Every Day I'm Hustling Read online

  And the last group, the worst, is scared to see you succeed. I call them the kind of company that loves misery! When I created Vivica’s Black Magic, the Lifetime show chronicling the journey of creating a Las Vegas residency for male exotic dancers, I was working with this particularly fine young man. His baby mama had no interest in him—except his child support—until he started getting a little bit of attention and fame. He was a fan favorite even before the show came out, and people who follow me on Instagram saw that I was throwing him a little support and so they did the same. He started getting a ton of followers, and his ex saw him start to pull away from the pack and make it. Instead of giving support, she was suddenly saying, “No, come back here with me.” She wanted him to give up the work that was obviously getting results. If he failed, she succeeded. She was relentless in this newfound interest in him, and I told him that for his sake he just needed to stop responding.

  “But she calls me from numbers I don’t know!” he said, desperate.

  “Then don’t answer your phone, period, child,” I said. “Focus.”

  These people don’t want to see you pursue your dream. These are also the types who want to keep you single. They don’t want you to have a healthy relationship, because then who could they feel superior to?

  Or maybe they are in the cubicle next to you at work, bitching about their job but not doing anything about it. Do you think they want to see you send out a résumé or ask for an informational interview at a dream job? Nope. They want you sitting right next to them so they have someone to bitch to.

  It’s the classic crab-in-a-bucket mentality: “If I can’t have it, neither can you.” Put a mess of live crabs in a pot, and on their own, each could escape, but instead they pull each other down again and again.

  If you’re finding yourself surrounded by those crabs, check yourself. Your squad needs an upgrade.

  LESSON TWO

  GET YOUR SQUAD TOGETHER—YOU’LL NEED THEM

  Now, I’m sorry if you have a lot of school pride, but Arlington High was the best school of all time. I would put my school up against anybody’s. The teachers demanded excellence, and we students expected each other to live up to Arlington Golden Knights standards. It was an almost all-black school at the height of the disco-funk era, and students would show up to school dressed to kill. People were like, “Ooh, the fine girls are over at Arlington.” And they were right. Everybody used to look good.

  Especially Reesie, who was a good friend of mine. I loved me some Reesie because the girls were all jealous of her. Reesie was so good-looking. She couldn’t walk two feet without some fool girl trying to fight her.

  But she took shit from nobody. I remember one day I heard this big commotion right after school. I turned a corner and saw Reesie fighting three girls. And she was hanging! The girls all left like it was their choice and they didn’t just get their asses handed to them. Reesie was adjusting her clothes.

  “Damn, girl, you’re fine,” I said. “What you fighting like that for?”

  She didn’t answer me. I didn’t understand that the thing that made her stand out also made her a target for insecure people. But she refused to shrink from it or become invisible. God had made her beautiful, and she wasn’t going to let haters dim her light.

  Reesie was an important part of my Indy squad. A squad is that all-important group of friends who support you and motivate you to shine. I also had my girls Sheila and Bev, my skating rink buddies. I had mastered roller-skating at USA East, and we would get our outfits together so we could show off. Baby, we did not mess around. We would get song lyrics pressed on our shirts, in the old-style funky letters. My favorite said, “Have a funky good time.” It was like our cute little uniform, and we would make sure our jeans were pressed with the same ultimate creases in them.

  We all lived around each other, so I’d drive them over to the rink in my family’s brown Cutlass Supreme. And that car had to be clean because whether we were going to USA East or the state fair, it had to be on like the Oscars red carpet. You had to arrive. Your whitewalls had to be spotless, the rims shiny, the black tires still gleaming from the Armor All you just put on.

  Our squad would turn it out for Arlington’s basketball games, which were a big deal for our part of Indianapolis. Our rival high schools were Broad Ripple and North Central—those matches got the biggest turnout and felt special, with all of our hopes aimed at that one shot, that one winning basket. Game days we’d be all dressed up in our Arlington Golden Knights gold, with me in my little gold cheer uniform. I never missed a game since I was a cheerleader for the boys and then I’d be bringing it home on the girls’ team.

  The games were a nice place for my girlfriends and me to meet boys, of course. I was in my element, totally confident. And junior year everyone was talking about the hot boys from Tech. There were these twin basketball players, Erwin and Derwin, who all the girls talked about. “Oohhh, baby, them twins right there,” we cheerleaders would whisper to each other. God, I had a crush on Erwin.

  Tech wasn’t a rival, so it was fine for everyone to hang out after the game. Erwin came up to me, all tall and gorgeous. And we just started hanging out. He was a totally nice, sweet guy. We could drive around and talk about everything. I was my mama’s good Fox girl, so our dates were always PG, but I swear to God I can’t say the name “Erwin Shields” without letting out a sigh of happiness.

  My dates were PG because Sug and I had a lot of friends who were getting pregnant. Just hot kids sneaking off and doing what comes naturally but with nobody telling them about safe sex or how exactly you can get pregnant. I watched classmates start having kids at thirteen and fourteen years old. The majority of my girlfriends got pregnant, in fact, and I watched their struggle and knew it was not for me.

  I was on a basketball court when one of my girlfriends told me she was pregnant. This was junior year. My first instinct was to tell her I was sorry.

  “I’m not sorry,” she said. “I’m going to raise my baby with Kenny.” Kenny was the boyfriend who only treated her like she existed every other day. The rest of the week he was on to some other girl.

  “Okay,” I said, with no judgment in my voice. I don’t look down on a sister unless I’m helping her up. “Does he know?”

  “Not yet,” she said.

  She wanted to hold on to that dream a little longer, I think. Guess what? Learning he was going to be a father didn’t magically make Kenny, a kid himself, a better person. She raised that baby in her parents’ house.

  I would say that was the attitude of half of my friends who got pregnant. They thought it would help them keep a man. The other half was like, “Oh, shit.”

  That’s the half that Sug and I paid attention to as our friends kept popping those babies out. They were stuck then. We said, “No, ma’am,” to that. I’ve got to have some money and have me some fun. Ain’t no way to do either sitting here having a bunch of babies. Sug told me not to mess with boys, if only for fear of the wrath of Everlyena Fox, who would tell it to you straight: “You’re not bringing up a bunch of kids in yo’ mama’s house! You’ll have to find someplace else to raise that baby.”

  What I admire about Sug is that it could have been something she handled. She had been looking after kids since she was little—why not stay comfortable with what you know? Having a baby grounded a lot of my friends where they were, and it was a reason not to have to pursue their dreams.

  *   *   *

  Sundays were all about church, and our pastor, Reverend Arthor McClendon, delivered the Word. He was a gentle soul and always positive, never delivering fire from the pulpit unless he felt it was absolutely necessary. Obviously, Reverend McClendon knew my dad wasn’t around, and he quietly became a sort of secondary father to us Fox kids. He knew how we were doing at school and would urge us to stay focused on our studies. He had a wonderful sense of humor and smile. I spent so much time with him and his family, and I didn’t miss a day of vacation Bible school during
school breaks. And you know I sang in the damn choir. That’s right, volleyball practice, track, basketball … and there’s Angie Fox running over to Breeding Tabernacle for choir practice. Me and my girls Natalie, Sharon, and Georgia, we got all the solos.

  My favorite to sing then, and a hymn that transports me still, is “Wade in the Water.” Sing it with me for one second. “Wade in the water / Waaaaaaade in the water, children / Wade in the water / God’s gonna trouble the water.” It was not lost on us that this was a song important to the African American community. It’s said the hymn was created as a coded message to assist the Underground Railroad, urging fugitive slaves to cross rivers so that the hellhounds of slave trackers lost their trail. An angel had “troubled” the water, waved his hand in it, and whoever entered that water would be freed of sin.

  I thought about that beautiful song, and all the hours I spent at Breeding Tabernacle, while I was on the campaign trail for Hillary Clinton. I had campaigned for Barack Obama, so they knew I was a worker bee. In 2012 my friend BJ Coleman and I knocked on doors for him and went around to all the union halls. I passed out coffees to people waiting in line to get into rallies. It was fun and so rewarding to feel like I was part of something so much greater than just me.

  Every time President Obama sees me, he is so kind. He says in this excited voice, “Hey, Vivica!” And everyone looks at me like, “Whaaaat?” My heart leaps with pride, I assure you. He is just so cool, and his family is a shining example of American excellence. So when Hillary asked Angela Bassett and me if we would help go around South Carolina to get out the vote, I said, “Of course, Madam Secretary.” I thought, It’s only a few days. Besides, I believed in her vision.

  Well, by the second day I was so tired. Like, “God, I can’t believe I signed up to do this” kind of tired. That afternoon, after morning shows, radio interviews, and meet-and-greets, we visited some historically black colleges and universities to talk to young people. I ended up on a panel with some older gentlemen who had marched for civil rights all those years ago.

  As they shared stories about being beaten and sprayed and attacked by dogs, I just started crying. One guy talked about walking three miles to school, and his parents got up and walked with him so that he wouldn’t get murdered by some asshole just because of the color of his skin. And the whole time they let him know to be grateful that he was going to school.

  As they were talking, I looked out on all these beautiful young faces of Generation Next in the audience. And I thought to myself, Thank you, God, that I got up today and got out of my own way. I am so blessed to be here right now, and I have to give back.

  Then I thought, as I go up to speak, Now go tell ’em.

  “You guys are all our future leaders,” I said to the audience. “Our future first ladies, our future presidents, our future lawyers, our future mothers, our future preachers. You guys go next. And it’s so important for me to let you all know that you matter, that you count.”

  You matter, too. You count, too. I’m taking you to church here, I know. For me, focusing on my relationship with my Lord Jesus Christ has strengthened my resolve to be my best self. I want to experience all the blessings that He has for me. The lesson is not that you need to become Christian to get ahead—that turns my faith into some sort of get-rich-quick scheme. I’m just saying you at least have to believe in yourself. Look at the blessings you have, accept them with gratitude, and in return work to use those gifts.

  If I’m really preaching anything with this book, it’s that positivity works. Surround yourself with good people who want you to succeed, and once you do, give back and help the next generation along. I have seen some people live and fail with this foolish notion that strengthening others somehow weakens them. They live closed off in a fearful “I’ve got mine” mentality. If you have negative friends and negative habits, how can you expect positive results?

  *   *   *

  My friends from high school and church formed my Indy squad, and I still draw on the love and support that I found as a little girl. But nobody I knew had quite the same dream as me. There was no one to team up with on reaching my goal of being a star.

  And then Pam Grier walked into my life with her gorgeous self. Well, not really. Some local affiliate played Foxy Brown, the classic 1974 film in which Pam poses as a prostitute to take down a “modeling agency” that’s really selling women into sex slavery. I was transfixed. As Foxy, Pam was sexy, and beautiful, and tough. She could kick your ass in that red cutout jumpsuit.

  None of us Fox kids were into TV—we’d rather be outside or at a game—but I leaned in watching Foxy Brown, marveling at this vision of what was possible. I began to model my demeanor on the blend of strength, smarts, and beauty of this unapologetically powerful black woman, the first I ever saw on television. She became my shero.

  Years and years later I got a chance to interview Pam for a BET special. I could barely make it through the interview, I was crying so damn much. She had been my imaginary friend for so long, my “squad goal.” I’d even named my production company Foxy Brown Productions in tribute to her.

  “I just … thank you,” I said. “Thank you for being such a role model to me all of my life. I would not be who I am without you.”

  “Baby, that’s what I’m here for,” she said, so graciously, taking my hand to make sure I understood that she meant it. “To pass the torch to you, to inspire you so you know you can do it.”

  With Pam as my life goal, I had begun to build my own squad, even if they were imaginary friends. I added Diana Ross and Michael Jackson to my little group of fantasy mentors when I got to see them in concert when I was a junior in high school. If Pam showed me the presence and grit of a movie star, that night Diana showed me that a black woman could literally be the most glamorous person in the whole world. Miss Ross changed clothes six times, each gown more extravagant than the last, and I had never seen a black woman with hair and nails like that. She sang “It’s My House,” reeling off all the little luxuries she had put in her home. She was rich not because of some man, but because she had earned every dime. She was simply the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. That really stayed with me.

  And then there was Michael, who showed me the power of entertainment. He came out to dance with her during “Upside Down.” He was magic—that’s the only word to describe it. They delighted in each other onstage, holding the entire audience in their grip. And to a little black girl like me, the message was clear: “Look how talented and cool we all are. You are part of this. You are special.”

  Michael and Diana showed me models of what was possible. I’d put Diana Ross songs on and do little runway shows in my house, feeling she would approve of every supermodel turn of my face or hip. I used Michael’s music as I exercised. I’d decided my calves were a little too bitty for a would-be athlete-model like myself, so I’d jump rope to Off the Wall, both sides of the record, with little weights on my ankles to build up and tone my calves. And I dreamed that Michael would be so impressed with my dedication.

  This is a flash-forward, but I will tell you that one of my very first gigs was as an extra in Michael’s “Remember the Time” video. You didn’t see me? You sure? Well, my arm makes a stunning cameo when Iman pushes away a servant’s offer of tea. “That’s my arm!” I screamed to my friends when the video premiered on MTV. “That arm right there!”

  It didn’t matter that I was an extra. I didn’t care. I got to sit there all day and watch Michael Jackson dance. He was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in my life. What I remember most is how he could pick up that choreography; because he’s very quiet, he’d barely nod as they went over it. He was just Michael, to himself. Then the director, John Singleton, would say, “Okay, y’all, here we go. One … two … three…” And it was like somebody turning on a light switch. As Michael was hitting those moves, it was like, BAM, BAM, BAM.

  When he passed in 2009, I had lived with Michael in my mind for so long. He was the
king of my imaginary squad. I legit cried for three days.

  *   *   *

  Junior year I started getting my own entertainment magazines, looking for any stories on Diana and Michael. There was one about Michael recording at his home studio in Encino, California. I knew from all the Indiana coverage that the Jacksons had lived in Gary, just two hours north of where I was reading on my bed. Now he was living in a mansion with white shag carpeting, chandeliers, gates …

  Michael had made a wish and made sure it was a big one that he had to live up to. He got out, and it was like he was saying through the photo, “Angie, come to California.” To live the life of my dreams, I needed to be in a place that had room for big dreamers.

  Now, instead of just telling people I was going to be a star, I had a plan: “I’m going to California, and I’m going to be famous.”

  “Angie Fox, you might go there,” they’d say, “but you’ll be right back.”

  My Arlington High classmates were making college plans, and the question kept coming at me my senior year of high school. Teachers and people at church were all asking, “Angie, where are you going to college?” I was like, “I’m not. I’m going to California. I’m gonna make it.”

  There were head shakes, pleas, tut-tuts. Finally my mother couldn’t take it. She told me I had to go to college and that was it. So let’s say I negotiated. I found a two-year program at Golden West College in Huntington Beach, California. It would allow me to study part-time while I pursued modeling. It was the deal I had to make.

  By now you know my mom. Once I convinced her to let me go to California, she was like, “Unh-unh, you not going out there broke.” So I got my first job at Burger Chef. It was an Indianapolis-based chain, and I did the counter and the takeout: “Welcome to Burger Chef, can I take your order?” This is when drive-thrus were starting to take off, so it was actually a cool job to have in town. I also had my first boss, Lee, who was so cool. He wasn’t one of those hovering bosses who’s mean. “Go on out there, girl,” he’d say. “You get those cheeseburgers ready for ’em.” I don’t know if he knew money was tight or if he was just nice, but he would tell me I could bring food home to my family at the end of the night. So you know they couldn’t wait for me to get off work! “Yup, bring me that mushroom-and-Swiss burger,” my big brother Sandy would say.