Mar
I take a lot of shit for being a Mariah Carey fan. (A lamb, if you will. See #4)
Perhaps it isn’t the fact that I’m a fan so much as it is the degree to which I express my fanaticism. Which is rather ridiculous, I do admit. At any given hour you can hear her glorious golden-throated voice pumping from my speakers. And I defend her. Endlessly. Shamelessly. Unwaveringly. I defend her marriage to Nick Cannon. Her waning voice. Her over-the-top diva antics…
…Glitter.
I defend her, because Mariah Carey is synonymous with my identity as a gay man.
Yes, she’s a singer. An amazing singer. The most number-one singles of any solo artist. The Beatles have a mere two more number-one singles. She’ll shatter that someday. I love her for her talent, but I love her for so much more.
I was six. Too young to know what it meant to be gay. I was wearing this really big t-shirt with a faded Taz. The crazy Tasmanian devil from Loony Tunes. I used to sleep in it. Underneath, I donned a pair of bright purple briefs. My grandmother gave them to me. They came in a package with identical blue, red, and green colored briefs. It was right before Halloween and Mariah had just come out with “Fantasy.” Her seminal hit, as far as I’m concerned. At six years old, I had no idea what the fuck she was singing about but you better believe that I belted my little heart out. “It’s just a SAAAAAWEEET SWEET FANTASY BABY!”
I was dancing up and down on my mother’s bed. The one she occasionally shared with my sometimes present, sometimes drug-dealing father. Mariah was on the radio for the umpteenth time that day and there I was, singing my chunky six year old brown ass off. As I jumped and sang, my father walked in on me. Even now, I try to understand how that moment must have registered in his mind. Here was his little boy, dancing to Mariah Carey, wearing purple underwear and a t-shirt as a dress. Maybe my flamboyant existence threatened his masculinity. Maybe I should have been watching the baseball game. Maybe.
He didn’t say anything to me. He never says anything to me. He’s a very passive, hands-off, type of father. He instead started talking shit about me to my mother. Something he still does to this day.
Fucker.
He asked why she put me in sissy clothes. And why she let me prance around.
She told him to shut the fuck up and that was the end of that.
No dramatic blow-up. No fight. No big speeches about how I needed to be a real boy. None of that.
But I never forgot about this encounter. It’s etched in my brain and as much as I’d love for it to go away, it doesn’t.
I don’t know if it was in that moment, or some time later, but somewhere along the way I decided that if being a “regualr boy” meant I couldn’t listen to Mariah Carey and dance around in purple underwear I didn’t want to be a regular boy. That life sounded shitty. Where was the fun in that?
And ever since then, it’s been me and Mariah.
This isn’t a story I share with a lot of people, because I don’t like to qualify my identity as a gay man. I’m gay because I was born that way. I popped out of the womb crying for dick. Not milk. I don’t like to say, “I’m gay because my father didn’t love me.” No. I’m gay because I’m gay just like I’m brown, right-handed, and tall. It’s just the way it is.
I got a little carried away from my original intention, which was to tell you all about my latest Mariah experience. I seen her, for the fifth time, in concert at the Chicago Theatre. I’ve seen her in three arena shows and at a outdoor music festival, so this was . . . different. This was the first time seeing here where I was old enough to pay my own way and actually decide where I’d like to sit.
Last time I saw Mariah, I went with my then-boyfriend who tolerated Mariah for me. Before that I’d always been with family. I didn’t want to go with a friend who wasn’t a fan because they…wouldn’t understand. I really didn’t want to go alone, but I wasn’t afraid to do so. So, when it came down to it, I was either going to find a friend a friend and sit in the seventh row, or go by myself and sit in the first row.
My best friend, Marissa, had never been to a concert. She loved Mariah in a normal, not-Lamb, sort of way. Plus, she had never been to a concert. Period. It was done. Me + Marissa + Mariah = Heaven.
And Mariah was heaven. Her voice was as strong as I’d ever heard it. She fucked up on a high note during “Emotions” but I was floored that she even performed that song, as the last time I’d heard it live was ten years ago. It was amazing. She did My All and brought me as close to tears as I get these days.
More interestingly, though, were the people I noticed.
The over-glossed, over-coiffed, over-whored white bitch that literally applied makeup for forty-five minutes. Despite the fact that she showed up to the show with makeup already on.
The old queers! Mariah pulls an eclectic crowd and it always warms my heart to see old queer folks in committed, successful relationships.
A mother and her gay son, who couldn’t even be bothered to dress up and showed up in flip-flops and douchey hoodie. (Needless to say, I was salivating). It reminded me of when my mother would take me to these concerts.
And lastly, and most poignant and touching was the pair sitting next to me. It was a father and his flamboyant son. The boy couldn’t have been more excited. He spent the whole night screaming his undying love for Mimi, and his father happily indulged him. When Mariah asked where the single ladies were, the boy screamed and threw his hands up, and his father laughed along. I was so taken aback. Left so utterly speechless. Here was a father who loved his son enough to TAKE him to the gayest concert of the year and enjoy it with him.
I couldn’t even sing along with the radio.
