You Don't Know Me

by Ray Charles Robinson, JR.

  In August I returned to enter Whittier College. Both the city of Whittier and the college had originally been founded by the Quakers. It was small and peaceful, with only about 1,400 students. It was also the alma mater of President Richard Nixon and where George Allen had coached football. The college, which had long been fiercely proud of its most distinguished alumnus, was in the first throes of the humiliation that was Watergate. Whittier’s motto was “Light, Poetry, Truth, Peace, and Love of Knowledge,” all the things I was seeking in my life. But living on campus would not give me the privacy I was accustomed to. So I moved back home and used the lower level of Southridge as my private space as my father had.

  I pledged the Lancer Society the first semester. The Lancers, an indelible part of campus history, was a private school society formed on February 13, 1934, with thirteen original members and modeled after the example set by King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. The mission of the Lancer Society was to maintain loyalty and the true spirit of Whittier College, to instill the motive of service without reward, to continue a social agenda, and to maintain the activities for the betterment of the students as well as the college. By pledging the Lancer Society, I would belong to the history and tradition of the college. I would have a bond for life with those who preceded me and those who would follow. I was invited to the Lancer rush with my friend Phillip King. We attended a few other rushes but decided to pledge the Lancer Society because of the caliber of its members and its history at Whittier College.

  Pledging the Lancers was a challenge and a real adjustment. As time passed, Phillip and I learned about the importance of our brotherhood and our responsibility to one another. The Lancers became a moving force for me to socialize, to learn how to communicate, to understand others. I needed the camaraderie and the bonding. The Lancers reminded me of Camelot, a perfect world built on peace and love where all the people were one. The Lancer Society gave me a place to belong.

  Meanwhile, my relationship with my father had become strained. After four years of separation, my mother had finally filed for divorce. My father became very bitter for a while, but ultimately he would accept that his marriage was over. I chose to remain as neutral as I could with my parents. But my dad and I still had our differences. Despite them, he made sure my tuition and my living expenses were taken care of while I was in college. Time always seemed to ease the tension between us, allowing us the opportunity to share some time together again.

  I continued my studies at Whittier in business and economics and a minor in philosophy. My relationship with Duana was serious by this time and we started discussions about getting married. Outwardly, my life appeared to be fine and I was moving forward, but inside, I was filled with turmoil. Trouble was echoing inside, and I simply wanted to escape. I was about to start down the same path as my father. The path of self-medication and destruction.

  My first steps were innocent enough. During my first year away from home, I had begun to drink and dabble in cocaine socially. I occasionally smoked a little marijuana with my buddies, but I didn’t really like it. It made me paranoid, and I hated the way it smelled. I didn’t like going around reeking of marijuana, and I couldn’t go home smelling like that. It was like being a walking billboard: I’m high. So pot smoking didn’t last long. But I had already crossed the line.

  By the time I got to Whittier, social drug use seemed ordinary to me. It was at Whittier that I started snorting cocaine more frequently. It was everywhere in the circle I ran with off campus. I didn’t think twice about doing coke. As long as I limited my use to weekends, I felt it was not interfering with my life and school. If I had stopped there, I might have been all right. But I didn’t stop there.

  One evening in 1978, I was invited to a party at a house in the Hollywood Hills. It was an exclusive party, and you only got in by special invitation. The host was called Angelo. That night I drove to Laurel Canyon in my Porsche, the engine humming as I made the turns. Laurel Canyon winds through the Hollywood Hills from the San Fernando Valley to Beverly Hills. Ascending that road is like leaving the city far behind. The area is thick with trees and foliage, and houses perch on hilltops or hide in small glens below. Narrow two-lane roads branch precariously off the main road at irregular intervals. Residents love the area because it is beautiful, private, and secluded. It is a haven for the wealthy and for those with secrets to keep.

  That evening I pulled into a parking space where the small road I was following reached a dead end. It was quiet and serene. There were trees all around, and I could hear the trickle of a creek in the background. Nestled under the trees was a sprawling, rustic house. I felt like I had walked into a fairy-tale scene deep in the woods. As I stepped over the threshold, two of the most beautiful women I had ever seen, dressed seductively, greeted me. I looked around the room and saw that it was filled with more beautiful women. I stopped dead in my tracks. The most striking of all of them was a tall woman with long, gorgeous legs. She beckoned me in. In the den where everyone gathered was a large glass aquarium filled with sand. A boa constrictor lay coiled on top of the sand. I walked through the house and out the back as though I were in a dream. But inside, I could see Angelo, brewing a gaseous liquid that rose from the plate like a Christmas tree. I wasn’t sure if he looked like a wizard or a mad scientist. I was mesmerized but curious. There were people walking around wired for sound, and some of them from Hollywood’s A-list.

  I thought I had found Paradise. What I didn’t know is that I was standing on the edge of a precipice. I stepped over the edge that night when I took the pipe that Angelo offered me. It was pure cocaine, ether-based. When I breathed it in through the glass pipe, it took me to a place I had never imagined. I was gone in sixty seconds. It was the most intense and profound sensation I had ever experienced. It lasted for ten minutes, and within those ten minutes I went to a place I never wanted to return from. I left every problem, every fear, every anxiety behind. I knew in that moment that a thousand journeys there would never be enough.

  What I didn’t yet understand was that one journey there was already one too many. In that moment, I entered a battle for self-control. It would challenge every fiber of my moral being. It made everything I had learned until then, from my father’s addiction to my mother’s warnings, irrelevant. None of that mattered anymore and the worst part was that I knew better. And I continued down that path anyway.

  That night was the first of many. For months I became obsessed with that euphoric feeling. Three or four times a week I would make that drive into Laurel Canyon, alone or with friends, and leave the world behind. It was expensive, consuming, and slowly taking me away from my friends and family. I gradually began to see through the façade, and one night Angelo whispered in my ear that the tall woman, the most beautiful and seductive of them all, had been born a man! Nothing in that house was real. As the pale light of the morning shined through, I noticed the boa hanging lifeless over the side of the aquarium. I realized everyone in the house was lifeless, too. It was all an illusion.

  It took this jolt to bring me back to reality. One evening a few months later, driving to a club, I got into an argument with Duana. She was angry with me about my obsession with Laurel Canyon, with my endless quest for the perfect high. Distracted by the argument, I angrily turned my head to say something to her. My Porsche hit the car in front of us and went all the way up under it. The hood of my Porsche became an accordion with substantial damage to the frame. Even more remarkable, by the grace of God neither Duana nor I was seriously hurt. I wound up selling my Porsche because of the damage.

  The accident was a wake-up call. Something had to change in my life. I canceled all of my classes for the fall semester to regroup, and recommit myself to my studies and my relationships. I was able to do all those things, and I returned to Whittier the following semester. But even though I made a successful return the next semester, I knew I had ventured into uncharted territory. I had opened a door that I couldn’t completely close. I had
violated all of my principles and experienced something I never should have experienced. I had tasted the fruit of the forbidden tree. Once you taste it, eventually you want more.

  In June 1980 I would finish my major in business and economics at Whittier College. Once again, I prepared to move forward. My future was filled with promise and my life was back on track. I was to be married to Duana that August, and wedding plans were in the works. Our wedding party was very large and the ceremony took place at St. Bernadette Catholic Church in Baldwin Hills. Elaine Chenier prepared the New Orleans–style wedding and Southridge was the perfect backdrop for our reception. Maybe it was fate I met and married Duana Marie Chenier. Our families had old ties. Her grandfather Rip Robert and her grandmother Miss Mary were old friends of my father from New Orleans. In the early days, when my father was on the chitlin’ circuit, Miss Mary would invite him over and cook gumbo for him. Rip was my father’s friend and promoted his concerts in New Orleans. Over twenty years later I would marry Rip’s granddaughter.

  The morning of the wedding, I waited nervously for Dwayne Bonner, my friend and one of my groomsmen, at Southridge. He pulled up in a black Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible. He got out of the car wearing his wedding attire, gave me a big smile with his arms open wide, and said, “Junior, are you ready? The Corniche is my present to you and D. Congratulations. I love you.”

  When we arrived in front of St. Bernadette, all of my groomsmen, our guests, and our friends were waiting out front. I greeted everyone with a smile, and then my best men, Dwayne Booner and Shedrick Nance, decided it was time to go to the front of the church and wait. We came in down the right side of the church, and when we reached the front I turned around to see how many people were in attendance—the church was almost full. I never expected so many people. I was immediately overcome by anxiety and I retreated to the restroom and locked the door. I peered into the mirror and asked myself, Are you ready?

  I could hear Billy Preston’s “With You I’m Born Again” playing in the background. Then someone knocked on the door, and I heard my father asking, “Son, are you coming out?” I was very surprised to hear his voice. I knew he and Bobby were aware of the wedding date, but I had not spoken to either of them since my father’s tour began in Europe.

  I replied, “Not yet.”

  Dad said, “Why not?”

  I replied, “I’m a little nervous.”

  My father said, “Well now, son, just open the door.”

  As soon as I opened the door he reached out and hugged me tight. It meant the world to me to see him. He’d rearranged his schedule to fly home just long enough to see me get married. This day the music did not come first. My brother Bobby was on tour with him, but he missed his connecting flight and didn’t make it to the wedding. I wanted him to share that moment with me along with David. When I approached the altar to wait for my bride, I saw my mother and father sitting together. My mother looked beautiful in a purple dress and a lovely hat. My father sat close to her, beaming. I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen them together like that, looking happy. I knew they had put their feelings aside to share this day with me. It was one of the first signs that some of the bitterness was beginning to fade. My mother told me later that she kept reminding my father that even if they couldn’t live together, we could still be a family.

  After I arrived at the altar with a smile, I turned toward Duana as she walked down the aisle toward me, and we exchanged our vows. Our introduction as Mr. and Mrs. Ray Charles Robinson Jr. represented a new beginning for us. We exited St. Bernadette to the applause of over four hundred guests. Jet magazine attended the wedding to write a story and to take some pictures of us and our family. As we met our guests and our wedding party at the front of the church, Dale escorted Duana and me to the Rolls. We stood in the backseat with the top down, smiling and waving to everyone for several minutes until we finally sat down for the ride to Southridge.

  Everyone was there to greet us when we arrived. We partied for hours, New Orleans–style. Elaine and my mother had done an amazing job preparing Southridge. There were guests all around the pool area, the tennis court, and the upper-garden terrace, and inside our home was filled with music, and we second-lined the day away. It was a day filled with joy that we shared with our family and friends. As we finally drove off that evening, I looked back and saw the walls of Southridge lit up behind us. Our house looked like a castle. In that moment, I thought maybe Camelot would be possible after all.

  CHAPTER 14

  From the Heart

  I will protect you and

  respect you.

  —JEROME POMUS AND

  KENNETH HIRSCH

  DUANA AND I SETTLED IN TO BEGIN OUR OWN HAPPILY EVER after. We moved south to Irvine in Orange County, and I went to work as a loan officer for Centron Financial, a mortgage banking firm in Newport Beach. The Rancho San Joaquin condominium complex where we lived was a beautiful setting to start our lives together. Next door was a golf course and a tennis complex. During our first year of marriage we found out Duana was pregnant and we decided to move back to Los Angeles, closer to our families. Nineteen eighty was not an ideal time to be in real-estate finance. That January my grandfather died. I loved him dearly. It was yet another loss in a family that was already diminished. With all of my grandparents gone, Duana’s pregnancy couldn’t have come at a better time. We needed new life in the family, and my mother needed the comfort of our presence at Southridge, which had become a lonely place. We moved into the lower level of Southridge, which we had all to ourselves, and eagerly awaited the birth of our first child.

  On October 23, 1981, at Daniel Freeman Memorial Hospital in Inglewood, my daughter Erin Brianne came into the world. After hours of anxiety while my wife was in labor, I watched as my daughter was born. I held my breath until I heard her cry. The doctor handed her to me, and I held her for the first time. I started to check her limbs, counting her fingers and toes. I put my finger in front of her eyes to see if she would respond. My father’s anxiety was passed down to me; he felt his blindness may have been hereditary. It was the first question my father had asked my mother when I was born. Once I knew Erin was all right, I was flooded with relief and joy. I just stood there and gazed at her. Her birth was the most incredible experience I had ever had, a miracle from God. She had light brown skin, a full head of hair, and almond-shaped eyes. I know all parents think this, but I truly thought she was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen. I nicknamed her “Tinkerbell.” It was something about her smile. The nickname stuck, and my friends and I called her Tink as a child.

  After her birth the gnawing worry I had felt as a child at Hepburn returned. What if something happened to Erin? My fear was worsened when I heard that a prominent athlete had two children die of SIDS—sudden infant death syndrome. No one knew what caused SIDS, and there were no warning signs. I was petrified about losing Erin to SIDS. I would wake up in the middle of the night and watch her sleep. I would put my finger by her nose to make sure she was breathing. Sometimes I would pick her up in the middle of the night and hold her. Duana would get angry with me for waking her. Other times I would pick her up when she was crying, lie back down, and let her sleep on my chest so she could hear my heartbeat. I would lie still like that for two or three hours until she was asleep again. Her bassinet was on my side of the bed. I just needed to be close to her. I wanted her to know that I was there and would protect her.

  Duana was also overprotective and wanted to do everything for Erin. But I was determined to care for my daughter myself. One day when I took her into the bathroom to change her diaper, I locked the door, prepared the water, and bathed her by myself. When I carried her out, she was all clean and diapered. My wife was mad at me, but Erin was my child, too, and I wanted those special moments with her. Erin remained the center of our lives for the next three years, until our second child was born. We held Erin so much during the first year that she rarely got a chance to walk on her own. Then on her first birth
day, Erin was sitting on the carpet in the entertainment room full of children who had come for her first birthday party. After watching the other kids walk around for a while, she pushed herself to her feet and started walking, following the other children. We all watched Erin take her first steps anxiously. It was a wonderful day. Southridge was filled with children and laughter and full of life once again. Life was good.

  When we learned about Duana’s pregnancy, we decided to move back to Southridge. Part of the plan was for me to go to work for my father. I had chosen my majors in business and economics with my sights on joining the publishing end of my father’s company. I felt that with my educational background I could make a contribution. But when I asked my father for a job, he failed to offer me one. The best he could offer me was a minimum-wage position helping out around the studio. I was shaken. But I could not support a wife and child on minimum wage.

  At that time he was leaving for a tour in Japan, so I asked if I could go on tour with him as his assistant. He considered my request for a few days. Eventually he agreed, and that December I left to join him. I’ve never regretted that decision. It became a fond memory and a way to reconnect with my dad.

  I arrived in Tokyo, and was met by some tour representatives. My father and the band were already in Nagoya. His representatives were very thorough and efficient. They put me on a high-speed train, and there was someone there to check in with me at every major city en route to Nagoya. It was my first time in Japan and I was very excited. I peered out the windows as the Japanese landscape rushed by. When I arrived in Nagoya, I was escorted to the Hilton Hotel, where I met my father.

  I fell quickly into the routine that my father followed on the road. During the day, while he was sleeping, I was free to sightsee, and I took in as much of Japan as I could. When he was awake, I was on call to assist him. The hard part was the actual traveling. My father never left the hotel until the last minute, so we were always in a rush to make a plane or train. It made me a nervous wreck. We usually got to the plane just as they were shutting the door. We would be walking at what felt like ten thousand miles an hour, my father following behind me with one hand on my shoulder. Meanwhile, I carried all of his personal bags. He always had a pile of bags with him. I would rush through the airport with my father attached to my shoulder and my hands filled with my bag, his garment bag, his radio, the case with his tape recorder, his coat, and his personal bag. It weighed a ton, and it was hard to walk and carry it all. I learned a new respect for his valets.