Perfect Is Boring

by Tyra Banks

  Yep.

  So . . .

  Press play.

  Carolyn London, my crazy, fierce mama, did it—you know, it it: knockin’ boots, doin’ the deed, whatever you want to call it—a whopping (yet entirely underwhelming) 1.5 times as a teenager (more on that later).

  The result?

  A baby on the way. Luck may not have been on her side, but her fertility was. Poor Mama (I share my own first-time tale later in the book, but you’ll have to keep reading to find out where!).

  At that time, in 1966, unwed pregnant teenagers were outcast even more than they are today. When she called to try to tell the baby’s father, his mother said, “Honey, that’s your problem,” and hung up the phone. She had a big old pregnant belly, a bouffant hairdo, and the grit of a gladiator. She didn’t waste time with the haters; she just had her baby and got on with her life.

  Six years later, I came along.

  Mama and me when I was just two.

  The three of us lived in a one-bedroom apartment, and Mama worked her butt off to get us to a two-bedroom and, later, a three.

  Carolyn: Now, lemme just wipe these tears from my eyes (and the snot from my nose), because I’m always amazed when I’m praised by my baby girl. I’d always wanted a son and a daughter, and when Tyra was born, I grinned like the Cheshire cat (after I got done with all the screamin’ and hollerin’ in the delivery room, mind you). Little did I know that this tiny girl clinging to my belly would one day have a brain like a Jamba Juice–whirling blender with no off button, or a NASA rocket ship slicing through the stratosphere to discover places unknown.

  I realized one day that the White Rabbit in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland ain’t got nothing on Miss Tyra. You see, she’s also never late for a very important date. Or should I say date, after date, after date. Her calendar of life is always full to the brim, and like the White Rabbit, she’s always constantly checking her watch and running from one unimaginable idea to another. She’s also got a bit of the Mad Hatter thrown in, and her top hat is that ever-changing crown of weaved hair that I do believe is sewn in so tight that it stimulates the essence of her slew of creative madness. My child still calls me in the middle of the night just to share new ideas that spontaneously popped into her head. (“Mama, I got this show idea I wanna do about models!”) And the even crazier thing? So many of her Mad Hatter ideas have actually worked.

  Tyra: There’s all kinds of mamas out there.

  We’re about to break a few down:

  There are mothers who expect absolute perfection from their children 24-7. They’re strict and stern with lists of rules as long as Steph Curry’s three-pointer. Those it’s-either-my-way-or-the-highway-so-shut-the-hell-up-because-I-said-so mamas. The ones who seem to have slipped themselves a little pill called Momnesia and don’t remember a damn thing about being a rebellious teenager who snuck out of her bedroom window to be with that wild boy who couldn’t care less about her except for getting some you-know-what and her parents insisted she stay the heck away from him because he had a . . . well . . . a . . . penis but she still snuck out the window every time that boy called the house and let the phone ring once and then hung up—the secret signal that meant “I’m coming now, baby, so get ready to jump out that window,” and she jumped every damn time. You know those kinds of mothers. We all do. Maybe you even had one. Maybe you are one. You know . . . used to be all loco but now you pretend you were a teenage angel. And I’m not talkin’ the Victoria’s Secret kind.

  My mama . . . naw . . . she wasn’t like that.

  Tyra and I were as close as can be. But BFFs who hang in the club? Nah, I’m not that kinda mama.

  Carolyn: Nor was I one of those moms who are their child’s best friend. You’ve seen them. Hangin’ out big-time with their child. They hit the club with their daughter in the tightest bodycon dress (hello Herve Leger bandage) ’cause that night, Justin Bieber’s crew is rumored to be buying shots for everyone who can twerk their butts the hardest and fastest. And they’ll sashay together down that morning walk-of-shame runway while sharing the too-juicy details of their sexual conquests with JB’s DJ’s daddy and his bodyguard’s brother’s barber.

  SMDH.

  I was never a hot mess mama. Hold on too tightly and the kids rebel; hold on too loosely and all things go to hell.

  Tyra: She tried to be somewhere in the middle of the JB and the yank (yo’ butt if you broke her rules).

  If you compare my mama to art, she would be modern street art, like my mystery boy, Banksy. (Do you know who Banksy really is? All I’m saying is Banksy Art is an anagram of my first and last names. . . . Hold up a sec while I wipe this purple paint from my fingers.) But back to my—I mean Banksy’s art . . . Familiar visuals, yet off-kilter and loaded with social commentary on how messed up we all are and how we can make it better with spray-painted figures on the side of some random building. If my mom’s style was a cuisine, she’d be molecular gastronomy—foodstuff you know but it comes to the table all unique; smoking, foaming dishes listed on the menu in quotes and full of liquid nitrogen. You kind of freak out at first, but then you put it in your mouth and realize it might actually be one of the best things you’ve tasted and experienced friggin’ ever! (Hey, Chef Achatz!)

  Mama could be so raw and real that I’d be squirming in my seat, hoping that lightning would come and strike me upside the head because I was sure that’d be less painful than sitting there listening to her talk like that. She could also be as tough as Gordon Ramsay, but what she was always trying to drill in my thick fivehead was some serious self-esteem.

  Carolyn: Most of those talks worked. (And the ones that didn’t? Oh, we spill the beans all up in this book, baby, so you don’t make the what-the-hell-was-she-thinking mistakes Mizz TyTy did.)

  If Tyra were an instrument, she’d be a trumpet—full of energy and hitting all the high notes, but just as capable of turning on the soul and bringing a tear to your eye. One moment she’s a fairy godmother, playing the wise character, inspiring and motivating to make dreams come true, and the next, she’s my little girl again, sitting on the sofa in our living room eating five flavors of ice cream while watching old DVDs of Pee-wee’s Playhouse. If she were a dance move, she’d be the Nae Nae, with one hand up and one hand down, just swaying all over the place. If she were an emoji, no doubt she’d be the . (In fact, she’s making that face at me right now.)

  Tyra likes to make up these silly rap songs, so one day I thought I would compose one about her. Cue the beats.

  Daughter, oh daughter, oh daughter of mine

  Here’s my verse, Imma try to make it rhyme.

  You’re better with age, like my fave port wine.

  Guess I done my job, ’cause you turned out fine.

  Daughter, oh daughter, oh daughter of mine

  Big forehead, with a genius mind

  You a mama now, that’s so sublime.

  You like my mama too, Freaky Friday time.

  Daughter, oh daughter, oh daughter of mine.

  You make me proud, ’cause you taught me how to rhyme.

  My mark on you’ll stand the test of time.

  Your fierce life’s your legacy, when I’ve left mine.

  Tyra: Wow, Mama, now I’m about to cry! But that, ladies and gents, is l-o-v-e. And I’ve been tryna pass some of that on in my whole career, in every little thing I do.

  To you.

  When I pulled a Mama up there with Tiffany and let the honesty rip, I wasn’t thinking about ratings; I wasn’t thinking about it going down in history as one of the most memorable moments on TV; I wasn’t thinking about people running up to me on the street a decade later, asking for a selfie and maybe, please if I wouldn’t mind, could I just be so nice as to yell at them, too?

  I was just thinking about Tiffany, and all those times I’d been standing there in her shoes, doubting myself, feeli
ng like I might just give up and how Mama would have given me a verbal smack upside the head to snap me out of it.

  I think of Tiffany often and still have so much love for her. (Every once in a while, a Top Model girl in cycles I shoot today reminds me of her, too.) Tiffany was lovable and charismatic; people were always drawn to her, and the other girls enjoyed her. She was tough, but also fun and feisty, with a mouth on her that was always making people laugh and trying to cheer them up (even right up till the end, when she got eliminated).

  She’s a strong, smart, beautiful woman, and I know from reading recent interviews with her that she’s introspective to this day, mature. She gets it. That’s rare.

  I’m still rooting for her. We’re all still rooting for her. And I think now she’s rooting for herself, too.

  So you know what I do when someone says, “Tyra, my name’s Randall/Amanda/Chantel/Brian, and if you could just yell, ‘BE QUIET, RANDALL/AMANDA/CHANTEL/BRIAN,’ you would make my year!”? I put my rage face on and I wait for them to press record and say go, and then I look right at ’em and belt out, “BE QUIET, RANDALL/AMANDA/CHANTEL/BRIAN!”

  And I do it with a smile, because I am not embarrassed about that moment. It was real, raw, heartfelt, and crazy. And not perfect.

  Just like my mama.

  Just like me.

  And just like you.

  (Yeah, I called you crazy. You had to know that was coming, right?)

  PARENTAL ADVISORY—EXPLICIT CONTENT AHEAD!

  Now, I’m not tryna have you write to our publisher about how you wanna go back in time and stage a mass book-burning extravaganza, or set you up to leave all kinds of comments on my Instagram because my mama and I got dirty mouths! So go ahead and put this book in the trash stat (and unfollow me while you’re at it) if you get embarrassed or squeamish easily, because we wrote this book for mothers and daughters and fathers and sons everywhere who aren’t afraid to tell it like it is. In other words, the lewd, crude, and shrewd—but never the rude! On second thought, this book might be just what you need, boo. (Remember, sometimes it takes a moment to recognize that something is actually exactly what you need; what you want and what you need aren’t exactly the same thing.) That said, if you are looking for any or all of the following, then consider a word of warning before you sit back and enjoy this ride:

  If ya mama never shared anything crass with you, get ready, child! This book is for you!

  If she shared a lot, be prepared to say amen a million and one times. You know how it is.

  If you’re prudish, keep reading—you will get turnt out, boo!

  If you got a daughter of your own and you’re wondering how to talk to her about all the down-and-dirty, read on!

  If you wanna laugh your ass off—you got it, honey. Coming your way.

  If you want to learn how to embrace your booty and tell the world to kiss your fat ass, you’ve come to the right place.

  If you want to see what happens when yo mama practices tough love but never lets you down, we got you.

  If you want to see all the fabulous things that happen when you take control of your destiny, we got you.

  2

  TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOURSELF

  Tyra: When Paris came calling for me in the form of a French modeling angel—well, agent—by the name of Veronique, no one saw it coming. Not my local Los Angeles agency: “Little catalog Tyra?” they said. “That Tyra—who models on weekends and after school? The one we don’t really see as making a career of this. You want her to go to Paris?”

  Not my mama: “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” she said, scowling into the phone when the agency called to talk to her.

  And certainly not me.

  But Veronique said yes, she wanted me to go to Paris and model. Well, she said oui. And she added that out of all the girls on the board, I was the only model they wanted at her French agency, City Models. She believed I could do quite well in the land of Coco, cafés, and croissants.

  Well, hell—nobody knew what to say.

  Because I had other plans. Big plans. That began with a c and did not involve Coco, cafés, or croissants.

  Carolyn: I was very excited for Tyra to go to college, because it was an opportunity that I never had. When she first started modeling in high school, she thought catwalking and posing was just going be a side thing, since she knew for sure she was going to a university to study film and television production. Her modeling jobs were a way to help her father and me afford tuition.

  I had heard so many negative things about the modeling industry, especially when models were traveling far from home—from girls getting taken advantage of on the other side of the world by photographers who abused their power, to models getting strung out, losing their careers, and getting shipped home. I also just wanted Tyra to have something that was more stable and solid. A career in modeling was so fleeting, and I couldn’t imagine my daughter having a life in a field that was all about sitting there and waiting for the damn phone to ring.

  Sure, my baby had some beauty, but I was bettin’ on her brain.

  Tyra: I was so excited for college. I genuinely, truly, honestly, not-just-saying-this-for-the-benefit-of-all-the-grown-ups-in-the-room loved learning. And college was learning with an endgame: studying intensely what you were interested in so that you could prepare for a career that you (hopefully) loved.

  So when Veronique insisted I come to Paris, I can honestly say it was something I’d never even thought about. I’d spent the past year dreaming of classrooms and campus quads, not runways and modeling squads. College wasn’t just a dream, either. I’d put in work weighing my options and making plans—I’m talking hand-drawn charts and spreadsheets and pros-and-cons lists that stretched from the kitchen all the way down the hall into my bedroom and up against the closet.

  At first, the options seemed endless. I’d flip through a college brochure, in my head singing Ariel’s “wish I could be . . . part of your world.” This was the university for me! Then another brochure would come in the mail and I’d repeat the process because, no, this school—this one was where I truly belonged! Finally, I started to narrow it down. I toured campuses, met with professors, and even checked out the dorms, imagining what color sheets I’d get for the ultralong narrow twin bed and what posters I was gonna put up on the wall (Vanessa Williams, Bell Biv DeVoe, Al B. Sure, En Vogue, DJ Jazzy Jeff & the Fresh Prince?).

  I broke down the schools:

  UCLA? Close to home and in my fave hangout hood, Westwood, but that student body was huge.

  Columbia? Ivy League . . . yikes!

  NYU? The thrill of New York was tantalizing, but the idea of having to cross a busy city street while dodging taxis to get to class was terrifying.

  That’s why I fell in love with Loyola Marymount University. The campus was on a hill overlooking the ocean; it was quaint and serene, and the boys on the basketball team were fine as hell (scratch that Will Smith poster that was going on the wall—maybe I’d just become a college b-ball fan). I became smitten with the film and television program at Loyola, and imagined that going to school there would be like getting shot out of a cannon and landing right in the middle of my dream entertainment industry and creating magic behind the camera. On the orientation tour with my dad, I even bought out the student store, taking home the college logo sweatshirts, T-shirts, mugs, key chains, banners, you name it. I had that college student just-woke-up-now-where’s-the-dining-hall Smize down.

  I was ready, and everyone knew it.

  So when Veronique reached out to my agents in Los Angeles about me, they couldn’t believe it. They knew how focused I was on going to college, so they hadn’t even tried to push me. And honestly, I believe they thought I was just a catalog girl, not high-fashion material. They saw me modeling parkas for Burlington Coat Factory (you know, the kind with the faux fur hoods where you can’t eve
n see your face?) and some cotton nightgowns for Sears (nothing says s-e-x-y like long sleeves and ruffles, amirite?), not sharp-shouldered Saint Laurent blazers or feminine, pink, poufy-sleeved Oscar de la Renta couture gowns.

  But I had to admit: Thinking about going to Paris was thrilling. I could see myself up on the runway, but what if the L.A. agency was right?

  That thought terrified me, and I spent many nights with my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling at three a.m.

  What if I went and just fell on my face?

  What if I came home a failure, and college was just . . . gone?

  Carolyn: Tyra wanted to do both. She wanted to go to Paris and go to college, and she kept asking me what she should do. I thought about my own life and how I’d wanted to be a dancer but kept trying to be a secretary because my parents thought that good people grew up to get jobs with the city. It was part of that whole “doin’ what a perfect daughter does” thing.

  I gave up on dancing, but I never forgot about it, and I never extinguished my dream. Every year, I took Tyra and Devin to see the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater and the Dance Theatre of Harlem, and I’d watch those dancers with a heavy heart, imagining myself up there, gliding across the stage with them. Maybe I could have been the Misty Copeland or Judith Jamison of my time. Or a Rockette. (Or maybe I should just try out for America’s Got Talent now. I do have an in. . . .)

  I had dreams, but the idea of perfection personified by my parents squashed those dreams flatter than a French crepe. I didn’t want to do that to Tyra, so I sat back and told her, “The choice is yours, and I’ll support you whatever you decide to do.”

  Even though I gave up my dream, I never lost my love for dancing.