John called to me, “C’mon, now, Cissy. They’ll be all right.” I looked down at Michael, his sweet face streaked with tears, and reluctantly turned toward the car, to leave him as I’d done so many times before.
Just then, Gary and Nippy came running over and joined their brother; now all three were sitting on the curb, crying, and watching me through eyes filled with hurt. I looked at each of their faces, and that was it. Without thinking about the consequences, I walked straight to the trunk, pulled out my bag, and started walking back toward the house.
John yelled, “Cissy, get back here! We’ve got to go!” I may have heard him, but I certainly didn’t listen. I just marched right back into the kitchen, with my children trailing behind me.
When John finally came inside, I looked at him and said, “I’m quitting the Sweet Inspirations.”
CHAPTER 5
Life on Dodd Street
I had finally done it—I’d left the Sweet Inspirations to spend more time with Nippy, Gary, and Michael. But now I had to figure out another way to make money. With ten years of experience doing backup, and the Sweets’ reputation as a solid opening act, I decided it was time to try for a deal as a solo artist.
This is where all that time John spent hanging out with Elvis’s people, and learning about the industry, came in handy. John was able to get in touch with Charles Koppelman, a veteran record man who was running the music division of a new label called Commonwealth United, and he pitched me as a solo artist. They signed me for a modest fifteen-thousand-dollar advance and we began recording right away—and in 1970, we released my first solo album, Presenting Cissy Houston.
With that advance we were finally able to leave the Wainwright neighborhood. John and I wasted no time finding a beautiful new home—a four-bedroom, white clapboard house at 362 Dodd Street in East Orange. The kids loved it, because not only did they have their own bedrooms for the first time ever, but the house also happened to have a big in-ground swimming pool in the backyard. And John installed a pool table in the finished basement, which was still big enough for me to use as a rehearsal studio. For all my worries about leaving the Sweets, things turned better than I could have hoped—this house was sensational.
I was still recording and doing session work in New York City, but because I wasn’t constantly on the road, I could finally be more involved in my children’s lives. And because we had that backyard pool, our house became a gathering place for them and their friends, so they were around a lot more than they had been at the old house.
That first summer, I think Nippy spent almost all of her time in the pool. Between that, the pool table in the basement, and John grilling burgers and hot dogs in the backyard, we always had a bunch of kids hanging around. They’d come over and eat with us and swim, and sometimes I’d find out that someone had slept in our basement without my even knowing it. Nippy, Michael, and Gary just treated everyone like family.
In fact, they were sometimes a little too friendly for my taste. They welcomed everybody, and anything they had, they’d share it with their friends. When I bought them clothes, shirts, or pants or whatever, they’d just give them to the other kids. I’d be saying, “What the hell are you doing, giving your clothes away?” But that’s just the kind of kids they were, all three of them. I think they felt a little guilty that they had so much—a nice house, a swimming pool, and anything they ever needed—so they wanted to share with kids who maybe didn’t have so much. That was a generous idea, but I had to sit them down and tell them, “Mommy works hard. I don’t mind you sharing, but let’s not get crazy about this, you know?”
Ever since she was little, Nippy’s first instinct was always generosity. I remember her watching television and seeing Michael Jackson—then in the Jackson Five—doing his thing. “Mommy,” she announced, “I’m going to marry that boy.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes,” she told me. “I’m going to marry him, and I’m going to be a star, and I’m going to buy you a house.”
“Well, thank you,” I said, smiling at my little girl with her big dreams. “Thank you, Nippy.”
I love my sons, but Nippy was the youngest, and a girl, and she was my heart. She was such a loving little girl, friendly, outgoing, and trusting from the time she was a tot.
When she was very small, I’d take her with me on errands to the bank or to the supermarket. I’d dress her up in cute little outfits and fix her hair with ribbons, and she always looked adorable. I had to keep an eye on her all the time, though, because she’d just walk right up to strangers and start talking. “Good morning,” she’d chirp, talking to complete strangers like she’d known them all her life.
“Nippy!” I’d say. “You can’t just walk up and start talking to people like that. You don’t even know them!”
And she’d say, “Oh, Mommy, it’s all right”—the words she always used when I pointed out something she didn’t want to hear.
More than once, I tried to explain why it wasn’t really all right, but she’d just look at me with those big eyes and say again, “Oh, Mommy.” That was just how she was—she thought everyone was her friend. And that’s why it ended up hurting her so bad later, when she found out that wasn’t really the case.
As sweet and innocent as little Nippy was, my oldest, Gary, was growing up fast—too fast for my liking. At around the same age as my brother William had done, he started getting in with the wrong crowd and using drugs. And since John and I had agreed that I’d be the disciplinarian in the house, I had to deal with it. I told Gary that some of the friends he was bringing around didn’t really have his best interests at heart. Of course, Gary was young and stubborn, and he didn’t want to hear it. So, we had our clashes.
I even had to put him out once. I guess at sixteen, Gary thought he was already a man, but I’d told him to be home by eleven, and when he came home one night after midnight, he found the door locked. “Just go on back to wherever you came from,” I told him through the door. “Because you are not coming in here.”
Gary left, and when he didn’t come home for a couple of days, it worried me half to death. I prayed for him, though, and when he finally came back and apologized, I just hugged him tight and tried to hold back the tears. I knew Gary thought I was tough on him, but that was how my daddy had been with us, so it was the only way I knew how to do things.
Gary was a lot like Nippy in one way: He wanted everybody to like him. He didn’t realize that some people never would, just because of who he was. He was tall, good-looking, a good singer, and a great athlete who would eventually go on to play in the NBA. But from the very beginning, kids would get on him because his cousin Dionne was a famous star and I was an entertainer. They’d say, “Oh, I guess you think you’re all that!” Gary was introverted, and he didn’t know quite how to deal with it. I think sometimes he felt like he had to come down a peg just to fit in. I always urged him to just be himself, and not to change for anyone just so he’d be liked.
Now, my younger son Michael didn’t have that problem at all. He had a soft spot for his family, but other than that, he was tough—more like me. He didn’t care what anyone thought, and he had a short fuse and wild temper.
Michael and Nippy were just two years apart, so they spent a lot of time together—and they’d fight and squabble like crazy, especially over curfew time. John would say, “Michael, you see those streetlights? By the time they go on, you better have Nippy home.” So Michael would have to go out and find Nippy, and drag her home. Oh, she hated that—she’d yell, “You black dog!” at him and put up a fight, and they’d end up punching each other and mouthing off all the way home.
To get back at him, she’d either tell on him or threaten to tell until he gave her something she wanted. We used to have family roundtable meetings, so John and I could find out what was going on with the kids. And when we’d sit them down and ask how things were, Nippy was always
, “Michael hit me!” or “I saw Michael smoking a cigarette!” All he’d say was “I didn’t do nothing!”
But the funny thing is, even with all that squabbling, it was obvious that Michael really loved Nippy. I knew that even though she tattled on him, he’d still take the blame for her sometimes when she did something wrong. I’d say, “Who did this?” And he’d just look up and say, “Yeah, Mommy, it was me.” Michael wanted to protect Nippy—which was a reaction she brought out in a lot of people throughout her life.
And they could be so funny together. When she was about nine or ten and thought she wanted to be a singer, she’d go down to my studio in the basement and put on my clothes. She’d have one of my gowns hanging off her and be trying to walk in my high-heeled shoes. She’d put on my earrings and even try to make herself up. Michael would come tell me about this, and I’d just say, “Don’t stop her. Let her go!”
Then she’d somehow convince Michael and one of her cousins to pretend to be in a band. They’d have a broom and a bucket as though they were playing a guitar and drums. She loved Sonny and Cher at the time, so she’d dress up, put on one of my long wigs, pretend she was Cher—and then she’d do two or three costume changes, just like the real Cher. At the same time, she’d make Michael be Sonny—which he hated—but he’d stand there all the same and sing, “Babe . . . I got you, babe!” over and over. She’d laugh and shout, “You’re all off-key, Michael!” She had near-perfect pitch even then, just playing around in the basement with her brother.
Other times, Nippy would want to play “ballerina,” which meant that she’d go down the hallway, then get a running start and leap into Michael’s arms like some kind of gazelle, just hoping he didn’t drop her on her face. Or Nippy would be down in the basement by herself, singing and hollering so loud that John would come to me and say, “Can’t you make that child shut up?!”
“No, I’m not making her shut up!” I’d tell him. “She’s making her lungs strong. She wants to sing.”
Those times in the basement were funny, but many years later, Michael told me stories about some of the mess they got into as children—and how fearless Nippy was. One time, in the weeks after the Newark riots, she caught him playing around the burnt-out buildings near our Wainwright Street house. John and I had specifically told Michael to stay away from that area, but of course he didn’t listen. He piled up some old mattresses on the ground near one of the buildings, and then, with no common sense in his teenage-boy head, he’d climb up onto the roof and jump off.
Well, Nippy caught him one day, and she told him that if he didn’t help her climb up onto that roof and let her jump, too, she’d come tell John and me what he was doing. Michael didn’t want to let her do it, because he knew that if anything happened to her, I would personally kill him, but he brought her up on that roof with him. And then he went first, to show her how to do it—only when he landed, he busted his lip hitting it on his own knee.
When Nippy saw Michael’s bloody lip, she was too scared to jump. It took a while, but Michael finally convinced her to go on and do it, and she soared off the roof and onto those mattresses without getting a scratch. Luckily, she never asked to try it again.
Michael also told me about the time Nippy found out that he had “borrowed” John’s car, a big, red, fishtailed El Dorado. We used to keep the keys under the mat, and everybody knew they were there, so it wasn’t hard to do. When Nippy discovered that Michael had been out joyriding, she said, “You better take me out and let me drive, or I’m telling.”
So while John and I were away, Michael got a pillow, put it on the driver’s seat, and put little Nippy on top of it. He slid the seat up as close to the front as it would go, but Nippy could still barely reach the pedals and see out at the same time. She drove it up and down the street as Michael sat panicking in the passenger seat. And when they were done, Michael let out a big sigh of relief—until Nippy said, “All right! We’re coming back out again tomorrow, right?”
“Nip! No way! We ain’t doing this again,” he said.
She just smiled and said those magic words: “I’m gonna tell.” And so he took her out again the next day. I didn’t know any of this at the time, of course. In fact, Michael didn’t tell me about it until just a few months ago. He’s lucky he didn’t tell me any earlier—his little butt would still be sore.
We always had all kinds of mess going on at the house, and it wasn’t always between Michael and Nippy. John was as bad as they were—he used to love to hide around corners and pop out to scare the kids. Or they’d be watching a scary movie on TV, all snuggled up together, and John would suddenly shout, “Aaaaahhh!” They’d scream and giggle—and beg him to do it again.
We had a lot of laughter in our house. John would braid Nippy’s hair into pigtails, and somehow one always came out much longer than the other. That child had the most lopsided-looking hair ever, but John just couldn’t figure out how to make them even. And, even though I tried to dress her in nice clothes and little ribbons, she’d come back from school all smudged like a little tomboy. It was like a circus around our house sometimes.
During these years, John and I were really in love, but even so, we’d argue sometimes just like any other couple. Whenever we argued, we’d get to calling each other silly names and then just bust out laughing. Nothing ever seemed so serious that we couldn’t laugh about it. I couldn’t believe my good fortune, to be blessed with such a good husband who was a great father.
John and I took care of ourselves, and each other. When I decided one day that I wanted to stop drinking, John did, too. And for the next ten years, we really didn’t drink at all. At the same time, I decided to quit smoking. I was never a big smoker—a pack might last me three days—but I knew it was terrible for me, especially being a singer. I was a little hoarse and I went to the doctor, who told me, “You can either sing or smoke.” So one morning I just took my pack of cigarettes and threw it in the trash.
Well, you know how it goes—by that afternoon I thought, “Where are those cigarettes? I’ll just have one more.” I went looking in the trash and of course, the pack was gone. I called Michael and Nippy into the room and said, “Did you all take those cigarettes to smoke?”
Nippy just looked at me all wide-eyed. “Oh no, Mommy,” she said. “We took them out of the house to throw away, so you wouldn’t be tempted by them anymore.” Little Miss Innocent. I knew better, but Michael and Nippy stuck together on that story, so I let it slide.
When Nippy was a little girl, her life was pretty carefree. Between mixing it up with her brothers and playing around the house, she was never too far from people who cared about her. The same thing was true when she left the house, too. She and her brothers got to travel in private jets to see their cousin Dionne’s concerts or visit her in Virginia. Dionne had two sons, and they always got so excited when Nippy came to see them. And I was so proud of her that I used to take her everywhere with me—even into Manhattan, to sessions at Atlantic. She’d hang with Aretha, who she called Aunt Ree, then run over and jump into one of the Sweets’ laps. Everybody thought she was so cute and ladylike, they all made a fuss over her. She was a happy, happy child.
Things changed, though, when Nippy started at Franklin Elementary. I guess it was partly my fault—I was still dressing her in plaid skirts and buckskin shoes, and insisting she wear her hair in pigtails. That was the way I thought little girls should look, but as she pointed out to me later, I was dressing her right out of Town & Country when all the other girls in East Orange were dressing down, wearing jeans. They thought Nippy was acting like she was better than they were, and a group of them began bullying her.
I didn’t know about all this until one day when Nippy came home at lunchtime. “My teacher says I don’t have to go back to school today,” she told me. I asked her why, and she told me the teacher just said she’d “done good.” That didn’t sound right, so I kept pressing her, and she fina
lly told me that some girls had threatened to beat her up after school.
Nippy never liked confrontation, and she’d go out of her way to avoid it if she could. Like her brother Gary, she wanted to be liked—and she really couldn’t understand it if someone didn’t like her. I’d had to threaten to whoop Gary’s butt myself one time when I found out he wouldn’t fight back when some kid attacked him. It was only after I embarrassed him that he stood up for himself—and then he had to be pulled off that child.
I wasn’t going to threaten Nippy that same way, but I was mad. I was angry at those girls for attacking my baby, because I knew she didn’t do anything to deserve it. If Nippy was anything, she was nice. She loved people, and she just wanted everyone to get along. But these girls were taking her glasses and bending them up, and stealing things from her, like the gold ring engraved with her name that her cousin Dee Dee had given her. These girls were just plain bullies, and I wasn’t going to stand for it.
Nippy might have been nonconfrontational, but I was not. And if you messed with any of my kids, you’d see very quickly just how confrontational I could be. I went down to the school and demanded that the principal take care of the problem. I also let him know that if he didn’t, I would do so myself. I’m sure I made a scene down there that day, and that Nippy was embarrassed. But I was furious, and I really didn’t care who knew it.
My protest might have helped some, but it didn’t solve the problem. Those girls kept messing with Nippy, and she stopped telling me about it because she knew I’d be right back down there at her school making a scene.
“Mommy,” she’d say, “I don’t want you to—”
“Mommy nothing!” I’d tell her. “You have to be able to speak up for yourself, Nippy.”
“But I don’t want to fight. I just want us all to be friends,” she’d say.
Remembering Whitney: My Story of Love, Loss, and the Night the Music Stopped Page 6