Cicely Tyson - Just as I Am

I WAS introduced to Ms. Tyson on a television set in my familys dilapidated apartment in Central Falls, Rhode Island. Oddly, it was a television that rested upon another broken one, a set with aluminum foil on its antennae for better reception. My sisters Deloris and Dianne sat beside me, cross-legged in front of the screen, and together we witnessed magican image that changed my life at the tender age of seven. There was Ms. Tyson in The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman, a made-for-TV movie based on the novel by Ernest J. Gaines. In the 1974 film, 110-year-old Jane Pittman reflects on her life, from her enslavement in her early twenties to the day nearly a century later when she defies Jim Crow by sipping from a whites-only water fountain.

I couldnt believe the same actress had played both the young woman and the elder one, but Deloris insisted she had. I stared at my sister, and then back at the screen, marveling at Ms. Tysons mastery of her craft, the brilliance with which she had transformed herself. It planted in me a seed that immediately took root. She was the manifestation of excellence and artistry, a dark-skinned, thick-lipped woman who truly mirrored me. I can pinpoint the exact moment when my life opened up, and it was there, in front of that set, that mine did. With one mesmerizing performance, with one gorgeously poignant rendering of her character, Ms. Tyson gave me permission to dream.

I was no stranger to the wonder of dreams. For most of my life, dreams were all my siblings and I had. I was born in 1965, in a one-room sharecroppers shack on a plantation in South Carolina. My father was illiterate, and my mother had only an eighth-grade education. Desperate to support my siblings and me, my parents moved us north. My father was an equestrian who groomed horses and prepared them for racing, and in Rhode Island he found work. We settled in Central Falls, a mill town a single square mile in size. Though my father did all he could to piece together a living for us, we still lived in abject poverty, on societys lowest rung. Our deprivation far exceeded the financial. We were the only Black family in a town of white Irish Catholics, a family with no sense of ourselves, other than as invisible. There was no foundation of self-love or worth for us, no pathway to any kind of achievement.

We settled for a time at 128 Washington Streetor 128, as my sisters and I referred to it. That condemned building represented exactly how the world felt about us. It was the demon that sat on my chest during those years, the devil that still hangs over me as a painful memory of the trauma. Our third-floor, rat-infested apartment lacked heat, plumbing, and hot water because the pipes froze during the harsh New England winters. There was a single room with electricity, and from that room, a long cord stretched to connect us to the outside world through that foiled-antennae television. It was on that screen, in 128, that Ms. Tyson flickered into my world.

In Ms. Tyson I saw a dark-skinned woman with the same fro as my mother, an artist who carried herself with pride and poise. I was more than entertained by the story of Jane Pittmans life. I was mesmerized by Ms. Tysons ability to transport me from my world to hers, to a place where I didnt have to wade through garbage bins in search of food covered in maggots, a place where the demon on my chest disappeared for a time. Even as a child, I knew I wanted more than 128, wanted more than the rat-infested existence we endured. Watching Jane Pittman, I saw my ticket out of poverty and shame.

Ms. Tyson, the daughter of immigrants, had herself risen out of poverty and onto the global stage. In her journey, I glimpsed possibilities for my own. For hours in our bedroom, my sisters and I would try to imitate everything about Ms. Tyson: her piercing gaze, those eyes brimming with memory and emotion, the way she held her jaw, how she so fully embodied her characters. By the time I was fourteen, I was so intent on following in her path that I took a bus to an acting class two hours away, since my family didnt have a car. There I was, a complete geek in my gaucho pants and my purple mascara, doing all I could to imbue my characters with the empathy Ms. Tyson brought to her portrayals. I wanted to be exceptional at my craft. And more than anything, I wanted to be like her.

Before I knew of her, Ms. Tyson had already made a name for herself as an accomplished actor, engraving our narratives into the storybook of the world. For six decades, Ms. Tyson has shown us who we are: vulnerable, magnificent, pain-ridden, and beautifully human. Time and time again, she has put our humanity on display, never compromising her dignity while creating a new chapter in Black history. In 1963 during the filming of the series East Side/West Side, she arrived on set rocking her fro, becoming the first Black woman to wear her natural hair on TV. Yet terms like trailblazer and pioneer dont fully capture what she means to so many of us who looked up to her as the epitome of Black strength. Ms. Tyson is the Master Truth Tellera warrior with fierce courage and supreme artistry, her instrument precisely tuned to tell stories that capture our being.

Over the years, Ive held close Ms. Tysons brave spirit as Ive admired her work from afar. Then, in 2011 on the set of The Help, I finally met my muse. There before me on a muggy afternoon in Mississippi stood the divine giver of gifts, the legend who had inspired me to act. I embraced her, tears spilling from my eyes as I stammered through a flurry of thank-yous, none of them conveying the depth of my gratitude. We had no scenes together in the movie, and I wasnt on set when Ms. Tyson filmed her segments as Constantine. But the director, Tate Taylor, recalled the dedication she brought to her work. She showed up on set in character and remained that way, insisting that she be called Constantine at all times. Thats just who Ms. Tyson is: excellence personified.

Toward the end of 2014, I asked my role model to play Ophelia, the mother of my character, Annalise, on the ABC series How to Get Away with Murder. In life, Ms. Tyson had nurtured and mentored me. On the set, she would do the same, though in a way that initially caught me off guard. Shed just turned ninety years old then, and she strode in already steeped in the tense history between mother and daughter. As she entered, I stood there with an enormous smile on my face and my arms outstretched to hug her. She marched right past me, reprimanding me with her stern expression, a mother putting a child in her place. She knew that if shed broken the moment by stepping out of character, her portrayal wouldnt be the same. Faced with that wall, I laughed and thought,