Every Day I'm Hustling Page 21

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  If I wasn’t already feeling like this was my comeback moment, I got to tell the world that I would be back in Independence Day: Resurgence. It felt like my resurgence, to be honest. Me and those aliens were back, baby. There had been talk about a sequel for five years. And I had resisted every urge to call producers and say, “What about me? What about me?” I was afraid the answer would be, “Bitch, what about you?” I told myself to just be patient.

  But here I was. We started shooting in Albuquerque, New Mexico, in the beginning of May 2015. Stepping on that set again was like walking into a high school reunion. Sometimes you go back and you’re like, “Oh, Lord, keep it moving!” Not this time. I got to see all my old friends again, like Jeff Goldblum, Judd Hirsch, and Bill Pullman. It was also fun to have scenes with the icons in the making, the whippersnappers like Jessie T. Usher and Liam Hemsworth.

  In the beginning, I was surprised that they were a little starstruck, even Liam to some extent. So I remembered what Tom Cruise did for me on Born on the Fourth of July. I went right up to each one and said, “Hi, I’m Vivica.” It broke the ice.

  My character, Jasmine, had retired from the pole, I am happy to report. She went on to become a hospital administrator, and has mentored her son to follow in Will’s footsteps, and to not be afraid of success. It’s kind of what I want to tell you. You’re about to start your own journey. Don’t be afraid.

  My first day on set, I did my wardrobe fitting, and then I was off for the evening. We all hung out a little bit, but then I went back to where I was staying a little before eight. I poured a glass of Pinot Noir and sat out on the patio by myself. I watched the sun set, gorgeous reds and yellows painted across the sky. I knew I had to pray.

  “Thank you, God,” I said. “You brought it back. You brought it back.”

  I remember saying it twice, because I was still in such disbelief. He rewarded my patience, and the risks that I took. I sipped the wine, and watched those reds darken to the colors of a phoenix in the sky.

  Do not count me out, and do not ever count yourself out. We will rise, we will rise.

  LESSON SEVENTEEN

  YOU PAY THE COST TO BE THE BOSS

  When Oprah asks you to do something, you say yes. I got a call in 2014 that she was doing a new series for OWN. The premise was that she would invite some of her favorite guests to come back and talk about lessons learned since they appeared on The Oprah Winfrey Show. I was touched and honored when she asked me to come on.

  I met her for the first time back when I was thirty-two. She had a bunch of us actresses on the show to talk about beauty secrets and the lengths people go to look good. I cracked her up because I admitted that one of my tricks was shaving the hair on my arms and my hands. I still do, not because I have a lot, but because I like the way it keeps my arms looking toned in photographs. We clicked because I think we shared a realness. You don’t expect an actress to say she shaves her knuckles and her toes.

  This time we met one-on-one, no audience, on a set in Los Angeles. When I arrived, I saw they had a huge array of photos of me from films and magazines, a sort of scrapbook of my life. I was looking at them when Oprah walked in wearing this gorgeous pink blouse, and it’s exactly what you think: You hear a choir of angels in your head saying, “Oppppprraaaahhhh!” We shared a hug—she gives the best hugs—and she said, “Okay,” which signaled everyone that we were about to get right into it.

  What I love about her, besides everything, is that she has a wonderful way of just making you feel comfortable. She has an art to getting you to open up. When you do interviews, now more than ever people are looking for the headline: the “She said what?” moment out of an hour of conversation that will get retweets and click-throughs. Trust, Oprah doesn’t need anyone for publicity.

  She teased me right away as the cameras rolled, remembering that when I was first on her show, I admitted I was terrified that I was about to be thirty-three. Now here I was with age fifty in the rearview. We laughed, and she looked away from me for just one second, saying she knew I have a great relationship with my godchildren. And then she turned the high beams of her gorgeous brown eyes on me.

  “Do you ever miss being a mother?”

  “Of course,” I blurted out. I surprised myself. I didn’t know how close to the surface that feeling was.

  “Really?” she said. “I didn’t expect that answer.”

  “That’s the biggest regret of my life,” I said, “that I didn’t have a child.”

  As she nodded, I just started to speak the truth that I had frankly made myself too busy to fully face. I talked about running into my friend Halle Berry on the red carpet. We did Why Do Fools Fall in Love together, and I just had to tell her how beautiful I think her daughter, Nahla, is. “Vivica,” Halle said, “if I knew then what I know now, I would have had five of them.”

  I hadn’t thought about that conversation in a long time, but there it was. Halle’s regret was that she didn’t start sooner. Mine was that I had completely missed my chance.

  “I don’t get to see my eyes in a child,” I told Oprah, “and I think that’s something that I’ll miss.”

  I spent my career hustling and moving forward. If I don’t have time to think, I don’t have time for regrets. My father’s old adage, “Keep it moving.” But you can’t lie to Oprah. She gets to the heart of you.

  Oprah and I went on to talk about being aunties. “We give the best gifts, don’t we?” she said. Oprah is always honest, too, and she is frank that she never dreamed of being a mother. The year before our interview, I remember she got real with The Hollywood Reporter. “If I had kids, my kids would hate me,” she said. “They would have ended up on the equivalent of the Oprah show talking about me; because something would have had to suffer and it would’ve probably been them.”

  Something would have had to suffer. Bless her for honesty. Because I want you to know that there are sacrifices to success. We’ve talked about drive and harnessing your inner power, but now we have to talk about the very real consequences of focusing on a dream. To do what I love and what God has called me to do, I need to be able to jump on a plane at a moment’s notice. Opportunities are there to be seized, and I have to be ready.

  Where the regret comes in is when I realize that no one told me the truth: Yes, you can have it all, but only in stages. I spent a long time beating myself up that I couldn’t balance a career in Hollywood with the relationship I would need to raise a family. I thought I had to do it all at once. But I’m here to tell you that you don’t get it all.

  Now, grab a Kleenex and dry your tears, because you’re not alone. Nobody has it all, whether you’re married to the love of your life or married to the job of a lifetime, so stop beating yourself up about it. Accentuate the positives in your life. Squeeze those lemons into lemonade.

  Let me tell you, my godson Christian is a little glass of sweet lemonade with extra sugar. He is six now, but he was my first godbaby, setting the stage for my other beautiful godchildren, Quinny, Lola, Eugene, Love, and the newest addition, Iman. They call me G.G., which is short for Gorgeous Godmother, thank you. Christian only recently learned about “Vivica Fox,” because he is used to seeing me incognito during my time with him, wearing no makeup and a baseball cap. But recently I went to Christian’s peewee softball practice, and I was all dressed up because I came rushing from a photo shoot to make practice on time. I had promised him I’d be there, and through hell and high traffic, I was gonna be there. So when he saw G.G.’s car and out walked Vivica Fox, he did this double take.

  “I’m just wearing my Vivica Fox uniform,” I said.

  “But you’re still my G.G., right?”

  “Always, honey.”

  Throughout the game I was cheering all the kids on, and because it was a sports event, I found myself slipping into my full Indiana voice. People were looking at me, throwing in a “That’s right, Vivica!” here and there, and it was cracking me up. Afterward, I t
ook him and his wonderful mom, Jazsmin, to sushi. Folks kept smiling at me or politely said hi. So as he ate his little chicken meatballs, he asked me how all these people were my friends.

  “Oh, I just love everybody,” I said. “When you smile, Christian, people smile back.”

  Jazsmin called me that night after she put him to bed. She told me that as he was in his pajamas and about to brush his teeth, he asked her a question.

  “Mommy, who does G.G. take care of?”

  “What do you mean?” Jazsmin asked.

  “Does G.G. have any kids?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then who does G.G. take care of?” he asked.

  “Well, she loves taking care of you,” she said, “and her family.”

  “But doesn’t G.G. need somebody to come from her?”

  As Jazsmin shared this, I was quiet on the other end of the line, caught between feeling a little sad for myself and so proud that this little wonder of a boy was concerned about me.

  The next time I saw Christian, I was in my G.G. baseball cap and jeans. I told him that I heard he was worried I didn’t have any kids. “I’m very, very happy,” I told him. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I just want to make sure you had someone.”

  “You’re my someone,” I said, meaning every word and hugging him so he wouldn’t see me welling up. Kids just want to be sure of things, and he wanted to be sure that I had love. And I do.

  Being an auntie is underrated. Listen, take it from Oprah and me. At my age, I am getting the best of both worlds. The kids can’t wait to share things with me. “I know all the colors of the rainbow, G.G.!” Or “Look what I can do!” as one them does a topsy-turvy somersault. They’ve helped me rediscover having fun. As an auntie, I get to see them facing the small, friendly challenges of childhood and marvel as they overcome them. Like the other day I took Christian to the mall and I announced in my infinite wisdom that it was time for big-boy shoes.

  “Okay, Christian,” I said, picking up a pair of red sneakers. “You’re gonna learn how to tie your shoes.”

  Jazsmin whispered to me, “He doesn’t, uh, he doesn’t know how to tie his shoes.”

  “Sure he does,” I said. “He’s five. He’s gonna know how to tie his shoes.”

  Jazsmin started talking to him about bunny ears, and I rushed in like I was the director of the scene. “Bunny ears?” I said. “Here, Christian, put it in the loop, wrap it around, and put it through the hole.”

  “He doesn’t have that coordination yet,” Jazsmin said. Then she started laughing. “Vivica, you have forgotten what it is to be five. You have to learn with the bunny ears.”

  So instead of me giving him a hard time, I said, “Just do the bunny ears and you’ll advance.”

  “Okay,” he breathed out, “but can I get the shoes?”

  “Damn—Darn right, you can,” I said.

  You will miss a lot building your empire—there’s no getting around it. If that empire is your family, then be proud of it. If your empire is built outside the home, when you have a measure of success, you will be able to set aside more time for your loved ones. Now I want to be at their graduations, their weddings, their everythings. These things are important for me to be at, especially now that I can make space in my life for them.

  I paid the cost, and now it feels like an indulgence to be quiet and still in my beautiful house in the morning. I love taking my cup of coffee and lighting my candles and looking out at my backyard and seeing my roses bloom. It’s the simple, little things. It’s not about having to have a big car or diamonds, though I do have my guilty pleasures. Now, it’s not a requirement to be “done” all the time. I’m not that kind of babe. I am enough for myself.

  Which leads me to this next very important lesson about being in the winner’s circle: Don’t miss the opportunity to say no.

  The other day somebody offered me a project and I was so happy to say no. The last few years I have been such a worker bee, focusing on rebuilding my career. I didn’t feel I had the luxury to turn down anything. The instinct is to say yes, and then figure it out schedule-wise. It is a gift to be able to say, “I’m not available, best of luck with your project.” Don’t be a bitch about it, because they could be on the receiving end of your résumé when their next project is your dream project. But, yes, relish when the hustle you’ve put into being a boss means your schedule is filled with jobs that you love doing.

  People will try to make you say yes out of obligation. My assistant Darren has a line: “Oh, honey, they’re bad for business. They shouldn’t even be associated with the brand of Vivica A. Fox. Bad.” It’s not being stuck-up. It’s knowing your worth.

  I honestly just discovered my worth in my fifties. It started when I began to judge my value by how I felt about me. I used to ask myself, What deal did I just make? What in crowd am I in?

  Now, I’m a grown-ass woman. I paid the cost to be my own boss, so I get to choose the value of my crowd. And it feels good.

  LESSON EIGHTEEN

  IT’S FUN TO BE THE HEAD CHICK IN CHARGE

  July Fourth weekend of 2014, I accepted my work buddy Ian Ziering’s invitation to watch him cohost at Chippendales in Las Vegas. Twist my arm, right?

  It was a gorgeous show at the Rio All-Suite Hotel and Casino. The place was packed, and I looked around at all these women just having fun and screaming. Ian was amazing, and it was a quality production. But as I was watching the show, I had one question: Where were the brothers at?

  Whoomp, there he was, off there in the corner. I had to squint a little to see his fine self. He was so gorgeous, and when he had a little moment, the place went wild. I turned to my friend and smiled.

  “The darker the berry,” I said.

  “The sweeter the juice,” she responded. And the women all around me seemed to agree.

  It sort of reminded me of when I sat in the theater with my girlfriends watching Magic Mike. Now, I loved that film and I think Channing Tatum can get it, but I kept waiting for the black guy. And he never really showed up, did he? My producer mind started going, thinking that whoever did a Magic Mike with beautiful men of color and a great story would have a gold mine presenting something for everyone.

  So when I was invited to be in the movie Chocolate City, I said, “Yes, please.” It wasn’t just a black Magic Mike. There was a real story about a fine-looking man financing his college tuition by shaking what his mama gave him. Yours truly played his mama. I got to meet some of these dancers, and a lot of them had all sorts of reasons for stripping. Some had families to provide for, and some just plain loved the attention and fun. Their stories were fascinating to me.

  I wanted to tell those stories, and also provide a lot of eye candy. That was the start of Vivica’s Black Magic. I came up with an idea to do a reality show where I audition hundreds of men to find eight male exotic dancers to take on the journey of getting a residency in Las Vegas. Once the eight were chosen, there wouldn’t be eliminations or silly challenges—this wasn’t about becoming Stripper of the Year, okay? It was about starting a business. I would put my own money in and put my name on it—gotta have skin in the skin game, right? High stakes and tight abs just made sense as good television—or more, as the possibilities seemed endless: a tour, residencies elsewhere … the gift that keeps on giving.

  It had to be done right, though, because my brand is quality. I didn’t want a drunken fighting show, and I wanted this to have me as a businesswoman at its heart. So I pitched it to Howard Owens at Propagate Content. He co–executive produced Biggest Loser and MasterChef, so I knew he understood the power of combining storytelling with a challenge—and I was ready to throw in some heat. I marched into his Hollywood Boulevard office in the sleek business outfit that showed the image I wanted to present on the show: what I call “Head Chick in Charge.”

  He loved the idea, and told me there was a gentleman from Lifetime in the office today. The channel had had a lot of succe
ss with Surviving Compton and the Toni Braxton biopic, so they were looking for edgier programming. “Are you ready to pitch it now?”

  I seized that opportunity right quick. This show was a gift to women, and what better place than Lifetime? So we did the surprise pitch, and my passion for the project sold it. Let me tell you, pitch to greenlight in an hour is unheard of in Hollywood. When an idea fills an obvious need and you pitch it right, you can get what you want.

  We held auditions and narrowed it down with callbacks. When we found our eight men, I called them my elite eight. They were already stars in different parts of the country: Atlanta, L.A., D.C., New York … It was an opportunity to show all the different hues of black men, from light to dark chocolate. We even had a white guy, Greg Jackson, who calls himself White Chocolate. He’s a former stockbroker! Each man had an it factor, but they were a little rough around the edges. One would be an amazing stripper, but just an okay dancer. There’d be a good dancer who had to learn how to sell the fantasy of sex. Maybe in some of these clubs they were in, it was enough to put your whatever in a woman’s face, but this had to be quality. I had to teach them that a woman who comes to a Vivica’s Black Magic show deserves to be seduced. She is an empress, and you are earning her attention. The thing that gets me every time is an Officer and a Gentleman look. I love to watch a man getting out of his crisp uniform.

  I would say that all of the men needed to learn how to take constructive criticism. Honey, the show was a crash course in the male ego. Watching the final product was fun, but wow, these eight alpha men could get in their feelings!

  “Why aren’t I up front?”

  “Do I need to lose weight?”

  “Vivica, the other guys ain’t being nice to me…”

  And of course, being the Mama Bear I am, I gotta go off on everybody. Then I would get the whole story. I’d hear, “Pull back, Vivica, what really happened is…” I would go back to this bashful hunk and get the full truth. “Why you lying to me? Anyway, here’s a drink and shut up. And do an ab roll.”