by Mariah Carey
For the first time in a long time, I had real vocal rest (something of which Luther Vandross had taught me the critical importance), clarity, and a deep sense of creative control. I initially started writing in the Bahamas and laid down some vocals there; the ocean air and the warm, moist atmosphere were very good for my voice. They were also good for my songwriting. Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis had previously introduced me to the brilliant musician “Big Jim” Wright, an extremely talented and very special person in my life. At one point, Jim and I were at a house in the Bahamas, doing a writing session. I wanted to have a song that had a seventies live-band vibe; I imagined something Natalie Cole or even Aretha would have done back in the day. Being that Big Jim was a consummate musician, he and I almost effortlessly wrote “Circles.” After the session, as he was about to leave—and just as I had written “Hero” on a walk to the bathroom—suddenly a melody washed through my mind as I was walking upstairs.
I came back down very quickly.
“Wait! Wait. Before you leave, I have this idea,” I said to Jim. “Fly like a bird / take to the sky,” I sang. I knew this song was going to be something meaningful. I begged him not to leave yet. “Can we write this?” I asked. He loved the idea and stayed put. We laid out the music together, and then I wrote these words:
Somehow I know that
There’s a place up above
With no more hurt and struggling
Free of all atrocities and suffering
Because I feel the unconditional love
From one who cares enough for me
To erase all my burdens and let me be free to fly like a bird
Take to the sky
I need you now Lord
Carry me high
Don’t let the world break me tonight
I need the strength of you by my side
Sometimes this life can be so cold
I pray you’ll come and carry me home
—“Fly Like a Bird”
Big Jim laid down sublime live instrumentation in New York. Later, in the Capri studio, I recorded the vocals. I stayed secluded in the studio for two days working on the backgrounds; I was lost in a song that would eventually be one that would often help me find my way out of the shadows. I worked through the night, so it was dawn when the song was ready for me to listen to all put together. I opened up the big sliding glass doors of the studio, stepped out into the morning air, and looked at the majestic cliffs jutting out of the sapphire sea as the song came pouring out of the booming speakers. The sun was rising as the background vocals were peaking: “Carry me higher! Higher!” I closed my eyes, knowing God had laid His hand on the song and on me.
* * *
Later I brought Bishop Keaton in to the studio to anoint “Fly Like a Bird” with a reading of Psalm 30:5: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” Those words were a reflection of all that I had survived. That passage in the Bible really meant something to me. The song is really about how messed up the world is—“Sometimes this life can be so cold / I pray you’ll come and carry me home.” It’s about both difficulty and strength: I can’t handle this life alone, but the Lord will help me through it. I’m so grateful to have memorialized Bishop forever with one of my songs that’s most important to me.
I give a lot of credit to L.A. Reid, who by then had become a friend, for the success of Mimi. He and Universal still believed in me. My album Butterfly was an emotional awakening. Mimi was a spiritual evolution; there’s a lot of my true heart and raw emotion in it. And there are so many good moments. For instance, not everybody knows how much I really love “Your Girl” (it should have been a single). It’s innocent, yet still a bit grimy. I first heard Scram Jones’s beat while in N.O.R.E.’s studio drinking something out of a Styrofoam cup (I know it’s bad for our ecosystem, but that’s all they had). There was a little more confidence and a lot more liberation in it: “I’m gonna make you want to / Get with me tonight.” And there’s a little talking part in the middle of the song “I Wish You Knew,” which was inspired by Ms. Diana Ross. There are so many intimate, special, inside, almost intangible details that are specific to me on that album. You can actually feel my authentic emotions; there are no dramatic, overproduced ballads to appease label executives. This was pared down, simple, real shit. I think that’s why it resonated with so many people.
It was on Emancipation where I first started working with a new engineer, Brian Garten (thanks to Pharrell). When we work together, it’s seamless. Even though it wasn’t televised—because they were in the R & B category—I won three Grammys for that album. (They did the same thing to Usher the year before.) It was still a triumph, because I believe Emancipation deserved it. It was a triumph over the fucked-up people who were trying to harm me and use me—my family, Tommy, the record labels, the press, and various others—and it was a triumph over my own trauma and fear.
The Adventures of Mimi tour was so much fun. It had its share of typical mishaps, but largely it felt like a liberation. Emancipation had so many hits that at each show the energy was just fire the whole time, thousands of people singing every single word of all the new songs on the album, and some of the hottest artists would come through and do surprise guest appearances. It was a huge commercial success, and it was a real blast.
We took an old-school, almost Motown review approach of packing up a small fleet of buses and driving across America. We did big shows in twenty-five cities (we also did seven in Canada, seven in Asia, and two in Africa). Though there were plenty of people on the road with me—a full band, background singers, dancers, and crew—I was lonely. I was on a huge upswing moment and, as usual, responsible for everyone’s livelihood. I had to make sure I was in top condition; my voice was rested so I could do my best for my fans first, of course (I never take for granted the money, effort, and time it takes to come to a concert), but also all the folks who depended on me to eat. While I was certainly really friendly with everybody (of course Trey and Tots were there), after each show I would generally retreat to my bus to quietly decompress and rest. This was usually a simple ritual of taking a long, hot, steamy shower and sipping tea with honey. While my big silver bullet of a bus was completely tricked out and outfitted with all the comforts and everything I needed, it didn’t provide me with company.
The other performers and crew would have a more typical tour atmosphere on their bus—it’d be rocking with raucous laughter, liquor, card games, smoke, jokes, movies, and music. When musicians and dancers ride for hours together down little highways for days, they develop a rowdy family-like culture. And as the “boss” I was often on the outside of the camaraderie they created.
One night I decided I just needed a little levity, and I went to the dancers’ bus, which was by far the most popping in our fleet. It was like a basement party happening up in there, just very lively. I easily slipped into the shenanigans. It felt like I was in high school sneaking out with friends and not on my own massive sold-out tour. It was simple and festive.
One dancer stood out. I had seen him before, but something about this night felt different. He was playful and certainly commanding the center of attention with his expressive gestures and buoyant laugh. I’d always thought he was cute, but that night it felt different. There was something really compelling about him—serving a delicious blend of grown-man gorgeousness and boyish charm. I was going to stay on this bus for a while. It was a joy ride, for sure.
It was past the middle of the night, probably close to dawn. We had all been drankin’ and singing and carrying on for a few hours when we stopped to go into an all-night diner in some little town in the middle of almost nowhere. We burst into the quiet little local joint about a dozen deep, all loud, laughing, and extremely colorful. What few folks there were in there—maybe a truck driver, a couple of late-shift workers—there were definitely not any of color of any kind. They all stopped chewing and sipping to stare at what probably appeared to be the UniverSoul Circus that had rolled int
o town and barreled into their spot.
We were all a little too lit to realize we’d lit up that sleepy little diner with our theatrics and flavor. We sprawled out over several tables and booths. That dancer’s name was Tanaka. We’d already started shooting flirty glances at each other in the bus about twenty miles back. We sat across from each other in a booth like eighth graders. We softly touched each other’s legs under the table, undetected while the rest of the party roared on.
Tanaka and I quickly became friends, and over time a meaningful relationship was built. He is always right there, the effortless life of the party, and when everyone looks to you for something, that can mean everything.
* * *
Thank God for the transformational “Mimi” era. I needed to have such massive success for the public to finally forgive me for the “sin against humanity” that was Glitter.
After Glitter, many people wrote me off. But as Jimmy Jam said, “Don’t ever write Mariah Carey off.” And I say, “Don’t ever write anyone off.” You don’t ever know where strength will come from. I always go to my main source for strength—faith in God, but also love from my fans and all the people who didn’t give up on their faith in me. This is not to say I don’t struggle with PTSD from the collective events in my childhood, my marriage, and the dark Glitter years. I work on my emotional recovery daily. But it is truly fascinating how insignificant the press has become in making or breaking an artist’s career, in shaping our narratives. I still feel like parts of the media are patiently waiting for me to have another spectacular meltdown (actually, I’ve noticed now some people stage breakdowns for publicity), but the difference is, in today’s world, they don’t matter. Now, all artists have an unfiltered voice and enormous public platforms through social media. The tabloids have become the pathetic, rubbish wrapping paper I’ve always known them to be. They are out of power; they cannot hunt and destroy any more of us. Our fans can come to our defense, bring all the receipts, and create a united front so strong that no bland host or commentator or ravenous paparazzi can even begin to compete with their influence. We are the media. I only wish Princess Di had lived long enough to have Instagram or Twitter. I wish she had lived to see the people become the press. Perhaps she and others would have lived to tell their story. I am so grateful to my fans I’m alive to tell mine.
THE FATHER AND THE SUNSET
Throughout the years, my father kept on living an orderly and disciplined life. He had honorable, steady work as an engineer. He stayed in shape. He hiked and climbed mountains. He ate well and avoided sweets. He drank very little alcohol. He didn’t smoke cigarettes (before I was born, he gave up all his vices in one day, and that was it). Alfred Roy was not a man of indulgences. That’s why, when I received the news that he had become ill while I was recording Charmbracelet in Capri, I was shocked. My strong, invincible father? It was like a blow to the head, quick, sharp, and disorienting. My father called and suggested I come. Not to save him, or finance his care—he didn’t need or ask for that; he had always earned and saved his own money. What he needed from me was closeness and closure.
But I’m glad we talked through
All them grown folk things separation brings
You never let me know it
You never let it show because you loved me and obviously
There’s so much more left to say
If you were with me today face to face
—“Bye Bye”
I immediately flew to see him at the hospital where he was being treated for abdominal pain related to cancer. I remember that, on that first trip, he still looked like that strong, vibrant, ageless man I knew. But that changed rapidly. Cancer can be a swift bandit, stealing life right out of your body before you even know it has broken in.
After several misdiagnoses, it was concluded that he had bile-duct cancer, a rare form, with no known preventive or curative measures. This cancer grows in the tubes that carry digestive fluid and connect the liver to the gallbladder. It was more than symbolic to me: a healthy man develops a cancer that poisons the part of his body that absorbs and washes away waste. My father held so much inside and had little opportunity to flush out all the bitterness he’d consumed. Now he was in and out of the hospital, and so began my traveling back and forth from recording in Capri to staying at my frail and fading father’s bedside in New York.
Strange to feel that proud, strong man
Grip tightly to my hand
Hard to see the life inside
Wane as the days went by
Trying to preserve each word
He murmured in my ear
Watching part of my life disappear
—“Sunflowers for Alfred Roy”
When I visited my father, I would bring massive bouquets of flowers with me to the hospital (any room in any hospital is the epitome of bleak). Yet, as his condition worsened, he developed an intolerance for the fragrance of most flowers. It was hard to fathom that the beauty I thought I was bringing him was making him sicker. On Father’s Day the year before, while Shawn and I were driving to his house, on a whim I had stopped at a farmer’s market and grabbed a big bunch of bright-yellow sunflowers wrapped in paper to bring him. I was still unable to break the habit of coming to the hospital with flowers, so I brought sunflowers. I figured they couldn’t make him sick, because they have no scent, but they have a strong presence. Sunflowers are our symbol.
Quickly, his cancer treatment became ineffective. It was clear there was nothing to be done to stop the toxic disease wreaking havoc in his body. It was almost his time. We knew our time together on this earth was limited, so my father and I got down to the business of talking things through. His sickness made our healing urgent. This was the first time I revealed to him (or any family member) my struggles growing up.
“When I was little,” I explained, “it was really hard for me, because white people made me feel ashamed to be what I was. The hate I felt from some of them was so real. I didn’t have the tools, I didn’t have the skill set to know how to handle that. And I don’t ever want you to feel like it was because of you.”
I tried to explain how alone I felt, trying to handle such a complex situation without guidance. When I was getting ready to start kindergarten, my parents told me I should just say I was “interracial” (that was the word back then, there was no “biracial” or mixed-ish). But it wasn’t nearly that simple, especially when we were living in white neighborhoods. It would have been much less complicated if we had continued living in Brooklyn Heights, where there was at least some diversity and more progressive ways of thinking. I would not have stood out nearly as much. The kids in the neighborhoods I lived in didn’t even know what “interracial” meant. They only knew they were white, and that not being white was other—and Black was the worst kind of other there was.
I tried to explain to my father that, growing up, I didn’t have a sibling or a squad to back me up. Nobody ever gave me the compulsory Black instruction, “If anyone calls you a nigger, punch ’em in the face.” So when I was cornered and called “nigger” by a group of my “friends,” I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do when a white boy waited to get me alone on the school bus so he could spit in my face. I didn’t know why no parents ever intervened. I didn’t know that I couldn’t trust parents either, because of how they looked at me. And I couldn’t go to the teachers, as some of them were problematic too. Bottom line, I didn’t know who to trust, which is a battle I am still waging.
This was hard stuff for a little girl, and I felt so alone—but it wasn’t ever his fault. We both needed things we didn’t know how to give. I believe deep down my father understood why I had to delve into my music and break away from my family—it was my survival, my identity, my reason to exist. I apologized for not coming to him sooner. “I didn’t know where to be,” I confessed, “I didn’t know who to listen to. I didn’t know if you cared.”
Father, thanks for reaching out and lovingly
Sayi
ng that you’ve always been proud of me
I needed to feel that so desperately
—“Sunflowers for Alfred Roy”
My father did not want to perish in a hospital. We had to rush to get him to his girlfriend Jean’s house, so he could live out his final days in a familiar and comfortable environment. My nephew Shawn was there to support me and help me prepare. We went to his house to gather some personal effects. I was struck by the gray dinginess of my father’s place. It wasn’t a mess, but it was a distinct departure from the lined-up, spit-shined quality I associated with him. I guess it’s hard to keep up such a high standard of orderliness as you get older and weaker.
Seeing how the tight structure of his space had softened made the prospect of his deterioration all the more real to me. As we were going through things around my father’s house, I discovered a bundle of newspaper and magazine clippings. I sifted through them and realized that every single one was about me—all stories of my success and accolades. He had written little notes in the margins, underlined and circled different bits he liked. I had no idea he had been keeping up with me from afar. I had no idea he cared about my career. Above all, I had no idea that he was proud of me. My eyes welled with tears. That bundle of paper scraps was more validating than all my awards and Quincy Jones’s combined.
My aunties, my cousin Vinny, Shawn, and I installed a hospital bed and other amenities in the living room of his girlfriend’s house to make his space as comfortable and homey as possible. As the cancer spread and his medication took more control, his desires began to disappear, and I didn’t want our memories to vanish with them. I did little things. I cooked his white clam sauce just so he could smell it, so he could smell us and remember our Sundays together. To keep us connected to my happiest time, I still make my father’s linguine and white clam sauce every Christmas Eve.