1.
New Directions Bobby Ray Hanna paced backstage. He was fifty-one years old but looked younger, his brown skin smooth and unlined. His hair and mustache were freshly trimmed, accentuating the roundness in his cheeks. As he tried to walk off his nerves, Bobby made sure not to wrinkle his collarless black button-down and matching slacks. His ex-wife, Clara Hanna, teased that he was worse than a girl when it came to his obsession with clothes. And shoes: If Bobby had money in his pocket, he couldn’t resist buying a pair. He had taken care to have his dress shoes mirror shined for that night’s special performance. It was June 2010, and the once homeless air force veteran was about to sing live on national television, for the NBC show
America’s Got Talent. He was there with the New Directions Veterans Choir, comprised of veterans who had either gone through the full-service treatment center or, like Bobby, were currently there.
Bobby had been dreaming of catching a musical break since he was a little boy sitting next to Michael Jackson in elementary school back in Gary, Indiana. The two boys, born only seven months apart, competed for solos in school recitals. Michael won every time. Bobby knew he was nowhere near the level of talent as of the future King of Pop, but he was convinced he could have made a successful career in music if his life had taken a few different turns. Now he would sing in front of millions of viewers, hoping for a shot at $1 million with his group.
It was Bobby’s tenacity that had gotten him into the choir. He hadn’t been in the New Directions treatment program long when he heard that the group would compete on television. He had little time to master the song the choir would sing on the show, “Ol’ Man River,” from the 1927 musical
Show Boat. Bobby would be a tenor if he made the cut, but the choir’s founder, George Hill, didn’t think Bobby could learn the complicated song in time. Bobby wasn’t a trained singer, and his self-taught guitar skills were useless in an a cappella group.
He would not let go. This was the closest he had been to becoming a professional musician since his days in the air force in the 1980s, when he worked a side gig deejaying on river cruises in London.
George understood Bobby’s need to sing. There were days in his twelve years living on the streets that George didn’t care if he lived or died, but then he would start singing. He would belt out tunes for hours in the tunnels of MacArthur Park near downtown Los Angeles, until he felt better. George told Bobby that if he aced the song, he could join the reality competition. Sure enough, Bobby learned the lyrics and harmonies, earning his spot as a member of the ten-person, nearly all-Black group.
Bobby snuck off from the group backstage to make a call to Clara. The British-Indian expat was sitting in her West Los Angeles apartment, the same one that the former couple had shared in the last years of their marriage. They had met when Bobby was stationed in England, near a McDonald’s where then eighteen-year-old Clara worked. Bobby came in nearly every day for lunch, dressed in his uniform, trying to impress her. She knew her Catholic parents would not approve of her dating an airman, who they thought would break her heart. Two years passed before she said yes to a date. Soon after, the young Englishwoman found herself cruising the Thames, partying alongside her American boyfriend.
The adventure ended when Bobby was discharged and returned home to Gary, Indiana. They kept in touch by phone and, in 1990, Bobby convinced Clara to meet him in Redlands, California, east of Los Angeles, for a fresh start. Clara didn’t love Redlands—it was more for families with young children than a thrill-seeking couple—but she was happy to be with Bobby. They married, and at first things were stable. But as the years passed Clara realized that Bobby’s carefree and confident London attitude had been dampened by the years in Gary. He started staying out late, spending entire nights away from Clara. The couple split and reunited several times. Then came Bobby’s involvement with drugs and run-ins with law enforcement. He was arrested for fighting and spent fifteen days in jail. A felony charge for possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell soon followed. Bobby was sentenced to two years in a state prison. For years, Clara had told herself, “It’s going to get better.” But seeing Bobby on the inside, she knew she was done. She had divorce papers served to Bobby. He called her from a prison pay phone, angry and desperate. He wasn’t Catholic, but he knew how important Clara’s faith was to her. Bobby taunted her, “Catholics aren’t supposed to divorce.”
“No,” Clara replied, “but on the other hand, nowhere in the Bible does God say I have to be unhappy.”
Following his release, Bobby flitted from party to party, until one by one his friends kicked him out. In 2009, seven years after the divorce, he was down to a single duffel bag and nothing else. He camped out on Sepulveda Boulevard, near the I-10 and 405, at one of the busiest interchanges in the country. After two restless nights, he called Clara and asked if she would pick him up.
Clara struggled to enforce boundaries with Bobby. He was her first love. She drove to the freeway underpass, and Bobby climbed in. She handed him a Tupperware box with leftover rice and beef. As he wolfed down the food, Clara said she would take him to a motel two miles south, where she paid for one night and left Bobby to think about what he should do next. The walls were thin enough to hear when someone turned on an air conditioner in the next room. But the louder noise was the voice of self-doubt inside Bobby’s head. He knew about a rehab facility for veterans, and he also knew the program required therapy. Bobby did not like to talk about himself. It was one of the reasons his marriage had failed.
When Clara returned the next day and pressed for a plan, Bobby hesitated. He mentioned New Directions, explaining it was run by a nonprofit and located on the grounds of the VA. Clara wanted Bobby to check in right away. They went back and forth, until Clara announced, “We’re going. I’m dropping you off because you need help.” This was Clara’s moment of tough love. She drove Bobby to the facility, in West L.A., and wished him luck. Then she drove back to her apartment.
When he called from the backstage of
America’s Got Talent the following year, Bobby tried to convince her to come down to the live taping. Clara thought about how long the line to get into the theater would be and how hot it was outside. She said, “I know you’re disappointed, but I can’t.” She promised to watch the performance on TV.
“Oh, it’s all right.”
Bobby had given her the line he always did when he felt hurt. He had a habit of downplaying his pain to save face. It was part of the reason he’d started to use drugs, to escape. He did everything he could to distance himself from failure.
For the month of June 2010, the
America’s Got Talent reality show set up in the Orpheum Theatre, a historic playhouse in downtown Los Angeles with an iconic Beaux Arts façade that opened in 1926. After vaudeville had faded away, the theater became host to top musical acts, featuring Black American performers like Ella Fitzgerald, Duke Ellington, and Aretha Franklin. Now, like many venues in Los Angeles, the playhouse had to tap into the city’s growing reality show industry to stay relevant. On the night Bobby performed, the theater’s nearly two thousand seats were full. Fast-moving cameras panned between the screaming fans and stage. The New Directions Veterans Choir was one of twenty-seven acts competing that evening to go to the next round in Las Vegas.
Comedian and television presenter Nick Cannon met the group backstage and, with an infectious smile, pumped up the ten members before they went onstage for a live audience. “This is the moment,” he said.
“This is the moment,” George Hill returned with a radiant smile, his voice calm.
“You guys ready?”
The eight men and two women answered in unison, “We ready.” Bobby bounced in anticipation, his face stoic but his body jittery.
Before every performance, one of the members would pray them in, and tonight it had been Bobby’s turn. He asked God to bless the performance and to let their voices be as one.
The choir would need to answer the questions of the celebrity judges before their act. Piers Morgan, a grumpy Brit, took the lead. “Who’re you guys?”
In the polished style that George had practiced at performances and fundraisers, the former marine said firmly, “We are New Directions Choir. We are comprised of formerly homeless sailors, soldiers, airmen, and marines.”
“And you said you were all homeless?” Morgan asked.
“We were all homeless.” George was usually a jokester onstage, but tonight he was all business. “In my particular case I was homeless for twelve years, living in MacArthur Park and Skid Row.”
Copyright © 2024 by Pamela Prickett. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
