I Love Him, He Loves Hims.

It's July 4th, and I'm kind of heartbroken. 

Frank Ocean, the musical love of my life and my long lost soul mate, clarified all questions lingering in the air about his sexuality. His first love, which he described so vividly and craftily in the official Thank You's for his album Channel Orange, was indeed of his own gender.

I'm sad, but only because I convinced myself that I was in love. Now, this is huge news. Usually, I get upset when people huddle around their computers and deem things like this worthy of "news," but in this case, it was different. 

It mattered so much because he was loved so much. His music had still has the ability to woo you, rouse your spirits, and reach past the ratchet that inherently lives in all of us and nudge our souls. Okay, I'm being dramatic. But that's what his music did for me. 

It was real. Authentic. Genuine. And people, girls and guys alike, F'ed with that. This change, or realization rather, was magnified for us because, as an artist, he mattered and was worth a damn.

photo courtesy of spin.com
And, truthfully, this just serves as proof of an extension of this authenticity. He never lied to us. He was essentially outed by Max from BBC's radio station, who pointed out the use of "him" instead of "her" in an album review. It was not done with malicious intent, but blogs, mags, and stations took that and RAN with it. For dear life. He was questioned earlier in his career, but nothing like this.

But check this, Lonny (his nickname, but true fans know that) wrote parts of the letter in December of 2011. He was going to say it anyway. Whether we cared to know or check or not. 

That's a real ninja. 

Channel Orange drops July 17th. Guess who's buying his album from a store? This little piggy. Oh, and I NEVER buy music. Ever. I don't believe in it, but that's another topic.

Frank is performing live in Washington, DC on July 23rd. Guess who'll be there front and center? This little piggy. I had a grand total of $20 in my bank account at the time, but I made it happen.

According to Frank's tumblr, orange reminds him of the summer he first fell in love. And that's okay with me. 

If this "news" stops you from accepting good music--the real kind, not 2 Chainz and 'em--then you haven't experienced the therapeutic powers of music. And now you won't. 

I pity you. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Getting Past “Should”

In 2017, I sat in the pews of three churches or the rows of fancy reception halls watching two people in love become one union. And for the weddings I didn’t attend, I saw enough of the ceremony on social media to make me feel like I was there, dodging the thrown bouquet per usual. I always wonder if their special day came close to (or exceeded) what they drummed up in their dreams prior to. Culturally, we joke and say that from youth, us women, prayerful brides-to-be, spend years planning for their weddings, regardless of if the husband part of the equation has been factored in yet. We know the style and cut of engagement rings, possible surprise engagement scenarios, the type of dress and hair, locations and venues, months, seasons, guest lists, table decor, honeymoons, you name it. And it’s a fun and wonderful thing to imagine. I love to chime in to the building of this fantasy as, through age, we inch towards their realities. All my life I’ve wanted to become a best friend turned
Read more

"Find Christ At The River"

As soon as the brown heap landed in her lap, Sylvie knew hell could come as quickly as she wanted it to. It was wet and cold when it hit her, splattering into a million little blobs at the base of the white swimsuit making its first appearance all summer. Grainy chunks spread out across wide thighs, over the hibiscus plant neatly drawn around the right one, peppered with pores. It wasn’t even the good kind of sand; the white, wispy, Sandals resort in Cabo kind of sand. It was ruddy, river dirt sand. The kind people who didn’t live close enough to a proper coast had to settle for. The kind that when it sticks to your toes makes them sooty instead of ashy. The kind that stains your beach towel. The kind that when sugar-high kids play with it, it becomes mud pies instead of sandcastles, and when it lands in your lap—the lap of a stranger trying to sunbathe—it doesn't sting so much as make you stew. She imagined herself grabbing a fistful of it into her hands, snatching up the blonde g
Read more

Hinge-Toothed Prophets

He was looking for a friend. I was looking for silence. My eyes stayed low, focused on my hollowing bag of plantain chips. I had gotten the last pack on the plane and the snack trolley had only gone six rows back. Admittedly, they weren't that interesting to study as they dwindled, those salty slivers I knew I shouldn't be indulging in, but I felt his eyes strong on me, neck craned to the left from his windowless window seat in my direction. But I refused to meet his eyes. Doing so would be a non-verbal contract of on-and-off conversation for the better part of three hours and forty minutes. He already told me about some of his whereabouts. "You going to Guyana?" The vessel was packed to the brim with fussy, impatient, slow-bustling, heavy-tongued and sharp-eyed travelers with Jamaican and Guyanese passports, or those who eventually traded them in for matte, navy blue USA booklets. From the look of me, I would be exiting the plane in Kingston, just like from the look
Read more