Read Online You Have No Idea: A Famous Daughter, Her No-Nonsense Mother, and How They Survived Pageants, Hollywood, Love, Loss by Vanessa Williams, Helen Williams - Free Book Online
Authors: Vanessa Williams, Helen Williams
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always be there. Don’t try to fight it, just accept that it will always be part of your story—a big part.
—HELEN WILLIAMS
A fter living in my parents’ home and hearing young high school kids scream out of their cars in front of the house, “Vanessa is a lesbian,” I was ready to be on my own and move into the city. I fought for the scholarship money I was entitled to ($25,000 for winning the pageant, $4,000 for winning swimsuit and talent), got it, and decided to put it toward a condo in Manhattan.
Dennis, my attorney, had me meet a Realtor to start the search. Dennis was also managing my career, setting up record company meetings, working on endorsements for Royal Silk, tapping into all the interested parties. I also signed with International Creative Management, the top talent agency in New York. I saw a gorgeous one-bedroom apartment that I fell in love with on Sixtieth Street, kitty-corner to Lincoln Center. It had rounded balconies and plenty of light. I had enough for a down payment and couldn’t wait tomove in. Then the co-op board decided that they didn’t want to sell the unit to me because of my notoriety. Crushed—and it still stings whenever I pass the Upper West Side building—I ended up renting an eastside apartment on Fifty-Fourth Street between First Avenue and Sutton Place. At $2,500 a month, it was very posh—a doorman building. I saw a one-bedroom and decided to upgrade to a bedroom with a dining nook on the nineteenth floor. I had no furniture at all—just my bed from my teenage bedroom, which was out of the question.
I was bed shopping at Macy’s in midtown Manhattan when I heard the whispers. I’d gotten accustomed to being recognized, so I got a pair of fake reading glasses, hoping I would throw people off.
A black woman at a nearby counter saw me and said, “Boooo!”
There was no way to hide. What a disappointment I’d been to the black community—first a symbol of pride and triumph, now a symbol of shame.
I did nothing in response to the lady at the counter. I took the hit, pushed it down, and built up my armor. I wanted to disappear. Frankly, I wanted that woman to disappear! I bought my black lacquer platform bed (how eighties), escaped into the street, and went back to my apartment.
This wasn’t the first time it had happened. Others had expressed disgust with me. But each time it hurt. I’ve had people sneer and spit on the street when I’d walk by. Some would say things like “You should be ashamed of yourself” and “What a disgrace!”
One time a parking attendant at a garage in New York City studied me and said with pity, “I hate to say it, but you look like Vanessa Williams.” On the Millwood A&P parking lot some punks spray-painted VANESSA’S A LESBIAN .
But despite the heinous behavior of some, others reminded me that I wasn’t alone. I got letters, phone calls, and telegrams from all over the world. There were lots of supporters.
Jesse Jackson called my dad and left me a message to “hold my head high.” Sammy Davis Jr. took my parents aside at the Motown Returns to the Apollo televised concert and said, “I admire your daughter.” He wrote down his phone number. “If you need any help, call me anytime. I’m here for you and her.” Nikki Giovanni, the renowned black poet and writer, sent me a letter: “If I had a daughter, I would be more than delighted if she conducted herself as you have.”
My parents received hundreds of supportive telegrams from friends and people I’d never met from all over the country, including the singer Lionel Richie; Cynthia Dwyer, a former hostage in Iran; and Laurie Lea Schaefer and the actress Lee Meriwether, both past Miss Americas. Lee, who has remained a friend and supporter ever since, sent me a beautiful letter that read as follows:
Dear Vanessa,
This is a sad and terrible time for you, I’m sure. But please! Please don’t let this destroy you! You are a beautiful and talented young woman. USE THESE
—HELEN WILLIAMS
A fter living in my parents’ home and hearing young high school kids scream out of their cars in front of the house, “Vanessa is a lesbian,” I was ready to be on my own and move into the city. I fought for the scholarship money I was entitled to ($25,000 for winning the pageant, $4,000 for winning swimsuit and talent), got it, and decided to put it toward a condo in Manhattan.
Dennis, my attorney, had me meet a Realtor to start the search. Dennis was also managing my career, setting up record company meetings, working on endorsements for Royal Silk, tapping into all the interested parties. I also signed with International Creative Management, the top talent agency in New York. I saw a gorgeous one-bedroom apartment that I fell in love with on Sixtieth Street, kitty-corner to Lincoln Center. It had rounded balconies and plenty of light. I had enough for a down payment and couldn’t wait tomove in. Then the co-op board decided that they didn’t want to sell the unit to me because of my notoriety. Crushed—and it still stings whenever I pass the Upper West Side building—I ended up renting an eastside apartment on Fifty-Fourth Street between First Avenue and Sutton Place. At $2,500 a month, it was very posh—a doorman building. I saw a one-bedroom and decided to upgrade to a bedroom with a dining nook on the nineteenth floor. I had no furniture at all—just my bed from my teenage bedroom, which was out of the question.
I was bed shopping at Macy’s in midtown Manhattan when I heard the whispers. I’d gotten accustomed to being recognized, so I got a pair of fake reading glasses, hoping I would throw people off.
A black woman at a nearby counter saw me and said, “Boooo!”
There was no way to hide. What a disappointment I’d been to the black community—first a symbol of pride and triumph, now a symbol of shame.
I did nothing in response to the lady at the counter. I took the hit, pushed it down, and built up my armor. I wanted to disappear. Frankly, I wanted that woman to disappear! I bought my black lacquer platform bed (how eighties), escaped into the street, and went back to my apartment.
This wasn’t the first time it had happened. Others had expressed disgust with me. But each time it hurt. I’ve had people sneer and spit on the street when I’d walk by. Some would say things like “You should be ashamed of yourself” and “What a disgrace!”
One time a parking attendant at a garage in New York City studied me and said with pity, “I hate to say it, but you look like Vanessa Williams.” On the Millwood A&P parking lot some punks spray-painted VANESSA’S A LESBIAN .
But despite the heinous behavior of some, others reminded me that I wasn’t alone. I got letters, phone calls, and telegrams from all over the world. There were lots of supporters.
Jesse Jackson called my dad and left me a message to “hold my head high.” Sammy Davis Jr. took my parents aside at the Motown Returns to the Apollo televised concert and said, “I admire your daughter.” He wrote down his phone number. “If you need any help, call me anytime. I’m here for you and her.” Nikki Giovanni, the renowned black poet and writer, sent me a letter: “If I had a daughter, I would be more than delighted if she conducted herself as you have.”
My parents received hundreds of supportive telegrams from friends and people I’d never met from all over the country, including the singer Lionel Richie; Cynthia Dwyer, a former hostage in Iran; and Laurie Lea Schaefer and the actress Lee Meriwether, both past Miss Americas. Lee, who has remained a friend and supporter ever since, sent me a beautiful letter that read as follows:
Dear Vanessa,
This is a sad and terrible time for you, I’m sure. But please! Please don’t let this destroy you! You are a beautiful and talented young woman. USE THESE
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