When I was ten my family unwittingly drove me into the arms of hip hop and R&B. It all started during a beach trip when I discovered cable TV. I’d never been allowed to watch it before, but there it was, cable televison’s MTV, blasting away TLC’s “Red Light Special.” During the guitar break in the middle, I jumped off the couch and danced and jammed away until my brother walked in and said “turn this shit off.”
One year later I was at a hotel in Michigan for the international Future Problem Solvers competition (FPS). I was sitting on the bed flipping through the channels when I stumbled upon LL Cool J’s “Doin’ It Well” video. He was up close to the camera, those lips all moist and pulsing and I stopped dead in my adolescent girl tracks, staring at this video.
I started having feelings. It took me years to figure out what LL meant by “I represent Queens she was raised out in Brooklyn,” but fortunately the rest of the song was pretty straight forward.
Later I sought out other hits such as “Hey Lover”, and “Loungin” featuring Total which I would record on my tape deck, practicing the girl parts over and over.
Roughly 10 years later in 2006 I landed a job working on the most prestigious music awards show in the world.
The best thing about working this prestigious music show was the rehearsals. I’d been reprimanded already for staring open-mouthed during these rehearsals, for visibly crying when Beyonce hit high notes, and for lingering when I should have been making copies. So when my supervisor, handed me a document and said, “Take this to Melissa. Come straight back. Don’t get starstruck,” what he really meant was, don’t make me fire you.
Melissa was at a table behind a portion of the stage. I rounded the corner and saw that Melissa’s station was unrecognizable due to the fact that it was surrounded by virile men in high school marching band outfits. These were not high school students (that would be creepy). It was Kanye’s year. He’d been nominated for “Golddigger” and these were his dancers dressed in marching band uniforms.
They were everywhere — sitting on the floor, talking in groups, all red costumes and white hats and large brass instruments. I made my way through the throng, delicately violating one unsuspecting lad after another for when else would I get such a rare and focused opportunity? I handed Melissa the piece of paper and made my two handed effort out of the crowd.
Then the energy of the space changed. Throats were being cleared and whispers of “oh my god” and “there he is,” “he’s coming, he’s coming” were echoing down the hall. Who? What the fuck was going on?
I stood on my tippy toes craning out of the crowd and that’s when I saw: the unmistakable top of a Fedora, the glint of sunglasses, the tan linen suit.
It was LL Cool J.
A receiving line formed as he moved down the hall. I made my way to the edge of the crowd elbowing my way in line near a side wall, determined not to miss my BIG LL MOMENT. He got closer and closer… licking those lips and repeating “How you doin’, How you doin’ Nice to see you” to every single guy in his path. When he was within ten feet, I started to panic. I didn’t belong here. What was this 22 year old panting white girl doing standing with all these male dancers with big horn instruments? My childhood LL obsession flashed before my eyes and I was sure he could see it—me singing with Total, dancing to TLC… drooling. And then I distinctly heard my supervisor in the back of my mind: “Don’t Get Starstruck.”
No. He was getting closer and closer, and that face- and then he got to the person next to me and I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned and faced the wall and let him pass right by. He went from one band dude, past the weird sweaty girl staring at the white concrete wall, to another band dude and on and on and on.
Useless. Because who cares if I shook his hand. He wouldn’t. You don’t care. The only person that would have benefitted in any way from shaking his hand and feeling that burst of “how you doing” right on her face– was me. I would have done it and known it happened and I could check it off my early 20′s bucket list. But, no. I chose to turn my back on my dreams.
Disgusted, I scampered away, staring at the floor, practically running down the hall and head on into a man. I bounced off of him looking up both of us echoing apologies even though clearly, I was to blame. It was Carlos Santana.
The appeal was great; women drank for free from 7-9 and there was a promising flyer with a crazed looking British deejay in neon with blonde tips. We got there at 6:51.
The entire trip back every time I looked up Andre was somewhere on the mode of transportation, staring at me. I glared and shook my head back and forth mouthing the word, “noooooo,” but his little eyes pleaded. My face hurt.
