The Meaning of Mariah Carey

was quite young and at a publicly funded New York City summer sleepaway camp for kids. Let’s just say, it was not the most organized, and the staff were practically kids themselves. It was predominately Black, and I was one of the very few mixed or light-skinned children there, and the only blondish one. But I most certainly was not having more fun. Rather, I was a flash point for animosity. None of the girls liked me. Why are they mad at me? I wondered. I didn’t understand, then. It wasn’t just the light skin and blondish hair—if that weren’t enough, Khalil liked me. Khalil was the cutest boy in the whole camp. He had dark, curly brown hair, caramel skin, and greenish eyes. I was also taller than he was, so I think the girls also thought I was too old for him (even though we were the same age).

At any rate, the dreamiest boy at the nightmare camp thought I was cute. There was a closing-day dance, and just as the first bird-twinkling-flute sound with soaring strings and the melodic ooohs began, Khalil walked over to me. He took my hand, and “Last dance, last chance for love” slowly started to fill the room. We went out to the dance floor, and our little selves moved in a waltzlike sway until the song broke out into the bright and happy up-tempo part; then we jumped around in our own disco-ball world, letting jealous girls made mean by harsh environments melt away.

I carried that less-than-ideal experience of being at a public camp with me. It inspired me to conceive Camp Mariah, a summer camp focused on career awareness. I intimately understood there were countless children who didn’t have access to resources at their hands, space under their feet, and sky above their heads. The first fundraiser was a Christmas concert at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine in Harlem in 1994, where I performed “All I Want for Christmas Is You” live for the first time. It stood as one of the largest fundraisers ever for the Fresh Air Fund, Camp Mariah’s amazing partner. The Fresh Air Fund’s Camp Mariah allowed me to create what I didn’t have for thousands of deserving children. It has been not only fulfilling but healing.

So for me, Ms. Summer’s classic hit was the soundtrack to “Camp Khalil,” that innocent childhood moment (and there weren’t many). I had never met her. Divas Live is a live concert, but it’s taped in front of an audience at Radio City Music Hall. There were crew and people bustling all about. Everyone was excited about the arrival of the icon, Ms. Ross, and I was having my own current big pop-culture moment celebrating Rainbow, my seventh consecutive album to produce number-one hits on the Billboard Hot 100—“Heartbreaker” was my fourteenth. We were doing a walk-through of the staging and preparing for a run-through of the Supremes medley (without Ms. Ross). Donna Summer quietly came up, appearing shy and uncomfortable. No one said much as she went off to the side to have a conversation, I think about the teleprompter, which was scrolling lyrics to “Baby Love.” Then someone came and held up three hideous green sequined gowns. They were cheap costume types, nowhere near couture. Putrid.

Who do they think is wearing that? I thought. ’Cause I’m not wearing that. I was sure Ms. Ross would find them distasteful (to say the least) too. The next thing I knew, someone came over and told me Ms. Summer wouldn’t be doing the performance with us. And she left. Oh, okay. There was no time to find a Cindy Birdsong (she replaced Florence Ballard in the Supremes). I don’t know what made Ms. Summer bow out (if it was the dresses, I certainly don’t blame her), but it looked like this year’s Divas Live was going to be another wild ride.

So now I was adjusting to the notion of doing a duet with Ms. Ross. Of course that was exciting, but the green abominations? No ma’am. I would not be foiled by bad fashion on that particular night—not in front of Ms. Ross, who is a well-documented international fashion icon.

Growing up, I so vividly recall seeing giant black-and-white posters of Diana Ross all over New York City. She was wearing a white T-shirt with rolled-up sleeves and worn-in jeans; her hair was imperfectly perfectly slicked back and tucked behind her ear, and she was in minimal makeup. It was très chic—she was so beautiful. My eye couldn’t help but focus on her gaze. The poster simply had her first name—“Diana”—written in large lowercase letters off to the side. I pasted that image on my inner inspiration board and subsequently pulled it out for my #1’s cover. The composition was different, but I was inspired by the poster’s simplicity and intensity. From the beginning I sought to make timeless, not trendy, images, and Ms. Ross is a trailblazer in creating modern, classic high-glamour iconography.

I made it known that I would not be wearing the shiny green horror. I don’t ever leave the house without my own wardrobe possibilities, because in this business you never really know what might happen—and something very tacky was happening this night. I had a plan. Since Donna Summer had backed out, I offered this to Ms. Ross:

“Well, I have a dress. I actually have two dresses that are the same, if you wanted to look at them.”

Donatella Versace had made me two fine metallic-mesh-link mini toga-style numbers—one gold and one silver—and I had brought them both with me. (What a perfect night to have options!)

“Yeah, let me see the dress,” Diana said.

This was a woman who had been in countless gorgeous dresses, made fashion statements in every language, and I was humbly offering my dress (fabulous as it was) to her. Needless to say, I was nervous. I presented the tiny, backless dresses to her, and she took the silver one. Yes.

“I