Rita Moreno: A Memoir (22 page)

But the boy literally was too shy to speak, which made the visit painful for me. It was also poignant; after all, we were related, and we could have been a family. I was truly starting to think more and more about family.

Would I ever become a wife and have a family of my own? I was beginning to feel a longing for stability that I’d never experienced before.

The second occurrence happened on February 26, 1962. I was stunned. It was late in the evening when I returned to the hotel from the day’s shoot. There, waiting at the front desk, was a telegram from my agent informing me that I had been nominated for an Oscar as Best Supporting Actress for
West Side Story
!

It had never occurred to me that I might be nominated for the Oscar. It just didn’t seem in the realm of possibility, especially for a Puerto Rican girl. Only one Hispanic in history had ever won an Oscar: José Ferrer, who had earned the Best Actor award for playing a non-Hispanic role in
Cyrano de Bergerac.

In fact, no Hispanic woman had ever won any Oscar, ever! I didn’t even dare hope that I’d actually win. It is a cliché, I know, when people say, “It’s an honor just to be nominated.” But for me it was true. It
was
an honor. More than that, it was a dizzying joy for me to be nominated, erasing much of the pain of the previous several years. I thought it was impossible to go farther than this nomination, but one thing was for sure: I was determined to fly home to LA for the awards!

There followed a flurry of negotiations with the movie company. The result was that they would release me for only three days: one day to fly over, one day for the Oscar ceremony, and one day to fly back to the jungle.

I didn’t care. The important thing was that I was going! I ordered a heavily brocaded dress made of special Japanese obi fabric, a gorgeous gown with a black bateau top that I still have (and can still get into, happily).

On April 9, 1962, I attended the Academy Award ceremony. George Chakiris, who had also been nominated, was my escort, and on the way in the limo we laughed and practiced our “loser faces”—the fake smiles we would need to show when other actors won in our categories.

I was so convinced that I wouldn’t win that I almost gave that fake smile when my name was called: “And the winner is…Rita Moreno!”

Stunned, I made my way up to the stage and stared in disbelief as Rock Hudson handed me the Oscar. I was so giddy that I was literally speechless. I didn’t thank anyone, because I hadn’t prepared a speech. All I managed to say was, “I do not believe it! And I leave you with that!” before I ran off.

As I glided offstage, the cohost of the ceremony, Joan Crawford, seized me and trapped me in her viselike grip. She was built like a linebacker. “I am so glad,” she intoned, “that you have chosen to share your moment of triumph with me!”

She held me for a good fifteen minutes, mugging for the photographers who were there to photograph me. Because of our height difference, I never saw Joan’s face—just her impressive bosom. When the photographer finally managed to peel me from her death grip, I was ushered to the press room, where I congratulated George, who won the award for Best Male Supporting Actor, and
join my mom, who was waiting in the audience for me to return.

That night was wonderful. But the best part was later, when I heard from my dear friend, Liz Torrea that, while the Oscars were being televised, there was a sacred silence in El Barrio—Spanish Harlem—and in all of the other Puerto Rican neighborhoods in New York. My people were holding their collective breath. And what an outcry when I won! People were literally hanging out their windows, yelling, “She won! She won! She
did it
!” What they were really saying was “
We
won!”

That Hispanic groundswell of pride and support made me happier than just about anything else about the award. As if to underscore this sentiment, when I flew back to the Philippines the next day and began the ascent to the jungle location, I saw a commotion on the mountain. It was a long procession of people coming down the slope: Every Filipino in the movie was marching down the mountain, singing and calling out congratulations. They all carried signs that said, “
Mabuhay
, Rita! Victory, Rita!”

FINDING MYSELF IN POLITICS

B
y the time I won the Oscar for
West Side Story
, I felt like I was truly seeking a healthy new life. In group therapy, I met a wonderful woman who introduced me to the sit-ins, marches, and political movements that were just beginning to heat up in the 1960s, especially those around civil rights. This woman had come from the old lefty days and was a fountain of knowledge.

Perhaps as valuable as my therapy, then, was its offshoot: my growing commitment to political causes. I had discovered that the best cure for the sort of obsessive self-involvement that had contributed to my troubled life was to direct my energies outward to a wider range of interests. I began to see myself as part of the bigger picture, and to realize that, as someone who was now a public figure, I had the capacity to help others, or at the very least raise awareness. And, as I discovered, the more I worked for
causes greater than myself, the less wrapped up I was in my own troubles.

My first real foray into the political arena was a “Ban the bomb” demonstration. Strontium 90, a radioactive deposit from atomic testing, had been landing on fields where dairy cows grazed. The scientific community had established that strontium 90 was getting into milk. It was a big environmental issue, like global warming is now. Many, including myself, felt strongly that we had to do something to get rid of it fast! Otherwise, the chemical might deform the bones of future children. I was horrified by the possibility, so I picked up a placard and marched.

From then on, I was very much enlisted in political causes, mostly to end atomic testing and racial and economic discrimination. Major stars, regular actors, and members of the film community were awakening to the need to be politically active, rising to the front lines, because we knew that we were visible and could get the TV and radio time needed to give voice to valuable causes.

The atmosphere was highly charged throughout the 1960s. It’s hard to believe now, in this very different time, how excited we were, and how deep our commitment was to end all kinds of ills. The FBI was also very involved in tracking us as a result.

Probably the most historic political event I participated in during that time was the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, which took place in Washington, DC, on August 28, 1963. Attended by some 250,000 people, it was the largest demonstration ever held in the nation’s capital, and one of the first to earn extensive television coverage.

Of course I had to be there, and doing so changed my life forever. I would never again sit back passively if I had an opinion, because I witnessed firsthand how important it is to speak your
mind and work together to right whatever wrongs are being perpetrated by the government.

That year was filled with racial unrest and demonstrations. Sit-ins and picket lines were everywhere, even outside Woolworth’s. College kids both white and black sang “We Shall Overcome” along with adult protesters. It was all very new and very brave. The nation’s pulse was racing.

It was a social revolution whose participants were being beaten, even killed. Media coverage of police actions in Birmingham, Alabama, where attack dogs and fire hoses were turned against protesters, sparked national outrage.

Demonstrations took place across the country, peaking with the first March on Washington, the event forever immortalized by Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech, which he delivered at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial.

On August 28, l963, I boarded a famous flight—a planeload of celebrities dedicated to the cause who were flying to Washington for the march. Had that plane gone down, it would have created a dearth of movie actors and a loss of other talent, as there were also writers and directors on board. Diahann Carroll and Sammy Davis Jr. were on the flight with me. So was Jim Garner, who had been a friend of mine since our first screen test, nervously guzzling Pepto-Bismol to ease the growl of his ulcer. This was probably the first time Jimmy had ever committed himself publicly to any political cause, and like many of us, I’m sure he was probably wondering what this act might cost him with respect to his career. I was very touched, because he participated anyway, knowing it was the right thing to do.

Marlon, of course, would never have missed this event. He had been dedicated to raising awareness about racial issues all his life. I saw Marlon at one of the tactical meetings prior to the
March on Washington. A lot had happened since then: I had won an Oscar, and he had married Tarita. When Marlon spotted me and said a soft “hello,” I nodded curtly and reminded myself to stay away from him for my own good.

Seeing Marlon again, I felt a rush of fear, experiencing it as an all-too-familiar flash of extreme heat coursing through my body. It was such a primal reaction that I was embarrassed, especially because I could feel a deep blush coloring my face at the same time—from that other, more familiar heat of desire. Unbelievable! Obsessions die hard. You really have to live your life watching for banana peels and carry a very big stick.

That thought actually made me remember something that Marlon once said to me. He was constantly characterizing me as eternally hopeful, and one day he mused, “You carry a stick with a nail in the end, like a park attendant. But instead of picking up trash, you pick up bits of hope and deposit them into your little brown paper bag.”

It still makes me laugh. I know it’s true.

Harry Belafonte was at that organizational meeting where I saw Marlon, and he was on the celebrity plane as well. In fact, Harry was the one who had pushed us all to participate, because he felt so strongly that the film and performing industry should be represented at the march. He knew that our presence would attract the media and strengthen the cause.

Determination was in the air. No one believed for one minute that this time of our lives wouldn’t have a profound, permanent effect on this country. And I was part of it. It was all so exciting. The experience has stayed with me forever, and to this day I have remained politically committed to causes close to my heart, including racial equality, breast cancer, hunger, and AIDS.

Even today, I can vividly remember the excitement of being in
Washington on that scalding hot day. Nobody was quite sure how many people would turn up for the demonstration, but the numbers exceeded all expectations. An estimated quarter of a million people marched from the Washington Monument to the Lincoln Memorial in what turned out to be both a protest and a communal celebration.

By the time we had made it to the Lincoln Memorial, where the speeches would be given, everyone was steaming hot and soaked with perspiration; I wished I had brought a hat. Our group was fortunate to have privileged seating not ten feet from Dr. Martin Luther King himself!

The event included musical performances by Marian Anderson, Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Mahalia Jackson, and Peter, Paul, and Mary. Charlton Heston, who in later years was most often regarded as a conservative leader of the National Rifle Association lobby, was then regarded as a “wild liberal.” He was part of our contingent of artists, which that day included not only Harry Belafonte, Marlon Brando, Diahann Carroll, Ossie Davis, and Sammy Davis Jr., but also Lena Horne, Paul Newman, Sidney Poitier, and writer and poet James Baldwin.

The two most noteworthy speeches came from black Georgia state representative John Lewis and Martin Luther King Jr. Representative Lewis, of SNCC (the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee), was the one that day who really declared a war for racial equality.

But for sheer eloquence and staying power, it was Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s epic “I Have a Dream” speech that had the most lasting impact on me, as it did on the nation. I count myself privileged to have heard the speech live as he delivered it. I was sitting so close to him that I could see Dr. King’s beautiful brown face, lit with conviction.

In that glorious, mellifluous voice, King delivered his sonorous “I have a dream” refrain, speaking of an America where children “will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

I swear I vibrated like a tuning fork with his words. I was ready for change.

*   *   *

Life is curious. I certainly never expected to launch a new romance on a day of so much exciting political activity, but that was exactly what happened: I became involved with James Forman, the executive secretary of SNCC, because of the March on Washington.

At thirty-five, James Forman was a good ten years older than most of the SNCC membership and had assumed a natural leadership role. He seemed to tower above everyone, especially me, and he was such a handsome, imposing man that I was instantly drawn to him. I could not help but note his beautiful coloring. He had smooth, creamy brown skin; a darker cap of fine nubby hair; strong, straight features; and, most arresting of all, eyes that were a rich mahogany. He had the loveliest, friendliest face I’d ever seen, and he wore the signature denim coveralls that had become the symbol of working people everywhere.

I knew who Jim was before that day, because I had admired his charismatic speeches. On the day of the march, I recognized him in the crowd at once. We hit it off immediately and had lots to talk about after the event. Jim’s reverence for Dr. King was touching; he struck me as a very authentic man, with a certain freshness about him that was like a gentle breeze after the Sturm und Drang of my life. I was completely smitten.

It never occurred to me that anything would happen between
us, because we led such different lives. But, following the march, Jim and I continued meeting by chance at meetings and protests. One day, he offered me a ride home.

“Sure,” I said. “But would you mind stopping at a hamburger joint somewhere? I’m dying of hunger.”