You Don't Know Me

by Ray Charles Robinson, JR.

  My father had battled poverty and racism his whole life. His closest friends were people who understood what it meant to be poor and black and make their way to a neighborhood like View Park through sheer grit, hard work, and talent. Southridge was a monument to my father’s success, something tangible he could feel and experience. When he was just a poor musician playing for Lowell Fulson, Lowell told him that he should be on the corner selling pencils. My father never forgot that insult. It was humiliating, but it made him determined to prove to himself and everyone else that Fulson was wrong. My father went from living on soup to buying his own private jets. His legacy was written into the fabric of American culture. Music allowed him to transcend color in a segregated nation and to achieve the American dream, for himself and for us. He gave us freedom and choices in life. As long as God blessed my father with another day, he worked tirelessly to make the most of his opportunity.

  My parents made it clear to us that we were no different from anyone else. They did not want us thinking we were better than other people. It was very important to my parents that we lived a normal life. One of the reasons they sheltered us from the media was to keep us as down to earth as possible.

  One of the ways they kept our feet on the ground was to keep the ties to their roots strong. Family friends who had started out with them in Texas remained close. Several of them moved west when my parents did and remained like family members. Herbert Miller, my mother’s best friend Bernice, and Jeff Brown had been around as long as I could remember. They had shared their humble beginnings, and now they shared in their prosperity. Nearly all of my mother’s family came out and stayed with us at one point. Uncle James and my cousins played with us and went on trips with us as well. My sister, Evelyn, came out nearly every summer. We saw our grandmother regularly. And my granddad Sam, whom my mother says I favor, was often around. We would drive across LA to his little house on Sixtieth Street and spend the day. My father loved Granddad. Granddad had come up poor like my father, and the two of them would sit and talk about the old days. I always felt so connected to my grandparents and family who kept us grounded; they were an important part of my life as well.

  But nothing pointed out how far my mother had come more than a trip to Richmond, Texas. The little house where my mother grew up, and where my great-grandmother and uncle still lived, was as far removed from our home on Southridge as you could imagine. The property was on the far side of the tracks in what was once called the colored section of town. Mama Lee’s acreage included small clapboard houses with outdoor plumbing. The place had supported crops and livestock when my mother was a child, but as work grew scarce and succeeding generations moved away, the land became overgrown. The grass was half as tall as I was, and to get through it, we had to cut a path with machetes. There were snakes hidden in the grass, and I was terrified of them. My great-grandfather Mike Griffin’s parents had bought the land and divided it among their children decades earlier, each child getting ten acres. Mama Lee always called him “my Mike” and spoke fondly of his beautiful red hair. His hair was another part of our heritage. Red hair had been passed down to my mother and to all three of us boys, though Bobby was the only one whose hair remained red.

  My father remodeled Mama Lee’s house to make things more comfortable for her and Uncle George. But even then, her home was small and humble. Whenever we drove down the dirt road to Mama Lee’s for a visit, Uncle George would be waiting outside for us. Uncle George was as country as they come but he always welcomed us with a broad smile and a “Hey, y’all.” Mama Lee seemed impossibly old to us. She still knew all the old slave spirituals. She wasn’t much more than a generation removed from slavery herself. Her grandparents had been slaves. She would sit us on her knee and sing the old spirituals. She was as sweet a person as you would ever find. My mother calls Mama Lee her hidden jewel, the most precious of souls hidden in the body of a plain old country woman.

  There was a small church on the property, Zion Watchtower, where generations of my relatives had worshipped, and so did we when we visited. Most of my ancestors on my mother’s side are buried nearby. When Mama Lee died at ninety-eight, we stood together in that tiny country church and sang the spirituals she loved. She was laid to rest with her family and the rest of our ancestors. When the property was finally sold, the family put it in the contract that the church was not to be torn down. The new owners not only kept the church, they repaired it. An active congregation worships there to this day.

  THE CHRISTMAS AFTER my father came home from rehab had a special meaning for our family. It was the first clean Christmas he had ever celebrated. My father’s valet, Vernon, and I climbed the tall ladder onto the roof and decorated it for the first of many Christmases there. We put up a Santa and sleigh with all eight reindeer and hung lights around the outside of the house. Inside, we put up a big white tree covered with red globes. It was the perfect seventies Christmas tree.

  On Christmas morning that year I woke up at about four, too excited to go back to sleep. I decided to sneak downstairs and take a look under the tree. I was too old to believe in Santa Claus, but my brothers still did, and I wasn’t quite willing to give up the belief. I wanted there to be a Santa. Even if there wasn’t, I knew there would be a pile of amazing presents under the tree.

  I crept quietly down the big staircase in my bare feet and peeked around the corner. A light wheel flashed colored lights onto the tree like a mirror ball on a dance floor. The tree was surrounded with big, gift-wrapped boxes, and in the middle of them was a shiny gold bike with a banana seat. It was for me! I knew it. I heard someone move. Was it Santa? I excitedly scanned the room. It wasn’t Santa Claus. It was my father, sitting quietly in the chair by the Oriental coffee table.

  He was dressed in his nice robe, with his glasses off. His head was lowered and he was singing softly. It was a Christmas song. I don’t remember which one. As he sang softly to himself, his body was relaxed, at peace. I sat down to watch him. He didn’t know I was there. Everyone else was asleep. It was just me and Dad.

  I must have watched him for almost forty-five minutes as he continued to sit there, quietly singing Christmas songs. After a while he got up and walked around the room, touching things, feeling the presents, running his hands over my bike. He sang as he walked, bobbing and weaving to the music in his head. Finally he made his way over to the corner of the room. His grand piano was there, the top raised. On the edge of the piano were the plate of cookies and glass of milk we’d left for Santa. My father picked up the glass and plate, still singing, and made his way back to the chair. He sat down, put the milk on the table beside him, and began to eat the cookies, holding the plate close to his mouth so the crumbs wouldn’t spill.

  As soon as he took the first bite, I rose to my feet in a flash and shouted, “Daddy! Hey, Daddy! No! That belongs to Santa!”

  At the sound of my voice my father almost came out of his skin. He jumped out of the chair, scattering cookies everywhere. He was looking around, his head swinging back and forth, trying to locate the sound, startled and confused.

  “Where’s Santa, Daddy?”

  My dad turned sideways, locating my voice, and blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. “Santa ain’t comin’, man. You ain’t in bed. He ain’t comin’. Go to bed!”

  I turned and ran up the stairs as fast as my legs would go. I wasn’t about to stick around and get in more trouble with my dad.

  I had ruined his moment. He had probably just finished putting my bike together when I came downstairs. He loved putting together our bikes; it was one of his favorite things. He sent Vernon home after all the presents were under the tree, and this was his moment to savor. He was in the moment, amid the sounds and scents of Christmas, running his hands over our gifts and imagining our excitement when we woke up in the morning. It’s a magical time for a father. Years later I would know that feeling as I put gifts under the tree for my daughters and pictured their faces as they opened them. For my dad, who
never had Christmas as a boy, it must have felt like a miracle. My mother said it filled him with joy to be able to provide us with the kind of Christmas he had always dreamed of. The only toys he had as a child were the ones he made.

  That Christmas, though, there was an added source of joy. That Christmas, his body and mind were at peace. That night, as he listened to the music of the silence, it sang only of peace on earth and goodwill toward men, and his soul sang back with joy.

  CHAPTER 10

  Move On Up

  Move on up

  towards your destination.

  —CURTIS MAYFIELD

  MY PARENTS MADE ONE EXCEPTION TO THEIR PRIVACY rule. The summer my father returned to performing after rehab, my parents allowed the press into our home. Questions were still circulating as he returned to work again: Would the famously addicted musician be able to perform as he had before rehab? Could he stay clean under the pressure of the public eye? My father invited reporters from Life magazine to see for themselves. He started by showing them his two planes, his new studio on West Washington Boulevard, and his tour bus. He invited them to Southridge and walked around the house and grounds with them, chatting with the interviewer while he showed them our home. I trailed along behind him like a little shadow. Afterward, he let them take a family picture. The photograph shows us standing in the curved driveway of our home. My father, dressed in black, is holding my mother’s hand. She smiles into the camera, looking contented and relaxed. David and Bobby cling close to my mother, David’s hand resting protectively on little Bobby. The scar from the accident is clearly visible on the corner of Bobby’s mouth. I stand behind my brothers, grinning into the camera. On July 29, 1966, the Life article, entitled “The Comeback of Ray Charles: Music Soaring in a Darkened World,” hit the newsstands. It featured photos of my father’s personal life, a lengthy interview, and pictures of his triumphal return to Carnegie Hall. Ray Charles was back.

  The Life photo shoot was the only time my parents allowed the media to have access to our family. This was long before the paparazzi took over Hollywood. There were never any photographers outside our house, even when my dad’s problems were spread all over the newspapers. Dad never allowed pictures of the family in his publicity material. He tried to keep our lives private because his was so public. But no matter what they did, my parents could not shelter us completely. Our house on Southridge was on the Tour of Stars’ Homes route. Buses filled with tourists would pass by, stopping long enough for everyone to take pictures. If my brothers or I were playing outside when the bus pulled up, people would point and say, “You know whose son that is? Ray Charles’s. That’s Ray Charles’s son.” People walking by the house would also stop us and ask, “Are you Ray Charles’s son? What’s he like?” No one ever said, “How are you?” It was always, “Wow! You’re RC’s son!” Everyone always asked us personal questions about my father. We were continually bombarded by people wanting to see inside our house. When new friends visited for the first time, they often raved about my father’s gold records and went on and on about how amazing our home was. Sometimes we never got around to playing. They were so excited about being in Ray Charles’s home that they forgot I was there.

  As his oldest son and namesake, I was like a walking billboard. I used my legal name Ray Robinson, but it never seemed to make much difference. Adults would point at me and say, “You know who this is? Ray Charles Jr. Yes, Ray Charles is his father.” They would smile at each other and look at me like they knew me. I was shy, and the unwanted attention made me very uncomfortable. David, Robert, and I tried as hard as we could to blend in and not stand out as Ray Charles’s children. But everywhere we went, we were reminded.

  Just as there were always people who wanted to be near me because I was Ray Charles’s son, there were others who hated me for it. Kids would say, “I heard your daddy uses drugs” or “Your daddy cheats on your mother.”

  I would defend my father and say, “Well, he’s taking care of us just as good as your dad.” And as on Hepburn, I had to fight. I was always in fights. So was David. If my mother caught us, we would be punished, but we would always start up again. The worst part was that I could never be sure who my friends were.

  Somebody was always trying to steal something from me. Once some older kids who were visiting my home with a friend of mine were trying to take clothes from my closet. They weren’t even supposed to be in my room, but I wanted to show off my model car collection. When I caught them actually walking toward the front door with some of my things, I stopped them and said, “Are you kidding me? Do you think I’m really going to stand here and let you steal my things right under my nose?”

  My mother overheard us talking and came out into the foyer. The next thing they knew, she was in their faces. “We invite you into our home, and this is what you do? You disrespect us? Now you put Ray Jr.’s things down, and if I ever see you around my family again, I swear I’ll call the sheriff’s department and have you arrested. Get yourselves out of my house, and don’t you ever come around here again.” They couldn’t get out fast enough. As soon as they left, she called the sheriff’s department and told them what had happened. I don’t think those boys got much of a welcome from “Cotton,” the sheriff’s officer who patrolled our neighborhood, when he caught up with them. Nobody disrespected my mother.

  I was constantly defending myself to other kids about the way we lived. They justified their behavior by saying, “Well, you’re rich, I’m not, so …” The few times I left the garage open for a minute, someone would steal my minibikes. I had two minibikes and several other things stolen in the middle of the day. I suspected they were taken by some of the same kids who had tried to steal things out of the house. The worst part is that the thieves were other black kids. It really bothered me. I took it more personally because I was being robbed by my own.

  When I told my father about it, he said, “Be true to yourself. You know who you are. You need to watch who you bring around. Not everybody around you is your friend. They may want to peer into your life, and they may just want to use you to do that. Not everybody belongs in your private space, son. Be careful. But remember, not everybody you meet is going to have their hand out. Some of them really are your friends.”

  My mother knew exactly how we felt. She was Mrs. Ray Charles, and people were always trying to dissect her life, especially with all the rumors swirling around her marriage. She never made an effort to explain. She didn’t feel she needed to explain herself to anybody. As for our affluent lifestyle, she told me, “Son, your father works hard to maintain a high standard of living for us. I don’t care what anybody says about it. People will continue to spread rumors. It is not anyone’s business what your dad does and where he is every moment of the day. You have nothing to explain.” Those were lessons well learned. My parents had the foresight to know that people were going to try to attach themselves to us for all of the wrong reasons.

  Over time I absorbed my parents’ lessons and learned who I was and how I would deal with those around me. I’ve met a lot of people over my lifetime. My parents wanted me to know people from all walks of life. My father would laugh and say, “People are people. You don’t talk to people just because they come from a certain background. You talk to them because you want to know more or have a good feeling about that person. That can happen with people from many walks of life. You never know who you’re going to meet. That’s why you always treat everyone with the utmost respect.”

  My mother put it more simply. “If that was Jesus, how would you treat him? Treat everyone as if you were meeting Jesus.” She told us to treat people with the same respect we wanted from them. We were to be cordial and nice, but we were also to look them in the eye and get a feel for who they were. She taught us to use good judgment.

  It was never important to me to spend time with other celebrity kids. I did grow up with Ike and Tina Turner’s sons. We were close friends with Craig, Ike Jr., Ronnie, and Michael. I was a little bit older
than they were, but my brothers hung out with them a lot. They lived just a few blocks away, and they were all musicians. Tina was extremely nice and cordial to us. She and my mother spoke on occasion by phone. Her four sons were always at our house.

  Despite my frustration with being identified primarily as Ray Charles’s son, I was fiercely proud of my father and longed to be like him. At the same time I was downplaying my father’s name, I would try on his clothes. My father had a lot of clothing that he rarely wore, and sometimes I would raid his closet for something to wear to school. I’d borrow his coats, especially his leather ones. They were too big, so they hung on me. I would take his shoes and put tissue in the toes to keep them on. His velvet shoes were my favorite. I looked like an elf with the toes stuffed full of tissue and pointed up. All dressed up in my dad’s clothes, I thought I was the coolest thing since sliced bread. Wearing his clothes made me feel close to him in a different way. I’d walk into the kitchen dressed, all ready for school. My mother would take one look at me and say, “Go right back upstairs and take those clothes off! You look like a little pimp.” I never made it out the door.

  I was square as a cube from the day we arrived in View Park until the twelfth grade. I went to school, studied hard, and came straight home. I didn’t smoke or do drugs, and the parties we had with our friends were good clean fun. We swam, shot baskets, played tennis, and shot pool in the entertainment room. I knew that being Ray Charles Jr. was a huge responsibility. I wanted to make them proud.