by Mariah Carey
Don’t tell me you’re sorry you hurt me
How many times can I give in?
How many battles can you win?
Oh, don’t beg for mercy tonight.
Tonight, ’cause I can’t take anymore
—“Everything Fades Away”
However, the crying exercise was a release, albeit a tiny one. I’d been holding so much for so long. I began to breathe, a little.
My acting coach hovered over me, and I could smell essential oils, patchouli perhaps, seeping from her pores. She placed her hands on my shoulders and began to gently push them down toward my ribcage.
“Let go of the fighting stance and just breathe,” she whispered. I hadn’t realized how high and tight I was gripping my body. My breakdown was encouraging to her; I had freed some of my suppressed feelings. Now she told me she wanted me to “feel free in the body.” I was a bit wobbly when I stood to watch her demonstrate the exercise. She closed her eyes and began rolling her shoulders from side to side, letting her head fall back and around with them. Then her hips joined in an aimless sway. She lifted her arms up and began flailing them like those weird inflatable tube men at the car wash. “Free in the body!” she chanted. “Come on, get free in the body, Mariah.” I was watching her do her erratic, ecstatic dancing and just couldn’t make the leap. Just as I couldn’t dance for Addie, to prove I was Black, I knew I was too Black to do interpretive dance with her, even if it was a private session.
What I remember most clearly was the acting coach telling me I had difficulty accessing my anger. I thought back to something the therapist had once told me: often sadness is anger turned inward. Of course I kept it all inside—how else would I have survived? I realized I couldn’t express anger because I was never allowed to. Who was I ever safe to be angry with? Not my brother, certainly not my sister, not Tommy, not my mother, not anyone. There was no safe person and no safe place in my life. There never had been.
That woman-child failing inside
Was on the verge of fading
Thankfully I woke up in time
—“Close My Eyes”
The crush of Tommy was relentless. After countless painful and dramatic fights, and after I began some genuine soul searching, Tommy and I began to broach the notion of temporary separation in therapy. It took a lot of personal work and getting in touch with myself to even touch the concept. I was so scarred on so many levels. The emotional struggles with Tommy had been nonstop, and I couldn’t yet even begin to know the effects of the trauma, but getting to where we could discuss a reprieve from the pain was major. He had pulled a lot of strings to tie me up. I really didn’t know how I would be able to escape him while he was still alive. He could be incredibly vindictive. And his network was so far-reaching. I had a very real feeling my entire safety was at risk. With a little support and a few new tools, I was able to clearly see that living with him was killing me. I needed to create a place for me to breathe.
* * *
I was certain I needed to escape Tommy’s fury and access my own, and this would take some help and strategy. Because we were in therapy, I didn’t have to be the one to “bring it up.” It was the therapist who told Tommy he would lose me forever if he didn’t try to give me a little space. So it was discussed as a temporary Band-Aid to “treat it like a separation.” She was trying to convince him to let me go hang out with other people, for God’s sake—for my sake.
After so much prodding and much ado, Tommy agreed to try the therapist’s advice and made a deal to take certain steps to see if we could find a way to continue to live together. I remember the therapist saying, in her motherly way, “Mariah has to start going places by herself, Tommy. It’s not fair. You’re stifling her.” I was at a breaking point, and something had to give. I wasn’t even asking for much, just a little time with friends. I was drained of my spirit, and at this rate, the relationship was threatening to take the remaining bits of my very soul.
My acting teacher’s building was connected by a private passageway to the building next door. It was possible to access the neighboring building by going through the front entrance of her building. It was like something out of the opening of the 1960s comedy show Get Smart: you had to go through a nondescript side door and walk down a concrete corridor and through an enclosed back alley, but it was possible to go from building to building without ever going outside.
So I secretly rented a small apartment in the building next to hers. I was able to work with the building’s management to arrange to have things brought in for me under a fake name. I had it set up very simply, with a convertible couch so I could sleep—by myself. I would tell Tommy that I was tired from acting class and staying overnight with my teacher, then slip over to my own little place and exit in the morning from my teacher’s building. It was sneaky, but I was at the end of my fucking rope! There was always someone watching my every move. This was basic survival.
Later on, my survival cave became my personal office and private studio. I had a simple wall of mirrors installed, and it was there I did the best bodywork in my career with the incomparable Debbie Allen. Ms. Allen had gotten in touch with me and said she wanted to work with me because she really connected with my music. What a Godsend! She was masterful. She analyzed how I moved or didn’t move. She taught me stretches and other tools to help liberate and ground me. She worked with me on choreography for performances. She created moves that worked for me. She had dancers surround me, literally giving me support. And that was what I had needed for so long—someone to be patient with me as I discovered my own body.
I had been totally disconnected from my body for so long. I only knew how to let myself be completely taken over by a song. I had no clue I fluttered my hands the way I did until I saw one of my early performances on TV! It took the fabulous Kiki Shepard to discover I didn’t really know how to walk in heels. She pulled me aside and had me walk up and down the stairs on the side of the stage at the Apollo until I got it right. Pow.
Guardian angels do exist—Debbie Allen was surely one of mine.
The therapist put together a plan for me to go out socially without Tommy for the first time. This was major. It was going to be new to me too: I had gone straight from a complicated and careless childhood into the treacherous music industry and a toxic, tumultuous marriage. And I was barely in my midtwenties. But I was finally starting to access a different kind of courage—one that was there to protect my life, not just my songs.
Tommy had been adamant about me not acting because he feared I would be on glamorous sets with attractive actors or directors or whatever. The fact that he conceded to me having an acting coach (who he thought was loyal to him) was mildly promising. He didn’t have the same pull in Hollywood as he did in the music business. Me taking acting classes in the city perhaps wasn’t so threatening to him, because New York was his town and he had eyes everywhere. But me being out with my peers, people my age, for fun? That was deeply threatening to him. What was scariest of all was the notion of me being seen without him and, God forbid, photographed without him. He couldn’t bear to think people would see Cinderella out at the ball without her prince and savior.
Controlling public perception was vital to Tommy, and before social media and smartphones, it was fairly achievable. So the deal was, we would go to a big event together, be seen, have it documented, and then afterward we’d split up, and I would be able to hang out with my friends. Tommy was likely less afraid of losing me to cheating (which never crossed my mind) and more afraid that he would lose his influence over me, which was far more valuable to him than my fidelity. Though he was opposed, he knew he had made a deal, and in his world, a deal is a deal. So we negotiated my first solo flight as a social butterfly.
Our relationship was very much like a teen-and-parent arrangement where independence is earned in increments. I was close in age to a teen, but it was Tommy, clearly my senior, who needed to be taught to be an adult about the matter. It was all so twisted, but we w
ere trying to give normal our best attempt, sweetie.
THE MAN FROM KALAMAZOO
Operation Mariah’s Solo Test Flight Night had a strict itinerary: First, Tommy and I would attend the Fresh Air Fund gala together, which we’d done in previous years (acting normal). Afterward, I would have dinner with a group of friends (actually normal). Being out with Tommy had become such a strained performance, I was riddled with a horrible cocktail of anxiety and boredom.
Fortunately, that night, I knew that some of my peers, like Wanya Morris from Boyz II Men, were also going to be at the gala, so I wouldn’t have to wear such a heavy mask all night. I held on to the fact that on the other side of the photo ops, thousand-dollar plates, and platitudes was not the usual silent, suffocating ride back to Westchester together but the possibility of fun. I could get through this one. I slid into a chic red floor-length Ralph Lauren matte jersey slip dress and hit the red carpet, propped on Tommy’s arm.
All the photos from that night showed us looking in different directions, my body stiff and an awkward smile plastered on my face. There was nothing to smile about. Quite honestly, I was afraid to smile in most photographs, as I’d been told as a little girl that my nose was too wide and smiling made it spread more. That shot of insecurity was followed by a chaser from Sony’s artist development executive, a rotund and imposing lady who told me when we first met, before my first record: “This is your flattering side. You should only ever be photographed on this side of your face.” (It was the side without the beauty mark. Who are these people? Who. Are. They?)
I was too young and didn’t have the confidence to challenge her opinion, so I obeyed. I internalized so many of the damaging and cruel critiques older people had given me as a child and young woman; some have burrowed so deep down in my psyche that I will never be able to root them out entirely. To this day I unconsciously turn to the “flattering side” if there is a camera around; it’s a thing.
The gala was your typical celebrity-studded chicken-dinner charity event. I sat up straight, sucked in my stomach, and held my breath until it was over. Tommy and I faked it all night without incident. We both had quite a bit of practice in faking it. Then it was over: I had given Tommy his public moment, and now I was free to go! This was a big friggin’ deal! I was never allowed to go anywhere social without him. I couldn’t believe it! I was free to laugh and have fun, like a human being, without being shushed and silenced and sequestered. I felt kind of like Cinderella in reverse; it was the fancy ball that was the chore.
* * *
In the 1990s, Giorgio Armani was the pinnacle of a luxury fashion house. Armani was the go-to designer of all the A-listers. Tommy, of course, wore Armani and he was always trying to class it up. And I occasionally wore Armani too. There were several cool and connected people who worked for the designer and hung out with their cool clients. After the gala, our plan was to go to a dinner party at a restaurant that some of the Armani insiders had arranged. My assistant and I went, and Wanya met us there. It was a fab downtown scene.
The lighting in the place was low, and twenty of us were seated in the back against a gigantic wall of windows, around a large dining table crowded with beautiful bottles of wine and candles. The air was electric with playful chatter and laughter. And there was great music playing in the background, with Wanya occasionally breaking out into riffs. It was an ordinary night to everyone else there, but it was a revelation to me, being out socially with my peers and listening to the music of my time.
Though I was still being watched, I felt lighter than I had in a long time. I felt young and unchained. It was not uncommon for a dinner party of this kind to have guests come and go in waves, so when Derek Jeter and his friend came in and sat down across from me at the table, they didn’t command any of my attention. I found them both ambiguous. After I briefly glanced up at them I thought, Who are these guys? my attention went right back to the more interesting dinner guests.
I was never drawn to the jock type, not even in high school, where athletes were at the top of the food chain. Derek and his friend were no exception to my rule. His Armani suit didn’t cover up the Kalamazoo in him. He didn’t have the New York slick vibe that I had become so accustomed to. I’m not being shady, but he had on pointy shoes. Artists can be very tribal, and compared to the hip-hop and R & B stars, models, fashionistas, and cool kids in every hue at the table, the two of them presented as rather pedestrian.
The restaurant was moody, but our table was buzzing, and at some point the conversation moved to “inconspicuous Blackness”—passing, but with more nuance. I was riveted. We discussed who we thought was secretly Black or else could have some Black running through them, how they might or might not identify and how they were often misidentified. I had never had an open conversation about biracial or multiracial aesthetics, ever. My parents didn’t have the language for it, and Tommy never wanted to talk about my biracial identity; if he wasn’t ashamed of it, he certainly didn’t want to promote it. I couldn’t believe it: it was my first night out without him, and suddenly I was in a dialogue about race and identity with young, smart, and creative people!
Eventually the debate turned to me. One of the guys from Armani said he couldn’t tell if I was part Black (no parts of him were Black, by the way). Wanya wasn’t having it. His voice got up in his high register: “Naw, man, come on! We all know; how could you not know?” I was laughing, but I was also deeply interested.
As if on cue, another person from the Armani team chimed in, “Derek, your mother’s Irish and your dad’s Black, right? Like, so what do you think about all this?”
All of a sudden, it was like the moment in The Wizard of Oz when the screen went from black-and-white to Technicolor. I was in a new moment, a new room; it was a new night and perhaps a new world. When I heard “Irish mother and Black father,” my head snapped up involuntarily and turned toward Derek. Our eyes locked. A deeply suppressed sadness I had buried inside since the first painful blow from someone saying I was not white enough or Black enough, which translated into “not good enough,” both rose and began to dissolve, and a longing to connect took its place.
It was as if suddenly I could see him. Derek was definitely no longer pedestrian; he was closer to a Prince Charming. This first moment of connection was so profound. I had created an endless number of romantic moments in my songs, and I had been incredibly sad for so long. Finally, it was if I was actually living a dream. I saw his eyes—enormous twinkling jade pearls floating in a golden-brown pool. It was as if there was no one else in the restaurant or the universe. We began talking across the table; the banter was lightweight, sparkly, and deeply flirtatious. I couldn’t recall the last time, if there had ever been one, that I’d felt butterflies talking to a man.
The rest of the evening we talked, soft and easy. Eventually I realized how aware everyone was of our attraction, but I didn’t care. This was my night out, and I was feeling the sweetness of freedom, the rush and allure of it all. I knew I was being watched, but to hell with that. Derek was young, mixed, ambitious, and doing his dream job, just like me! In the midst of all the people, lights, and music, it felt like we were the only ones in the world. Even though it was just a flicker, it was still fire.
Brazen as it was, I allowed Derek to walk me to the car, where a driver—aka Tommy’s agent, of course—was waiting. Being with him in that moment felt like living. I’ll never forget walking next to him that night, looking up at him, with his height and the way his athletic body moved. I felt diminutive next to him. It was such a different experience. This two-minute stroll on the pavement was more exhilarating to me than walking a thousand staged red carpets. It was a real moment. I was loose on the streets of New York, the sultry late-night breeze blowing my hair and pressing the delicate jersey of my dress against my body. I actually felt good. Unencumbered.
SHOOK ONES
Standing alone
Eager to just
Believe it’s good enough to be what
You really are
But in your heart
Uncertainty forever lies
And you’ll always be
Somewhere on the
Outside
—“Outside”
Knowing there were eyes on us, my assistant discreetly exchanged information with Derek’s friend. I’d been in such a dark and lonely place for so long in my relationship. I finally had some hope, because I had found someone like me who existed in this world. As a child I used to pray I would meet someone who would understand me for what I was and not feel superior to me.
Our encounter also had a genuine air of innocence. It reinforced the many pure ways I wrote about romance in my songs. It was like the movies I idolized. But though it felt that way to me, it turns out Derek hadn’t just walked into a room and into my life. My manager knew Derek really wanted to meet me; he had begged me once to sign a photo for “this kid who’s crazy about you” so he could get World Series tickets—an incident I totally forgot about. That night he and I met, he told me “Anytime You Need a Friend” was his favorite song and that he listened to it before every game.
Anytime you need a friend
I will be here
You’ll never be alone again
So don’t you fear
Even if you’re miles away
I’m by your side
So don’t you ever be lonely
Love will make it alright
If you just believe in me