Love, Ellen: A Mother/Daughter Journey (20 page)

A journal entry at the year’s end:

Royce Hall on the campus of UCLA is a venerable 2,000-seat theater known for sold-out houses for shows by some of the world’s greatest opera stars, dancers, and classical musicians. Famous poets and authors have graced its stage, reading from their works, as have a handful of popular musicians and groups. But rare indeed are comedy performers. On the night of October 2, 1993, though, one comedy great, thirty-five-year-old Ellen DeGeneres, appeared live and in person for a one-night concert performance of her own kind of music—laughter.

When the lights went down just before the show, I quickly looked around the packed theater and thought for a moment how far she had come. Just a few years before, it seemed, she was in that coffeehouse on the campus of UNO, performing to a crowd of ten or so. And here she was.

What made the evening even more exciting and special was that Vance was the master of ceremonies. He introduced the opening act, the talented Del Rubio Triplets—sisters of an undetermined age who had sung and played guitar all over Los Angeles for years and years and were always lots of fun. And then to have him introduce El, just as he had done for her farewell performance in New Orleans, made everything perfect.

During the past few years, like the years that had preceded them, Ellen had continued to move up the ladder. In 1989, she had made her long-hoped-for foray into the world of situation comedy, landing a role as a regular on the series
Open House
(originally titled
Duet
), in which she played Margo Van Meter, a ditsy secretary-receptionist.

El never failed to mention how fortunate she felt to be on a weekly series. She loved the whole routine, she said, especially sailing through those famous Paramount gates. Though the show was canceled after the following spring, Margo Van Meter went on to become a kind of a cult figure. Years later people would come up to Ellen and quote lines of hers from that show.

After the show’s cancellation, it was back to stand-up, but she graduated to concert performances like this one in Royce Hall. Instead of competing with food and drinks for attention, she was playing to audiences who had paid just to see her. The change was exhilarating for her.

Two different
One Night Stands
on HBO, one in 1990 and the other in 1992, had gained her much new attention. And soon she went from being one of the best of a new breed of up-and-coming female comics to being simply one of the best, right along with the top male stand-ups.

As always there had been disappointments too—like the role in a new Sam Kinnison series that she thought was a shoo-in but didn’t get. Then good news soon followed—she was cast in a regular (if small) role as a nurse on
Laurie Hill,
an ABC sitcom. But that series, unfortunately, wasn’t on the air long before it was canceled.

When El called to tell me about this disappointment, I gave her my usual sympathy and pep talk, telling her what a shame it was but adding, “Something better will turn up. Sooner or later. It always does.”

Ellen sighed in agreement. Such is the philosophy of the incurable optimists that we are.

Something better—a lot better—did turn up, and it was sooner than later. In just two weeks, on November fourth, I noted in my datebook: “El called with astonishing news about series deal with ABC, Disney, and Black-Marlens.” Her own series, finally.

I should mention that as exciting as this was, I was also having some excitement of my own . I noted it the next day, exactly like this: “Defrosted *#*&*# refrigerator. Turned it on and all the freon came out. No refrigerator at all now! Bummer.”

My household problem was soon solved, of course. And in the meantime momentum was gathering for Ellen’s new series,
These Friends of Mine.
Like her performance at Royce Hall, the shooting of the pilot earlier in the year had been a real milestone. Several of my friends from Cedars-Sinai came with their husbands, and I was, as always, a very proud mom.

Because of Ellen and Vance’s experiences in show business, I was weathered enough now to know that there are far too many variables and unknown factors to ever predict how successful a series is going to be. Obviously, funny writing is important for a sitcom, and even more important is how the public relates to the characters and the actors who play them. In both respects, I knew this show was a winner. But other elements can make all the difference, such as programming—the night and time a show is aired—and how a network promotes the show.

Sometimes series are bought with an initial commitment for as few as six episodes. In the case of
These Friends of Mine,
ABC’s initial order was for thirteen, and the network decided to bring it in as a midseason replacement in early 1994. For Ellen, this was enough assurance that for the time being she could take a much hoped-for break from stand-up.

Since production would begin in the fall of 1993, Ellen spent the summer doing a “good-bye to stand-up” tour that took her all around the country. When an interviewer in Maine asked her about the rigors of touring and why she had decided to take a break from stand-up, El answered very seriously:

A telling response, I would say—and another glimmer of things to come.

As Ellen became famous, the public and the media wanted to know more about her personal life. Whenever interviewers asked about her romantic status, her stock answer was, “My private life is private.” That was a reasonable statement. After all, every celebrity should be entitled to have a private life—Meg Ryan, Tom Hanks, Ellen DeGeneres. But, then again, two of those three are in socially acceptable heterosexual relationships. To know that Tom is married to Rita Wilson and that Meg is married to Dennis Quaid shouldn’t be any different from knowing that Ellen, or any other gay person, is in a loving, on-going homosexual relationship. These are just facts that we know about these people. Period. Otherwise, Ellen’s relationships are really none of our business, just as Meg’s and Tom’s marriages are none of our business; unless, of course, they choose to talk publicly about their significant others.

Unfortunately, for Ellen and other gay people in the public eye, it’s not always so clear-cut. It’s OK to let your inner circle of friends and associates know, but the prevailing attitude in show business is that when it comes to acceptance by mainstream America, stay in the closet. Implicit in this attitude is the idea that audiences won’t accept a gay actor or actress in the part of a heterosexual, and still less in a heterosexual love scene. Excuse me, but it is called “acting,” isn’t it?

The “velvet curtain” conceals one of Hollywood’s big secrets—the fact that there have always been gay actors and actresses in movies and television, imprisoned by the pretense that they are straight. For some of our most famous leading men and women, being out is so taboo—even within an otherwise tolerant community—that some have gone to the extreme of getting married. It is commonly believed, for good reason, that coming out will ruin or seriously harm even the best career.

So, for as long as I can remember, all of El’s career advisers—even those who were gay themselves—were adamant that she should not expose herself as a lesbian, especially now that she was making her way into television.

Sitting in Royce Hall that night, I recalled some of the untruths El was forced to tell—referring to women like her girlfriends Lisa and, later, Teresa as roommates; I thought of all the times she couldn’t acknowledge her true partner but had to appear at special events with a male at her side—sometimes a male friend, sometimes a manager or agent. It was even better for her to bring Vance, her brother, than to show up with a woman, even though the circumstances might be completely “innocent.”

The residual effect of being herself in one area of her life but in the closet publicly worked like a slow poison. Unbeknownst to me, and maybe even to El at first, deep down she developed a feeling of shame for having to live a lie. In a perfect world Ellen should have been able to be out from the very start. But this being the very imperfect world that it is, I’m not sure she would have been met with the same wide-ranging acceptance. Nonetheless, as I knew well, having to keep any kind of secret or participate in any kind of pretense is ultimately destructive.

A day of reckoning would, of course, come. But for the moment, I celebrated with everyone at the end of the show at Royce Hall. This was, in fact, a farewell performance—the culmination of her farewell tour, the closing of the chapter that had begun her career, and the beginning of a new chapter.

As El stood onstage to deafening cheers and applause, I thought again of the other farewell performance that Vance had emceed a decade earlier. He too, had certainly come a long way since those days. People like Vance who are gifted in many areas often take a long time to find their niche—or to settle on the one thing that can give them financial success and creative happiness. For him, that one thing turned out to be writing for TV and film, and within a couple of years, he would be writing on the staff of his sister’s show.

Needless to say, Ellen’s Royce Hall show was a triumph—an hour filled with her best material and some new routines—all of which earned her a delighted standing ovation that seemed to go on forever.

When El came out for her final bow, on her face was a beautiful, unforgettable expression of pride, and something else—gratitude.

D
URING THE FIRST
few years that I lived in Los Angeles, I did my best to get back to New Orleans as often as I could to check up on Mother. As bad as her health had become, time and again she proved indestructible. She survived many crises, only to emerge all the stronger each time. Whenever my sisters called with news of concern, I’d think back to the time ten years before when I was living in Atlanta and Mother had come down with what sounded like a terrible cold. On the phone, she insisted that she was fine and didn’t need to see a doctor. But after calling Cousin Maisie, Aunt Ethel’s daughter, and asking her to check on Mother, I promptly made a plane reservation, packed, and jumped into the car for the hour’s trip to the airport.

I sped like a demon down those country roads, actually hoping that a policeman would stop me and then escort me. How naive I was—I don’t think it really works like that. In any case, it didn’t that day.

When I arrived in New Orleans, Mother was in the hospital. I was told that she was deathly ill and might not have survived if Maisie hadn’t gotten her to the hospital. And to think that Mother had said she was fine—leftover denial from Christian Science.

By the next morning, miraculously, the worst had passed and Mother began to rally. But for the next ten years, as Mother’s lungs got weaker and weaker, there were more hospitalizations. Each was serious, and in one instance the doctor was sure that she wouldn’t pull through. She did, though.

In late 1992, after her surviving her latest hospitalization, we were convinced she would do it again. This time, Helen insisted that Mother come home with her to Pass Christian. This was a first; in the past, Mother had refused to be anywhere but her own home. She spent a very happy few weeks at Helen’s. Afterward, my sister lovingly described how many of her friends had stopped by to visit with cakes and cookies and delicious soups they had made just for Mother.

Because of my work, the earliest I was able to schedule a visit was for the middle of February 1993. Then, on February 1, two weeks before I was set to leave, Helen called.

“Bets …” she began, her usually steady, strong voice sounding strained. I knew at once that Mother had died. I broke down as I listened to the details.

Helen reminded me what a full, happy eighty-seven years of life Mildred Morrill Pfeffer had lived.

“I know,” I said with difficulty, “even though she had such poor health, her spirit was so strong.”

For the moment, my own spirit felt crushed. I was stunned at how difficult it was to accept that she was gone, even though we had been expecting it.

I called Ellen, who cried when she heard the news. El called Vance so that I could leave for work. All day at work, I kept my sunglasses on. I found that tears would start when I least expected them. It was Vance who really helped steady me with his phone call.

He could hear how hard this was on me, and with kind, loving, thoughtful words he let me know that I had a right to my feelings. Vance has always been supportive when I really need him.

“I just feel so badly,” I admitted to him, “about missing that last visit with Noni. There was so much to say, all those things you never say often enough—how much we all loved her …”

Vance said he was sure that Noni knew very well how much she was loved.

That night, I took the red-eye out of Los Angeles. When I arrived in New Orleans the following morning, I went directly to the funeral home. I approached the casket tentatively. Seeing Mother lying there was terribly, terribly difficult. I had to go into another room to compose myself.

Audrey, Helen, and I bonded more closely than ever at this time. We were deeply touched to see how many people came to pay their last respects to our mother. Some years earlier Mother’s pastor and all the parishioners had voted her an outstanding senior citizen because of her “years of service and devotion to the church.” She was honored at that time by the archbishop at a luncheon at the Marriot, along with senior citizens from the Catholic churches all over New Orleans. She was so well-loved. There was an endless flow of visitors for her last rites—friends from years back, friends from church, friends from her neighborhood, and friends of ours.