by Terrence J
Men learn from their mothers—and their fathers—how to act around women. And when I started dating, my mother told me, “You’ve got to treat a woman the way you would want your father to treat me.” From the very beginning of my life, I had two examples of manhood in front of me: my biological father, who didn’t treat my mother well; and my father Jaime, who did. I knew right off the bat who I would model myself after.
Women are a driving force in a man’s life. Starting as young men, we are motivated by girls. We wake up early on a Saturday, get our hair cut, buy fancy sneakers, and play sports in order to get girls. I may not have the same drive as I did as a teenager when it comes to finding a girlfriend, but I still use my future wife as a motivator. That’s one reason I work so hard to establish myself as a businessman and put together a nest egg. Someday I hope to be able to reach a level of comfort that will allow me to spend time with that woman. And a bad breakup also fuels my motivation to be a better person. It prompts me to take a look at how I acted in that relationship, get back in the gym, and become even more successful. Women are frequently my inspiration, and I try to treat them accordingly.
Don’t get me wrong—I have some ex-girlfriends who will call me an asshole. But I do my best, following Jaime’s example.
My mom also made it clear to me that if a woman didn’t respect herself, she didn’t have the time of day for her. I remember when I was just starting to date as a teenager, a girl showed up at my door wearing heavy makeup and tight clothes, and asking for me. My mom told her I wasn’t home and politely shut the door right in her face.
In any case, knowing that my parents have been together for twenty-seven years has shown me that true love exists. It is possible. When you’re young you want to date people because of how they look, or how cool they are; but what I’ve learned from observing my parents is that all those things become irrelevant over time. What matters is the friendship, and the bond, and the loyalty. It’s about finding a partner with similar goals, and sticking with them through thick and thin to achieve those goals.
And one last, important thing that my mother taught me about love: You need to value the time you have with the people you care about. At one point, when I was thirteen or fourteen, I asked my mom about the father I’d never met. My mom’s reply was that people choose to be in your life, and when they make the decision not to be there, you’ve got to let them go. “But when they do decide to be in your life, make sure you cherish the time you have with them,” she continued. “If they mean something to you, you should always let them know it. Because you never know what can happen.”
Her words really hit home when I was living in New York and working at BET in my early twenties. I was dating an aspiring French model named Jayla, whom I met at the BET Hip-Hop Awards in 2006. I saw her on the escalator going up as I was going down, and she was so beautiful that I followed her back down just to get her number.
We dated long-distance for a year. It was never a serious relationship, partly because we lived in different countries. I never told her that I loved her, but I always looked forward to her visits. She was full of life, really ambitious, and always a joy to be around. I remember a trip she made to New York in September 2007, almost a year after we’d started dating. I’d just bought my first car, a Cadillac Escalade, and we’d ride up and down the West Side Highway, listening to Kanye West’s new album. Her favorite track was “I Wonder,” a really inspirational song about following your dreams, and we listened to it over and over.
It was a great visit, but for a variety of reasons, when she was back in the States two months later, we never hooked up. I was overwhelmed with work and dating other women, and it was the holidays. It felt like I had a lot going on, so when she called me to try to get together, I brushed her off. And although we spoke a few times over the holidays, we started to lose touch in the new year. “I’ll go visit her when I have a break in March,” I kept telling myself.
Valentine’s Day came and went and I forgot to hit her up, so I sent her a text the following day, apologizing and letting her know that I wanted to visit soon. She didn’t reply. I figured she was upset.
Two weeks later, when I was in a meeting with my boss, Stephen Hill, he asked me, “How are you doing with the Jayla thing? Are you okay?” I just looked at him, totally confused. When he saw my expression, his own face dropped. “I can’t believe I’m the one to tell you this,” he said, “but she died. She was in a car accident.” I sat and stared at him, not quite understanding. I didn’t believe it. As soon as I got out of the room I texted her: “Hey, call me back, there’s a crazy rumor about you.” There was no reply.
When I got home, I looked at her MySpace page, and there it was, clear as day. Rest in Peace. I quickly called a mutual friend and learned that Jayla had been coming home from a concert with two friends. She pulled over on the side of the highway in order to switch drivers, and a truck hit her. It broke every bone in her body; she died instantly.
I cried when I heard the story. It was the most devastating conversation I’d ever had. But I didn’t know how to talk to anyone about it. Instead, I bottled up my emotions and kept my grief to myself. At home, alone, I played that Kanye West album, listening to “I Wonder” again and again. It was an incomprehensible pain.
I couldn’t come to grips with the fact that someone so young and full of life could have everything snatched away from her. I’d had time that I could have spent with her, and I didn’t. I had taken that time for granted. I wished I could have it back; and I longed for another chance to tell her what she meant to me. My mom’s advice about cherishing the people you love came back to haunt me. Why hadn’t I told Jayla what I liked about her? I’d always thought it was corny to tell a woman that I cared about her, especially if we weren’t in a serious relationship; but now I regretted it deeply. I would go to sleep with tears in my eyes, wishing that I could tell her how much I’d learned from her, how much I loved her laugh, appreciated her conversation. That I missed her. Sometimes we don’t truly appreciate a moment until it becomes a memory, and our moment was snatched away.
One of my favorite movies is The Life of Pi—particularly the ending monologue, when the main character explains that of all the hardships he experienced on the lifeboat with that Bengal tiger, the one thing that hurt the most was when they arrived on the shore and the tiger walked off into the woods without looking back to say good-bye. The hardest part of losing someone isn’t letting go, but failing to articulate your feelings and get that closure. It’s not being able to say good-bye.
Seven years later, the loss of Jayla still hits me hard. Since she died, I can’t say I’ve been perfect with love. I haven’t always been honest in relationships. I’ve cheated, and I’m not proud of it. But one of the things I am proud of is that now when I’m with a person, I always let them know how much they mean to me. I’m so thankful for the women that God has sent my way. Every woman I’ve encountered has made an impact on me. The time I’ve shared with them has made me smarter and wiser, even if it’s just a little bit. And when I’m ready to settle down and marry, the women who have dealt with the bullshit version of me will have helped make me into the man that I hope someday to be—a good husband, a positive father. Thanks to Jayla, I will never again take a relationship or a friendship for granted. My mom was right about that. You never know when a person will walk out of your life. It’s important to give them their roses while they’re still breathing.
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In Her Own Words: Lisa on Love
A new friendship or relationship is a lot like hearing a song for the first time. When you first hear a song, sometimes you fall in love immediately, but sometimes it takes two or three listens and then you fall in love. It’s the same when you meet friends or find someone you want to be with—either you fall in love directly or it takes a little time.
After that, if you really like a song, you want to listen to it all the time. It becomes part of your life—you listen to that song whe
n you wake up, on your headphones, when you drive, before you go to bed. It has an intimate place in your life and feels special. But at a certain point, your relationship with the song will shift—maybe the song starts to get popular. Now, the whole world knows that song—it’s in the clubs, on the radio, everyone loves it. You hear it too much. Something that was once special to you has become overexposed, and you get a little sick of it.
In relationships that happens as well. When you are in a relationship, or dating someone, in the beginning, it’s just you and that person. But over time, as you continue, that tight relationship becomes strained because now your mom, your friends, your coworkers are in the relationship with you. She goes to your work parties, your school friends know her. Now there are other people invested in your relationship, maybe even hating on your relationship—they are part of your world, and as a result your relationship gets pulled in many different directions.
There comes a time when it’s smothering and you have to take a step back from it, or stop listening to that song. In friendships, this might mean a big fight, or in relationships a breakup—I need to take a day, a week, time away from the person I once couldn’t breathe without.
I’ve been with my husband for twenty-seven years now. We’ve always been best friends. And it wasn’t always easy—in the beginning it was rough and bumpy.
But going back to that song . . . if it’s a song that’s meant to be a part of your life—a special song to you—then even after you take your break from it—a day, a month, a year—when you come back to the song you’ll still love it. And then you know it’s a song meant to be in your life. That’s the song that becomes a classic that you’ll want played at your wedding. Every time you hear that song for the rest of your life it will bring you back to a special place and make you feel good and warm.
And that’s what a real relationship is: It survives; it becomes a classic and it stands the test of time.
* * *
Jerry Ferrara Talks About His Mom
Jerry Ferrara is an actor who came to fame as Turtle on the HBO series Entourage. He has appeared in numerous films and television shows, including Think Like a Man, Think Like a Man Too, and the upcoming Last Vegas, with Robert DeNiro, Morgan Freeman, and Michael Douglas. His mom raised him and his brother on her own in Brooklyn, New York, after Jerry’s father passed away. In this story, he shares how his mother’s strength helped make him who he is today.
My mom is the very definition of strength—the mother bear who takes care of her baby cubs.
My father passed away when I was five. My mom was left with an eight-year-old and a five-year-old—me. My grandparents were scared for her, and wanted her to move back in with them. But she said, “No, I’m gonna do it myself,” and went out and got a school crossing-guard job at our grammar school so that she could be near us. She worked her whole life. She didn’t date or do anything but raise us kids.
She did everything for us. I still send my mom a Father’s Day card, because she was also my father. I remember that when we’d hear a scary noise in the middle of the night, where most kids would go, “Where’s Dad to go stop the scary noise!” we’d go wake up our mom instead. She’d go get the bat and creep into the yard to check it out. She always had to be the brave one, to be our first line of defense.
My first love was baseball. When I was seven, I didn’t have a father to teach me. My mom, to her credit, did the best she could. She went out and bought a ball and two mitts and watched an instructional video. And then—to my embarrassment—she took me out into the street to play catch with me. She taught me to throw—which is why I throw like a girl!
She instilled in me the knowledge that you can do anything you want in this life. You want to be an actor or an athlete? Well, you breathe the same air as these people. You’ve just got to want it bad enough. She was a big believer in follow your dreams. So I moved to L.A. when I was nineteen, to pursue acting. She had to put on a tough face, because deep down she was terrified that her son was moving away from everything he knew, but she never let me know how she felt. She later told me that she would cry, she was so worried about me, but she never let me see it, so I was never afraid.
I don’t think I would ever have followed my dreams and stuck with them if it wasn’t for how she raised me. She gets full, full credit.
3
My Mother’s Words of Wisdom About Vision & Fearlessness
When I met up with Tiffany at the center last night, she told me she was starving, so we went down the road to a twenty-four-hour diner for a bite to eat. I watched as she put away a giant strawberry sundae and a cheeseburger with fries, and then eyed the apple pie behind the counter. “I’m already fat anyway, so I might as well enjoy it,” she told me. She’s exaggerating—at seven months pregnant, she was taking up a whole lot more space in the diner booth, but she wasn’t exactly enormous.
She was doing much better than the last time we met; she has that optimistic shine back to her. After a rough winter, Sean shaped up and went and got himself a job—even though it’s only part-time, working at a corner deli. But at least he’s showing his commitment to the situation and finally has some money coming in. He’s even talking about getting them a place together after the baby comes.
But the really good news is that Tiffany has started hearing back from colleges. Unfortunately, she didn’t get into her local first choice—Fashion Institute of Technology, in New York City. But she did get accepted by Howard University, an HBCU (historically black college and university) in Washington, D.C., and was even offered a scholarship.
She was incredibly excited—it’s a really prestigious college. “I’m just gonna have to get Sean to agree to move down to D.C. with me and the baby. Not that I’d mind getting out of New York City, honestly.”
We talked for a while about the expense of life in New York City, and her unhappiness living in a one-bedroom apartment in a not-great housing development with her grandmother. But then she sighed. “Yeah, but D.C. is just so far away. And Sean just finally got a job. How do you uproot three people like that? And then there’s the money thing—moving isn’t cheap and I still don’t know how we’re going to cover all the costs of school.” She was quiet for a minute, thinking. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s easier on everyone involved if I just stay here and go to City College or something.”
“Is that what you really want?” I asked her.
Her silence was telling. Watching her think it over, I was reminded of my own family’s move out of New York City, south to North Carolina.
WHEN I WAS EIGHT years old, a drug dealer named Babyface moved in across the street. Actually, “in” is the wrong word—he wasn’t living “in” anything. He had turned a little patch of sidewalk into his office, from which he dealt crack and heroin all day and night long. From the vantage point of our apartment, directly across the street and four stories up, we could watch everything he did. His main office hours were between the hours of midnight and five A.M.—at least, that’s when he was most likely to blast hip-hop from his stereo at window-rattling volumes. He turned it off just about the time my parents got up to go to work.
Babyface was a pudgy, round-faced guy—he looked like he was barely out of his teens, hence the nickname. At first, he was only on the street during the weekends, but after a while, he was there every night, surrounded by a posse of Spanish and black thugs. From my bedroom window I had a bird’s-eye view of their activities. I would watch the hand-offs happen, over and over—the client rolling up, the slapping of hands, the furtive glance around (though there were never any cops to bust them), and the wads of cash disappearing into Babyface’s pocket. I was old enough, by then, to know exactly what was going down.
When we first moved to that block in Woodside, Queens, in 1986, it was a nice, quiet, family-oriented neighborhood. We rented an apartment on the fourth floor of a building owned by a sweet older couple named Harry and Mary. It was a neighborly kind of place—our landlords often babysat m
e. But by 1990, everything had changed. The drug epidemic in Queens was at its peak, and the whole city was plagued by crime. Nineteen ninety was the most dangerous year in New York history: 2,600 murders—seven a day—and more than 92,000 assaults. The violence was no longer confined to the worst neighborhoods. Even “good” neighborhoods, like ours, had been taken over.
When we’d first moved into our apartment, there were two beat cops that worked our neighborhood, walking the streets every day, deterring crime. By 1990, those two beat cops had retired, and the only police presence was the cruisers that drove through our streets every once in a while. Cop cars were useless when it came to preventing the day-to-day crime that takes place on the sidewalks and in the local housing projects.
Even kids were being targeted by the local criminal elements. I wasn’t allowed to ride my bike without an adult alongside me. Junkies would take your sneakers, your backpack, anything of potential value. And then there was the used drug paraphernalia that was dumped all over the streets. It was dangerous to play ball, because you might trip over the syringes and crack vials on the ground.
My mom did her best to shield me from the bad-news characters down on the streets. I remember she kept me really occupied that year, filling every spare moment of my day with productive activities. I was in school, then the after-school program, the school play, swim lessons, summer camp. There wasn’t ever any idle time: My parents had me signed up for so many activities that I was too exhausted to go hang out with my friends down in the street. And when I finally got home, there was always an adult around, even though my parents both worked full-time jobs—my grandfather, or Harry and Mary, would always be waiting to keep an eye on me.
