by Kim Fields
I remember turning to my Aunt Pat. “Do I eat a lot?” I asked. The network exec jumped in. “Maybe you feel bad or are worried about something and don’t realize it. A therapist will help you figure that out.” I shook my head. “No, I’m just hungry,” I said. “I’m short and busty, and I don’t exercise or play a sport. But I’m still hungry.”
They were more enlightened when it came to my hair. Tootie started out in pigtails, but a single hairstyle does not serve a young girl for long, and the show’s producers, recognizing that I had different hair than the other girls, hired a brilliant and experienced stylist for me. Her name was JoAnn Stafford-Chaney. She has since won an Emmy and worked on movies with Will Smith and Denzel Washington, but back in the day she was building her reputation as TV’s go-to stylist for African American women. She really knew black girl hair, plain and simple, and I was the very appreciative beneficiary of her expertise.
In the early days of the series, when I had a zigzag part in my hair, it was because I had hair breakage. Thank goodness for JoAnn. She figured out a way to treat that problem in a healthy manner and keep my hair in good condition. She also kept me in line with the most current styles, telling me the latest ways black girls my age were wearing their hair; and since my hair was done three out of every four weeks a month that Facts shot, I spent a lot of time with her, asking questions and listening.
In terms of fashion and looks, I rarely saw other young black girls featured in the teen magazines, which made finding answers to my many questions about growing up more difficult than it is nowadays with the Internet. If I could go back and hang out with my teenage self, I would give her a gigantic, loving hug and tell her to look past her concerns about clothes and hair and see the hottie inside her.
“Dear Teenage Kim, People come in all different shapes, sizes, and shades, and the older Kim is not going to magically get any taller, so the younger Kim should not try to change things beyond her control. Don’t stand in front of your mirror for an hour wishing you could add six inches. It ain’t going to happen. In fact, over time, you’ll see some of your peers obsess about their physical appearance at the expense of their soul—and in some cases their life. As you grow up, you need to understand it is the goodness inside people that makes them attractive and hot, and, girl, you got a ton of that goodness, so focus on making sure that little light of yours shines bright. Nurture that potential to do good and you will be good.
“Your shyness and awkwardness is normal, but don’t use that as an excuse to avoid the excitement of trying new things. It is normal to be curious. Don’t be stupid, but take chances. Yes, you will make mistakes, but you will learn from them. You will fail and fall down, but you will get back up and try again. That is called living life—and that, my younger self, is what you are supposed to do.
“You’re supposed to live.
“And P.S.—I do not know if the braces were necessary. A slight overbite can be sexy.
“And P.S.S.—Without giving anything away, things work out.
“And P.S.S.S.—Don’t bother trying to look cute for George Clooney when he joins The Facts of Life for season seven. Once again, you will be tossed into the Lil Sis Zone, the cute, sweet pal pile, before you can blink.”
5
The Teenager
At fourteen years old, I went into my bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. I wanted to see if I looked different. I studied my face, looked deeply into my eyes, smiled, frowned, stepped back, and leaned so close my nose almost touched the glass. I didn’t see anything new. But something had changed. God had entered my life and I could feel His presence. I was checking for visible signs. I wondered if other people could see.
The transformation happened about a month earlier when my mom and I visited a few local churches that were supporting a faith-friendly play she had written and directed. One Sunday, as I was listening to a service at one of the churches—it may have been Ward AME Church in South-Central Los Angeles—I discovered my faith. It wasn’t a Saul-to-Paul moment, but I felt it happen then and there, and if I close my eyes right now, I can still feel that visceral change. It was like being swept up by a wave that was all warmth, comfort, and love, and it never stopped.
From that moment on, I felt a steady pull toward the Word of God. This change could’ve caused confusion, I suppose, but I accepted it as natural and normal. Maybe not for everyone, but for me. I spoke to my mom and my pastor and came to understand what had happened. I’d been born again, this time as a Christian. I began to pray regularly and discovered a relationship with the Lord that seemed as if it had always been there, waiting for me to discover it. In a sense, I suppose that’s exactly what had happened.
Trusting in His plan helped me understand that some of life made sense, while other parts would always be a mystery, but His love could keep me centered and grounded through good and bad times. Even at my relatively young age, I could comprehend all that information because, as it was explained to me, God and all His infinite wisdom and everything I would read in the Bible and hear in church could all be boiled down to one simple concept—love.
I got it—and life went on.
Later that year, I had a harder time understanding the invitation I received to go into the recording studio and cut a song. As I laughingly said to my mom, that was a mystery. I wasn’t a singer. There was a little girl named Shanice Wilson who participated in a few of my mom’s productions, and she had a voice that literally stopped the shows. At nine, she sang in a commercial with Ella Fitzgerald, and a few years later she released the first of many albums. She was a singer. I was not.
But I could carry a tune very well and was game to try. Hal Davis, one of the all-time great Motown songwriters, had contacted my mom about getting me to rerecord “Dear Michael,” a song he and Elliot Willensky had written for Michael Jackson’s second solo album, Forever, Michael, in 1975. Now, Michael was on top of the charts—and the world—with his megahit album Thriller, and the idea was for me to record this new version of “Dear Michael” as if I were representing all the girls my age who had a crush on him.
I studied a rough version of the song prior to the recording session. It featured a scratch vocal by a professional singer, and I remember thinking, I don’t sound like that. In the studio, I said as much to Mr. Davis, who told me not to worry and just sing the best I could. They would do multiple takes, he explained, and stack my vocals, layering one version on top of another to make my voice sound fuller and richer. That sounded cool and helped me relax.
Though my voice was strictly untrained and barely rehearsed, the song, released in mid-1984, went to number fifty-five on Billboard’s R&B chart. It was considered a hit. I promoted it on American Bandstand and Soul Train, shows I watched religiously, and to this day when I come across YouTube clips of myself on Bandstand, I think, Oh my gosh, that girl is so terrified. And I was. I wore a black vest with some sparkles over a red silk shirt and black pants, and pulled my hair in the fab ’80s hairstyle, very kid-appropriate. My nerves did not show when I lip-synced the lyrics, but after, when I stepped forward to speak with Bandstand’s legendary host, Dick Clark, I was barely able to focus. “How old are you?” he asked.
Suddenly I went brain-dead. “Me?” I asked. He nodded. “Yeah.” We were the only two onstage, and I was the only one with a microphone pointed at me. “I’ll be fifteen on May twelfth,” I said. People applauded—probably because they were relieved I did not pass out.
I was more confident when, a short time later, Mr. Davis took me back into the studio, this time to record a more disco-and dance-oriented song Mr. Willensky had written called “He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not.” I knocked out the vocals in one afternoon and geared up for something I did not do with the previous single: a photo shoot.
My mom served as the stylist and drew inspiration from Madonna’s “Material Girl,” a massive hit at the time. She dressed me in a pink catsuit with a white lace tank top, white lace skirt, white lace gloves, and a white lace
bandana in my hair, and stood me in front of a paint-splattered backdrop. There were flowers and rose petals everywhere. It was a gorgeous motif, colorful and fresh, but with one little thing looking out of place. In the lower right hand corner, there was a wok. That’s right, a Chinese cooking wok.
The record cover folded out to a poster, but if you didn’t unfold it you never saw it. But during the shoot, my mother thought the composition of me, the dress, the shower of pink, red, and white rose petals cried out for something metallic. She hurried through the studio and came back with a wok, which she set down in the foreground. To this day, it doesn’t make sense. We just say, “Hey, it was the ’80s.”
* * *
When my new song turned into an even bigger hit than my first single, climbing to number twenty-two on the U.S. dance charts, my “music team” put together a band, added several more songs to create an act, and we were booked as entertainment on a Hawaiian cruise. I did that twice. I also toured on the Christian music circuit. My most memorable gig was a showcase in front of a packed house at the Tropicana in Hollywood, but only because of what happened before I went onstage.
Earlier that day, I had taped the game show Body Language. Fellow teen actor Jason Bateman, then of Silver Spoons and It’s Your Move fame, was the other celebrity guest, and while we knew each other in passing from working at the same studio, we had a good time playing the game together. Before saying goodbye, I invited him to my show. Cut to Jason walking into my dressing room right before I went onstage, smiling and saying how excited he was for me and to be there. Without saying much else, we embraced and shared a sweet teenage kiss. It was a one-time thing, but God, I’ve never forgotten the perks of pop stardom.
There were other perks, too—like competing on the Battle of the Network Stars. This competition series, which pitted stars from the three broadcast TV networks in athletic events, was one of those shows that I never missed, so I was ecstatic when I was invited to be on team NBC.
I did the show twice that year, in May and December. It was shot on the athletic field at Pepperdine University’s picturesque campus in Malibu, and I discovered that I was a fierce competitor. I did not want to lose. I realized this while running a relay race we needed to win to move into first place. I heard my teammates—Michael J. Fox, Mark Harmon, Vicki Lawrence, and Lisa Whelchel—cheering and urging me to go faster, and I willed myself to whiz pass the other actress who had the lead.
In retrospect, I realize something else may have also motivated me to run faster: the prospect of getting a victory hug from Mark Harmon. Clearly my interests were changing. But there was more. Halfway through that next season of Facts, Nancy graduated from high school and left studio school, which meant I faced the prospect of being in the classroom by myself. I didn’t see that happening; as far as I was concerned, Nancy and I were ride-or-die together. As a result, I chose to attend my local public school, Burbank High.
I started midway through my junior year, and though I had to work around my Facts of Life schedule, it was the perfect decision for me. It was the school experience I’d fantasized about. I had my own locker, a full schedule of classes, and new friends. I had the best of both worlds—work I loved and a normal life. I did homework, attended school events, took the SATs and ACTs, and met friends after school for burgers and Cokes.
I also got involved in student government and proposed an appreciation week for our school’s custodians. “This is the way my mom raised me,” I explained to the principal when asking permission to stage the event. “Don’t overlook the taken-for-granted.” The principal asked, “Do you think the custodians here are taken for granted?” I said, “Have the students here ever said thank you to the custodians for keeping the school clean?” I made my point and produced the event, which still ranks among my proudest achievements.
Then everything got more complicated: I met a boy. His name was Loy, and we went to the same church. Already sixteen, he played quarterback on his high school’s varsity football team in Pasadena. He was that guy—handsome, funny, and athletic.
When we went out, he always came into the house and said hello to my mom and played with Alexis. Big points. My friends liked him, too. We talked daily and I was happiest when I was hanging out with him. I did not lose myself in him, as some girls do when they have a boyfriend. My life was too busy and full for that. But I enjoyed having someone fall for me, and really like me. It made up for all those moments when I struggled to like myself because I was too short, too heavy, too busty, or too much of something else I would rather have changed.
Then came this boy who didn’t want anything changed. We talked every day and night, about everything. Little things became incredibly important. Like I was miserable when I could not attend his homecoming game because I was supposed to be in a play my mom was producing that same Saturday night, and she insisted I honor my commitment to the play. I cried to Loy on the phone. “She doesn’t get it! She doesn’t understand me.”
Oh, but my mom showed just how much she got it when Loy invited me to his school’s prom. The dance was everything to me, as it is to so many girls. I bought a pink Gone with the Wind meets Desperately Seeking Susan–style gown with a matching hat and gloves, and Loy rented a formal tux with tails and a shawl collar. Every conversation was about the evening, and my mom seemed to want to make it special. “I’m so happy for you,” she said. “So I’ll book the car for you for the night.”
On prom night, Loy came over to our house and the car my mother arranged for pulled up right on time. It was a vintage Rolls-Royce, and we were thrilled to see this luxurious carriage waiting for us in front of the house. I saw the chauffeur, poised beside the open back door, and thought, Even better. But as we got closer, I recognized the driver was a close family friend. My smile faded and I looked at my mom, who smiled. “I booked the car—and the driver,” she said.
As for driving, it was on my agenda. One of my favorite Facts of Life episodes is “Tootie Drives,” which aired midway through the seventh season, and the script, by future Academy Award–winner Paul Haggis, had all the girls taking turns teaching Tootie how to drive. It was not far from the truth. While all of my Facts costars offered encouragement, my mom actually let me learn on her sleek Mercedes sedan. My Aunt Pat flat out refused no matter how much I pleaded I needed the practice. “No, let your mother take you,” she said. I think the word practice freaked her out.
In the meantime, every morning I drove to the studio while my mom sat stoically in the passenger seat. I think her eyes were shut. Though every once in a while, as I pulled off the freeway and onto Forest Lawn Drive, she calmly said, “Baby, can you get me out of the bushes, please. The road is to your left.” (For the record, I got my driver’s license on my first try.)
* * *
Once school ended, I planned to take it easy all summer. I wanted to play with my adorable little sister, Alexis, and hang out with Loy; that was it. Of course that proved unrealistic. One day, Loy drove me to my orthodontist appointment. There, my orthodontist, after poking around my mouth, found a problem. According to him, my braces were sending and receiving radio signals from a foreign country—one that was unfriendly to the United States. Sensing a setup, I turned to Loy. “Did my mom put you up to this so I wouldn’t kiss you?”
As Loy shook his head no, the doctor placed a hideous, helmetlike contraption on my head, explaining it would block the radio signals. “Is this for real?” I asked. It wasn’t. A moment later, I heard a voice through a hidden earpiece in the helmet. “Hi, Kim, this is Dick Clark, and you’re on Bloopers & Practical Jokes.” I laughed harder than everyone.
Later that summer, there was more activity, but of a serious nature: breast reduction surgery. For more than a year, I had been asking to have the surgery and put an end to the constant pain I was in. My back hurt from the time I got out of bed until I lay back down again at night. Finally, my mom, after speaking with doctors and friends, came around, found a top plastic surgeon in Santa Monica,
and arranged for the procedure.
I’d had surgery only one other time, an emergency appendectomy when I was twelve years old. So I was nervous as my mom drove me to the plastic surgeon’s office, but eager for the change. After a brief exchange with the doctor about what to expect, I kissed my mom and woke up several hours later with my chest wrapped in layers of thick, white surgical dressing.
“You’re going to feel tightness for a while,” the surgeon explained after I was more awake. “Those are the bandages. Later tonight and over the next few days, there might be some pain. But that will go away, and then I think you will be very happy.”
Recovery took about a week and a half, and when I removed the dressing and stood in front of the mirror, I had one of those big “wow” moments. I was noticeably smaller, thank goodness, and in better proportion for my body (yes!). Most importantly, as my body healed, I was no longer in constant pain. A weight had been lifted from my shoulders, literally.
The transformation was nearly complete. Boyfriend. Driver’s license. Braces off. Boobs fixed. It was, in retrospect, the kind of checklist that gives parents nightmares. Certainly it was no coincidence that this new, more grown-up and independent phase of my teenage life inspired my mom to give me the talk—or her version of the talk, which I refer to as “The Godfather Sex Talk.”
One day, after I finished my homework, she called me into her bedroom and motioned for me to sit at the edge of the bed. “Do you remember the movie The Godfather?” she asked. I nodded, as she knew I would, since we had watched it together, with my mom providing commentary and insight on the amazing acting. “Do you remember when Michael Corleone got with his wife, the Italian girl, the one before Diane Keaton?” I nodded. “Well, remember their wedding night? After the ceremony and the celebration, they’re in their villa, and the way she brings her arm across her body to reveal herself, and the way Michael looked at her?” Her voice rose, turning this description into a question, to which I again nodded, curious to see where she was taking this talk. “That’s how you want your husband to look at you.”