Put on Your Crown

by Queen Latifah

  That whole time, we felt rich because our lives were full and interesting. Mom researched all the fun, educational stuff we could do for free or for just a few dollars. She took us to museums. She found us piano lessons at a community center for $3.00. She exposed us to other cultures and ideas. She even decorated our tiny apartment tastefully, so it felt like a real home. We had no money, but as I child I never once felt deprived.

  Even today, I don’t live and die by how much money I have. An expensive pair of sneakers, the nicest car, the latest clothes—these things are not necessities. Sure, I enjoy having money and I like to spend every now and then, but often we get caught up in the excesses. Instead, we have to be appreciative of what we do have.

  I can’t fathom why someone would blow his brains out over losses in the stock market. Greed makes no sense to me. That’s someone who loves money more than life. I’ve been watching a lot of CNN lately, and you hear all these horror stories on the news about what the recession is doing to families. One guy lost his job and all his savings on Wall Street. He had bills up to his neck, and his house was about to go into foreclosure. And nobody knew. His response was to kill his wife and children, then himself. That was a person who was so spiritually empty, so full of despair, that losing all the material things in life made him think his only option was to annihilate himself and his whole family. He couldn’t see the positive things in his life—even the fact that he had a family who loved him or the knowledge that everyone was healthy. He couldn’t feel the joy of simply living another day. And a lot of people get like that.

  During the tough times, you have to reach out and attach yourself to something beyond the material. For some, that might be the Bible, the Torah, or the Koran. Or maybe you just need to read a self-help book or listen to some tape that gives you positive affirmation. Whatever it is, it’s out there, and those words of hope are free.

  For me, it’s also about looking at those who are less fortunate than you are. Sometimes you just have to change your perspective. In The Art of Happiness, His Holiness the Dalai Lama talks about a man who was distraught because he made $40,000 a year and was convinced he didn’t have enough money to make ends meet for his family. Then he met someone who had the same number of mouths to feed on just $20,000. It completely changed the way he viewed his own situation. No matter how bad it gets, there’s always someone worse off than you. Appreciating that fact makes you more thankful, no matter what your situation.

  Enrich Your Soul

  Giving back is another great way to change up the way you see things. Throughout my life I’ve found that whenever I’m going through certain changes or I feel down about certain things, giving makes me feel better, despite my situation. It might be writing a big check for a cause I care about or giving someone my time. There are a lot of causes that matter to me and many more I want to be involved in.

  It enriches me to know that my dollars may have gotten someone in Africa medication for HIV and prolonged a life or rescued a child prostitute off the streets of Cambodia. Even just doing our annual toy drive for kids in our community brings such joy to me, my mother, and Shakim. Knowing I’ve made a difference in some small way, I get so much more than I give. It’s almost like a gift to myself.

  Education is another cause that is extremely important to me. Through the Lancelot H. Owens Scholarship Foundation we started in my brother’s name, my mother and I give out scholarships and other forms of financial support to inner-city kids so they can go to college. But even if it’s not a full scholarship, we’ll give a needy child money for books or enough to pay for lunches for a month. We give what we can. Kids are our future, and we don’t invest in them enough. Not equally, anyway. I treasure the fact that when you give a child an education, you allow him or her the freedom to dream and to become an amazing person, because now that child has the knowledge and ability to go out and learn more and create. That person you helped to educate may come back and help another kid. It moves us all forward.

  Give to Get

  There are times when I will write a check for $20,000 or $50,000 or $100,000, but if you took a peek at my expenses or the number on my bank account, you would say, “Girl, you better hold on to that!” But when you give, you get back in multiples. Of course, you have to treat your money with respect and manage it with care, but cash comes and goes, and you can always make more. I’ve never regretted giving money away to someone who is less fortunate. I give it with freedom, knowing that what I am really doing is giving myself a gift. The feeling I might get from buying a new car just doesn’t stack up to the knowledge that I may have helped a little girl in Asia who was raped because some guy thought her virginity would cure him of AIDS.

  I can’t wait to go to Cambodia to visit the girls rescued from a life of prostitution by Somaly Mam. This woman, a former victim of sexual slavery herself, has built a safe haven for young girls she risked her life to pull out of those situations. We were both being honored by Glamour magazine a couple of years ago, and I had to follow Somaly after she gave her acceptance speech. I was so moved by her story, I wrote her organization a check for $150,000 on the spot. Some of that money, as well as some cash from Barbara Walters, helped build a vocational school and home outside Phnom Penh where the girls could live in safety and learn how to sew and cut hair. Outside this modest building, embedded in a small garden, there are two fancy plaques with our names written in gold. The contrast between these shiny black marble markers and their humble surroundings is touching. Gold Grammy statues are always nice, but knowing that this tribute exists in my name halfway around the world, in a dusty corner of Southeast Asia I’ve never even seen, means more to me than any industry award.

  But giving doesn’t have to be on such a grand scale. If you pass a homeless person who is hungry and doesn’t have anywhere to sleep that night, and all you have is a couple of bucks in your pocket, you can still put a coin in his cup and feel good about that. You don’t even have to spend money to give. Sometimes giving is just a simple act of kindness. I’m the type of person who will help an old lady across the street or stop when someone’s pulled over by the side of the road with a flat tire. Giving can just be talking to one of my younger cousins, nieces, or nephews and offering them some advice or support. Taking the time to just listen can make a huge difference in someone’s life.

  Try to incorporate giving into your life as much as possible. Even if it’s just taking the time to have a quick conversation with a stranger. The other day I was in a Blimpie getting a platter together for my mother’s church. They were having a choir rehearsal after work and people come in hungry, so my mother likes to bring something. A couple of girls were shocked to see Queen Latifah at a Blimpie, and one of them asked for my autograph. I was happy to oblige. It was a small thing, but to her it was huge. She said, “You don’t know how much this means to me. I was really having a bad day, and you just made my day!”

  It was really that simple. You don’t know what’s going on in someone else’s world, so you have to try to be as nice as possible. You never know what kind of impact you can have on that person’s life with a small act of kindness. You don’t have to go around giving autographs, but just asking someone how they’re doing and showing you care can make a difference, especially during hard times. A little compassion can go a long way.

  There’s so much more to life than chasing a dollar. Yes, money’s important, and you have to respect it. I learned that lesson the hard way. But I don’t want to live my life on a hamster wheel, making more money to make more money to buy more stuff. It’s just stuff, and like I learned when I lost my gold tooth in two days, you can’t afford to get too attached to material objects. They don’t define you. If you take away my cars and my houses, I will still be the same person. My dogs, Isis and Sing Sing, will still love me. I will still have my closest friends and family. And I will still be able to enjoy a beautiful sunset or a walk by the sea and so many other things that you can’t put a price tag on. Mom and
Dad taught me well.

  I know it’s been tough for many of you. Maybe you’re a single mom who’s facing foreclosure. Maybe you lost your job and you don’t know what to do next. Maybe you can’t go to the college you were hoping for because a parent lost a job and the college fund has to go toward paying the bills. Maybe you have a child who’s sick and you’ve run out of health insurance. These days, everyone in America has either been touched by the recession or knows someone who’s going through some kind of hardship. You’re not alone.

  All I can tell you from my own experience is that valleys don’t last forever. They really don’t. Life has its peaks, its valleys, and its plains, too. And none of them is going to last forever. It’s all about persevering through that time and how you handle yourself through those valleys. That’s why you need a connection with something higher and deeper than a dollar. Money alone won’t sustain you. Have faith that things will get better. Look out for yourself, but also know that God is going to look out for you. He has your back, and somehow, some way, He will provide.

  CHAPTER 4

  Love

  Even when you don’t think you have it, it’s there.

  —RITA BRAY OWENS

  Everything was neatly and conveniently packed in boxes. We were planning to move from our housing project in Newark, New Jersey. While my brother and I were in school and my mother was at work, a truck pulled up to the door of our unit and everything we had was loaded up. There was just one problem: These weren’t movers. Some lowlifes from the neighborhood knew we were leaving, and they helped themselves. They took everything we owned—all the belongings that my mother worked so hard to buy for us so we would have a comfortable home. All our toys, books, electronics, artwork—gone. It was broad daylight, people were watching what was going on, and nobody did a damn thing about it. It was like someone had stamped and sealed one final insult to a life we were leaving behind for good. Now we were really starting fresh.

  Not of the Projects

  My mother protected my brother and me from a lot of what was going on in Hyatt Court. I was eight when we moved there, but Mom kept telling us, “You may live in the projects, but you’re not of the projects.” We were clear about the fact that the situation was temporary. For my family and me, Hyatt Court wasn’t a place to settle down; it was a place you strove to get out of! My mother was determined that we wouldn’t get locked in that ghetto mentality that infects so many inner-city children when they feel their situation is hopeless. When school was out, she’d take us down to Virginia to spend the summer with her family, so we would see there was a life outside our immediate environment. She took us to museums, encouraged us to read, and worked three jobs to send us to private Catholic school, where it was safe and the academic standards were high.

  But other people in the projects hated her for doing this. They thought we thought we were too good for everybody else. They saw my mother send us to school every day in our little uniforms, with our white shirts all crisp and freshly pressed, and said to themselves, “Who does this woman think she is? Does she think she’s better than us?” To her face, they called her a “snooty yellow bitch.” Not the immediate neighbors, because they got to know my mom somewhat, but the ones who saw her from a distance. They didn’t like the fact that my mother was just passing through. Even though my mother was scrubbing toilets to make ends meet, people assumed she had a silver spoon in her mouth. They resented her for wanting a better life for her kids.

  She promised to move us out of there within the year, and she delivered in just eleven months. She worked her ass off to get it done. That Christmas, my mother took extra shifts to earn enough money to buy us presents so we wouldn’t feel deprived. She hid our toys, already gift-wrapped, in the trunk of her car so we’d be surprised Christmas morning. But somebody must have seen her doing this, because they gave my mother her own nasty surprise. They broke into the car on Christmas Eve and took it all. So during our short year in the projects, we were robbed not once, but twice.

  Our previous home was in a quiet area outside of Newark. So when we first moved to Hyatt Court, my brother and I saw adventure everywhere. I’d say, “Look, Winki, smokestacks!” My brother would say, “Oooh, ’sis, I wonder what’s over by those train tracks! Let’s go find out!” We were fascinated by all the activity going on in the courtyard. We wanted to know what all those kids were doing over in the corner. No wonder my mother was always trying so hard to keep us occupied!

  But you’d never know anything was wrong. Mom never complained. She was always pleasant to everyone. She’d say, “Good morning,” when she passed someone on the stairs on her way to work, and, “Have a pleasant evening,” to whomever she saw on her way back home. Never “How ya doin’?” or “Whaassuup!” Rita Bray Owens was, is, and always will be a lady, and she wasn’t about to drop her standards just to fit in.

  “You persevere,” Mom said. “You don’t hold your head down and become part of the problem. You hold your head up and keep on moving.”

  My Mother’s Voice

  This is Mom’s chapter, and it’s all about love. I’m sharing this moment in her life with you because it says so much about who she is. It’s the strength of character I see in my mother that makes me who I am today. I know I’m blessed to have a role model like her in my life. She always had my best interests at heart.

  The generations that went before us have lived, and they know a thing or two that we don’t. Respect that, and take all the wisdom you can from the loving heart of your mother or, if she’s no longer in your life like that, any worthy maternal figure in your life—be it a mentor, teacher, older sister, or true friend.

  We can’t do it all alone. We can rise up only when we stand on the shoulders of those who went before us. You need an older, wiser person in your life to give you advice, support, and strength. We all need someone who will listen and care, with no agenda. Our moms can see the beauty and potential that we can’t always see in ourselves, and we need to be open to their unconditional love to help us as we struggle to accept who we are.

  My mother showed me what’s possible by doing. Her life was hard, but she never claimed to be a victim. As a single mother, she worked around the clock to put herself through college to become an art teacher and give her two children a better life. She clipped coupons and made personal sacrifices to make sure we got a good education. She made sure our home was always well kept, no matter where we lived. She stretched out every meal and used every resource she had to make sure we never felt deprived. My brother and I didn’t have everything we wanted, but we got everything we needed.

  But it was the nurturing she gave to our souls that made me who I am today. As an artist with a passion for beauty and self-expression, my mother taught us about primary colors, took us to museums, and kept books around the house with artwork by Salvador Dalí and Romare Bearden. She brought home culture magazines and The New York Times. She took us to plays and musicals, always making sure we knew there was a bigger world beyond our four corners in Newark. My mother encouraged me to make up songs, dance, bang on stuff, and do whatever I could to be creative. She gave me my prized possession—the small eight-track cassette player that sat in the middle of my small bedroom. Our home was always filled with music, love, and joy.

  Caring to Listen

  Her greatest gift to us was her willingness to always listen. Mom took the time to get to know my brother and me as individuals. Even as babies, we weren’t just little creatures to be cared for. She was curious about who we were. As the middle child between five brothers and two sisters growing up on army bases in Maryland, my mother got lost. She blossomed later in life than most because as a kid she didn’t quite know who she was. But she was determined to bring out our best selves from an early age. She’d get down at eye level and talk to us, not at us. When we misbehaved, which was often, she didn’t yell. She’s soft-spoken and gentle, and I’ve never known her to raise her voice.

  But she made sure we knew when w
e were wrong. She was clear about the rules, and the worst feeling in the world was knowing we’d disappointed her. She had the same effect on some of her roughest students at Irvington. She made those kids want to excel. Mom—Mamma O or Ms. O to the kids in her class—always had a way of instilling in you the desire to please her and meet her highest expectations, and that’s a powerful thing.

  Today, my mother is the most precious person in my world. She is my best friend and my greatest ally. She helps me run my management and production company, Flavor Unit. She’s in charge of the day-to-day business of our scholarship program, the Lancelot H. Owens Scholarship Foundation. She provides inspiration for many of my acting roles, especially when the character I am playing is feminine but strong. There’s a lot of my mother in August from The Secret Life of Bees—this gentle, educated woman who takes care of the people she loves.

  Whenever I decide I’m going to try something new, Mom’s the one in my corner, encouraging me to take the leap. Even when she’s afraid for me, she doesn’t try to hold me back. She understands I have to take risks, make my own mistakes, and do me. And I always know I’m going to get honest feedback from her. She knows I don’t need another fan.

  When I did my first jazz album, Trav’lin’ Light, I asked her advice about rerecording the song “Poetry Man,” because I knew it was her favorite. I was nervous, but Mom said I should go for it, and I was giddy when she told me how much she loved what I did. There’s always going to be that little kid in me who wants her mother’s approval.

  How to Live