What I Know For Sure (12 page)

I know firsthand just how hurtful negative words can be. Early in my career, when the tabloids began printing untruthful things about me, I was devastated. I felt so misunderstood. And I wasted a lot of energy worrying about whether people would believe the falsehoods. I had to fight the urge to get on the phone with anyone who’d maligned me and defend myself.

That was before I understood what I now know for sure: When someone spreads lies about you, it’s not about you. Ever. Gossip—whether in the form of a rumor that’s sweeping the nation or a gripe session between friends—reflects the insecurity of those who initiate it. Often when we make negative statements about others behind their backs, it’s because we want to feel powerful—and that’s usually because in some way we feel powerless, unworthy, not courageous enough to be forthright.

Hurtful words send the message—both to ourselves and to those with whom we share them—that we can’t be trusted. If someone is willing to tear down one “friend,” why wouldn’t she be willing to disparage another? Gossip means we haven’t emboldened ourselves to talk directly to the people we take issue with, so we belittle them. Playwright Jules Feiffer calls it committing little murders: Gossip is an assassination attempt by a coward.

We live in a culture obsessed with gossip—who’s wearing what, who’s dating whom, who’s entangled in the latest sex scandal. What would happen if we declared our homes, our relationships, our lives a gossip-free zone? We’d probably be surprised at how much time we’d free up to do the work that’s most significant—building our dreams rather than tearing down others’. We’d fill our homes with a spirit of truth that makes visitors want to kick off their shoes and stay awhile. And we’d remember that while words have the power to destroy, they also have the power to heal.

Some people might find
it ironic that I’ve never been much of a TV watcher. Aside from old reruns of
The Andy Griffith Show,
I stopped regularly tuning in to sitcoms the night Mary Tyler Moore went off the air. At home, I skip the late-night news because I don’t want to take in all that negative energy right before sleep—and on vacation, I seldom have a TV in my bedroom. On days when I do flip through the channels, it’s almost certain I’ll find at least one show that involves sexual exploitation or violence against women.

In my early days on-air, I was guilty of doing irresponsible television without even knowing it—all in the name of “entertainment.” One day my staff and I booked a husband who’d been caught in an adulterous sex scandal, and right there on our stage before millions of viewers, the wife heard for the first time that her partner had been unfaithful. It’s a moment I have never forgotten: The humiliation and despair on that woman’s face made me ashamed of myself for putting her in that position. Right then I decided I’d never again be part of a show that demeans, embarrasses, or diminishes another human being.

I know for sure that what we dwell on is who we become—as a woman thinks, so she is. If we absorb hour upon hour of images and messages that don’t reflect our magnificence, it’s no wonder we walk around feeling drained of our life force. If we tune in to dozens of acts of brutality every week, it shouldn’t surprise us that our children see violence as an acceptable way to resolve conflict.

Become the change you want to see—those are words I live by. Instead of belittling, uplift. Instead of demolishing, rebuild. Instead of misleading, light the way so that all of us can stand on higher ground.

There I am,
sitting in Mr. Hooper’s fifth-period algebra class, dreading the test we’re about to take, when an announcement over the intercom tells us to go to the auditorium for a special guest speaker.
Hooray, I’ve been saved!
I say to myself, figuring that’ll be the end of algebra for today.

My escape is the only thing on my mind as my classmates and I enter the room, single file. I settle into my seat and prepare to be bored to sleep in yet another assembly. But when the speaker is introduced as the Reverend Jesse Jackson, a civil rights leader who was with Dr. King the day he was shot, I sit up a little straighter. What I don’t yet know is that I’m about to hear the speech of a lifetime.

It was 1969. Because I was an A to B student, I thought I already understood the importance of doing my best. But that day, Reverend Jackson lit a fire in me that changed the way I see life. His speech was about the personal sacrifices that had been made for all of us, regardless of how our ancestors came to be here. He talked about those who’d gone before us, who’d paved the way for us to be sitting in an integrated high school in Nashville. He told us that what we owed ourselves was excellence.

“Excellence is the best deterrent to racism,” he said. “Therefore, be excellent.”

I took him at his word. That evening I went home, found some construction paper, and made a poster bearing his challenge. I taped that poster to my mirror, where it stayed through my college years. Over time I added my own maxims: “If you want to be successful, be excellent.” “If you want the best the world has to offer, offer the world your best.”

Those words have helped me over many a hurdle, even when less than my best was evident. To this day, excellence is my intention. To be excellent in giving. In graciousness. In effort. In struggle and in strife. For me, being excellent means always doing my personal best. In Don Miguel Ruiz’s book
The Four Agreements,
the final agreement is just that: Always do your best. I know for sure that this is the most fulfilling path to personal freedom. Your best varies from day to day, Ruiz says, depending on how you’re feeling. No matter. Give your best in every circumstance so that you have no reason to judge yourself and create guilt and shame. Live so that at the end of each day, you can say, “I did my very best.” That’s what it means to excel at the great work of living your best life.

My father raised me
to believe that being in debt was a terrible thing. In our house, it was almost a character flaw, akin to laziness and what he called “trifling.” So when I moved away from home and was $1,800 in debt within a year, I felt I’d failed. I never told my father, nor would I have dared to borrow money from him.

Instead, I took out a consolidation loan at 21 percent interest, ate a lot of raisin bran for dinner, and bought the cheapest car I could afford—a bucket on wheels, I used to call it, but it got me to and from work. I tithed 10 percent to the church and shopped for clothes only once a year.

I paid off the $1,800 and vowed never again to create more bills than I could pay. I just hated the way overspending made me feel.

My dad saved for everything that mattered—a washer and dryer, a new refrigerator. By the time I left home in Nashville in 1976, he still hadn’t gotten a new TV. He said his “money wasn’t right.” When
The Oprah Winfrey Show
went national, that’s the first thing I bought him—a color TV, paid for in cash.

Why anyone chooses to live a life in debt has always been a puzzle to me. I’ll never forget a couple who appeared on my show to talk about their financial plight. They’d been married for only nine months, but their relationship was already buckling beneath the weight of a gigantic expense. They’d charged most of their beach wedding in Mexico, paying for hotel rooms and spa treatments for some of their guests, lobster and filet mignon for the wedding dinner, and an open bar. On the other side of this blessed event were credit card bills for almost $50,000. That didn’t include the $9,000 the husband had borrowed from his 401(k) plan to buy the engagement ring. The pursuit of a fairy-tale weekend had landed them in a nightmare that lasted for years.

What I know for sure: When you define yourself by the things you can acquire rather than see what you really need to be happy and fulfilled, you’re not just living beyond your means or overextending yourself. You’re living a lie.

That’s why being burdened with bills feels so awful.

You are being untrue to yourself. When you free yourself from debt, you create space to purchase with purpose—to add to your life things that are meaningful.

I still think twice before I buy anything. How will this fit in with what I already have? Am I just caught up in the moment? Can it be of real use to me or is it just something beautiful to have? I still remember the time, years ago, when I was in an antiques store and the dealer showed me a gorgeous eighteenth-century dressing table with mirrors and hidden drawers. It was polished to such a sheen that the cherrywood seemed to be vibrating. But as I stood pondering whether to purchase it, I said to the man, “You’re right—it’s beautiful and I’ve never seen one quite like it—but I don’t really need a dressing table with all that razzle-dazzle.” He took a pretentious breath and replied, “Madam, no one buys anything here because of their needs—these are treasures to be enjoyed.” Indeed.
Well, let me get down to the “needs” store,
I thought,
because what I’m really looking for are fireplace utensils.
Not only did I not need a dressing table, I hadn’t the space for it.

To be fair, Mr. Dealer had a point—some things are just to be treasured and enjoyed.

But I know for sure that you enjoy everything a lot more when you’re not overreaching. This is how you know you’ve shopped smart: You bring home a purchase, there’s not a tinge of remorse, and whatever you got feels better to you ten days later than it did when you first bought it.

In 1988 I was in Tiffany’s trying to decide between two china patterns. I was going back and forth, and finally my shopping buddy said, “Why don’t you get both? You can afford to.” I still remember thinking,
Oh my God.…
I can. I can. I can get both!
I started jumping up and down right there in the store like I’d won the lottery.

Since that time, I’ve had many shopping temptations. But knowing that mindfulness matters in all experiences, I try to remain grounded. Another yellow sweater is going to make me feel … what? If the answer is “nothing,” I’ll put it back or get it for someone whose day it will brighten (like Gayle, who loves yellow the way some people love chocolate).

I hope the way you spend your money is in line with the truth of who you are and what you care about. I hope that your money brings joy to you and the ones you love. And I hope you use it as a powerful force for good to fulfill your best intentions.

In my twenties,
I attended a prayer breakfast in Washington, D.C., that was sponsored by the National Black Caucus. I had the good fortune to hear a most eloquent preacher from Cleveland: Reverend Otis Moss Jr., a man who would go on to become a mentor and friend.

That day, Reverend Moss told a story that abides with me to this day. His father, a poor sharecropper, worked all his life to raise and care for his family, suffering the same sort of indignities and humiliations that generations before him had long endured. But in his fifties, he finally had a chance to do what those generations never had: cast his vote in an election. On election day, he rose before dawn, dressed in his best suit, the one he wore to weddings and funerals, and prepared to walk to the polls to vote against a racist Georgia governor in favor of a moderate. Six miles he walked; when he got there, he was told he was in the wrong place and was sent to another location. He walked another five or six miles and was met with the same denial before being sent to a third voting place. When he arrived at the third location, they told him, “Boy, you are a little late—the polls just closed.” After walking all day, covering more than 18 miles, he returned home, exhausted and depleted, never having experienced the joy of voting.

Otis Moss Sr. told this story to anyone who would listen, and lived in great anticipation of his next chance to cast his vote. He died before the next election. He never got that chance to choose. So now I do. And every time I cast a ballot, I choose not only for myself but also for Otis Moss Sr. and for the countless others who wanted to but couldn’t. I cast a ballot for everybody who came before me and gave their life’s energy so that yours and mine could be a force that matters today.

Sojourner Truth, speaking at the Women’s Rights Convention in Akron in 1851, said, “If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back, and get it right side up again!” We’d see amazing changes if women took to the polls en masse.

Recent voting statistics are embarrassing and disrespectful to our female heritage—to every woman who had no voice but hoped someday her daughters might be heard. In 2008, only about two-thirds of eligible female voters bothered to cast a ballot. And remember, the 2000 presidential election was decided by only 537 votes. I know for sure: We ought to respect ourselves and our forebears enough to be counted.

We’re a country that
spends 95 percent of our health care dollars on treating illness, and less than 5 percent on staying well and preventing it. How mixed up is that? The paradigm needs to change. And the change begins with how we choose to see ourselves: as purveyors of health or as conveyors of disease.

The ultimate in being healthy is to operate at full throttle—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. It’s being alert, feeling alive and connected. And if you look at your life as a circle and all its aspects (family, finance, relationships, work, among others) as sections of it, you’ll see that if one part is malfunctioning, it will affect the whole.

There have been many times in my life when I’ve put far too much emphasis on work and not nearly enough on taking care of me. There’s a huge difference between attending to the needs of your personality (ego) and caring for your true self. Making that distinction can save you a lot of wasted time. This I know for sure.

You’ve got to be in touch with your mind, body, and spirit to live the life you were meant to. When all three are completely engaged, you’re able to fulfill your potential on earth.