The Queen of Sugar Hill, page 1
Dedication
For my grandmother, Pearley,
who introduced me to Hattie and dared me to dream like her
Epigraph
What dreams we have and how they fly
Like rosy clouds across the sky;
Of wealth, of fame, of sure success,
Of love that comes to cheer and bless;
And how they wither, how they fade,
The waning wealth, the jilting jade—
The fame that for a moment gleams,
Then flies forever,—dreams, ah—dreams!
—Paul Laurence Dunbar
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Part 1 Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part 2 Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood
Author’s Note
Historical Note
About the Author
Also by ReShonda Tate
Copyright
About the Publisher
Part 1
Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood
February 29, 1940
“Hello, everybody, Hedda Hopper reporting to you from Hollywood, that fabulous place where everyone wants to live but seldom does. Everybody, look over my shoulder as I write my column. We’ll have news about famous people. Okay? Let’s go.
“It’s Academy Awards time. Some of the greats are vying for that coveted statue . . . from Hollywood heartthrob Clark Gable . . . to Judy Garland to Robert Donat. But all eyes are on Hattie McDaniel. Miss McDaniel, a Negress, is up for best supporting actress, the first member of her race to be so honored. I was on the scene as Miss McDaniel, full of smiles and gardenias and bosom, trundled into the venue.
“I believe everyone is delighted that Miss McDaniel, who gave such a superb performance as Mammy in Gone with the Wind, is up for an Academy Award. Will she or won’t she make history tonight? The world is watching . . .”
Chapter 1
February 1940
If my mama could see me now . . .
I was a long way from the one-room, wood-frame shack in Wichita, Kansas, where I was always singing a spin on a Negro spiritual or dancing the cakewalk with my three siblings. That’s what we used to do to take our minds off the rumblings in our stomachs. Gone was the indescribable hunger I had back then, when I lived in a home haunted by my parents’ memories of how they’d escaped slavery and their never-ending quest to give us a better life. I’d come into the world malnourished and destitute and now—forty-six years later—my story was about to be rewritten.
I pushed aside thoughts of where I’d been—and focused on where I now was, inside the sprawling ballroom of the Cocoanut Grove club, basking in the atmosphere of the black tie Academy Awards dinner. I was overwhelmed by the smell of rose, jasmine, and most of all vanilla Chanel No. 5, the perfume every glamour girl in the room was wearing.
The large ballroom was flanked by massive columns ornamented with white lilies cascading from the top. Gauzy beige curtains draped from the ceiling. Negro waiters in white jackets flowed back and forth with bottles of Lanson champagne and silver service trays perched over their shoulders. They twisted and turned like Busby Berkeley dancers through the crowded tables filled with Hollywood royalty—twelve hundred movers and shakers and their guests. All white. I was the only colored actor in the room.
I strained to get a glimpse of my costars from Gone with the Wind. We were up for eleven awards, so they had prime seating near the stage. Their tables were round and held anywhere from ten to twenty-four people. I’d been led to the very back of the room, just outside the double doors leading to the kitchen. There was seating only for three here. A grudging, mean little message meant just for me: Don’t be too full of yourself. Never ever take up too much space.
“Why is she here?” someone muttered from the table across from me. I recognized the woman as a character actress from a silent movie. I wanted to shout, I deserve to be here! but I nodded pleasantly at her.
Even those who tossed passive smiles my way didn’t want me here. It was one thing to share a scene with them. There, I was subservient. But here, I was on their level—even if I was seated at the very back of the room.
The sounds of the orchestra filled the club. The saxophones were playing, the show was beginning. Young Bob Hope was a good choice as host; he easily bantered and wisecracked his way through the program. Now it was eleven thirty and with all the bubbly and cigarette smoke in the air, my heart was pounding. But then it turned into a full-on race when Fay Bainter walked to the podium.
She’d won best supporting actress for her performance as Aunt Belle Massey in Jezebel last year and was therefore presenting this year. And since that was the category I was nominated in, I strained to commit every word she uttered to memory.
“I’m really especially happy that I’m chosen to present this particular plaque,” Fay began. I could hear the smile in her voice even if she was so far away I couldn’t clearly see her expression.
“To me, it seems more than just a plaque of gold,” Fay continued. “It opens the doors of this room, moves back the walls, and enables us to embrace the whole of America, an America that we love . . .”
I scooted to the edge of my seat as her next words tumbled out.
“. . . I present the Academy Award for the Best Performance of an Actress in a Supporting Role during 1939 to Hattie McDaniel.”
I’d won! I’d known I won, but hearing it made it real.
Ferdinando, my very suitable date for the night, squeezed my hand and reached to help me slip off my white cropped ermine jacket. He was impeccably dressed, with an ankle-length black coat, slacks, and a white silk pocket square. As handsome as Ferdinando was, he was just a friend who often escorted me to events.
My agent, Mr. Meiklejohn, was clapping as if his name had just been called; there was no doubt he understood the magnitude of this moment. He’d given up his seat in the front to sit with me. He’d always looked me right in the eye and treated me with respect. He was one of the only white agents to represent colored studio actors in Hollywood. In fact, I was his sole colored actor. Now he was smiling at me with joy.
I stood as applause filled the room inside the Ambassador Hotel. As I stepped away from the table, I gave silent thanks to Ruby Berkley Goodwin. Not only was Ruby my dearest friend, a wickedly funny, smart-wise woman who knew how to cut me down to size, she was the perfect secretary. She’d talked me into this designer crepe turquoise gown and then efficiently had it customized for me. This dress, with its long sleeves, cropped jacket, tailored bodice, and cummerbund, was the perfect selection to make history in.
I adjusted the gardenias and headband sitting atop my head, lifted my dress, and walked around the table next to me that was storing all the Oscar statues. I couldn’t help but notice that the applause was tepid when Fay first announced my name, though it got louder as I approached the stage. I’m sure most people expected my fellow actress in Gone with the Wind Olivia de Havilland to win. Her performance as Melanie Hamilton, the sad, strong, loving wife of the rather drippy Ashley Wilkes, had been heralded in all the movie magazines as groundbreaking and heartwarming.
We’d both been nominated for best supporting actress, but my nomination as Mammy was the first time a colored woman had ever been nominated for this prestigious award.
That’s why no one expected me to win—except me.
I knew long before the Los Angeles Times leaked the list of winners just before the ceremony. I knew I’d delivered a stellar performance in the role I’d fought so hard to get. As Mammy, I’d squealed and yanked on Vivien Leigh’s corset so hard that she and I both nearly vomited. I knew the previous director, George Cukor, didn’t want me because he thought I “lacked dignity,” so I had something to prove. I channeled my thirty-one years of stage and theater experience to deliver a solid, lovable performance.
Since the awards part of the event star
And now that it was official, I wasn’t about to let anyone, or anything, steal my joy.
I held my head high and quickened my pace since it seemed like the entire room was waiting on me as I maneuvered my five-foot-two frame down the narrow aisles and through the maze of tables covered with white linen. The Who’s Who of Hollywood was here, dressed in the finest formal wear—floor-length colorful satin gowns with long Vs in front and tuxedos with tapered collars and custom cuts. I nodded at Olivia, who looked like she was fighting back tears, yet still tepidly clapping. We’d been cordial with each other on set, but this was her first nomination and, history be damned, I knew she wanted to win.
I smiled at Vivien in her stunning white Irene Lentz fitted dress and white headwrap, her cigarette dangling from her hand. She returned my smile, though it never quite reached her eyes as she was close to Olivia and I’m sure she had been hoping for her friend to win. The two men sitting beside Vivien, Laurence Olivier and some man I didn’t know, didn’t bother with pretenses as they sat stoically without clapping.
I gave my friend Clark Gable a special smile and a nod. Outside of my girlfriends, Clark was my dearest friend, and the only white man with such a distinction. He was the only white person who knew me behind the smile.
Tonight, Clark was dapper in a midnight-blue shawl-collared tuxedo jacket and boutonniere. His tapered mustache hugged his upper lip. His wife, Carole, was grinning like a seven-year-old who had just been given a puppy, and in her stunning purple silk gown, she glowed with celebration. Carole and Clark were in sync with their excitement. Really, they were in sync with everything. It was a miracle they’d found this kind of happiness in a town notorious for dismantling marriages.
On the other side of Clark, my producer David O. Selznick sat grinning hard. My win was a win for him as well. Though it had taken some convincing to get him to nominate me, his expression said he was glad that he had. As one of the top producers in Hollywood, he usually got what he wanted without effort, but he’d had to pull strings to get me into the Ambassador since the hotel had a no-coloreds policy. My win made his fight worthwhile.
I felt beads of moisture dampen my forehead as I marched toward the stage. Was it the journey across the room or my jubilant nerves?
I ignored the sour expressions to my right, refused to be bothered by the people on my left who wouldn’t make eye contact with me, and strutted with my head held high. Negro actors had been invited into the Hollywood room—as servants and slaves, but as my friend Langston Hughes always said, we were never given a seat at the table. Tonight, I was claiming my seat.
The applause was still going as I neared the stage and had audibly picked up, then suddenly, the music stopped. In the three minutes it had taken me to walk from my seat at the back of the room, the orchestra music had ended.
But that wasn’t going to steal my joy either.
I had been banned from the film’s Atlanta premiere just this past December, where more than a million people lined the streets of downtown Atlanta to celebrate Gone with the Wind’s release. So this was redemption. This was validation of my more than thirty years of blood, sweat, and entertaining—the triumph that made my tragedies worthwhile. All the rejections because I was too dark, too fat, too whatever. All the chances I was never given meant nothing tonight. I’d accomplished something 90 percent of the people in this room could only dream of—I’d won an Academy Award.
From the first time I’d ever won an award, back in the sixth grade at 24th Street School in Denver, I’d been treated as less than. Back then, despite being the best performer, I couldn’t be recognized along with my friends because of the color of my skin. Now, not only was I on equal footing, dare I say, I was leaps and bounds ahead of my counterparts.
The NAACP protestors outside the hotel, the incorrigible security at the front who hesitated before letting me into the Cocoanut Grove tonight, the attendees who held their noses up in an air of superiority, insulted that they had to share a space with me. None of that was going to steal my joy either.
I made my way up the steps. It wasn’t lost on me that the usher didn’t extend his hand to help me up the stairs like he did the other winners. But at this moment, my eyes were focused on the small gold award Fay was extending toward me. I wrapped my hand around it, my heart swelling with pride. Yet, as proud as I was of this achievement, this was too big a moment for my personal backslapping. I wanted this occasion to inspire Negro youth for many years to come.
I took my spot in front of the podium, then reached in my pocket for the acceptance speech that Mr. Selznick and his team had crafted for me. But just as my fingertips touched the piece of paper, I froze. I knew the marketing team had put much time and thought into my speech, but at this moment, I wanted to speak from the heart.
“Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences,” I began as I pulled my empty hand back, “fellow members of the motion picture industry, and honored guests. This is one of the happiest moments of my life, and I want to thank each one of you who had a part in selecting me for one of the awards, for your kindness. It has made me feel very, very humble; and I shall always hold it as a beacon for anything that I may be able to do in the future.” I paused as tears filled my eyes. I inhaled, then continued. “I sincerely hope I shall always be a credit to my race and to the motion picture industry. My heart is too full to tell you just how I feel, and may I say thank you.”
This occasion was momentous, but I did not want to look like a blubbering fool. I was representing my race and I needed to do so with dignity. So I simply dabbed my eyes and added, “And God bless you,” before exiting the stage.
I was so overcome with emotion that I forgot to thank Mr. Selznick, the director, my costars, and everyone else. Well, at least I’d left everyone out, I consoled myself. No one’s feelings would be hurt.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I encountered the brightest grin, eyes filled with genuine happiness, and the loudest applause in the room.
“I told you that you were a shoo-in!” Clark whispered as I approached his table. He had stood to applaud me as I exited the podium.
I wanted more than anything to throw my arms around my friend’s neck and tell him he was right. Let him know that it was his faith, his encouragement, and his support that had led me here today. But knowing that all eyes were on me, I did the only proper thing.
“You sure did, Mr. Gable,” I said with a slight nod of the head.
His smile faded slightly. Clark hated when I called him Mr. Gable. And generally, I didn’t. But my spirits were too high to mess it up by creating conflict because I called my dear friend by his first name in mixed company.
However, whatever apprehensions I was feeling, Clark was not. He reached out and pulled me into a big bear hug, and I swear, the gasps were audible. First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt and civil rights leader and educator Mary McLeod Bethune had shocked the world a few years ago with the first public display of interracial affection when they shook hands, but that was still frowned upon, especially in Hollywood. But as usual, Clark didn’t care. He’d solidified his place as the King of Hollywood and that’s why it shouldn’t have surprised me when he said, “If I want to celebrate my friend, then I’m going to celebrate my friend.”
I fought the urge to hug him back—and kept my arms by my sides, though I rejoiced inside.
As he released me, I swallowed the lump in my throat, ignored the shocked stares, and then returned to my seat as the program continued.
