Three weeks ago, I hardly knew who Mo’Nique was, but now I can’t forget this extraordinarily dynamic lady. She has a hit TV show, The Parkers, hosts Showtime at the Apollo (the first woman to hold that position), penned a book, Skinny Women Are Evil, and has appeared in feature films including Two Can Play That Game, and she soon will be seen in Beauty Shop, which is being produced by Magic Johnson. In 2001, she received a NAACP Image Award for Outstanding Actress in a Comedy Series. Where have I been? This red-hot mama has blasted off and is skyrocketing.
Arriving at Mo’Nique’s stylish split-level Spanish/Mediterranean home, Eddie, her assistant, bids welcome. On hand are several crewmembers of the TV tabloid show, Extra, who are waiting in the living room to film Mo’Nique. Just then, Mo’Nique sweeps down the grand staircase and immediately embraces me with a warm hug saying, “Thanks for coming.” The gesture is sincere. Elegantly dressed in an ebony-colored two-piece pantsuit, Mo’Nique has a commanding presence and is all smiles. She excuses herself, and then heads to tape the Extra segment.

Like Mo’Nique, the house is large, tasteful, and classy. At the top of the grand staircase, a voluptuous framed portrait of her adorns the wall. The image was taken from the cover of her 2003 New York Times bestseller. Mo’Nique has a thirteen-year-old son, Shalon, who presently lives with his father in Texas. Twice divorced, Mo’Nique’s first marriage to Shalon’s father was an abusive one, though over time he evolved. Mo’Nique was raised in Baltimore, the youngest of four children. Before her success as a standup comic, Mo’Nique served up fast food at a Popeye’s restaurant, worked as a department store salesclerk, and even posed as a full-figure model.
When Mo’Nique was first asked for an interview by A&U, she requested that the mother of her best friend, Charisse Smith, who died of AIDS in 2002, participate as well. “I want to do this interview for Charisse and the many other people who are dying from this devastating disease,” Mo’Nique insisted. “All but one of the Garage crowd [a dance club in New York City] I used to hang with has died of AIDS. If I can save just one life, then that’s my hope in doing this interview.”

Charisse was just thirty-five when she succumbed to the disease. Mo’Nique and Charisse had been friends since the age of seven. To confront her grief, Mo’Nique has appeared in a nationwide PSA campaign, No Excuses, and has been active in BET’s Rap-It-Up. Mo’Nique has donated the proceeds from a number of her performances to AIDS organizations.

Two days before I arrived at her San Fernando Valley home, Mo’Nique attended the Black AIDS Institute’s Heroes in the Struggle benefit gala at Paramount Studios. She presented an award to Viacom executive, Imara Jones, who helps to spearhead the company’s successful national initiative to foster HIV/AIDS awareness through TV and radio programming, billboards, print ads, and the Internet. In fact, on February 16th, The Parkers, which five years ago spun off from Moesha, will feature Grammy-award winning singer, Chilli [A&U, September 2003] and recording artist, Murphy Lee, in an episode about HIV/AIDS entitled “She’s Positive.”

While Mo’Nique is occupied with the other interview, I have an opportunity to chat with Zenobia Smith, Charisse’s mother. A gentle lady of relatively small stature, Zenobia is soft spoken and intelligent. She wears a red ribbon pin on her smart black dress. Her daughter discovered that she was positive after taking a pregnancy test. The man she loved was HIV-positive and he had never revealed his status to her. For six years, Zenobia stuck by Charisse’s side for every grueling, declining step of the illness. Fortunately, Zenobia is a nurse, and she managed to care for Charisse to the very end.

“ I prepared for her death,” Zenobia says. “I got her bible, and read her favorite verse, Psalm 139.” Zenobia put a cross around her neck and applied some holy oil. At midnight, the family came in, kissed Charisse, and left, while several of Zenobia’s girlfriends stayed on. “I was on my knees till 2:40, when I told my girlfriends, ‘Charisse is getting ready to leave us. She’s ready to take her last breath, and I’m going to take it with her.’ Charisse breathed, and I did. Then I kissed her.” Zenobia tears up and is silent for a moment. “As much as I miss her, I must say her death was beautiful. It was so peaceful,” Zenobia says as her voice breaks. We both take a deep breath.

Charisse left behind a healthy son, Zuri, now six, who is being raised by Zenobia. She has taken him to a psychologist who reports that Zuri is fine. “You ask Zuri where his mother is, and he answers, ‘My mother’s in heaven. She’s fine. She’s with God.’ Kids are resilient. They bounce back.” Clearly, Zenobia is having a difficult time with her grief. “My heart still feels an emptiness. I cry almost every day but it’s so good to have family and friends that I can talk to and who are always there. Like being here with Mo. It’s good to be loved,” she says then recollects, “Charisse was the one in the family who took charge. She couldn’t cook but she could plan a meal!” Zenobia laughs then softly reflects, “I miss Charisse’s presence.”

Just a few days ago, a major decision was made. Zenobia discussed with Mo’Nique her feelings toward Zuri’s father, who is now quite ill, and decided to forgive him. “I accepted the apology he made a while back. At that time, I didn’t want to hear it. I’m not God. I’m not perfect. If God forgives me for the many mistakes I’ve made in my life then I have no right not to forgive him.” And what was his response to her compassionate act? “‘Thank you, Zenobia. Thank you so much.’ He kept repeating it. I know it must have been a relief for him.” She pauses. “It’s my duty, not only as Zuri’s grandmother but as a human being to make sure that my grandson and his father have some sort of bond.”

Mo’Nique, who completed her interview, has been eavesdropping and now joins the conversation. “A lot of people just deal with their grief, then they go away. I told Mommy [her affectionate name for Zenobia], by talking about it, dealing with it, and by forgiving Zuri’s father, we’re going to save lives, honey! We don’t realize the impact and the kind of love that that possesses,” she says, as we sit down on bar stools at the enormous black marble kitchen counter. Across from us, Zenobia leans on the counter, listening intently.

Mo’Nique continues: “Once diagnosed, a lot of people go into a dark place, ‘Oh everybody hates me.’ Shame. But if I open my arms and say, ‘Hey, Baby, I love you and I forgive you,’ imagine how many lives you’re going to save, and the devastation you’re going to stop. I told Mommy that once she forgives this man, he’s not going to do it to anybody else. This disease can stop just by forgiveness, and through knowledge and education. We still are so ignorant that AIDS is spreading like wild fire,” bellows Mo’Nique.

Mo’Nique is extremely troubled about HIV’s devastating impact on the African-American community. “Know what is the leading killer among African-American women? Not cancer, not violence. AIDS. You gotta go deeper,” she instructs, “AIDS is just the surface layer. You have to ask these women: ‘Why are you willing to commit suicide? What’s going on with you? Your environment? Your space?’ And when they start talking you almost understand why they’re in that space. Why they feel there is no hope. Why they get into ‘Well I need somebody to love me. I might even know he’s sick but because I’m craving for that kind of love I’ll go ahead, do this, and keep my fingers crossed.’” Ker-plunk! At that moment, her high heel drops off her foot. To get more comfy, she lets the other shoe fall too. “And what’s really goin’ on with our men?! ‘That you’re willing to give it to me? Because that ain’t who you are. You don’t have malice; you’re not a murderer. What’s really happening?’ So until we’re willing to dig deeper into just who we are, and why we’re doing this to ourselves, AIDS is never gonna go anywhere. And it’s gonna keep growing.”
How is Mo’Nique dealing with her friend’s death? “See, I speak from a best friend place. I don’t speak from a mother’s place. Charisse wasn’t my child. I deal with death differently than most people. I’m okay with Charisse being gone because she’s only gone in the physical. And guess what? I’m gonna see my girl again,” she grins and nods confidently. “Though I don’t want it to be no time soon cause I gotta lotta shit to do here!” Mo’Nique briefly looks over my shoulder and out the window that looks onto the backyard. “Death’s gonna happen. I’m okay with that because it’s wonderful, baby,” she says in a low, almost sensuous voice. “Wonderful because I believe and trust God. So how can I be upset that she’s sittin, right there next to Him? How dare I be mad. My sister’s in her glory—with Him! Girl, go on. See, we get caught up in this,” she says slapping her body. “This is temporary. Baby, when it’s my time, ‘All right Jesus,’ let me have my make-up because when I get to the pearly gate, I’m gonna be fab-u-lous!” she loudly sings with her arms stretched wide toward the heavens.

This girl is fun and a joy to chill with. Wish I had known her during my disco heydays. She’d have turned that beat around, and lit her own disco inferno on that dance floor! Indeed, Mo’Nique was heavily into the club scene, as she is a mover and shaker. Since higher rates of HIV infection are being reported within the younger set, how would Mo’Nique approach these kids today on prevention? “I’d show them a picture of Charisse or Ryan White or a one-year-old baby—all the people who’ve lost their lives. Educate them. I don’t just say, ‘Oh, use condoms.’ What I do say is ‘Don’t give up your soul and spirit,’” she grimaces, while rapping her arms around herself, clutching her stomach, hunching over, and shrinking as if ill or getting the wind knocked out of her. “See, we’re preaching—‘Use condoms’—when we need to go deeper. You’ve got to! ‘Hey baby, you’re thirteen, and you’ve been with five men? Do you realize that you are walking around with five men’s spirits inside of you? By the time you’re fourteen you’re so confused up here [she points to her head] because your body wasn’t ready for that. You don’t understand that.’”

That’s exactly what she told her son, Shalon, who was eight at the time. Mo’Nique’s stepson from her second marriage lost his mother to AIDS. “I had to approach the issue with Shalon right then. I couldn’t wait till he was twelve or thirteen,” she says. “I don’t have the luxury of bullshitting. I gotta give it to him straight with no chaser. This is what it is: sex can mean death.” Mo’Nique tilts her head and with a satisfied attitude, snaps her fingers and says: “Baby, I gave you the information, now it’s up to you.

“ At fourteen, I remember my dad came to me with a condom in his hand and said, ‘Put this on my fingers.’ Wow. Really? Ohhh, put this on my fingers?! Right,” she says, as if asked to suck on an onion. “I was floored because I didn’t understand what this brother was doing. Now at thirty-six, I honor you for that,” she chokes up, applauds, and is teary-eyed. “Have I always had sex with a condom? No, I would lie to you if I sat here and said, Oh, yeah, I’ve always been safe. Hell, no. But I knew what space I was in and who I was as a person when I didn’t.”

Mo’Nique is currently in a brand new relationship, as yet unconsummated. “I will only be sexual with my husband. We can kiss, we can pet, we can slow grind. ‘Can’t have my special place, baby, because you’ve got to love me enough to wait till I walk down that aisle and you say I’m yours, and you’re mine. But before we walk down that aisle, let’s go get that blood work done. And even if it comes back something crazy, I still love you. I’m still gonna walk down the aisle, but see, now we know.’”
Mo’Nique has other thoughts to share about the AIDS
epidemic. “I think this disease is a billion-dollar business. How much information do you really wanna give me? Because if you give it all to me, some of your health centers are gonna close down. Some of you are gonna lose your jobs. See, when you go deeper you really start thinking about it,” she hesitates and her voice changes to a somber, skeptical tone. “We got a man to walk on the moon and yet we can’t cure this?! We got nuclear bombs, but we can’t cure this?! Wow. Wow,” she says with wonderment. “And with all this wonderful technology, all the brilliant people, AIDS is still spreading at alarming rates and we can’t stop it?” Mo’Nique raises an eyebrow.

Can anything conquer this virus? “Honesty,” she says simply. “It’s not a special formula. It’s not a long speech. See, we’re just not honest people. We haven’t been conditioned to be honest. We are so very ignorant about AIDS. Many of us are still ashamed to even say, ‘Let’s go get this test together.’ We’re still in the dark about our sexuality, and who we are. Until we’re really ready to be honest, until we’re really ready to go deeper, AIDS is going to keep climbing.”

Mo’Nique puts her hand on my knee. “What if I said to you, ‘I really like you and I wanna be sexual but I have a herpes outbreak.’ I’m being honest with you. So we can put a glove on, or masturbate, or just touch each other in a non-sexual way. For the brothers who are gay and bisexual, be who you are and be honest. For the sisters who used to be IV drug users, be honest enough to say, ‘Hey Brother, if I pull my sleeve up you might see some marks on me. I don’t know if I have this disease because I’ve been really, really scared about taking the test. But if you hold my hand, walk in there with me, I can go ahead and get tested.’ She’s being honest. If my boyfriend said to me, ‘I’ve been with some other men and women and didn’t use protection.’ I’d say, ‘Thank you, Brother. Now let’s go get checked out.’” After a moment, she sums up in a whisper, “To stop AIDS is just to be honest.”

Dann Dulin interviewed Gloria Estefan for the December 2003 issue.