A Man from Another Land: How Finding My Roots Changed My Life (6 page)

After we worked together and he so kindly challenged death on my behalf, John Amos, whose memory confirms mine on the choking
incident, became a mentor and friend. Our relationship had special significance and actually began long before I met him in
person for the first time.

It was 1976, I was thirteen years old and sitting at home in Houston watching the TV show
Good Times.
During a commercial break, there was a teaser for the five o’clock news about the death of a local man, fatally shot by his
common law wife. Turns out, the man was my father. That’s exactly how I learned that my biological father had died—at home,
sitting on the couch after school, watching an episode of
Good Times.

When I was three years old, after his beating my mother throughout their five-year marriage, my mother and I left him. My
mother later told me that when she packed her bags to leave, she told him there would be a woman out there who would not tolerate
what she endured from him, and that woman would probably take his life.

To me it is no surprise that when I learned of my biological father’s death, I was watching my fantasy father on TV. I idolized
James Evans Sr., John Amos’s character on
Good Times,
and for years I wished he were my own father. They were complete opposites. While my father was aggressive and abusive, fighting
everyone around him, James Evans Sr. used his strength to fight against the sting of poverty and racism in the Chicago projects
that threatened to tear apart his family.

To me James Evans symbolized strength and character. I admired him, and with no strong black man close to me to look up to,
with no one like him in my life, I looked up to him. As my life progressed, I would eventually learn that a man’s
character is his destiny. And I knew that one day, I would meet John Amos.

I feel extremely fortunate to have developed such a strong bond with John when I did. He exemplified strength of character
in everything he did on film, television, and stage. It was his mentorship that laid the foundation for my transition from
New York to Los Angeles. He helped me further understand my place in the world.

He would always say, “Your intensity can be a pain in the ass, son, but I love it! All you need is one vehicle and you are
on your way. That is if your emotions don’t become your worst enemy. You feel so deeply, son, but you have got to learn to
contain it and make it laser sharp. Sharp enough to be felt through the screen. Can you do it? Huh?”

“Yes, I can do it,” I replied.

“Can you be obsequious?” he asked me one day.

I looked up the word “obsequious”; definition: servile. The word “servile”; definition: humbly submissive.

I didn’t understand. “Why on earth was John Amos asking me to be servile? He’s Kunta Kinte, one of the strongest symbols of
a black man ever on film! He’s the guy who held up his newborn child toward the starry night sky and proclaimed, “Behold the
only thing greater than yourself!” To me he exemplified strength, but he was telling me that I must figure out how to “conceal”
mine.

Meeting John Amos was no accident. I was supposed to meet him; there was something I was to learn from him. He said I needed
to appear affable and nonthreatening or there would be hell to pay. Hollywood never saw my strength as an asset; it already
had Denzel Washington for that. Apparently, there was no room for another serious actor to become a “leading man” in the 1990s
and I wasn’t the happy and funny Will Smith type. John was right. I would figure out just how right years later
when I found myself in the midst of a Hollywood controversy that spread out of control like a forest fire.

It is unflinchingly clear to me that there are no coincidences in life. We meet people for a reason and a season. We each
have a message, a gift, and a purpose to share with the world. It is something that is undeniable and unique to every single
one of us. For years I have used the words “ironic” or “serendipity” so much that it has become like a running joke I’ve told
far too many times. I firmly believe that we are all given signs and dreams and put in situations that define who we were
and who we are to become. All of it points us toward our destiny. All we need to do is listen carefully to the messages and
follow our dreams. It is in our dreams that we find our true identities and where our destiny awaits.

Harry Poe had moved to New York City from DC as well. He became the creative director for the CityKids Repertory when Dianne
Houston left to pursue her writing career in Los Angeles.

The cost of a New York apartment was, and still is, very expensive. Agreeing that it would be cheaper if we split the cost,
Harry and I found a place together on Lincoln and Bedford streets in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn. There was just
one problem. I couldn’t have overnight guests. I never knew the reason behind this; it was just one of Harry’s rules. He was
an extremely private man and I suppose did not want his space invaded by someone he didn’t know or trust.

I once heard a story that he had been married to a woman who was part of the Washington, DC, bourgeoisie. They were reportedly
known to throw lavish soirees at their huge home, for DC’s politicos and community elites. The tale was that Harry refused
to service his wife sexually after they married and rumors of his sexuality prompted her to file for divorce to save face.
Harry’s sexual orientation was never an issue or a discussion
between us. I always considered Harry kind of asexual; I never saw him with a man or a woman. Many of Harry’s protégés were
gay, lesbian, or bisexual, but he had plenty of heterosexual friends and students too. He seemed to love money, people, and
art far more than sex. I never thought much about whether or not someone was gay. I didn’t really care one way or the other.
We were all just struggling artists, theater people.

Harry fancied himself a Renaissance man like Langston Hughes and had delusions of grandeur, always talking about one day getting
“his mansion.” But as I got to know him, I began to see him as a very lonely and somewhat broken man trying to live vicariously
through me. He talked about his mistakes as a young actor and how his hubris stalled his career. He never blamed his failures
on racism; he just chalked them up to poor timing.

He had some health issues and suffered greatly from an ulcer. Harry was a complicated man. He would constantly remark that
I wasn’t “his type” and that he couldn’t understand why he was so interested in me and my career. At times he chided me for
being “too dark” and joked that I should stay out of the sun. This was a huge contradiction to his self-proclaimed African
High Priest Akan demeanor. But Harry was full of contradictions. He would say, “Isaiah, I am incredibly human. I am probably
the most human person you will ever know because I know that I am flawed. I know that I am perfect imperfection!”

I learned so much from Harry, but over time I began to resent his rules. I started spending many nights away from the apartment,
staying at a girlfriend’s place. I would stop by only to drop off my half of the rent.

The situation created extreme tension between us. Eventually, we stopped talking and I severed our ties. Our last argument
was a crisp and philosophical one. Harry accused me of jeopardizing my career and losing focus on reaching my highest potential
as an actor.

“You can be as big and successful as Oprah Winfrey, Eddie Murphy, or Denzel Washington!” Harry said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I shot back. “I’m working as an actor all the time! I think I’m allowed to have some
fun! I don’t want to be successful like Oprah, Eddie, or Denzel; I want to be successful like me!”

What came out of Harry’s mouth next sent me out the door. “Okay, then,” he said. “It seems clear that I’ve been wasting my
time with you if you don’t want that level of success for yourself!”

I was floored and confused at his resolve. I walked past him, out the door, and never looked back. Like any son-and-father
kind of relationship, I set out to prove him wrong as opposed to proving to myself that I was right. I felt that he was treating
me like a child and not as a man. I had never had a father figure challenge me so completely. I didn’t know what to do.

On April 29, 1992, Los Angeles erupted into chaos. I was riveted by the images on TV. The rioting was sparked by the acquittal
of four Los Angeles police officers accused in the beating, caught on videotape, of African American motorist Rodney King.

A girlfriend gave me a brochure about Ayuko Babu and his newly formed nonprofit organization in LA called the Pan African
Film Festival (PAFF). I sat there thumbing through the brochure, glancing back and forth between it and the TV reports, and
read:

PAFF is a non-profit organization dedicated to promoting cultural and racial tolerance through film, art and creative expression.
Each year the festival presents over 100 films from the US, Africa, the Caribbean, Latin America, Europe, the South Pacific
and Canada. The
goal is to present a wide range of creative works by black artists that help to promote positive images and work to destroy
negative stereotypes. The festival also presents one of the country’s largest fine art shows featuring prominent and emerging
black artists and fine crafts people, poets, and story tellers.
¹

It was not the first time someone had mentioned the PAFF to me. It seemed I was hearing about this organization more and more,
almost as much as I was hearing people tell me that I looked like a native Wolof out of Senegal.

I was especially interested in it because Ja’Net Du Bois, the actress and singer who portrayed Wilona on the hit TV show
Good Times
, was a cofounder and chairperson of the PAFF. I had great respect for her as an actress. She was also, of course, on the
same TV show as my fantasy father John Amos. Together, all of these “coincidences” were a sign. My intuition told me that
going to the PAFF would somehow lead me to someone or something that would get me closer to Africa.

Even while watching the reports of what was transpiring in LA, I thought to myself, “It is time for me to get to Los Angeles.”
I wanted to get to the PAFF. I watched the looting, burning, and hellish violence at the corner of Martin Luther King and
South Normandie avenues. I watched, dubiously transfixed at this ignominy for the next three days. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
I could not digest the sheer inhumanity of what I witnessed. These people, the rioters, looked like me. Although I was just
as angry at the injustice of the acquittal, my anger clearly did not burn in my heart as deeply as it did in theirs.

I will never forget the image of Reginald Denny being dragged out of his huge 18-wheeler truck and being mercilessly beaten
and bludgeoned with a cinder block. I sat there watching in shock and in utter disbelief. The phone rang; it was a friend
calling to tell me to call Dianne Houston immediately, she was trying to reach me. When I called her back, the message she
gave me was shattering.

Harry Poe had died.

It was never really clear to me what he died of. He was found dead in his apartment, sitting in a yoga lotus position. They
needed me to come and clean out the apartment and help his parents claim his remains.

The day I put my key in the lock of the door and stepped inside Harry’s place, tears immediately leaped from my eyes. My knees
buckled as I shut the door behind me. I stood there, leaning against the door, frozen, unable to move.

Then something in me said, “Start meditating.” I sat down, closed my eyes, and quieted my mind. Twenty minutes later, I got
up and walked into my old room, where faux paintings covered in bubble wrap were stacked to the ceiling. I cleared a path
and stooped down to look under my old bed. I spotted a dead mouse that looked as if it had suffocated from all of the dust.
I could barely breathe myself.

I began searching until I came across a file cabinet covered with old newspapers. It was unfamiliar to me. I opened it and
discovered all of Harry’s important personal documents. I never knew he had a middle name. It was Xavier. A voice in my head
told me to give these things to his parents. I did.

After removing all the clutter from my old bed, I lay down in complete exhaustion. I felt shaken to my core and was trying
very hard to understand what had just happened. In this apartment full of things, how was it I knew where to find
those
documents?

I turned my head, glanced to the right, and noticed two bullet holes in the window. Many copycat riots had spread around the
nation during the riots in Los Angeles. While I was watching what was happening in LA on TV, apparently Crown Heights
in Brooklyn, and uptown in east Harlem, were in the midst of riots of their own. The positioning of the holes told a frightening
story. If I had been sleeping in the bed when those shots were fired, I would have been shot in the head, twice. I stood up
slowly and followed the trajectory of the bullets to my old closet. As I suspected, the projectiles were still embedded in
the Sheetrock.

This was all very difficult to process. The man who had become the closest thing I ever had to a father was gone, and I never
got a chance to say good-bye. I had left him in this very apartment, in anger, and returned in sadness and regret.

I was still learning from Harry even after he was gone. His passing was pivotal in my understanding and acceptance of death,
which would eventually help me prepare for my mother’s death.

It was only two years later, in 1994, that I learned that she was terminally ill and had about seven years to live. Her life
was now on the clock. I was running out of parents and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

“Yes I’ll hold,” I said. I had boldly placed a call to Mayor Richard Daley’s office to formally file a civil complaint against
a city yellow taxicab driver. I was working in Chicago. A dream had come true. I had finally made it to Mayor Harold Washington’s
city, just as I had promised myself I would back on that cold Thanksgiving eve in 1987, when I sat in Harry’s tiny DC kitchen
and learned of the mayor’s death.