Squinting, I got closer to the mirror and waited. “It’s not enough, Chrissy. You need more,” the whispers continued, and I answered the call.
There. Done. Perfect.
“Not good enough.”
The strongest voice knew exactly what to say to hurt me. “More shadow on the eyes . . . more blush. You don’t have the lips exactly right. Do it again.”
I turned on the faucet, leaned over, and scrubbed my face clean. I had to start over. The mirror was right. I had to do it again. The mirror bullied me, and I couldn’t defend myself. It kept saying the same thing: I had to be perfect.
I was about thirteen when it started. Throughout the day, my mind would be bombarded with the same question—over and over again. Am I good enough to be chosen? Whenever the taunting began, my insecurities would go off like an alarm, and I’d pull out a mirror or run to the bathroom just to check how I looked . . . to see for myself.
Like many girls my age, I was extremely interested in fashion; there was always a new magazine in my room. I studied them more than my schoolwork. Keeping up on the latest styles was fun, but the more time I spent looking at the girls on the pages, the more nervous I felt inside. Everything about them was flawless—their figures, their makeup, their clothes. I never saw any mistakes on their faces. Could I ever be that perfect?
I didn’t want to be the “cute” or “nice” girl. It often made me think about one of my favorite movies when I was younger: Grease. My favorite character, Sandy, was a pretty, innocent girl who had fallen in love with a tough guy named Danny.
At the beginning of the movie, Sandy, the newcomer to school, wore cute barrettes in her hair, just a touch of makeup, and a buttoned-down sweater over a white round-collared blouse. I thought her outfit was stylish with its full pink skirt, bobby socks, and saddle shoes. But it didn’t seem to get Danny’s attention. She felt like she had to become exactly what Danny wanted so that he would choose her.
Sandy asked her friend Frenchy, who was part of the “in” crowd, to help her come up with a whole new look, leading Sandy to sing one of my favorite songs—and one that bad-girl Rizzo had originally sung to make fun of her: “Look at Me, I’m Sandra Dee.”
I didn’t fully get it when I was younger. But now I could totally see why Sandy felt she had to change. She wasn’t sure that she was pretty enough just the way she was.
Sandy’s makeover was dramatic. When she transformed herself—wearing skintight black leather pants, an off-the-shoulder black fitted top, stiletto heels, lots of makeup, and sexy “big hair”—Danny’s eyes lit up. Sandy was fed up waiting for the kind of attention she wanted from Danny. She didn’t want to be cute anymore; she wanted to be “hot.”
Grease made me think about Rina, too. To me, she was perfect just the way she was. If she had changed, would her husband have stayed and not rejected her?
Despite what had happened, Rina seemed to be doing okay. I couldn’t imagine how I would have felt if something like that had happened to me. Rina was a strong lady, though. After the heartbreaking news broke, she spent a short time with her family in California and then came back to Brooklyn. She was now a single woman abandoned by her husband, but she went back to serving in the church as she always had. It seemed like she cared more about people than the shame of being left alone. Deep inside, I had a lot of respect for her. The problem was that I was changing and wasn’t her little girl anymore. Besides, I had a lot on my mind.
Our church had grown to a few thousand people now and was becoming well known around the country. Because my dad was the pastor, I started getting even more attention, and that only made me feel as though I had to be more and more perfect. I had to maintain the image that I created in my mind—at all costs.
The service was packed as usual on Sunday morning, and I had a front-row seat in the balcony. The hustle and bustle of people being seated after the service began was distracting at times. I turned my head and scanned the balcony, checking all the way to the top row, looking to see if any of my friends were among the late arrivals. As the worship began, I automatically stood up and sang distractedly while I scanned the audience on the lower level. A woman with a beautiful tailored outfit caught my attention, and my mind wandered off to all the great dresses I’d seen when I went shopping. Dad started preaching, and I was miles away. I glanced down at my dress, excited because I had just bought it the day before. No one had seen my new outfit yet. I checked out my black sheer hose, making sure the seam down the back was straight. Everything complemented my black suede pumps that were gold trimmed with a lightning bolt design on both sides. The music of the closing song that Dad was leading woke me up from my daze. He began a prayer of dismissal.
This is my chance, I thought. I reached down and slipped my purse onto my lap. Leaning over, I covered my face with one hand as if I were praying. Slowly opening my purse with my other hand, I peeked in the mirror on the inside of the flap. Reaching for my lipstick, I looked to my right and left to see if anyone was watching me, and quickly applied a new layer. Before Dad said amen, I was done and ready to be put on display.
I headed for the stairs leading down from the balcony to the back of the sanctuary. I had taken only one step when I felt a hand grab me from behind. An older woman with a large white hat and a sequined sweater pulled me toward her. “Chrissy! Look at you, girl,” she said in her rhythmic West Indian accent. “You so pretty, eh? And so big now. Do you remember me?”
She reached over to kiss me. Please don’t mess up my makeup. I turned my head away from her lips and gave her an air kiss. Mmmwah.
“Yes, I remember you. Thank you,” I said politely. Pulling my arm out of her tight grip, I rushed away from her, hoping she wouldn’t follow. As I turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs, I ran into one of the teenage guys. “Hey, Chrissy. You look really nice today,” he said as he looked me up and down. I felt myself blushing because he was seventeen, three years older than me. And yet, I was happy he noticed me.
I was almost at the lobby when I spotted Rina out of the corner of my eye. Her face brightened expectantly as she waited for me to stop and hug her close. But I didn’t. I was on display and couldn’t be the little girl she wanted. I rushed past her and caught the disappointment as it chased across her face.
I walked through the lobby, sensing that eyes were on me. It seemed like the girls my age, rather than just noticing, admired me. Boys were clearly paying attention but in a different way, I could just tell, especially now that I was making myself look older.
For a moment, I felt less insecure. All the time, work, and pressure I had put myself through in the bathroom that morning faded away. I was becoming addicted to this feeling of being watched; being the center of attention was an emotional rush. My image was the most important thing to me now. I had to be perfect.
In my mind, the expectations were high, and I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. Whenever Dad called me in to meet visiting pastors or singers, I had to be perfect. When my friends looked at me, I had to be perfect. I had to be ready—and perfect—in case I could sense the boys’ eyes on me. And yet, that voice inside me continued to badger me with criticism, whispering “not good enough.” As much as I tried to ignore it, I would find the nearest mirror—in a bathroom, on a car visor, or in my compact that I was often pulling out of my purse. I needed to check and make sure.
I didn’t tell anyone I was struggling with wanting to “be good enough” or that what had happened to Lorna and Rina was still rocking my fourteen-year-old world. I just didn’t want it to happen to me and was embarrassed that I thought about it as much as I did.
I needed some answers; I needed to make sense of it all. For a fleeting moment, I remembered sitting in that doorway at the old church on Atlantic Avenue, with the sweet sounds of the choir in one ear and the sounds of the city in the other. It was so much simpler then, but that was so long ago.
I felt like the answers were “out there”; it was scary but also inviting. I was con
vinced, right or wrong, that I needed to answer the question: Am I good enough to be chosen?
The morning sky was crystal clear when Dad and I boarded the 757 jet at JFK for an eleven-hour flight to Buenos Aires, Argentina. Dad had already made several trips to Argentina to encourage pastors and minister in different churches, but it was my first international flight. The flight attendants smiled at me, probably thinking how cute it was to see a father and daughter traveling overseas together. I chose a window seat and Dad sat next to me in an aisle seat.
“Would you like some blankets and pillows for your trip?” one attendant cheerfully offered.
“Yes, please,” I said, and Dad took them as well.
Of course, I noticed everything about the flight attendant. She was really pretty, with reddish-blonde hair that was feathered back in the front. Her teal scarf almost matched her eyes, and her skin glowed.
Over the intercom, the captain announced our final destination, and the seat belt sign lit up. I made sure mine was properly buckled as the attendants took their places in the front, middle, and end of the aisle and went through the preflight safety demonstration with the oxygen mask.
When we reached cruising level, the attendant returned. “Coffee, sir?”
“Yes, please,” Dad said. “Light cream, no sugar.”
“And you, young lady?”
“Um, do you have hot chocolate?”
“I can make that happen,” she replied.
Midway through the flight, we were served a good dinner. An hour later they dimmed the cabin lights as I hugged my pillow to my chest and took a deep breath. It will be so fun having Dad all to myself for a week! I leaned over and put my head on his shoulder. Dad looked over at me and smiled. “Remember when you were little and you would come to work with me sometimes?”
I met his gaze. “I do. I wish we could still do that.” I paused. “You know what the problem is, Dad?”
“What?”
“High school. It’s a big problem. I think I should quit and come to work with you every day.”
Dad shook his head and chuckled. “Uh, yeah, nice try.”
I settled my head back down on his shoulder, and he gently covered my hand with his. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Our secret “I love you.” I squeezed back, then drifted off to sleep.
A few hours later, I woke up and looked at my watch: 10 p.m. Dad was fast asleep. Pulling the shade up, I stared at my reflection in the dark window. This “mirror” was silent. I didn’t care how I looked because I knew that Dad loved me no matter what. I slowly slipped my hand into Dad’s, careful not to wake him. My heart melted and my shoulders relaxed as all the tension left me. I was safe with my daddy once again.
IT HAD BEEN EIGHT YEARS since Lorna went through what started out as a painfully messy situation. Everything had turned around, though. She had returned to New York and was back at church, now a single mom raising a beautiful daughter. I wasn’t as close to her as I used to be, and would often find myself missing those wonderful times we had shared. I was definitely preoccupied with other things, though I watched from a distance how Lorna kept continually getting closer to God. She and her daughter were a picture of what I had seen my whole life, and it was undeniable—the power of God reaching into people’s lives and making them brand new. Actually, there was an explosion of miracle after miracle at the Brooklyn Tabernacle. I continually saw evidence of God’s love and the way only He could transform a person.
My parents were as busy as ever, committed to what I knew was real purpose in life. They never stopped even if they were tired, pouring themselves out to us and leading us closer to God. The Brooklyn Tabernacle was like a hiding place and refuge in the crazy, chaotic city of New York, a haven where people could come and experience God again and again.
Naturally, you’d think I would have wanted some of that same power in my own life, especially with the way I felt bullied and harassed by my inner voice’s demands. But I was in a fog. A fog that blinded me from seeing anything other than the need to be perfect enough or beautiful enough. Sure, power from God was fine for everyone else, but not for me, not right now. I believed that God answered prayer, and chances were, if I asked Him, He would help me. But for some reason, it felt better to handle this on my own, to keep it as my personal secret. I hadn’t shared anything with anyone, let alone God. It was a private torment that I kept to myself.
Every day was stressful for me. The voice in the mirror never stopped bullying me. I hated it and yet I was also reliant on its counsel. And then a new voice began to sound in my ear. It was sweet and drew me in, becoming stronger than my tormentor. It spoke through the perfect channel, something that had been a part of me all my life. Music.
After I turned fifteen, Lorna decided to take a new active role in my life. She began inviting a group of us teenagers from church—guys and girls—to her house for the weekend. Maybe she sensed something about my behavior and was concerned, wanting to keep an eye on me and be available if I needed to talk. Her house felt sort of like a dorm, but with stricter rules. The boys and girls slept in different parts of the house. Maybe she thought it was safer to have us there under her roof than left to ourselves.
We always had a blast—acting silly, eating her delicious Jamaican food, but mostly listening to music. Typically, when we’d walk into the house there would be gospel music playing on the stereo, but after a few hours we’d switch it up and have our favorite albums on the turntable: Whitney Houston, Michael Jackson, and Luther Vandross.
I remember on one weekend, we all went to the mall on Saturday and I ended up driving with a girl who was a friend of a friend, someone I didn’t know all that well. When we pulled into Lorna’s driveway, we stayed in the car for a while talking. It was then that she said it.
“Chrissy, the reason why all these guys are hanging around you is because they want to be physical with you. They really want just one thing.”
Everything in me went cold from my head to my toes. I was frozen in my seat, wondering, How could she say something like this? Wait a minute. Is she talking about the guys who are my close friends?
Her words were like a knife in my heart; could they be true? I saw her roll her eyes as if to say, “Duh, Chrissy. Why don’t you get it?” Her expression plunged the knife even deeper.
It was early Monday morning and I lay in bed, curled up in my thick, oversized down comforter. The digital clock flashed 6 a.m.—too early to get up and too late to go back to sleep. I wrapped the comforter tighter around me, pretending it wasn’t my most dreaded day of the week.
I turned over, covering my head as I rolled, hoping to muffle the words that played over and over in my mind. “These guys want to be physical with you.” The girl’s voice in my head was as clear as if she were sitting on the bed right next to me. Her words and my feelings twisted into a knot in my stomach. On one hand, what she said frightened me, and on the other hand, I felt even greater pressure. Pressure not just to put on a perfect face every day, not just to be flawlessly dressed, but to be more than that.
7:15. The clock radio went off, and to my delight my favorite song began to play—“You Give Good Love” by Whitney Houston. A temporary calm came over me as the words and instruments soothed me. Surrounded by music, I felt such a sense of comfort. When I heard a song, a warm feeling always came over me. My sweetest memories revolved around the gift of music in my life. Memories like driving with Dad through the Holland Tunnel and listening to the sound track created by the cars passing through; the treasured moments of sitting right next to Mom as she played beautiful songs on the piano.
Music had an unmistakable power that could move my heart, something that had been awakened in me not just through my mom, but through the congregation and the choir members who sang their life stories. I knew that what they were singing, they really meant with all their hearts; songs about who they used to be and who they could become. I embraced those messages with all of my heart, accepting them as truth, even though I was to
o young to fully understand them. And why wouldn’t I? The songs came true right before my very eyes—all the time. I distinctly remember the choir doing a song called “Tell Them,” written as if Jesus were speaking:
Tell them for me, please, tell them for me
That I love them . . .
I grew up with the sense that music could move my heart to do whatever it said. I could just “tell” my friends and they would come to Jesus.
As I got older, music didn’t just move my heart, it became my secret friend. It was the last thing I heard when I went to bed and the first thing I heard when I woke up every morning.
The fear of sin that I had grown up with had constantly warned me, “Don’t do it,” “Don’t go there,” and “Walk away.” That voice was now being drowned out by new music that told me, “This is how you do it,” “This is what you need to become,” “This is what will make you good enough to be chosen.”
It was time to get up or I would risk being late for school. But I love this song. I waited for Whitney to finish before I headed for the shower. As the water soaked my hair, the weekend comment pulsed in my mind. Toweling off quickly and grabbing an outfit from my dresser, I turned up the radio so I could hear it while I blow-dried my hair. Prince’s popular song “Kiss” began to play.
I squirted a huge blob of mousse in my hands, saturated my tightly permed dirty blonde hair, and started sculpting. I picked up the hair dryer, turned it on medium heat, and leaned over. Prince’s words rang in my ears. “I just need your body, baby . . . I want to be your fantasy . . .”
Holding the dryer steady with one hand, I reached up and began scrunching my hair with the other hand. I stared at the floor, wondering for a second about what I was going to do after school.
Girl in the Song Page 5
