Think You'll Be Happy: Moving Through Grief with Grit, Grace, and Gratitude

Author’s Note

In the book you’re about to read, you’ll notice that references to my father, Clarence Avant, are in the present tense. Sadly, on Sunday, August 13, 2023, just as this book was going to press, my wonderful dad passed away. He was ninety-two.

We are devastated to have lost him. He was a titan, one of the greatest of Americans, a man who made a difference to so many lives . . . and he was also my dad, a mischievous, profane, loving, brilliant father. I can see him even now, sitting in the yard of my California home, listening to Ellington, or Sinatra, or my seventies playlist, and cursing at the size of the ravens in our garden. . . . But it seems appropriate that references to my father in this book remain in the present tense. Clarence lives; my mother, Jacqueline, lives; their lives were so extraordinary that to even conceive of them as in the past makes a mockery of time, let alone grammar. So, in the present tense he remains: Clarence Alexander Avant, 1931–2023. And boy, did he make something of the dash between those dates.

Dedication

For my parents

* * *

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Author’s Note

Dedication

Introduction

1. Think You’ll Be Happy

Interlude: Jacqueline Avant

2. Mom

Interlude: Pharrell, the Bishop, and Eddie

3. The Blessings of Our Ancestors

Interlude: The Unopened Christmas Card

4. Service Industry

Interlude: The Twelve Police Cars

5. Finding a New Way to Grieve

Interlude: Cobb Salad

6. Raise Yourself Up

Interlude: Laura 3:52

7. How to Be Sorry

Interlude: The Grass Beneath My Feet

8. No Comfort Zones

Interlude: John Rich

9. Ask Not What Your Country

Interlude: Aftermath

10. The Magic of Seeing

Interlude: Sweet Potato Pie

Epilogue: Clarence

Acknowledgments

Photo Section

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Introduction

I was home alone on the evening of Tuesday, November 30, 2021. Well after midnight—I’d been asleep for hours by this point—something told me to look at my phone. When I did, I saw something you never want to see in the middle of the night: about a million missed calls from my brother, Alex, and the same from my husband, Ted, who was close by at a work retreat. With my heart racing, before I could even work out what was going on, my husband’s name appeared on the screen again. I quickly answered his call and before I was able to say hello, he said something to me that would change my life forever.

Love, you’ve got to get up, get dressed, and get to Cedars—your mom’s been shot.

Surrounded by the darkness of night, I froze. This is a dream, I thought. This isn’t happening. I just have to wake up. Wake up, Nicole. It’s a nightmare. Wake up.

There are some words that make no sense and will never make any sense. Never, never, never.

What the hell are you talking about? I said. Where was she? Was she out with my father? Wait, what time is it?

Yet even as I asked, I realized quickly that there was no time for questions. I needed to go to my mother.

* * *

My mother, Jacqueline, was the person in our family who held the pieces together when things were about to fall apart. She never stood on the sidelines. Like the queen of a kingdom, in moments of crisis her instinct was to act. For my entire life I saw her deliberately move through the world with grit, grace, and gratitude.

In that moment after I received the call, I left myself. Maybe I became my mother or maybe I became more deeply myself. I am not sure, but what I do know is that my mother needed a woman like her right then. I had no idea how shattered our lives would be, but I knew that as my mother’s daughter, I had to hold the pieces together. There was no time to wonder, to parse meaning. I learned from both my parents that when there was a challenge, sitting still until a solution wandered by wasn’t good enough.

Nothing good ever happens by sitting on a damn couch.

So I brushed my teeth, got dressed. I went downstairs, put some food out for the dogs, and got in the car . . . calmly. Not shaking. I could feel my mother everywhere; she was guiding me, as she’d always done. I was tremendously grateful for her. I felt her grit filling me. I prayed for grace.

I found myself driving west on Sixth Street toward Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. All the lights were green. When the last light before I had to turn into the hospital started to flicker, I took this as a sign that my mom was trying to connect with me.

Mom, I said out loud, I’m on my way to the hospital. I have no real idea what happened, except that you’re eighty-one years old and you’ve been shot. I don’t know by whom, or where, or why, but I’m on my way. And everything is going to be okay, regardless of what happens. Mom, if you can hear me, I don’t know what God’s plan is, but don’t feel that you have to come back and take care of Alex or Dad, because I’ll do that. Mom, you’ve lived a great life. I’ve got it from here.

She didn’t need to be next to me to hear me.

I knew she received my message. I had no idea what state she was in, but I wanted to offer my strong, elegant mother the relief she deserved.

I felt the urge to compose myself, not because I was okay. I was not okay. I collected myself because I was raised to believe that love is an action word. Love is not only something we are. Love is something we do. Love, the act of love, like the series of green lights, was moving me forward, telling me to keep going.

When I arrived at the hospital, the first person I saw was my father. I looked down and noticed that his left sock was stained with blood. I was later told that the slippers he was wearing were brought to him by a neighbor who’d seen my father, in shock, without shoes, being questioned by the police on the street in front of his home.

Of all I witnessed and went through that night, the gesture of those slippers stays in my memory. We must never underestimate the impact of a simple act of care.

The next person I saw was my brother, Alex, frantically pacing around the room and on the phone, his girlfriend, Airess, at his side.

Soon, Ted arrived and the police told us what they knew about the night.

An intruder had broken into my parents’ home at around 2:25 a.m. and while attempting to rob their home, had shot my mother in the back with an assault rifle.

My blood boiled. My heart felt as if it would leap through my chest. My deep sadness and fear were instantly covered with a blanket of anger.

Someone hurt my mother?

I couldn’t comprehend it. How could anyone hurt my mother? A woman who lived with such respect for life. She wouldn’t harm an insect. Believe me, I grew up witnessing my mother releasing various insects from inside her home back outdoors to where they belong.

Someone hurt my mother?

Hot, painful tears streamed down my face.

And then I looked up and saw my father, the man who’d spent his entire life living in the warmth of my mother’s light. A light that was fading fast.

I felt myself coming apart, but I couldn’t, for the sake of my family. At least not in this moment.

I took a deep breath. And I held the pieces.

When the surgeon appeared, I saw the look on his face and knew. We all knew.

My father always says, You come with a number, and you end with a number.

Those are my mother’s numbers, and this book is the dash in between:

Jacqueline Avant, March 6, 1940–December 1, 2021.

* * *

The trauma of my mother’s death is not the story of her life. Her ending was tragic, yes, but her life was beautiful. One of her great superpowers was her ability to acknowledge hardship without staying in it for too long. She never let anyone rob her of her faith in God and all the blessings bestowed upon her and our family.

I didn’t realize how deeply her way of being was ingrained in me until she was taken from me. Even on my hardest days (of which I have had countless), I saw and felt my blessings. In the midst of my emotional devastation, I have found small moments of relief—the sun on my face, the flowers emerging in my garden at my home after the long winter, standing over the stove with my father making our morning eggs, my husband’s humor, long and rewarding conversations with our children, afternoons on the couch with our dogs.

I am so thankful to my mother for teaching me to love what there is to love and hold on to what there is to hold on to, no matter what.

* * *

If you only glance at my mom’s life, it could appear to be all glitz and glamour. She was always fashionable and perfectly put together—you would never see Jacqueline Avant in the world with even one hair out of place.

But if you take a deeper look at my mother—past the Chanel suit, the lipstick, the jaw-dropping jewelry—you’ll find she was kind of a nerd. That is actually one of my favorite things about her.

She was born in Jamaica, Queens, New York, in 1940. She was a writer, an editor, and a voracious reader. Her first job was in New York City as a hospital technician and phlebotomist.

Maya Angelou said, Each of us has that right, that possibility, to invent ourselves daily. If a person does not invent herself, she will be invented. So, to be bodacious enough to invent ourselves is wise. My mother was brave enough to invent and reinvent herself throughout her life.

She met my father in the early 1960s while auditioning for the Ebony Fashion Fair, a traveling benefit that consisted of the most beautiful Black women in America modeling clothing from the best designers in the world. Once they moved to California, she became the most stylish woman and philanthropist in Beverly Hills. I was born in 1968; Alex, my brother, arrived in 1971.

Even with that sheen of glamour, our family was and is Black with a capital B. A Black couple with a baby on the way moving into Beverly Hills in the midst of housing discrimination and redlining was hard to imagine back then. Los Angeles may have been overflowing with movie stars, athletes, hippies, artists, celebrities, and progressive industry leaders, but it was no less segregated than parts of the American South.

When we moved in, we had the Slotkin family on one side and the Maltz family on the other. On our very first day, Mrs. Slotkin said to my mom, "They weren’t very welcoming to us, either, but I would like to welcome you to the neighborhood."

Florence Slotkin showed my mom the ropes and became one of her best friends. She introduced my mom to the best parks to take me to in my stroller, restaurants in the neighborhood, grocery stores, dry cleaners, you name it.

I often feel that my mom’s life really began in Los Angeles. Her roots were in New York, but her fruits came to bear in California. It is where she started her family and found her people. History and community were everything to my mother. Besides her faith, that is what she valued most.

Grief comes in waves, and in the moments when I feel like I am underwater, I find solace in this thought: my mother loved and was loved in return.

In this book I share how my mother’s life experiences became my life lessons. I share the unexpected pathways and light-bulb moments I have found as I moved through my grief. I share stories of those who loved me through the most traumatic time of my life, and tales from the tribe of my parents’ closest friends who raised and inspired me to be the woman I am today.

This book is a collection of memories, reflections, and thoughts that fueled me to keep going, and keep giving.

One

Think You’ll Be Happy

—Your sweet potato pie is waiting for you.

—Hi mom. Sorry I missed you earlier. Dad said you were resting. I was just telling Ted that I think our time expired on the pie. I’ll see how I feel about it tomorrow. Have a good evening.

—OK. Think you’ll be happy.

Texts between my mom and me, November 30, 2021

My mom was a homemaker, but I don’t mean that she was passive. She turned our home into an ecosystem where anyone—from an artist to a politician to a business leader—could feel warmth, soul, and connection.

My dad, Clarence, is funny and smart and can move around the world, but he’s not a particularly social person and never used to take good care of himself. My mom was his lifeline—she kept him social and active.

My mother had this ability to make everyone rise to the occasion and show up as their best selves. If you wanted to be in the Avant home, you had to have a high vibration—she didn’t care if you were famous or not, you were not coming into her home with negativity.

I didn’t always welcome her close attention. I often felt that my mom hovered over me. Some people do so to protect those they love from life. For her, it was about guiding me to serve and know my power in any situation. She urged me to be unafraid in uncomfortable situations so that later in life I’d know how to thrive and survive instead of whine and complain. (But believe me, most of my life I was saying under my breath, Land, woman, land! The hovering can stop!)

Today, I realize she hovered to remain close to me; she wanted me to be strong and clear and ready to hold the baton on the day it would be passed to me.

But what are you supposed to do when the baton lands in your hands on the heels of shock and tragedy?

* * *

Neither my mother nor I knew that her last text to me would be the words Think you’ll be happy, but it is fitting that she left me with a mantra for resiliency.

My mother chose to live a victorious life. My mother believed that service was the most thorough way to share her blessings, rather than hoard them (she would say, Blessings don’t belong to us—they are only loaned).

She found joy in surrounding herself with beauty, too, cultivating an astonishing collection of Japanese lacquers, as well as works by prominent African American artists.

She chose to be happy regardless of the circumstances around her. That’s who she was. It was all a choice. She knew that choosing to be happy begins with believing you will be happy. She always believed that things would get better. Mom understood that she was on display because of her position in life. She always made sure to have her face on, and a smile. Her attitude was If I’ve been blessed to play the role of Jacquie Avant in this lifetime then damn it, I’m going to show up as the most glorious version of myself that I can possibly be.

Blessings don’t belong to us—they are only loaned.

My mom knew how to be warm and open without taking shit from people—including her own kids and husband!

My father, the legendary Clarence Avant, is the man behind so many brilliant music industry careers—Bill Withers, Lalo Schifrin, Jimmy Smith, Dinah Washington, Freda Payne, Don Cornelius, Andre Harrell, Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis, L.A. Reid and Babyface. A man who pulled himself out of Jim Crow–era poverty and racism until he became a kingmaker in the entertainment business and used that power to move into sports, influencing the careers of Muhammad Ali, Jim Brown, Jackie Robinson, and Hank Aaron. Dad was able to say, without a hint of irony, I don’t have problems, I have friends.

He also had Jacquie.

One of my favorite stories about her was the night that Bill Withers and my father were butting heads before Bill’s show at Carnegie Hall in New York City. These moments of friction were typical of those between artist and record executive, but on this particular night my father decided to be more annoyed than usual and announced he wasn’t going to attend the concert at all. My mother let him huff and puff like a child, and then very calmly she said, You are getting dressed and you are going to the show and you are going to fix things with Bill.

That night, from the stage, Bill looked out at the audience and said, Is Clarence Avant in the house?

My mother looked at my father and said, See, how would you have felt if you hadn’t been here? Like a fool, that’s how!

My mother wanted to help my father leave his anger and frustration so he could embrace joy and his duty to the work at hand. This is a lesson that my father would not always remember, but it’s one that I have never forgotten. And it has saved me many times from wallowing for too long.

And it wasn’t just Clarence she schooled.

My mother saved every award, trophy, flag, and commendation I ever received. One year, when I was around eight years old, I realized that I was not, after all, going to come in first, second, or third in my tennis camp class. I’d had dreams of being Evonne Goolagong, but I played more like Evonne Move-Along. I ran home one night and complained to my mother about it.

There’s only one thing to do, she said.

With that, she went out to the carport, moved her silver Cadillac Seville out onto the street, handed me a tennis racket and a ball, and said, You’re going to hit that ball against the carport wall over and over until you get better.

On the final day of tennis camp, sure enough I didn’t come even close to the medals . . . until finally they announced, Most Improved Player: Nicole Avant.

I couldn’t believe