Love Radio: Chapters 11–16

Danielle, I know I made it explicitly clear I didn’t like that girl.

I focus on the wall, the pictures of Black women posing in glamour-style shots, holding their hands to their faces and showing the intricate designs on their fingers.

That type of love takes years of cultivating. Not three dates.

“Danielle, this is Sister Beatrice,” he says, pointing to the burly lady with her hand on her hip, “and Sister Tammy,” an older woman with curly salt-and-pepper hair who walks out of the kitchen to greet me, towel in hand.

“Nice to meet you both,” I say, with my most innocent voice. Sister Beatrice is already looking at me like I’m a heathen.

“And since when did they make food for you?” Prince tells his uncle, chiming in on the fun.
Sister Tammy laughs at us all.
“Prince, don’t be stingy,” I hear another voice say as a woman walks out of the kitchen with a cane.

Her gait is sort of a sway; her coordination is slightly off-center when she walks, and she uses the cane to hold her steady.

“A fierce girl who recorded this audiobook around your age. Blue Ivy. You know who that is?” His face scrunches up, similar to his brother’s face when he was trying to figure out where he saw Kadir Nelson’s art. I finally relent. “It’s Beyoncé’s daughter.”

“Practically. Sister Beatrice conveniently left her phone at her house once and used my phone to call her daughter so that she could come and drop it off.”
I’m cracking up. “So cunning.”

But I just felt like she kept judging everything I said. And when she told me she thinks I should consider a more lucrative career...well…

It all just shows the power of music. It’s a testament that music saves.

It’s more than just a tune, a song—music takes you back to a time and place that’s happier, that’s somber, that’s a relief...you listen to a song and it brings about a memory.

I stifle a laugh.

Mook looks at Prince and his eyes glimmer with hope.

One of the prompts was to negatively evaluate your ex.

I mull over his initial goal to go to school in-state, and while I feel like it’s a cop-out to living out his dreams, spending time with him and his family today helps me understand why.

“Let’s show the prince of radio how it’s done.”
“I like her. She’s feisty!” his mom says, laughing.

What I got was a book that takes me on a journey of self-love. How self-love cannot flourish in isolation and how I must give myself the love I dream of receiving.

I’ve read enough about racism in college admissions to know they could very well judge me because I’m a Black girl. Did I want to face that type of bias?

She inspired me to allow whatever was in my heart to spill onto the screen, and once I bared my soul, I knew it was the incident that brought me the most growth, for better or for worse, and the life experience that needed to be told. I no longer cared if the committee looked down on my revelations.

“I can’t believe the new trend is durags disguised as a silky hair sheet. All this appropriation has got to stop.”

“Hair, nails, clothes...all these things that are staples for us are suddenly in style.”

I look at the muted lavender walls filled with a few vintage photos I could find of my favorite literary heroes from scouring the internet.

But it’s what my mom wanted and it’s what my dad acquiesced to.

When I told Prince I’d be planning the date, his responses were extra, but clearly he was happy I was the one taking the initiative.

“Mr. Harry, is it? It really is a pleasure,” I say, shaking her godfather’s hand zealously.

I know I don’t say anything too crazy on the show, but it’s one thing to know strangers or your homies are listening in. It’s another to know the father of the girl you’re trying to/maybe/one day make your boo is scrutinizing me, wondering if I’m taking my own advice and run game on his daughter.

She somehow always gravitates toward anything with words.

’Cause Black people are multifaceted. We want music that gives us different things.

You honor the past, celebrate the present, and embrace the future, right? As Mr. Gordy used to say, if you don’t innovate, you stagnate.

“When he wrote a song and collected his first royalty check. Realized it was pennies. He knew he had a better shot going into business for himself.”

“Harry, thank you. I truly feel like I got a master class tonight in music production and music history.” Harry waves his hand in the air again, which I’m assuming is his bashful response.

“Well, she definitely rubbed off on him,” he responds, transfixed.

A good DJ knows how to accentuate the best parts of a song, and also how to mix one song to another as smoothly as possible.

“Are you okay?” I ask.
She’s breathing hard, and her demeanor has changed.