Learning to Live Like Latifah
Commentary
In a world that demands women slim down to Kate Moss-like proportions, the writer finds inspiration from rapper-turned-actor-turned-glamorous metrosexual Queen Latifah
October 19, 2004 - I was broke and I needed to call my Jenny Craig Weight Loss Consultant to let her know that I just couldn't do it anymore. Although I hadn't reached my "goal" weight, which would put me at a size 6, I'd gotten down to a 12 (the average American female is a size 14). Breaking the news wouldn't be easy.
Upon our meeting 17 pounds ago, Lily told me that I shouldn't be a victim of genetics. She's an Ayn Rand devotee, committed to the theory of clawing over the ordinary person with bloody tooth and nail to become the ideal self. I read "Anthem," a Rand book she gave me, and I enjoyed it. The climax of the novella is reached when the protagonist discovers his name.
After canceling my last appointment, I received a voicemail stating, "Andrea, don't let me down. I want to see you lose the weight and see how beautiful you'll be."
I'm the kind of woman who would rather eat an entire bag of unsalted rice cakes than disappoint an elder. It took Queen Latifah to become a brand for me to get my "ah-ha" moment.
On Monday nights I veg out on UPN -- "Half &Half," "Girlfriends" -- your typical 30-something black city-girl fair. During one commercial break -- bam! -- there she was, again. This time giving a plug of the hit-maybe-miss new comedy "Taxi," starring her and Jimmy Fallon. Queen Latifah! Queen Latifah, who I just saw hosting "Saturday Night Live" with musical guest, Dana Owens (a.k.a. Queen Latifah). The same buxom woman I eyeball to be about a size 18, who has endorsements with Maybelline and Pizza Hut and a plus-size underwear line available at Wal-Mart.
Latifah's a home girl-turned rapper-actress-singer, turned glamorous female metrosexual. She's big, beautiful, symmetric and wonderfully made up, I concluded, never-minding the blitz of her machine. Her character's name in the new film is even Belle, which means an attractive or admired woman. "Except for a few minor proportions and multi-millions of dollars, we're in the same league," I told myself. It was like seeing myself on a good day through someone else's eyes, and discovering my true name.
I admit that, after my thighs and waist thinned out just a bit, I began to see myself more clearly.
Now, I don't profess to have Latifah's personality. She's the 21st century's answer to Pearl Bailey, a world-class American entertainer popular through the 1950s and '60s who also moved easily between stage, film and television, Rubenesque as she was. With the recent release of Latifah's "The Dana Owens Album," many are drawing comparisons.
Elders in the black community remember Bailey as one hell of a saucy, talented and tough broad. Latifah and Bailey share a no-nonsense charisma and sexuality. Black folk admire women like them because they show pride in where they come from, and in what God gave them. They are archetypes for big girls everywhere.
What I know at 30 is that big black women crave what we've wanted and never had -- attention. I think the attention we are seeking is from mainstream America. Why else would we spend ungodly amounts of money on purses, weaves, shoes and luxury vehicles? Most black men I know profess to prefer a larger lady, a woman somewhere between the size Oprah was two years ago and her size last season. Latifah is an example of how women in the black community show a kind of love for themselves that infects those all around them. Her celebrity franchise has opened a door. We are fortunate today that we can step out of our big-boned loving community and set an example of grace, style and boldness for big women suffering in communities clinging to a Size-0 Kate Moss Model of beauty.
Yesterday I called my local Jenny Craig Center and cut the cord. The cost was killing my disposable income. No vacation, no home improvement. Hell, I spent the last two months losing and gaining the same 2.2 pounds. Some say it's a plateau. I'm feeling it's where I should stay right now. Everyone tells me how great I look and how good I'm doing at the gym. My boyfriend calls me "juicy."
Bailey once said that a crown, if it hurts us, is not worth wearing. Most women just can't afford to be constructed like J. Lo. I say, let's learn to love our jellyroll.
Walking down the street, all done up, I get a little ditty stuck in my mind as my hips switch and I get into a rhythm. It's Destiny's Child's chorus, "I don't think you ready for this jelly/I don't think your ready for this jelly/ 'Cause my body too bootylicious for ya babe." On such a day, I'm Queen.
