I was 12 when it happened. Dad was parking the car and we were getting ready for a torturous hour of food shopping. Suddenly, over the radio, I heard a voice that today is one of the most recognisable in the world, but at the time it was new to me: a whispery, breathy voice that floated and fluttered over a slinky, laid-back track. It was Mariah Carey and the song was Honey. I instantly fell in love. What a voice!
The next weekend I rushed to HMV and bought the cassette tapes of two Carey albums, Butterfly and Daydream. This was when album covers would unfold into tiny books of song lyrics and photographs. I spent hours poring over Carey’s lyrics and listening to her in my room or on the bus. Her songs felt like an escape, a place of refuge. They took me away from the horror that I was experiencing. Because I was struggling. Really struggling.
I was in my first year at a boys’ secondary school and things were awful. I grew up in the shadow of section 28, a series of laws across Britain that prohibited the “promotion of homosexuality” in schools. Those heinous laws ensured that kids believed being gay was something to be ashamed of, and the boys at school had decided that I was definitely gay. Perhaps it was because I was a bit quieter and gentler than the other students, or perhaps it was something about my voice. Someone even told me I must be gay because I had long eyelashes.
Everything about me was “gay” and therefore wrong. So I was ignored, pushed, shoved, spat at and vilified. Lots of the other boys would sit in class whispering my name in a drawn-out, effeminate manner: “Iaaannnnnnnnn.”
It was never-ending and there was nowhere to hide. I wasn’t aware of any LGBTQ+ role models I could look up to or anyone who could say: “I know it’s awful now, but you will get through this, just like I did.”
That is, until I discovered Carey in that car park.
Listening to When I Saw You, a song about falling in love for the first time, I wondered about whom I would fall in love with and why I was thinking about falling in love with another boy. When I was 13 and confused, Carey released When You Believe, her duet with Whitney Houston. It told me that no matter how hard school was, I would get through it. Can’t Take That Away reassured me, when I was 14, that the school bullies who were ramping up their campaign of terror could not take away all the things that made me special.
Carey is first and foremost a songwriter. We all know songs such as Hero, Always Be My Baby and One Sweet Day, but on quieter tracks such as Looking In, Carey sings about being lonely, hurt and confused, of feeling like an outsider. It was as though she was singing to me, a kid who was so scared and afraid. Her songs made me feel that I would be OK and that everything would work out.
My world seemed to fall apart in 2001 when I was 16. I was outed – someone had seen me at a local youth club kissing another lad – and it felt like my life was over. At the same time, Carey released her much talked about and critically panned movie Glitter and its accompanying soundtrack. Things looked dark for both of us.
But Carey is a survivor. She taught me that I had no choice: I had to survive, too. I had to carry on. I watched in admiration as she picked herself up and began to make new music. First there was the beautiful Charmbracelet, and then the critically acclaimed The Emancipation of Mimi. She was back. The message was clear: don’t ever count me out.
And me? How did I survive? Well, I dealt with the trauma of being bullied by not thinking about it. Until I was 30, that is, and had a breakdown. In my case, life was bleak for a long time.
I very clearly remember the first time I came downstairs after having the breakdown. I felt weak and dizzy, but my little baby niece was visiting with family. I picked her up and hugged her, swaying to a song called Heavenly (No Ways Tired/Can’t Give Up Now). Backed by a gospel choir, Carey sings about never giving up and having faith. The words “I just can’t give up now / Come too far from where I started from” have stayed with me all this time.
Whenever I am struggling, I listen to this song and remember how far I’ve come. Carey has provided the soundtrack for my life. My husband has been dragged to all of her concerts and a gospel choir sang I’ll Be There at our wedding.
Her music and lyrics have offered solace and companionship. It’s given me great pleasure to now have her provide comfort to a young boy in my new novel, who faces some of the same challenges I did. I hope she continues to offer joy and strength to the next generation of young LGBTQ+ people who may also be struggling. You will make it through the rain.
Glitter Boy by Ian Eagleton is published by Scholastic (£7.99). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
