I have had my nose submerged deeply into Cicely Tyson’s newly released memoir just days before her departure from this life, “Just As I Am.” I had ordered the book along with my girl gang of friends as a way to pay homage and read from the palms of what I knew would be wisdom personified.
I was committed to reading the book within 3-5 days because I wanted to have my energy fully devoted to the work that a 96-year-old woman had unselfishly shared of herself, her life and her legacy. I also felt compelled to carry out the task as she is now part of the ancestral realm. Oh, and I respect when a woman shares her story.
The book is drenched in beautiful storytelling, sharing childhood memories of the “Tyson FIve,” fun gatherings with Black Hollywood greats laughing over food and music in their Harlem high rises, a recount of a love story she shared with Miles Davis, that was complex and toxic, yet a beautiful tale of what it ultimately meant to her, and finally, how a mot