The Grand Rapids spectator

Front matter

THE SENSATIONAL NATIONAL BESTSELLER

Two months on the New York Times bestseller list!

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Preface

Since the Supremes' last official farewell concert in 1976 at London's Drury Lane Theater, with Scheme Payne and Susaye Green, I have pursued a solo career. It was strange at first. I had sung almost all my life, but after Berry Gordy had designated Diane Ross as the sole lead vocalist of the original Supremes, I assumed my position in the background, knowing that my turn would come again.

When it finally did, fourteen years later, I was scared to death but exhilarated. I took my show on the road from 1977 to 1979, touring the world and working only occasionally in the United States. It's amazing how many performers will stay in the States and suffer at the hands of a fickle record industry while all over the world there are hundreds of thousands of fans dying to see them and buy their records. I went to those far-off, exotic places and started over again. I met some wonderful people over there, but each time I'd come home I would inevitably run into someone who would ask, "Are you still singing?" Worse yet, many people assumed I was broke, probably living in some tawdry apartment, wearing a frayed, ancient floor-length sequined gown, looking through old scrapbooks of my Motown days, like some sort of pop-music Miss Havisham with a wedding cake made of gold records.

In fact, throughout the seventies, I not only reestablished my own career but got married, had three children, and continued traveling, working anywhere between nine

xiii xiv Preface

and eleven months a year. I also began studying acting and singing with several teachers, and have spent twel with my voice teacher, Giuseppe Belestrieri

In 1979 I recorded my first solo album, Mjrv Wilton (Motown), from which was released the single "Red Hot " I felt ready to return to the States and make my American solo debut. 1 was booked into the New York, New York club in Manhattan, and the audience included friends from the music business as well as tans, the rich and the famous. The critics didn't think I was so hot, but the kindest among them at least gave me credit for having courage. I Ins disappointment sent me back to Europe, wh* I'd learn to sing lead again. It had taken ten years of sin. and "aahs" in the background for me to lose m\ confidence; it would take me some time to gd it b.

That year Motown released me from my contl I recorded four contemporary i>op times in London. The release marked the close ot a huge chapter in my life I'd been with Motown for twenty md in that time Pd

seen almost every dream I could imagine come true. But now 1 was on my own.

I decided to write m\ memoirs, and had jtlSl Started contacting all my old friends, relatives, and colleagues when a friend suggested I sec a new Broadway musical called Dreamgirls. By the second act 1 was crying because while many of the incidents depicted in the play could have happened to any of a number of female singing groups, I knew in my heart that this story rang far truei than the produ could have imagined. There were bits and | I my life

— and the lives of my two best friends — up there 1 was awed at the powerful influence of the Supremes \nd

I was more determined than ever that the real stor\ be told.

I have no desire to expose or indict anyone. I want to tell the true story behind the rise and fall of the greatest female pop group of all time — a real-life Cinderella story and a tragedy deeper than anyone ever knew : my lite Supreme.

Prologue

It had now been nearly five hours since the taping of Motown's twenty-fifth-anniversary special, "Motown 25," began. At the rate things were going, I could see this was going to last until midnight, but I didn't mind. I was happy to be back among my friends: the Four Tops, the Temptations, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, Martha Reeves, Smokey Robinson — people I'd worked with for years at Motown. I was also proud, knowing that within just moments, I would be standing onstage with my friends Diane Ross and Cindy Birdsong for our first reunion in over thirteen years. I just tried to relish every second. Next on the show were DeBarge, High Inergy, and a clip of Rick James, followed by Smokey Robinson and Linda Ronstadt's duets on "Ooo Baby Baby" and "The Tracks of My Tears." The segment ended on two lighter notes — a film of Motown staffers, many of whom had been with the company from the start, singing the company song Smokey wrote years ago (with lines like, "We're a swinging company . . .") and Richard Pryor's comic medieval fable about the young warrior Berry's quest for gold records in the kingdom of Hitsville. We were "three fair maidens from the Projects of Brewster." How far from that I was now, but, thinking minutes ahead to the reunion, I knew that I was going home.

Adam Ant started singing his version of the Supremes' first number-one hit, "Where Did Our Love Go." I was as surprised as everyone else backstage to see him doing our song. "Why is he doing that7" people asked over and o Ant was typical of the British New Wave rockers, with his makeup, chains, feathers, and earrings. Our eyes glued to the monitor when suddenly we heard the audit screaming. Ant grinned until he sau what the commotion was all about. The camera cut to stage right, and we saw Diane in a short black satin skirt and silv< d jacket

moving toward Ant, doing a bump and grind. 1 Ant was caught off guard, but he moved toward her and danced along with her as much as he could before she disappeared again

People in the room were mortified

"I can't believe Diane would do th

"The Supremcs wen classy, \\h\ would

act like that?"

"How could she just jump up there while some was performing?"

The wings were filling with people, all trying to get the best view of the reunion There were some more clips of us, including our last appearance with Diane on Ed Sulli\ show on December H, 1969. Diane was walking up the aisle, toward the stage. Oik lie took the

white fox stole shed Hung over her shoulder and tossed it to the floor as the crowd gave hei a standing ovation. The applause got louder, and 1 was surround ick Ashford,

Valerie Simpson, Richard Prvoi , Martha Reeves, and some of my friends from the Temptations Suddenly I heard Diane reciting the first lines to Nick and Valerie's "Ain't No Mountain High Enough":

"If you need me, call me

Knowing Diane as they did, my friends backstage were encouraging me to do something when 1 got out tlu

"Step on that fur, Mary!" Richard Pryor urged me, half-teasing.

"Kick it!" shouted a female voice.

I knew where they were coming from, and 1 had a little laugh over it, but I was soon swept up in the moment Suddenly, everyone got quiet and Diane began speak:

She said she would be there forever if she started to talk about her life with Motown. Then she said a strange thing:

"But Berry had always felt that he's never been appreciated ..."

When the camera picked out Berry Gordy, Motown's founder and president, it seemed to me, from the look on his face, that he was puzzled by her remarks. Then Diane said, "It's not about the people who leave Motown" — of which Diane was one — "but it's about the people who come back, and tonight everybody came back." At that moment I thought of all the people, like my dear friend Florence Ballard, who couldn't come back. Diane's words prompted a standing ovation, and she gave Berry the high sign. He responded in kind, then turned his palms upward, as if to say, "I let you go."

The applause died down as the opening notes of "Someday We'll Be Together" filled the room. "Mary, Cindy," Diane said as she looked to the wings. Cindy entered from stage right to more applause. After Cindy reached Diane's side, I sauntered out from stage left, doing my slowest Detroit strut, just like we used to do in the Projects. The crowd roared. When Diane looked at me, she stopped singing. She hadn't reached the bridge of the song, so I couldn't understand why she stopped. Thinking that perhaps she'd temporarily forgotten the words, I picked up the lead, certain that Diane would come back in on the next line and everything would be fine. After a few seconds, Diane introduced us again.

"This is Cindy Birdsong," and "Thafs Mary Wilson," she said, pointing at me. There was more applause, and then Diane started moving toward the edge of the stage. Before the show, I'd told Cindy to follow my every move. We'd had no rehearsal and there was no telling what could happen. When Diane took a couple of steps forward, we took a couple of steps forward. Diane moved up again, and we moved up again, all the while singing, "Someday — well be together ..." But on the third surge forward, Diane suddenly turned and pushed me. The audience gasped. In a flash I saw something in her eyes that told me she knew she'd crossed the line. Of course, this was later cut from the tape. When Diane saw that I would ignore hci behavior, she hung back, so that on the tape you sec me and Cindy standing in front of her. Within seconds Smoke) was onstage, and we weren't even halfway through the song Main observers would correctly guess that he had been sent out on a rescue mission.

Before we knew it, other performers were filling the stage. There was Harvey Fuqua and the rempts. Melvin Franklin of the Tempts came over to hug me Then Michael Jackson came on, almost tripping Miracles tarist Marvin Tarplm in his rush to gel to Dune Richard Street and Marvin Gaye m ge hugging me, followed by Dick Clark and the Commodores. 1 glanced ovei bo Martha Reeves and Steue Wondci sharing a microphone, and I thought about how el Then 1 real; that Stevie wanted to have the microphone all to himself

Before the next song, "Reach Out and Touch i Somebody's Hand)," started, Diane tiled to take control of the

stage, shouting, "Stand backl Everybody stand hack!" I could tell she was angr\, and she even tried to push people back, but there were too many of us, and we all pretty much ignored her.

The stage was getting crowded, Mid I was still singing. I stopped and beckoned the audiem ind. Diane made

another short speech, a tribute to Berry. When she finished, I called up to Berry, "Bern, come on down!"

The next thing I knew, Diane forced my left hand down, pushing the microphone away from my mouth. Looking me right in the eyes, she said loudly, "It's been taken care of!" On the tape all you see of this episode is Diane turning around and calling out to Berry, How long will it take you to get down here, Blackie [her nickname tor him]? Well, come on."

Once Berry got onstage, Diane stood at the edge hopping up and down like a little girl, waiting for her turn to kiss him. He went to everyone, kissing or hugging each as was appropriate. He thanked Diane after he kissed her, and then he and Michael Jackson embraced. As he stood there with us, Diane was behind him, poking him in the head and pinching his rear end like she would when we were teens.

After Berry and Marvin embraced, Berry came to me. We hugged and kissed, then he whispered in my ear, "You finally learned how to sing, huh?" I held his hand and raised his arm into the air.

The next thing I knew, Diane ran to the back of the stage and climbed the orchestra platform, so that she was standing high above the rest of us. When the song ended, the producers asked us all to stay onstage so that a photographer from Life magazine could take our picture. In seconds, Diane had scurried down from her perch and pushed her way to the center of the stage. She grabbed for Stevie Wonder and kissed him. When the photo ran, sure enough, she was smack in the middle.

In the earlier days, Diane would do things like this, but never in public. We were best friends and I would ignore her antics. But tonight of all nights, why did it have to be this way? This was to be a joyous reunion. Even people whose parting with Motown had been less than amicable had returned with nothing in their hearts but love. Part of the Supremes' magic and appeal came from the fact that we were a fantasy, a dream come true. Our personal problems were kept under wraps. Over the years, I'd gotten a pretty good idea of how the public viewed the Supremes, Florence's dismissal, and Diane's leaving the group. And deep in my heart, I knew people were anxious to see a cat fight. That Diane had so foolishly given them that satisfaction hurt me deeply. Her actions seemed to say that the Supremes were unimportant, when in fact we both knew that the Supremes had changed our lives forever.

I returned to my dressing room hurt and angry. What a terrible way to end an evening, a career, a friendship. We had always been there for each other; Diane and I knew each other like books. She has done many things to hurt, humiliate, and upset me, but, strangely enough, I still love her and am proud of her.

Similarly, I will always hold Berry Gordy in the highest esteem, no matter what he does. As young performers, we

brought him the raw materials but he saw our

potential and made it all work. Berry and 1 ma) have our differences, but the bottom line is that he, Diane, and I are inextricable parts of one another's lr.

These thoughts ran through my mind as tour security guards escorted me across the street to the Pasadena Plaza Mall. The gala celebration was in full swin^i, and I was welcomed and comforted by my friends there I felt the old camaraderie and love that brought me here. I didn't Diane for the rest of the night.

And the historic Supremes reunion7

"Guests at Motown 's twenty-fifth-anniversarj bash

still buzzing about the finale.

— Los Angeles Herald Examiner

"Ross [did] some elbowing to get Wilson out of the spotlight."

"Not once were they introdu< the Supremes,

much to the audience's dismay.91

—US

As always, the press had the last word, and the public knew everything — or at least they thought they did. But the Supremes' story was never that simple, and the whole truth has never been told.

Until now.

Chapter i

I was born on March 6, 1944, in Greenville, Mississippi, a small, quiet Southern town near the Mississippi Delta. It was, IVe been told, a hot, humid day in March when my mother, Johnnie Mae Wilson, began her labor. Though she was thirty, she'd married only recently. I was her first child. She was so afraid of the pain that she told her mother that she didn't want to have me; it hurt too much. Though Grandmama knew that my mother's labor was unusually hard and going too slowly, she was exasperated. A collegeeducated woman who'd given birth to all seven of her children at home, my grandmother couldn't understand why Johnnie Mae didn't just get on with it.

My father, Sam Wilson, had left to work on the riverboat, and my grandmother awaited anxiously the midwife's arrival. Home births were common here, yet few women would even think of bearing a child without a midwife present. In rural areas like Greenville, where medical care was far away and too expensive for most people, the midwife's knowledge and experience could be a woman's only comfort. Today no midwife could be found.

When the midwife finally arrived hours later, the house was cleared. She and Grandmama tried everything. Though darkness had fallen and the night air was mercifully cool, both women worked up a sweat.

"This baby should have been here a long time ago," said the midwife. Grandmama could only shake her head when the midwife suggested that my mother be taken to the hospital; my father could not afford it. That settled, she and the midwife returned to coaxing and coercing my mother along. Before it was all over, Grandmama lost her motherly tact: "You fool! You can't let that baby stay inside of you! It's got to come out!"

A little past midnight, 1 was finally born. 1 now wonder if my first appearance in life was somehow indicative ol the path my life would later take. Even at my birth, 1 w fence-sitter.

Grandmama and the midwife cleaned the room and changed the linens When they heard Daddy's footsteps coming up the stairs, they realized that no one had chosen a name for me After they'd placed me in his trembling arms, they asked him for his suggestions.

"She's so eute," he said, smiling, "1 would like to name her after one of my old girlfriends: Mai

Few women would have stood for that, but my mother loved the name, so she wasn't worried about its inspiration.

That my life began so unremarkablv makes what would happen to me years later all the more amazing. My parents

were in many ways typical of their time and place. Greenville was an unusual Southern town w here blacks, whites, and Asians lived together peaeefullv. My father, who was twenty years older than my mother, was a butcher; mv mother did not work.

My mother was tall and slender, with skin the color of polished ebony and a deceptively shy manner. Seemingly soft and delicate, she always appeared frail, partly as a result of cultivated feminine charm, and partly due to a minor, chronic childhood illness that had led her mother and her siblings to be overprotective of her. Grandmama hovered over her. While the five younger children — Preston, Rufus, Monever, Margaret, and I.V. (a corruption of the name Ivory) — attended school regularly in Moorehead, Mississippi, Johnnie Mae was kept home. Grandmama sureK meant well, but as a result my mother would be nearK illiterate for the rest of her life. Despite this, my mother always had a wisdom about people, and she had a love of life that I have inherited from her. Whenever anyone treated her badly, she would forgive them. She believed that people were basically good, that no matter what happened, anyone would eventually be redeemed.

Grandmama's parents were slaves, but she attended college shortly after the turn of the century and was an intelligent and progressive woman. She married four, maybe five, times; no one is really sure. Grandmama struggled to raise a well-mannered, hardworking, God-fearing family. They adhered to all the traditions of the region and local culture, attending the local Baptist church regularly. Summers would find the children out picking cotton to earn extra money. As the four daughters grew to womanhood, they longed to live in the city, where people said there were better jobs, nicer houses, and more men. My mother may have been the most eager of all to leave, but before she could pull up stakes, Sam Wilson came to town.

He was tall, fair, good-looking, and suave — a real charmer. He didn't talk much, so even though he was a friend of my Aunt Margaret's husband, no one could vouch for his background. Even years later, my mother's family would know very little about my father. He was from Louisiana— probably New Orleans. Most of his family were dead; he'd spent some time in jail — why was never clear.

Mother's family immediately distrusted Sam. It was obvious that he loved the fast life. Although he had a trade, he couldn't hold a job, had long been a drifter, and, worst of all, he was a compulsive gambler. To proud and religious people like my mother's kin, Sam Wilson was just plain weak. My mother was always the quietest and most reserved of her siblings, but when it came to Sam, nothing they said could change her mind. She loved him.

That my mother's family came to accept my father is more a testament to their warmth and generosity than to any drastic change in his attitude. The little bedroom with the four-poster mahogany bed where I was born, was the struggling couple's first home. Grandmama always had a full house and a big heart. She was the center of a loving family that, despite differences, would always unite against hard times and trouble.

After the whole family moved to Greenville, a town about ninety miles from the state capital i in, they

came to regard Moorehead il hick town There v

so many more opportunities in Greenville. Hut like all fathers, mine wanted to make a better life tor us, so when 1 was about a year old we moved to Saint Louis, a town known for its loose women, hot music, and a scarcit legitimate employment. My mother knew the score. 5 demanded that my father leave Saint Louis, and he did Next, we moved to Chicago, where, whik living on the tough South Side, my father managed to do fair!) well He was working regularly, but even when he was on his best behavior my mother worried. As the old blues song l; "When the eagle flies on Friday" — m othei words, when Daddy got his paycheck — unless my mother "caught it soon as he got home, it would surd} have flown away, spent on gambling and good tunes, before Monday morning rolled around.

My father tried everything he could to be a good provider, but soon lie was back to his old ways. Holding a steady job, from which he could earn a pittance at I just too slow for him. There was fast money — and lots of it, he believed — to be made gambling. 1 le could only be happy living the fast life, and he made no bones about it \1\ mother worried constantly about me and my baby brother Roosevelt. She hadn't minded being the main breadwinner in the early days of their marriage; she knew her man didn't like to work, and she got by working in Greenville and Moorehead. But living in the big city, far from friends and family, was something else. Despite her misgivings, my mother had followed him to Chicago; now she was stranded. Her youngest sister I.V. and her husband John L. Pippin came to see what they could do to help.

I.V. was ten years younger than my mother. A petite woman, I.V. was fine-featured and beautiful, but had a will of iron. John L., at over six feet, towered above his wife, but there was no mistaking who was the boss, at least most of the time. John L. was a man of integrity and sound judgment. He was reasonable, patient, kind, and generous. Every woman in my mother's family considered him the ideal husband. The Pippins had just purchased a lovely home on the outskirts of Detroit, near Dearborn, for $7,100 on a GI loan. After two years of marriage they were childless. They felt their taking me back to live with them would relieve some of my mother's burden. She was frightened, down to her last few dollars, and still without a job. She promised reluctantly that she would consider it.

No matter how much my mother loved me, her life was beyond her control and periodically complicated by my father's unpredictable appearances and disappearances. Any money that my mother might have squirreled away in his absence, Sam Wilson would surely squander upon his return. She loved him, but she loved us too. I hardly remember my father at all from this period. My only image of him — in a handsome light-colored suit posed in front of a shiny convertible — comes from a treasured photo.

And so in 1948, when I was three years old, Aunt I.V. and Uncle John L. drove me back to the little house at 3800 Bassett Street in Detroit, and my mother returned to Mississippi, where she would live with Grandmama and baby Roosevelt for the next several years.

I was only three then, too young to know what was going on, much less understand it. In fact, within a few years I would forget my real parents altogether, and call I.V. and John L. "Mom" and "Daddy." What I remember now most from my first few weeks in my new home was the house itself. Though it was typical of thousands of development houses built to accommodate young GIs and their families, compared to the dark apartment I grew up in, it seemed like a mansion. The three-bedroom house was filled with heavy, dark furniture, and on each piece were perched several stiffly starched, elaborately crocheted doilies. I had my own bedroom, decorated in blue with frilly ruffled curtains and a satin bedspread. Being in an immaculate new house surrounded by trees and soft green lawns seemed wonderfully alien.

Like many cities then, Dearborn was all white. Bi could work and shop there, but they couldn't live there Our neighborhood, just outside Dearborn, was working class and middle class, but all black Like most people in t Daddy worked in the auto industry, at Chrysler; Mom worked for Hudson's Dry Cleaners I he\ were almost affluent by most standards, and our house was full of wondrous things: a new Eureka vacuum

beautiful radio that was as big as a refrigerator. We were the first family on the block to own a television, and ever) vear Daddy bought a shiny new Chryslei foi himself and a st\hsh Chevrolet for Mom.

To ensure that our family wanted tor nothing, Daddy always held down two jobs, working at Chrysler and then moonlighting, doing things like running a small gas station, so he had little time fol leisure When he did have tm. spare, he liked fixing up things around the house, or sitting in the dark-wood-paneled l

built and listening to his collection of 78-rpm P <>rds

by Nat "King" Cole, Sarah Vaughan, Glenn Miller, Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, LaVern Baker, Brook Benton, and Joe Williams. It was through listening to these wonderful records that I fell in love with music — everything from jazz to Doris Day. John L. also liked to give parties, SO the basement had a wet bar and red upholstered barstoob. I.V.'s job left her exhausted at the end of the day, too, but both believed that having a nice home and the means to provide for themselves and help others was worth all the effort.

I.V. was a stylish dresser whose expansive collection of different colors of fingernail polish and fashion magazines, such as Vogue, kept me occupied for hours. She wanted me to always look my best and spared no expense on my clothing. My dresses were always ruffled or pleated, crisply pressed and starched and always worn over drifts of dainty white petticoats. My favorites were the frilly multicolored nylon "party dresses" for special occasions I wore little black patent-leather shoes and lace-trimmed anklets, and my long thick hair was neatly braided and adorned with ribbons and bows. As far back as I can remember, I felt like a miniature fashion plate.

Large parts of our neighborhood were still under development, and some areas were almost like the country. Passing fruit orchards on our way to and from school, my little friends and I would pick all the peaches and apples we could carry, along with bunches of wild grapes that seemed to grow everywhere. We could play across the highway at Pepper Creek. Though I was basically a very dainty little girl, I loved to make mud pies and catch snakes and toads — which I would bring home to unappreciative parents.

Any seemingly idyllic existence has its share of drawbacks, and mine was no different. I dreaded having my hair fixed, and the daily ritual of I. V. hurting me as she tried to comb through that wild, tangled mess and me crying my eyes out came to exemplify my relationship with her. Looking back I see in this daily trauma the beginnings of several personality traits, such as a fear of authority and a reluctance to speak out. Though the tiny voice deep inside me told me that I was strong, I also knew that I was powerless to change my situation. Like all children, I viewed my parents— and I thought John L. and I. V. were my parents — as perfect, and I lived for their love. Their approval meant everything to me; their anger could throw me into confusion and self-doubt.

I learned very early on to quietly please and pacify I. V. however I could. This was especially difficult at times because I. V. Pippin had little patience for anyone or anything, and becoming an "instant mother" certainly must have tried what little patience she did have to the limit. I. V. was a no-nonsense woman and an almost fanatical perfectionist. The house had to be immaculate, her clothes had to be the finest, and her family had to reflect the highest qualities at all times. Given all this she — and I — were very lucky that she'd married John L. A more wonderful father simply doesn't exist. When I. V. would lose her temper with me, he would intervene on my behalf. After an incident, he'd take me aside and say, "She doesn't have much patience, you know."