Perfect Is Boring

by Tyra Banks

  Carolyn: I was sitting in my living room in front of the TV, sipping on my daily can of ginger ale, when Tyra strutted onto the set of her talk show sporting the same bathing suit that was plastered on the cover of every gossip magazine around the world.

  Of course, she had told me that she was going to address the paparazzi’s blatant attempt at public humiliation, but not dressed like that! With every sip, I grew more and more proud.

  Tyra: I addressed the audience and was as real and as raw as was humanly possible, and ended it yelling, “Kiss my FAT ass!” Oh, I slapped my own ass super hard when I said “fat,” too. I had wanted the whole speech to be strong, empowering, fierce. But now, as the audience screamed and cheered and teared up and even sobbed, I realized I was crying, too. What the hell? I was just laughing about all of this a week ago. But now, I was feeling weak and vulnerable. WTF?

  I needed to be strong. I needed to be a warrior. I needed to be an example to women everywhere that they could survive this body shaming without letting it break them down. I ran straight to the control booth to my director, Brian.

  “Brian,” I said, wiping snot from my nose, “I started to cry out there. So we gotta do it again. And I want you to end the ‘Kiss my fat ass’ part with a shot close on my face—strong and defiant. There was this woman in the grocery store, and I can’t have her see me all teary. Nobody should see me crying. It’s weak.”

  Brian looked at me—actually, he looked through me—then started walking around the booth, turning off each and every monitor. When he was done, he turned to me and said, “Tyra, go home.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Go home,” he repeated. “Yes, you cried. Yes, you were vulnerable. But it was real. It was you. And I’m not gonna say it again after this. Go. Home.”

  So, I did as he said. I went home. I hardly slept for the next two weeks, until it aired.

  And the day it aired changed my life forever.

  Carolyn: “Kiss my fat ass!” Whew! Those four words that Tyra said—no, yelled—were not what I had expected. But I was overjoyed! By the time she slapped her butt, I had leapt off the couch, spilled ginger ale on my shirt, and had tears rolling down my cheeks. Tyra spoke in defense of all of us who have witnessed or experienced the physical and emotional chains that are forced upon women throughout our lives. It was as if she was screaming in unison with all of our voices: “Enough is friggin’ enough!” The resounding response from women and girls around the planet said it all. We were tired of feeling that we are worth nothing more than what we weigh.

  Tyra: That butt slap was felt everywhere—from beauty salons to office buildings to locker rooms to school playgrounds to damn near every news and online outlet in the darn universe. I saw the gorgeous and talented Adele at an Alicia Keys event and she wrapped her arms around me and thanked me from her beautiful body and soul profusely. Women (and men, too) from all over the world were writing in about how much what I said meant to them. A week later at intermission of the musical Rent in NYC, a woman pulled me aside and said the moment saved her life, that she had a handful of pills but experienced that moment and immediately called a suicide hotline that ended up saving her life. Time magazine named me one of the most influential people of the year next to Barack Obama, Oprah Winfrey, and Richard Branson (and in the Heroes and Pioneers category, no less). And the speech made it onto TV Guide Magazine’s 60 Greatest Talk Show Moments list.

  I had no idea it would lead to all of that. But I realized it had this impact because it was a real moment. At the time I taped it, I thought real meant polished. A do-over. Perfection. But if I had delivered that speech how I wanted to—cool and calculated, and yeah, 100 percent “strong,” like I wasn’t bothered one bit by people calling me fat—it would not have resonated the powerful way it did.

  I believe in those words that I said on my talk show just as much today as I did when I first said them, more than ten years ago. And just in case you weren’t there back then to experience the moment, and even if you were, I’ve brought it here . . . to you:

  I love my mama. She has helped me to be a strong woman so I can overcome these kind of attacks, but if I had lower self-esteem, I would probably be starving myself right now. But, that’s exactly what is happening to other women all over this country. So, I have something to say to all of you that have something nasty to say about me or other women who are built like me . . . women whose names you know, women whose names you don’t, women who’ve been picked on, women whose husbands put them down, women at work or girls in school—I have one thing to say to you: Kiss my fat ass!

  Carolyn: This epic moment was a culmination of all that I had worked so hard to instill in Tyra. She had sprouted her own wings and was flying high.

  Fat ass and all.

  5 ASS-ENTIAL TYRA TIPS FOR BETTER BODY IMAGE

  Make a list of what you love about your body. Add something new every month.Sit down and take the time to do this. Get a pen and paper, and set a timer for five minutes. Write down as many things as you can think of that you like about yourself, and it is OK if it is just one, then post that list someplace you’ll see it every day (like on the bathroom mirror). Once a month, revisit the list and add something new.

  Self-care, boo!Get your nails did, get your hair did, take a bubble bath, take a long nap, eat a cupcake, binge a season of of Big Little Lies (or Top Model, just sayin’), read an entire book in one sitting, spend some time alone. Whatever it is that makes you feel good and rested, carve out the time to do it.

  Fake it till you make it.Pretend you’re confident and love your body. Next time you’re at the pool, stroll around without a cover-up instead of hiding behind a towel. Do all the things you think a body-confident woman would do, and you might start believing yourself.

  Stop talking ish about other women.If you find yourself wanting to criticize the way someone else looks, just stop. Change the subject. Or even better, say something nice.

  Ditch the triggers.Try to cut out the things and people that make you feel bad. If you have a 105-pound friend who’s always talking about how she could lose a few, take a break. Maybe she’s not your best going-out-to-dinner buddy. If Instagram makes you feel sad, stop the scroll.

  CHOOSE HEALTHY OVER SKINNY

  Tyra: My weight is like Cardi B’s beautiful booty while she’s twerking: It goes up and it goes down and then back up and then back down—over and over again. And to be honest, my mood is happiest when I’m up. I know right now you’re like, “What?” But let me explain. I’m happiest bigger because I’m not restricting myself at all. For me, food is pleasure, pleasure, pleasure. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, and have never done drugs, so food is my vice. When I’m thick, you better damn well believe that I am celebrating like it’s my birthday at every damn meal.

  Carolyn: Tyra and I are both ice cream addicts. No matter what city or country we are in, we will find the top ice cream parlor. In New York, we used to go to the bodega and get about eight different kinds, then take those bad boys back to her condo. We wouldn’t even put them in a bowl; we’d just line them all up on the sink like piano keys, get a spoon, and travel the counter of pints. We’ve had some of our best business ideas playing ice cream keyboards! I think the idea for her to do her own swimsuit calendar and to do two versions, an edgy one and a commercial one, came from those “ice cream musical” sessions.

  I’m lactose intolerant now, so I know if I eat ice cream I’ll have an upset stomach and be running to the powder room all night. But sh*t, I eat it anyway. Pun intended.

  Tyra: When I was growing up, we’d go to the Häagen-Dazs shop on Hollywood Boulevard every weekend. I will eat almost any ice cream flavor, as long as there’s no chocolate in it. (Yeah, I’m the fool who doesn’t like chocolate, but I ain’t mad at cookies ’n’ cream.) Just give it to me, baby. And I like my cream straight up. No cone.

  For the specialty, boutique places, like Sal
t & Straw, McConnell’s, and Jeni’s, I will stand in line and wait and wait. I don’t care if there are thirty people in front of me—I’ll stand there all anxious like I’m there waiting for the Black Friday sale to drop. When I was at my biggest, I would get dessert (usually ice cream) after lunch and dinner. And, like I said, I felt great.

  But now, as I write this, I’ve dropped a few pounds. Why? I’ve got this old ankle injury that keeps recurring, and the last time I twisted it was on the set of Drake’s “Childs Play” video. “Oh, Tyra, you gotta see the instant replay of your cheesecake-smush-face moment!” said one of Drake’s boys to me. I ran to the monitor before they were about to turn it off and twist, it happened again. And I woke up the next morn with more pain than ever before. If you caught me running onto the America’s Got Talent stage to give an impromptu makeover on my debut episode in unsexy white sneakers, blame the ankle (but don’t blame sexy Aubrey “Drake” Graham; ain’t his fault). My doctor said if I drop some weight, along with doing rigorous physical therapy, my ankle will heal faster, better, stronger. So, I’ve been going to cycling classes, balancing in yoga classes, doing Pilates, and yeah, eating healthier. I’m more energetic and my ankle is soooo much healthier. And yeah, that feels good, too.

  Sometimes my mom and I get into it over healthy eating. She eats any- and everything she wants. She’s a cheeseburger, fries, and shake three times a week kind of eater, whereas I’m now more of the burger and no bun kind of girl.

  But dammit, I want my momma to be healthy! I had my son when I was older, and I want her to be around to watch him grow up because York is obsessed with his nana. We were FaceTiming with York recently, and she told me she’d had pancakes and bacon for breakfast. Again.

  “Choose life, not bacon slice!” I yelled.

  “Oh, pshaw,” she responded. “Bacon ain’t killed nobody but the pig.”

  “Bacon nobahbee PIG!” repeated Grandma’s number one fan, a.k.a. York.

  I respect my mama more than anyone, but she knows that ain’t true. And now I gotta unteach my lil pumpkin this at the same time I’m trying to get him to think lima beans and rutabaga are the most delicious things on the planet so that I can airplane another spoonful into his mouth for dinner.

  Carolyn: After my early teen years, I had a slim, tight waistline, but now I have all these bloops, one muffin top on top of another on top of another. Tyra’s always trying to help pull my shirt out of waist creases because it gets stuck in the dents. So one day I said, “Well, let me show you something I can do that none of you can!”

  I held my arms up, started leaning side to side, and did a whole routine with accordion sounds coming out of my mouth.

  “I cannot believe you are playing your body, Mama,” Tyra said.

  “Every negative you can turn into a positive,” I said, and just kept right on playing my body accordion.

  You got some rolls round your middle? Show your hidden talents and strike up a tune for the kiddies; they’ll love it.

  Tyra: Remember when I told you my mama is crazy? The body accordion just backs me up. Ma is disgusted (or at least pretends to be) by anything that is healthy. I mentioned the need for her to drink more water last year, and you know what she said?

  “Water? Ugh.”

  What?

  But honestly, I get it. A lot of it is a generational thing. Twenty years from now, York will probably come to me saying, “Mom, why are you eating that quinoa and that kale? That’s disgusting! Don’t you know that can kill you? You need to make your salad with these fermented, oxygenated bubble-gut greens that come from the droppings of a Himalayan mountain goat.”

  And I’ll look at him and go, “Get the hell out of my face, boy. Kale ain’t killed nobody but the leaf.”

  But the difference with me is I’ll probably eat the goat poop.

  Carolyn: Goodness gracious, I just read this chapter and I sound insane in the membrane. I love all my grandbabies and wanna live to see my newest one give his mama hell like she gave me. So maybe I’ll trade in this slice of streaky, fatty bacon for the healthier Canadian kind, and these buttermilk pancakes with extra syrup can be swapped for some naturally sweet Scandinavian crackers. Does it taste as good? Almost. But is it time for a change? Hell to the yes! So thank you, TyTy, for mothering your mama and introducing me to healthy choices that tickle my taste buds, and for making me see the skim/low-cal/lite light. But two liters of water a day? Lord, help me.

  NON-SKINNY PEOPLE WHO I THINK ARE SEXY AS HELL

  I like a bit of booty on my models, my missies, my matrons, and my men. I think these people are some fine-ass human beings.

  ASHLEY GRAHAM: This statuesque supermodel stunner is also my new America’s Next Top Model judge and my girl! She’s the queen of the Curve-a-listas!

  ZACH MIKO: The first supermodel to come out of Brawn, IMG’s plus-size male model division. Chiseled, chunky, and oh so funky (and oh so fine as hell!).

  CHRISTINA HENDRICKS: A redhead with curves so hot they could start fires.

  KATE UPTON: My Sports Illustrated cover girl sister from another mister.

  VINCE VAUGHN: 6'5" and looking good, boo. No beanpoles here.

  AMBER ROSE: A beauty and a booty on a mission to stop slut shaming. I can definitely get behind that behind.

  DASCHA POLANCO: Orange is the new black, and bootyful is the new beautiful.

  The bearded man in the plaid shirt sitting next to me at this Malibu café right now as I type. (Damn, your thick lumbersexual ass is fine, boo!)

  10

  LEARN SOMETHING FROM THIS!

  Carolyn: You can’t protect your children from everything. You’ve got to let them bump into walls sometimes, because that’s the only way they’re gonna learn.

  So when Tyra came to me and said she was going to add singing to her body of talents, I had instant visions of her smashing into a concrete wall like one of those crash-test dummies!

  Tyra: It wasn’t because I wanted to sing that I decided I wanted to be a singer. I wanted to make music videos and perform live, get the crowd on their feet and have them yelling and losing their mind. J.Lo was doing it and killin’ it big-time, and she didn’t start her career as a singer, so why couldn’t I?

  And yeah, I know what you’re thinking. “Tyra, why you think you can sing when you never sang before?”

  Well, I had experience. My rap name was Ty Loc Ski Mac Dog, and I even wrote my own rap (which I still know today and plan to perform at York’s eighteenth birthday party). It went a little something like this:

  “I’m 34A, but that’s okay, cuz the rest of my body is just touché.

  I’m five foot nine. I look so fine. Yes, all my fellas are so divine.

  When I’m finished with this, you might as well just dismiss

  All the other female rappers, cuz y’all just piss.

  My eyes so green. They look so keen.

  If you had one look, you know what I mean.

  My hair’s so brown, it is always down,

  And on my face, there never is a frown.

  When you and I meet, you will not stand.

  So get on your knees, and kiss Ty’s hand.

  Go Tyra, get busy, go Tyra . . .”

  Oh yeah, that was ninth grade. And I just wrote that rap because I was lost in algebra and took a lil break from trying to figure out what x is when 5(-3x – 2) – (x – 3) = -4(4x + 5) + 13.

  Hmmm, yeah, I probably should have stopped right there.

  Carolyn: Tyra could carry a tune; I had to give her that. She could also dance really well, even though she wasn’t Janet Jackson. But I knew that if she wanted to be a singer, she was going to have to be a damn good singer because she wasn’t going to be able to sneak in the back door. No, if Miss Tyra Banks, Supermodel, decided to sing, the spotlight was going to be on her from that first note, and if she sounded more like a screech
owl than a songbird, she was never going to live it down.

  I was on pins and needles from that first time she mentioned singing, but I always told my children that I would support them no matter what they decided to do—even if what I thought they decided to do was a . . . ummm . . . s t r e t c h.

  When Tyra came to me and said she was setting up meetings with music producers, all I did was nod.

  “Mm-hmm,” I said. “Have they heard ya sing?”

  They had not.

  Tyra: When I decide something, I go hard. I don’t just dip in a pedicured pinky; I belly flop. I have tunnel vision, and from the moment I decided I was going to be a singer, it became my obsession. You can do anything if you put your mind to it, right? Well, maybe . . .

  I got a leading vocal coach and started taking lessons with him three times a week. Ashlee Simpson had the time slot right before me, so I could hear her finishing up when I arrived. She sounded good. I’d sit there, listening to her with sweat dripping in my armpits. I knew I didn’t sound half as good as she did, but still, when her time was up and I was on, Ashlee and I would exchange pleasantries in the waiting room, then I’d go in there and not-so-pleasantly sing my ass off for my coach.

  Nothing about it felt natural, and it wasn’t fun. I was stretching and straining, trying to hit notes like my life depended on it. When I’d leave, I’d think, “You know, this whole being a singer thing would work out so great if I just didn’t . . . have to sing.” I wanted that Milli Vanilli kinda career. Really, was lip-synching to someone else’s voice so bad?

  As soon as word got out that I was considering embarking on a music career, I had some of the best producers and songwriters in the world agreeing to work with me. My access to top-level talent was astounding. Was it because I had the voice of an angel? Hell no. It was because I was a Victoria’s Secret Angel. When they heard me sing, they weren’t hearing notes. Perhaps they were hearing potential banknotes.