From the moment I saw her, I felt both awe1 and identification. I idolized her. She was likea living doll, but neither baby nor Barbie; though she was a real, elegant, grown- upwoman, she appeared pure and flawless, as if made of delicate lacquered porcelain2. I’dnever seen anyone like her—such a radiant, glamorous3, vulnerable, yet powerful being.
She was supernatural. I stood there staring, fascinated and frozen before the bright screenwhere she lived.
One evening I had been walking aimlessly down the hall in one of the many houses welived in. As I passed my mother’s dark little bedroom, I casually5 wandered in. I can’tremember whether I saw or heard her first, but I know something carried me into thatroom. The bedroom was lit only by the washed-out colors of the old TV facing the bed,where my mother was lying in silhouette6, watching a special about the life and death ofMarilyn Monroe.
I softly pushed open the bedroom door, walking in on the iconic scene fromGentlemen Prefer Blondes in which Marilyn sings “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”
She was the most beautiful person I had ever seen.
Her energy was like a fairy’s, but she looked like a goddess, swathed in a luxuriouselectric-pink silk gown and matching opera gloves, with diamonds of every size drippingfrom her ears and wrapped around her neck and wrists. The only bits of skin exposed wereher face, her shoulders, and her arms down to the elbow, yet I remember her flesh seemingso rich and creamy, glistening8 like homemade ice cream. Her hair was just a few shadeslighter, dazzling like finely spun9 gold. She was voluptuously10 shaped, with round, curvyhips, a small, cinched waist, proud, purposeful breasts, and arms that stretched wide andhugged close. She was poised11, like a dancer, yet her feet didn’t seem to move. Insteadscores of people danced around her: fawning12 and fanning, kneeling and bowing down toher, conveying her above their heads like Cleopatra. Maybe she was a queen, I thought.
The shining queen of movie stars.
I’d never heard the name Marilyn Monroe before that moment. But I was quicklyhooked. Not your typical third-grade fare, perhaps, but my childhood was anything buttypical. My mother very lovingly supported my fascination13 with Marilyn. While most girlsmy age adorned14 their walls with pictures of Holly15 Hobbie—the frontier rag doll withfreckles and blond yarn16 braids in a strawberry-print bonnet—I had a poster of MarilynMonroe dressed as a sensuous17 showgirl, complete with a black beaded bustier, fishnets,and black patent-leather pumps. I gazed up at Marilyn before I went to sleep and first thingwhen I woke up.
Later my mother bought me Marilyn: A Biography, by Norman Mailer. Though I wasway too young for the material, like Marilyn herself I read voraciously18. I pored over thelarge, glossy19 photos of her, studying all her different moods and looks. She was a shape-shifter — in some photos she was impossibly beautiful and glamorous, in others sheseemed shattered and about to disappear. Her hair shifted shapes, too: pin curls, pigtails,sweeping updos, bobs with deep-diving waves. I even detected unruly curls and familiarfuzz underneath20 the perfect, almost white- blond wave of her hair. There was alsosomething in her physicality, something about her body type, that didn’t read as typicallyCaucasian to me. Not only was she curvy, she had a very particular sensuality, borderingon soulful.
I read a lot about Marilyn, conspiracy21 theories about her death and about herupbringing. The more I read, the more I connected with her and understood why I wasdrawn to her. She had a very difficult childhood, moving from one foster home to another.
That was close to my story: being uprooted22 and unprotected, feeling like an outsider. Iintimately understood her struggles with poverty and family. Ultimately, what I lovedabout Marilyn was her ability to come from nothing—to belong to no one—and evolveinto a huge icon7. I latched23 onto that. I believed in that.
I’ve heard Marilyn might’ve even been my mother’s inspiration for my name. The firstfour letters are the same: M-A-R-I. However, my father claimed that my name comesfrom the Black Maria/Mariah, the infamous24 police van used to haul people off to prison inthe UK. The story also goes that I was named after a hit 1950s show tune25, “They Call theWind Maria,” from Paint Your Wagon26, a Broadway show about the California Gold Rush.
(Both references use the soft pronunciation, with the second syllable27 having a rye sound.)Perhaps it’s a combination of all three: a 1950s starlet, a show tune, and a paddy wagon.
Whatever the origin, when I was younger I didn’t like my name. No one else had it,and when you’re a kid that’s not cool. I always wished I had a regular name like Jenniferor Heather. There were no cute stickers, key chains, or mini license28 plates with my nameon them. But the worst part was hardly anyone could pronounce it. I always dreadedseeing a substitute teacher, knowing roll call would be a Maria/Maya calamity29. I wouldn’tmeet another Mariah until I was about eighteen years old; she was a cool Black girl andwe commiserated30 good-humoredly on the mispronunciations of our childhood. I had noway to imagine that only a few years after that, many people would be naming theirchildren Mariah, after me.
Of all the supposed inspirations for my name, the Marilyn Monroe connectionresonates the most with me — self- created and controlled, confident and vulnerable,womanly and childlike, glamorous and humble31, adored and alone. Marilyn is a source ofinspiration for me, and Lawd have I needed that.
When I was in the eighth grade, there was a pack of pretty, mostly Irish girls whom Idesperately wanted to befriend. At that time, in that town, most of these girls wereconsidered the pinnacle32 of physical perfection: milky33 skin, silky hair, and blue eyes. Theyused to have a chant: “Blue eyes rule!” These were not nice girls.
And I felt wholly inferior around them. Compared to them (and in the eighth grade,comparison is the only method of measurement) my skin was muddy, my hair waslawless. They called me Fozzie Bear (from the Muppets) because of my unruly hair, andtry as I might, I could never flatten34 it all out to look like theirs, and my eyes weredistinctly and undeniably unblue. (I liked my dark eyes, but I never stood up for myselfduring their weird35 chant.) Clearly I stood out from their group, but they let me hang withthem. Maybe it was because I was the class clown, always quick to crack a joke or snap onsomebody and make the whole group laugh. Even if I was only there as entertainment, Iwas happy to put on a show.
The girl in that clique36 who was my closest friend (and I use that word liberally) wasalso the prettiest. I guess now they’d call her a “frenemy.” I would tell her I was interestedin a boy at school, and, knowing full well I never acted on any of my crushes, she and herbig blue eyes would go after him and almost always score. I believe she did this just topush me down, to let me know she had all the power. But what she didn’t know was that Ididn’t ever pursue boys because I wanted to avoid the inevitable37 humiliation38 once theylearned that half of me was Black and all of me was poor. She also didn’t know that Ididn’t want to get wrapped up in some stupid boy and derail my dreams or, worse, getpregnant like my sister. She didn’t know me at all. None of them did.
Some of the girls’ parents did know my mother, however. They had a modicum39 ofrespect for her because she was also Irish and a professional opera singer—and opera wasclassy. Adult drama works differently than that among teens, but they often intersect.
Word got out that the Irish father of the prettiest girl was physically40 abusing her mother.
My mother, who can get really righteous when she wants to, took it upon herself to writehim a letter. In that letter I’m pretty sure she disclosed that she had been married to aBlack man and that he was the father of her children (of course, I wouldn’t learn of theletter until much later).
As I said, these were not nice girls, but eventually I was invited to go with some ofthem, including the prettiest one, to Southampton for a sleepover. One of them had a richaunt, Barbara, with a fancy house near the beach. Fancy- schmancy Southampton? Asleepover with the popular girls? Of course I wanted to go. We piled into one of their bigcars and took the two-hour-long drive along the lovely Atlantic edge of Long Island to thesmall village where the wealthy “summer.” (Summer was a season for me, not a verb.)The house was big, airy, and orderly. It even had an all- white room no one wasallowed to enter. I was awestruck when we arrived, so busy comparing and craving41 that Ihadn’t noticed that the girls had gathered into a cluster by a door.
They called over to me: “Come on, Mariah. Let’s go back here.”
Without question, I followed. They led me to what I thought would be a playroom or aden (I knew wealthy people had dens). It was a smaller room in the rear of the house, aguest room perhaps. One of them shut the door with a click, and suddenly the mood grewheavy, fast. I thought maybe they’d snuck in some alcohol or something. But there was noexcitement, no naughty, girly energy. Instead, all the girls were glaring at me. Suddenly,into the heavy silence, the sister of the prettiest girl spit out her ugly secret for all to hear:
“You’re a nigger!”
My head began to spin when I realized she was referring to me. Pointing at me. It wasmy secret, my shame. I was frozen.
The others quickly joined in. “You’re a nigger!” they all shrieked42. All together, inunison, they chanted, “You’re a nigger!” over and over. I thought it would never end.
The venom43 and hate with which these girls spewed this new iteration of their usualchant was so strong, it quite literally44 lifted me out of my body. I had no idea how to handlewhat was going on. It was all of them against me. They had planned it. They fooled meinto thinking they actually liked me. They lured45 me hours away from home. They isolatedme. They trapped me. Then they betrayed me. I exploded into hysterical47 tears. I wasdisoriented and terrified, and I thought that maybe, if I held on and just kept crying, surelya grown-up would come and stop the assault. But no one came.
Eventually, I heard another voice whimpering among the mob.
“Why are you doing this?” the small, brave voice asked. It was the older blond one.
The ugly sister of the prettiest shot back, “Because she is a nigger.”
I don’t remember anything else about that day. I don’t remember the ride home. Idon’t remember telling my mother when I got back. How do you tell your all- whitemother that your all-white “friends” just dragged you into their big all-white house in all-white Southampton, past an untouchable all-white room, just to corner you and call youthe dirtiest thing in their all-white world? Nigger.
I was also scared my mother might make a massive public scene and make navigatinglife at school even more difficult for me. I had no language or coping skills for any of it. Itwas certainly not the first time I had been degraded by my schoolmates. I’d been singledout on the school bus and spit on. I’d gotten into physical fights. Often, I would clap back;my tongue was sharp, and I could be a real wiseass. Sometimes I even started fights. Butfor this I had no defense48. I was not only outnumbered and isolated46, I was bitterly betrayed.
This was not your garden-variety schoolyard mean-girl scuffle. It was a devious49 andviolent premeditated assault by girls I called my friends. I never spoke50 of it. I stuffed itinside. I had to find a way to survive those girls, that town, my family, and my pain.
She smiles through a thousand tears
And harbors adolescent fears
She dreams of all
That she can never be
She wades51 in insecurity
And hides herself inside of me
Don’t say she takes it all for granted
I’m well aware of all I have
Don’t think that I am disenchanted
Please understand
It seems as though I’ve always been
Somebody outside looking in
Well here I am for all of them to bleed
But they can’t take my heart from me
And they can’t bring me to my knees
They’ll never know the real me
—“Looking In”
“Mariah only has three shirts and she puts them in rotation52!”
The cruel words crashed into the buzzing bustle53 of the in-between-class traffic of myseventh-grade hallway like a stink54 bomb. All the pattering of feet, clanging of lockers,chirping of small talk, and little giggles55 morphed into one giant laughing monster made ofkids, sitting in the middle of the hallway pointing at me. My stomach collapsed56 and myface burst into flames. I thought I might vomit57 right there on the tile floor.
Middle school is a contact sport, and I was pretty skillful with my own sharp tongue.
A lot of kids have to suffer having mean or “funny” names given to them by their peersbecause of how they look or some embarrassing event, but being teased for being poor feltlike a different kind of cruel.
I was severely58 injured, but I did not let it show. I didn’t get sick in front of everybody.
I didn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me weakened. I showed no emotion andwaited patiently for the monster to melt away, as the traffic had to resume and kids had toget to their classes. I understood after that there would be no recovering and no trying tobelong. I would survive on the outside with three shirts and no friends in hopes that Iwould inevitably59 move again.
In our middle-class community, I was extremely self-conscious of living with a shabbywardrobe in a small dilapidated house; however, by the time I entered high school, I haddeveloped some new survival skills. At that age I didn’t have any control over where Ilived, but I could do something about what I wore. One of the few advantages of movingso many times was that I got a fresh crop of kids to try to fit in with. One go-round Imanaged to scrounge together a few girlfriends and convince them we should have afashion swapping60 system where we’d exchange our trendiest pieces with one another andcoordinate them differently. This gave the illusion that I had a more expansive and up-to-date wardrobe than I could ever afford.
The coolest thing I owned was an oversized red wool and black leather varsity jacketwith AVIREX in big letters emblazoned across the back. It was a big deal for me to have aname-brand item, so I made sure I had a signature piece that was adaptable61 to a variety oflooks. I did my best to look the part of a typical cute suburban62 teen, to fit in with all theother Long Island girls.
By the time I was in the tenth grade I was “going out” with the biggest and scariest dudein town. He was six foot five and had biceps that were thicker than both of my thighs63. Hewas in his early twenties, he had a car, and nobody messed with him. And that’s the mainreason why I was with him. He was a protector, a force field. The previous boy I had goneout with was volatile64; we even got into a physical altercation65 in front of a group of girlswho stood around and watched. After we broke up he proceeded to stalk and harass66 me—areal charmer. Mr. Six Foot Five caught him verbally attacking me and proceeded to lifthim up off the ground and toss him over five parked cars—pow! He actually was prettycool beyond his brute67 strength. But high school can be treacherous68, especially for anoutsider like me, so having the toughest guy in town as my guy was good for that moment.
There was a crew of girls who were into a sixties tie-dyed Grateful Dead vibe that Inever understood. It was the late eighties, and the street trends were so fresh, I reallydidn’t get what they were doing. Why were they harkening back to such a random69 retrolook? Also, they were aggressive and hard, not hippies, Dead Heads, or peace lovers at all.
Being the smart aleck I was, I named them the “Peace People.” Word got out that I wasmaking fun of them, and they were pissed. Rumblings started circulating that I was goingto get my ass4 kicked. But Mr. Six Foot Five was famous; everyone was afraid of him, sogetting at me wasn’t that simple.
One morning after completing my routine of going to the Bagel Station to get a bagelwith bacon and cheese and coffee, I was walking on the path to “the patio70” to finish mycoffee and smoke a Newport before homeroom. The patio was a large brick square outsidethe cafeteria of the school where kids would hang out, smoke, and posture71. Severalhundred yards before I reached it, suddenly a semicircle of about a dozen white girlsclosed in around me, and they were all hyped up to fight.
They were screaming at the same time, and the hardest girl of them all broke out fromthe pack and advanced toward me. I was freaked out but tried not to show how scared Iwas. The bagel in my stomach had turned into rocket fuel and was going off in my belly,and my head was spinning trying to devise something to say to defuse or derail thesituation, because surely I was not going to fight. I may have had a tough exterior72 and awiseass mouth, but I never wanted to actually fight anyone. I used my wits to survive (plusI was the fastest runner in the school, except for one boy). The crowd had gotten closeenough that the heat of their mob mentality73 was singeing74 the hairs on my arms. I had tosay something, so I opened my mouth and just started yelling—I have no idea what. WhatI will never forget is seeing their bravado75 instantly wither76 into meekness77 while they slowlyedged backward and quickly dispersed78. For a quick instant I thought I had really told themoff, but then I felt a powerful energy behind me. I turned around, and looking like a fly-girl teen version of a Black Panther protest, there was a big beautiful wall of every style,size, and shade of every Black girl I knew in school. “Oh, we got your back,” one of themsaid, and that was it.
There was no debate over “how Black” I was, or whether I “looked white”—thosebadass girls just let me know that when it got down to it, they were going to hold medown.
Years later, after the release of “Vision of Love,” I was all over the radio and on TV. Mymother was still living on Long Island, and I asked her if we could drive by the housewhere the prettiest girl and her sisters lived. I stopped the car, got out, and just looked atthe modest structure, a symbol of what I had survived. My mother, wrapped in a fur coatI’d given her, got out too. The father of the family (the one who beat the mother) came tothe door and, in his dense79, twangy Long Island accent, shouted, “Aw, look, Pat’s goneHollywood!” The rest of the family filed out of the house. The prettiest one was stunned80.
She couldn’t believe it had happened.
The mutt-mulatto bitch who lived in the shabby shack81 down the street had become astar.
The brother called out, “You’re a loser!”
That family, that house, that town, that time, that day—suddenly it all looked likenothing to me. It was nothing in nowhere, and I had made it out.
As I turned to get back in the car, I heard the blond girl crying after me, “Mariah, I’mso happy for you; I’m so happy for you!” And she became the prettiest sister of them all.
Yes I’ve been bruised
Grew up confused
Been destitute
I’ve seen life from many sides
Been stigmatized
Been black and white
Felt inferior inside
Until my saving grace shined on me
Until my saving grace set me free
Giving me peace
—“My Saving Grace”
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收听单词发音
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1
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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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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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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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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icon
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| n.偶像，崇拜的对象，画像 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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voluptuously
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| adv.风骚地，体态丰满地 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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voraciously
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| adv.贪婪地 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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latched
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| v.理解( latch的过去式和过去分词 )；纠缠；用碰锁锁上（门等）；附着（在某物上） | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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27
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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commiserated
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| v.怜悯，同情( commiserate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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flatten
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| v.把．．．弄平，使倒伏；使(漆等)失去光泽 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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45
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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51
wades
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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rotation
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| n.旋转；循环，轮流 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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giggles
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| n.咯咯的笑( giggle的名词复数 )；傻笑；玩笑；the giggles 止不住的格格笑v.咯咯地笑( giggle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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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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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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swapping
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| 交换，交换技术 | |
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adaptable
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| adj.能适应的，适应性强的，可改编的 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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patio
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| n.庭院，平台 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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singeing
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| v.浅表烧焦( singe的现在分词 )；（毛发）燎，烧焦尖端[边儿]；烧毛 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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