On My Own Terms

Excerpt from Chapter One


 Without question, the most significant African American role model in those early days in the 1960’s was actor Mr. Sidney Poitier. Each Sunday, I walked over a mile to our downtown movie theatre to sit in the plush State Theatre. On the rare occasions when I saw him on the screen, I sat straight up in my seat, transfixed. I most remember him in movies like Lilies of the Field, To Sir, With Love, and Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner.

It was not uncommon for tears to roll down my cheeks during dramatic moments in Mr. Poitier’s films. I took in his every eloquent word as I sat in the dark, eating my shoestring potato chips one by one.

Mr. Poitier was handsome, proud, and he looked just like me. He made me feel proud to be Black. Squinting my eyes on Sundays as I walked out of the movie theatre in the sunlight, I always felt a little taller after seeing him onscreen.

Little did I know I would eventually have the opportunity to meet Mr. Poitier in person. Initially, I had the pleasure of being in his company socially twice in Los Angeles but could not muster up the courage to approach him. I could not form words to speak. However, I promised myself that if there ever came a third time, I would force myself to walk up to him.

The third time came.

In 1993, at the National Black Theatre Festival, I spotted him in the crowded lobby of the official hotel in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. I probably would have passed up yet another opportunity to meet Mr. Poitier, had I not made that promise to myself.

When I finally got up enough nerve to approach Mr. Poitier, I began with something like, “Mr. Poitier, I was in your company twice before. I could not bring myself to walk up to you then but I promised myself that if a third time ever came, I would introduce myself. My name is Adilah Barnes.”

He stopped.

He looked through me with his piercing eyes. I think he was struck most by my sincerity, because he gave me his full attention as I stood in front of him. During the short time we spent together in conversation, it was as if time had stopped and no one else existed in that crowded lobby. It was as if we were in an invisible and impenetrable bubble together.

Among other things, I remember blurting out something like, “You made me feel so proud as a child when I watched your movies in my little home town of Oroville, California. I just want to thank you for all that you have given to Black people, and for changing the way we were seen on the big screen. Thank you for opening the door wider for actors like me.”

He listened.

I was surprised to hear Mr. Poitier say, “And you, my dear, will do greater things.”

I said, “Oh, no, Mr. Poitier, I could not possibly do more than you have!”

There must have been something in our body language that stopped anyone from interrupting us, because no one approached us. Once we were done talking, Mr. Poitier hugged and kissed me on the cheek.

It was only when we began to move away from each other that fans began to yell out things like, “Mr. Poitier! Mr. Poitier! May I have an autograph?” or “Mr. Poitier, I love your work!”

I stood in that hotel doorway and watched Mr. Sidney Poitier move toward his black limo, graciously signing autographs along the way. He turned and gave me a smile with his final look as he stepped inside.

I had approached him humbly. I spoke from my heart. Because of that, I had no need to ask for his autograph.

As fate would have it, I met Mr. Sidney Poitier again a short while later at the 100th birthday celebration for the late Paul Robeson, given by Danny Glover’s Robey Theatre Company in 1998. I remember that evening in great detail. It was at the Actor’s Gang Theatre, located at the time in Hollywood on Santa Monica Boulevard. Mr. Poitier had a front-row seat, along with the likes of the late Brock Peters and Mamie Hansberry, sister of the late playwright Lorraine Hansberry.

The place was packed.

Danny Glover, my longtime friend from California’s Bay Area, was hosting the event. Danny spotted me from the stage at one point and acknowledged me with a smile. I smiled back. A short while later, Danny came offstage and headed towards me. He bent over me while someone on the program was still speaking on stage. He whispered, “I have a poem here by Pablo Neruda. Alfre Woodard was supposed to read it, but she can’t make it tonight. I want you to read it.

"My heart began to palpitate as I asked Danny how long the poem was. "

He simply said, “Three pages.”

I gasped. “Three pages!”

He said, “Yeah, read it.”

I agreed on one condition: “As long as you announce to the audience that this is my first time seeing this poem.”

He agreed.

I read.

That evening I experienced one of my most fulfilling moments on stage. The icing on the cake was that I read in front of my childhood idol, Mr. Sidney Poiter. I again had his full attention. I almost melted in my seat as he complimented me on stage in front of over 200 people. He said something like, “I was asked to read that poem, but declined. I could not have brought more justice to that poem than the young lady you just heard.”

Mr. Poitier had now seen me on stage and given me his nod.

Danny smiled afterwards as he jokingly said to the audience, “It’s all in the casting.” The audience responded with a spontaneous laugh.

That evening held a very important lesson for an actor.

Always be ready.

I have since run into Mr. Poitier on two other occasions. I saw him next in January of 2007 at Angela and John Witherspoon’s 1st Anniversary celebration of the Artpeace Gallery, their beautiful art gallery in Burbank, California that primarily honors exhibits by African American visual artists. I stood next to Mr. Poitier as we appreciated artwork on display that evening. I reminded him of our prior meetings. Because he is so gracious, I am not sure he actually remembered me but he listened as I reminded him of the two other times we had shared a moment on our crossed paths.

As of this writing, our most recent exchange took place at Roscoe Lee Browne’s memorial service at the Mark Taper Forum in Los Angeles on April 22, 2007. Upon walking inside the Mark Taper, I was surprised to find the theatre pitch black. A very moving retrospective montage of Roscoe’s television and film work was being shown onscreen. The audience laughed wildly in recognition of some of Roscoe’s most funny moments on camera that demonstrated his acerbic tongue. It was next to impossible to get to a seat in that room of darkness.

I was finally urged to move aside by those so impatient to claim a seat they were willing to forge ahead in darkness. As I cautiously waited for enough light to make my way up the stairs of the nearby aisle, I heard a woman say, “There are two seats here.” Although I was not seated in the center section that I preferred, I sat two seats over to allow another seat for a gentleman who was behind me. I sat and he almost landed in my lap as he quickly followed me. Like me, his eyes were not yet accustomed to the darkness. I guided him over to his seat as I whispered, “Your seat is here.”

He whispered back, “Thank you.”

Settled in, we both began to immerse ourselves in Roscoe’s memorial service, hearing touching remembrances from the likes of Laurence Fishburne, Brenda Vaccaro, Anthony Yerbe, Gordon Davidson, Roscoe’s niece and nephew, and Martin Sheen. Although I felt the man next to me, I never tried to look in his face. I felt him trying to see who was next to him at one point, but I never looked directly his way.

At one point, I felt an impulse to glance at him, but I never did. Although I did not, I could feel him as we laughed at some of the same moments, or when we responded individually to different moments in the program.

When Roscoe’s partner of thirty-eight years, Anthony Zerbe, began to speak of Sir Sidney Poitier and how he could not make it, the gentleman next to me raised his hand and yelled out, “I am here.” I was stunned as I looked next to me for the first time and saw Mr. Sidney Poitier.

I said to him, “I had no idea I was sitting next to you!”

He asked if he should go down and I said’ “Absolutely!”

When asked from the podium by Anthony Zerbe if he wanted to speak, Mr. Poitier stood and further yelled out, “I do!”

He proudly made his way down to the stage, our moment together having come to a close. Being the prankster that Roscoe could be, I am sure he had something to do with that seeming coincidence. I thank Roscoe for placing Mr. Poitier and me unknowingly next to each other.

I am glad I followed my intuition to attend the service that day because I heard words I so needed to hear at that moment in my life. I was inspired by others who spoke, and I was reminded how blessed I am to have been given my gift as an actor. I was also reminded that we all have our inner struggles and demons. Although concealed behind his love and mastery of language, Roscoe owned his too.

The day of Roscoe Lee Browne’s memorial service made my fourth exchange with Mr. Sidney Poitier. The former three times we shared a brief conversation. This day we sat together silently in the dark sharing a heartfelt celebration for the irreplaceable Roscoe Lee Browne.