This whole time, I didn’t realize how terrified my mother was for me. I was too locked in my own grief
to see how it was affecting
the people around me. There was a moment where my mom suddenly stopped crying in the hospital. It was because she realized
she had to be strong for me. The hurt she was feeling was profound. She’d lost her baby boy, her firstborn. But she was scared
she was about to lose another child. She was afraid I’d lose myself in the darkness of my grief and never find my way back.
My dad took it hard, too. He kept saying, “They took my chicken.” That was his nickname for Wink because he kept him under
his wing. But he’d lost a few precious years with his baby boy. Dad had some problems with trauma from the Vietnam War and
being an undercover cop that led him to substance abuse, and for a few years he wasn’t as accessible to us as he wanted to
be. He lost Wink just as they were getting close again. His heart burst with pride when his beloved son followed in his footsteps
and joined the police force. Then Wink was taken away from us all. It made my father really focus on all his children, doing
everything he could to make up for the time he lost with all of us.
But I couldn’t focus on anyone but Winki. I was stuck in a long moment of grief and despair. I clawed my way out of it slowly.
At first, I got through the endless days by going to Winki’s grave and talking to him. Somehow it brought me peace. But the
real
healing started when I got back on my motorbike. I wasn’t scared to ride, exactly. A motorbike—or at least the vulnerability
of being on a motorbike—was what killed my brother, and somehow it felt like a betrayal to do that thing we enjoyed so much
together, because that was the very thing that took him away from me and my family.
But my brother’s spirit was asking me to ride, and live, for his sake, and he’s been on the bike with me ever since. That
freedom—the feeling of the wind on your face and the body, the sound of the engine, its roaring power—was what gave my brother
and me such joy during his short time on this earth. I still wear the key to Winki’s bike on a gold chain around my neck when
I’m feeling sad. And when I ride, I ride for both of us. When I’m hugging those roads, whether I’m driving the coastal highways
of California or tearing up the New Jersey interstates, it’s almost spiritual. I’m in control of the bike and holding its
handlebars, but I’m not in control, because at a certain speed it’s just me and God. There are no cell phones, no distractions,
just me and the elements. I feel excitement, joy, and oneness with the universe. When I’m on that bike, I’m
talking to Winki.
And I’m talking to God. I’m saying, “Okay, Lord, take care of me now. I’m in Your hands.”
Shakim and my mother were so relieved to see me back on my bike, because they knew it also meant that I had decided to come
back to life. Then I actually started to work again. It wasn’t so much that I cared about getting another hit record. I just
needed an outlet to express what I was going through. I needed my music to heal. I started writing songs for my album
Black Reign
, including a tribute to my brother called “Winki’s Theme.” I stayed up all night writing that joint. I was living in the
house I’d bought for me and my mother and brother to all live in together (not that the three of us got the chance). Mom was
asleep in her room upstairs, but at five a.m., I just had to wake her up. I wanted to share what I’d created with the one
person who would understand every word in that song the way I did. She heard it, smiling, crying, and nodding her head to
the music all at the same time. It was a message of pure love for my brother, and we both knew that he’d be rocking to it
all the way up in heaven. Mom later said the album title perfectly summed up my life in that moment: It was a black period,
but one over which I would ultimately reign. The queen inside me was alive again.
It’s funny how art imitates life, life imitates art. Years later I made
Last Holiday
, a movie that addresses, in a lighthearted way, the crossroads where we have a choice between living full out and giving
up on life altogether. (I mention this film a lot because it made a huge impression on me.) My character, Georgia Byrd, gets
the news that she has weeks to live. After a miserable night alone at home, polishing off a bottle of wine, she turns up in
church for her gospel choir recital. When they start to sing, this repressed, wound-up little thing who’s too shy to belt
out a song, starts talking out loud, in full voice, to her God. “Why me, O Lord, why me!” she says over and over and over
again. The church ladies love it. They think Georgia is speaking in tongues, and they join in. But Georgia really means it.
What the…? God, why are You doing this to me? What did I do to deserve this? She’s mad as hell at Him, and she wants answers.
Georgia Byrd was inspired, or you could say she was forced, to just go live. She had to make a decision to either lie down
and die right there or pick up and live all of the dreams and desires that she’s had all this time but held back on for one
reason or another, mostly fear and worry. Her character inspired me to live better.
You don’t realize sometimes when you play these roles that they’re going to impact your life the way they do. Living in Georgia
Byrd’s life for a few months made me realize how important life is, how short time is, how important it is to follow your
dreams and your goals.
Everybody at some point has that “why” moment: “Why me?” “Why us?” “Why my mom?” “Why my dad?” “Why him and not me?” When
my brother died, I don’t even know if it was just a “why me?” But it was surely a big old “why.” Now, instead of thinking,
“Why me?” I realize, “Why
not
me?” “Why anybody?”
But I was able to come through it and kind of open myself up to the divine design of it all. The loss of someone I love was
not something that I liked or expected. Bad things happen in life, but it’s hard to see beyond our own pain. I didn’t want
to be alone with my thoughts. I didn’t want to process my grief. I’d stay out late and party until I couldn’t stay awake anymore
and then just sleep as long as I could. But all that stuff just covers it up for a minute. At some point, you have to get
back into the race. I know that’s what those who pass would want for us. If I’d continued down that path and failed to live
my best life, I’d have dishonored my brother’s memory. I couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing Winki.
People would say to me, “Sorry about your brother, can I have your autograph?” And I would think, “You don’t care about me,
you don’t care about my brother, all you care about is your stupid autograph. For what? To prove to your friends you met a
celebrity?” It seemed so dumb and shallow. I’d be thinking, “I’m in pain and you know it—but you don’t care about Queen Latifah,
she’s not a human to you.” It really bummed me out, but as I got more and more in touch with my spiritual side, I came to
understand how these folks don’t mean anything by it. They’re just people. They just don’t understand. It’s like when Jesus
said: “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” If Jesus could do it while he was being persecuted, who am I not to
be able to do it when people are paying me compliments!
So I came to realize that this was a part of my test. Instead of expecting everyone to feel my pain, I had to turn it around
and see how they have
their
own lives and problems they were coping with, and my celebrity just represents an escape from those difficult times. Maybe
it was something I sang that made them feel good. Maybe it was something I said that made them laugh. They felt a connection
to that, so they feel a connection to me. I can’t ever forget that’s
an honor. It’s an honor to be someone who can make others
happy. That’s all they wanted. I came to appreciate it wasn’t all just about
my
pain. Pain is all around.
Therapy helped. I learned there’s a process that everyone goes through when they grieve, and it takes longer than you think.
But what ultimately got me through it was my faith in God, even though I blamed Him for doing this to me in the first place.
I really believe that God had His hands on me the whole time, and my family as well. We came through it when we didn’t think
we could. All of this pain taught me something. Somehow, through the fog, I remember one particular thought was planted in
my brain—I think by God, but maybe it was Winki: “Don’t let it all go.” Don’t let everything go, because you’re going to make
it through this. God gives you some skills, and it’s your responsibility to use them. It’s a gift, and you don’t turn down
gifts and you don’t not appreciate them. That’s part of who you are. It’s the reason we’re all here.
I won’t lie—I know I’ve been blessed. I’ve been lucky. Sure, I worked hard, but I’m not so big not to know I couldn’t do it
without help—from family,
friends, and God. And along with all that good, there’s got to be some bad. That’s life on this
earth. We ain’t in heaven yet! And until it’s our time, we’ve got work to do.
I now know my brother is where he was supposed to be, and so am I. We’ll all be together eventually. Winki’s job on earth
was done. He made peace with God before he went. He was proud and happy. He was about to settle down and marry the love of
his life. He was a respected member of the police force. He was loved by friends too numerous to count. He was adored by his
mom and baby sister. His dad was beyond proud of him. He was a good man who lived life full out, and in doing so, he set an
example for us all. He accomplished what God wanted him to do. God has a plan for all of us.
Winki was a cop. Sometimes I think maybe he went in this way so he wouldn’t go in a worse way. Maybe something bad out there
didn’t happen to him, something that would have been worse for all of us. I don’t know. I always leave myself open to the
possibility that things happen for a reason, and I don’t always understand that reason, but it’s something I have to accept.
Life has a way of reminding you that you’re not immortal and that tragedy can strike any one of us, anytime. That’s why you
need to have faith. I’m not
saying you necessarily have to believe in God. You don’t have to be Christian, Muslim, Hindu,
or Jewish. But you need to open yourself up to an idea that’s bigger than you are. It could be compassion or a faith in the
basic goodness of mankind. Even just a sense of the spiritual, or a trust that there are benign forces in the universe that
we don’t necessarily understand, will give us the strength to take those steps toward living our best life.
When we’re going through some crisis, God is whispering to us the whole time. He’s not shouting, “Hey, yo, listen up!” By
the time you get that message loud and clear, He’s already tried to tell you a few times. He gave you plenty of signs. You
just weren’t paying attention.
About five years ago, I was running myself ragged and enjoying a few too many drinks at night. It tends to happen when I’m
busy and I don’t take the time to check in with myself or communicate what I need to the people around me. I have a strong
constitution, and that might not be such a good thing, because I don’t always know when to slow down. It served me well at
the beginning of my career when much of our business was conducted in the nightclub, but it’s not how I should be living my
life as a grown woman. It’s not good for me. There were times when I’d drink so much, I would black out the next morning.
One night I was out at a club in L.A. with my assistant, and it was her turn to drink and have fun, so I agreed to be the
designated driver. I figured one drink would be okay, but then one drink led to two and possibly three. I wasn’t impaired,
but it was just one of those nights when everything goes wrong. It was my time of the month—a sign that I should have probably
just stayed home. It was also a full moon, and there’s always something about a full moon that messes with you.
A cop pulled me over, not because I was over the speed limit or doing anything wrong, but because someone earlier that night
had gone on a shooting spree in the area, and they were driving a vehicle similar to mine. Well, that did it. The cops could
smell a little alcohol on my breath, and they made me take all the sobriety tests. They’d just changed the acceptable alcohol
limits in the state of California from 1.0 to 0.8, and of course, the way my evening was going, I was just over, at 0.9. They
took me to the station, where I was questioned by Officer Laffer. Laffer! I thought, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” It was
like God was laughing at me!
I had to pay a fine and take a remedial driving course, and they recommended I attend an AA meeting. I was not happy. When
I went to the driving class, I told the instructor how unfair it was. I wasn’t
even driving impaired. But he said something
that really changed my perspective.
“Think about how many times you drove home at night and you
were
driving impaired.”
He was right. There probably were a few times. There were moments I felt the angels must have been guiding me home safely,
because I really shouldn’t have been behind the wheel.
Famous people with money can lawyer up and get charges dropped easily. I could have gotten out of that DUI. But because of
what that instructor told me, I decided to suck it up and deal with the consequences. I even went to the AA meeting. I didn’t
have to, but I wanted to check in with myself. I wanted to know, “Am I okay?”
At the meeting, everyone introduced themselves and did what they call “sharing.” One guy said, “I’m frustrated because I had
a lot of things to do at work today, and I didn’t get to all of it.” Another man shared that he was having problems communicating
with his teenage daughter. A woman shared that she was six months sober.
It was small stuff. But by being in that meeting and opening up about all those little things, like not getting through a
task list, these people were saving themselves from the temptation of going to a bar after work. It taught me that I can’t
let my own
frustrations pile up like that. I had to do a better job of communicating how I really felt.