broadly, waving me in.

The interior of the house was not as nice as the exterior. The wood floors were scuffed and stained, a threadbare area rug did little to hide the imperfections. The only furniture in the living room was a large desk covered in paperwork, a tall bookshelf overflowing with books and file folders, and a large couch blanketed with a tie-dye flat sheet. The arms of the sofa were exposed and spewing bits of foam rubber. The nicest thing about the room was an elaborate cut-glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

David offered me a seat on the sofa, which I accepted. I was about twenty minutes early so I wasn’t surprised not to see any other actors. I’d wanted to rehearse with the extra time but David sat down next to me and soon we were talking about acting and our favorite movies. The next time I looked at my watch I saw it was a little after four
P
.
M
.

“The others should be coming soon,” I said.

David looked at his watch and shrugged and said, “Actors,” with a long-suffering expression on his face. Being early made me feel as if I’d have a leg up on the others when they arrived. We talked more. I started to feel a little uneasy when 4:30 came and still no other actors. Then David moved closer to me on the sofa, close enough that his outer thigh was pressed against mine. Then he threw his arm around my shoulder, pulling my upper body into him, and tried to kiss me.

At first I thought he was trying to reach over me. Then his face was close to mine; I could smell the minty gum he was chewing. I pulled away from him and tried to stand up but he grabbed my arm. That’s when I realized I was in trouble. My adrenaline was pumping and my anger surfaced. I tried to twist out of his grip, cursing and yelling at the top of my voice. He let me go and I was on my feet backing my way toward the door. He stood up showing me the palms of his hands.

“I’m sorry. Calm down. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.

I just kept backing away from him glaring pure hate. Then he lunged at me and got me by the throat, pushing me up against the wall. Anger gave way to terror. I fought him, but nothing I did could get him off of me. He was choking me, with his angry face inches from mine. Then everything softened and went black.

When I came to, I had a hard time taking in breath. I was on my back on the floor with David on top of me. I couldn’t feel anything, just the weight of him. I was numb. I just lay there pinned to the floor and looked up at the chandelier, the last pretty thing in the world.

When it was over, he watched while I got dressed, which weirdly was the most shameful part of everything that happened. After I was dressed, he lifted my face and examined it closely.

“You might have a shiner tomorrow,” he said clinically. “Next time don’t struggle and save yourself some grief.”

The words “next time” exploded in my head, but I didn’t say anything. I just wanted to leave. He grabbed some keys from his coat pocket, took me by the upper arm and walked me out of the house. It was dark out. I got in the passenger seat of his car and he drove me to the train station. Before he let me out of the car, he kissed me and said he’d call me later.

I went home. Not to China’s house. I went to Mama’s house. She was in her bedroom watching TV. I went in and she looked up at me with alcohol-clouded eyes, then turned her attention back to the TV.

I took a hot shower. Afterward, when I wiped the condensation from the mirror, I didn’t recognize the girl staring back. That’s when the tears came. I saw David a couple of times a week for the next few months. Sometimes he’d pick me up. Other times I’d come to the Victorian. I always left hurt in some way. When school started up, he told me it was over. I was relieved but a part of me also felt abandoned.

It took a long time for me to understand how it was that I had switched so quickly from a self-assured girl into a passive victim. Despite the cloak of specialness I’d pieced together for myself from the kind words and encouragement I got from Jane, camp counselors and others, I had been subtly groomed to be a victim all my life. Experience, in my family and in our community, had taught me that being a girl was to be vulnerable. I had witnessed firsthand attacks on my sisters, friends and strangers. From the moment I showed signs of sexual maturity, I was forced to be on constant vigil even from people a young person is taught to trust. When I was finally brutalized, I believe I experienced a feeling almost of relief, that this unavoidable event had finally caught up to me. I had been a hamster on a treadmill trying desperately to outpace the inevitable. So when it happened I was resigned to my fate. I gave up the fantasy that girls like me could aspire to anything more than early pregnancies, violent relationships and welfare. My attacker rendered me sullied and unredeemable. I gave up on myself and gave myself away.

•   •   •

The following summer I went back to Laurel Springs. On the ride up the mountain, I stuck my head out the van window and breathed in the fresh, cool air. Being in the mountains made me feel clean again. I’d forgotten how beautiful the world looked from a mountaintop. When we arrived at the lodge, my friends were there to greet and embrace me. There were some new faces, but many of the original counselors and some of the original campers were still there. I luxuriated in the feeling of being in a safe place again. But I was not the same girl. I could not bear to be touched, had nightmares, didn’t like being surrounded by lots of people and wanted to sleep constantly.

Unbeknownst to me, the counselors began reporting to Jane the strange changes they saw in me. I was not as vibrant as I used to be; they told her I was a candle on the verge of flickering out. When pressed about what had caused the change, I told my counselors about the rape.

When the news got to Jane, she came to have a heart-to-heart talk with me. I told her everything, even revealing my desire to get pregnant so that I could finally have someone to love and someone to love me. Jane was appalled and told me I’d be better off getting a puppy. “Having a baby and being a single mother at your age would be a disaster. You have to think about your future.” I told her I hardly ever thought about the future. I simply assumed I’d lead a life similar to my mother’s, sisters’ and other women’s in my community. My sad confession would later inform much of the work she would go on to do with adolescents in Georgia for her nonprofit organization, the Georgia Campaign for Adolescent Pregnancy Prevention (GCAPP).

After our talk, she told me she’d help me get out of Oakland. What she needed from me was to spend the next school year getting my grades back up. If I did, she would welcome me to come live in Santa Monica with her family for as long as I needed. She also wanted me to tell my family about the rape. I agreed to it all.

When I left camp at the end of summer, Jane kept in close contact with me via letters and phone calls. She also began helping financially. I was stunned by her kindness. Stunned that someone was giving me an opportunity to get away. I had given up on myself and my grades at school suffered, but Jane’s proposal renewed my interest in school. She threw me a lifeline and I grabbed it.

A few weeks after my return, I got up the nerve to talk to Uncle Landon and Aunt Jan about the rape and Jane’s proposal. They were heartbroken to hear about the abuse. Uncle Landon told me I should have told him. I told him I was sorry I hadn’t. He said I should have told my father too. “He’d kill for you, you know.” I could see the sadness in his eyes when I responded that I didn’t have any faith in my father coming to my defense. They both said they would miss me when I left, but both agreed living with Jane was a great opportunity for me. Next I told Mama. She asked a few questions, then never brought it up again. Her response, or lack thereof, did not surprise me.

Jane paid for me to see an Oakland therapist. I visited her twice a week over the course of the school year. I never felt comfortable talking to her in detail about the rape, which is what she wanted. I simply wasn’t ready. Instead I spent my time with her talking about superficial things, refusing to go any deeper than which subjects I was taking in school. But I stuck to the appointments out of respect for Jane.

By the end of the school year my grades were up and, as promised, I sent my report card to Jane. In return she sent me a plane ticket. It had been an eventful year. I had unburdened myself from a painful secret and was finally realizing my dream of leaving Oakland with the blessing of my Uncle Landon, but I was far from happy. I hadn’t experienced a moment of happiness since the rape and I wasn’t convinced that a therapist’s couch or a change of scenery was going to change that, but I was up for an adventure. At sixteen, I packed up my few belongings and took my first plane ride to Los Angeles and into the care of Jane Fonda.