My Love Story Page 8

  I learned a little more about Nichiren Shoshu Buddhism from one of my friends, and then I started practicing slowly, chanting secretly at first, because I knew Ike wasn’t going to like it. I grew up saying the Lord’s Prayer, so I was open to the idea of chanting, which is just another form of prayer. I stayed with the Lord’s Prayer in the beginning, and then did ten to fifteen minutes of the chant “Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.” I wasn’t sure what the words meant because the literature didn’t really explain it, but as I stumbled through the little book on Buddhism my friend had given me, I learned not to worry so much about what I was saying. All I needed to know was that the sound was touching a part of me, deep inside, putting me in another frame of mind.

  Chanting, I discovered, removed uncomfortable attitudes from my thoughts. I started to think differently. Everything became lighter. I needed a new mind-set to deal with my horrible marriage, and my “practice,” as it’s called, was helping me to reprogram my brain, to move into the light, to make the right decisions. The more I did it, the stronger I felt.

  Someone once asked me about the relationship between singing and chanting. I explained that chanting is not necessarily like singing a song, rather it’s that moment when you find yourself making sounds from within—from your heart, from your spirit. Each person has a song inside. That is something I learned over time. You can find the hum inside of you that can give you peace when you are really down. Mama Georgie, my grandmother, had a hum, never a song. She would sit in a rocking chair and just hum, and I would listen. There was no real melody, but I know now that it was her way of touching a place deep inside her. It was the song of her soul. Everyone should try to find the song within.

  I wish more people could understand how important meditation and prayer are—how important it is to be spiritual. When I say “spiritual,” well, that can scare people—they think religion, church, God—but being spiritual means touching the highest part of yourself. I went from my Baptist prayers to Buddhism—different words at a time when I needed different words—but I was always spiritual. My practice helps me to not be upset: to deal with situations on a different level because I think about them differently.

  I still get upset occasionally, I’m only human. But chanting always makes me feel better. When I embraced Buddhism, I realized that I, alone, was responsible for my life, and what I wanted it to be.

  If I had any doubts about the power of Buddhism, they evaporated the moment Ike reacted so negatively to my chanting. He came across my butsudan, a little cabinet that held candles, incense, water, fruit, and other traditional essentials for my practice, which I had hidden in an empty room. “Get that motherfucker out of my house,” he ordered. Profanity aside, I could tell that it made him uneasy to think I had a secret life, and a mysterious one at that. As far as he was concerned, Buddhism was a form of voodoo, and he didn’t like it, or trust it. Typically, he was afraid of anything he didn’t understand. I liked having a little power over him for a change. I could see that he was the fearful one, scared that I would cast a spell on him, or something silly like that.

  I decided that maybe my chanting was working after all, when, in 1974, I was offered the role of the Acid Queen in Ken Russell’s film of the Who’s rock opera Tommy. Ike kept me on a very short leash, so it was exciting whenever there was an opportunity to get out from under his shadow. I was thrilled. Acting had been one of my ambitions when I was a child. I’d come home from seeing a movie and recreate the most dramatic scenes for any family member who had the patience to watch. I especially loved doing really over-the-top death scenes.

  I headed to London, where the film was being shot, certain I was on my way to becoming a movie star. I took great pride in the way I dressed, so I brought my own clothes to the set, just in case I didn’t like the costumes. Thank God! You should have seen how they would have dressed me. I pleaded, “Please. I brought my own Yves Saint Laurent skirt and accessories.” The costume designer, Russell’s wife, Shirley, said that I could wear them, although she came up with the Acid Queen’s clunky platform shoes. Ken Russell loved the way I looked. I do remember him saying he hadn’t known I had so much hair, but it worked for the character.

  It was one of those rare trips that Ike let me take alone (he was busy with something in L.A.), and the whole time I was in London, I felt like a bird who had escaped from a cage. I was so happy that Ike wasn’t involved in any way—that there wasn’t one guitar for him to play, and I said to myself, “I can do this without you.” I wasn’t allowed to say that, of course. But the fact that Ike knew there was a demand for me without him—for the second time, counting my experience with Phil Spector on “River Deep—Mountain High”—was really satisfying.

  It sounds crazy to say now, but at the time, I had no idea that the Acid Queen had any connection to drugs. So much for my wild and crazy life! Still, I felt perfectly comfortable playing this wild lady in Tommy. Why shouldn’t I? By this point, I’d been singing professionally for sixteen years, and performing onstage is a form of acting: in both worlds, great care goes into creating a look, projecting an attitude, interpreting the words, performing—in my case, the lyrics of a song. I loved doing the film and hoped there’d be more opportunities to act in the future.

  While I was in London, my friend Ann-Margret, who was starring in Tommy, invited me to appear on her television special, Ann-Margret Olsson. I first met Ann-Margret in 1973, when Ike and I were performing at the International Hotel in Las Vegas and she was at the Tropicana. Rhonda and I slipped out from Ike’s watchful eye to catch her act and visited her dressing room after the show. When her husband, Roger Smith, opened the door, he was shocked to see me standing there. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said, “but Ann-Margret is a huge fan of yours and has all of your albums.” Then he showed me a stack of them right there!

  We became good friends after that night and had a great time working together on skits and songs for the television show, including a spirited delivery of “Nutbush City Limits,” the hit song I’d written about my hometown. The words “A church house, gin house” came naturally to me—these were my childhood memories set to music. I actually got paid royalties when the song became a hit—which was incredible to me because I still didn’t get paid for anything else at the time. That check was one more taste of independence.

  Now that I was spending more and more time outside the bubble, I think Ike sensed that he was losing his hold on me. Whether I was chanting or working on a job that didn’t include him, I was distancing myself from “Ike and Tina.”

  A partner of yours will fall, like a leaf from a tree in autumn, the psychic had predicted all those years ago.

  The spell was lifting, a door was opening, and I was taking baby steps away from Ike. A change is gonna come . . .

  Those baby steps turned into a giant leap in July 1976, when we flew into Dallas for a show. During previous trips to Dallas we had performed sold-out shows at Lovall’s and at the Skyliner in Fort Worth, so we were looking forward to coming back. But the plane ride that day was uncomfortable because Ike was recovering from one of his five-day cocaine benders and was in a horrible mood. He insisted on draping himself over me and Ann Thomas during the flight. It was humiliating to be with him when he was hung over; I felt that everyone was staring at us.

  It got worse when we landed. The weather was hot and uncomfortable—the temperature was in the nineties—and Ike insisted on pulling out a melted chocolate bar to eat in the car. He tried to give me some and I recoiled because I was wearing a white Yves Saint Laurent pantsuit and didn’t want to get it dirty. Apparently, my refusal to share his candy was a signal that it was time to fight.

  First, we had words. Everything that came out of his mouth was always a profanity. But this time, when he said, “Fuck you,” I said, “Fuck you” back. It was as if a voice that had been hiding deep inside me came out for the first time. That was a surprise to Ike, who turned to one of his musicians and said, “Man, this woman never talke
d to me like that.”

  Then he started punching me, and reached for his shoe to do the dirty work.

  I really shocked him. When a lick came, I gave him a lick back, blow for blow. It felt really good to fight this person who had been so rude, vulgar, and abusive for so long. It came to a point where I freaked; it was the last drop that spilled the water out of the bucket. We fought all the way to the Statler Hilton.

  By the time we reached the hotel, my face was swollen and my once-beautiful suit was splattered with blood. We attracted a lot of attention when we stepped out of the car, although Ike claimed we had been in an “accident.” I looked like a woman who had been broken and silenced. And that’s what Ike wanted to believe, that he’d won the round, like he had won all those other fights. The truth was another story.

  In our room, I pretended to be the same old Tina: the wife who was understanding and forgiving; the one who was concerned about Ike’s needs—his headache, his bloody nose, his exhaustion, his pain. I went through the motions of preparing him for our first show that night: ordering his dinner, massaging his temples, and urging him to take a little nap. He heard what he wanted to hear, but the whole time, I was thinking, What would happen if I just grabbed a bag and ran?

  Well, that’s exactly what I did. As soon as Ike fell asleep, I reached for a small toiletries case, tied a scarf around my throbbing head, and tossed a cape around my shoulders. Then I got the hell out of that room and out of that life.

  I might have forgotten it for a while, but I knew how to run away from snakes.

  On an adrenaline high, I raced to the first floor, terrified that I would meet one of Ike’s entourage, and slipped through the hotel kitchen into an alley. It was dark outside and the landscape was unfamiliar, so I hid among the garbage cans while I figured out what to do next. Unfortunately, the streets behind the hotel did not offer the best cover for a nervous fugitive. The buildings were low and surrounded by open spaces that were filled with weeds. You know what I think? I think that my will to live was so strong that I was blind to danger, because I’m certain that those weeds, which were as high as my waist in some spots, must have been crawling with animals I couldn’t see.

  I decided to keep moving, afraid that Ike would wake up and catch me, as he had done so many times before. I didn’t stop for several blocks, until I came to Interstate 30, where I spotted a Ramada Inn on the other side. There was probably a safer way to get over the busy highway, but I didn’t know the area. In my confusion, the most direct route seemed to be running down an embankment and across several lanes of speeding traffic.

  As I took my first step, I knew that if I survived, I would be adding this story to the list of times I escaped death. I’m not sure what was more frightening—the whooshing sounds the trucks made as they came speeding toward me or the thunderous vibrations I felt with my entire body as they passed. One truck driver blasted his horn at the unlikely sight of a frightened woman running past him on a multilane highway. That’s when I realized, you can’t compare the speed of the foot to the speed of a ten-wheeler. By the time I reached the middle of the road, the truck was almost on top of me. I just missed getting hit by one of the really big ones, and I’ll never know how I escaped death at that moment.

  A country girl knows how to run through fields and do all that daredevil stuff. But I felt that I was being guided by a higher power that night. Somehow, I made it across the highway and up the hill to the Ramada, only to realize that there were greater obstacles ahead. Ike always threatened, “When you leave, you leave like you came,” meaning with nothing. He was right. I had 36 cents and a Mobil credit card in my pocket, my face was battered, and my clothes were filthy and stained with blood. And I was black. In Dallas. It occurred to me that, under the circumstances, any sensible innkeeper would probably turn me away.

  I walked up to the desk and introduced myself to the manager, explaining who I was and that I had run away from my husband and didn’t have any money. But I swore I would pay him back if he’d give me a room for the night. It crossed my mind that, in my vulnerable condition, this stranger could take advantage of me—even rape me. I was too weary and numb to be afraid, or even care. Lucky for me, the manager had a big heart. He immediately took me upstairs to a suite and promised to send up hot soup and crackers.

  When I closed the door, the thought of what I had done hit me so hard that I became weak in the knees, almost faint. My heart was in my ears.

  I was terrified, but I was also excited.

  I wasn’t just running away from Ike. I was running toward a new life.

  6

  * * *

  “WHEN THE HEARTACHE IS OVER”

  “Time to move on with my life now

  Leaving the past all behind”

  If I told you that I woke up in a panic the day after my escape—that I doubted I would be able to figure out how to live, how to support my kids, how to survive Ike’s wrath, how to go on—I would be lying. I may not have had all (or any!) of the answers, but life, I have to say, was great after I left Ike. Even though I had no money and I knew the kids and I would struggle, the fact that I was out of that hell meant everything to me. I tasted true freedom for the first time in fourteen years. I was nervous—that was natural—but I was also curious to see how I would get along on my own. At the age of thirty-seven, I was starting over.

  Of course, I had to start dealing with practical matters the moment I returned to Los Angeles. Ike’s accountant, who was very kind to me, had arranged for an airline ticket from Dallas to L.A. I decided to leave the kids with Ike at the house for the time being. I call them “kids,” but they were well into their teens at the time. My son Craig was almost as old as I was when I gave birth to him, and he had a steady girlfriend, Bernadette. I knew that my sister, my mother, and Ike’s housekeeper would take care of the boys while I stayed out of sight and came up with a strategy.

  I had to depend on friends for a place to live, but I couldn’t stay with anyone who knew Ike, or he might find me and try to force me to come back. I decided it was safe to get help from my Buddhist friends, and their friends and relatives. They were kind people who opened their homes to me, but their lifestyles were a little casual. For two months, I moved from place to place, sometimes living in a spare room, other times carving out a corner for myself in an already cramped space.

  Thanks to the time I spent living with the Hendersons when I was young, I was a pretty finicky housekeeper. To this day, I have very high standards. When I found myself in these, let’s say, “bohemian” surroundings, my first impulse was to clean and keep cleaning. While my hosts were out, or at work, I scrubbed their homes from top to bottom, organized their closets, and got rid of their junk and trash. A visit from Tina meant that everything would be neat and sparkling. It was my way of creating order out of chaos, and of earning my keep. I may not have had any money, but I was rich in elbow grease, and I was happy to be useful. Better to be someone else’s maid than Ike Turner’s wife was my attitude.

  Cleaning was one form of therapy: chanting was another. Followers of Buddhism believe that all things are possible. During this difficult time, I sought the company of my chanting friends because it was so important for me to be among positive people. I knew they would help me feel positive. “Nam-myoho-renge-kyo,” I repeated, sometimes for hour upon hour. With practice, chanting became second nature to me, and I saw that it was really working. I felt a door opening inside me, connecting me to my subconscious mind. My reactions were clear and focused thanks to my practice; I knew because my normal reactions weren’t that way. I needed to have my wits about me at all times, and chanting helped me with that. Convincing Ike that I was really and truly gone, and doing it in a way that wouldn’t get me killed, was going to be my biggest challenge.

  They say there are five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. When Ike woke up from his nap in Dallas and realized I was nowhere to be found (and that there would be no show that ni
ght, or in the foreseeable future), he bounced between denial and anger, with a little opportunistic bargaining thrown in. He probably thought that I was just being dramatic by disappearing after our big blowout fight. In his narcissistic mind, he wanted to believe that Tina would be lost without Ike. He locked himself in the studio, turned to his best friend cocaine (and a girlfriend or two) for comfort, and waited for me to come crawling back with my tail between my legs. He told the boys that he was already thinking about going South to find another “Tina,” the same way he found the first one. In his mind, it was that easy to replace me.

  When I didn’t come to him, he came to me. Somehow, Ike figured out I was staying at my friend Anna Maria Shorter’s house, and he showed up one day with a bunch of stooges. I called the police, who shooed them away. His next attempt was a little more civil: he actually requested a meeting. I said yes, but going into it, I made up my mind that I didn’t care if he beat me, or even tried to kill me. No matter what he said or did, I was never going back.

  My strategy was to look as unattractive as possible. I put on too much makeup, which was never my style, and deliberately wore an unflattering dress. Ike pulled up in the Rolls. Duke was the driver that night, just as he had been when we eloped to Tijuana, so I guess we had come full circle. I got into the back with Ike and spoke politely, although I felt anything but polite. I was always nice to him because I knew the rules: don’t say anything that might trigger a fight.

  When we got to the restaurant, we were both visibly uncomfortable. Ike seemed nervous, like he wanted to talk, but didn’t know how to approach me. I could have told him what he should have said: “My life is ruined,” or “I’ll really try to do better if you come back,” something to convince me that he wanted to change. But those words didn’t come naturally to him, and even if he had said all the right things, it wouldn’t have worked because I knew how he was, how he would always be.