I really liked Henry; he was an Aries just like me. We would dance, and he would pick me up and twirl me around. He provided me with glimpses of what the life of a carefree little girl could be. Henry was kind, and he paid for my second year of performing arts summer camp. I remember his mother, who used to work for Estée Lauder and was an exceptional cook. One day she laid out a divine soul food spread, ending with a German chocolate cake, which I had never had before. It was a delicious, warm, gooey, homemade pile of happiness. But with all that love also came darkness. Henry was a Black Vietnam veteran and was severely damaged by the consequences of both of those identities. I suspect he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and, even as a kid, I was aware of his occasional psychedelic drug usage. I believe the fallout from his experiences of 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 up in 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 the middle of the kitchen. The lights were off, and I could see the strong silhouette of his Afro. He was holding a long double-barreled shotgun in one of his hands. Staring down at the white linoleum floor, he said very calmly, “You’re not leaving me. I’m not gonna let you guys leave.” He never raised his head or voice and seemed to be in a kind of trancelike state.
“I’m not going to let you guys go,” he said. “I’m going to chop you up and put you in the refrigerator and make you guys stay here.” Well, after he said that, I rushed to get into the car. My mother started the engine.
“Morris!” I screamed. “I have to get Morris; he’s still in there!” Panicked, I jumped out of the car. I was determined to get my cat. That cat represented too much for me; he was unconditional love to me.
“Be careful,” my mother said, as she let me reenter a house occupied by an armed man who had just threatened to chop us up. (Henry never did anything to hurt me and perhaps she believed he wouldn’t now, but still.) I had to pass the kitchen, with Henry and the shotgun, to search the other rooms for Morris. When I finally found him, I scooped him up in my arms, ran out of the house, and jumped in the car. As we sped off, my heart was going a mile a minute. “Hallelujah, I got Morris!” I triumphantly exclaimed.
I never knew what happened between her and Henry, and I never saw him after that day. I heard that many years later, while he was riding down the road in his same vintage red pickup, “‘Vision of Love,’ by Mariah Carey,” came bursting through his old radio. I was 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 money so we could do things like go to dinner in New York City. And it was on these excursions that I developed a taste for “the finer things.” I have a distinct memory of one night when we were riding back from the city. I was looking out the back window at the New York City skyline, and I said to myself, This is where I’m going to live when I grow up. I want to have this view.
I always knew we lived in shitty places among other people’s nice houses in the suburbs. I never dreamed I’d get married and live in a big white Victorian house, or even a cozy little home like my guncles. But I did envision something grand. I remember watching Mommie Dearest and seeing Joan Crawford’s pristine manor. That’s what I want, I thought.
I even believed I could surpass its splendor. Even then, I saw myself living in a mansion or more, because I knew I would realize my dreams. And when I saw the New York skyline, looking like a giant silver crystal encrusted with multicolored jewels, I envisioned I would live somewhere where I could see that. And I do. I see it clearly; I see the entire city from the rooftop of my downtown Manhattan penthouse. As a result of a lot of hard labor, I went from swinging over garbage to singing in a mansion in the sky.
So yes, my mother exposing me to beauty and culture gave me encouragement and lifelong lessons that contributed both to my art and to what is good in me. But my mother also created persistent turmoil, which caused trauma and deep sadness. It has taken me a lifetime to find the courage to confront the stark duality of my mother, the beauty and the beast that coexist in one person—and to discover there’s beauty in all of us, but who loved you 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. For one, there were the people my mother let be around me, particularly my violent brother, my troubled sister, and their sketchy cohorts. And I often looked a mess, though I believe that was likely a result of my mother being oblivious (in the name of being bohemian) rather
