Page 60 of And Still Her Voice
The idea of a big screen and a tub of hot buttered popcorn in an air-conditioned theater sounded heavenly. And to hang out with my best friend, I didn’t care what was playing, but I secretly hoped it might beRomeo and Juliet. I still naively hoped River and I could be more than friends.
Just around the corner on Troost Avenue stood a two-story brick building with a rippled square glass tile front and a double door entrance decorated with a flashing neon marquee that readTheJewel Box Lounge.Standing outside, River explainedhow this place had been here since 1945 but didn’t start showing drag shows until around ten years ago and mostly white performers to mostly heterosexual white people. I recalled the movie I’d watchedwith Mom,Some Like It Hotwith my favorite actor Tony Curtis who dressed like a woman to escape the mob. Someone else running away?
River stared at a poster. “It’s like when I look at other drag people, I see a mirror of my real self.”
I looked closer at the beautiful women in the posters, men in drag like Dorothy fromThe Wizardof Oddand Maria from theThe Sound of Misogyny.
River pointed to a poster of Mae West inGoWest Young Manand laughed. “That’s what I did, except there wasn’t enough makeup to hide my Blackness, so I was never officially hired, even though people would come from all over just to listen to me sing not just Eartha Kitt songs, but Dina Washington’s ‘Salty Papa Blues’ and Sara Vaughan’s ‘I’m Crazy to Love You.’ So, I moved west to San Francisco and the rest, as they say, is history.”
“And I’m glad you did. Go West, that is.”
The next show would come on later. Squeezing into a room full of white men in suits and ties and (from what I could tell, men dressed as women), we made our way over to a long bar where we ordered some drinks. Already there were couples seated at little candlelit cocktail tables. The smell of perfume and cigarettes filled the space. We found an empty table off to the side and took a seat as the house lights went down. And then a tiny light pinpointed onto the face of the first female impersonator reclined on a divan, a voluptuous person in a bouffant wig and blackface. The singer did a good acapella getting the crowd settled in for the next act. The light grew bigger as he opened his mouth and crescendoed “I Just Want to Make Love.” River sat rigid in his chair. “What the hell!?”
I shook my head. “What’s wrong?”
River leaned over. “That’s my act. He stole it! I used to do Etta James.”
I reached over, placing my hand over his, but Grandma spoke up first. “Imagine what Etta might say about everyone stealing her show.”
River peered at me, brows furrowed. He gulped back his drink and went back to the bar.
The next acts were more campy but hilarious. River had been right, though: there were no Black performers except for the blackface person who’d become part of the satirical act where she played the maid inGone with the Wild.
As we walked back after that act, River couldn’t let go of his anger. “My performance always came at the end. And there he was right at the beginning, and in blackface!”
“So, a man impersonating a Black woman?” Grandma said. “It was done all the time in vaudeville.”
“I don’t got a problem with that, but why not leave it to a Black man to do? I miss performing, but not like that.” River stopped and faced me. “My art is serious. How can I explain that it’s not just about gender and entertainment, but a lifestyle that’s not cool, especially if you’re Black? But blackface, that’s an insult! Impersonating the Black woman and then casting her through a distorted lens is plain wrong. It’s just a way for white people to make fun and get out their feelings and fears about race and sex and control. And why does a white man get away with this!”
I was the last person River had to explain anything about impersonation and control. We boarded the bus where we’d spend the night. River took his place at the back of the bus.
CHAPTER 22
Memphis Blues
April 4, 1968: After traveling all night, I was excited to finally roll into Memphis, home of my heartthrob Elvis Presley. Back home, Mom had all his records and together we watched all of his movies fromLove Me TendertoJailhouse Rock. If I were to bump into the King, I’d do more than just let him buy me a beer. I was still waiting for a hunk of burning love to love me tenderly. Oh, a girl could dream!
Fortunately, the city of blues seemed a little more tolerant and at least catered to Blacks, but still I saw no mixed couples. Even when the old Black clerk at the Lorraine Motel arched a wiry eyebrow, River and I felt comfortable checking in together a couple blocks away from the others. Now that things between John and River had cooled off, some, including Tony, thought River and I were a couple. Still, I believed I could turn him straight. What did I know? Pretty much everyone left us alone.
In the lobby, I’d freaked out a little when the old clerk let on that Martin Luther King, Jr. was staying here. How cool would it be to run into him?
After dinner at a diner across the street, we settled into the room to rest up before getting ready for a ten o’clock show. River picked up the book and stretched back on the twin bed, one legcrossed over the other. I carried the phone with its long extension cord to the bathroom and called home.
“Hey, where are you, anyway?” Maggie asked.
“Memphis.”
“It sounds like you’re peeing.”
“I am.” I laughed. “In a Memphis hotel bathroom.”
“Gross, but I guess I’d rather be in a Memphis bathroom than this dump.”
“Maggie, this place is not exactly a palace. Can I talk to Mom?” I thought I heard Mom in the background.
“She’s not home,” Maggie said.
I didn’t believe her but didn’t want to press her. Let Mom stay mad at me. “Well, gotta go. Say hi to everyone for me.” I hung up the phone, put it back on the nightstand, and plopped onto my bed.
