When we found out two months ago that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences had decided to give Jerry Lewis their Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award during the February 22 Academy Awards ceremony (”the Oscars”), a sense of outrage flowed through the disability rights community — through listservs, Facebook pages, blogs, and good old-fashioned conversations.
We couldn’t believe it. For so long, we’ve been telling a different story about our lives — a story of aspirations beyond mere cure, of the beauty of adaptation, of political activism, of demands for equality and inclusion. We thought our counter-narrative had begun to take hold, replacing the tearjerking drama of charity campaigns to eradicate our troublesome bodies.
But no. Now, that charity narrative, in which we function as objects of fear, pity, and cathartic generosity, was being given the ultimate seal of approval by the ultimate arbiter of cultural consciousness, Hollywood.
So we got to work. We formed an ad hoc group called The Trouble with Jerry. We wrote a letter to the Academy, strongly objecting to the award. We set up an online petition so that others could express their outrage; over 2600 people did so. We created a website to bring together articles, resources, and evidence of Lewis’ anti-humanitarianism. And we started planning street protests.
The details of the planning process will be another article, someday soon…. a case study of 21st-century grassroots activism, carried out largely online but with direct action as the goal.
Demonstrations did happen, in four cities across the United States: Los Angeles, CA; Denver, CO; New York City and Rochester, NY. This entry will describe the highlights of the LA actions, which took place over three days: Friday, February 20; Saturday, February 21; and Oscar Day, Sunday, February 22.
DAY ONE:
On Friday, around 30 activists converged in front of the headquarters of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (AMPAS), ready to confront these Hollywood power brokers. We were carrying three large scrolls of red paper, on which 2642 signatures and comments from our online petition were printed. (A couple hundred more have signed on since then.) We were determined to present this impressive document, preferably in some dramatic way, to the Academy bigwigs.
For over an hour, we filled the broad sidewalk area in front of the fancy Beverly Hills building, chanting and picketing and passing out hundreds of flyers. Then we got a tip from a reporter, about a press conference that AMPAS was supposedly going to hold very soon near the Kodak Theatre, back in Hollywood. Most of us were staying in hotels in the neighborhood around the Kodak, so it had taken us quite a schlep to get all the way over to AMPAS on Wilshire Boulevard. We speculated that this was AMPAS’ scheme to divert attention away from our current action, and we discussed whether we should show up at both locations. On the other hand, we didn’t want to dilute our strength too much. This was our sole chance to target the AMPAS on their home turf; the building would be closed for the weekend.
In the end, we decided to send just a few people back over to the Kodak, then to escalate our AMPAS action. It turned out to be a good decision. Our collective energy grew stronger. We connected with more and more passersby. Then we opened the front doors and entered the swanky lobby, where we were greeted by several switchboard operators and security staff. They were not particularly glad to see us.
We chanted “No award for Jerry!” over and over. Then we pulled out our song sheets and sang, to the tune of “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story, the lyrics we had adapted for the occasion:
He feels pity,
so much pity.
He feels pity, and to this we object!
Because pity
heightens fear and undermines respect.
He feels giddy,
oh, so giddy,
for on Sunday he’s getting a prize,
for his pity
and his patronizing tears and lies.
No more pity,
no more pity.
I say give me dignity instead!
For dignity
is the only way we’ll get ahead.
(This catchy pity ditty is probably still stuck in the heads of those poor guards, just as it’s still stuck in ours!)
As we made nuisances of ourselves, and made clear our demand to meet with Academy officials, either upstairs in their office or right there in the lobby, preparations for a big party were going on around us. In a large conference-type room behind the lobby, chairs and decorations were being set up. We chanted and sang some more. The secretarial/switchboard staff grew increasingly annoyed with us, while a security guard sat at his desk watching with some amusement. When we told him we wanted to confront the Academy on its Hersholt decision, he shrugged, and pointed to a sleeve on his dark blue windbreaker. “People who wear polyester don’t make decisions,” he said. Nevertheless, he remained friendly. We even passed him our page of song lyrics, urging him to join us. He didn’t sing, but he did read along as we sang.
The Beverly Hills cops showed up. They asked us to leave the building. We responded that we had urgent business with AMPAS, and would stay. The police tried again; again we refused to vacate the lobby. Were they planning to arrest us?, we asked. “No one said anything about arrests,” replied the officer in charge. “That’s a bad word.”
He did ask us to show our IDs, which prompted some in our group — those who, for personal or professional reasons, could not afford arrest records — to exit. The rest of us held firm, much to the dismay of the officer. When we called his bluff, he dropped the subject of IDs. He continued to try to persuade us to go outside and wait for a meeting there.
We said no. We were having a good time, chanting and singing and, in between, visiting with each other, joking and laughing at each other’s wit. Many of us are old friends, and/or comrades from other struggles related to the rights of people with disabilities. Our camaraderie gave us a distinct advantage here in the lobby: While the staff grew more annoyed with every passing minute, we were having a great old time together.
In the midst of the standoff, suddenly a man appeared from somewhere and introduced himself as Bruce Davis. We knew that name well by now. “Oh, you’re the writer of the scratched Lamborghini letter!” one of us said.
For the next five or ten minutes, we laid out our objections to the idea of giving Jerry Lewis, of all people, a humanitarian award. As he’s done before, Davis made his favorite point about Lewis — that he has raised a huge amount of money for the Muscular Dystrophy Association. “Isn’t that worth something?” he asked.
How he raises that money cannot be overlooked, we pointed out. He’s so successful at getting donations precisely because he’s willing to play on people’s worst fears of disability, and to paint disabled people in the worst possible light. He compromises our dignity in service to the MDA’s bottom line.
Davis persisted in arguing the benefits of all that money must be worth a few “politically incorrect” statements by Jerry Lewis.
As we spoke, we handed Davis those large red scrolls, sporting thousands of signatures of people opposed to the award. We tried to get him to unroll the documents and see the impressive list of names and comments, but he refused. Instead, he tucked the scrolls under his arm, promising to look at them upstairs.
Davis alternately listened attentively, and reacted defensively. One activist told a story about a friend with a neuromuscular condition, who needed a life-saving ventilator, which was denied by MDA (though fortunately funded by another source). At this point, Davis announced that he was very busy getting ready for the Oscars. He waved goodbye, and left us.
We emerged from the building, victorious — after all, we got the meeting we had demanded, and presented the petition. Outside, we gathered to plan our next move.
All day, we had been watching the preparations for that night’s party. This appeared to offer yet another protest opportunity. Celebrities and bigshots, we learned, would start arriving around 6:30 p.m. — in about four hours. Many of us felt the need to call it a day, to start the hour-and-a-half-long bus trip back to our hotels so we could get some food and some rest.
A few hearty souls, however, decided to go get some dinner and then return to greet the glittering guests. They spent the evening giving out more leaflets, and engaging in conversation with some of the partygoers — many of whom were open to hearing about The Trouble with Jerry.
DAY TWO:
On Saturday, our group assembled at the corner of Highland and Hollywood Boulevard, right in the heart of the entertainment capital of the world. We still carried our signs and posters, sporting slogans such as “PITY ISN’T PROGRESS,” “WE DON’T NEED JERRY’S PITY,” and “DO I LOOK LIKE HALF A PERSON?”
The area was flooded with tourists from all over the world, in town to bask in the Oscar glow. As they crowded the streets, visiting museums and souvenir shops, we offered to enlighten them with our bright yellow flyers. We reprised our singing and chanting, with gusto.
All this activity drew the attention of some journalists who were in the area. We had press packets ready to hand out, containing news releases and background information about our campaign. A local TV station, KABC Channel 7, filmed a segment about our protest. (It was broadcast repeatedly throughout Saturday evening and Sunday morning.) A reporter from the New Jersey Star-Ledger spent a lot of time with our group, interviewing several spokespeople, and later wrote an excellent article.
Then we started our street theater performances. We laid out a cheap but bright red carpet that we purchased, and this became our “stage.” We pulled out our costumes and props: photo masks featuring Jerry Lewis’ face, and a cheap facsimile of an Oscar Award statue. Three activists became actors, transforming themselves into three characters: Telethon Host, Jerry Lewis, and Oscar Presenter. This was the Telethon to Cure Disability Prejudice and Jerry, of course, was the poster child for disability prejudice. The skits entertained us, and the passersby, while making a point.
After a couple of hours in that location, we all decided to head toward the Kodak Theatre, the scene of the upcoming crime — the dubbing of Jerry Lewis as a “humanitarian.” We went down a long pedestrian mall, joined along the way by an independent reporter who interviewed us on his camcorder. (The interviews later showed up on YouTube.)
Because it was Oscar weekend, the city was exercising a carefully orchestrated form of crowd control. Large areas were blocked off entirely, and a fairly narrow path led from the street into the Highland and Hollywood Mall, and through the lobby of the Kodak Theatre. There, we quickly snapped pictures of the giant gold Oscar statue surrounded by red roses. Then we got on our way, following the designated route back outside to Hollywood’s Walk of Fame. We ended up in front of the famous Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. We parked ourselves near the sidewalk slab featuring the signature and handprints and footprints of Jean Hersholt, the actor and humanitarian for whom Lewis’ controversial award was named.
We spent the rest of the afternoon there, enjoying the festive atmosphere and communicating our message to all who would stop to listen or take our flyers.
DAY THREE:
On Sunday, we had planned to start our day later, around 2 p.m.; but we got a tip from a friendly journalist about the likely schedules of reporters that day. By mid-afternoon, we learned, all media personnel would have staked out their prized spots near the red carpet entrance to the Kodak Theatre, and would refuse to leave in pursuit of any other stories. We, of course, would not be able to get anywhere near the red carpet. So if we had any hope of earning some media coverage, we would have to get an earlier start. That change in strategy paid off.
It was Oscar day, and the level of security was even higher than the day before. Most of the streets in the area were closed to vehicles. Barricades lined the sidewalks. Police were everywhere.
Because of the restrictions on pedestrian traffic, our group ended up somewhat scattered. We had to wait, along with crowds of other people, to go through security checkpoints.
In front of the Guinness World Record Museum on Hollywood Boulevard, one small group of us encountered a team from the Associated Press — a reporter, a television camera operator, and a still photographer. They stayed with us for a while, asked some good questions, and shot a lot of film. Their reports have found their way, in various forms, to media outlets all around the world.
Gradually, the whole group met up in that same spot. We lined up along the sidewalk, against a barricade where we taped up many of our posters to face the still mostly empty street. We concentrated on the tourists walking by, distributing still more of those bright yellow flyers.
As the afternoon wore on, authorized vehicles began entering the restricted street in front of us. It was a staggered parade of diverse vehicles, from SUVs and stretch limousines, to Priuses. The windows were tinted, and so we could not see the passengers. But we made the most of our visible position, waving signs and chanting “NO AWARD FOR JERRY!” and “HEY HEY, HO HO, JERRY’S PITY HAS GOT TO GO! HO HO, HEY HEY, SELF-RESPECT IS HERE TO STAY!”
That evening, we all gathered at a nearby pub to watch the 81st Annual Academy Awards. Like everyone else in the place, we enjoyed and/or made fun of the glitz and glamour, and we rooted for our favorite films and performers.
We finished our dinners and settled up our bills. But we were reluctant to leave our tables, in case the segment featuring Jerry Lewis should come on while we were on our way back to our hotel room TVs. We wanted to see how the award would be explained, and what tone Lewis would take. So we waited.
When Lewis was introduced, and again when he accepted the award, we booed. This drew curious looks from the other pub patrons. So as we left, we offered a flyer to every table, and to everyone sitting at the bar. It was our final act of defiance and enlightenment.
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