Love Me as I Am Read online

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my mother, Marie Claire Beauvais; KeKe. You gave me the wings to fly and the freedom to be unconventionally fearless in my journey. You will always be the beautiful butterfly on my shoulder.

  I also dedicate this book to my three boys, Oliver, Jax, and Jaid. You have taught me how to love, forgive, and keep pushing past my pain. You gave me purpose and balance. Thank you for sharing your mommy with the world.

  Epigraph

  There is only one way to avoid criticism:

  do nothing, say nothing, and be nothing.

  —Aristotle

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  One: Childhood

  Two: Motherhood

  Three: Marriage and Love

  Four: Infertility: Perfecting Resilience

  Five: Faith and Forgiveness: The Dark vs. The Light

  Six: Finding My Voice While Black in Hollywood

  Seven: My Village

  Eight: Reality Bites: Behind-the-Scenes Stories

  Nine: Prime-Time Adventures

  Ten: True Beauty

  Eleven: Note to Self

  Garcelle’s Gems

  Acknowledgments

  Photo Section

  About the Author

  Also by Garcelle Beauvais

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  This book is about my journey to finding Garcelle . . . finding my G-spot. Initially, many of you might think that this will be just a salacious collection of sexually charged kiss-and-tell stories from my life. Not my intention, but I hope you won’t be disappointed. Wink. Wink. To me, the tongue-in-cheek phrase G-spot means my core. Translated, it means digging deep and dealing head on with principles I still struggle to wrap my mind around. It means finding contentment and peace even in my weakest, darkest, and most lonely moments. When there’re no lights, camera, and even when I’m getting no action. Yes, that’s the real G-spot for me. The understanding and acceptance of the many bits and parts that make up my truths.

  Keeping it real is at the center of my truth. Keeping it real with myself, my colleagues, my family, and my friends. It’s not in my nature to fake it. The truth is always written all over my face and flowing from my soul. Some can handle it and others can’t. I can’t change other people; I can only make sure that I stay faithfully committed to showing up authentically. So that I show up like the best version of Garcelle.

  Getting to the core of my best self and shining light, this is where I continue to find my greatest satisfaction and release. By getting up every morning; giving life everything I’ve got, so I can try to perfect me and share the best version of myself with my kids, family, and friends.

  * * *

  One

  Childhood

  Childhood is the most beautiful of all life’s lessons.

  —Rachel Carson

  With a unique name such as Garcelle, you would have to expect that my life would be colorful and unconventional. How a little Black girl, with an absentee father, from a small island in the Caribbean had the audacity to dream of being an international model, actress, author, producer, and reinventor of herself I will never begin to know. God is great!

  Marie Claire Beauvais brought me into the world on a Monday morning under a full moon on November 28, 1966. To let you in on a little secret, I actually celebrate two birthdays. Even though I was born on the twenty-eighth, when they were doing my immigration paperwork at the airport when immigrating to the United States, the twenty-sixth was mistakenly recorded . . . fun fact!

  My father’s name was Axel Jean-Pierre. Rumor has it, he left to get milk or ice cream when I was three or four years old. I didn’t see him again until I was fourteen. And I’ve never looked at the ice cream man the same way ever again. Poof! Just like that he vanished into thin air. I guess he either never found the ice cream, or just forgot our address. I was way too young to remember the exact details of the day it happened, but definitely not too nosey to snoop around and eavesdrop on the adult whispering about it. I was also very aware and had a front row seat to see the tears of sadness that welled up in my mom’s eyes for years after he left. I believe he was the love of her life—I think I overheard that too—and his betrayal left a huge gash on her heart and mine too.

  Either way, I don’t remember much of anything about him during my early years. I don’t have memories of us snuggling or me sitting on his lap and being held. I don’t have a distinctive smell of cologne or tender moment to associate with him. I have no fond stories of warm tender hugs or soothing bedtime stories before I drifted off to sleep. No words of wisdom or fatherly advice on boys and men to lament on. There was no paternal bond or air of familiarity and affection with this person who I was told was my dad. The word “dad” for me at a young age held no meaning or customary feelings of safety, protection, or love to associate with it. He simply didn’t exist, and my world consisted of just me, my mom, my sisters, brothers, and some extended family.

  I was the youngest of seven children. Three older siblings—Maurice, Yves-Rose, and Carole—all had the same father. Then came my sisters Gladys, Chantal, and my brother Elie, who had another father. They happened to grow up in Montreal, Canada, with their father. Then there was me, whom my mother had with my father, Axel Jean-Pierre. I never took his last name and I ended up with my mother’s maiden name instead.

  I was a Peenie Greet, or skinny twig, as my brother Maurice referred to me. I was painfully skinny, a little on the taller side, and lacking the hint of curves that many young Haitian women inherit from their mothers and grandmothers. We Haitians l-o-v-e our nicknames! I was so skinny that my older sister Carole, who loved sewing and making dresses, would call on me when she needed a ruler. She would tell me to lie down and then use my legs like a big stencil to trace out fabric lengths. Desperate to gain some weight, I would eat and immediately lay down, hoping that the food would settle and miraculously stick to my bones, creating extra curves. I hated my protruding “wings” on my back, as I called them. I agonized that I looked like I was going to fly away in the wind because my shoulder blades stuck out so much. Oh, and because they made me feel self-conscious, I hated wearing halter tops. What I wouldn’t do to go back and tell that little girl that those lovely bones and never-ending twig-like legs would be her blessings instead of her curses in life.

  I was never given a middle name. Instead, I embraced my nickname, not the Peenie Greet one, but the name Gachou. I wholeheartedly loved this pet name, but I’m not totally convinced it even had a real meaning or an official way to spell it. I think it represents a mashup of my name somewhere in there with a little extra umph and love. Looking back now I think I loved the name Gachou because it made me feel loved and instantly defined me culturally. It still does. If you didn’t have a nickname you simply weren’t Haitian, so I wear it proudly. Until this day Gachou is who I am to my family, and even to my close friends.

  Port-au-Prince, where I spent my earliest years, was the capital city of Haiti. My neighborhood was in a somewhat middle-class setting. It was a small, simple, and rustic existence. When I say my mom was middle class, I mean that we weren’t extremely poor, especially according to Haitian standards, but we were far from being rich. Nothing flashy or extravagant. Small backwoods red clay roads well traveled by goats, sheep, and donkeys. I remember there was always a sweet smell of freshness in the air that would greet you as you stepped out of the house. The warm rays of the sun always greeted you and wrapped you in a cloak of happiness. I used to love to squint into the sun until my eyes would water and then blindly walk around feeling my way to familia
rity. My mom would oil my hair and do it up in one or two pigtails with bright yellow ribbons, depending on her mood. It made me feel special, beautiful, and loved.

  Majestically fragrant hibiscus and birds of paradise often lined pathways and created a visual landscape much like a living art gallery. While I walked to and from school accompanied by my caretaker, I would count the flowers while eating fresh tangerines. Ahh, the smell of fresh tangerines still brings back such warm memories. My mom would tell me that I would happily skip and dance carefree along the pathway in my bright blue plaid school uniform. It may sound idyllic, especially in contrast to the backdrop of the harsh realities of Haiti during that time, but I was way too young to digest the concepts of poverty and despair, and my time living there was very brief. One thing I can confirm is that I was never exposed to the social stigma assigned to people living in conditions of lack. In my childlike mind, some people lived in houses and some people lived in huts, but everyone was still part of my community, which I loved.

  Everything seemed so bright, vibrant, and beautiful. Like many other island cultures, mine was full of bold expressions. Splashes of cheerful color were everywhere. From the most ramshackle roadside dwellings where clothing hung from makeshift clotheslines to the most palatial homes in Pétion-Ville, our culture had a deep appreciation for living life out loud. There’s one thing about Haitians, we love color. Perhaps adding these joyful “hues of hope” changed my people’s overall outlook on daily life. If someone was to tell me that the concept of color therapy was created in these islands, I’d believe them. Even now, bold colors are more than a visual thing, they are a reflection of an attitude.

  Merchants lined the city streets for blocks selling fresh produce and other handcrafted goods under colorful canopies. Mangoes, sugarcane, melons, pineapples, bananas, and kenep were the fruits of my youth. Walking down the road, you would always make it a point to greet your elders with bonjour (in the morning) or bonsoir (in the evening) because showing respect, even for strangers, was important. I remember marveling at the strong women who would walk around perfectly erect balancing huge wicker baskets of produce and other items on their heads. Looking up at them with their overflowing baskets made them seem like towering giants. How did they carry so much and make it look so effortless? Isn’t this the question we usually ask when we talk about a woman’s burdens?

  Even though civil unrest and poverty were forces crippling the island during my early years in Haiti, everyone always seemed happy, grateful, and genuinely joyful to be alive. They radiated the same colors we saw everywhere. Local expressions of art were constants in every corner of the island. Colorful artwork depicting women and men at work, at play, and at rest boldly announced that my people were not only talented, they were also hopeful and proud. Even public buses, or tap-taps as they’re called, were painted with eye-catching scenes of hardworking Haitians toiling in the vein of our culture. I’ve been drawn to this type of cultural art, even to this day. It brings me comfort, joy, and pride. It’s a symbol of home, and I connect with it on a soulful level. Haitian art is always prominently featured throughout my home. I want my kids to also develop an appreciation for it and remember what they’re made of.

  Just as my country’s vividly bold color was to the eyes, music was to the ears. Compas music was the soundtrack of my youth. I remember the infectious sound of rhythmic beats from handcrafted tanbou drums, guitars, and tcha-tchas shaking while people moved their hips in anticipation of the next beat. It was simply trance-inducing. I remember hearing the beating drums at night and my mom shooing us inside because they were the drums of a voodoo ceremony. I remember feeling a bit of fear. I am not sure why. Voodoo was very much a part of every Haitian’s life. Either because you practiced it, or simply because you revered it for its mysterious power and fabled legacy. My family, I believe, was in the latter category.

  The tempo of animated Creole was also another soothingly recognizable sound that rang throughout the air. It’s a language overflowing with full-throated exuberant inflections and singsong types of chimes. People everywhere had so much to say. Things to say in laughter and jest. Things to say in anger and frustration. I came from a stock of people who did not hold their tongues and always shared what was on their mind. Whether you liked it or not! I remember sitting around eavesdropping on adult conversations. To the outside world, these exchanges might have sounded like heated arguments, but to me, it was just normal chatter. It was comforting. The type of French Creole spoken in Haiti was born out of a combination of West African languages synthesized by our ancestors who were enslaved. Creole has its roots in European French, with a whole lot of African seasoning, just like my people, who give it life.

  Looking back, I could tell that there was a stark visual difference in my house compared to others, but it never translated to our family’s value or worth. My mother was a trained nurse and was able to provide a decent living for us. In the early years, I remember that we had a helper in the house. Our helper cooked, cleaned, and took care of me, since my mother was a single mom. Even though my mother employed helpers, I was never raised to believe that they were there to “serve” me. They were there to help my mom do the things she didn’t have time to do. And when she wasn’t there to look after me, they were like surrogate parents who I’d better obey. Believe me, if Sawrelia told my mother I had misbehaved, the punishment would have been just the same as if my mother had been there to see it herself.

  One of my most cherished memories from the early years growing up in Haiti was of visiting my maternal grandmother, Mamacici, in the country village of St. Marc. It was a central city in Haiti and the place of my actual birth. Mamacici had a big, sprawling house with a storefront below that she owned and operated. I always remember running down the dirt road to her house and coming up over the bridge and seeing her big home. I loved her house and I loved her even more. Clear jars of brightly colored candy and sweets (surette) were always lined up and ready for purchase by the neighborhood residents. She was just as sweet as the candy she sold. I never would have believed she carried around such sadness, but she did. She always seemed so strong and happy. My mom’s father, Papa Maurice, left her and my grandmother so he could be with a younger woman. He started another family and stayed with them until he died. PUT A PIN IN THAT ONE . . . I’M SENSING A PATTERN!

  Deep within me, the scared, confused, and oftentimes lonely, little, underweight Peenie Greet that I was, there was a fire ignited. It was a fire you couldn’t quantify. A fire you couldn’t easily extinguish. I had seen so much happiness and deep sorrow from such an early age. I was, and have always been, full of questions about life and things that happened, but that doesn’t mean I ever got any answers. I always wanted to know how and why, even more than I wanted to know what. Culturally, children were seen and not heard, but that didn’t stop the questions from formulating in my head. It only stopped them from falling out of my lips. Frustrating yes, but I was innocently nurturing my insatiable curiosity streak and probably promising myself that once I could ask, I would ask everyone everything! Big-mouthed, opinionated children who asked a lot of questions were not welcome in my household. We just did what we were told and observed how things were done.

  Even as a grown woman, my biggest regret is that I never asked my mother more questions before she died in 2008. I will never truly know what Marie Claire Beauvais, my mother, was thinking during those lonely nights right after my dad left. I’m sure she stayed up endlessly waiting for him to come home and cried herself to sleep. How do I know this? Because I’ve done it myself in my own life. There’s that pattern again. What I do know is that she was never bitter. Never hateful, or vengeful, and always there providing for us. In her quiet and dignified way, she taught me the powerful lessons of fortitude and self-perseverance. Dealing with her own pain in the way she chose informed my narrative about being a woman and dealing with the loss of love.

  Much like many immigrant stories, my mother briefly left me in Hait
i at six and set out in search of a better life on American soil. She had relatives in Boston who had already made the pilgrimage before her, and she felt her time had come to do the same. With very few options, I was left in the care of my older siblings Yves-Rose and Carole during the time she went to figure out our transition.

  My sisters became like my mother, and they took good care of me. I’m sure if I dwell on these circumstances too much it might induce feelings of buried trauma. Putting myself, or even my own children, in the shoes of that little six-year-old girl, I can only imagine it was heart-wrenching and scary to have your mom leave you. I can’t say I didn’t internalize that pain, or suffer any long-standing effects because of it.

  Putting on my hat as a mother, I can’t imagine doing that to my kids at age six. On the flip side, I also can’t imagine living in circumstances where I truly believed that leaving my home would be my only option for prosperity either. America was portrayed as the land of milk and honey for many people outside its borders. It was a beacon of hope, success, and prosperity that everyone wanted a piece of. A good mother will move heaven and earth to give her children what she thinks they need. The courage it must have taken. The guilt and fear my mom must have felt. Not only fear for us and our well-being, but also fear and uncertainty for conquering a new world. Knowing my mother, she knew I was in good hands with my older siblings and my caretaker, and that gave her comfort. In her absence, my older sisters Yves-Rose and Carole taught me a great deal and stepped in to fill that void when I needed them the most. They put the word “family” into practice and exemplified the meaning of “it takes a village.”

  * * *

  Hello Peabody, Massachusetts . . . what a rude awakening! About a year and a half after my mother left me in Haiti, she decided the time was right for all of us to move to the United States. She took a leap of faith and sent for me and my sisters, hoping for a fresh start. Correction—a cold start! My three middle siblings were already feeling winter’s hell because they lived in Montreal, Canada, with their dad.