Brown James - Cold sweat : my father James Brown and me

B eing the child of a global superstar is never easy. Being the daughter of the Godfather of Soulthats a category unto itself.

Like every little girl, Yamma Brown wanted her fathers attention, but fame, drugs, jail, and the complicated women in James Browns life set the stage for an uncommon childhood. Cold Sweat is about how Yamma rose to meet every challenge.

Though packed with celebrity appearances ranging from Michael Jackson to Al Sharpton, Cold Sweat is not just a celebrity book. It focuses on an everyday issue faced by millions of women domestic violenceand in this book Yamma faces it in an honest and powerfully moving way.

Dealing with a complex and famous father eventually took a backseat to coping with her own abusive and deceitful marriage. Cold Sweat is about how Yamma got caught in the same trap as her mother, doing things in her adult life that, as a child, shed promised herself shed never do. But at the same time, Yamma learned valuable lessons about life from her father. The struggles she went through, both as a child and as an adult, make for a gripping read and, in the end, a profound examination of the nature of celebrity, violence, and survival.

Copyright 2014 by Yamma Brown

All rights reserved

First edition

Published by Chicago Review Press, Incorporated

814 North Franklin Street

Chicago, Illinois 60610

ISBN 978-1-883052-85-0

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Brown, Yamma, author.

Cold sweat : my father James Brown and me / Yamma Brown, Robin Gaby Fisher.

pages cm

Includes index.

Summary: Yamma Brown was one of James Browns daughters. The struggles she went through, both as a child and as an adult, provide a profound examination of the nature of celebrity, violence, and survivalProvided by publisher.

ISBN 978-1-883052-85-0 (hardback)

1. Brown, James, 19332006. 2. Brown, Yamma. 3. Soul musiciansUnited StatesBiography. I. Fisher, Robin Gaby, author. II. Title.

ML420.B818B76 2014

782.421644092dc23

[B]

2014006952

Interior design: PerfecType, Nashville, TN

Photo credits: All photos courtesy of Yamma Brown

Printed in the United States of America

5 4 3 2 1

Index

The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.

Harriet Beecher Stowe, Little Foxes

ID FINALLY FINISHED wrapping all the kids Christmas presents and had just dropped off to sleep when the sound of the phone ringing shattered the silence of my bedroom. A phone call in the middle of the night is never good news. I froze for a second before picking up. Hello? This is Yamma, I said, hearing the breathlessness in my voice. I recognized Mr. Bobbits low Southern drawl right away. Yaaammaa dear, your father is dead, he said plaintively. I gasped and threw the phone down, as if the receiver had dealt the shock that bolted through my body. My father is dead! I cried. Oh no! God, please! My husband, Darren, sat up in bed next to me. He tried to pull me close to comfort me, but I pushed him away. I was inconsolable. Tears gushed down my cheeks. My sobs turned to long, sorrowful howls. The anguish I felt shook my entire being. Im sorry, Mr. Bobbit said.

Charles Bobbit was my fathers longtime personal manager. He had been at his bedside at Emory Crawford Long Hospital in Atlanta that night in 2006 when Dads heart just gave out, he said. The doctors had tried valiantly to revive him but with no success. Dad was gone. How could it be true? I had just spoken with him by phone the day before. Dont worry, Yamma, hed said. Im getting better. Ill be out of here in a day or two. Dad had assured me then that the hospital stay would be brief, because he was going on tour right after Christmas. His doctors had already approved the trip. Yes, thats what hed said. So what in Gods name had gone wrong? How had we gone from getting better to dead in a matter of hours? Had my father lied to me? I wondered. But why? I was overwhelmed by sadness and regret. And the guilt, well, like a tsunami it snuck up and then slammed over me.

I knew my father had been admitted and diagnosed with pneumonia the day before. But even though I lived close byonly a few miles from the hospitalI didnt go to see him. It hadnt been that I didnt want to visit. At least I dont think so. Id called him on Christmas Eve to say I was coming, but he said he was too tired for visitors and not looking his best so Id let him have his way. I knew how Dad was about being seen when he wasnt looking his best. He never wanted people seeing himnot even his own kids when his hair wasnt perfectly rolled and coiffed into his famous bouffant style. Id wanted to respect his wishes.

Or was the real reason I didnt go what my conscience suggested? That it had been convenient for me to let him have his way. It was Christmastime, after all, and I still had cooking and baking and wrapping to do with hardly enough time to get everything finished in time for Christmas morning. Was that really why I had given in to my fathers requestand so willingly, at thatwhen I should have just gone to the hospital to be with him? I was fifteen minutes away, for Gods sake. What would it have taken to hop in the car and pop in for a quick visit? I wondered if thats what Dad had been thinking after our phone conversation, when Id agreed to stay away. Had he complained to Mr. Bobbit after he hung up the phone? I imagined the conversation.

She only lives a few miles away, for Gods sake, Mr. Bobbit. Wouldnt you think shed be here? After all Ive done for those kids

Well, Mr. Brown, you know how these kids are today.

Ill let you rest, but Ill be there on Christmas morning, Id said when I accepted his invitation to stay away. I wont take no for an answer next time. OK, baby girl, Dad had replied. It was all a little too easy. Had Dad really been waiting for me to insist on coming? You know parents and their little tests. Oh no, dont you bother. I know how busy you are, and Im just fine. When what they really mean is, Of course I want you here, but you should know that. I shouldnt have to ask. Was Dad testing me? And when I didnt insist on coming, had he watched his hospital door, hoping Id do the right thing anyway and just show up?

I couldnt bear my own thoughts. My head swirled with what if and if only. What if Id been with him when his heart stopped? Would he have fought harder to come back? If only Id known that Id never again have the chance to say what Id told him a million times before, but not enough times, that I loved him infinitely and I was so proud he was my father. If only Id known there would not be another opportunity to say I forgave him for all of the hurt he had caused our family or to ask his forgiveness for the hurt I had caused him. But all the what ifs and if onlys in the world wouldnt change what was. I had made that terrible human assumption, that there would always be tomorrow to say what needed to be said, to ask for and grant forgiveness, to make amends. Now we had run out of tomorrows.

In the book For One More Day, Mitch Albom wrote, Have you ever lost someone you love and wanted one more conversation, one more chance to make up for the time when you thought they would be here forever? If so, then you know you can go your whole life collecting days, and none will outweigh the one you wish you had back. Why had I been so shortsighted, so selfish? What had made me think Dad would always be around for one more day?