“Something shifted in me,” he told me. “I realized that no matter what people had been telling me—friends, psychologists, even well-meaning pastors—I actually felt privileged to be able to take care of Mom. Learning to love her, in spite of her demands, has been the challenge of a lifetime. To meet this challenge has been a triumph. Other people may choose to deal with the same sort of situation differently. Some might even accuse me of hiding out in her world for fear of entering a world of my own. I’ve looked at all these issues and decided that I’m not hiding. I’m seeing what sacrificial love is all about. I don’t argue for the correctness of my decisions, and I don’t expect anyone to agree with me. How people view me is none of my business. All that matters is that I’ve learned to love more deeply. This woman, for all her faults, has been the only way I could have learned these lessons. I thank God for her. The doctors say she has only a few months left. I cherish these months, and I know that when she is gone my life will be different. In many ways, it will be better—better because I stayed to watch how love can deepen.”
The Rhythm Nation experience was a major learning experience for me. Ironically, though, it wasn’t what I was teaching others; it was what others were teaching me.
“Dear Janet,” wrote a woman I’ll call Laurie.
I’m a young adult who grew up in a religion that believes in converting everyone to our strict doctrine. My mother has been a member of this church her entire life—as was her mother before her. The same was expected of me. I never considered anything else. I never questioned the church or rebelled against it. I attended a college founded by elders of the church, and I did extremely well. I married a wonderful man who, like me, was born into this religion. We decided to devote our lives to church and attend a theological seminary together. After graduation, we traveled to a foreign land where our mission was to show people our way—in our minds, the only true way—of approaching God. The year proved difficult. My husband became ill. Medical treatment was inadequate and we had to come home early. I didn’t feel as though I had accomplished my goal; of all the people I had met, I hadn’t been able to convert anyone. I questioned my powers of persuasion—maybe even my faith—and then fell into a period of doubt that led to depression.
I thought about those people I had met overseas. They were fascinating. Their culture was new to me and so were their various spiritual practices and beliefs. In my heart, I wanted to listen to them rather than make them listen to me. I wanted to understand their origins and characteristics. My husband felt the same. That’s one of the reasons, I later learned, that he became sick. We were both there to teach, but when we got there, we realized our main mission was to learn.
Our church did not respond well to our report, which included some of the ideas I’m expressing here. They wanted converts. In their minds, our goals remained unfulfilled. We were chastised and made to feel like failures. As you could guess, that deepened my sadness and added to my confusion. Then, by chance, I was at the home of a friend who’s a big music fan. I confess that I’m not. I grew up enjoying certain country singers, but that’s about it. My friend had your song Rhythm Nation playing on her stereo. I heard the words, “With music by our side, to break the color lines, let’s work together to improve our way of life.” The words went right to my heart. I felt the immediacy of what you were singing; the crucial need to break down all lines—color, social, even religious. For the first time, I saw what should have been obvious to me years before. It took a song, though, to make the obvious come to life. The love I was feeling as an adult woman was—and is—something I need to share. It’s the love that counts, not the philosophy or theology or psychology behind the love. Love is simple. If it’s pure love—if it’s the compassionate all-encompassing love of God—it reaches outward. It touches others without making demands. It doesn’t require membership and it doesn’t charge dues. It’s free.
Maybe I’m naïve. Maybe I’ve misinterpreted your song. But that’s the message it gave me. We’re all part of the Rhythm Nation, whether we live in the U.S. or Senegal, whether we’re Jewish or Muslim, Baptist or Buddhist. So I’ve been marching on. My husband and I have found new work. We’re still teachers, but we’re teaching in a school that allows us to express the joy that comes with a love based on acceptance, not judgment, a love that isn’t exclusive to one group or one set of beliefs. It’s a love for everyone.
Another story that came out of Rhythm Nation concerns twin girls, Kai and Keisha, who were leading wild lives. They disrespected their parents, neglected their schoolwork, and got into all sorts of trouble. Miraculously, the message of Rhythm Nation got into their souls. They took it to heart and turned things around. The transformation was amazing. They became serious about their studies and even graduated from nursing school.
They came to one of my concerts with the intention of giving me their graduation tassels. Their relatives told them not to, arguing that I’d never acknowledge them and would only throw the tassels away. The tassels arrived with a note from the twins. I was deeply moved. As a tribute to Kai and Keisha, I had them framed and met with them both.
Hiding behind my smile.
My Velvet Rope
In the last video for Rhythm Nation, “Love Will Never Do (Without You),” I had taken off the all-black uniform and danced in jeans and a halter top. The video was directed by Herb Ritts.
Herb was a lovely man who died far too early. He was a gifted photographer and filmmaker with a great eye for form and fashion. Herb also spoke his mind. For most people that would be okay, but for me, given my extreme sensitivity, it wasn’t always comfortable.
Years ago, when we were set to work together, Herb called me and, even before exchanging pleasantries, blurted out, “How’s your weight?”
The question came suddenly, and I was taken aback. At the time I was feeling especially self-conscious about my body and didn’t know how to respond. When I paused, Herb was even more blunt. “Janet,” he said, “are you fat?”
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
I didn’t know what it meant and ultimately canceled the shoot.
Time passed and I wanted to work with Herb again. I realized it was my fault, not his, that I was so overly sensitive when it came to discussing my body. Besides, this time I knew that by no stretch of the imagination could I be called fat. I had gone on a stringent diet. I was feeling strong, and certain that many of the psychological challenges I had faced—involving lack of self-regard and worrisome insecurity—had been dramatically reduced. Herb planned for Antonio Sabato, Jr., and Djimon Hounsou to be in the video, men with remarkable bodies. But even that didn’t intimidate me. I was starting to like the way I looked. Maybe even feeling free, at least during the shoot.
After the shoot, though, someone I loved said, “You can’t be seen in public like that. You look nothing like your video, nothing like your television appearances. You can’t go out.” That contributed to my depression. I was too distressed to even go to a movie. I shut myself out from the entire world. There was the “Janet” that the public saw and the young woman who felt overweight. Despite the success and the public image, the private me felt I wasn’t good enough. Unknowingly, I had surrendered to the programming of my childhood. Be aware. Be alert. Don’t fall into your old patterns. It’s hard to break the cycle.
I wasn’t living life. Even though I am a homebody, it hurt me deeply to be told I shouldn’t go to the movies because I didn’t look right. I wish I had been able to cry. I realize now I was too numb. Crying would have given me some kind of release. Once again I kept it in inside.
I didn’t answer, didn’t argue. I simply absorbed the comment and, crazy as it seems, I didn’t go out after shooting videos, especially if I had gained any weight at all. Between tours and records, I disappeared from the public.
When I appeared after Rhythm Nation, it was on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine, the same shot that became the image for the CD janet.<
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I thought up the pose when I was making the movie Poetic Justice with Tupac Shakur. I had just stepped out of the shower and put a towel around my waist when I walked to the mirror and placed my hands over my breasts. I thought it might look cool as a photograph if someone’s hands were covering my breasts. It was just a fleeting creative idea. And I thought one day that if I ever had the courage to take a photograph like that, it might help me face the demons that were my body issues, my insecurities over how I looked.
Then came the day to shoot stills for janet. Patrick Demarchelier, the photographer, had me posing outdoors for hours. The session was about over, when I suddenly felt the urge to tell Patrick about my creative idea. All day I had been building up my courage to do so, convinced that the picture I had imagined was something I had to do. I believe in fighting the various things that scare me the most. Once Patrick and I moved indoors, I trusted him enough to take the picture.
I was so uncomfortable, though, that I had to ask everyone to leave the set. That was a battle, for sure. And though the photos were taken in private, it was being aimed at a large public. The conflict of my feelings, in being so shy but still understanding that creativity needs to happen, is at the core of who I am. It’s ironic that some people feel I wanted to flaunt my body, when all I was really doing was trying to accept myself as a woman and express myself as an artist. janet was extremely successful. The mood of the first song and its video, “That’s the Way Love Goes,” was relaxed and carefree. The groove was easy and fun, soft and seductive. It became the summer song of 1993. I had just turned twenty-seven and was ready to branch out. The record revealed who I was at that moment, presenting sensuality as an important and beautiful part of my being. I was optimistic. I was feeling free.
Yet within that feeling of freedom were seeds of discontent. I worked compulsively. There was a lot of pressure to achieve a certain look and, once I had achieved it, to maintain it at all times The photography, the videos, the world tour—the pressure was unrelenting to look a certain way during the entire process. In my determination to slim down, I overdid it—I underate and I abused laxatives to keep the weight off. In short, I didn’t take care of myself. I want everyone to know: don’t do it. It’s not healthy. It’s not worth it. It’s not true you.
Writing, recording, promoting, and touring for janet was hard work, and I loved it. But I’m talking about four years of eighteen-hour workdays, six to seven days a week—nonstop work. Trying to look the way other people thought I needed to be, I was exhausted. No, I’m not going to point fingers and accuse anyone of manipulating me. I take responsibility for my choices.
During this same time, rumors began to spread that I had had a rib removed. The rumors were crazy, but they hurt nonetheless. The fact that I had achieved my look through discipline, not surgery, was important to me. It’s no fun when people lie about you. And it can be infuriating when others pass judgment on you when they really don’t know the truth, which happens frequently in the media today, especially with the growth of the Internet. That cutting remark, that carelessly cruel comment, can scar someone—especially a child—for life. That being said, when people are unkind, I remind myself to pray for them. I’m my mother’s daughter. I’m a Christian. I can’t be a hater.
Meanwhile, the relationship I was in that had brought comfort now showed signs of serious strain. Eventually it would collapse. I’m legally prohibited from detailing this relationship, but, in truth, I entered it of my own free will. Again, it was a choice for which I take responsibility. I don’t believe in making excuses. Nor do I believe in blaming others. In the end, that does no good.
I began to understand that my view of people—especially some who were very close to me—had not been as clear as I had imagined. Doubts crept into my mind. Self-condemnation crept into my heart. I was assaulted by harsh thoughts: How could my judgment have been so poor? How could I have been so naïve? How could I have fooled myself into believing that I was actually a good entertainer?
I was unrelentingly critical of everything I did. This not only caused weight fluctuations; it also caused my moods to change a lot.
There were times around Rhythm Nation and janet that I fell into deep despair. I internalized what I was told about the difference between my public image and how I really looked. It reminded me of my childhood admiration of my sister Rebbie. It’s strange how the public was complimenting my appearance while at the same time I hated what I saw in the mirror. I would literally bang my head against the wall because I felt so ugly. I was inconsolable. To the outside world, everything seemed perfect; now everyone knows that it wasn’t.
No matter, I forged ahead. The work ethic that had been such an essential part of my upbringing served me well. After the janet tour, I disappeared from public view. What should have been the happiest experience of my life left me lost. But why? My music was well received. My popularity had risen dramatically. Yet the lesson I was learning had not come into focus—I hadn’t found my essential core. The concept of the true you was still many years ahead of me.
I now understand that my inability to voice my pain had to do with the way I was raised. Keep your problems to yourself. I was afraid of burdening others with my anxieties. I didn’t want to be a whiner. In a later song, “In Better Days,” I wrote, “I don’t want to waste nobody’s time.”
My escape was to do what I’ve always done—work. The demands of show business both helped and hurt me: helped by keeping me active; hurt by allowing me to sweep the dirt under the rug. I acted as though nothing was wrong.
I forged ahead. I had a new album to prepare, new songs to write, dance routines to learn, a world tour to plan. I expressed my emotional confusion in terms of a metaphor. I called the project The Velvet Rope. The meaning is open to a wide range of interpretations. To me, the rope represents a kind posh prison in which I found myself. Psychologically, I couldn’t break free from a place of darkness to a place of light—so I wrote about it.
Literally, the velvet rope is the barrier that keeps partygoers outside a nightclub from getting to where they want to be. You can look at these partygoers in many ways, however. It’s those people who simply want to have fun but are unable to gain admission to the fun room. It can also be those people who are seeking relief from the weight of their problems, and people looking to belong. To get beyond the rope—at least the rope that exists in my imagination—requires, in the words of the songs, not putting people down, but rather freeing ourselves from feelings of hatred and oppression.
One writer called The Velvet Rope “a dark masterpiece.” Of course, I appreciated the highly complimentary term masterpiece, but at first I was taken aback by dark. I didn’t—and still don’t—see myself as an artist who operates in darkness. My aim has always been to put a smile on your face. But I realized that that very pressure—to entertain at any cost, to be positive, to act carefree, to present a public face in contrast to my true feelings at the time—was contributing to my psychological confusion. I had to work through my fears through music. That was my way of taking care of myself.
“I’m trying to get past my own velvet rope,” a fan wrote.
I’m the youngest of three sisters. They’ve always seemed to be in the VIP section of life—and I’ve always felt on the outside. My sisters went to Ivy League colleges. I went to a state university. They both joined exclusive sororities. I never did. They attracted wealthy and handsome boyfriends. I struggled in that area. After college, they married and began families. At twenty-seven, I really haven’t gotten over my shyness and feelings of inadequacy. I dress in ways that hide what most people would consider a good figure. I don’t spend money on expensive haircuts or cosmetics. In fact, I don’t spend money on myself at all. At work, when I’m asked to attend the managers’ meetings, I take a seat in the back. Something keeps me from sitting with the “cool people” up front.
I could go on and on, but I know you get the point. I usually don’t write letters like this, but w
hen this velvet rope incident happened, I knew I had no choice: Friends asked me to meet them at a club over the weekend. I love music, I love to dance, and I was excited to accept the invitation. When I arrived, I saw it was one of those ultra-hip places with a bouncer holding a clipboard standing in front of an actual velvet rope. My friends were already in there. I told that to the bouncer, but he didn’t care. My name wasn’t on a list. I was about to turn away and just leave. I hate those situations when I have to prove something or assert myself. I hate confrontations. But just as I started leaving, the door to the club opened wide. They were playing your “Together Again” from The Velvet Rope. The music poured out into the street and straight into my heart. The rhythms danced round and round my head. I felt something I couldn’t even name. But instead of leaving, I headed straight to the door of the club. I actually leaped over the velvet rope! I’m a good athlete, so I made it with room to spare, but jumping over velvet ropes is hardly my style. By the time the bouncer knew what to do, I was in the club, dancing to “Together Again” with my friends who greeted me with open arms.
During my Velvet Rope days I had no choice but to face what were some serious blues. In spite of the fact that people responded positively to the record, I continued to withdraw inside myself. I didn’t really want to call my condition “depression,” because I’ve never been comfortable with labels. I knew, though, that no matter what the term, I was being assaulted by a negativity that threatened to overwhelm me. I sought the advice of friends and professionals. I’ve said it before but need to say it again—I’m not a preacher or a psychologist. All I can do is summarize the good counsel given to me. These are ideas that came from people who were genuinely concerned about me and offered loving help.
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