‘American Idol’ director: Don’t limit yourself

“American Idol” music director Rickey Minor shares motivational wisdom and childhood memories in his new book, “There's No Traffic on the Extra Mile.” In this excerpt, Minor reminisces about the early influences in his life and his start in the music business.

I grew up in South Central Los Angeles, Watts to be specific. It is a place where a lot of people end up staying for the rest of their lives, whether they prefer it that way or have no other choice.

There are many places throughout the world that look, smell and feel exactly like South Central. These types of places are usually reserved for people who are all but invisible to the rest of society. These are the neighborhoods situated on the outskirts of the city proper where you come to stay as a last option — when you can’t afford to live anywhere else. In New York, Chicago, Detroit, Washington, D.C., London, Paris or Rio, you’ll see the same kind of slums, where the air is thick with despair and hopelessness. Despite it all, there’s an enduring culture of love, family and community that has a vibrant pulse. People go to church and talk on their porches or in their front yards. Children play, skip rope and frolic in the water of the fire hydrant in the summer.

Like every other kid in Watts, I didn’t know that there was any other way of living. I got up. I rode my bike, got chased by dogs, laughed with my friends and ate Popsicles. I didn’t question things. I did the best I knew how to go through life happily. But as I got a little bit older, I began to feel a drive inside myself. I knew innately there was more for me waiting outside the neighborhood. It’s hard to say whether I was born that way or if it was something I learned, or a combination of both.

For me, it has never been about getting away from Watts and the people of my community, about being richer or about achieving something bigger and better than where I came from. For as long as I can remember, those things have not driven my ambition. It’s all been about achieving my personal best.

I was actually born and spent the first eight years of my life in Monroe, Louisiana. It was a small town, mostly dirt roads, and the few that were paved didn’t have any sidewalks.

The most exciting thing in town was Saturday night at the Elks Club: the B.Y.O.B. (bring your own bottle) dance with a disc jockey playing records. This was the early to mid 1960s, and the Klan was all around, too. Living in such a tense, segregated place made a deep impression on me. Even as a small child, it bothered me that people of different races weren’t working together. I’m certain that those early memories have driven me to make sure that I work with all races, ethnicities and genders.

Go west!
My grandmother Donia Minor was the matriarch of our family. She moved to Los Angeles with my aunt Dixie after going out there to visit her sister Anna in 1967, and she never returned to Louisiana. She had the incredible vision to say, “We all need to be in California. This is the place where we need to be.” Hers was that kind of matriarchal energy that never allowed dust to settle, and she knew exactly what needed to be done right on the spot. She took care of business, and made sure that I, her grandson, did my share as well. She always dressed like she was going somewhere, with the hemline of her skirts cut just below the knee. She wore a tightly cropped wig and glasses that were the fashion of the time. I don’t think she owned a pair of tennis shoes.

From an early age, I was aware that my grandmother had risked everything when she moved to California without a concrete plan or any guarantees. She worked as a housekeeper for the actor Steve McQueen, taking the bus to his beach house in Malibu. She saved enough money to get a one-bedroom apartment of her own that was always spick-and-span. It wasn’t long before she got a larger space and sent for my uncle Frank and my stepfather John Blevins. Soon after that, the rest of the family came out on the bus. It took three days to go across country in the sweltering heat of the summer. I was 8 years old.

Since I was the eldest boy, I lived with my grandmother and my uncle Daniel (who is hearing impaired) during the school week. On weekends, I stayed with my mother, stepfather and my four siblings, Kathyrn, Victor, Cheryl and John Jr. We lived in the Jordan Downs Housing Projects in Watts, three bedrooms and one bathroom.

After going back to school, my mother, Helen Blevins, became a nurse — she worked the 3 to 11 p.m. shift at St. Francis Hospital in Lynwood, California. My stepfather, John Blevins, got a job as a carpet layer for a company that operated out of Hollywood. Things were starting to look up.

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I was awed by the courage my grandmother had to stop, pick up everything, and move to another location to pursue a better way of life. Go west. The thought of what she did challenged me and continues to inspire me today. I thought, “If she can do that from there, then I can go anywhere.”

I always knew I was not going to be defined or limited by my circumstances. I learned that happiness was not based on having what you want but wanting what you have. It is as simple as saying to oneself, “This is my room. It’s not very big, but it is so much better than what I started with.”

When life serves you what you believe is unjust and unfair, always remember, your roots are your strength and your foundation. They are not your limitations, and should never become your excuse.

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