The Meaning of Mariah Carey

by Mariah Carey

  Young and culturally isolated, I had no idea how to manage my hair, nor the shame it brought me. I often wonder if my mother ever saw the carelessness that my hair made visible. Was she too preoccupied with her own burdens to notice? Could she not feel the dryness, and the lumps and bumps, of the gnarly tangles in my head? Why couldn’t she just sit me down and brush my hair for two hours, the way Marcia Brady did on The Brady Bunch? Maybe in her bohemian, sixties-loving ideology she thought I looked free, like an adorable flower child. Maybe she didn’t know I felt dirty.

  Having one Black and one white parent is complicated, but when you are a little girl with a white mother, largely cut off from other Black women and girls, it can be excruciatingly lonely. And, of course, I had no biracial role models or references. I understand why my mother didn’t understand how to manage my hair. When I was a baby, it was, well, baby hair, mostly uniform, soft curls. As I got older it got more complex, with diverse textures arising out of seemingly nowhere. She didn’t know what was happening. She was confused and randomly started cutting tragic bangs in my hair (believing bangs would behave in biracial hair is brave).

  It was a disaster, and I felt powerless. At seven years old, I really thought maybe if she would just wash my hair with Herbal Essence, a hair fairy would come at night, and I would wake up and poof! I would have perfect hair like my mom or the girls in the commercials.

  It took me five hundred hours of beauty school training to know even Marcia Brady’s hair wouldn’t blow with abandon with just shampoo. It takes professionals, products, and production, dahling—conditioners galore, diffusers, precision cuts, special combs, clip-ins, cameras, and, of course, wind machines. It requires a lot of effort to achieve effortless hair.

  What I really needed was any Black woman, or anyone with some kind of culture, cream, and a comb! But even that wasn’t that simple.

  One time my father’s half sisters staged an intervention of sorts, determined to “do something about that chile’s hair.” It was going to be an event. I was in the second grade when my father took me to my grandfather and Nana Ruby’s house in Queens.

  Humor was a tool I used to cope, disarm, and defend myself. I also used it to express my point of view when I had no control. It was a tool I began to sharpen quite early and, to this day, utilize frequently. In the backseat of the car on the long drive to visit my father’s family, I overheard Alison, seated up front, grumbling to him about how I was absorbing my mother’s quirks and eccentricities (particularly those associated with white privilege). I think she thought I was out in the world “passing” with our white mother (as though a child could make that distinction).

  And then, as if I weren’t there, she went on a tirade. I continued to stare silently out of the window at the dilapidated neighborhoods we had been driving through to get to Jamaica, Queens, from Long Island. Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer. Achieving an (I think) impressive impersonation of my mother, especially for a six-year-old, I groaned sarcastically in her characteristically slow, low, opera diva tone: “I see we’re taking the scenic route!” At which Alison snapped her head toward my father with an exasperated “See?” expression on her face. He stiffened, gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, and kept his eyes forward. For effect, I didn’t break my bored stare out the window. No one was entertained by my little impersonation. I tried.

  Sweet Nana Ruby was my father’s father’s second wife, with whom he had a whole lotta kids, half aunties and uncles to me, who subsequently produced a gang of cousins, some of whom were around my age. My father and his father, Bob Carey, had a complicated relationship. Bob’s mother was from Venezuela, and it is believed his father was Black—mixed with some undocumented lightening factor, as he too was on the fairer side of what was then called the “Negro spectrum.”

  Until I was about six years old, my father hadn’t spoken to his father in years. He was an only child and had a different mother than my grandfather’s other children, and as warm and as welcoming as Nana Ruby and her house were—and from what I could see, she showered my father with love—still, she was not his mother, and perhaps he felt like a bit of an outsider with them. I think he made the effort to mend things with his father for the sake of his own children as well as himself. He must have realized how isolated I was, living with just my mother in an all-white community that was becoming increasingly hostile to me. I needed to know some family.

  And I am forever grateful for it, because that house was a warm place bustling with family life. I loved it there. The whole neighborhood loved my grandpa. He was a regular, fun-loving guy with a hearty laugh, who wore crew socks with his slide sandals. He had a little urban vineyard in his backyard in Queens. He grew sour grapes from which he made sweet homemade wine that he stored in the basement. Nana Ruby and my aunties always had something cooking in the tiny kitchen—chicken, greens—but the standout staple dish was rice and beans. I could eat whole plates of it. There was the clamoring of comforting noises: pots clanging, soul music in the background, the hum of the TV, conversations, giggles, doors opening and closing, feet running up and down the stairs. It was a lighthearted space. There were people just hanging out together, connected to one another. Being there was the closest feeling I had to having a big family, a normal family, a real family.

  My favorite cousins would come from the Bronx and boy, did we play! We were a creative and mischievous bunch. Sometimes we would hang out the second-story window and drop water-balloon bombs on folks passing underneath. Then we’d duck down out of sight and shake in muffled hysterics. And of course, I loved anything that involved performance. My favorite was reenacting “Mrs. Wiggins” sketches from The Carol Burnett Show. Unsurprisingly, I insisted on playing the lead role. I had her signature walk down pat. I stuffed my little booty with a pillow, sticking it way out, acting like I had on a tight pencil skirt. I pranced about on my tippy-toes (maybe this is why I still walk on my toes), taking tiny steps. I’d smack imaginary gum and pretend to file my nails, and speak in the ditsy, nasally voice I had down to perfection. I specialized in character voices very early.

  “Oh, Mrs. Uh-Whiggins!” one of my cousins would say in a silly, skewed Swedish accent. I’d snap into character and we’d launch into a full-on improvisation. What I loved most was all the rambunctious laughing with my cousins. I loved the sound of my laughter as a small part in the chorus of other kids who were kinda like me.

  Inside the house with my cousins I may have felt a part of something, but outside with kids in the neighborhood was a different story. It’s always a different story with me. Even though my cousins didn’t live on this mostly Black and Hispanic block in Queens, they were known because our grandpa was “that guy” in the neighborhood. When we were outside playing, they’d introduce me to the other kids as their cousin, and some kid would invariably say, “She’s not your cousin. She’s white.”

  “Yes, she is our cousin!” they would snap right back. Who my mother was, who my father was, to whom I belonged, was always in question. But hanging out with my cousins wasn’t as heavy. I was part of a group. I was part of them, and they defended me. Yes, she is. It was that simple. And it was so important. My Black cousins were the only cousins I knew when I was a little girl. Because my mother’s side of the family, the white side, had disowned her, I had no way of having a real relationship with any of them as a child.

  My cousins were well put together because their mothers were very well put together. One auntie in particular was younger, juicy, and just gorgeous. She looked ready to twirl down the Soul Train line on TV. Her makeup was consistently impeccable, lips glossed up like glass. She wore funky-chic ensembles, and her hair was always in some superb slick, snatched-back style, so she could feature face. She was giving you trendy, sexy, and coordinated at all times, almost as fab as Thelma on Good Times (but a little bit thicker). This foxy auntie sold makeup at the department store counter—now that was fabulous to me. Once, she gave my favorite girl cousin and me a faux facia
l evaluation. As she was examining our little faces, she told Cee Cee, “Your lips are good.” Then she turned to me with a puzzled look and paused. I was wondering, and worrying, What’s wrong with my face? Me?

  “Mariah, your lips aren’t full enough,” she said with a sigh.

  I didn’t know what they weren’t full enough for, but I fully accepted her analysis as fact. A few years later, I was about twelve years old and hanging out with a white girlfriend at a department store on Long Island, where they were offering free makeup demos at one of the counters. My friend, by local standards, was a beauty: big blue eyes, a thin nose, and very thin lips. I, no doubt, had on some haphazard ensemble, and who knows what the hair was doing that day. Clearly looking our age, we sat down to have our faces done. Maybe the saleslady thought we had money to buy some makeup, or she was bored, or she simply took pity on us. Whatever the case, she began the process.

  As my auntie had done, she studied the contours and angles of both of our faces and reported to me, “Your lips are too full on top.” Wait, I thought. I knew I had a thin upper lip—but not as thin as my white friend, whose lip size was the “standard” at the time. I wanted to say, “Actually, I really want my lips to be bigger”—which I did, ever since the day of my auntie’s evaluation—but I held my tongue. Thus I was given two polar opposite professional opinions about my lips as a girl; they were too full for a white beauty standard and not full enough for a Black one. Who was I to believe? It was like my complexes had complexes. And there was no one to tell me, “Mariah, you are good.” Period.

  And now here we are in a world where white and Black women are filling up their butts and lips like water balloons. I guess I should’ve had my lips injected ages ago, but it’s too late. The whole world knows what my real lips look like, so why bother? Why would I do that now, when I can just accentuate them with lip liner, dahling?

  But I digress. That day at Grandpa and Nana Ruby’s house when I was seven, the time had come for my cousins’ main event. My aunties had decided it was time to put me together. Some of them were gathered upstairs in Nana Ruby’s bedroom, and they summoned me up. My cousins and I went upstairs toward the master bedroom, which was just right of the bathroom. I spent many moments exploring that little bathroom, fascinated with all the greasings and slatherings it contained. There were endless creams and lotions for the skin, and dressings and pomades for the hair. Imagine: skin lotion and hair grease! In this bathroom every cabinet and free space was filled with mysterious potions and products.

  I rarely went into the master bedroom, but it, too, was small, cramped, and comforting. It was humid and smelled like a hot candy store. A large bed, covered with a shiny, quilted white-and-maroon paisley bedspread, with ruffles at the hem, took up most of the room. There was a full-length mirror attached to the back of the door and a low dresser drawer on which my aunties had everything laid out. There was a hot plate cranking. Upon its sizzling surface was some foreign object that resembled a garden tool, with a dark wooden handle like a hammer, with teeth. Though the metal part was blackened, traces of its original gold color could be seen underneath. This mysterious hammer-fork thing sat menacingly on the plate’s surface, getting hotter and hotter. As I crossed the threshold into the bedroom, I felt as though I had entered an alternate universe, a secret chamber—one of Black-girl beauty.

  My aunts motioned for me to sit on the side of the bed. I didn’t know what kind of ritual was ahead, but I sure was excited. As I settled in on the edge of the bed, feet dangling off the side, I could feel many hands exploring the wild garden of knots, curls, and straight bits that made up my head of hair. My heart was racing. I felt like a long-lost princess sitting in her chambers, hoping this could be it—the moment of coronation, when my hair would finally get done and I would be transformed, presented to the world with newfound power and grace.

  Finally, I thought, maybe my hair would fit in. Maybe it would fall into sleek and shiny ringlets, and I would look like my cute Black girl cousins and friends who gathered in Queens. Or maybe it would lie down flat and bone straight like the hair of the little white girls I grew up among on Long Island. Either way, I was just thrilled that my hair would at last be cared for by someone who knew what to do.

  The action started at the back of my head, with some pulling and separating, and a little sharpness from knots coming undone. The next thing I felt was something I’ll never forget. First, there was a heavy tugging and burning sensation near my neck, followed immediately by an alarming searing and sizzling sound and an unfamiliar and vicious smell, like a dirty stuffed animal set on fire. Along with significant smoke, a faint panic began to waft through the room. I couldn’t make out much of what was being said, but I certainly heard, “Oh shit!” and “Stop, stop!” several times. And then it did stop. Abruptly. The excitement, the ritual, and the fixing all stopped. I stayed motionless and quiet, a small patch of hair at the nape of my neck still smoldering.

  My aunties were apologetic. “Sorry, baby, the hot comb is too strong for your hair,” my aunties explained. Sorry, baby, and that was the end of it. There would be no rites of passage into Black-girl hair society that day. I didn’t emerge transformed into a presentable little girl for Harlem, Queens, or Long Island. I was still a wayward little misfit who wore a disobedient crown on her head—only now with a patch of rough, burned, uneven (and noticeably shorter) hair in the back. I was far from done.

  * * *

  On rare occasions, my mother, brother, and I would take a drive to Jones Beach as a family. (Proximity to the beach was one of the few perks of being stranded on Long Island.) One summer morning, the three of us kids, along with one of my brother’s buddies, piled into my mother’s clunker on wheels and hit the road to the beach. It was a clear, bright day; you could see the ocean in the sky. It was a perfect day for the beach. My mother, sporting a light-blue cotton summer caftan with thin green stripes, was driving. All the windows were rolled down, giving the car a faux convertible feeling; my mother’s bell sleeves flapped slightly in the breeze. She had on her signature big sunglasses, and her hair was customarily carefree. My brother sat next to her, shirtless, his big, fluffy Afro bouncing gently.

  I sat in the backseat next to my brother’s friend, quietly looking out the open window, letting the warm, salty air wash over my face. I was trying to be nonchalant, not to let on I had an enormous crush on this teen-star-looking boy. His silky hair was strawberry blond, with perfect natural highlights, laid out in delicate, feathered layers and parted down the middle. Every dreamy strand rested in its perfect place. The car was quiet as we all enjoyed a rare moment of contentment.

  Gradually, though, I became aware that my hair had started to move. But it was not from the wind. Instead, it was from what felt like fingers. There were fingers searching through the wild, tangled bush that was my hair. I didn’t dare move or speak. But the boy, he was gently plucking at my hair! Surgically, he worked on the smaller, tighter, matted bits at the ends with the big black plastic comb he kept permanently ensconced in his back pocket. He was using the very same comb that he ran through his field of perfect golden strands on my disheveled head! He pulled the comb from scalp to end in small sections. As each portion was released from the weight of its former twisted entrapment, it would float a little bit.

  Over the course of the ride, without a single word exchanged between us, he removed all the knots and confusion from my hair. By the time we arrived at the beach, my hair was no longer a burden. It was liberated. I dashed straight to the water—oh, how I love the ocean, a gift from my mother—and as I ran I could feel my hair, buoyant and blowing in the wind for the first time. Hallelujah! My hair was actually blowing like in the commercials!

  I dived into the first wave I could and rode it back to shore. When I stood up and touched my hair, it was not the haphazard mix of textures I was accustomed to. Instead I touched orderly, coily, elongated curls! For the first time, my hair felt pretty. I felt pretty. I felt soft and light, as if
the shame I’d been carrying had been plucked out of me and washed away.

  As I stood in the waist-deep water, reveling in the newfound confidence brought by my liberated curls, a sudden wall of ocean appeared, crashing down, pounding against my back. My feet were swept up off the sandy floor and over my head. My tiny body was tossed like a rag doll in the strong waves that had suddenly kicked up. I had no sense of equilibrium or orientation, but I knew I was being pulled down, tumbling in surging, dark water mixed with frothy white foam and grit that was beating against my body like boxing gloves made of sandpaper. Even if I could tell which way was up and how to get there, I knew I was not strong enough to overcome the powerful currents, so I relaxed my body and went with it. I surrendered.

  By what I believe to be God’s grace, the ocean decided to give me back to the earth. I lay motionless on the grainy, wet sand, winded and salty. When I realized I was alive, I stood up to look for my mother. I spied her and my brother lying on an olive blanket in the distance, shades on, nonchalantly sunbathing. Oblivious. I released a mighty wail, which devolved into hysterical crying, finally catching my mother’s attention. Yet another close encounter with death.

  To calm my shattered seven-year-old nerves, someone took me up to the boardwalk, to the hot dog stand. I was a wreck—but my hair wasn’t. It was still in wavy ringlets. I had achieved perfect beach hair. That day I almost died, but my hair was done.

  A GIRL’S BEST FRIEND

  From the moment I saw her, I felt both awe and identification. I idolized her. She was like a living doll, but neither baby nor Barbie; though she was a real, elegant, grown-up woman, she appeared pure and flawless, as if made of delicate lacquered porcelain. I’d never seen anyone like her—such a radiant, glamorous, vulnerable, yet powerful being. She was supernatural. I stood there staring, fascinated and frozen before the bright screen where she lived.