by Mariah Carey
His dying wish was that my ex-sister Alison and I would speak again. He didn’t know the depths of the hell we’d been through; he didn’t know there were ashes where a fragile sisterhood had once stood. Yet, for a limited time, we were able to be in the same room, for him. Perhaps it was made possible by the distraction of the constant traffic of doctors and other family members. Out of respect for my father, people kept their drama tucked in. The only time things came close to tension was when my ex-brother Morgan came to the hospital. Our father refused to see him; the pain they triggered in and caused each other in this life was too dense to unpack, even at the end. Our father had grown weak and visibly smaller by this point, and as their issues were primarily about power, strength, and masculinity, I believe our father didn’t want to be seen by Morgan in such a state of vulnerability. Father and son could not find peace on this earth, but perhaps God the Father can do it for them, one day.
Now you’re shining like a sunflower up in the sky, way up high
—“Sunflowers for Alfred Roy”
Toward the very end my father could no longer speak, but he was still practicing restraint. For his pain meds, he’d hold up one finger, signaling he only wanted to take one milligram. Even on his deathbed he was afraid of addiction, afraid of losing control.
He was more conflicted about religion and faith. Sitting next to him on the edge of the bed, I began reading the Bible to him, which he made clear he did not welcome. His childhood had been steeped in church, but his life was filled with the contradictions of the teachings of the Pentecostal Church and Catholicism.
He made no requests regarding the tradition of the ceremony for his funeral. He had continued to attend the Unitarian Universalist fellowship for so many years that out of respect for his feeling accepted by the unconventional congregation, the funeral was held at the fellowship. But I was determined to bring church to the service. He was too often unwelcomed in his life because he was the only Black man in too many places, so I was determined he would not be the only Black person present when we saw him out of this life. He was to have a spiritual send-off. I transformed the church into a glorious garden of sunflowers (which I later re-created in the “Through the Rain” video). My friend the gifted and talented Melonie Daniels, Tots, and I banded together and brought in a full, magnificent gospel choir. I wanted my father’s spirit to ride up on the soaring sound that only a gospel choir can deliver. In their majestic robes, the large choir marched and swayed down the aisle and filled the sanctuary. I closed my eyes, and Tots started to sing:
If you wanna know
Where I’m going
Where I’m going, soon
If anybody asks you
Where I’m going,
Where I’m going, soon
I’m going up yonder
I’m going up yonder
I’m going up yonder
To be with my Lord.
The choir swelled that castle with the spirit. It was a whole Pentecostal moment, and the quiet Fellowship congregation didn’t know what hit them. It was the power of God’s presence in anointed voices. You could feel all the spirits being lifted. I could feel my father’s spirit being set free.
Ultimately my father trusted reason to help him exist in an absurd world. Alfred Roy Carey tried hard to love and understand, in a time and place that had little love and understanding for him. And I know he loved me and he was proud of me. And that is what I will take with me. I treasure the few possessions he left me: his bronzed baby shoes, family photos, letters, an ashtray, two African sculptures, and the United States flag issued by the US government in honor of his service. For a man who did not worship things, there was one thing he adored, and it is that which I treasure most: his Porsche Speedster. This precious car saw countless hours of his hands fiddling about in its insides, countless hours of our drives and silly songs. Bumper to bumper, his touch, his concentration, his desire for order and elegance are embedded in every inch of that car.
As a tribute to him, I had it restored to its original glory. This required painstaking attention to detail and significant patience and investment. Parts were flown in from Germany, and it was finally returned to its sparkling candy apple red color, with an immaculate finish. It took years, but it is finally in mint condition, as my father always dreamed it would be one day. I mostly keep it in the garage, but every once in a while I’ll bring it out. In one of my favorite photos of Rocky, he is sitting in the driver’s seat of my father’s Porsche. In the two-seater sports car, my son looks like a mini driver, wearing big aviator sunglasses, soft curls, and confidence. He doesn’t know the rough roads I, or the grandfather he never met, had to travel to get him into the soft, comfortable leather of that luxurious driver’s seat—and he shouldn’t. Not yet. He’s still a little boy. But I have better tools with which to guide and protect him than were available to me. When I look at that picture today, I can’t help but think that though he never knew his grandfather, the look on Rocky’s face captures the enduring spirit of Alfred Roy Carey.
PRECIOUS
Push pulled me in immediately. It’s one of the few books that, upon finishing it, I turned right back to the first page and read it again. I was on a beach during a girls’ trip with my friend Rhonda, who insisted I read it. The voice created by genius author Sapphire completely took me away. She gave such singular and significant expression to a girl and a world that are often invisible. It was challenging and intensely beautiful material.
I first worked with Lee Daniels on Tennessee, a film I did in 2008. He was the producer, but he basically ended up directing me, and he totally got me. I was thrilled when I learned he had acquired the rights to Push, though not at all thinking I would be involved.
A trusted friend, actress and director Karen G, was working as an acting coach with some of the cast, especially the young women, and she let me know that something really incredible was happening on the set. One day, out of nowhere, with one day’s notice, Lee asked me to play the social worker character, Ms. Weiss (a role originally intended for the phenomenal Helen Mirren). I was over the moon, but a little freaked out too. I had a little more than one day to prepare. I learned my lines and did some deep, quick-and-dirty improvisation and backstory building with Karen. I loosely based Ms. Weiss on the upstate New York “Sweetie, it’s not normal” therapist Tommy and I used to see.
The entire process of filming was renegade and brilliant. Lee believed in me, and I believed in him. I believed in the remarkable cast, and of course I believed in the brilliance that was on the page. Lee’s major concern was that I didn’t “look like Mariah Carey.” He insisted on no makeup and even had a prosthetic nose made for me. We didn’t end up using it, but the application aggravated the rosacea around my nose, which, ironically, really worked for the character (now, ain’t that some peculiar mixed ish, to have both keloids and rosacea).
I remember once, on set, Lee caught me applying a little blush and screamed, “NO MAKEUP, Mariah!” Another physical note he gave me was to “walk flat-footed!” (oh, these tippy toes). I was confident in my grasp of the Ms. Weiss character; the most challenging work was not to be emotionally moved by Mo’Nique’s amazing and powerful performance. Ms. Weiss had to be detached, but the human being in me struggled with that. There was a moment when Mo’Nique’s sublime acting got into my heart, and an involuntary tear welled up in my eye. I discreetly wiped it away, hoping it wasn’t caught on camera.
What she and Gabby Sidibe brought to their characters was simply stunning, stellar work. I loved working on the film. My management at the time discouraged me from doing it, because it was last minute and low budget, but I knew it was a rare and exquisitely human story. It was also a creative stretch, which was artistically enriching for me. I was so proud to be involved. After Precious was screened at Sundance in 2009 and won both an Audience Award and a Grand Jury Prize in the Dramatic category (plus a Special Jury Prize for Mo’Nique), Tyler Perry and Oprah announced they would come on as pr
oducers, giving the film the marketing, promotional support, and shine it deserved.
And it got glamorous. Cannes was the epitome of red carpets, with tons of international paparazzi (you better believe Ms. Weiss was left on the screen and Mariah Carey, in full effect, was there). The European press tour was fabulous, full of red carpets, dozens of couture gowns, and a thousand parties, including a secret one on Roberto Cavalli’s yacht. Precious won awards wherever it went. The biggest night was the 82nd Annual Academy Awards. The film received six nominations, including best picture, best director, and best actress, and won best supporting actress for Mo’Nique and best adapted screenplay for Geoffrey Fletcher—making him the first African American to win in that category.
I also won a few awards for my small but significant role. I won the Breakthrough Performance Award at the Palm Springs International Film Festival, where Lee and I were extra festive, using our pet names onstage (me, “Kitten,” and him, “Cotton”), laughing, and whispering to each other. And, okay, maybe we were a little tipsy too, but it was one of those bottles-on-all-the-tables award shows! Mostly we were totally thrilled.
I was thrilled. Not only did Precious give me public validation for my acting after Glitter, but because Lee believed in me, I was able to believe in myself again as an actress. It was evidence that with the right material and the right people (with the right vision), I could seriously pursue acting. Lee later gave me another unexpected and challenging role as Hattie Pearl, mother of Cecil Gaines (the main character) and field slave in The Butler. Lee easily saw in me what so few dared to even look for, and we have a rare and real connection. A trust.
DIVAS
diva (n): A distinguished and celebrated female singer; a woman of outstanding talent in the world of opera (usually soprano) and by extension in theater, cinema, and popular music.
My definition of diva is the classic one.
Aretha Franklin is my high bar and North Star, a masterful musician and mind-bogglingly gifted singer who wouldn’t let one genre confine or define her. I listened to and learned from all of her. When she was in her late teens she moved from singing gospel to jazz—or rather, she added jazz to her repertoire, because she never moved from gospel. (One of my favorite albums of hers is still gospel: One Lord, One Faith, One Baptism.) And when she sang standards, there was nothing at all standard about her delivery. She brought a soulfulness to everything that was all her own.
Aretha had a bigger vision for herself. Her debut album had “I Never Loved a Man (The Way I Love You),” “Do Right Woman, Do Right Man,” and “Respect,” placing her on top of the R & B and pop charts. There was a great Aretha song in every era of my life.
I still believe most people don’t understand how amazing she was as a pianist and arranger. I think if you are a woman, with an incredible voice, your musicianship always gets underplayed. I had the distinct honor of working with Big Jim Wright as a producer and musical director. Big Jim had worked with Aretha Franklin, and he told me, when Aretha felt the spirit, she would tap him on the shoulder, and that would be his cue to get up from the piano, where she would sit down and commence to play.
The first time I met Ms. Franklin was at the Grammys—my first year, when I was nominated for five awards. What wrecked my nerves was not that I’d only been in the business for about six months, and I was performing at the Grammys for millions of viewers on live TV, and every big music star was in the audience: I was most concerned about the fact that I had to sing in front of her. The one who I thought was the one, Ms. Aretha Franklin. I had to sing “Vision of Love” with Aretha Franklin sitting in the front row. Many times I had visualized a dream of singing at big awards shows, but I never imagined I would have to do so in front of my idol on my first go-round. I couldn’t even sleep the night before. The day of rehearsal, I summoned the courage to go up to her. She was quietly sitting in the front row, on the left-hand side. I knelt down by her seat (because that’s what one does in the presence).
“Ms. Franklin, I just wanted to say thank you. My name is Mariah,” I said. Humbly, I went on, “I just wanted to say thank you, from all of the singers that you’ve inspired. Thank you. It’s an honor to meet you.”
Years later, she said to me, “Mariah, you’ve always had good manners, and that’s the thing that most of these young girls are lacking. It’s the manners. They don’t have them.” I couldn’t imagine doing any less for someone who gave the world so much. I got through the performance of “Vision of Love” and won Best New Artist and Best Pop Vocal Performance. Later, I totally scrutinized my performance at the Grammys that night, and I heard every nuance I missed. But I sang before the Queen.
My next great encounter with her was in 1998, when I was asked to perform for VH1’s Divas Live show, for which they were going to do an Aretha Franklin tribute. Of course I said yes, because it was Aretha, and when you are summoned to pay homage to the Queen, you jump, jump, jump to it. When I arrived the day before the show for rehearsal, Aretha was giving the producer something he could feel. Ken Ehrlich is a giant in the industry. He has produced countless honors and awards shows, including more than thirty Grammys (and my #1 to Infinity show at The Colosseum, in Vegas). He and Aretha had history. Good: he produced her operatic debut on the Grammys. Not So Good: they seemed to have had power struggles, like an old married couple. The other “diva” singers selected for the show were Céline Dion, Shania Twain, Gloria Estefan, and Carole King (because of her having written the amazing “[You Make Me Feel Like a] Natural Woman,” which Aretha loved and made a classic). Ken told me that on several occasions Aretha said, “Mariah’s the only girl that I’ll be singing with this evening.” Which is why I was the only one to do a duet with her on the show.
Temperatures were rising between Ken and Ms. Franklin because the air-conditioning was on and she doesn’t sing with air-conditioning (or outside in the freezing cold).
Luther Vandross was the first artist to warn me of the risks of singing in the cold. He told me that I needed to care for the fragile physical place that holds the muscles, the tendons, and the sensitive strings that vibrate and allow my voice to come through. Listen, if being in the cold can make fingers go numb, imagine what it can do to delicate vocal cords! There’s a certain performance of mine in the bitter cold wearing a sheer bedazzled leotard and eight-inch Louboutins at the world’s busiest intersection, in intimate proximity to stinking, putrid garbage that everyone seems to want to remember, and that I, quite honestly, often forget. To me, it’s as if I was a child playing in the sandbox and I got sand in my eye, wept theatrically, and caused a scene—then arrived twenty years later at my class reunion, after haven gotten a PhD and become a celebrated scholar only to have my classmates ask, “Oh, but how’s your eye?”
I was a lot of things in that fleeting moment in the cold, but I knew one thing I certainly was not. I was not broken. Not even close. I had been through so much worse. All debacles are not created equal, dahhhhling.
But the Queen of Soul, of course, knew better than to sing in the cold. When I arrived for our rehearsal, I was so excited and nervous. Aretha greeted me with, “Mariah, they’re playing games. And I’m not having the games. So we won’t be rehearsing this evening,” she said, matter-of-factly.
Wait. Who the fuck is playing games? I wanted to scream. It’s enough that I’m going to sing with Aretha Franklin, and now I can’t rehearse with her?! I could see Ken pacing around, sweating, losing hair, and freaking out. “She’s doing what she always does,” he sputtered. I don’t know what the two of them always did, but this was the first time I was going to sing with arguably the greatest singer on the planet, my idol, and I couldn’t get a rehearsal! Why couldn’t they just turn the fucking air off? I was dying.
The night of no rehearsal was a nightmare, except that it was the time she told me she really liked “Dreamlover” and suggested we sing it together. I died again. I was just blown away that she even knew my song, let alone wanted to perform it. Years later,
she did sing some of my songs, like “Hero” for Jesse Jackson’s birthday and “Touch My Body” on tour, where she ad-libbed all the frisky bits. She said, “Tell Mariah I’m a churchgoing woman, and I can’t sing that stuff, now” and the audience sang along with the hook. It was incredible.
But back to Divas Live. I humbly asked her if we could please do one of her songs. I didn’t think my heart could take Aretha singing one of my songs on this occasion. I suggested “Chain of Fools” instead. Mercifully, she agreed. Show day came, and I was brought to her trailer, where she was sitting with a keyboard, so we could go over the song together. We talked for a bit and worked on the song a little bit, but honestly I felt like I was in a bit of a blackout, because it was such an amazing and intimidating experience having that intimacy with her, and the anticipation of performing with her with so little preparation—and for her to trust that I would carry on.
The time for our first number in the show came. She told the audience that she and “my newest girlfriend didn’t get to rehearse, but she’s going to come out and join me.” The band began “Chain of Fools,” and I walked out on the stage. Her energy was so powerful, I just kept my focus on her and sang when she told me to sing, and we did the song. I ended with a bow and “All hail to the Queen!” How else do you exit a moment like that? And she gestured to me and said, “Miss Carey.” That was enough for my soul.
At every tribute there’s always a big finale with a “We Are the World” moment when all the artists sing some big song together (we love everybody, but I don’t love this part of the show ever, but here we go). All the other divas were on the stage, set to go out with “(You Make Me Feel Like a) Natural Woman,” a natural choice. Everyone knew her part, but we all knew that it was Aretha’s song. Well, almost all of us knew. Look, if Aretha was going to riff or ad-lib anywhere, that was her prerogative as Queen, but you do not—repeat, do not—take it as a challenge. One of the divas didn’t understand the culture of the court and tried to come for the Queen a little bit during the song. It was fine. I wouldn’t have ever done that. To quote Ms. Franklin, “Something was askew.”