Put on Your Crown (5 page)

Pretty soon, the boys in school started calling me a tomboy, and they didn’t mean it in a gentle, teasing kind of way. They
were saying straight out that I somehow wanted to be a boy and that I wasn’t pretty or cute the way a regular girl should
be. I hated that word, and I couldn’t fathom why they were saying it to me. It especially hurt when Wink called me that. (It
soon stopped when he realized how much it upset me.) One day I felt so bad, I came home to my mother, crying, “Ma, why are
they calling me a tomboy?”

My mother said, “Dana honey, you’re not a tomboy. You’re just athletically inclined.”

Now, try telling that to a bunch of schoolkids on a blacktop in New Jersey. But the next time the taunts came, I did just
that. I told Andrew, “I’m not a tomboy, I’m athletically inclined!” Of course, it didn’t go over too well. But I said it with
all the backbone I could muster. At first, he looked dumbfounded. Then he laughed, and the whole schoolyard joined in. But
this was what I had to do. It was more an idea for me to have in my own mind. With all my nine-year-old wisdom, I decided
I was not going to
feed into what people said about who I was. I was not going to let other kids define me. I chose instead
to define myself, even if it was in a completely ridiculous way. And guess what? Pretty soon after that, other kids started
picking me first to play on their teams.

Self-esteem starts early in life. We begin with a clean slate, but it gets junked up fast. As children, we are so vulnerable
to the stereotypes people want to heap on us. It seems like everyone has an idea of how we’re supposed to be from the time
we can crawl. This is especially true for girls. All too often, our self-esteem is tied up in our looks. Our bodies get scrutinized
and criticized from the minute we start developing. And when we’re a little thicker than the feminine ideal dictates, it’s
even worse. That’s why we need to be strong and love ourselves for the fact that we are about so much more than our looks.

Gabby Sidibe, the star of
Precious
, plays a character who’s tortured by the people around her for the way she looks, but in real life she’s bubbly and happy,
nothing like the character she plays. I love what she has to say about this: “I sleep with myself every night
and I wake up
with myself every morning, and if I don’t like myself, there’s no reason to even live the life. I love the way I look. I’m
fine with it. And if my body changes, I’ll be fine with that.”

The more people like her express that message, the more girls who come after us will believe it, and at an earlier age. This
is wisdom that could change the world if we live it every day.

But even when we’re blessed with Gabby’s hard-won self-confidence, there will be moments when we fall prey to low self-esteem.
Anyone who says she’s confident 100 percent of the time is either fronting or delusional. It’s okay to have some ups and downs.
I do.

Those moments started in my early adolescence, when I began developing faster than most girls my age. I wasn’t heavy so much
as big-boned. I was athletic, and I had that ungainly walk that young girls have when they’re all limbs. We’re like certain
big breeds of dogs when as puppies they start their first growth spurt and their minds haven’t caught up to their bodies yet.
I tended to hunch over. I didn’t have that cutesy, girly walk that my other friends had naturally. Instead I felt awkward.
I see a little of me in President Obama’s oldest daughter, Malia. Both of her parents are tall and athletic, and so is she.
And she has that same slightly lumbering, gangly gait I had. No
doubt Malia is going to grow into someone as graceful as her
mother soon enough.

To get me through my awkward phase my mom started teaching me how to walk with a book on my head, like the models. It was
our time together, when we got to be girls. I was running around with my father and brother so much, playing football, going
fishing, and doing all the fun stuff that boys usually do, that I think this was Mom’s way of balancing out their influence
with some of her own. But these small moments we had together ended up having a huge impact on my self-esteem because they
taught me how to walk tall. In her own subtle, gentle way, my mother was instilling in me the importance of holding myself
upright and being a lady.

It was a simple thing, but mastering that strut was a blessing, especially by the time I hit high school. It gave me a presence
when I walked down those halls. It was a big boost to my sense of self-confidence, power, and pride. I wasn’t one of those
introverted kids who walked with my head down, holding my books close. I walked around like I had an “S” on my chest. There
is something about moving through the

world with your head held high that says, “I am proud to be who I am.” People react to you differently. They
see
you. You project this idea that you think you are pretty damn special, and the rest of the world gets convinced by your body
language. This was not a walk that said, “I’m hiding myself because I’m not worthy.” This was a prideful, elegant walk that
screamed, “Hey, world, I’m ready for you! I’m ready to go out there and see what there is to see and do what there is to do.
I’m on an adventure!”

That walk has stayed with me my whole life. It was partly because of my strut that I became one of the cool girls in school
and hung out with the popular crew. On some level, it helped me to become a performer. I was walking the walk of self-confidence
and feeling it. When it came time to release my first album, I was able to resist the pressures to look a certain way, and
I created my own style. I called myself “Queen” because that was exactly how I felt inside, and I pulled off the royal African
look I created for myself—with the robes, wooden jewelry, and hats—because at seventeen I already had that swagger.

Of course, there were many times throughout my early career when my confidence was tested. The

pressure to lose weight would come and go all through my career, and sometimes it was immense. It hurt when a studio executive
told me to slim down, but for the most part I was comfortable in my own skin. I liked my size, and I thought it was ridiculous
when our producers told us to lose weight when we were doing
Living Single
. We were supposed to reflect women in the real world, so what sense would it make to viewers if we were all skinny?

The decision to lose weight came much later in life, in 2002, and more for health reasons than anything else. I was at my
heaviest when I was playing Matron “Mama” Morton in
Chicago
, and that heft was right for my character. My inspiration was my grandmother Nana Owens, a larger-than-life glamour queen
who wore sequins, went on cruises, and owned a gun. My aunts and I inherited her big ol’ gazungas, but they held up just fine
on Nana, right up until she died at the ripe old age of ninety-four. I was in Toronto filming
Chicago
when that happened, and I was devastated, but her spirit was right there with me. When I did that number “When You’re Good
to Mama,” the scene that earned me an Oscar nomination, the director kept telling me to think of Sophie Tucker, “the Last
of the Red Hot Mamas.” No disrespect, but it was Nana I could relate to for that part. She gave that character its soul.

That was one long, cold winter in Toronto. By the end of six months, I wasn’t feeling my best. I was sluggish. My back hurt.
I really wanted to lose weight for my next role. I like to look a bit different for each part I play. But mostly I just wanted
to feel better, be healthy, have more energy. I also wanted to go hard and slim down to see if I could reduce my breast size.
I was sick of having my bra straps dig into my shoulders all the time. So when I moved back to Los Angeles, I immediately
found myself a trainer, Jeannette, who works with me to this day.

When we met, the first thing I did was grab my stomach and say, “There’s a lotta love here, and you’re gonna have a hard time
separating me from all this love!” Jeannette laughed. She was used to training models and actresses—people who were already
physically fit but still miserable and dissatisfied with their lives. I was the polar opposite. We did most of our workouts
outside and had fun. Jeannette knew fifty exercises I could do with just a park bench, so I never got bored. Over the next
six weeks, I trained so intensely—twice a day for at least two hours—I lost twenty-five pounds. My breasts didn’t budge, but
I felt better, and I reconnected to the athlete in me.

I’ve been pretty consistent about exercise in my life ever since. Maybe I’m not always as consistent as I should be, but when
I go for a few days without it, I
don’t feel so great about myself. When I was filming
Just Wright
in New York, I made a point of having a big pink bicycle on the set, and I rode it all over the streets of Manhattan. I kept
it
moving,
soaking it all in—the pigeons swooping past, the people dodging taxicabs, some driver cursing out another driver. I draw
energy from this. It helps me appreciate this great adventure called life.

Every chance I get, I try to exercise. When I work out really hard and pound that treadmill for an hour, I feel beautiful.
I take pride in my accomplishment. I like the way I look in my Nike cap, sneakers, and sweats, with my flushed skin and hair
that’s damp at the roots from sweat. I almost feel more gorgeous in those moments, when I’ve done something good for myself,
than when I’m all glammed up in a designer gown for some awards show.

Exercise and health have become so closely tied to my self-esteem, I’ve made it a priority. When my body feels good I feel
more energized and alive, and that’s sexy. I’m taking care of this body God gave me. I’m more careful about what I put in
my mouth. My mother’s a Southern girl, and I grew up on smothered chicken, collard greens, and home fries. Everything has
some kind of gravy in it and lots of salt. I eased up on the salt and adapted a few recipes. I love my greens, but now I’ll
make them with turkey bacon
instead of back fat or a ham hock. The Jenny Craig program helped a lot. I try to eat more organic
foods, more vegetables, less fat. I’ll pass on the second helping of mac and cheese. Comfort food has its place, but no one
needs that much comfort, least of all me!

We may not have all been born looking like supermodels, but so what? We become beautiful when we do things to take care of
ourselves, inside and out. It’s not just about how I look, it’s about my health and doing things that will let me live longer
by keeping down my blood pressure, glucose, and cholesterol.

You’ve got to maintain. I know women who never miss their weekly appointment at the hair salon, but you’ll never catch them
sweating it out in the gym. That’s like having a car decked out with rims, a nice new sound system, and an expensive paint
job, but the engine’s dead because you never take it in for a tune-up. Your ride may look great, but it doesn’t run, so what’s
the point?

Nurture what God gave you. We make our worst decisions when we’re not feeling our best. We don’t see ourselves in the right
light, and we hurt
ourselves even more. We stay in relationships where we’re being abused, we don’t go for our real dreams
and goals in life, we give pieces of ourselves away that we can never get back, because we don’t appreciate who we are and
what we have. We tear ourselves down for what we are or are not, instead of celebrating who we are.

But we empower ourselves when we put our health and well-being first. Getting fit doesn’t just change your figure, it transforms
your attitude. You put yourself up on a higher pedestal. When a woman loses weight, her confidence soars. She doesn’t take
so much crap from her man. She finds her voice. She expresses herself.

Exercise has become inextricably linked with my self-esteem. The other day I woke up not feeling my best. Ladies, you know
what I’m talking about. It happens every twenty-eight days or so. I’d had a long, intense week of promoting my new album,
and I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept the night before. I didn’t want to get out of bed, but I didn’t want to be
in
bed. I was in purgatory. I got up, looked at myself in the mirror, and didn’t like what I saw. I had a nine a.m. workout
session with another trainer, Andrea, and I wanted to cancel. But then I heard Jeannette’s voice say,
You can do it, Dana. Just try, and you’ll feel better
. She was in New York, but she’d done such a good
job of getting into my head, she could be heard from thousands of miles
away!

When I got to the gym, I warned Andrea that I wasn’t feeling so good. I was crampy and tired. She suggested we just go for
a walk. I loved that idea. So we headed out to a nearby park, and after about fifteen minutes the blood started circulating
in my body, my vision cleared, and my mood lifted. I feed off what I see around me—dogs running in the park, kids playing,
old couples walking hand in hand. I saw one elderly gentleman who was stretching almost to the point of doing splits. He put
me to shame! I thought, “Well, this man is twice my age, so if he can walk, I can walk.” When I got home later that day and
looked at myself in the mirror, I felt a lot better about the person who was staring back at me. I’d worked hard to do something
I didn’t want to do. I felt a sense of accomplishment. I got out of my own head, moved my body, and made myself feel alive
and beautiful again.

I love this body of mine more and more every day. In fact, my friends call me “Naked Girl” because I’m always strutting around
the house in the buff, I am so proud of my curves. As I age, it feels like I’m growing into my beauty. I love my smile, my
cheekbones, my eyes. But I don’t think my beauty lies just in my face. I also love my curves, my genetics, my
muscles, my
hips. Mine is a grown woman’s body, and I love the way it transforms into a more womanly shape. I even like my feet!

Diet and exercise have helped me build this love. I used to wear looser clothes, but in the last few years I’ve enjoyed wearing
those va-voom gowns and waist-cinching dresses and suits that show off my curves and accentuate my booty. I may be a big girl,
but I am damn proud of my shape.