I got presented with a baby for my thirty-fourth birthday. My kid had her firstborn daughter, Amara, on November 13, 1989, and turned me into a grandmother. Most moms get a wallet or a necklace for their birthday from their teenage daughters. I got a granddaughter.
I had raised Alex to be able to tell me anything. Her relationship with me was that she didn’t hide stuff. If something was going on, she’d tell me. So, one day Alex called to say that she was expecting a baby, that she was pregnant. Then she told me that she wanted to keep it.
I asked her, “Are you sure? You have to be absolutely sure.”
She said, “Yes. I want to have this baby. And this baby will love me, and she won’t know you.” Now to some that may sound harsh, but I understood. See, people would move my kid out of the way and not even realize they had done it. After a while, it really pissed her off. At dinner out, people would just sit down and want a picture, and that pissed everyone off.
So all I could say was, “Okay . . .”
As soon as I could, I called my mother. I said, “This is what’s happening. Alex is pregnant, and she wants to keep the baby. I asked her if she’s sure, and she said yes. God damn it! . . . Fuck!”
My mother was quiet for about ten seconds. Then, she said, “Okay. So, why is this a problem?”
“What? Why is this a problem? Because Alex has to go to school. She needs to graduate. She should be doing teen stuff. This is going to change her whole life.”
“Oh . . . okay. I see,” my mother said.
“Wait! What do you see? What do you mean?”
“Well, I see you out there going to Washington, DC, and marching with thousands of other women for choice. I didn’t realize you were just marching only for your choice, for what you would choose.”
“What! Wait, that’s not what—”
She continued, “The truth of the matter is, if this is her choice, it’s her choice. You know, I’m here. There are enough of us here to help her do this if she decides she wants to keep her baby. Because Alex has a choice, which you are always marching for.”
I had no way to reply to that. “Listen,” I said. “I’m getting off the phone now, and I’ll have to call you later. I’ll call you back.”
When it was time, my mother went into the delivery room with my kid, who, being fifteen and completely healthy, gave birth to her beautiful, healthy baby girl about two hours later. And when they brought the baby home, my mom knew exactly what to do. She’d been a pediatric nurse, so she knew what she was doing and handled it all without a problem. Just like she said she would.
Years later, Alexandrea told me that she thinks she got pregnant as a teenager because she wanted one person in her life who didn’t know who Whoopi Goldberg was.
I thought she was getting her revenge on me for being gone so much. I got it.
There was no way to predict what my mother would say or do in any given situation. Her opinions were authentic to her. She was a singular person. My brother, Clyde, was one, too. That’s how Clyde and I were because our mother was our role model. And my mom admired and respected other singular people. She saw no issue in staying singular either.
I married three times before realizing I was better off being singular full-time.
At one of my weddings, my mother said to me, “You know, there’s a car out back.”
“Is this a car you drive?”
She moved me to the side to talk to me privately. “You know I don’t drive.”
“I know. Why are you telling me about a car in the back?”
“You don’t have to do this. Get married.”
I said, “I know I don’t. But I’ve involved other people. I said yes to the proposal when I should have ducked or dove to the left or right. And now all these people have shown up to celebrate.”
“Well, you can just get in the car. I will explain to everyone.”
“Ma, I can’t. I think that would be such a horrific thing to do to the guy.”
“Okay,” she said.
My mom knew I wasn’t in love with this man. I was attached to the idea of being in love, but this wasn’t it.
When that marriage went toes up, I thought maybe I just wasn’t doing it right.
When I headed into number three, my mother said, “For God’s sake, Caryn, why don’t you just have a party instead?”
I should have listened to that sage advice, but I didn’t. And when that one ended a couple years later, I told her she was right.
She said, “You have to say to the next one who asks, ‘No, I don’t think I want to be married.’”
“Okay,” I said. “Because I don’t like, and I really am not good at, this marriage stuff.”
“Then stop doing it. If you’re not good at it, stick to the shit you’re good at. If you’re not good at relationships, stick to being a really good friend to someone. You don’t have to live with anyone. You don’t have to marry everyone or anyone.”
It took me a long time to figure out it was also cheaper to “just have a party instead.”
And now, at this age, I don’t even bother with a party. Who needs the aggravation? It’s all about a “hit and run,” and I have them only with someone who completely understands that this is only a “hit and run.” I don’t even want to have to toss empty beer bottles in the recycle bin after somebody hung out too long. I don’t need anybody to stick around after that at all.
The only people, besides my kid and her family, that I could have hung out with all the time were Mom and Clyde, which is why, once my career was moving ahead, I asked Clyde to be my driver.
After I got famous, when I would go to film a movie, the producers would set me up with a car and a driver to take me back and forth to the set. Then I made a movie called The Long Walk Home, which was filmed in Alabama. Clyde was living in Montgomery at the time, working for AT&T.
I was like, “Dude, do you want to drive me? Come on the crew as my driver on the set?”
He told me, “I can’t. I work all day for the phone company.”
I wanted to take the load off my brother and get him to come back to California with me because I just didn’t feel like he was okay being in Alabama.
We started hanging out in the evenings after filming. I said, “Are you sure you want to stay down here? This is quite a different place to live.”
“No. I’d love to come to California, but I have to make it happen.”
That’s when I made my deal with him because I knew it would help me out and it would help Ma, too.
“I will take care of you and Ma if you take care of Ma, especially since she doesn’t drive. In the meantime, you can be my driver for movies. Then we can hang out together. We can all be together.”
I knew he loved driving. He would make long cross-country road trips whenever he could. I loved Porsche cars, and he was happy to get behind the wheel of one of those.
That’s what we agreed to do. I felt better knowing my brother would be with our mom. And as my driver, I knew he always had my back. He understood the difference between Whoopi Goldberg, the personality, and Sis.
Everybody on the sets loved him because he was so fun to be around. Having him around me on movie sets made a huge difference for me because he could read my face and know where I was at.
Whenever he drove me somewhere, he’d say, “Let me go in first and see what’s going down.”
Sometimes, he’d come back to the car and say, “I don’t think you really want to do this. Because there’s a lot of stuff going on and a lot of people, and you know, maybe you want to sit this one out.”
I’d say, “Okay, cool. I appreciate that.”
He was my ace in the hole. He loved going on adventures. Wherever I had to be, he’d be willing to go. And he liked the benefit of being with me, too. It was like him getting to show up places with a puppy.
We’d go somewhere, and an attractive woman would come up to meet me or get my autograph. I’d introduce Clyde as my brother. Being as handsome as he was, the woman would stay and chat him up. The next thing I’d know, he’d be going out later with her.
Like my mother, Clyde loved meeting and talking to actors and performers he admired. They both loved the type of performers who were singular people.
My mom always told me to pay attention to Sammy Davis Jr. She felt he didn’t get the recognition he deserved, considering his versatility. She told me he was a rare performer who could do it all. She felt the same way about Michael Jackson. She admired Quincy Jones for his ability to recognize and produce talent in all different types of music. She was a lifelong fan of Judy Garland, Harry Belafonte, and Billie Holiday. She appreciated the unique talents of Freddie Mercury and David Bowie.
In the film world, she admired the actors who held the films together because their performances were always strong.
One day, in the early ’90s, I was in California, at my house in the Pacific Palisades, and my mom and my brother were staying there with me for a while.
I got a call from my agent, who told me, “Marlon Brando wants to talk to you.”
I thought he was bullshitting me, so I was like, “Yeah, right. Okay.”
My agent said, “No, really. Marlon Brando wants to call you. He likes you a lot and wants to know you as a friend.”
“You’re serious then? Okay. Sure. Give him the number.”
Clyde and my mom were both out doing something together, so it was just me and the housekeeper at the house.
About forty minutes later, my phone rang, and I said, “Hello.” And I hear this voice I know because I’ve watched every movie he’s been in, some of them many times. I stood there with my phone up to my ear, grinning.
He said, “Well, I would like to sit down and talk to you. Can we do that, you know, on Thursday or sometime soon?”
I said, “Okay. Do you want to come here? Or I can come to you.”
And Marlon said, “No. I will come see you.”
So I gave him the address, and we both hung up. I was pretty sure my mom and brother were going to be thrilled about this.
Behind my house was a canyon with a sloping hill and a garden. I decided to go out and cut some flowers for a vase. I was out there with my clippers when I heard my piano being played. I wasn’t sure why I was hearing music because I knew the housekeeper didn’t play piano and no one else was home. So, I got a little freaked out, thinking some stranger had found his way in.
I tiptoed around the back of the house and grabbed a long garden tool, something I could hit somebody with if I had to. I eased the french doors open and looked in. It was Marlon Brando playing my piano. He was playing the song “Stardust.” I was standing there with a shovel handle in my hand thinking, Marlon Brando is playing piano in my house! I’m sure my mouth was hanging open.
He didn’t stop playing.
When he finished, I said, “That was amazing, but what are you doing here? I thought we were meeting on Thursday.”
He said, “Well, we had such a good conversation, I decided I was going to come over right away. The housekeeper let me in.”
“Okay. Are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat or drink?”
He didn’t want anything, so I took him to the living room. I knew there was no way for me to prepare my mother or brother to let them know that Marlon Brando was in the house. (This was about five years before cell phones.)
First, we started talking about an acting class he was teaching, and he wanted me to make a special appearance and talk to the students. Then, we got to talking about films we loved.
About thirty minutes into our conversation, my mother came through the front door.
I said, “Ma, let me introduce you to Marlon Brando.”
She stopped in her tracks, and I saw her eyes light up like they were on fire. It was like her hair grew five inches and became illuminated. She walked toward us like the Queen of Sheba. She extended her hand very formally, and her voice got husky and sultry as she said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brando. You must know that I’m a very big fan of your work.”
I was looking at her like she was this stranger I hadn’t seen since she met Sidney Poitier. That same person had shown up, again, for Marlon Brando. She turned into this sexpot before my eyes.
Marlon stood up, leaned over, and kissed her on the hand as he held it.
Now my mother’s head was about to explode.
Marlon said to her, “You are stunning. Your daughter and I have been talking about movies. And I’m pleased to meet you now.”
She smiled demurely. “Well, I’m going to go upstairs now. Again, Mr. Brando, a pleasure.” She turned and sauntered toward the staircase.
I was thinking, Really, Ma? But I was trying not to laugh.
A little while later, my brother came in.
And I said, “Clyde, I want you to say hello to Marlon Brando.”
Clyde walked over to Marlon, who stood back up, and they hugged and then did a series of hand-slapping handshakes like they had rehearsed them.
I was watching all of this thinking, Do you even know that you’re talking to Marlon Brando? Because you guys are acting like you’ve been on the street together for years.
Then Clyde said to Marlon, “You know, it’s been really cool talking to you. I’m glad I got to see you.” They repeated the whole hand-slapping handshake thing, and my brother went upstairs.
Marlon stayed for another thirty minutes to talk to me about his island in Fiji and his efforts to preserve the ecosystem. He was also into growing spirulina and algae in the ocean that could be dried and used as high-protein food to feed people around the world.
After he left, my mother and brother came down the stairs like two little kids on Christmas morning. They were waving their hands in the air and screaming, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Marlon Brando was in this house!”
We all started dancing around and shimmying. We were doing all kinds of crazy stuff.
My brother said to me, “God damn, I guess you’re famous.”
I was laughing my ass off and said, “I think so, too. It must be.”
That was the first day of my ongoing friendship with Marlon Brando.
When he passed away, I got a phone call that he had left me a parcel of land on his Fiji island. It really threw me for a loop. I never expected that.
A while later, an attorney for the family called me and said, “I know Marlon left you a part of the island, but we’d like to ask you to give it back because if everybody keeps theirs, there won’t be an island left.”
I told them that I understood and that I wanted to have it go back to Marlon’s family.
The only other time I really saw Ma’s coy Sidney Poitier–Marlon Brando personality come out again was when she went with me to the White House. I did some work for Bill Clinton’s presidential campaign for both terms. I found out that she also had a good friend working for Clinton’s campaign.
I said, “Ma, the president is coming in, and I’m going to be at this event for him. Do you want to go with me and meet him?”
She very nonchalantly said, “Okay. Sure.”
So I took my mother with me to the White House for a big fundraiser for the second term. I was standing there in a crowded room with her, and Ma’s friend on the campaign came over and gave her a big hug. Then the doors swung open, and in came Bill Clinton.
It’s no secret that he just has that thing, that crazy sex appeal women like when they go near him. It was talked about all the time.
Bill came over to say hello, and he leaned over my mother, took her hand, and said with that southern drawl, “I’m so pleased to meet Whoopi’s mother.”
Before my eyes, my mother turned into a twenty-five-year-old. She looked like one of those paintings from the ’60s of black women with Afros. She was glowing, like sparks of light were bouncing off her head.
Her voice dropped down all husky and quiet, and she said, “Oh. Oh, Mr. President.”
He stayed and talked with her for about ten minutes, and it was amazing for me to see, to watch my mother chatting with a US president, something I’m sure she never thought she would do. My mother appreciated his loyalty and conviction about the Head Start programs. He was strong about it all eight years. Mom always felt that children were not being respected enough and that the government needed to put some more programs like Head Start out there for the public. Like President Clinton, she believed very strongly that if you can give a kid a head start, they have a much better possibility of succeeding.
Watching my mom with him made me realize how magical my life actually has been.
When Barack Obama was elected our forty-fourth president, she said to me, “Well, I never thought I’d see this day. A black president in the White House. I never ever thought this day would ever come.”
Clyde had the same thing going on for him as Bill Clinton when it came to women. Women would fall out of the sky when Clyde was around. If he met you, he’d probably stay in touch with you. He also went to the neighborhood reunions and kept in touch with everybody in the neighborhood.
When my brother died of a brain aneurysm in 2015, we had three memorial services: one in Berkeley, one in Los Angeles, and one in New York.
At the first memorial in Berkeley, two women came up to talk to me at different times. One said, “I don’t know if you know this, but Clyde and I had plans to live together.” The other said, “Clyde and I were going to drive to New York and visit you in a month.” They were both crying and carrying on.
Then, we went to do a memorial in Los Angeles. I was standing with Alex when she said, “Here comes another one.”
Sure enough, two other women approached us separately to say, “Clyde and I planned to move in together,” or “Clyde was planning to take me with him here or there.”
Alex started to side-eye me, and later she asked, “How many women was he seeing?”
I had no idea, but in my head, I was saying to him, “Good God, Clyde. This shit is crazy ridiculous.”
When we got to New York, the story repeated itself with a couple of other women. Each woman looked different from the others—different hues, colors, languages, ages, sizes, it didn’t matter.
I swear, by the time the New York memorial was over, I could hear my brother chuckling in my soul. Women loved my brother, but he had no intention of settling down with any of them. He was a man of the world. He loved to dress like a king, drive beautiful cars, and have a good time. He was quite something.
About a year after he passed, I had a dream about my brother. I’m standing, wearing a backpack. And I’m at school, like my grammar school, and I’m wearing a school uniform. Clyde comes walking up, and I’m thinking to myself, Look at you standing there like that. How are you doing? Then, it comes to me. Wait. You’re dead. I better faint. So I make myself faint.
Clyde leans over me and says, “Why are you fainting?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “How are you?”
“I’m good. Everything’s good. I just want to say hi.” Clyde gives me a big hug.
I tell him, “I’ll see you soon.”
He says, “Not too soon.”
And that was that.
In a way, I’m relieved that both Clyde and my ma passed away before number forty-five got to have his one term in office. I know my mom would be so discouraged at how his attitude turned people against each other, how women’s rights got reversed, and how much worse it started looking for black folks and other people of color in this country.
When I was a little kid in the projects, I would see old ladies who had numbers stamped on their arms. I didn’t know what it was then but came to understand it later in life. When I got older and had conversations with these elderly Jewish women who had survived the atrocities of the Holocaust, they said to me, “Keep your eyes very peeled. Because it’s never happened here in the US, but it doesn’t mean that it can’t. When you hear things that don’t sound good being brought up around you, you need to listen. And when these things start happening and you start losing your rights as an American, then you have to really prick up your ears.”
One of the ladies told me, “You don’t want to be caught like we were. We didn’t get out in time. We didn’t get out fast enough.”
Since 2016, that’s been on my mind. I’m listening. I’m watching. And I’ve got things prepared should anything get worse. But it would make my mom and brother enraged and sad that America has taken such a big step backward.
I still have hope, and I know most people in this country just want to live their own lives and keep the peace, but I’m listening and watching very closely.