ON THURSDAY, Ray Charles Enterprises put my father’s body on display at the Los Angeles Convention Center. Eric Raymond, a spokesman for Ray Charles Ent., my father’s publicist, announced that “the star’s family requested that he be put on display as a final tribute to his fans.” That was news to me. His open coffin stood on a raised blue platform surrounded by candles and floral displays. To the right of his coffin was a grand piano, the lid raised, with one of my father’s sequined jackets lying on the piano bench. Large pictures of my father in one of his last performances were displayed on an overhead screen. Thousands of mourners filed by to pay their respects. Many of them signed a condolence book or one of the large posters of my father displayed in the lobby. My family did not go. Erin was puzzled by the public display. Why would they put her grandfather’s open coffin in such a huge public venue? It had not yet dawned on her that he was an American icon, loved by his fans. To her, he was just Grandpa.
Another service was held in Los Angeles on Friday, June 18, at FAME, one of the highest-profile African American churches in the country. The huge sanctuary, which accommodates 1,500 people, is beautiful. A wall-size mural in primary colors and gilt forms a backdrop to the choir loft. On the way to the church, I rode in the limousine with my mother, my daughters, their mother, my brother David and his wife, and my granddaughter, Kennedy. The streets around the church were blocked off. As we neared the church, we could hear police and news helicopters circling overhead. When the chauffeur opened the door, we were swarmed by an onslaught of paparazzi. Hundreds of floral arrangements, including a huge wreath of chrysanthemums spelling out the letters “RC,” surrounded the church. The entrance was packed with mourners still trying to get inside. Some of the 1,500 Hollywood A-list guests had been in line for more than two hours, inching their way through a tight security check. Security guided our family safely to the main entrance. We were silent, grim. Erin clutched Kennedy tightly, overwhelmed by the pressing crowd. The family entered the church by the main aisle. The sanctuary was packed. We could feel the stares of the crowd as we were led to the front pews and seated. It was at that moment, surrounded by thousands of people inside and outside the church, that my daughters finally understood the magnitude of their grandfather’s celebrity.
A few feet in front of us was my father’s closed casket, covered with red and white roses. A note on the roses said they were from Joe Adams and his wife, Emma. Mae, Mary Anne, and Arlette, all of whom had borne a child by my father, sat in the family area, one row behind my family and my mother. It was uncomfortable for everyone. Even in death, my father’s indiscretions followed him. I had developed a relationship with my siblings’ mothers, but their presence was a painful reminder for my mother.
Robert, the only family member to participate in the memorial, opened the service. He told the congregation, “If you would do something for my family today, why don’t you stand on your feet and give God some praise—because we’re here to celebrate God today and thank God for this man. He’s blessed us, He’s blessed us. Say hallelujah! Say hallelujah!” And the congregation responded “Hallelujah!” It echoed in the vast sanctuary. It was difficult for us to feel joyful that day. Reverend Jesse Jackson praised my father as a maestro. Clint Eastwood spoke of my dad as an educator who had taught the country the meaning of many genres of music, particularly the blues. Glen Campbell paid his respects. Stevie Wonder and B. B. King sang musical tributes. Everyone fought tears as my father’s good friend Willie Nelson sang “Georgia,” my father’s signature song, and we all laughed when Willie said that after losing a chess game to my father, Willie asked him, “Next time can we play with the lights on?” Quincy Jones and Bill Cosby, who were unable to attend the service, recorded tributes that were played. My family appreciated the heartfelt tributes. The most poignant moment came from my father himself. His deep, gravelly voice filled the sanctuary with one of his final recordings, “Over the Rainbow.” I was in the audience looking on rather than being a participant at my father’s funeral.
When the service concluded, our family was shown out to the limousine again while my father’s coffin was placed in the hearse. We formed part of a funeral cortege that went first to 2107 Washington, where we paused for a minute in tribute to my father’s musical legacy, before continuing on to Inglewood Park Cemetery for a private service. Everyone crowded in front of my father’s crypt at the mausoleum, where Mr. Adams conducted a brief ceremony, which was followed by a repast at FAME. By then we were so exhausted and emotionally drained that it was all a blur. When we finally got home, the evening news was showing clips from the funeral. Erin and Blair had phone messages waiting, all of them with some variation of “We saw you on television!” My children hadn’t realized they would be on the evening news. It was another loss of privacy that only the families of public figures can understand.
Tributes poured in from around the world, but I couldn’t take them all in. My friends called and e-mailed from all over the world—Russia, England, Italy, France, Switzerland, Jamaica, and Germany. Their messages were heartwarming, as were the calls from my friends in the States. I want to thank Kim Davis for expressing her sympathy by offering her home as a place for all of our friends to meet in our time of grief, and Lorraine Dillard for her support in bringing together all of our friends from Hepburn and 6th Avenue. Those gatherings really touched my heart. I would also like to thank Jeru and Natalie Morgan for their considerable and deeply appreciated efforts as well.
I would reunite with Rhonda Bailey for the first time in several years at Lorraine’s. Rhonda was a blessing. She not only offered her friendship but her love as well. She went out of her way to help me through and out of the turmoil I was experiencing. She took a real chance inviting me into her life during the height of my emotional instability and grief. Her love and support became a stabilizing force in my life and I love her for that.
Ray was about to be released, and I still had not screened the film. I had promised my father that this film would represent our family well, so I tried to screen it the month he died. I couldn’t do it. I tried, but before I was an hour into the film, the pain was too acute. I had to abandon the effort. It was too soon. By the end of that summer, Universal was screening and was promoting the film heavily, and I knew I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to screen the film, and I needed to get my mother to see the film as well. With my father’s passing, her approval was crucial to me. I scheduled a screening for my mother, Rhonda, her parents, and me. Stuart Benjamin and I were on pins and needles, waiting to see how my mother would react. The film was a tribute to her as well as to my father, and her reaction was important. Her support was vital. Her work with Kerry Washington and James White were crucial to the story. When the film ended and the lights came up, my mother told me, “Ray Jr., I like the way our family was portrayed.” I was flooded with relief. It was all the approval I needed.
The day Ray premiered was extremely difficult for me. My thoughts were on my father. I had dreamed of us watching the film together. I struggled to keep my emotions at bay. I sat in the theater that night with my family and friends and a gifted production team that had finally made my dream a reality. The moment the lights went out and the film started to roll, I celebrated a quiet victory over those who said this film would never be made. My mind went back fifteen years to Red Cab Productions, to the day I walked into my father’s office to ask him if I could have the opportunity to bring his story to the world. Even with my father’s blessing, it took Taylor, Stuart, and me over a decade for Ray to become a reality. I was filled with respect and gratitude to Philip Anschutz, Crusader Entertainment, Bristol Bay Productions, Taylor Hackford, Stuart Benjamin, and James White for not sacrificing the integrity of my father’s life. Once again, when the film was over and the lights came up, I smiled and wiped the tears from my eyes. My father will never be forgotten.
After the premiere, I found myself falling into a deep depression. I carried a heavy burden of grief and guilt, and of
what could have been. Regrets assailed me. I had assumed that someday everything would be made right. Now it would never be made right. It was too late. I had been so busy wishing for a different kind of father that I had missed the opportunity to relish the one I had. At this point I was living in a five-star hotel in Beverly Hills, and I decided to visit someone I knew. When I got to the room, there were drugs, which was the worst possible scenario in my frame of mind. This time I plunged deeper than I ever had before.
Even though I was isolating, I was communicating with Rhonda and my children. Rhonda was adamant about seeing me, but I refused. I did not want to take her any farther down this path with me. My children came to visit one evening, and when they saw my condition, they began to worry. As the weeks passed and my condition didn’t improve, the girls begged their mother to help. They were frantic with worry. Duana spoke to everyone she could think of, and finally she called Ray Charles Enterprises. She talked to Valerie Ervin, and told her I was in desperate shape. She pleaded with Valerie to speak to Mr. Adams and ask him to use some of his authority to release funds to get me into a good treatment program. When Valerie called back, she said that she had spoken with Mr. Adams, and he had decided not to take any action to help me. Family spirits were low, broken by their fear for me. Duana worked for some attorneys at the time, so she asked them what options were available for me. They contacted the drug court to find out what the legal process was. They were told that the only way I could be forced to get help was to be arrested. The courts would either jail me or put me into mandatory rehabilitation. But it might be the only way to force me to take a hard look at myself. I had never been arrested for drug possession or for being under the influence.
On February 3, 2005, two police officers showed up at the door of my room at the Dunes Inn–Wilshire. They told me they were there on a tip that I was in possession of illegal drugs. I spoke with the officers for twenty minutes. I told the LAPD officer that I had used cocaine the night before and I was not under the influence at that time. They searched my room, found a small amount of drugs, and arrested me. I voluntarily took a urine test, which came up positive for drugs, as I knew it would. I could have denied using cocaine and called an attorney, but I didn’t. Instead I told the officer that I needed help. I was angry that I had put myself in this position in the first place, but I was no longer in denial. I had followed my father a step farther down that dark path. Like him, I had now been arrested for possession. The next day articles were in the paper and on the Internet with headlines reading, “Ray Charles’ Son Arrested on Drug Charges.” It was humiliating. But my arrest and the court would ultimately get me into a more sound treatment program. And it probably saved my life.
Eleven days later, on Valentine’s Day, my father was awarded eight posthumous Grammy Awards, including Record of the Year for “Here We Go Again” with Norah Jones and Album of the Year for Genius Loves Company. Jamie Foxx and Alicia Keys performed a musical tribute in his honor. Once again I was not notified about either the Grammy Awards presentation or the NAACP Image Awards tribute. Ray was also nominated for six Academy Awards: best picture, best director, best actor, best editing, best sound mixing, and best costume design. At the ceremony on February 27, Jamie Foxx would win an Oscar for best actor, Paul Hirsch for editing, and Scott Millan, Greg Orloff, Bob Beemer, and Steve Cantamessa for best sound mixing.
ALTHOUGH THE ARREST had served as a form of intervention, I was the one who ultimately made the decision to go into treatment. I had grown up worried about whether my parents would be there to see me reach adulthood. I lived with the constant fear that one or both of them would die. As a father myself, I had come full circle. Now it was my mother who wondered if she would outlive me, and my children who feared I wouldn’t be there to see my grandchildren grow up.
With the agreement of the court, I voluntarily checked in to sober living. I agreed to supervision by Impact Drug and Alcohol Treatment Center, which works in conjunction with the court and other service agencies. They are a key part of the alternative-sentencing program that refers offenders to addiction treatment rather than to jail. They monitor program participants carefully, conducting random drug tests and requiring weekly counseling and strict accountability. Impact also makes regular reports to authorities on probationers’ progress and conduct. If the staff believes someone is not attempting to follow the program, they have the ability to send that person to or back to jail. They offer services on both an inpatient and outpatient basis.
I elected to enter the program on an outpatient basis, remaining under Impact supervision while returning to sober living at the Laws Support Center. That didn’t last very long. The sober-living facility was too close to the neighborhood where I used to get high, and the temptation was too great. Impact requested they move me to a different sober-living arrangement, where I remained for six months before moving to Marina del Rey. By June 2006 I had been sober for one year. One year of following the program and remaining clean enables participants to graduate from the program. I was proud of my success.
And how did I celebrate that success? I got high. Incredible, but true. For forty-five days, I binged. Ridiculous as it sounds, I even called my Impact counselor, Colin, to tell him that I was bingeing. Then one day, seven weeks into the binge, something strange happened. I looked in the mirror, and once again found myself staring back in despair at a blurry-eyed image. I don’t know why, but that morning, my father’s words from five years earlier came back to me. He had told me that one day, without rehab, without help from anyone, I would just decide to stop treating myself in that manner, and when that happened, I would stop. And I did. It was September 8, 2006, my sobriety birthday. I have celebrated three of them so far.
Once I was clean, I went back to Impact and talked to the alumni and the newcomers about my experiences. Most of the staff members are graduates of the program, so they understood what I had been through. Together we developed a follow-up program for Impact alumni called Still Here. Every other month we meet with recovered and recovering addicts to renew our commitment and offer support. We talk about the challenges of remaining clean, take part in group discussions, and have fun together. The ongoing support and sense of connection have proved invaluable for many of us. I continue to attend meetings and remain in contact with my sponsor, and I do not take sobriety, my life, and, most important, my family for granted today. I know I will have to live the rest of my life one day at a time. But that is okay.
Now that I have finally gotten my life together, everything is so much better. I keep it simple and I thank God for his blessings. My life is not a happily-ever-after story; my family and I are still tied up in legal challenges. Yet, I feel fortunate to be able to rebuild my life spiritually and financially.
In so many ways, life is better than I once dreamed it could be. I needed to talk openly about my failures and my addiction, for the best use I can make of them is to help others learn from my mistakes. Today I live and feel my emotions instead of hiding from them. I have learned to forgive, as I have been forgiven. I have learned humility. After a lifetime of judging and blaming my father for the ways he hurt us, I repeated some of the same mistakes. It is deeply humbling to recognize that and move forward. Our relationship was bittersweet, but I loved him and I know he loved me. I am profoundly grateful for the love and forgiveness of my daughters. They are amazing women and I love them. And I draw strength from the knowledge that I am helping to break the chain of addiction that has crippled my family for two generations. Everything in my father’s life and mine happened for a reason. It has led me to the place where I am today. God has spared me the fate that has claimed so many. I am still Ray Charles Robinson Jr., but these days I know who that is.
I am still here, moving forward with hope and optimism. As my father once said, it’s good just to see another day.
Epilogue
But still I hold my
head up high and sing,
Please free my heart and
on each day.
—ARLETTE KOTCHOUNIAN
AS I MOVE FORWARD WITH MY LIFE, I CAN’T HELP BUT REMEMBER that I tried so hard to understand my father, who never called just to say hello or stop for a visit at my home. But, it’s a new day. I forgive him as I have been forgiven. I’m learning to forgive myself for my shortcomings and I gain strength from the knowledge that God has given me another chance to do it right. My relationship with my dad was bittersweet, but there is no doubt he was a great man. I respected him as my father and I loved him. I know he loved my mother and his children. He loved all of us in his own special way. I am Ray Charles Robinson Jr., and I am proud to be his son. When I listen to my father’s music, it reminds me of the man he was and the man he wanted to be. His music still communicates to me in God’s common language, which fills my heart and soul. My father is resting now and our beautiful season will have to happen in another space and time.
Thanks to God’s grace and His mercy, I have stopped the pain. I realize I have another chance at a beautiful season with Rhonda. We are looking forward to our future with promise, love, and respect for each other. I realize by arresting my addiction my children, my mother, and my brothers can move past our pain collectively. It is not too late to build a stronger family foundation through forgiveness, communication, and love. I hope my bond with my other siblings becomes stronger. They are part of my life, too. I have come in from the rain, I have found my reality, and I have been humbled by the road it took to get here. Today, I walk with my head held high so I can continue on the path God paved for me.
You Don't Know Me Page 28