The Meaning of Mariah Carey

by Mariah Carey

  I was still absorbed in the memory of the roof and wasn’t willing to fall back into the mud of despair. A new part of me was alive, and I was intent on feeding it. I heard from one of the Armani people that Derek was going to be in Puerto Rico. At our next therapy session, I announced to Tommy that I needed to go on a trip. I made the case that it was time for him to honor the scope of our new agreement: he was supposed to let me go, and we could see other people. I’d been out alone socially, I’d been in recording sessions without him picking me up, I’d been taking acting classes and spending the night at my teacher’s house (right), and now it was time to go somewhere, just for me. (Okay, maybe I felt a teeny bit bad about that last part—but ya gotta do what ya gotta do to survive.) I made it sound super reasonable: perhaps me and my assistant, or maybe another girlfriend, would go away for the weekend, to somewhere where I could swim in the ocean and chill in the sun and write (keeping in mind I’d never done anything like that while at Sing Sing, never)—somewhere beautiful and close, like Puerto Rico. My assistant was totally into it. She was still young herself, and this was a legitimate secret romance. We were all caught up.

  We stayed at the El Conquistador Resort, a lovely collection of villas in a gorgeous, classic, old-style Spanish-Caribbean hotel on a lush private island. It was tucked into green hills and right on an exclusive beach. We decided to go to the popular dance club Egipto, which was in Old San Juan, nearly an hour away. It was designed like an Egyptian temple, and as if in a scene in Antony and Cleopatra, in walked Derek. We had not orchestrated this meeting, but I just knew. I so believed in my heart he would be there at the club that I had had my assistant book a villa at another resort, El San Juan Hotel, that was nearby. We stayed at the club briefly, and I informed him I had secured a little hideaway.

  So there we were again, sneaking around to avoid my security. We went out the back door of the club and walked through a maze of small pathways through the palm trees and blooming bushes to the resort and my villa, accompanied by sultry night air. We got back to my room, and that familiar dance of the butterflies began. Being alone with someone I had a genuine attraction to was all so new to me. And again, I threw caution to the Caribbean breeze and surrendered into his arms and the moment. We lay for the night in one embrace, engaging in one, single, long kiss. It was the sexiest moment—without sex.

  I knew my security saw me and saw Derek leave my room in the morning, but I finally felt something stronger than fear of Tommy’s revenge. Now that I had it, I couldn’t imagine life without this feeling. Desire became my reason for living, my all. Sleep didn’t come on the plane ride back to New York, but a song did. I started writing.

  I am thinking of you

  In my sleepless solitude tonight

  If it’s wrong to love you

  Then my heart just won’t let me be right

  ’Cause I’ve drowned in you

  And I won’t pull through

  Without you by my side

  —“My All”

  Going to Puerto Rico was a paradigm shift. After that trip, I strategized and carried out another coup on behalf of my heart: I put everything I was feeling at that time into a song. It was a gigantic risk, because I knew Tommy assumed I was having a sexual affair (even though, technically, I wasn’t yet). It was also a revelation. There was an excitement and purpose awake in me that fueled me to a new level in my creativity. I was hearing different melodies, and I had new, real experiences to draw from. So I did something dangerous and beautiful for me—and everyone was scared for me.

  I’d give my all to have

  Just one more night with you

  I’d risk my life to feel

  Your body next to mine

  ’Cause I can’t go on

  Living in the memory of our song

  I’d give my all for your love tonight

  There would be hell to pay, I knew. I truly believed I was actually risking my life, but I felt life wasn’t worth living if I couldn’t have what I’d had that night. “My All” was the realest, boldest, most passionate love song I’d ever written. I brought to it the Spanish undertones, the warm breeze, the ecstasy of desire, and the agony of separation that I remembered so clearly.

  Baby can you feel me?

  Imagining I’m looking in your eyes

  I can see you clearly

  Vividly emblazoned in my mind

  And yet you’re so far, like a distant star

  I’m wishing on tonight

  I’d give my all to have

  Just one more night with you

  —“My All”

  This song was about life and death, and I didn’t want it to get lost in any over-the-top schmaltz. I needed it to be strong and simple. I wanted the vocals to be the centerpiece, the focal point in the mix, with a stripped-down track behind them. It was all about the emotion, the soul, and I sang it as if my life depended on it.

  * * *

  I first played the song for Tommy and Don Ienner, the then chairman of the Columbia Records Group, in the Range Rover, on our way to a restaurant in upstate New York. Don knew it was a hit. Tommy knew it could never be about him. A new place inside of me as an artist that had previously been sealed off was now fully exposed. And “My All” was a hit, a platinum hit. Later, Jermaine (Dupri), The-Dream, and Floyd “Money” Mayweather, three solid dudes, told me “My All” is their favorite song of mine. As creators, they know love is life, and there’s nothing more real than that.

  I had already begun working on Butterfly before my encounters with Derek, but they inspired some of the growing maturity and complexity in my songwriting and structures. The narratives and the melodies were coming from a fresher place. I was hearing things in a more layered, raw, and sophisticated way. I was feeling freer and less apprehensive to spread my creative wings. I advocated for the sound I wanted. I reached out to new producers who could bring that smooth, sexy edge to it. I started working on “Breakdown” with Stevie J, one of Bad Boy Records’ “Hitmen,” and Puffy. I brought Stevie, Puffy, and Q-Tip—one of the coolest and most creative guys out there—together for what would become the album’s lead single, “Honey.” I’d begun the lyrics and basic melody in Puerto Rico. Q-Tip made this amazing sample of “Body Rock,” by the Treacherous Three. I told them I also wanted to include the 1984 hit “Hey! D.J.,” by the World’s Famous Supreme Team: “Hey! D.J. just play that song / Keep me dancing (Dancing) all night long.” Little did they know it was a secret shout-out to Derek Jeter. “Honey” was a song about jonesin’ for that DJ feeling.

  Oh, I can’t be elusive with you honey

  ’Cause it’s blatant that I’m feeling you

  And it’s too hard for me to leave abruptly

  ’Cause you’re the only thing I wanna do

  And it’s just like honey

  —“Honey”

  When I played “Honey” for Tommy, he quipped, “Well, I’m glad you were so inspired.” The bitterness! I was like, “What? Now you’re mad? Why didn’t you get mad about ‘Fantasy’ or ‘Dreamlover’?” It’s blatantly obvious I wasn’t talking about Tommy in that song! I wasn’t talking about him, or any actual person, in practically any romantic song. Before I met Derek, they were mostly imaginary characters. I’m sure Tommy could sense that the songs written for Butterfly were no longer about far-off, fictional lovers—these songs, though certainly poetically embellished, were full of specific details and sensual realness.

  Tommy and the label were also resistant to what my new sound represented. Again I heard the refrain “too urban,” which of course was code for “too Black”—and yeah, I wasn’t ever going back.

  “Honey” was the first time I felt I had full creative license in making a video. We were making a mini-comedy–action thriller, and it was possible thanks to an insane two-million-dollar budget. The video allowed me to really explore my kitschy humor, with Frank Sivero as the gangster character with the crazy hair. I also included Johnny Brennan from the Jerky Boys—“Honey pie
, sweetie pie, cutie pants.” I lived for the Jerky Boys; they were so silly. Come on, I wasn’t trying to ridicule Tommy—I was just playing with cinematic stereotypes, juxtaposing Johnny’s character with Eddie Griffin’s. My Spanish line—“Lo siento, pero no te entiendo”—was delivered with a wink.

  What I did in the “Honey” video is what I had always wanted to do. I got to explore creative and fashion influences without label restrictions. My look was inspired by Ursula Andress in the 1970s 007 movies. I wanted to look glamorous, dangerous, and badass, like a Bond girl. And I finally had the freedom to access the right creative team to achieve the looks. Emerging out of the swimming pool in the beige bombshell bikini? That was me. I was also finally able to work with a young, hot Black director, Paul Hunter, who got all my jokes and James Bond references, but who also made sure the video had a contemporary and stylish look. The whole crew and vibe was just young, fiery, and fun. The experience was such a contrast to all the videos I made while sequestered in upstate New York, where everything had to be done within a twenty-mile radius of Sing Sing. The whole message in the “Honey” video was that I was breaking free—although no one understood the insanity, toxicity, and abuse I was living inside. They had no clue.

  While we filmed the video, in Puerto Rico, I could often see my manager in the distance on the shore, hard shoes off, khaki pants rolled up at the ankle, pacing along the beach with his phone glued to his ear—talking to Tommy incessantly. Even though we were technically separated at that point, I was still the top Sony artist. Plus, knowing my every move was a hard habit for Tommy to break. My manager was reporting but not giving him the blow-by-blow. It would’ve made Tommy nuts to know I was having such a good time.

  As much as I loved “Honey,” my only major disappointment was that Biggie (the Notorious B.I.G.) never made it onto the remix. Puffy and I had talked about bringing to “Honey” a similar blend of my raspy, silky vocal texture with the kind of grit and flow ODB brought to the remix of “Fantasy.” I had never met Biggie, but there was a running story that I had beef with him because of his song “Dreams of Fucking an RnB Bitch”:

  Jasmine Guy was fly

  Mariah Carey’s kinda scary

  Wait a minute, what about my honey Mary?

  I was kinda scary? What does that mean? Fuck him. If he only knew some of the scary shit I’d actually been through. Puffy called him one day while we were working in the studio and put me on the phone. In true Biggie form—half pimp, half preacher—he said, “Naw, ma, you know, no disrespect,” assuring me the song was all in fun. So things were cool between us. On the call, we talked about the music and flow, and even clowned a little bit. It was a chill and creative conversation. He was confident about what he wanted to bring to “Honey,” and I had no doubt he would come in the studio and crush it; that’s what Biggie did. Tragically, he didn’t live long enough to make our studio date. The “Honey (Bad Boy Remix)” featuring Mase and the Lox was a smash, but there’s a part of me that still misses Biggie on that song, and certainly in this world.

  Producing the songs for Butterfly was what got me through that period in my life. I was writing about everything that was actually going on. It was the beginning of another level in my healing process. After the failure of the fake separation, after Puerto Rico, after the sexy-ass songs started pouring out, after all the pain we triggered in each other, after all the crazy normalcy we pretended to have and the stifling grip of his control had finally loosened, Tommy knew there was nothing left of the marriage.

  I got a new lawyer, someone outside of Tommy’s circle of power. I had her draw up the papers. Tommy signed, and I boarded a jet to the Dominican Republic, where mutual-consent divorces for foreigners are processed with the quickness. I flew into Santo Domingo, saw a judge, got my freedom papers, hopped back on the jet, and went straight to Tampa, where Derek was at spring training! I finally felt like a butterfly.

  Don’t be afraid to fly … spread your wings

  Open up the door … so much more inside

  On that flight, I wasn’t afraid. I was incredibly vulnerable and raw. I’d closed and opened a door. I knew I had so much life, and work, ahead—and at the time I thought that life would include being happily-ever-after with Derek J. My romantic life up until then had been so grim, why not believe in a fairy tale? I couldn’t wait to fall into his arms with divorce papers in hand. Finally!

  Neither of us had wanted to cheapen our romance by cheating on my marriage. I know plenty of women would’ve had sex on that roof in the rain, or in the villa on the beach. It would’ve been justified—they were such seductive situations, and my miserable marriage was in ruins at best—but it wouldn’t have been right. I wanted to wait until it was right. I’d waited all my life to really desire a man. It was worth waiting for it to be how I wanted it to be.

  I’d had so many threatening experiences with men, and I had no real concept of choosing and being chosen on my own terms. I’d never been hungry for sex—not on my wedding night, not ever. I saved all my passion for my music. This time, Tommy was right; I was inspired. It was so sensual—everything was so new and sweet, down to the smooth texture of his honey-dipped skin. It was how it was supposed to feel. The months of anticipation had built an intensity I could not have manufactured. It was so heady, so intoxicating, and I was so vulnerable. I was in touch with a fire I didn’t know I had inside.

  Derek confessed to me then that he was “in on” our divine dinner meeting. He had apparently told several folks he wanted to meet me, including his contacts at Armani. He revealed that he and a friend had had posters up on the wall in their bedrooms: his friend’s was of Alyssa Milano, and his was, you guessed it, of me. Apparently, plenty of people were aware he was a fan, long before we ever met.

  “I had this plan,” he told me. “I was going to come to New York. I was going to get on the Yankees. I was going to meet you, and I was going to steal you away from Tony Sony”—his name for Tommy—“and then we were going to get married.” My grin was a mile wide. “Okay. I like that plan.” Only, he didn’t steal me from Tommy—I liberated myself.

  There was nothing salacious about my relationship with Derek. Even on the night of our consummation, when I slept over at his house in Tampa, his sister was there, so basically it was an eighth-grade event. I remember waking up the next day, enthusiastically thinking, I’m going to make breakfast for him! just like in the movies. I tiptoed down to the kitchen with passion-tousled hair, wearing his oversized Yankees jersey.

  I looked in the refrigerator to find three lonely eggs and not much else. His sister found me searching, and we laughed at my foiled rom-com plans. She was kind, and I related to her instantly. I didn’t know many mixed-race young women. She was beautiful, with an open heart and an honest laugh.

  His entire family moved me. All my life I had blamed the dysfunction in my family on race, but meeting the Jeters dispelled this myth. My family’s brokenness was deeper than Black and white. This family was close in composition to mine but so different in actuality—they were close and loving. They interacted with each other as if they really knew, and cared for, one other. They were solid people, with a clear moral code. They held each other up. And they were lovely to me, all of them. This was a powerful example: a Black father and a white mother existing as partners and parents. A sister and a brother who were proud of each other, not enemies. Here was proof that a family that looked like mine could be unbroken. Perhaps that notion, that there could be a mixed family that was perfectly matched, was the most lasting thing Derek gave me in our brief relationship. The image of the Jeter family gave me hope.

  But Tampa was only a weekend wonderland, and I had to return to New York and Butterfly. I had to prepare for the tour, which would be my most extensive to date. A couple of my girlfriends who were excited to celebrate my emancipation from my marriage to Tommy came to meet me, and we all flew back to NYC on a jet. It was difficult to leave what seemed like a dream, but I was also anxious to get ba
ck to work. Derek gave me a little gold ankle bracelet and a giant stuffed puppy dog as going-away presents. Cute. I only had whatever short-skirt outfit I had worn to the Dominican Republic, so he gave me one of his sweat suits to wear on the plane.

  We arrived at the private airport where the jet and my girls were waiting. Derek opened the car door for me, and I stepped out into the Florida sun, cheeks flushed, lips plump, hair still holding on to the morning’s frolicking. My large, dark Chanel sunglasses rested low on my nose, and my frame was drowned in his oversized sweatpants, which were rolled up at the cuff and down at the waistband, revealing my ankles and my navel. I had the sleeves of the jacket pushed up too, its wide bottom swinging in the wind, flapping around the cropped top I wore underneath. Balancing precariously in my six-inch mules, I struggled to manage the huge stuffed animal on one arm and my Louis Vuitton hobo bag on the other.

  As I approached my girls, I could hear them shouting “Oooooooh, hel-lo!” They claimed I was strutting down the tarmac like a cowboy in pointe shoes. We sipped champagne and toasted to acquiring freedom papers and finally getting a shot of good vitamin D. We giggled the entire flight back.

  Derek was only the second person I had slept with ever (coincidentally, his number was 2 on the Yankees). Just like his position on the team, our relationship was a short stop in my life. It was a very critical transition for me, and maybe a dream come true, or maybe an accomplishment, for him. I don’t know. Very soon it became clear we weren’t meant for the long run. For one, there’s a great gulf between athletes and artists, and honestly it’s hard for two stars from any industry to make it work.

  My time with Derek was a sweet and short dream, yet its impact lingered. I thought about it from time to time for years after. Once, I was feeling intensely melancholy while recalling our short love affair to a friend. In my best Joan Crawford voice, I lamented, “The mother loved me! The sister loved me! The father loved me! It could have been perfect!” There was so much energy surging through my body that the champagne glass I was holding completely shattered. I took that intensity and put it in “Crybaby.”