Friends: A Love Story (25 page)

I knew I had never been the kind of person who had to see a certain type of guy—a doctor, a businessman, an Indian chief. However, I had to admit that there had been times when I felt impressed by men with certain occupations, with careers that I believed were more important than mine. “Oh, my gosh, a lawyer! He's getting people off death row.” Or “A doctor! He's saving people's lives.” The little girl from the projects in me had to learn not to evaluate people or think they were better than me because of their occupation—or, for that matter, that I was better than them. Of course, I knew I certainly had a predilection for actors. I think actors are very interesting people, we have a lot in common, and if they're good at what they do, they're very attractive. But no matter a man's profession, I had to like him. I had to be attracted to and able to talk to him. It didn't matter what material possessions he had or even if he was poor. The truth be told, when it came to money I went for the underdog. Since I had grown up poor, I wasn't impressed with your designer this or pedigree that. I didn't think much of people who looked down on you because of the circumstances of your birth, which you have no control over. Perhaps that was so clear to me because I started out with so little and came to live in a world where many people have so much. Of course, we're human so sometimes we think, “Hey, he has more money, he must have more of everything else.” But there are other things—the intangibles, the things on the inside—that matter more. What mattered to me was that a man was interesting and of high quality. Some men may have had more money or a fancy title, perhaps. But did they have more compassion? Did they have more love in their heart? Did they have more class, more grace, more appreciation, a moral compass, more talent? Did they share my values?

I wanted to be involved with someone who was nice, kind, gentle—all of those things. I wanted to be seen and appreciated for who I was: the good, the bad, the strengths, the weaknesses.
I wanted to be accepted whether it was a good day or bad day, regular me, hair-messed-up me, smart me, dumb me, good-mood me, bad-mood me, courageous me, not-so-courageous me, fabulous me, plain-ol'-colored me. I wanted to just be able to be me, regular me. But I didn't want to give away too much of myself. I didn't want to be in a disposable relationship that wasn't building toward anything. I didn't want to be in a bad relationship. I didn't want to be in a purely physical relationship, especially given the risks of AIDS and STDs. I also remembered reading girls' names on the bathroom wall in high school: “So and so is a ‘ho.'” I didn't want to have a poor reputation in that way, especially in my community of actors.

But instead of taking my time and identifying guys who wanted to get married, I realized I had settled for hanging. As I looked back on my choices, I could see that I became enamored and fell in love too quickly. I'd become intimate too soon. I wasn't giving myself time to get to know the person, their values, their idiosyncrasies. I didn't take the time to see if they really lived up to my standards. I'd think, “You're odd. You're an oddball—but I
like
oddballs!” Then I'd sleep with him and project his strange behavior back on me—I'd think I was the one with the problem. No, he was just strange! I didn't need to have any more relationships like that—relationships that didn't benefit and lift me. Not only were they a waste of my time, they were chipping away at my self-esteem, at the way I saw myself. Truthfully, they were wasting something much deeper than time—something in my spirit.

I was able to figure out some things I was doing wrong, but I didn't always know exactly what I needed to change. I did know how to stop doing what I was doing, though. And I knew how to pray. I talked to God a lot.

“Lord, I can't figure this out. I'm not meeting the right men. It's not working out the way I want it to. I need your help.”

My first answer came in the revelation that I should make a
sincere effort to be celibate. A couple of times in the past, I had tried to convince myself to sign a celibacy pact as part of a program at church. I had never followed through. Yet I had grown up in the church, with the Word and with a strict mama. Granted, she wasn't perfect, but I did know that the Bible says no fornicating, that the marriage bed is sacred, that sex is not a right but a gift to married people. I had learned through my religious education, at church, in Bible study, that sex was good and sacred, to be enjoyed within the confines of marriage. That ideal had been set in front of me. Yet I had spent many, many years of not paying attention, of experimenting, of growing into my sexuality, of working it out and figuring it out. Deep inside I did still believe in the values of my church and my childhood. I noticed that sometimes I'd feel a little guilty about having sex. I didn't realize that when you have intercourse you are joining spirits, joining souls, with the other person. Physically when the man enters a virgin he breaks her hymen and she bleeds. The blood seals the deal; it represents life, a promise; it is a covenant. In Christianity, the blood of Christ guarantees our salvation. When you break that promise the tie between two souls is ripped apart. That's why it's so painful. But if you don't engage in the covenant of sex, it's easier to walk away because you haven't joined spirits through the sexual covenant. When you break that promise it goes to your soul. Once I began to understand this, I abstained from sex for several years. I saw it as a deeper and more disciplined form of loving myself.

And rather than focusing on what I didn't have, I began to acknowledge that I had a great family, fabulous friends, a lovely home, a marvelous career that I love, money in the bank and I'd traveled around the world. I had a lot to be thankful and grateful for. So why was I complaining? Maybe a husband was the one thing that I just wouldn't be able to have. Maybe I just needed to dial it down relationshipwise
and be thankful for what I had and adopt some children or something. I knew children were a big responsibility but maybe I'd just have to do it alone. I'd certainly purchased my condo while I was single. You can't wait for a man to start living your life. I began to consider the possibility that for the rest of my days maybe I'd be single—single and a sensation, an older woman with boyfriends. But I didn't want to do that in a sexual way, so I'd have to figure out and negotiate a new way to be.

One evening I stopped trying to figure out everything myself and decided to practice spiritual surrender, where you say, “Let Thy will be done.” I told God, “I guess if I'm gonna meet somebody, he's just gonna have to knock on my door, Lord. I'm turning this over to you.”

Instead of going to parties and events, I spent a lot of time at home with friends. We hung out at each other's houses, we ate together, we watched TV and movies, laughed and enjoyed good times. Wren and I spent so much time together that some people were certain we were an item. We weren't. I was just close to him and his family, including his wife, Ann. His mom, Rosalind, had taken me under her wing. That felt very nurturing and safe. I admit that sometimes being without a relationship felt lonely at times, but going out could feel lonely, too.

During this time I wasn't having sex or actively pursuing relationships, I didn't hear my biological clock ticking. I had heard other women talk about it, but it wasn't something that I thought about—not in the least. In my mind there was an order to things: get my education, establish myself, meet someone, get married, have children. I figured I was still young and biologically healthy, that there was still plenty of time. I didn't know that sometimes we women talk and pass along erroneous information about how long the childbearing years are and what is possible. So instead of thinking about marriage and babies, I concentrated on procuring and doing good work.

 

Toward the end of that “year of not working,” I got offered three movies in a row:
Strange Days,
directed by Kathryn Bigelow, with Ralph Fiennes; then
Vampire in Brooklyn,
with Eddie Murphy; and
Waiting to Exhale,
the movie rendition of Terry McMillan's bestselling novel of the same name. I ended up filming them back to back to back, with about a week off between each of them. By then, Doug Chapin, the producer of
What's Love,
had become my manager, which was wonderful since I had already seen up close how well he worked in intense situations.

“Terry's interested in you playing Savannah,” he told me when he sent the
Exhale
script over to me to read. In addition to writing the book, Terry was writing the script along with Ron Bass. It was Terry's first stab at a screenplay, but she's very vocal and vibrant. She thought I would be perfect for Savannah.

I was already a fan of Terry McMillan. I had read
Mama,
her first book,
Disappearing Acts,
her second, and then
Waiting to Exhale
on the subway. As I read
Exhale,
I could hear the different women's voices as they tried to navigate through the miasma of their relationships. That's what my girlfriends and I had been doing—talking, crying and encouraging each other.

“Oh, he's treating you like that? You deserve better than that.”

“Leave him. You can come stay here.” That was before I learned the lesson to just shut up and listen. “Uh-huh.
Whaat?
Really? You don't say.” No more of that “Leave him alone, that ain't right,” and then you turn around and she's gone back to try to make the relationship work one more time.

I knew
Exhale
had four female roles—coveted roles. Here was a balanced women's ensemble. In fact, it might have been the first time in history when four substantial women's roles were available in one movie.
Roots,
the 1977 television miniseries, may have been the previous opportunity before that. I was
excited about the opportunity, but when I heard that Terry envisioned me as Savannah, I said, “Oh, no. I've read the book. I'd rather play Bernadine.”

I liked the way Bernadine fought back when she was devastated by her husband's infidelity and the ending of their relationship. She fought back in such a gutsy, outrageous, extravagant, ridiculous way. Why would you sell a sports car for a dollar? I wondered. Of course, she knew it would mess him up. But to my mind doing that was just so outrageous! Burning the car and all his belongings—the scene that seems to stand out in everyone else's mind—didn't stand out to me when I read the book or the script. But to sell everything for a dollar—that's what stuck out to me; maybe because that was something I would never do. But, boy, did it seem like fun! I had never heard of or seen anything like it on-screen—a woman that bold and brash and different. Growing up, of course, I'd heard tell of aunties who, mad at their boyfriends or husbands, slashed, cut or ripped up all their clothes. I'd think, Gosh! He won't have any clothes to wear. And now he's butt naked, going somewhere embarrassed. But I, Angela, would never have had the nerve, would never have thought to do anything like that in my personal life. I'm just too nice, too fair. I could
imagine
doing it, just like I could imagine hitting someone, though I would never do that, either. So to have an outlet for those imaginings—oh, it was delicious and freeing! To tear up a closet. To burn a car. To have to say the lines and play the part but also have the opportunity to improvise. That's what made it so exciting! I think Whitney Houston and I came on board at about the same time, which, I assume, is why I got the role I wanted.

 

One evening in May 1994, before I headed to Arizona, where
Exhale
was filmed, I hung out at Catalina's, an L.A. jazz club, with some friends from drama school. After the set, we stood out front for a while, laughing, talking and reminiscing.
Courtney Vance was in the group. Out of the blue he asked me, “Hey, you wanna go out?”

“Oh, okay. Yeah.”

I was hoping his invitation was strictly on the friendship tip. People were always asking you if you wanted to hang out. The idea of hanging easy was cool. “It's good to see you. I haven't seen you in a while. What have you been doing?” When you hang out with that kind of energy, the feeling can be familiar and warm, gentle and easy. Nothing feels pressured. You just want to spend additional time with good people in this place, Los Angeles, where everything is so spread out and everyone's always in their car. Since Courtney and I had gone to the same school, were part of the August Wilson family, knew all the same people and ran into each other occasionally, the idea of spending time was fine. But I definitely wasn't interested in having a “date.” It wasn't just that I had this history of relationships that went down blind alleys, nowhere, ran into brick walls, but Courtney had dated Ahren, who I considered a friend. In my mind that made him OFF LIMITS! And I had dated Charles, who'd played with Courtney in the movie version of
Piano Lesson.
Our circles were too close. The idea of dating felt very uncomfortable. He couldn't possibly mean a date-date, could he? Oh, Lord, I thought. I hope he doesn't like me. We went out two days later. I don't remember where or what we did. The only thing I remember is trying to make sure it wasn't a date-date. Other than that, I don't remember a thing. I think I blocked it out.

The next day I was off—
whoosh!
—to film this wonderful movie. I was off to portray Bernadine!