A Man from Another Land: How Finding My Roots Changed My Life (13 page)

I recalled how I had felt the day, fifteen years ago, when I stood with Gary Dourdan at the window of the Apollo and saw Nelson
Mandela’s motorcade go by the crowds of cheering people. The air had been filled with pride and anticipation. I felt much
the same way on this day. I was now standing in front of the William J. Clinton Foundation building, ready to meet the former
president himself.

Jay greeted me in the lobby and together we rode the elevator up to the office. After offering me a soda, he explained that
Clinton was not able to meet with me personally but wanted to speak with me on the phone after I sat with Eric Nonacs, his
foreign policy expert.

Jay showed me Clinton’s large and impressive office with its amazing view of New York City. It was filled with mementos and
photographs of Clinton standing with a who’s who of political icons. After a tour of the rest of the foundation, Jay walked
me to Eric Nonacs’s office. Eric asked what I hoped to achieve in Sierra Leone.

I explained my plan of doing a “meet and greet” around the country, traveling wherever I could to meet people and local leaders
and let them know who I was, and why Sierra Leone was important, and that Raymond Scott-Manga would escort me to the State
House to meet with President Ahmad Tejan Kabbah.

Eric cautioned that I should keep alert and be sure not to promise anything that I could not deliver. He also made a point
to say I should make sure I didn’t do or say anything that would cause me any “media liability.”

“What is media liability?” I asked.

“Media liability,” he explained, “is saying or doing anything that would damage your ability to maintain goodwill with the
Sierra Leone government and/or the people there, by embarrassing them or yourself.”

I shook his hand and thanked him for his time and Jay asked if I was ready to speak to President Clinton. “Absolutely!” I
said.

Jay gave me a number to call and left me in an empty office.

“Hello, it’s Robert Bogast, the President is expecting your call, can you hold for a minute?” he said. After about a minute
he returned, “Isaiah, the President is ready to speak with you.”

Then I heard it, that famous trademark voice that sounded like a mixture of Elvis Presley and a smooth Southern charmer. “Isaiah,”
he said, “just tell me one thang. Is Dr. Burke’s hand gonna work again? I need to know if Dr. Burke is coming back, baby!”
He chuckled. “I-I-I Isaiah, I gotta tell ya your show is the only show that Hillary and I watch together in bed before we
go to sleep.”

“Oh wow,” I said, “that’s very nice to hear, Mr. President, and, yes, Dr. Burke is coming back, but I can’t tell you anything
more about his hand. You’re going to have to wait and see.”

“Well, I hope so,” he said, “because, man, that is really a well-written show!”

“Thank you, Mr. President, thank you very much.”

“I hear you are making a lot of my staff very happy being there. My guys are taking good care of you, I hope?”

I told him that Jay and Eric had been amazing and thanked him for his support.

“Jay tells me that you are preparing to go to Sierra Leone,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

“That’s good, Isaiah. Sierra Leone is a beautiful country,
I wish I could have done more for Rwanda and Sierra Leone while I was president. I really wish I could have done more.” He
told me he was doing something with the American Heart Association and that he wanted to tell me more about it when I got
back from Sierra Leone. I agreed.

“Good,” he said. “Well, you keep doing what you are doing, Isaiah. God will bless you for it and if you need anything, do
not hesitate to call my office. Keep up the good work.”

“I appreciate your support, sir,” I said.

Then he said good-bye.

Robert Bogast returned to the line. “The President really enjoyed speaking with you, Isaiah,” he said. “If you need anything
don’t hesitate to call us. Take care.” And the line went dead.

I sat in the empty office for several minutes, just taking it all in. “I just talked to President Bill Clinton,” I thought
to myself. I took photos with a few more staffers, answered a few questions about my TV show, and left. Later that evening,
back at my hotel, I read an e-mail from Jay thanking me for my visit and for spending time with the staff, and mentioning
that President Clinton really enjoyed our chat.

I hit reply and sent Jay a thank-you. Then I walked into the bathroom, and stood there staring at my reflection, looking into
the eyes of the man in the mirror. “This is it,” I said. “So, what do I do now?”

I thought back to the many times I had ridden my bicycle into unknown territory, making a new path. I thought of the Rastafarian
man at the house party back in Houston who had told me I had to live up to my name. I recalled hearing about my father’s death
on the news, joining the military to become the next General Washington, to attend Howard University, meet
ing Vera Katz, Harry Poe, Spike Lee, and John Amos. I thought about my wife, Jenisa, and my three children, and about my mother’s
last words to me on her deathbed. She said, “Spread the love, son. Spread the love.” That was it. My mother would give the
shirt off of her back to anyone who needed it.

I turned on the faucet and watched the water run down the drain for several minutes. I reached down, cupped my hands, and
splashed a handful on my face. Switching it off, I reached for a towel and just stood there, looking at myself in the mirror.
“A team,” I said to my reflection. “I need a team. God,” I prayed, “I need to put together a team.”

I felt a jolt of energy and walked out of the bathroom and reached for my black binder, the “bible” where I kept all of my
notes and papers on Sierra Leone. I pulled out a yellow steno pad and a pen and began to scan through everything I had learned
so far about the country.

“What do we know?” I asked myself. I then proceeded to make a list of the types of people I would need. A chief of security,
someone who had access to the Justice Department and the U.S. embassy to gather sensitive intelligence on Sierra Leone. I
wrote down Antonio K. Hubbard, my longtime friend, who was a year behind me in high school and the quarterback of our football
team. Antonio served in the U.S. Marine Corps and did a tour of duty in Kuwait during the Gulf War. His nickname is “007”
and he is highly trained in hand-to-hand combat, counterintelligence, surveillance, and gun and knife weapons. Who better
to head up our security detail?

I also needed someone to look at the infrastructure in Sierra Leone and make an assessment of the buildings. I remembered
meeting an architect at a Los Angeles fund-raiser, Breton F. Washington of the SmithGroup. Breton was one of the architects
who designed the newly built state-of-the-art Saint John’s
Health Center in Santa Monica, California. He was a very smart and genuine man. I wrote down his name.

I needed a doctor to look out for all of us, and someone who could help the people on the ground. I thought of Dr. Andre Panossian,
a cleft lip and palate specialist who worked as a technical consultant on my TV show, lending his assistance and guidance
on how to make the surgeries authentic. He regularly traveled around the world donating his skills as a reconstructive plastic
surgeon specializing in children’s cleft palates. I nicknamed him “Top Gun” while we were in Sierra Leone. He was a very likable
man and an incredibly talented surgeon.

NAACP president Bruce Gordon and I had already discussed my plans to visit Sierra Leone, and he recommended that I bring NAACP
human rights attorney Crispian Kirk. Crispian had extensive knowledge on global human rights issues. He was a very smart attorney
and very well connected on Capitol Hill. I added him to the list. A journalist, Jackie Coker, had interviewed me for the magazine
Africa Journal.
She worked for Corporate Council on Africa, and, more importantly, she was Sierra Leonean. I added her to my list.

I needed a camera crew to document the entire trip. Sonya Gay Bourn was a line producer on my PSA for the Los Angeles Regional
Food Bank. She was a very smart, dynamic, tall, fair-skinned Southerner with a great sense of humor, and she made me laugh.
Sonya would prove to be instrumental in planning my first trip to Sierra Leone. She had exceptional organizational skills
and I trusted her judgment on many important issues regarding the budget and film production. I wrote her name down.

I called Jeff Vespa, of the world-renowned celebrity photography company WireImage in Los Angeles. He gave me the name of
a former Associated Press photographer, Michael Caulfield. Michael was highly recommended as a great photojournal
ist, also very smart, and had a great “gung ho” kind of energy. I wrote his name down too.

This would be my team: Antonio K. Hubbard, security; Breton F. Washington, infrastructure; Dr. Andre Panossian, health care;
Crispian Kirk, legal; Jackie Coker, journalist; Sonya Gay Bourn, film production; and Michael Caulfield, photographer. Now
I just needed one more important thing. I needed some visas, and I needed them fast. I had called Congresswoman Diane Watson’s
office months before for support but I hadn’t heard back. She had received her DNA results on the same evening I had, so I
thought she might be able to help me cut through “red tape” if I encountered it. Then I thought of my hometown, Houston, Texas.
I’d received a lot of support from fans back home. It was a long shot, but I reached for my phone and called Congressman Kevin
Brady, a representative from Texas. His assistant, Ms. Jessica Peetoom, picked up.

“This is Isaiah Washington,” I said, “may I speak with Congressman Kevin Brady please?”

“Oh, ahh, may I ask what this call is regarding?” she said hesitantly. I sensed by the slight stumble in her voice, she might
be a fan of my TV show. I thought, “Wow! This TV show is really working for me.”

“Yes,” I continued, “I am planning a trip to Sierra Leone and I was wondering if the congressman could help me acquire some
visas for my crew as soon as possible.”

She explained that Congressman Brady wasn’t available but that she would have him return the call. I gave her my number, thanked
her, and hung up.

Forty-five minutes later, before I had time to wonder if anyone would call back, my mobile phone rang. “Hello, Isaiah, this
is Kevin Brady returning your call. I hear you are doing some work in Sierra Leone.”

“Yes, sir, I am trying to go at the end of this month.”

“Oh, that’s just around the corner.”

I said, “Yes, sir, it is.”

“Well, I think I can make a few calls to some friends in the embassy and see if I can be of any help. I just want to say that
I think what you are doing is commendable. I have done quite a bit of humanitarian work in Central America myself. I am also
impressed with your work with United Way down here in Texas. We took in a lot of people in need here in Texas after Hurricane
Katrina hit. I saw your United Way commercial running all day every day on TV. It really made us feel good to see that one
of our own in Hollywood cared.”

“It was an honor to be of service, sir.”

He said, “If I come up with anything soon, can I call you on this number?”

“Yes, sir, this is the best number to reach me on.”

And with that we hung up. I sat down on the edge of my bed. There was still one more question I needed to answer for myself.
Why had I always felt that deep connection, before I knew the results of the DNA test. Did my DNA have memory?

T
he wheels for my trip to Sierra Leone were in motion. I would make more calls to Congressman Brady and everyone else on my
list, in between shooting scenes on my TV show. Luckily, within days, everyone I wanted was able to commit to me and Sierra
Leone. I was able to get my visas expedited with lightning speed.

Still, I found myself dogged by the question: Could my DNA be the reason for my dream, “the Rerun”? Could it be responsible
for the sensations I felt while meditating beside the Kunene River? Could DNA control and guide an individual’s destiny? I
needed answers.

When researching my role as Dr. Preston Burke I had read everything I could get my hands on about the medical community. I
had come across the name of one of the world’s top neurosurgeons, Dr. Keith Black. I decided to make a cold call to his office
and see if he would meet with me.

I Googled his name and learned he was the chairman of the
Department of Neurosurgery for the Maxine Dunitz Neurosurgical Institute at Cedars-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles. I locked
his office number in my mobile phone, pressed dial, and left a message. After playing phone tag with his assistant for a day
or two, we finally connected on the same day I was to do an incredibly intense surgical scene on my TV show.

Dressed in my yellow surgical cap and dark blue scrubs, I slipped inside a small darkened closet on the set and pulled out
my Treo cell phone. I lowered my speaking voice so as not to be overheard and called Dr. Black’s office. His assistant answered.

“Hello, is Dr. Keith Black available? This is Isaiah Washington.”

“The Isaiah Washington from—”

“Yes,” I said, interrupting. I was getting used to this surprised response to my calls.

She put me on hold for a moment and then returned asking, “Can I ask you what this call is regarding?”

“I need to ask Dr. Black if DNA has memory.”

“I’m sorry, you need to do what?” she asked.

I went on to explain. “I have a theory that DNA has memory and I would like to speak to Dr. Keith Black about it since he
is a brain surgeon.”

She told me he was still in surgery but asked for my number. “You know,” she said, “I really love what you are doing on the
show, but Dr. Black doesn’t watch many medical shows, so he may not know who you are.”

“Yes,” I said, assuring her that was all right, “from what I have read, Dr. Black is a bona fide genius and I’m glad that
he is very busy saving ‘real’ lives. I’m glad that he doesn’t have a lot of time to watch TV, you know what I mean?”