True You Read online

  Just the other day, I thought about comparisons when a friend told me this story:

  A mother walked into the bedroom of her five-year-old daughter. The little girl, scissors in hand, was busy snipping all the curls off her very curly hair.

  “Baby!” cried the mother. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting pretty,” said the little girl. “All the pretty girls in my school have straight hair.”

  “You are pretty,” said the mother. “Curls are pretty.”

  “But straight hair is prettier. With straight hair, I’ll be more popular and everyone will love me.”

  The story broke my heart.

  And yet we all have similar stories.

  As a little kid, I almost immediately started judging myself against others. That convinced me that something was missing. I felt that I was the wrong size and the wrong shape.

  When we are kids, so many of us feel that things are wrong—not wrong with the world, but wrong with us.

  We’re not smart. We’re not valuable. We’re not worthy of being loved.

  We’re also unable to stop idealizing others and minimizing ourselves.

  He’s taller.

  She’s thinner.

  He’s cooler.

  She’s prettier.

  How do we break free of that way of thinking? What do we do when those voices—powerful and persistent negative voices—have us believing in everything but ourselves?

  The truth of the matter is this:

  The true you is curly hair.

  The true you is straight hair.

  The true you is kinky hair, blond hair, black hair, and every shade in between.

  Everyone is different, and beautifully unique.

  If we value our uniqueness, we value everything about us. We don’t need to look for a model of perfect beauty when we realize that our own beauty can’t be duplicated.

  At age six, though, I didn’t have the slightest clue about my uniqueness. All I knew was that my sister was the most beautiful woman in the world—and I’d never come close to her beauty. By age six, I was already feeling bad about myself.

  I’ve always loved horses, even though I’m somewhat allergic to them. If they’re not absolutely clean, I break out in hives. That doesn’t stop me from riding and loving them anyway. In Arizona, soul searching. Knowing I was looking for something and not understanding what it was. This was a period of healing and a beginning step, asking questions about myself that have brought me to where I am today.

  Hold Back the Tears

  I deeply believe the words that Marvin Gaye wrote: we’re all sensitive people.

  My own sensitivity became evident to me when, early in my life, my brothers started teasing me. There was nothing unusual about that, of course. Most brothers tease their sisters—and vice versa. When we remember the taunting words as adults, though, the teasing sounds malicious. But it’s simply part of childhood. It’s how sisters and brothers relate to each other.

  My brother Mike teased me the most. I adored Mike, and I know he adored me. We were extremely close. Whether it was because I was the baby of the family, or because we were kindred souls, Mike and I understood each other on a deep and loving level. He had a beautiful heart. From the very beginning of my life, I was inspired by his talent. That continues to this day.

  But even with our strong connection, there was a great deal of teasing on Michael’s part. He had all sorts of names for me. For example, he called me “Dunk.” I think that came from “donkey.” I actually cherish the name today because it was his gift to me. A lot of his pet names had to do with my backside. I don’t cherish those names as much. But teasing was part of Mike’s humor. He meant no harm.

  He often told me that I needed to be thinner. He had a vision of how I should look. When we went to the roller rink, he pointed out a girl who, in his view, had an ideal figure. To protect her privacy, I’ll call her Andy. Andy was white and svelte. She had a petite backside. As I got to know her, I learned she rode horses, and soon horseback riding became a passion of mine. In my eyes, Andy was perfect. She proudly displayed the ribbons she had won in equestrian competitions. She was well-dressed and well-mannered. I guess part of me wanted to be Andy.

  When my brothers went riding, I held my breath until they invited me. I didn’t have the nerve to invite myself. When I wasn’t asked to come along, I was crushed. When I was asked, I was elated. Every time I rode, I broke out in hives, but didn’t care. I loved the sport. And even though I looked up to the ladylike Andy, I was a natural tomboy. I liked climbing trees with my brothers. I liked wearing T-shirts and jeans. I fantasized about driving trucks and jeeps.

  Girls and women have a special relationship to jeans. At least I always have. When I reached age eight, I started wearing Dittos, as many of the other girls were doing. It was hard finding pants that fit me well. I was small in the waist but round in the rear. Dittos’ Saddlebacks accentuated my behind. I owned a pair of Saddlebacks but was too self-conscious to wear them in public. I probably looked fine in Saddlebacks; I might have even looked cute. But I had internalized my brother’s teasing. I was convinced that my body shape was terribly wrong.

  Later in life, even after I thought I had gotten over my complex about having a big butt, I remember checking into a hotel and using the name “Andy” to ensure my privacy. Then it hit me: why of all names should I have chosen “Andy”? At that moment I realized that I still had not let go of the Andy I knew; I still saw her as some fantasy, the perfect woman with the perfect body.

  The things that get us early in life and stay with us!

  Being teased. Being sensitive. Comparing ourselves to others.

  All of those things can come together in powerful ways, as in a story a friend recently told me.

  As a little boy, my friend had a severe stutter. He hated going to school. When the teacher called on him for an answer, he couldn’t get out a word. The teacher presumed he didn’t know the answer. The other kids teased him unmercifully, comparing him to Porky Pig. He was taken out of an advanced class and put into a slow class. That only made him stutter more. His frustrations mounted. The greater his frustration, the worse his stutter, and the more the other kids laughed.

  He told his mother that he didn’t want to go to school. She asked why, but he wouldn’t say. He kept his feelings inside. Inside he felt that, compared to the other kids with their fluent speech, he was nobody.

  His mom insisted that he return to school, but things there got even worse. His teachers grew more impatient, his fellow students crueler. One night he finally told his mother what was wrong. His stutter was a source of tremendous shame.

  “All the teasing makes me want to die,” he said. “Don’t make me go back to school,” he begged.

  “You have to go to school,” she insisted.

  He broke down crying, and the next morning, when he refused to go to school, his father took him there by force, dragging him into the classroom. The other kids pointed at him and laughed. My friend remembers this as the most humiliating moment of his life.

  As an adult, though, my friend recognizes this as a moment when his parents were expressing love. They knew that sooner or later he’d have to face school. He’d have to face the world. They couldn’t protect him from that, and love required that they take action. They also sent him to a speech therapist. That, too, was part of their love.

  Today my friend can still feel the pain of that humiliation, but it’s the love that saw him through. He made it through the challenge of those early years. He still stutters, but the stutter doesn’t stop him from speaking, even in public situations.

  “My stutter is part of me,” he says. “I’m not interested in hiding it or even losing it. As long as it doesn’t control me, I’m fine. As long as it doesn’t keep me from doing what I want to do and saying what I want to say, I’m a happy stutterer.”

  When I ask my friend what practical solution he found most helpful, he explains it this way: “Put the p
roblem—whatever it is—out there. Be open about it. Discuss it. Keep a journal. Record your thoughts and fears. Tell a friend. Tell your parents, and if they’re not sympathetic, tell an aunt or an uncle, a grandma or grandpa. Don’t try and hide. Fear thrives in isolation. Once exposed to the light of day, its power fades. The best advice I got about stuttering applies to many problems associated with shame. I was told to intentionally stutter in new situations, even when I didn’t have to. The speech therapist said, ‘When you try to pretend you’re not a stutterer and struggle to be fluent, you get even more nervous. So in any new situation, stutter on your first words. From the get-go, let people know that you’re a stutterer. You have nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. If people laugh, that’s their problem. Just be who you are.’”

  The true you.

  Mother’s love.

  “I’ll Just Starve Myself”

  Mike’s teasing really got to me. I took it way too seriously. But the more he joked about my big behind, the more determined I was to be thin. Even as a little kid. On certain days I decided simply to starve myself—no breakfast, no lunch. Because ours was a show business family, we were pretty much on our own. Other than the extremely rare holiday dinner, we didn’t have regular sit-down meals.

  There were times when Mother cooked marvelous meals. As a little girl, I loved everything she prepared. There was a special connection between us. She told me that I was the most affectionate of her children, the one who went around kissing my siblings and telling them “I love you.” I’m sure I was just mirroring my mother.

  Even though Mother was very busy helping her children with their personal lives, she always found time to cook. The refrigerator was packed with whatever we wanted, and we could eat as much and as often as we liked.

  That’s why I decided early on—without really thinking about it—that I had to depend upon my own willpower to lose weight. It was a matter of determination. Most of the kids in our neighborhood were Jewish, so there were always platters of bagels and cream cheese around, even at school. I love bagels and cream cheese. If I ate only a bite, though, I’d force myself to skip lunch. I’d get through the afternoon, but by the time I got home I was starving.

  I had to break down and fix myself something to eat. I wasn’t tall enough to reach the stove, so I’d grab a stool, climb up, swivel around, reach in the freezer, and bring out a good-sized steak. I’d watched my siblings do it, I’d watch Mother, and I was determined to do it, too. I’d thaw out the meat, tenderize it, slice up the onions, go heavy on the salt and pepper, and butter up the pan. With jerking motions, I’d swivel all the way back so I could face the oven and stick that puppy inside. I loved watching it cook. The smells were intoxicating. When it was ready, I was ready. Nothing has ever tasted that good.

  Sometimes after school I’d go with friends to their homes. I was amazed that they were not allowed to raid the refrigerator. Their moms left precise instructions with the housekeeper about what could and could not be consumed by the kids. That seemed so strange to me—they actually had to ask for food.

  Meanwhile, I was consuming whatever I liked, and I liked almost everything. And because our household was run on the unspoken principle of self-reliance, I kept relying on my own cooking instincts.

  Paradoxically, I loved to eat but felt that I didn’t deserve to eat. The name-calling made me self-conscious about my size, and so I fell into that same pattern.

  In my crazy head I heard that old familiar voice saying, “You’re fat. You’ve got to move away from food. You shouldn’t eat a thing.”

  That voice led to a skimpy lunch or no lunch.

  A school friend’s father owned a chain of McDonald’s. After a field trip, our entire class went to their home and were surprised with food from one of their stores. You can’t imagine how excited I was. I knew the food was fattening, but I couldn’t pass up a hot Big Mac and french fries. It meant I could be like the rest of the kids in my class. I ate the hamburger and fries; I drank a milk shake. I felt normal; I felt good. But the next day I was back to skipping lunch at school.

  By the time I got home I was famished and wound up staring at a huge sweet potato pie.

  First voice: “Eat it.”

  Second voice: “Don’t touch it.”

  First voice: “You know you want it.”

  Second voice: “You know you’re fat.”

  First voice: “You know how good it’ll taste.”

  Second voice: “You know how you’ll get fatter.”

  First voice: “Fatter doesn’t matter.”

  Second voice: “The fatter, the uglier.”

  First voice: “You’ll never be as pretty as Rebbie, so you might as well eat the pie.”

  Second voice: “Resist.”

  First voice: “Give in.”

  Second voice: “Don’t.”

  First voice: “Do.”

  I did.

  I ate the majority of the delicious pie. I was stuck in an argument between two voices that I couldn’t win. The result was a feeling of emotional defeat. I lost.

  Food was an enemy, food was a friend, food was comfort. And often that comfort came in the form of the person preparing the food, whether it be mother or my grandmother.

  I had a strong emotional connection to my grandmother Crystal Lee. We called her Grandmama, and she was extraordinary. She carried a big smile and a mouth full of teeth. We always knew when she arrived because her voice bounced off the walls. You could hear her from the other end of the block. Even our parrot would start screaming “Grandma!” the minute she walked in.

  We had housekeepers who were good cooks. As I said, Mother was a superb cook, but when Grandmama was around, she ruled. The kitchen was her kingdom, and you were lucky if she asked you to help. There was food everywhere, all made from scratch—apple pie, blueberry cobbler, peach cobbler. You name it.

  Jermaine liked German chocolate cake and pineapple upside-down cake, so Grandmama and Mother made sure to have them on hand. Mike liked carrot cake, and so that was definitely on the menu, too. Grandmama made the best liver and onions. I was the kind of kid who ate anything and everything—candied yams, Cornish hens, greens with ham hocks, salmon croquettes, deep-fried catfish, deep-fried chicken, turkey chili, black-eyed peas, pinto beans. Grandmama cooked in the Southern style, as did Mother, who came from Alabama, as well as my father, who came from Arkansas.

  All this meant mountains of sugar, tons of butter, and oceans of salt. Sitting on that swivel stool, watching Grandmama cook, I took it all in—and helped. I loved chopping the vegetables, kneading the dough, and baking the biscuits. As I helped, I sampled everything.

  Food made me feel great. Food was the symbol and substance of the care being offered; food was everything warm and wonderful.

  Grandmama not only cared enough to feed me, but was also patient enough to teach me to cook. We all fooled around in the kitchen. My father liked to roast peanuts, and Mike, Randy, and I made caramel apples and ice cream.

  Grandmama laid the foundation for me in the kitchen.

  Again, it was the push and pull. Those internal voices fighting against one another, together with my already twisted view of myself and my beauty, led me down the wrong path in terms of body image and self-esteem.

  Maybe it was the teasing, maybe it was that sense of perfectionism that gets ingrained in so many kids—but whatever it was, I got the message early: I was chubby. I was bloated. I had curves in the wrong places. My body was out of whack. It’s strange, but when I look back at my kid pictures, I don’t see an overweight little girl. I look perfectly normal. But the word normal was never used to describe me. I didn’t feel normal. I felt fat.

  My friend who stutters remembers that he felt stupid because others—his classmates and even some of his teachers—associated his impediment with a dimwit. He saw the world as nearly all children do: through the eyes of others. My opinion of myself—even my literal vision of myself—was determined by how I thought others perceiv
ed me. I emphasize “thought” because I really didn’t know. My brother Mike may not have seen me as fat; he was just teasing. But I took his teasing to heart. I embraced it, internalized it, and, without knowing it, became tormented by it for years to come.

  Kids are easily injured. Kids are sensitive. Kids keep secrets. I kept my feelings of inadequacy from everyone, so there was no way my parents could have reassured me and told me I was fine the way I was, that I didn’t have to reshape my body or conform to an image that the white culture found acceptable. But my parents, God bless them, had tremendous challenges of their own. They had worked tirelessly to keep nine kids off the street, feed them, educate them, and develop their natural talents. My parents were overwhelmed with responsibilities. They had to nurture their instinctive strategies for survival, a work ethic for themselves and their children. My parents were about discipline, focus, and, in the case of my mother, extraordinary loving care.

  I identify with children, teens, young adults, with anyone whose parents, no matter how loving, don’t have the psychological insight to help them through their crises. If we have an understanding sibling, an uncle, an aunt, a grandmother, a surrogate mom or dad who can reassure us that we don’t have to measure up to someone else’s standard—that’s beautiful. If we don’t have such a person in our lives, my hope is that we can find that voice deep inside us, a voice that lets us know that we are who we are. Different. Unique. Worthwhile. God’s child.

  We don’t need to compare. We just need to be.

  With my beloved big brother Mike.

  “Smile, though your heart is aching / Smile, even though it’s breaking.”

  At the memorial service for Michael, my brother Jermaine sang “Smile,” a song written by Charlie Chaplin and beloved the world over. Jermaine sang it beautifully. Mike loved the song, too, and recorded an exquisite version of it. “Smile” resonates with all the Jackson children, because it captures not only the sweetness of music—and music’s power to heal—but also the obligation we have always felt as entertainers, from the earliest age, to place the audience’s need to be entertained above whatever pain we might be experiencing.