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“Of course.”
“No doubt. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. ’Pac had a lot to say about personal responsibility and living up to your potential. That’s all a brother’s trying to say,” he added, his voice mockin
gly militant. We both raised our fists and continued laughing. “You know, it’s crazy. All those years I was away, I just kept thinking what it would be like to come home and kick it with you and now I see, it’s cool as hell,” he said.
“Oh, now we’re kicking it?” I asked.
“You know what I mean. Just like, talking to you like a real person. Not my teacher. Just another person.”
“I know what you mean,” I admitted. “I didn’t think you were as mature as you are. I was expecting you to be cursing every five words and drinking forties. You’d be all gangster and rhyming for no reason.” I started moving my arms around like I was an angry rapper prowling a stage.
“Oh, MCs are just like anyone else—at least if they want to survive in this industry. We have to turn it off and on. You can’t be all hard all the time. Hip-hop is on The View ... Good Morning America. Now, you can’t come at Regis and Kelly like, ‘Y’ know what I’m say? Know what I’m saying, my nigga?’ ” We both laughed. “That silliness won’t sell any records and this is all about money. Trust me. You’re hood in the ’hood, but when you leave, you let that go. Hip-hop done grown up. We sip champagne when we thirsty now—that’s Biggie.”
“I know Biggie Smalls, too. I’m not that old,” I protested, slapping his arm gingerly.
“I don’t know,” he said, “with all this stuff about you not liking music.”
“I never said I didn’t like music. I said I don’t listen to much hip-hop.”
“Well what about your own music? What’s up with that?” he asked, and in his voice it seemed he’d been in the church the other week when I couldn’t sing. And I hadn’t sung since then. It was a fact that presented an internal dilemma I wasn’t ready to consider. So I just stopped talking about it and thinking about it and no one had bothered to bring it up again. But I knew I had to figure something out. I couldn’t teach music if I couldn’t sing.
“Nothing, I guess,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’m just not singing right now.”
“Not singing? You’ve got to be kidding me, right?” He slowed the truck down and pulled into a spot at a Waffle House. “You have to be singing.” There was a sense of urgency in his voice. He really couldn’t believe it.
“Just not right now. I’m kind of taking a break,” I answered.
“We can’t have that. Man, if you’d only seen yourself when you sang. I didn’t like going to church, but whenever you sang, I’d sit and just shake my head in amazement at how pretty you sounded. Even with my eyes closed and my ears covered, I could hear that voice. And other people could, too. They’d be talking and passing notes throughout the sermon, but when you got up, it was like a light was in the room. People would be like, ‘There’s that Journey. Y’all listen now.’ I was stuck wanting to be a thug, but I’d listen. I’d sit up and listen.”
“I’m happy I had that effect.”
“It was more than an effect. It was like magic that somebody could sound like that. I was thinking, man, if she goes into the industry, Whitney, Mariah, even Aretha and Patti—they can just hang it up and go on home.” He looked at me, and I squinted my eyes to show that I knew I in no way compared to any of the names on that list. I had a church voice. A homegrown church voice that no one outside of Tuscaloosa needed to hear. “I’m serious,” he continued. “You never thought of that?”
“I did a few times, but everything I need is right here. Why go out there and deal with the industry you hate so much when I can just sing for the Lord in my daddy’s church?”
“Well, you just said you’re not singing right now anyway. What are you doing?”
“You know, to be honest, I don’t know sometimes. I ...”
“Just say it,” he pushed.
“I ...” I hesitated again and looked out the window. “Sometimes I think I’m ready to just get out there. I even got this passport I keep in my purse.” I tapped my purse. “I thought someday I’d get out and see the world. Maybe sing. Maybe even write some songs. Who knows.”
“So, what happened?”
“Well, I don’t have any stamps yet. It just never seems like it’s the right time. There’s always something else going on.” I ran my hand over the bulging part of my purse where my empty writing pad was hidden and thought of Evan and the possibility of a baby.
“The world is waiting,” Dame said softly.
“What?” I turned to look at him.
“It’s just waiting for you to return. Maybe you’ll start singing again when you do.”
“Maybe,” I replied somberly, thinking it sounded silly for me to return to a place I’d hardly ever known or explored. And feeling foolish that it was true.
“Hey,” he said, his voice suddenly filled with an enthusiasm to break the mood. “You know where they have some great music tonight?”
“Where?”
