This is such a sensitive topic, one I’d hesitate to approach with people I know well, much less someone I just met. In conversations like these, before we say our words, they’re ammunition. After we’ve said them, they’re smoking bullets. There seems to be no middle ground and too little common ground for dialogue to be productive. We just tiptoe around things, afraid we’ll offend or look ignorant, be misunderstood. Honesty is a risk few are willing to take. For some reason, it’s a risk I decide to take with Grip.
“I just mean, isn’t that a double standard?” I pause to sift through my thoughts and get this question right. “It’s such an incendiary word with such an awful history. I completely understand why black people wouldn’t be okay with it at all.”
“Well, then you’re halfway there.”
I shoot him a look from under my lashes, trying to gauge before I go any further if he thinks I’m some weird, entitled white girl asking dumb questions. He’s just waiting, though, eyes intent and clear of mockery or judgment.
“So why … why should anyone use it? Why put it in songs? Why does Skeet feel okay calling another black man that?”
“First of all, I’m not one of those people who assumes because I’m black, I somehow represent every black person’s perspective,” Grip says. “So, I’ll just tell you how I and the people I’m around most think about it.”
He pauses and then laughs a little.
“I guess we don’t think about it. It’s such a natural part of how we interact with each other.” He gives me a wry smile. “Some of us feel like we take the power away from it when we use it.”
“Taking the power?” I shake my head, fascinated, but confused. “What does that mean?”
“Like we get to determine how it’s used.”
He pauses, and I can almost see him weighing the words before they leave his mouth.
“You have to account for intent. It was originally meant to degrade and dehumanize, as a weapon against us, but we reappropriate it as ours and get to use it as we see fit.”
“I don’t know that I really get that or agree,” I admit, hesitant because I’ve been misunderstood before in these conversations. I’m too curious. I always want to understand, and don’t always know when to stop asking.
“Because of our unique history in this country, that word will never be safe for anyone to use to us,” he says quietly. “But with all that black people endured, being able to take that slur back and decide how we want to use it feels like the least we should be allowed. And it’s the very definition of entitlement for others to want to use it because we can.”
“That I get.” I hesitate, wanting to respect his opinion, his honesty even though I don’t agree with parts of what he’s said. “I guess to me, we have enough that divides us and makes us misunderstand each other. Do we really need one more thing we can’t agree on?”
Grip’s eyes don’t waver from my face, but it’s as if he’s not as much looking at me, as absorbing what I just said. Processing it.
“That’s actually a great point,” he says after a few seconds. “I hadn’t thought of it like that, and it’s good that you ask that question. You’re not asking the wrong question. Is it the most important question, though? To me, some guy calls me the N-word, we’ll probably fight. I’ll kick his ass, and we’re done. It’s over.”
He slants me a cocky grin, and my lips refuse not to smile back.
“But I want to hear the same dismay and curiosity,” he continues, his smile leveling out. “About the issues that are actually eroding our communities. Let’s ask why black men are six percent of the general population and nearly forty percent of the prison population. Let’s get some outrage over people of color getting longer sentences for the same crimes other people commit. And over disproportionate unemployment and poverty.”
His handsome face settles into a plane of sharp angles, bold lines and indignation.
“I can fight a dude who calls me the N-word,” he says. “It’s harder to fight a whole system stacked against me.”
The passion and conviction coming off him in waves cannon across the table and land on my chest, ratcheting up my heartbeat.
“It’s not bad that you ask why we call each other that, Bristol.” The sharp lines of his face soften. “There’s just bigger issues that actually affect our lives, our futures, our children, and that’s what we want to talk about.”
Nothing in his eyes makes me feel guilty for asking, and I think that he wants me to understand as much as I want to.
“When other people are as outraged and as curious about those problems as black people are,” he says. “Then maybe we can solve them together.”
It’s quiet for a few moments as we absorb each other’s perspectives. My mind feels stretched. As if someone, this man, took the edges of my thoughts and pulled them in new directions, to new proportions.
“Now that, I get,” I finally say softly. “You’re right. Those things are more important, and that’s powerful.”
I look up and grin to lighten the moment.
“But don’t think you’ve changed my mind about the N-word. That still doesn’t make sense to me.”
He leans forward with a wide smile, his eyes alive and dark and bright all at once. And I wonder if this is the most stimulating conversation he’s had in a long time. It is for me.
“Is there anything that you don’t completely know how it works or why it works, but you know the rules that govern it?”
“Um, Twitter?” I laugh, glad when he responds with a smile.
“Then the N-word is your Twitter.”
He sits back in his seat, long legs stretched under the table, arms spread on the back of the booth and a smile in his eyes for me.
“You may have me halfway to understanding that,” I say. “But you will not get me to be okay with the misogyny that is such a part of hip-hop culture.”
“I don’t disrespect women in my lyrics,” he says immediately. “My mom would kill me.”
“Well, maybe I’ll listen to some of your stuff.”
“I feel honored that you would deign to listen to my music.”
I toss a napkin across the table at him, and it bounces harmlessly off his face. He throws it back at me and laughs.
“I mean, for real,” he says. “What kind of self-respecting, white millennial doesn’t listen to hip-hop?”
He laughs when I roll my eyes at him.
“Are you one of those people who thinks hip-hop belongs to black people?” I ask.
“Of course it does.” He smooths the humor from his expression. “We made it. It’s ours in the same way jazz and the blues and R&B are ours. We innovated, making sound where there was no sound before. The very roots of hip-hop are in West Africa from centuries ago. But we share our shit all the time, so you’re welcome.”
I lift a brow at his ethno-arrogance, but he throws his head back laughing at me, maybe at himself.
“Art, specifically music, is a living thing,” he says. “It isn’t just absorbed by the people who hear it, but it absorbs them. So, we shared hip-hop with the world, and it isn’t just ours anymore. The Beastie Boys heard it. Eminem heard it. Whoever heard it fell in love with it, added to it, and became a part of it.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
“Mostly. If that hadn’t happened, if we hadn’t shared it and someone other than us loved it, it’d still be niche. Underground. Now it’s global, but that wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t gone mainstream. Mainstream means more opportunities, so I’m all for white, Asian, Hispanic. We need everybody buying hip-hop, because ultimately, it’s about that green.”
He rubs imaginary dollars between his fingers before going on.
“I think some fear that when hip-hop goes mainstream, it’s mixed with other influences. It’s diluted, and I get that, but we have to evolve. That isn’t selling out. That’s survival.”
The way he talks about music and art fascinates me. Rhyson’s talent, his genius,
always isolated him from me. I’ve been around musicians all my life, but with no talent of my own, I was always on the outside and couldn’t figure out how to get in. Grip just shared that with me. He let me in.
Before I can dig anymore, Jimmi takes the stage for her performance. And when I say she takes the stage, she takes it. She owns it. She overpowers the small space, and you know she’s something special.
“Wow.” I spoon into the fudge brownie and ice cream I ordered during Jimmi’s set. “She can back those tits up, huh?”
“She definitely can,” Grip says. “And speaking of double standards, I think you have one criticizing hip-hop for its misogyny and then hating on another woman just because she has a great rack. Is it any worse when men judge women’s worth by their looks than when women do it?”
He’s serious. At first, I think he’s joking, but then I realize his eyes hold a subtle rebuke. He’s protective of Jimmi. Maybe they’re together? The thought sours the ice cream in my mouth, and it shouldn’t. I’ve known this guy for all of a couple hours. And he isn’t my type. And I’m leaving in a week.
“I wasn’t judging her.”
His look and the twist of his lips say otherwise.
“Okay, maybe I was judging her a little bit.” I laugh and am glad when he laughs, too. “She’s a pretty girl, and sometimes they get a bad rap.”
“They?” Grip lifts his thick brows. “Do you not realize how beautiful you are?”
I have no idea how to respond. I’m attractive. I know that. Guys have been hitting on me since middle school.
“Whatever.” I shrug. “I just don’t define myself by my looks. There’s a lot more to me than that.”
“I believe you,” Grip says. “I’m just saying there’s a lot more to Jimmi, too, so maybe you guys have a lot in common. And maybe you should withhold judgment until you know her better. If not altogether.”
I’m quiet while I finish my brownie and think about what he said. He has a point. One I hadn’t considered. I had to leave my Ivy League college to get the most thought-provoking, stimulating conversation I’ve had in ages. Maybe ever. And with a rapper. Jimmi isn’t the only one there’s more to than meets the eye.
FLOW - Chapter 4
Grip
I FIGURED RHYSON’S sister would be attractive. I mean, they’re twins, and he’s one of those guys girls trip all over themselves for. And I knew she went to an Ivy League college, so of course she’s smart. But Bristol is all kinds of things I could not have anticipated or prepared for. Her curiosity, her authenticity, and her honesty hook something in me and draw me closer. I didn’t expect the conversation we had at Mick’s to go where it did. I loved that she wasn’t afraid to wade through the difficult questions of race, and that she gave measured, thoughtful responses and expected the same from me. Those are tough conversations to have with someone you know, much less with someone you just met, but it felt like nothing was off‑limits. As if I could give her room to be naïve and she could give me room to be obnoxious. We both gave each other space to be misunderstood, because we really wanted to understand.
I admit only to myself that I’m drawn to her in a way that is dangerous because she’s Rhyson’s sister. Starting something that can’t go anywhere could be awkward down the road. I’m not that guy. Usually I fuck them and then I leave them. That’s it. That’s all. And I can’t do that to Rhyson’s sister.
The string of text messages reminds me there’s a girl I’m trying to leave even now. I’ve been dating Tessa for two months, but we haven’t really talked in the last couple of weeks. She blew my mind the first time we had sex, and her pussy put some kind of hex on me and made me agree to “dating.” Well, that hex has worn off. I told her we probably need to take a break, but she either wasn’t hearing me or was ignoring me. When I tell a girl we need to take a break, that’s code for there’s this other chick I’m feeling so we should cut this off before I do something we’ll both regret. I wish I could just let it fade, but I’m going to have to actually break it off. She keeps hitting me up, so it seems like that conversation will have to happen soon.
I steal a glance across at Bristol, who’s slumped in the passenger seat with her head dropped to an awkward angle while she sleeps. She probably wouldn’t give me the time of day anyway. Rhyson’s so unassuming that you’d never know he comes from deep pockets. Old money and new. He turned his back on that life to emancipate from his parents, but Bristol still occupies that world. A guy like me, driving this piece of shit Jeep, sweeping floors, and doing odd jobs to make ends meet—no way would she check for me. She doesn’t even listen to hip-hop. She probably hasn’t ever dated a black guy, and I wouldn’t be the exception.
Now me? I like to think of myself as an equal opportunity connoisseur. My dick is not so much color blind, as it loves every color. And I have a rainbow coalition fuck record to prove it. If it’s wet and tight, I don’t really care what color it is.
Crude, I know.
Maybe that’s an issue of race I won’t explore with Bristol. I’m sure she has her limits.
I pull up in front of my apartment complex. I’m kind of glad Bristol’s asleep. Maybe I can sneak inside and get back out to the car before she wakes up. I need to grab my laptop for the tracks I’ll work on while I’m at Grady’s. I wouldn’t have stopped otherwise. We joked at the airport about her suitcase being bigger than my apartment. She isn’t far off.
I’m carefully, quietly opening the driver side door when she stirs.
“Hey.” She sits up and stretches her arms over her head, straining the tank top against her breasts. “Where are you going?’
My mouth goes dry when her nipples pucker through the thin material. I can resist her for my best friend. Bristol and Rhyson may not be close, but she is still his sister. A pretty face and a great set of tits aren’t worth any possible static with him. I may need to sticky note that over my mirror this week, though.
“Oh, you’re up.” I lean through the window. “I just need to run inside my apartment and grab something before we head to Grady’s.”
“Can I use your bathroom?”
Shit. I mentally run through the disaster area that is my tiny apartment. I’ll be lucky if a roach doesn’t greet us at the door.
“Um, sure. Come on.”
When we cross the landing, I remind myself I have nothing to be ashamed of. I pay my rent. I’m making my own way and not breaking any laws. I have the integrity of my art, not selling out for the quick buck, but holding out for the right opportunity. It all sounds hollow when Bristol, in her lambskin leather and designer distressed jeans, blows into my one-room apartment on a cloud of expensive perfume.
“Through there.” I point to the tiny bathroom off the one room that encompasses the kitchen, living room, and bedroom. The brochure called it “studio,” but hovel is probably a more accurate description.
Bristol’s sharp eyes wander over the threadbare thrift store couch and the Dollar Store dishes in the drying rack. The disarray of my narrow, unmade bed, which is flush against a wall, mocks me.
“Could you hurry up?” I ask curtly. “We need to get going.”
Her startled eyes stare back at me for a moment before she moves quickly to the bathroom. I grab my laptop and am already standing by the door when she comes out.
“There wasn’t a towel.” She holds up her dripping hands.
“Oh, sorry.” I take the few strides to the kitchen and grab a roll of paper towels on the counter for her.
She dries her hands and tosses the used paper towels in the trash. Instead of following me back to the door, she leans against the counter.
“I thought you were tired.” I shift from one foot to the other, back propping the door open. “Let’s go.”
“I have that same print.” She nods to the poster of Nina Simone hanging on the wall over my bed. “She was an excellent pianist, and my mother loves her.”
My shoulders, which have been tight since we pulled up in front of my du
mp apartment, relax an inch.
“Yeah?” is my only response.
Bristol nods and walks over to my turntable against the far wall, running her fingers over the dust cover.
“You use this to deejay?”
I’m standing here holding the door open for her to leave, and she’s conducting an inspection.
“Uh, yeah. “
“You’re still deejaying tomorrow at that place Jimmi was talking about?” She looks up from the turntable, apparently in no hurry to leave. “Brew?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ll use for some of the set. I prefer vinyl, but most set ups nowadays are completely digital.” I sigh and nod my head out to the hall. “Look, we better get going.”
“What’s the hurry? Rhyson’s at the studio and Grady’s at his retreat all week. Just an empty house waiting for us.”
“I’m ready to go. I have better things to do than give a perfect stranger a grand tour of my place when I need to be working.”
Hurt strikes through her eyes so quickly, I almost miss it. She lowers her lashes and walks toward me without addressing my rudeness. She’s squeezing past me in the doorway when my conscience reprimands me. I grab her elbow to stop her from leaving, tucking her into the doorway, too.
“Hey.” My hand slides down her arm to take her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I don’t know why I did that.”
She looks up at me, her back against one side of the doorframe, mine against the other. With her coming where she’s from, and me coming from where I’m from, there should be a vast ocean separating us, filled with our differences and all the reasons we should never meet on shore. But there’s only this wedge of charged space between our bodies that seems to be shrinking by the second. What should be foreign feels familiar. When I assume I know something, she surprises me.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” she says softly. “I’m sorry I made that crack at the airport about my suitcase being bigger than your apartment. “
“I actually said that,” I remind her, pulling up a smile from somewhere.
LONG SHOT: (A HOOPS Novel) Page 45