Finding Me

by Viola Davis

Cocksucker motherfucker” was my favorite expression and at eight years old, I used it defiantly.

A boy in my class who was Cape Verdean, from the Cape Verde Isles off the coast of West Africa, was Black and Portuguese and as Black as I was. But he didn’t want to be associated with African Americans, a mindset I later learned was very common among Cape Verdeans in Central Falls. More often than not, they self-identified as Portuguese. They would kill you if you called them Black.

Memories are immortal. They’re deathless and precise. They have the power of giving you joy and perspective in hard times. Or, they can strangle you. Define you in a way that’s based more in other people’s tucked-up perceptions than truth.

It is a powerful memory because it was the first time my spirit and heart were broken.

“Why are you trying to heal her? I think she was pretty tough. She survived.”

The final stretch to finding me would be allowing that eight-year-old girl in, actively inviting her into every moment of my current existence to experience the joy she so longed for, letting her taste what it means to feel truly alive. The destination is finding a home for her. A place of peace where the past does not envelop the Viola of NOW, where I have ownership of my story.

learned from writer Joseph Campbell that a hero is someone born into a world where they don’t fit in. They are then summoned on a call to an adventure that they are reluctant to take. What is the adventure? A revolutionary transformation of self. The final goal is to find the elixir. The magic potion that is the answer to unlocking HER. Then she comes “home” to this ordinary life transformed and shares her story of survival with others.

It was radical acceptance of my existence without apology and with ownership.

“You know that was not your fault. It was not your fault. I’m giving you permission to forgive yourself. Your parents were wrong for beating you. It was an accident. You should not have even been in that position.”

She had feelings for a man who cared for her. As stubborn as a bull, as innocent as a child, and loyal even when she has been abandoned.

“Show me a hero and I’ll show you a tragedy.”

In one of my mother’s episodes of dropping spontaneous and extremely important facts, without warning or context, she told me that although she has gone by Mary Alice Davis for most of her life, her real name is actually Mae. “M-A-E,” she always says, “not M-A-Y.” She renamed herself Mary early in life because all the girls in the country were named Mae, and she didn’t want to be like everyone else. How badass is that!

As confused as I was, I didn’t want to ask questions because she didn’t seem to be open to it. Plus, she would whoop my ass when I saw her next. I’m not kidding. Two generations removed from slavery, as docile as she appeared at times, she had a brutal right hook. So I didn’t bring up that her sister’s name was Mary, an interesting sidebar to her name change from “Mae” to “Mary.”

Like I said, Mae Alice has a heart that simply is loyal. It attaches and asks for nothing in exchange. She shows her claws only when those she loves need protection or to protect who she feels belongs to her. She never raises her fist for . . . her.

She is a “self-sacrificer” at the expense of her own joy.

Dianne told us, “Because I’m the oldest, everything that I learn, I’ll teach you guys when I get home so you’ll be ahead.”

For the most part, we went to St. Vincent de Paul. We loved going there because it was an adventure sorting through everybody else’s used stuff. Everything seemed to have a story: books, old toys, roller skates, Skippy’s sneakers, even fur coats and furniture.

Shame completely eviscerates you, destroys any sense of pride you may have in yourself.

It was a perfect metaphor for the devastation I felt in my heart. Because the source of my deepest shame was now a source of horrified entertainment for people who had exiled me from the day they met me.

My mom went into an alternate reality. In other words, she lost her mind.

There is an emotional abandonment that comes with poverty and being Black. The weight of generational trauma and having to fight for your basic needs doesn’t leave room for anything else. You just believe you’re the leftovers.

I felt like shit and was a little jealous that their father came running out with a belt to find them. No one came running looking for me.

These happy moments would soon be followed by trauma—the rage of my dad’s alcoholic binges, violence, poverty, hunger, and isolation. In my child’s mind, I was the problem.

I was absolutely devastated. Making matters worse and even more confusing, I was the one being humiliated, not the man who felt me up in front of everyone.

Think about that for a minute—ashamed at myself for feeling violated by a grown-ass, perverted violator.

It’s ironic that she was sitting in my beautiful kitchen of marble and porcelain, with the subzero refrigerator and high ceilings, and it meant absolutely fucking nothing compared to the largeness of the truth of what was happening. Success pales in comparison to healing.

The only thing the court system did was fine him. My sister got $9 a month for the next few months from the man who molested her. Nine dollars a month. That was the fine. No charges were ever pressed.

Danielle was our baby. Your first instinct when you love a child is to protect her from the pain of the world . . . and life. The most excruciating revelation is when you realize you can’t. To be human is not to be God. What that man was allowed to do is destroy souls.

“May you live long enough to know why you were born.” —CHEROKEE BIRTH BLESSING

The throwing me out of class was all because he saw me. He saw what was in me.

As white as he was, Jeff taught us a lot about Black history. He heard me and my sister talk one day in his car and picked up on our ignorance about our own history. That was it. That was all the impetus he needed to spring into action. He would pick us up in the middle of the week, take us to get some food, talk to us to see how we were doing.

And he was right. It was now time for me to, as I’ve heard Black people say so many times, “shit or get off the pot.” So, I shit.

I asked God for a boyfriend, professional acting status, and the experience of traveling overseas. But I didn’t ask for wisdom. I didn’t ask for self-love. And it showed.

I would come face-to-face not with God, but with me.

The Alexander technique is a technique to teach the actor how to use their body without stress and tension.

“Sumole”—Hello, how are you? “Ibije”—I am fine. “Kon te na te”—How’s your family? “Te na te”—They are fine. “Kara be”—I am here. “Kara jon”—I see you.

In The Gambia, to have a child is the greatest blessing. When you couldn’t, the belief was that God did not hear your deepest wish and had passed you by. The intent is to make as much noise as possible so God can hear you in heaven and pour down a blessing.

I was always on the outside of Juilliard because I wasn’t on the inside of me.

I have a Jewish friend who is Modern Orthodox. He said one of his rabbis said, “It’s futile to ask why. Instead ask yourself, ‘What did I learn from this?’”

There is absolutely no way whatsoever to get through this life without scars.

The actors who are privileged are the ones who have the mic. They are being interviewed because they’ve reached the height of their careers and those testimonies are released on social media like vomit. We consume them and, having no way into the reality of the acting business, we take it in as truth. If you hit big when you’re young and turn down a six-figure salary, You. Are. Privileged.

But struggle is defined by not having choices, and the actor who takes the Geico commercial to get their insurance has just as much integrity as someone who doesn’t take it waiting for their Academy Award–winning role.

He who has choices has resources.

Jealousy is the cruelest of emotions. The part that makes it cruel is its lack of ownership.

I was driven by the need to save everyone. I felt if I saved anyone, I had found my purpose, and that was the way it was supposed to work. You make it out and go back to pull everyone else out.

I just wanted to find home. Not find a home but find home. A safe place sanctuary that was peaceful, nurturing, reliable . . . and filled with love.

It’s like Oprah said, “I know for sure what we dwell on is what we become.”

My biggest discovery was that you can literally re-create your life. You can redefine it. You don’t have to live in the past. I found that not only did I have fight in me, I had love. By the time we clicked, I had had enough therapy and enough friendship and enough beautiful moments in my life to know what love is and what I wanted my life to feel and look like. When I got on my knees and I prayed to God for Julius, I wasn’t just praying for a man. I was praying for a life that I was not taught to live, but for something that I had to learn. That’s what Julius represented.

Forgiveness is giving up all hope of a different past. They tell you successful therapy is when you have the big discovery that your parents did the best they could with what they were given.

I remember seeing an episode of Golden Girls where Bea Arthur, who plays Dorothy, responds to a question from Rose, played by Betty White. “What do you want in your next husband?” asked Rose. And Dorothy says, “I want someone to grow old with.”