Letting go ain’t easy
Oh, it’s just exceedingly hurtful
’Cause somebody you used to know
Is flinging your world around
And they watch, as you’re falling down, down, down,Falling down, baby
—“The Art of Letting Go”
“You’ve always been the light of my life.”
My mother told me this over and over when I was a child. I wanted to be her light. Iwanted to make her proud. I respected her as a singer and a working mother. I loved herdeeply, and, like most kids, I wanted her to be a safe place for me. Above all, I desperatelywanted to believe her.
But ours is a story of betrayal and beauty. Of love and abandonment. Of sacrifice andsurvival. I’ve emancipated2 myself from bondage3 several times, but there is a cloud ofsadness that I suspect will always hang over me, not simply because of my mother butbecause of our complicated journey together. It has caused me so much pain andconfusion. Time has shown me there is no benefit in trying to protect people who nevertried to protect me. Time and motherhood have finally given me the courage to honestlyface who my mother has been to me.
For me, this is the steepest cliff edge. If I can make it to the other side of this truth, Iknow there is relief of epic4 proportions awaiting me. Those people who have hurt me, overand over, whom I have escaped or walled off, are deeply significant in my story, but theyare not central to my existence.
Removing myself from toxic5 people I love has been excruciatingly painful, but once Ifound the courage (with prayer and professional help, of course), I simply let go and letGod. (I’ll add, though, that there’s a huge difference between simple and easy. It ain’teasy, baby.) Yet, there is no “artful” way of letting go of my mother, and our relationshipis anything but simple. Like many aspects of my life, my journey with my mother hasbeen full of contradictions and competing realities. It’s never been only black-and-white—it’s been a whole rainbow of emotions.
Our relationship is a prickly rope of pride, pain, shame, gratitude6, jealousy7,admiration, and disappointment. A complicated love tethers my heart to my mother’s.
When I became a mother to Roc and Roe8, my heart grew two times over; as my capacityfor pure love expanded, the ability to tow heavy pain from my past diminished. Healthy,powerful love did that for me: it illuminated9 the dark spots and unearthed10 buried hurt. Thenew, clear light that emanates11 from my children’s love now rushes through every artery,every cell, every dark nook and cranny of my being.
Even after all this time, a part of me fantasizes that one of these days my mother willtransform into one of the caring mothers I saw on TV as a child, like Carol Brady or ClairHuxtable; that she will suddenly ask me, “Honey, how, was your day?” before she givesme a report on her dog or her bird, or asks me to pay for something or do something—thatshe will have genuine, sustained interest in me and what I’m doing or feeling. That oneday she will know me. That one day my mother will understand me.
To a certain extent, I know how my mother became who she is. Her mother certainlydidn’t understand her. And her father never had a chance to know her; he died while hermother was pregnant with her. She was one of three children raised by a widowed IrishCatholic woman. My mother was known as the “dark one” because her hair wasn’t blondand her eyes were a mix of brown and green, not pure blue like her brother’s and sister’s.
Blue eyes were a symbol of the purity of whiteness, and being of 100 percent “pure” Irishdescent was central to her mother’s entire identity.
My mother grew up in the 1940s and 1950s in Springfield, Illinois. It was the capitalcity at the center of a state at the center of the country. But Springfield was also a center ofinsidious institutional racism12. In 1908, a white woman was allegedly raped13 by a Blackman (the same accusation14 leveled against my father and countless15 other innocent Blackmen), which ignited a three-day riot by white citizens in which two Black men werelynched and four white men were shot to death by Black businessmen protecting theirproperty. In the 1920s, when my mother’s mother was coming of age, the Ku Klux Klanhad a strong presence in the city and the city government, holding several key positionsand setting the moral compass for the community. Springfield was a city openly cloaked inhate.
One of the few stories my mother told of her childhood was of being in kindergartenand sharing her mat with a Black boy at naptime. For this, the nuns16 at her Catholic schoolpublicly shamed her. Obviously there was a rancid repertoire17 of slurs18 for Black people inmy mother’s youth, but she also told me of the odd slurs and degrading names they hadfor Italians, Jewish people, and all “others” when no one else was around. She made meprivy to the hierarchy19 of racism in their white community. Ironically, even among herbeloved Irish there was a social caste system that divided the “lace curtain Irish” from the“shanty20 Irish.” The lace curtain Irish were “pure,” well off, respectable, and “properlyplaced” in society (think of the Kennedys), while the shanty Irish were characterized asdirty, poor, and ignorant. There was a critical and pitiful need, in this system, to have ahost of others to look down on. To my mother’s mother, all “others” were below the Irish.
But Black? Black people were always at the absolute bottom of the order. Nothing wasbelow Black.
My mother not only ignored the moral code of her hometown, she rebelled against it,later becoming active in the civil rights movement. By the standards of her environmentand family, she was a liberal eccentric. She was interested in life outside of their tiny,tight, white world. She was intellectually curious and drawn21 to culture, especially toclassical music. She recalls that one day, while listening to a classical music station on theradio, she heard an aria22. It was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard, and she wasdetermined to chase it, inside herself and out in the world. She decided24 to start her quest inNew York City, which seemed a million miles away from her family and the small-minded place they inhabited.
Young Patricia had big dreams—many of which she realized. She was extremelygifted and driven. Winning a scholarship to the prestigious25 Juilliard School for music, shewould go on to sing with the New York City Opera, making her debut26 at Lincoln Center.
My mother built an exciting, artsy, bohemian life in New York City. She was in thedowntown scene and dated a diverse cast of men by whom her mother would have beenmortified. Her pure Irish Catholic mother wouldn’t approve of her dating anyone whowasn’t lily-white. (Of course, in turn, the white supremacists of Illinois weren’t crazyabout the Irish or Catholics—the WASPs27 [White Anglo-Saxon Protestants], as they werereferred to at that time, always needed a fresh supply of people to have beneath them.) AnItalian guy would have been a problem, a Jewish man, a tragedy. My grandmotherwould’ve come completely undone28 if she knew my mother had had a steamy affair with arich, older Lebanese man named Fran?ois, right before she fell in love with, and married, aman her mother could not even conceive of. My father. A beautiful, complicated Blackman. This, to my grandmother (and her community) was the worst thing her daughtercould do to her and to the family lineage. Talking to a Black man was considered a shame;befriending one, an outrage29; carrying on with one, a major scandal, but marrying one?
That was an abomination.
It was the ultimate humiliation30. My mother’s marriage to my father was beyondbetrayal to her mother; it was a high crime against her white heritage, punishable byexcommunication.
To her mother, who grew up in a time and place where the KKK openly held massrallies and were active in government, marrying a Black man carried a burden of shameshe could not fathom31. Her mother was raised not to drink from the same fountain as Blackpeople, not to sit in the same seat as Black people or swim in the same pool. She wastaught, and believed, that Black people were dirty and that Blackness could rub off. Afterall, the United States is the birthplace of the “one-drop rule,” the racial classificationsystem that asserts that any person with an ancestor possessing even one drop of Blackblood is considered Black.
In my grandmother’s view, my mother loving my father made her a bottom-feeder,procreating with the lowest human group and making mulatto mongrels—me and mysiblings. Needless to say, my grandmother completely disowned her daughter. She told noone else in the family her daughter was married to a Black man (and pregnant with a son).
Save for a few sporadic32, secret phone calls, my mother became almost entirelydisconnected from her mother. She wouldn’t go back to her hometown for many years tocome.
Even the most gifted, compassionate33, progressive person cannot easily overcomebeing completely rejected by their mother. To have the love of a mother is too primal34 aneed. Whatever soft place my mother might have had to land was hardened like concreteby her own mother’s ignorant, fearful family and upbringing. Even her marriage to myfather and the births of three beautiful children couldn’t fully35 heal the deep wound ofmaternal rejection—nothing can. I also doubt loving a Black man and having mixedchildren is the cure-all for generations of belief steeped in white superiority, and mymother and her family were steeped down to the white of their bones.
I’ve often wondered why my mother defied her mother, family, and heritage bymarrying my father. What was her full motivation? Was it all in the name of unconditionallove? It was never “we belong together” between them. She never reminisced to me abouttheir romance, nor was there any physical evidence of it: no photos, no poems, no letters,no trace of a great love. (Well, there were three children.) Maybe my mother wanted tokeep her history and memories of my father private, though I can’t help but wonder if hermarriage wasn’t, in part, a rebellion against her mother. Did she do it for the attention, thedrama of it all? More than once over the decades, I’ve heard my mother order her coffee“Black, like my men.” She’s often done it in front of me and one of her young Blackgrandsons—awkward.
To be honest, I don’t know if my mother ever wanted to get married and have childrenso young. I could understand her wanting to create a safety net, a new family of her own,and to continue blazing trails, leaving her backward home and family behind. But what Icouldn’t understand was her abandoning her promising37 singing career to do so. From veryearly on I decided that I didn’t want the same fate; I couldn’t have a man or an unplannedpregnancy take me off my path. Witnessing my mother’s and my sister’s detours38 was a sadand stinging warning. Watching their dreams go up in flames burned a cautionary tale intomy mind.
In 1977, my mother recorded an album she titled To Start Again. But by that time,she’d already had a troubled interracial marriage, three kids, a divorce, and one child stillliving with her, me. Did she think a record company would suddenly discover her? This isone of many miscalculations that as a child I observed my mother make and placed in afile labeled “What Not to Do.”
Time rolled by after my parents’ divorce, and eventually my grandmother allowed mymother to visit her with her granddaughter—but only her youngest granddaughter. I was atwelve-year-old little girl and didn’t quite understand why she only invited me. Lookingback, I suspect it was because I was blond-ish and very fair for a mixed kid. I didn’t raisemuch suspicion to the culturally untrained eye. I was too young to know how my motherand her mother interacted with each other, and I never knew what happened between themat that point: Was there an apology from Pat’s mother for disowning her daughter andwithholding family from her? Did she reckon with her racism? Was there forgiveness? Idon’t know. What I do remember is that she was stiff and formal. She had stark39 white hairthat she wore neatly40 away from her face with one big wave in the front. On her stern faceshe wore black cat-eyed glasses. Her house was not warm, and there was no smell to theplace. I recall her coming into the quiet, sterile41 bedroom where I slept while I was there,after my mother had put me to bed. She sat on the side of the bed in the dark and, in awhisper, taught me the Lord’s Prayer.
Give us this day our daily bread
And forgive us our trespasses43, as we forgive those who trespass42 against us.
Matthew 6:11–12
That’s all I remember of that visit to see my grandmother. In an unusual twist of fate,she died on my mother’s birthday, February 15. After that, oddly enough, my motherpretty much sainted her. As an adult, my mother was never a practicing Catholic, but formany years she went to light a candle for her mother on that date. Strange how death canmake people forgive those who trespassed44 against them and their children.
For most of my early childhood it was just my mother and me. We moved constantly.
After an exhaustive search, she found us a place by the water. She wanted to be in a morepeaceful setting where she could take long walks with the dog and go down the road to thebeach. The two of us moved into what she referred to as a “quaint45 cottage” but I laterlearned the entire neighborhood called it “the shack46.” I found the neighbors’ description tobe more accurate.
It was a small, rickety structure covered in a wavy47 faux-brick siding that had buckledunder the elements. Inside, a layer of dank sadness seeped48 through the floorboards andwalls, which were covered with cheap “imitation of wood” paneling that was paired withfilthy flea-ridden carpeting. No matter the time of day, it was always dark inside. Prior tous moving in, the place had been abandoned and had become a hangout where teenagerswould smoke, drink, and mess around. It was set off of a rough, unpaved driveway ofrubble and stones and faced a big white Victorian house, which made it look likesomething the big house had belched49 out. It was marked, and so were we. My mother andI were the eccentric lady and her little girl who lived in “the shack.” How?… quaint.
The first chapter of Marilyn Monroe’s autobiography50, My Story, is entitled “How IRescued a White Piano.” In it she writes about her mission to find her mother’s 1937 babygrand piano.
Gladys Monroe Baker51, mother to Marilyn Monroe (born Norma Jeane Mortenson),was in and out of psychiatric institutions all of her life. It’s been documented that shesuffered from paranoid schizophrenia, an incurable52 disease that performs a violent dancewith the mind, releasing it to lucidity53 for brief moments, then, without warning, spinning itback into hellish delusion54. As a result of her mother’s inability to maintain sanity55, Marilynspent most of her childhood in orphanages56, followed by a series of foster homes. Duringone of Gladys’s rare healthy periods, she and little Norma Jeane lived together for a fewmonths in a small white house near the Hollywood Bowl. The most prized possession intheir modest abode57 was a baby grand piano. When her mother’s illness reared its uglyhead again, dragging her back into darkness and into another institution, the fewfurnishings and the piano were sold off.
After Norma Jeane’s transformation58 into Marilyn Monroe The Movie Star, she spokevery little of her childhood, her mentally ill mother, or her unknown father. And thoughMarilyn had made herself into a radiant icon59, I imagine there was a piece of her stillsearching for an uninterrupted childhood, longing60 for her mother to be whole. I see howthe piano must’ve become a symbol of a time when she and her mother were together inrelative peace and harmony. Pianos are elegant, mystical, and comforting—from themsimple tunes61 and majestic62 compositions can spring forth63 and fill a dismal64 living room, adank bar, a concert hall, or even a shack with joy and glory.
Marilyn went on a mission to find her mother’s piano. As the story goes, while still astruggling model and actress, she found and purchased the piano at an auction65 and kept itin storage until she was able to move it into a home of her own. It accompanied her to allher residences. One of its final homes was the lavish66 Manhattan apartment Marilyn sharedwith her third and last husband, renowned67 playwright68 Arthur Miller69, where she custom-coated the instrument in a thick, shiny white lacquer to match the apartment’s glamorous70,angelic décor—“a world of white,” as her half sister, Berniece Miracle, called it. “Myhappiest hours as a little girl were around that piano,” Marilyn said. I imagine when yourchildhood was fraught71 with insecurity and fear like Marilyn’s and like mine, the romanceof those lost happy hours is extremely valuable. I understood why she searched for,bought, stored, and cared for the piano — so much so that I rescued it at auction atChristie’s in 1999. It is a treasure and my most expensive piece of art. And now, MarilynMonroe’s white baby grand piano is the centerpiece, the pièce de résistance, of my ownglamorous Manhattan penthouse. Marilyn was my first vision of a superstar that I couldrelate to, on an almost spiritual level.
We did without a lot of things when I was young, but what my mother couldn’t livewithout was a piano. We always had a piano, and I had many happy and formative hoursaround it with my mother. My mother would go through songs and scales with me, and ofcourse I would hear her practicing her dramatic operatic scales. It was at the piano where Iwould sit and make up little tunes of my own.
My mother never had much money, but one of her greatest contributions to mydevelopment was exposing me to all kinds of people, especially musicians. She made afew dollars here and there by giving voice lessons at our house. Her practicing was aconstant, but what I treasured most were the jam sessions. Accomplished72 musicians wouldcome and hang out and play music at my mother’s bohemian spot “by the bay,” and Iwould jam with them. Live music was the best thing about living with my mother. I wassurrounded by the love of music, but even more importantly, by the love of musicianship—the love of the craft, the love of the process. When I was a little girl, my motherintroduced me to the world of sitting in with musicians: improvising73, vibing, and singing.
I particularly remember her singing from a Carly Simon songbook, she would playfrom it all the time. If I asked her to play a song for me to sing, she’d happily oblige. Shenever pushed me to sing or practice, but she encouraged me. She knew early on I had heradvanced ear for music. When I was five she arranged for me to have piano lessons for ashort time. But rather than read the music, I would play “Mary Had a Little Lamb” by ear.
“Don’t use your ear, don’t use your ear!” my teacher would implore74. But I didn’t knowhow not to use my ear. Because music was a gift of freedom in my world of scarcity75, theone place I felt unrestrained, I resisted the repetition and discipline required to learn howto read music and play the piano. Hearing and mimicking76 came so easily to me. This isone of several times I wish my mother had pushed me and made me sit and stick with it.
My mother and her guitarist friend would also sing standards from the 1940s (ofcourse that’s the era I loved, not only for the glamour77 but because the melodies were sostrong). She particularly loved Billie Holiday and would often sing her songs. I rememberhearing my mother sing “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love.” I learned it and we wouldsing it together, and I would instinctively78 scat, which I loved. It felt like my little-girlversion of catching79 the Holy Spirit.
I learned several jazz standards from my mom and her musician pals80, and some ofthem took note of my ear and natural abilities. At about twelve years old I would sit withher and Clint, a piano player. He was a big brown teddy bear, and he could play his assoff. He would sit and work with me and treat me like a serious musician. When I would sitwith him and sing, we were just two musicians working together. He taught me jazzclassics, and one of the first songs I remember learning was “Lullaby of Birdland,” madefamous by the great Ella Fitzgerald. I will always have a profound respect for Ms.
Fitzgerald and all the jazz legends who laid such a fertile musical foundation formusicians of all genres81. It was not an easy song at any age, but for me at twelve, it wasbeyond advanced. With its intricate melody, full of vocal82 shifts and changes, it wascomposed for one of the most nimble jazz vocalists of all time. Learning and listening tolive jazz helped train my ear and shape my creative wiring. I was learning how to feelwhen to modulate83 and when to scat. Being introduced to jazz standards and a jazzdiscipline gave me my appreciation84 for sophisticated modulations in a song and how toemploy them to communicate emotion. (Stevie Wonder is the absolute master of this.)For me, songs are always about emotion. My mother may not have taken me tochurch, but jamming with jazz musicians was close to a spiritual experience. There’s acreative energy that flows through the room. You learn to sit and listen to what the othermusicians are doing, and you get inspired by a guitar riff or what the pianist is playing.
When you are in a zone, it is a miraculous85 madness. For me, it was always an exquisiteescape, which I desperately1 needed and always sought.
By the time I was eleven or twelve my mother was taking me to a supper club on LongIsland to sit in with her and other musicians. There was a dining room on the ground floorwhere they would serve dinner, and upstairs was live jazz. I was in the sixth grade, up inthere at all hours of the night, any day of the week, sitting in with grown-ass musicians.
I’m not sure if my mother just wanted to be able to hang out at night and sing and not bestuck in the shack—I mean “cottage”—with a kid, or if she was consciously developingme as an artist, or if maybe she wanted to present to her friends her little protégée? I doremember her encouraging me while I sang. I felt more welcomed (and natural) with jazzmusicians at night in the club than with my classmates during the day—those kids whoasked incessantly86, “What are you?” those kids who judged me by the way I looked andhad no idea what my life was really like. I always knew that the world of suburban87 LongIsland wasn’t for me. I was a fish out of water, and though I survived it, I knew that no onethere really cared about me, and I certainly knew I wasn’t staying.
And my mother wasn’t just any old mom supporting me—she was a Juilliard-trainedmusician. Music was something we genuinely connected on, and without pushing orbecoming one of those overbearing stage mothers or “momagers,” she instilled88 in me thepower of believing in myself. Whenever I mused89 about what I’d do “if I make it,” shewould cut me short and say, “Don’t say ‘if I make it,’ say ‘when I make it.’ Believe youcan do it, and you will do it.”
The fact that I believed I could become a successful artist is one of my greateststrengths. Around the same time, my mother entered me in a talent competition in the cityand I sang one of my favorite songs: “Out Here On My Own” by Irene Cara.
I felt “Out Here On My Own” described my entire life, and I loved singing that way—singing to reveal a piece of my soul. And I won doing it. At that age, I lived for the movieFame, and Irene Cara was everything to me. I related to her multicultural90 look (PuertoRican and Cuban), her multitextured hair, and, most importantly, her ambition andaccomplishments. She won an Oscar for Best Original Song for “Flashdance?… What aFeeling” (which she cowrote), from Flashdance, making her the first Black woman to winin a category other than acting93. (She won a Grammy, a Golden Globe, and an AmericanMusic Award for the song too.) But “Out Here On My Own” was such a pure song thattouched my heart, and I couldn’t believe I won a trophy94 for singing a song I loved. It wasthe first time I’d received validation95 as an artist. What a feeling.
It wasn’t just music my mother exposed me to. She had friends who treated me likefamily, which helped offset96 all the shabby places we lived and the disheveled way I oftenlooked.
My mother had a friend named “Sunshine,” who was short and quite a large woman,with a warm and generous heart. She wore her hair in two long ponytails, like Carole andPaula from The Magic Garden (a popular local kids’ TV show I loved, which was hostedby two young, hippie-esque women with a pink squirrel sidekick, who sang folksy songsand told stories, in the seventies and early eighties). Sunshine had big, older sons and nodaughters, so she took an interest in me, especially in my disorderly and neglectedappearance. She would often bring me cute, girlie clothes that she made herself. On mysixth birthday, she outfitted99 me in a white embroidered100 shirt paired with a blue skirt, whitetights, and Mary Jane shoes. She even got my hair to lie down in pigtails (maybe being aJewish woman and having textured91 hair gave her some insight). My birthday crown satnicely right on top. She even bought me a birthday cake decorated like a lamb! A lamb! Itis one of the few times I remember feeling beautiful as a child. Sunshine lovingly madesure I looked put together and cute. She was never anything but caring and sweet to me.
Years later, when I was going into junior high, she came by with some clothes for me thatI felt were too childish. I rejected them rudely, in the cruel fashion of an angsty preteen.
To this day, I regret how mean I was to such a considerate caretaker—one of the few inmy whole life.
I tried my hardest to accept all my mother’s unfortunate choices in men. I even tried toimpress them. (Some of the names have been changed to protect the dickheads.) Tales of acertain man in my mother’s life right before my father loomed101 large in our household. Weknew his name, Fran?ois, we knew he was Lebanese, and we knew he was rich. Despiteher great talents, my mother, like many women of her era, subscribed102 to the belief that aman was her most reliable source of security. The time between the relationships she hadwith Fran?ois and with my father was not long; it was even sometimes suggested there hadbeen some overlap103, which led to the suspicion that perhaps Morgan was not my father’schild. Drama.
After the divorce from my father, my mother and Fran?ois reconnected, and sheplanned an epic reunion with “the rich man who got away.” My mother got Morgan andme excited about the fantasy that a wealthy, exotic man would come and sweep us up outof our run-down digs, and we would be set for life—all we had to do was impress him. Icould do that, I thought. Maybe my mother and I could sing a song at the piano? The nightof their big date arrived, and while my mother and Fran?ois were out, I pulled together thebest little outfit98 I could to greet him. I was nervous, because my mother wanted to berescued bad, and I wanted to be in a nice, safe place too. The stakes were high.
I was home alone when my mother and Fran?ois returned (I was home alone a lot as achild). Determined23 to do my part to make this relationship work for my mother, I ran tothe door. Fran?ois came in ahead of her. He was a tall, imposing104 older man in a dark suitwith sharp, mysterious features. “Hello!” I began cheerily, perhaps throwing in a curtsyfor dramatic effect. “Shut up!” he barked. “Where is my son!?”
The force of his words crushed every bit of enthusiasm out of me. He was scary. I wasonly a kid, and this big stranger had stormed into my house, dismissed me, and screamedat me. I ran crying to my mother’s bedroom. She tried to calm me down, but I wasinconsolable. I’m not sure if Fran?ois ever saw Morgan (who had our father’s Blackfeatures running all up and through him). But needless to say, no rich, heroic man saved usthat day; no man “saved” us any day.
I did not like or trust most of my mother’s men. She had one older Black boyfriend,Leroy, who tried to “protect” us from Morgan during one of his more violent episodes bysaying, “I got my piece,” and flashing a pistol. Imagine that: your mother’s boyfriendcarrying a gun and threatening to use it on her teenage son, your brother. Sadly, it didmake me feel safer; Morgan had become a scary presence to me by then.
However, my mother’s men were not all bad. Nothing and no one is ever all bad.
There was a sweet man in my mother’s life named Henry. He was my favorite. He wasabout ten years younger than my mother and a horticulturalist. He drove an old red pickuptruck, outfitted for the field; his many gardening tools, tree cuttings, mulch, and othersupplies would stick out from the back. He knew his trade. He was very well educated andgrew extraordinary plants that towered over me (mainly some species that were illegal atthe time). He also grew an impressive Afro that seemed to float around his head. Mymother and I lived in a few different places with Henry, but for a while the three of uswere in a small house on a grand estate, where he was the gardener. The place gave meplantation vibes, and we lived in the modern equivalent of the servants’ quarters. But still,Henry’s house was nicer than most of the houses we’d lived in and gave me a briefmoment of stability.
I was in the third grade when we lived there, and Henry built me a swing on a big, oldtree that was near what looked to me like a mini-mountain made of garbage. One day hebrought home two rescue kittens, one for me and one for him. I liked his better; he wasorange, with a very special spirit. Ultimately he became mine. He grew to be big andsquishy, and his name was Morris, like the icon. I’d sit and swing with him on my lap. Wetruly loved each other. I confided106 in him when I had a really hard day at school, which wasoften. I never fit in with the kids, who were all white and most of whom lived in theestates in that neighborhood. I was the child of the girlfriend of the hired help, and they letme know it. I brought my troubles to Morris. Even if I had had any friends I wouldn’thave wanted them to see I lived near a trash dump. Once, when I was really upset afterhaving a pretty big argument with my mother, I ran out of the house, grabbed my cat, andheaded for my place. While swinging over the hill o’ garbage with Morris in my lap, thesmell of rotting food wafting107 over my face, I promised myself no matter what, I wouldnever forget what it felt like to be a child—a moment I re-created years later in the“Vision of Love” video. (Sans the garbage. I wanted to be sentimental108, not bleak109.)I really liked Henry; he was an Aries just like me. We would dance, and he would pickme up and twirl me around. He provided me with glimpses of what the life of a carefreelittle girl could be. Henry was kind, and he paid for my second year of performing artssummer camp. I remember his mother, who used to work for Estée Lauder and was anexceptional cook. One day she laid out a divine soul food spread, ending with a Germanchocolate cake, which I had never had before. It was a delicious, warm, gooey, homemadepile of happiness. But with all that love also came darkness. Henry was a Black Vietnamveteran and was severely110 damaged by the consequences of both of those identities. Isuspect he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder97 (PTSD), and, even as a kid, I wasaware of his occasional psychedelic drug usage. I believe the fallout from his experiencesof war and racism was the root cause of why he and my mother broke up.
One day near the end of my third-grade school year I got home and my mother was upin arms. She announced, “We can’t stay here anymore. We have to leave now.”
She already had our things packed and in her car. Henry was sitting in a chair in themiddle of the kitchen. The lights were off, and I could see the strong silhouette112 of hisAfro. He was holding a long double-barreled shotgun in one of his hands. Staring down atthe white linoleum113 floor, he said very calmly, “You’re not leaving me. I’m not gonna letyou guys leave.” He never raised his head or voice and seemed to be in a kind oftrancelike state.
“I’m not going to let you guys go,” he said. “I’m going to chop you up and put you inthe refrigerator and make you guys stay here.” Well, after he said that, I rushed to get intothe car. My mother started the engine.
“Morris!” I screamed. “I have to get Morris; he’s still in there!” Panicked, I jumpedout of the car. I was determined to get my cat. That cat represented too much for me; hewas unconditional36 love to me.
“Be careful,” my mother said, as she let me reenter a house occupied by an armed manwho had just threatened to chop us up. (Henry never did anything to hurt me and perhapsshe believed he wouldn’t now, but still.) I had to pass the kitchen, with Henry and theshotgun, to search the other rooms for Morris. When I finally found him, I scooped114 him upin my arms, ran out of the house, and jumped in the car. As we sped off, my heart wasgoing a mile a minute. “Hallelujah, I got Morris!” I triumphantly115 exclaimed.
I never knew what happened between her and Henry, and I never saw him after thatday. I heard that many years later, while he was riding down the road in his same vintagered pickup105, “‘Vision of Love,’ by Mariah Carey,” came bursting through his old radio. Iwas told that he rolled down the window and yelled out into the fresh air, “She made it!
She made it!” I really hope Henry made it too.
My mother did occasionally try to give us moments. She would save up a little moneyso we could do things like go to dinner in New York City. And it was on these excursionsthat I developed a taste for “the finer things.” I have a distinct memory of one night whenwe were riding back from the city. I was looking out the back window at the New YorkCity skyline, and I said to myself, This is where I’m going to live when I grow up. I wantto have this view.
I always knew we lived in shitty places among other people’s nice houses in thesuburbs. I never dreamed I’d get married and live in a big white Victorian house, or even acozy little home like my guncles. But I did envision something grand. I rememberwatching Mommie Dearest and seeing Joan Crawford’s pristine116 manor117. That’s what Iwant, I thought.
I even believed I could surpass its splendor118. Even then, I saw myself living in amansion or more, because I knew I would realize my dreams. And when I saw the NewYork skyline, looking like a giant silver crystal encrusted with multicolored jewels, Ienvisioned I would live somewhere where I could see that. And I do. I see it clearly; I seethe120 entire city from the rooftop of my downtown Manhattan penthouse. As a result of a lotof hard labor121, I went from swinging over garbage to singing in a mansion119 in the sky.
So yes, my mother exposing me to beauty and culture gave me encouragement andlifelong lessons that contributed both to my art and to what is good in me. But my motheralso created persistent122 turmoil123, which caused trauma111 and deep sadness. It has taken me alifetime to find the courage to confront the stark duality of my mother, the beauty and thebeast that coexist in one person—and to discover there’s beauty in all of us, but who lovedyou and how they loved you will determine how long it takes to realize it.
Looking back now, I can see that in my early years, there was significant neglect. Forone, there were the people my mother let be around me, particularly my violent brother,my troubled sister, and their sketchy124 cohorts. And I often looked a mess, though I believethat was likely a result of my mother being oblivious125 (in the name of being bohemian)rather than malicious126. However, I noticed a shift in our relationship when I was aboutfourteen years old. One night, as we were riding together in the “Dodge dent,” as shecalled it, “Somebody’s Watching Me,” by Rockwell, came on the radio. It was a hugeinternational hit on Motown Records at the time, and I loved it, largely because MichaelJackson sang the hook. We were driving and bopping along with the song when mymother broke out into Michael’s signature part of the chorus. “I always feel like /Somebody’s watching me.”
She sang it in an elaborate, operatic style, and I turned my face to the window to hidemy giggle127. I mean, it’s a very eighties R & B record, with the hook sung in MichaelJackson’s impeccably smooth signature style, so to hear it delivered like Beverly Sills (apopular Brooklyn-born operatic soprano from the 1950s to the 1970s) was pretty hilariousto my teenage singer’s ears.
Oh, but Mother was not amused. She whipped the volume knob down and glared atme, her brownish-green eyes narrowing and hardening to stone.
“What’s so funny?” she spat128. Her seriousness quickly swallowed up the silliness of themoment. I stuttered, “Um, well?… that’s just not how it goes.” She stared at me until everybit of lightness faded. Almost growling129, she said, “You should only hope that one day youbecome half the singer I am.” My heart dropped.
Still, to this day, what she said haunts and hurts me. I don’t know if she meant to cutme down to size or it was just her bruised130 ego92 talking; all I know is that those words thatshot out of her mouth pierced my chest and were buried in my heart.
These words were there in my heart in 1999 when I was acknowledged and respectedfor my voice and my compositions by two of the greatest opera talents of all time. I wasinvited to join Luciano Pavarotti in “Pavarotti & Friends,” a prestigious annual fundraisingconcert for children in war-torn countries, hosted by the great tenor131, the maestro, in hishometown of Modena, Italy. (The concert was directed for TV by Spike132 Lee, ya dig?) It’san ancient town known for producing fancy sports cars like Ferraris and Lamborghinis aswell as balsamic vinegar—and I’m sure whatever indulgences the maestro desired wereimported. I brought my mother and my wonderful little nephew Mike with me. I wasproud and happy to be able to treat her to a glamorous trip and to introduce her to one ofher idols133. In a strapless pale-pink silk taffeta sheath gown, my mother watched me share agrand outdoor stage in front of fifty thousand people with one of the greatest and mostfamous opera singers of all time. Not only did we sing together, he sang my song:
Pavarotti sang an Italian version of “Hero” with me, for the whole world to see. For mymother to see.
Then, in May 2005, I met the phenomenal soprano Leontyne Price (the first Blackwoman to become a prima donna at the Metropolitan134 Opera and the most awardedclassical singer) when she was being honored at Oprah’s illustrious Legends Ball, whichcelebrated twenty-five African American women in art, entertainment, and civil rights.
The historic weekend began on Friday with a private luncheon135 at her Montecito home,where the “legends” were greeted by the “young’uns,” including Alicia Keys, AngelaBassett, Halle Berry, Mary J. Blige, Naomi Campbell, Missy Elliott, Tyra Banks, Iman,Janet Jackson, Phylicia Rashad, Debbie Allen, myself, and many more.
And throughout the extraordinary weekend, we young’uns paid homage136 to the legendsfor their great contributions. My mother would often boast, “Oh yes, Leontyne and I hadthe same vocal coach,” and here I was hanging out with her (at Oprah Winfrey’s house noless)! Madame Price remembered my mother, and she also validated137 my talent.
On the day after Christmas that year, on the most elegant, thick, eggshell-coloredstationery I received a letter from her:
“In the difficult, demanding business of performing arts, you are the crown jewel ofsuccess. To achieve your level of success as a multi-dimensional artist is an outstandingmeasure of your artistic139 talent.” It went on to say,It was a pleasure to visit with you during the Legends Weekend and to tell you inperson how much I admire you and your artistry. Your creativity and performancesare superb. You present your compositions with a depth of feeling that is rarely, ifever, seen or heard. It is a joy to watch you turn all of the obstacles you faced intostepping-stones to success. Your devotion to your art and career are praiseworthy.
This brings you a standing138 ovation140 and a resounding141 Brava! Brava! Brava!
*Dead*
I guess to my mother, I may not have been half the singer she was, but I was the wholesinger and artist I was.
This was my first glimpse into how misguided words from a mother can really affect achild. What a simple difference a laugh along from her would have made. Whatever hadconnected us before, a fragile mother-daughter bond, was shattered in that moment. Therewas a distinct shift: she made me feel like the competition, like a threat. In place of ourprevious bond grew a different tie, a rope tethering us through shared biology and socialobligation. In no way did my mother crush my dreams of being successful that day; myfaith had grown too strong by then.
Having people you love be jealous of you professionally comes with the territory ofsuccess, but when the person is your mother and the jealousy is revealed at such a tenderage, it’s particularly painful. I was going through some heavy shit then, and for her toexpose her insecurity to me in that way, at that time, was damaging. I’d already had somany years of insecurity around my physical safety. Though a subtle, brief moment, thiswas the first big blow in a long line of times when people close to me would try to put medown, put me in my place, underestimate me, or take advantage of me. But she, above all,was the most devastating142, because she was the most essential. She was my mother.
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1
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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toxic
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| adj.有毒的，因中毒引起的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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roe
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| n.鱼卵；獐鹿 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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10
unearthed
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| 出土的（考古） | |
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emanates
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的第三人称单数 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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racism
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| n.民族主义；种族歧视(意识) | |
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raped
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| v.以暴力夺取，强夺( rape的过去式和过去分词 )；强奸 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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17
repertoire
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| n.(准备好演出的)节目，保留剧目；(计算机的)指令表，指令系统， <美>(某个人的)全部技能；清单，指令表 | |
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18
slurs
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| 含糊的发音( slur的名词复数 )； 玷污； 连奏线； 连唱线 | |
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19
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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20
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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21
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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aria
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| n.独唱曲，咏叹调 | |
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23
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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prestigious
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| adj.有威望的，有声望的，受尊敬的 | |
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26
debut
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| n.首次演出，初次露面 | |
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27
wasps
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| 黄蜂( wasp的名词复数 )； 胡蜂； 易动怒的人； 刻毒的人 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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29
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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30
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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31
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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32
sporadic
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| adj.偶尔发生的 [反]regular；分散的 | |
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33
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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34
primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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35
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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36
unconditional
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| adj.无条件的，无限制的，绝对的 | |
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37
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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38
detours
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| 绕行的路( detour的名词复数 )； 绕道，兜圈子 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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41
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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42
trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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43
trespasses
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| 罪过( trespass的名词复数 )； 非法进入 | |
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44
trespassed
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| （trespass的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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45
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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47
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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48
seeped
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| v.（液体）渗( seep的过去式和过去分词 )；渗透；渗出；漏出 | |
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49
belched
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| v.打嗝( belch的过去式和过去分词 )；喷出，吐出；打（嗝）；嗳（气） | |
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50
autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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51
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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52
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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53
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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54
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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orphanages
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| 孤儿院( orphanage的名词复数 ) | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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58
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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59
icon
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| n.偶像，崇拜的对象，画像 | |
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60
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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61
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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62
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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63
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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64
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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65
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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66
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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67
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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68
playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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69
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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70
glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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71
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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72
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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73
improvising
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| 即兴创作（improvise的现在分词形式） | |
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74
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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75
scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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76
mimicking
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的现在分词 )；酷似 | |
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77
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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78
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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79
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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80
pals
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| n.朋友( pal的名词复数 )；老兄；小子；（对男子的不友好的称呼）家伙 | |
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81
genres
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| （文学、艺术等的）类型，体裁，风格( genre的名词复数 ) | |
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82
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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83
modulate
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| v.调整，调节(音的强弱)；变调 | |
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84
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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85
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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86
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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87
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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88
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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90
multicultural
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| adj.融合多种文化的，多种文化的 | |
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91
textured
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| adj.手摸时有感觉的, 有织纹的 | |
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92
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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93
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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94
trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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95
validation
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| n.确认 | |
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96
offset
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| n.分支，补偿；v.抵消，补偿 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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98
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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99
outfitted
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| v.装备，配置设备，供给服装( outfit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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101
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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102
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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103
overlap
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| v.重叠，与…交叠；n.重叠 | |
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104
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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105
pickup
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| n.拾起，获得 | |
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106
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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107
wafting
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的现在分词 ) | |
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108
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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109
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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111
trauma
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| n.外伤，精神创伤 | |
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112
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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113
linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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114
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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115
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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116
pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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117
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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118
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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119
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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120
seethe
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| vi.拥挤，云集；发怒，激动，骚动 | |
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121
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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122
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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123
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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124
sketchy
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| adj.写生的，写生风格的，概略的 | |
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125
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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126
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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127
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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128
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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129
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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130
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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131
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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132
spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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133
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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134
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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135
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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136
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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137
validated
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| v.证实( validate的过去式和过去分词 )；确证；使生效；使有法律效力 | |
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138
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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139
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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140
ovation
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| n.欢呼，热烈欢迎，热烈鼓掌 | |
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141
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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142
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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