I left that meeting feeling hopeful for the future, more determined than ever to shine brighter in my own life and believing that anything is possible.
• • •
Another powerful interview that changed my perspective came a few years later. I was scheduled to interview the chart-topping singer Jennifer Hudson about her new album. Like a lot of people, I had been a huge admirer of Jennifer’s golden vocal cords ever since she appeared on American Idol. The woman could belt out a ballad that would shake you to your toes! So I was excited to meet her. It was also the first time Jennifer would be doing an interview since the tragic shooting deaths of her mom and nephew. My producer and I were cautioned by Jennifer’s PR folks that she was interested in talking only about music and her well-documented weight loss. In other words, don’t grill her about her personal heartbreak.
A few days later we sat down with Jennifer at six p.m. in a studio space in Midtown Manhattan. I brought my daughter, Leila, along since she is a big fan. We both popped our heads into the makeup room to say hello and break the ice. We were surprised by Jennifer’s bubbly personality as her makeup artist powdered her brow.
“How nice to meet you, Leila,” Jennifer said with a huge smile.
She asked how old she was and promised to be ready in just a couple of minutes. Leila beamed, and I was touched by the kindness of such a huge star.
As promised, Jennifer, radiant in a beautiful orange dress and sky-high heels, soon slid into her chair and we began talking. We discussed her love of music and the birth of her two biggest blessings: her career break on American Idol and her then-eighteenth-month-old-son, David. She absolutely lit up describing her baby boy and all that he was learning.
I then asked her about her new svelte figure, which she was thrilled about and happy to discuss. The interview was going very well, with lots of fun and energy. But I knew that viewers wanted to know how Jennifer was coping with her pain. So I swallowed hard and decided to gently veer into that forbidden territory. I asked where she was finding joy, given her obvious pain.
To my amazement, Jennifer didn’t flinch and began to talk about how her religious faith had gotten her through. I waited for one of her PR reps to jump in, but no one did. Though tears rimmed her eyes, Jennifer was actually at ease, talking about her deep love and admiration for her mother and how her relationship with God brought Jennifer great comfort. Her strength and unshakable faith during such a devastating time touched all of us in the room.
While Jennifer Hudson’s talent had taken her far beyond her South Side Chicago roots, she still possessed a steely inner strength. After suffering such a devastating loss, one I couldn’t imagine suffering through, here she was finding inspiration in her music, her work and her child. Jennifer spoke of rebuilding her life and finding her joy again. I was stunned and deeply touched by the strength I was witnessing. If she could move beyond the most unimaginable loss, then surely any of us can get past our daily struggles.
We ended the interview talking about the lullabies she sings to her baby boy. Jennifer even sang the little song she had made up for him. When she finished, we all applauded. After all, it’s not every day you get a private concert from Jennifer Hudson.
After the cameras were turned off, Jennifer amazed me once again by pulling Leila aside for a private conversation. When I told her that Leila takes voice lessons, she asked Leila to sing a bit—then kindly offered to turn her head away so that my shy daughter wouldn’t feel self-conscious singing for such a superstar. Leila took a deep breath and sang a few stanzas from “Listen,” a song Beyoncé sang in Dreamgirls, the movie for which Jennifer won an Oscar. Her voice was strong, and Jennifer applauded for her! She then took the time to encourage Leila to believe in herself and to keep singing.
I’d always liked what I saw of Jennifer Hudson from afar, but now I admired her even more. She is an amazingly generous woman who made time for a starry-eyed girl. Above all, she was managing to find the beauty in life again, even after suffering through unspeakable pain. I went home that evening feeling strengthened and inspired in my own life and prayed that Leila felt the same. And before I went to bed, I called my mom, just to hear her voice and cherish her a little bit more.
2
Kindness Is Like a Boomerang— It Always Comes Back
AL
The Art of Saying Nothing
Sometimes I think I see life as a sitcom with four cameras out there and a laugh track. I find myself fighting my urge to make snappy remarks. Just as a stand-up comic getting heckled wants to come back with some biting line, I can’t just let things go. Sometimes my daughter will even egg me on because (I think) she appreciates my one-liners from time to time. Leila has my mother’s “tee-hee” sense of humor and that pot-stirring, mischievous demeanor, which I absolutely adore. You might say she was born with a wooden spoon in her hand to stir that pot! Like mine, her humor tends to fall toward self-effacing and self-deprecating—believing that it is a sin to be prideful. It works for us and usually gets a laugh.
My love for the zinger started when I was a boy. I loved to draw cartoon and comics, where I could have my characters say anything. I could ascribe my thoughts to other people and get away with it because it wasn’t actually me lobbing those one-liners.
One of my favorite TV shows was Winchell-Mahoney Time. Paul Winchell was the preeminent ventriloquist of the day. His wooden “partners,” Jerry Mahoney and Knucklehead Smith, were superstars of the ventriloquism world. I bought Winchell’s book Ventriloquism for Fun and Profit and devoured every word. I had a Jerry Mahoney dummy I renamed Steven Stickyfingers, because the dummy’s fingers were molded together.
My act became pretty good. Steven and I took second place in the 1964 New York City parks department talent contest. We lost to a group of four girls lip-synching the Beatles song “I Want to Hold Your Hand” while dressed in turtlenecks, tights and mop-top wigs. There weren’t a lot of black kids doing ventriloquist acts in the early 1960s, so I was kind of an anomaly. I was in seventh heaven the first time I saw Willie Tyler and Lester in 1972, when they made their first appearance on Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In. Doing ventriloquism gave me the perfect outlet to say things as a kid I would never have gotten away with if that dummy weren’t in my hand. Unfortunately, my career didn’t last long because my brother broke my dummy.
Ever since, though, when it comes to going for that perfect one-liner, the obvious punch line, the “I just can’t help myself” comeback, I sometimes feel like that guy you see in cartoons who has the devil on one shoulder and the angel on the other battling it out. I know if I say what I’m thinking, especially if it’s directed toward my wife, she is not going to be happy with me. I actually have a dialogue with myself that sounds something like this:
“Yes, say it. It is going to be really funny.”
“No! You know you should keep your mouth shut.”
“Go ahead. You should definitely say it.”
“No! Don’t say it.”
“Maybe she doesn’t know that I don’t know I shouldn’t say it.”
“Say it, damn it!”
. . . And then I do.
I just can’t help myself.
It’s like a pitch coming across home plate that you just have to swing at. You can’t not swing unless you’ve been tied up, and even then, you lunge at it because you have to.
Was it worth it?
Not usually.
But in the moment, it felt so good.
It’s like a drug that feels fantastic and great until the thrill wears off and the reality of my actions sets in.
And when I don’t say something, I feel a great need to point it out like a loyal dog who drops a dead animal at your feet with pride and a pitiful look that says, “Love me! I brought this for YOU!” He stands there wagging his tail, looking for praise, thinking he’s done something marvelous. Yeah, that doesn’t pay off muc
h either.
There is a definite art to saying nothing. I haven’t exactly mastered that skill yet. Every time I think about saying something, I analyze the risk versus reward—which is what all of life really comes down to.
What are the risks of saying this?
What is going to happen if I do?
Am I going to be able to have sex tonight?
Will the evening remain pleasant?
Will we be able to go out with our friends without recrimination or reproach?
For that one moment of “YES!” is it worth it?
Sometimes less is more, especially when it comes to speaking. It reminds me of a story I once heard about a preacher, a politician and an engineer who were each led to a guillotine to meet their fate.
The preacher was first to be executed. When he was asked if he wanted to face up or down when he met his fate, he said he wanted to face upward, so he could be looking toward the heavens when he met his Maker. The preacher’s head was placed upon the guillotine, where he remained still and calm, awaiting his imminent death. As the blade was released, it miraculously stopped just inches above his throat. Believing this was divine intervention, the executioners set the preacher free.
Next, the politician was placed upon the guillotine, and he too was asked if he wanted to face up or down. After witnessing the great miracle of the preacher, the politician chose to face upward, hoping he would be spared as well. Once again, the blade stopped just inches above the politician’s throat. He too was released.
Finally, the engineer was placed upon the guillotine. Noting that the two men before him faced up, he chose the same position. As he laid his neck upon the guillotine and looked up, he said, “Oh, wait. I see what’s wrong!”
You see, there are some things that are better left unsaid.
It would be an unusual circumstance where keeping quiet would get you into trouble, but you can bank on saying the wrong thing always putting you in the dog house. I ought to know.
Woof.
As parents, we all know that our children model what they hear us say. Sometimes, discretion being the better part of valor, we should practice restraint. Whether it’s an off-the-cuff comment about my weight or a quip I thought was funny, every word I utter has the potential to shape and mold how my kids think and feel—especially when it comes to their self-image. Something we see as witty and harmless may not be received the way you intend it and may do more damage than good, whether it’s a sarcastic quip or a quick knee-jerk e-mail response, all because you wanted that gratification of knowing you got off a good line. I suffer from this need often—though I know it isn’t always in my best interest.
There’s great power in the words we speak. They have the power to build us up or tear us down. As a celebrity, the bigger the platform I stand on, the more powerful those words become and the more responsibility I have. Sadly, there are those who use their platform to spread a message of hate, bigotry or negativity in the world. While I find that an upsetting and unfortunate by-product of fame, there are also times where an entirely innocent off-the-cuff comment can be perceived as hurtful too. That’s why we all need to watch what we say. The old saw “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me” is simply not true. In fact, they can hurt us more than physical abuse.
When I was a kid growing up in the projects, my neighborhood was predominantly Jewish. Although no one ever used the “N word,” I was often called “Blackie” by the local kids. I’ve never forgotten how that made me feel! It seems these kids were happy they could bully and ostracize me—perhaps it was because they came from a people who had been so recently treated so vilely. In my young mind, though, it made no sense.
Many years later, my daughter Courtney came home from school. She was around six or seven years old. She asked me a question I wasn’t prepared to answer.
“Daddy, what’s a nigger?”
I was quiet for a moment. My baby girl, my precious daughter, had been exposed to something I naively thought I would never have to explain to her—certainly not at this age.
I took a deep breath and said, “Well, it’s a hurtful word that people use to describe black people—us. Why would you ask that, sweetie?”
“A boy in my class called me that today.”
I explained to Courtney that he shouldn’t have done that and I would be calling his parents, because no one should use words like that to describe others.
I promptly got out the class phone list and called the boy’s parents. When the boy’s mother answered, I explained the situation.
There was silence.
Not the kind of silence that conveyed embarrassment or shame.
The kind of silence that conveyed something else—something that made me mad.
“I understand. I’m sorry. Our son will apologize to your daughter, and I will make sure this doesn’t happen again,” she said.
“Well, he would have heard that word somewhere,” I said.
“Yes. He would have.”
“I trust you will take care of this . . .” That’s about all of the kindness I could muster before hanging up the phone.
Although this incident happened many years ago, and I’d love to believe as a society we have come a long way, there are still times I know the words we use can hurt. I’m so glad saying something such as “He’s so gay” is no longer acceptable. I recognize there’s a point of becoming too politically correct, but there is absolutely nothing wrong with taking a beat and thinking about whether what you’re about to say might hurt or embarrass someone. Once it is out and the bell is rung, you can’t unring it. You can apologize for ringing the bell, but the sound still lingers.
The stakes are high for all of us. You don’t want to be the sadistic clown who hurts others for the sake of scoring points. Whenever someone gets hurt, whether it’s you or someone else, there’s a casualty. And where’s the payoff in that? When you think about it, isn’t it so much better to build others up with the words we speak, to offer them hope, encouragement and comfort through compliments and kindness? Doing this not only helps give them courage and faith to face life’s challenges but helps us live a more positive and productive life too.
DEBORAH
The Time of Day Belongs to Everyone
Like most of us, so much of my identity as a woman and a parent is not only guided by what I was given as a child, but also by what I wish I had gotten. As closely bonded to my mother as I was over the years, she was not an overtly affectionate woman. Mom wasn’t exactly the type to sit on the edge of her bed and talk to me about my day or my problems. After all, she had nine kids who needed her attention and she had only so many hours in a day. As a working mom with just two kids, boy, do I get it!
Mom has always had a gentle, loving nature but has never been a truly demonstrative person. Her mother died when she was just a baby, and she was raised by a stern, no-nonsense grandmother. I remember Mom telling us how she quit school before the eighth grade to help out her family, going to work in a crate factory and sometimes as a housekeeper to help make ends meet. She married for the first time at age seventeen and gave birth to a son, my big brother Jackie, an air force retiree and stoic father of three girls. That marriage didn’t last long. Several years later, Mom met and married my father, Ben Roberts Sr., and they had eight children together!
My parents had what most folks would think of as a traditional marriage. Though my parents struggled financially, they somehow managed to always make a comfortable home for us kids. Even when money was tight, we all thought that we were well-off. That image was mostly due to Mom. Like many Southern black women, cooking was a way for my mom to express herself and her love. She could fry up a mean plate of chicken, and Sunday dinners were legendary. All of my relatives begged for more of her chicken and dressing whenever there was a family gathering. Although I knew she got overwhelmed at times, my
most enduring memory of her is that of a loving, strong and determined steel magnolia: tough on the outside but tender on the inside.
Mom had high standards for her children, which were built on principles of the church. Honesty, forgiveness and faith were paramount. We went to church every Sunday and kept God close to our hearts. Mom often hummed gospel hymns while doing chores around the house. I always knew when she was deep in thought or busy doing her work because I could hear her humming away.
Proper manners and kindness were very important to her. She was raised to always speak to an adult with a “sir” or a “ma’am,” and of course that was only if an adult approached you first. She expected nothing less from her own children.
Given her tough childhood, I was always amazed by my mom’s good nature and positive spirit. While she wasn’t big on saying “I love you,” she had her own special way of showing people that she cared. Whether it was a routine daily greeting of friends, acquaintances or strangers with her syrupy Southern “How ya doin’?” or a small gesture she found to let each of her kids know just how much she loved and cared for us, like making Jell-O for dessert as a special treat, Mom always took the time to make a kind gesture. I once asked Mom why she was so friendly to everyone, even people we didn’t know.
She replied with a strange saying I’ve never forgotten. “The time of day belongs to everyone.”
It was a simple but confusing phrase to me.
You see, while Mom wasn’t mushy with her love or much of a hugger, she found a lot of ways to show each of her children how she felt about them. She sewed all of our clothes, making sure my sisters and I always had colorful, beautiful dresses for Easter and school. Now and again there was even a special package from Sears, Roebuck & Company with a cute blouse. And I’ll never forget the day she surprised me with a beautiful powder blue pantsuit I'd longed for. I spotted it in the window of Vanity Fair—a local dress shop that was kind of pricey. I dreamed of wearing the suit to a school event. I knew it was out of our price range. So one afternoon when I returned from school and found it lying neatly on my bed, I cried tears of excitement. My mom splurged for me—no doubt denying herself something.
Been There, Done That Page 3
