The strange part is that I actually like moving. It’s been amazing to live in these different countries and cities. I’ve learned a lot about people and culture. I realize that I’m lucky to have these experiences and try not to take them for granted. I know that they’ve helped shape my life in a good way. But I also realize that every time we move, I leave a little piece of myself behind. There’s a teacher I love that I’ll never see again. There’s a group of girls who were hard to get to know, and after getting to know them and forming a bond, I’m leaving. I’m always leaving and I’m always arriving and I’m always starting over again.
The friends I get to take with me are your records and a few books by the writers that I like. That’s why I’m writing you. Whenever I move, I know I’ll gain something, but I also know that I’ll lose something as well. Do you use understand? I have a feeling you do.
I do understand. Moving beyond my father’s reach was probably the most difficult thing I ever did. He had done so many good things for me. I also respected his discipline and sense of devotion to his children. Part of me didn’t want to move to Minneapolis to make this record. But a stronger part of me—the part of me that realized I had to be my own person—managed to prevail. I thought I needed to take control.
I had been making small steps toward my independence for a little while. I remember when I bought my first car. I really wanted a jeep, like my brother Randy. My parents, especially Mother, insisted that I get a Mercedes. They saw it as heavier and safer. I went along. I was grateful to be able to drive such a luxurious car, but the car didn’t fit who I was.
There were many wonderful rules in my family that I appreciate more today than I did at the time. We were given a sense of responsibility. One of the rules was that you had to be eighteen to have a car and you had to buy your own. Many of the kids I went to school with were given Porsches, Mercedes, and BMWs at the age of sixteen, as soon as they were able to drive. Then and now, I’m grateful that my family instilled in me the desire to work for and earn what was mine. I admit that it sometimes makes it hard for me to receive gifts. I’m more comfortable giving than receiving.
So much of my life is in my music and my videos. If you watch the long-form video of “Rhythm Nation,” you’ll see me getting out of a jeep and going to the club. That was actually my car at the time. By now I had sold the Mercedes and finally got the car that I truly wanted. I was in control.
I remember driving with my brother Mike in his first car, a Rolls-Royce. Mike reminded me of the family rule and said I would want my own car and independence when I turned eighteen, so I should make sure I saved my money.
My brother and I had a deep talk that day about a lot of serious subjects, and he gave me some advice. I wondered aloud when the world might end. Mike said we will never know when that day is coming and we should move ahead with our dreams and life goals. After that conversation with my brother, I knew that at some point I had to take control of my own life. That was a life-changing moment for me. I would have to be completely and totally responsible for me.
Control was the fulfillment of my very first dreams. I had finally achieved my independence. Years earlier I first heard the Time in concert. In the band were Jimmy Jam, Terry Lewis, Jellybean Johnson, Jesse Johnson, Morris Day, Jerome Benton, and Monte Moir. My mom was sitting next to me and saw how excited I was by the show. These guys weren’t funky; they were super-funky, and brilliant musicians to boot. I fantasized about singing with a group like that.
When I got to Minneapolis, these were the guys I got to work with. I was completely comfortable because, in many ways, they reminded me of my brothers. They were good-natured and lived for music. Today when I watch the videos I made for Control, I remember being so energized by this new direction. I loved the new music and the new, independent life I was leading.
The success of Control was wonderful. The record was an international hit. My popularity soared, and I was suddenly seen as an artist in my own right, distinct from my family’s success. I was gratified. But I was still under the illusion that total control was possible. This is the more complex part of the story.
Gaining artistic and management control was vital to me then and still is now. Working with Jimmy and Terry, I was passionate in writing songs, lyrics, telling my own story, and finding my own voice. I had to do that apart from my past. And yet, as I would soon see, none of us is really in control. If we continue to grasp for absolute control, we’re going to end up in greater frustration and eventually in anger and even rage.
I’m still attracted to control, but I also know that an attraction can become an addiction. The more I have, the more I want. Just as there is no drink that will set the alcoholic free, no drug to liberate the junkie, there is no amount of control that will satisfy that kind of freak.
Only God is in total control.
Not me, not you, not anyone.
We make plans. We rehearse. We prepare. We seek good advice from good advisers. We organize our lives to maximize our potential. We seek to change in positive ways. We seek to grow.
And then here comes reality. Here comes an unexpected turn of events. A storm. A sickness. A betrayal. A promotion. We find a lost treasure. We lose a treasured friend, or a sister, or a brother. Our career soars, or our career sags.
We work to do the best we can and be the best we can. But can we control it all?
We can’t. And when we finally stop trying, we realize the benefits of relaxation, acceptance, and peace of mind.
In many ways, whether
in control or not, I was still
preoccupied about body
rather than soul. I knew
that had to change.
In concert for Rhythm Nation, feeling your love and feeling fraudulent at the same time.
Rhythm Nation
As I approached age twenty-one, I realized that I had worried far too long about having a perfect body. I knew that the comparisons others had made between my body type and non–African American body types were unfair. I had internalized those comparisons and on some level had actually been traumatized by them. I wanted to be free of all that.
Before Control was released, a record company executive told me how he ordered the art director to take an X-Acto knife and slim down my image on the cover.
“You look too heavy,” he said.
When it came time to do the “What Have You Done for Me Lately” video, the record people thought it was important that I appear thinner. That’s all I needed to hear! I’d been told that my whole life, but at this critical juncture, with my career taking off, I didn’t have the wherewithal to argue. Once again, I went along with the program.
I went to Canyon Ranch in Arizona with Paula Abdul, then a choreographer and friend. We shared a house and spent weeks exercising. I loved the natural beauty of my surroundings, but I hated the exercise. I’ve always hated it. Still, I was as motivated as ever to come out on top. I did the strenuous routine, the running, the hiking, the no-nonsense diet. I felt good when it was over. I enjoyed the compliments about my “new” shape. I shot the video and did in fact reshape my image. But at what cost?
It was a time in my life when I should have been enjoying success. But I wasn’t. In many ways, whether in control or not, I was still preoccupied about body rather than soul. I knew that had to change.
I have friends who think that I grew up quickly. Others are convinced I grew up slowly. I believe both statements are true.
As a child, I worked in the world of adults. I had adult concerns and responsibilities. I could act like an adult. I could converse with adults. Indeed, I had an adult salary and certain adult responsibilities. But that didn’t make me an adult. It wasn’t until the end of the 1980s, when I began working on Rhythm Nation, that I began to view myself in completely grown-up terms. Control was a necessary first step in moving from childhood to adulthood. But it was with Rhythm Nation that I felt mature enough to address urgent social concerns. I also felt strong eno
ugh to ignore those business advisers who argued against making a record that dealt with issues like racism.
Looking back, I see that I made the decision as a confident adult, not a frightened child. I stuck to my beliefs, and not because I was stubborn or felt compelled to prove anything. I stuck to my beliefs because they were important to me. They were born out of my view of the world. I didn’t see myself as an expert on social issues, any more than I see myself as an expert on more personal issues. At the same time, I couldn’t ignore the blatant injustice in a country pledged to equality. I felt obligated to speak about troubling aspects of our society.
“We are in a race between education and catastrophe,” I sang in “Race.” I believed it then; and twenty-two years later, I still do.
I was very gratified when I saw my songs reach deep into the hearts of so many young people, living in every condition imaginable. I received a flood of responses to my music, much of it surprisingly personal.
Twins—a young man and woman—roughly my age told me about growing up in an impoverished neighborhood in one of our biggest cities. Their mom was a dark-skinned black woman and their dad a fair-skinned Dominican. She worked as a domestic and he was a part-time mechanic. The young man—I’ll call him Dexter—had his dad’s light coloring, and the girl—I’ll call her Deidre—resembled her mother. So dramatic was the difference in coloring that not even their teachers believed they were twins. They carried their birth certificates wherever they went, just to prove it.
In school, Dexter received better treatment than Deidre. He attracted girls as well as the teachers’ favors. Deidre was largely ignored. They both were interested in drama and were equally talented, but it was Dexter, not Deidre, who was accepted into the high school acting society. Deidre was every bit as attractive as Dexter, but her skin tone, even in this so-called enlightened era, held her back.
When they were teenagers, their parents died in a car accident and they were sent to stay with a relative who lived on food stamps in a tiny tenement apartment. She treated Dexter like a prince and Deidre like dirt. Brokenhearted, Deidre ran away to another city, where she was never able to escape the cycle of poverty. She worked in a factory and tried to complete high school at night. She lived in a boardinghouse run by a church group, but the church fell on hard times, the house closed down, and Deidre was forced to move in with a coworker. The coworker turned out to be a drug addict. Not long afterward, when Deidre’s job was eliminated, she found herself living on the streets.
For years, Dexter searched for his sister in vain. He won a scholarship to college and it was in his junior year that, in his own words, he decided “to take control.” He found an organization that dealt with missing children, and three months later they located Deidre in a psychiatric hospital. Rather than deal with Deidre’s problems, the inadequately funded facility kept her sedated on heavy drugs. Dexter valiantly fought the system and found a way to get his sister better care. He moved her to the city where he was attending college, and in time, she improved. She got her high school degree and was admitted to a business school.
When the twins wrote me, they were doing well and said, in an almost mystical way, that the musical background of their journey was Control and Rhythm Nation. The love of one sibling for the other had prevailed. Of course I was flattered and grateful that music could provide positive energy for anyone looking for motivation.
At the time of Rhythm Nation, my motivation was to open my mind and heart to subjects that were calling to me—problems I knew needed to be highlighted. I didn’t want to appear glamorous or hip. I didn’t want to draw attention away from the important matters at hand. I wore the Rhythm Nation uniform, an all-black outfit that symbolized the severity of the issues. It was the first time I wasn’t singing about romance or relationships.
At the start of the project, I was still not comfortable exposing my body. In this sense, I continued to carry that self-consciousness about being too big that had followed me since childhood. I was happy to cover myself from head to foot in black.
Not long after the record came out, a woman my age wrote me that she had also decided to wear black every day for the next three weeks. For her, it was a protest against what she saw as sexual harassment.
I work in a field that’s dominated by men, and in an office which is 90 percent male. Because I have a position higher than most of the men, there’s a certain amount of jealousy. And because I am in my early twenties and not unattractive, I’m given an inordinate amount of attention. I’ve dressed conservatively, but I get whispered comments and stares almost every day. Of course those comments and stares make me uncomfortable, but there isn’t much I can do. I’ve just continued with my job and ignored everyone who seems to be objectifying me. Well, last week my boss called me into his office and said that he thought my outfits were provocative. I had no idea what he meant—and told him so. “Your blouses,” he said, “are too tight.” Now I realized there were legal issues here, and I could have called an attorney to get advice. I might even have grounds for a complaint. But it took me a full year to find this job and another two years to rise to the position that I now hold. I need the money for both myself and my mother and I’m not about to get tied up in a legal hassle.
When I saw your Rhythm Nation, Janet, the idea came to me: Wear a black outfit every day. So that’s what I’m doing. Sometimes I wear a black pants suit, sometimes a black dress. When I come dressed in a black skirt, I make certain to wear a loose-fitting black blouse. When the men start questioning me about why I’m wearing black, I keep my answer short. “I like black,” is all I say. I don’t owe them an explanation. Actions speak louder than words, and I’m sure that my all-black statement is making the point. I’m going about my work with dignity, and I’m letting my boss know how I feel about his ‘advice’ to me. I don’t foresee that I’ll dress this way forever, but so far it’s making me feel extremely good about myself. In fact, I never felt ready to fall in love until I had gained this kind of respect for myself. Now I’ve met a man for whom I feel great love, and I’m optimistic about our future. I had to join up in that Rhythm Nation to get things going!
Rhythm Nation was a powerful time for me. I was developing a sense of self-esteem, partially because, through these songs, I was able to transcend some of my own problems and concentrate on societal issues. I was able to live with the criticism that I was moving away from the Control vibe that had brought me success. I was feeling a great deal of love.
One man who lived in a foreign country wrote me that the record spoke to him about the nature of assertiveness.
I’m twenty-four years old and never been able to tell another guy that I love him. The truth is that I have been in love with a man for a long time now. I was afraid to express my real feelings because—well, I guess I was afraid of being rejected. I act feeling vulnerable. What if he reacted poorly? What if, after pouring out my heart, he said he couldn’t deal with me anymore? What if my confession of love led to the end of what has been a beautiful friendship? All these thoughts plagued me. I’m a lawyer and am trained to think defensively. Don’t take chances. Cover your tracks. Play it close to the chest.
The man I love is also quite conservative. His job, like mine, is largely about making sure his clients are protected. Regardless, I felt that the time had come. I felt that the Rhythm Nation was all about love, and I felt the Rhythm Nation spurring me on. I asked him on a date, made reservations at a romantic restaurant, and, after a glass or two of wine, finally said the words. “I love you.” It felt great to say them. But also scary. He looked at me for a long time, and then began to cry. At first I was scared; I thought his tears meant that he was angry or repulsed by what I said. But when he took my hand and squeezed it, I knew that he loved me as well!
Love is so strange. It feels so natural and good. Yet when it comes time to express it, I nearly choked on the words. I needed to assert myself. I needed to say what I felt. And now that I have, even more love has been re
leased. It’s wonderful.
To be a loving adult—to accept the responsibilities that come with a mature and generous love—isn’t easy. I have no prescriptions for achieving that goal. Most of what I’ve learned is from listening to others and gleaning wisdom from the lessons of their lives.
A forty-year-old man I know is an only child who lives with his seventy-year-old mother. The husband/dad deserted them thirty years ago, and the mother has never gotten over it. She never dated another man, and she has always insisted that if her son left her, she would go mad. Nevertheless, he decided to go off to college. The day he left, his mother swallowed a bottle of pills and had to be rushed to the emergency room. My friend came back and attended a college close to home. He has not left since.
His love life has been stymied; he’s gone through at least a half-dozen unsuccessful romantic relationships. He has spent years in psychotherapy, trying to understand this ironclad tie to his mother, and figuring out what it would take to leave her. For years he has been convinced that something is wrong with him—that some flaw in his character prevents him from going out on his own.
When he speaks of his mom, though, it is in positive terms. She reads a variety of magazines, newspapers, and books every day. She likes to discuss politics; she keeps up with the cinema; she attends lectures at the downtown library; and she has many friends whom she sees regularly. She hardly seems like an ogre. As you can imagine, though, my friend harbored a smoldering resentment for allowing himself to be captive. For many years—all through his twenties and thirties—he was simultaneously attentive to his mother and bitter in his behavior toward her.
A year ago, his mother, always in remarkably good health, developed a number of life-threatening physical problems and grew even more dependent on her son. He hired a nurse to help, but of course his mother wanted him to be by her side.
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