in my life. She fills the void. She nurtures me. She consoles me. She disciplines me—almost always for good reason. She fills the hole in my aching heart. I count on her for everything. Emmy is there for me, from about age two until I turn eight (when Mom moves us to New York for the first time).
Emmy is this sweet, soulful, God-fearing woman with a heart of gold, a devout Christian who teaches me more about karma than any New Age book ever can. One thing I learn from Emmy is to never, ever lie. She has me grab a switch from a hickory tree out back if I do (and if it is not a big enough switch, go get one bigger). Then she swats my ass so hard that I never think of lying again.
Besides many other wonderful lessons, Emmy teaches me how to pray. Every night before tucking me tightly into bed, she kneels and prays with me at my bedside. With my hands clasped and pointed toward the heavens, I silently pray for the same thing. One night, I turn to Emmy after praying and ask with all the innocence of a six-year-old, “Emmy, why are you black? Are black people bad?”
“Child,” Emmy says, wagging her finger forcefully at me, “I never want to hear you say that again for the rest of your life.”
“I’m sorry, Emmy,” I answer quietly.
Emmy quickly softens and lowers her voice as she explains, “Honey, God gave us all different colors. God made us the colors of the rainbow. Each of us is judged not by our color but what we do in this world.”
Heavy words for a six-year-old, words I have never forgotten. As I was growing up around Santa Monica in the 1960s, the only black people I saw worked as nannies, gardeners, and other service providers. That innocent question of a six-year-old and the honest answer from a woman who lived in the faith of God really set the tone for my acceptance of everyone. I learned how to be a Christian because of one Emily Gibbs.
From the time I turn three, I suffer from chronic bronchitis, a condition doctors think is either psychosomatic (from the separation anxiety of missing my father) or smog-related. Whatever the cause, I have serious trouble breathing at night. Like any good mom, Emmy is right there. The minute I start coughing in bed, she rushes into my room and sits next to me.
“You poor child,” she says softly. “Emmy will get you better.”
She then rubs Vicks VapoRub on my chest, puts a hot terry-cloth towel over it, sits, and waits patiently until I fall asleep.
Waking around seven o’clock every day, I usually run straight to Emmy’s room because I know she makes me a big breakfast every morning. Nobody makes better breakfasts than Emmy. On the morning of Monday, November 25, 1963, I find her door mysteriously locked. I knock softly. Emmy greets me with tears streaming down her eyes and moon-shaped face.
“Emmy,” I immediately ask, “why are you crying?”
“Oh, honey,” she says, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, “it’s a terrible day.”
“What? Why?”
Sobbing, Emmy sinks into her armchair in her bedroom. On the black-and-white television in her room, a television news anchor is describing the action as a horse-drawn flag-draped casket proceeds reverently down the streets of Washington, D.C. It is the memorial service honoring President John F. Kennedy, assassinated three days earlier.
“A great man was shot,” Emmy says, misty-eyed, “and he’s going to be laid to rest today.”
I climb into Emmy’s lap. We sit there mesmerized for hours watching the funeral procession on television, just the two of us. Throughout the sad day, she reflects on what a great man and humanitarian the president was. It was a day the two of us, Emmy and I, grew even closer.
Despite Emmy being there to tend to my daily needs, what I lack is my mom’s love and attention. Her absence truly saddens me anytime she whisks out of town on business and I begin to feel angry and resentful about her constant absences. Much later, as a mature adult who works his entire career to put bread on the table and is absent, sometimes for long periods, to earn a living, I come to realize Mom was just doing the same. However, back then as a six-year-old child, I fail to fully understand the sacrifices she is making and why. One day, just after Mom returns from a trip and the suitcase rack in her bedroom cradles her still-unpacked suitcase and she still holds her purse in her hand, I walk into her room and announce, “I want a ball and want you to take me to the store.”
“Honey, I can’t. Mommy is really busy,” Mom says, turning her back on me. “Mommy is always busy.”
It is not what I want to hear. Dressed in black boots with red tips, I get so mad I haul off and kick her right in the shin. Mom stands there wailing in pain. Emmy, who sees the whole thing, comes running into her bedroom.
“Lorenzo Fernando Lamas,” Emmy bellows, “what did I see you do?”
I think, “Uh-oh, Emmy caught me. The wrath of God is going to land on me.” Breaking into tears, I immediately beg for forgiveness. “I’m sorry, Mommy, I’m sorry.”
Mom, still crying in pain, manages between sobs to ask, “Lorenzo, why did you kick me?”
I look at her. “I don’t know. I just got angry.”
Emmy grabs me, takes me out of the room, and says sternly, “Lorenzo, you go outside and find the biggest switch you can and bring it back to me. Right now!”
Now I am really sobbing. “All right, Emmy.” Sniff, sniff. “I’ll go.”
I walk out crying crocodile-sized tears, go straight to the hickory tree, peel off about a three- or four-foot-long switch, and bring it back in to Emmy. She swats my ass with four or five of the hardest lashings I have ever received, and I cry my heart out with each whipping. I can assure you, I never did anything like that to my mom—or anyone else—again.
Despite the geographical distance between us, my father is never far from my mind. I often wonder if I will ever see him again and if he ever thinks of me. In 1962, I get a big surprise: He flies me to Italy to see him. It marks the first time we see each other since my parents’ divorce and his leaving the country with Esther.
Because I am underage, Lola Leighter, a close friend of my father’s and someone who is like a grandmother to me, accompanies me on the TWA flight to visit him. I cannot express how much that trip and seeing him means to me. We pick up right where we left off: He drives me around in his Alfa Romeo convertible to the ancient city of Rome and the harbor and beaches of nearby Ostia and spends every minute of every day with me. I am this chubby-faced, scrawny kid but he makes me feel very special. Despite everything, he is still my hero. I know the love is there. I know for certain he loves me and I love him.
Father captures every moment with his Brownie camera. He shoots countless black-and-white photos of me that he then turns into little handmade storybooks, complete with handwritten captions with each photo describing in a charming, funny way where we are and what we’re doing. Although their pages have yellowed and frayed over the years, those simple storybooks have not dimmed with age. They tell about the special bond between a father and son.
One of my favorites is one he titles The International Sheriff, featuring photos from our day trip to Rome, including outside of St. Peter’s Cathedral. In it, I star as the macho, gun-slinging sheriff (as “a stand-in for Mr. Lamas . . . his father”) who comes face-to-face with a vicious Indian (played by yours truly in a dual role).
“Where is he?” I ask in one caption, with a scowl on my face. “I got to find
