EMANCIPATION1
MY COUSIN VINNY
After the whole Glitter fiasco, Virgin2 was spooked and wanted to change my deal to makeit much less significant. They felt they couldn’t justify3 spending all that money on such an“unstable” person. The woman who had signed me was fired, and they brought in two newpeople from England to replace her. I remember the first day I sat down with them—basically, they were pretty fucking awful. They were trying to change the deal, and I justknew I had to get out of there.
Getting to Virgin had seemed like a triumph because I was so desperate to get offSony. Virgin wasn’t as big, but it was a boutique label, and I knew how well they hadtaken care of Lenny Kravitz and Janet Jackson. They offered me such a good deal in partbecause they weren’t as slick and influential4 as other labels; they didn’t know all the tricksthat Sony and the other big labels knew. They were eclectic and saw me as a big, shinystar. Initially5 I chose Virgin over a larger and more cutthroat label for the deal they wereoffering, but when they wanted to “adjust” it, with all new players, I had no reason to stay.
They offered a revised agreement wherein they would pay me much less and have morecontrol. I refused.
Instead, the CEO of Universal Music Group, the genius Doug Morris, and visionaryhip-hop music executive Lyor Cohen (we both had come a long way since I met him onthe street with Will Smith, singing Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock’s “It Takes Two”), came tomy penthouse. The three of us sat in the living room with Marilyn’s white baby grand, andover champagne6 Doug proclaimed, “You know what, Mariah? We’re going to do this. Ithink we’re really gonna do this.” I felt safe and seen. They would have to pay a prettypenny to get me out of the deal I had with Virgin, but they were willing. I was like, Fuckeverybody else; I’m still good, I’m still here. I mean, I had two of the top music executivesin the world on my couch, with no middlemen. We were going to be all right. After all ofthe trauma7 I’d experienced, the faith and trust Doug showed in me, and his exciting visionfor the future, renewed me. And I was going to do it! I had no intention of dying with thenineties, as Tommy had prophesized. I always knew I could be even bigger than he saw. Ihad so much more music inside of me. Ready to begin again, I signed my new deal.
The first album I made on Universal was Charmbracelet. Recording8 Charmbraceletwas a chance at restoration and recuperation after the disaster that was Glitter. Waiting atthe end of my Rainbow bridge to freedom was a kind of paradise, an oasis9. Quite literally—I recorded a lot of the album in the Bahamas and on the Isle10 of Capri (a semi-secret,retro-glamorous11 getaway like the old Hollywood of Italy). In the Bahamas, we did severallive music sessions with Kenneth Crouch12 (of the legendary13 Crouch gospel family), RandyJackson, and a bunch of other talented artists, including 7 Aurelius, who had been makingbig hits with Ashanti at the time. I was back in my sweet spot laying down light and airyvocals over heavy hip-hop tracks. All of us were there in the gorgeous Bahamas, justwriting music.
I loved those sessions. I’m glad I was able to arrange that, because I needed a palate-cleansing moment. Jermaine and I did “The One” together. I wanted “The One” to be thelead single, but Doug chose “Through the Rain.” It was a serious ballad15, and Dougthought it would work because it was kind of a sob16 story, the sort of triumphant17 OprahWinfrey moment I needed in the wake of the Glitter debacle. It was a good song, but itdidn’t perform as well as it could have. The label was really invested in the “adultcontemporary” genre18, which I could do in my sleep. But personally, I had alwayspreferred the so-called “urban contemporary,” whatever that means.
I went back to Capri, to the gorgeous studio on the top of a hill. It was so great: thereare no cars, there is no pollution, the air and the energy are very clean. I didn’t have kidsat the time, but kids could run around freely there because it was so safe. You can only getthere by ferry, and so it made for the perfect hideout for me to hunker down and record.
People came out to visit me. Lyor brought Cam’ron out there for a day to record “Boy (INeed You).” Cam snuck in some of that purple (cannabis), and he administered veryeffective shotguns (I don’t inhale19 directly—the vocal14 cords, dahling). We got fully20 festiveand watched Mel Brooks’s History of the World: Part I (one of my all-time favoritemovies) and laughed our asses22 off.
One of the songs I love on Charmbracelet is “Subtle Invitation.” That song is a greatexample of how I often take the small moments that happen in life and channel their largersignificance so that my music can connect to people all around the world who are goingthrough different experiences and coming from different situations and positions. Thoughthe song was about a brief and fleeting23 fling, it wasn’t a resentful song. It was for anyonewho could relate to experiences of losing a love but keeping the door open to it.
See it’s hard to tell somebody
That you’re still somewhat attached
to the dream of being in love once again
When it’s clear they’ve moved on
So I sat down and wrote these few words
On the off chance you’d hear
And if you happen to be somewhere listening
You should know I’m still here?…
If you really need me, baby just reach out and touch me—“Subtle Invitation”
Another important song for me was “My Saving Grace”:
I’ve loved a lot, hurt a lot
Been burned a lot in my life and times
Spent precious years wrapped up in fears
With no end in sight
Until my saving grace shined on me
Until my saving grace set me free
Giving me peace
Giving me strength
When I’d almost lost it all
Catching24 my every fall
I still exist because you keep me safe
I found my saving grace within you
—“My Saving Grace”
Charmbracelet was a real fan favorite. The Lambs have always wanted “Justice forCharmbracelet,” and it was actually a really good album. It featured Jay-Z and Freewayon “You Got Me,” Cam’ron on “Boy,” and Westside Connection on “Irresistible.” Joe andKelly Price joined me on the “Through the Rain” remix. The album was a real transitionfrom what I’d left behind into a new chapter. Universal supported me and stuck by myside; it didn’t feel like the hostile battle zone that was Sony during Tommy’s reign25.
Commercially, Charmbracelet wasn’t massively successful, but Doug didn’t give up onme—and thank goodness, because liberation was just over the horizon.
It was around 2003, after Charmbracelet had been released.
I recall that time as a rare moment when I felt freeish and rather unattached. I was kindof seeing a guy, but just seeing, nothing else. I just wanted to have fun. That night it wasCam’ron, Jim Jones, Juelz Santana, and Tots—and me. We’d been hanging out all night—clubbing, cocktails26, you know, that whole thing—and we ended up back at my place, up inthe Moroccan room. Many things start in the Moroccan room. When I first traveled toMorocco, the country spoke27 to me. I was inspired by the flavor of everything, the colors,the fabrics28, the textures29, the smells, the lushness, the exoticness, the glamour30 it was giving.
It was all so mysterious and sensual. The restaurants, the homes, the hotels, they were allfantastically designed, all ultra-comfortable yet dramatic. You must keep it dramatique—Dramatique!—for me to love it, dahling.
I wanted to re-create that rich, glamorous feeling in my home—to create a beautifulplace where I could make an easy escape. Silk pillows everywhere, leather tufts,embellished little tables, hammocks, ornate lanterns. I brought in fabulous31 North Africanaccouterments to make my own urban oasis, the exotic cherry on top of my belovedpenthouse.
It was the height of the ghetto-fabulous fashion era, and we were living it—diamondsand denim32 galore on all the boys. (Cam’ron was probably wearing a powder-pink leatherand flamboyantly33 furry34 ensemble35. He was in his pink phase.) I’m certain I was in somescandalous micro designer frock. So we’re all dressed up and sprawled36 out amongst acacophony of cushions. It was almost dawn, and in the IMAX-like view from the wall ofwindows, the night sky was changing like a mood ring to shades of purple and pink. Thewhole aura of the room was purple; after all, Dipset (known formally as the rapsupergroup the Diplomats) loves everything purple.
All of a sudden, Cam burst out, “Let’s go uptown!”
We were still feeling festive21, so it sounded like an inspired idea. Cam’ron is Harlem,so we trusted he would know of the appropriate shenanigans for late, late night into earlymorning. Me and Cam got in his Lamborghini, which was purple, of course. Everyoneelse giddily hopped37 into their own exotic cars. My bodyguard38, not so giddy, was trailingus in a big black SUV. There we were, a small convoy39 of rappers and dolls inunimaginably expensive cars roaring east across a sleepy Canal Street, which soon wouldbe buzzing with Chinese and Senegalese vendors40 setting up their open- air market ofknockoff luxury handbags and watches. But at barely 6:00 a.m., aside from a streetsweeper or the occasional trash truck, it was just us, speeding down the wide street, beingyoung and fabulous, cutting through the quiet of the gritty city.
We were headed to the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Drive, which lines the entirety ofManhattan’s smooth eastern edge. The FDR doesn’t have traffic lights, so I knew Cam andthe boys were ready to rip.
Back then—and to this day, for sure—it was life-threatening to be a young Black man inan exotic sports car speeding up the highway, especially on Manhattan’s east side. But wewere high on a night of frivolity41 and other purple treats, tearing into the fresh morning.
We were feeling young, sexy, and free; the fear of arrest (or death, for that matter) wasnowhere in sight. We were chasing fun and freedom, and we captured it, if only for a fewmiles on a stretch of New York City highway.
As one might imagine, much of my life has been monitored and measured by otherpeople, and in this moment of exhilaration, I got the urge to try and lose my security. Cameagerly accepted the challenge, shifted gears, and hit that gas. It was like being shot out ofa cannon42, and the big black vehicle with the big bad bodyguard instantly became a tinyspeck in the rearview mirror. Cracking up the whole time, we felt as if we’d just pulled offthe hip-hop version of a Little Rascals–type caper43, with me playing Darla, of course. I’veoften felt it was a struggle to just have fun, to keep that inner child alive. But Iremembered that promise I once made myself, that I would never forget what it felt like tobe a kid. I would never let my little girl go.
By the time we peeled off the FDR at 135th Street, the sun had risen. Good morning,Harlem! As we pulled up to the stoplight at the corner of Lenox Avenue, next to HarlemHospital, I realized we were somewhere close to my great-aunt Nana Reese’s church. Ionly knew of it through stories and a single photograph, but I thought if anyone could helpme find this brownstone basement church, it was Cam. And that’s exactly what he did.
This wasn’t a paper picture in a frame—I was actually there. I could touch the bricksthat my family once owned, in the place where they lived, prayed, sang, cried, praised,married, died, and caught the spirit: this is where they had church.
I know much of my parents’ families through frozen moments in gilded44 frames. Myfamily pictures are sacred—they ground me, reminding me who I come from and who hascome and gone from me. These photographs are kept in a private little room off myHollywood-style mirrored and marbled dressing45 parlor46. Behind the endless rows of highheels, the racks of minidresses, floor-length ball gowns, glittering baubles47, brooches, andbags, behind all that wardrobe opulence48, there’s a hidden door leading to my littlesanctuary—my personal church of family history. Each picture is a story, evidence that Iam connected to all these other people, all different and beautifully complicated. I havethem all carefully and strategically placed; I want to piece my family together, to holdthem close to me through pictures. I mostly go into this room alone, to look at them and tobe with them. In this room, I study my beautiful, fractured, fucked-up family and storetheir faces in my heart.
The picture that I stepped into that day on 131st Street is of my great-aunt, Pastor49 NanaReese. It looks like it was taken in the 1950s. She’s tiny and elegant against the weatheredbrownstone wall: shiny brown skin, deep-set eyes, pressed black hair, no jewelry50 but aflower corsage near her shoulder. She is wearing a billowing white preacher’s robe, whitesheer stockings, and square-toed church-lady shoes. She holds a big ol’ pocketbook—nota handbag, mind you, a pocketbook—with a towel wrapped around the handle, just in casethe Holy Ghost busts51 out and brings the heat during service and she has to mop a sweatybrow. Propped52 up against the wall by her feet, in rough handwritten capital and smallletters that are all the same size, is a sign in white chalk bearing a simple menu: B IBLES CHOOL, P REACHIN’, Y.P.H.A., and N IGHT S ERVICE , with corresponding times. Nana Reesewas barely five feet tall; her head didn’t even come up to the molding on the windowsill.
However, she loomed53 large in the picture and in her neighborhood, robed and ready topreach the Gospel to the congregation.
My cousin Vinny, full name Lavinia, was raised by Nana Reese, so Vinny called her“Mama.” It is from Cousin Vinny that most of the stories from that time and that part ofmy family come down. Both sisters, Nana Reese and Vinny’s Aunt Addie, mygrandmother, each had one son—Addie’s was Roy, my father, the only one who survived.
No one ever spoke of Nana Reese’s son, but the story, according to Cousin Vinny, is thathe died as a child from “consumption.” Such a crude- sounding diagnosis54, isn’t it?
Consumption.
“Mama said he was disobedient, wouldn’t put on his coat, so he died,” Vinny says.
Nana Reese was extra-crispy Christian55. As a child Vinny lived in one of the apartmentsabove the church. Nana Reese and her husband, the Good Reverend Roscoe Reese, ownedthe brownstone that housed the church and the one next door, while my grandmotherAddie owned two more farther down the block. The church provided typical Pentecostal-style holy-roller storefront-type services on the ground floor, but as Vinny tells it, the realhealing was done under the church, in the basement-basement. She recalls, as a child,witnessing a woman who’d come to see the pastor one day: “Her leg was tore up, lookedlike chopped meat,” Vinny claims. “Mama put spiderwebs on that lady’s leg and prayedover it, and when the lady came back her leg was perfect. Absolutely perfect.” Growingup, I heard of many such miracles happening in that basement. Nana Reese was God-gifted.
My father’s mother, Addie, and Nana Reese were close as sisters but far apart intemperament. While Nana was sweet, Addie was strong-willed and set in her ways. Sheand my mother had issues, to say the least. I remember a time when my mother threw herout of our house. Because of their conflicts, my mother kept me away from this part of myfather’s family, and my knowledge of them mostly came from spectacular andcontradicting stories. I clung tightly to the sketchy56 scenes and the precious pictures mygrandmother saved for her son, Roy. I rescued them when my father died. I love them andI protect them.
So there I stood, that sunny morning, in front of 73 West 131st Street, posing for apicture, just like the pastor, my great-aunt, my blood, had done fifty years before. Only Iwas hardly in a choir57 robe; I was most likely wearing a dress the size of Nana Reese’ssweat towel—boobs propped up and legs for days, diamonds twinkling. And the man withthe camera was one of the flyest and flashiest rappers in the world, leaning against a one-hundred-thousand-dollar whip while he snapped the photo.
This dignified58 and decaying brownstone I stood before was the site where my motherand father were married. Their wedding was another drama, another story I was told inmismatched pieces. Most of my family can at least agree on this: my mother faintedduring the ceremony. Exactly why she fainted is still up for debate. Cousin Vinny wasthere, and although she was a child at the time, she clearly remembers how beautiful mymother looked on that day. She describes her dress as a “pretty, shiny blue,” satin perhaps,and it is in that blue wedding dress that my mother collapsed59 to the ground, her newgroom having to slap her face to revive her. I had once been told my mother lostconsciousness after seeing a large rat scurry60 across the floor during the service, but later Ilearned that she was pregnant at the time. In either scenario61, it’s appropriately dramatic foran opera diva’s wedding in a Harlem basement church.
As we pulled off the block, I thought about what kind of strong, faithful, andresourceful sisters Reese and Addie had to have been back then. These two Black women—armed with little education—owned four brownstones in Harlem. In addition to thechurch on 131st Street, Nana Reese also owned a brick church in Wilmington, NorthCarolina, so big it had its own baptismal pool. Its size and strength (at the time it was theonly brick building in Wilmington’s Black community) also made it a neighborhoodsanctuary: it was the place where all the Black folks would gather and seek refuge fromthe tornadoes62 that regularly pummeled the coast.
Nana Reese and the church were a fixture63 in their town in so many ways. Everymorning the choir, called Voices of Deliverance, would sing on the local radio. She wassuch an influential leader in the community that she was a threat to some, particularly inthe days of segregation64 and violence in the Jim Crow South. One day Nana Reese wasvisited by some white men in uniform: police and a fire chief. Cousin Vinny rememberstheir large, imposing65 bodies towering over her small five-foot frame. Immediately afterthis “meeting,” and without saying a word, she packed up the kids and left her brickchurch and the congregation it served faithfully for so long, never to return again.
I thought about those women as I posed for my photo, just before climbing back into thepassenger seat of a car that cost more money than they’d ever made in their entirelifetimes. My women elders, who made something from nothing. They had a visionbeyond Jim Crow, beyond third grade, beyond fear. I wonder if they ever had a vision ofwhat was in store for their little Roy’s baby girl?
So much of the pressure from the recent past had been lifted: I had a new record deal. Ihad people who were excited and enthusiastic about my comeback. I had thought thatGlitter would be the death of me, but it gave me new life. I took it as an opportunity toretreat, rest, and renew my purpose. If Rainbow was a bridge to safety, Charmbraceletwas a cocoon66, a place of shelter, healing, and growth that made it possible for me tobloom again.
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1
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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initially
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| adv.最初，开始 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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trauma
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| n.外伤，精神创伤 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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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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crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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genre
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| n.(文学、艺术等的)类型，体裁，风格 | |
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inhale
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| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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festive
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asses
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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reign
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cocktails
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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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fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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textures
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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denim
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flamboyantly
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furry
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ensemble
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sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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bodyguard
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| n.护卫，保镖 | |
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convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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vendors
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| n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 )；小贩；（房屋等的）卖主；卖方 | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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caper
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| v.雀跃，欢蹦；n.雀跃，跳跃；续随子，刺山柑花蕾；嬉戏 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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baubles
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| n.小玩意( bauble的名词复数 )；华而不实的小件装饰品；无价值的东西；丑角的手杖 | |
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opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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52
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
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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54
diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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56
sketchy
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| adj.写生的，写生风格的，概略的 | |
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57
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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58
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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59
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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60
scurry
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| vi.急匆匆地走；使急赶；催促；n.快步急跑，疾走；仓皇奔跑声；骤雨，骤雪；短距离赛马 | |
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scenario
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| n.剧本，脚本；概要 | |
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62
tornadoes
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| n.龙卷风，旋风( tornado的名词复数 ) | |
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fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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segregation
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| n.隔离，种族隔离 | |
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65
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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cocoon
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| n.茧 | |
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