The applause dies down before I step to the mic. I'm determined to keep this short and simple. I still have to perform "Bruise," and the sooner I get backstage, the sooner I can start mentally preparing for that, but I don't want to cheat this moment because I'll never get it back.
"This is amazing." I look out at the crowd, peers and fans and industry professionals, taking it all in. "There's a lot of people to thank. I'll try not to screw this up. Um, where's Rhyson?"
I shield my eyes from the bright lights and search the first few rows where I remember he and Kai were supposed to be seated.
"I absolutely wouldn't be standing here without you." There are a thousand memories in the glance we exchange. With all the jubilation going on around him, his eyes remain sober. He knows what this has cost me, knows how hard I've been grinding, how hard we've been grinding since high school. He knows, probably more than anyone, what it means. "You and the Prodigy team always have my back, and I couldn't ask for a better friend. Love you, dude, like a brother. To all the fans who humble me daily, this doesn't happen without your support. Thank you so much."
I stare down at the trophy before continuing.
"A lot of people speculate about who I wrote this song for, what I'm talking about." I pause to chuckle. "My mom will tell you unequivocally that she is #GripzQueen."
The audience laughs, and I know my mom is somewhere in the Staples Center loving this.
"A lot of people think I wrote it for Qwest." I glance at her beside me. "Writing a song like this and not having a strong woman help me perform it, give voice to it, would have been a travesty. You are an amazing representative for powerful women everywhere, Q."
She nods and smiles, but I can tell this moment is affecting her in ways she didn't anticipate. I hope the emotion in her eyes has more to do with the gravity of the achievement than with me and our past relationship.
"Some think it's for black women or women in general." I shrug, a subtle smile playing on my lips. "You're all right. It's for my mom, who taught me what love is, what strength looks like, how to not just survive difficult circumstances, but to thrive in them. It's for women like Qwest, who dream big and work hard. It's for my aunties in the neighborhood who took it upon themselves to straighten me out if my mom, working two jobs, wasn't around when I was acting the fool. It's for all of you girls who aren't sure you're worthy of respect when we, especially in hip-hop, sometimes don't give you your due. It's fitting that my first Grammy would be for ‘Queen' since I wouldn't be here if it hadn't been for all the incredible women who kept pushing me forward."
I find Bristol sitting where I left her, pride and love shining in the eyes that never leave my face. I can already see the Coming to America GIFs that will be everywhere if I call her my queen, so I force myself to stop short of that. She would be fine if I didn't say a word about her. Hell, she'd probably prefer it after all the media shit-storms we've been through, but there's no way this moment even happens without her.
"It's for you, Bris," I say softly, even though my words are amplified throughout Staples and in millions of homes. "You're the best thing in my life. None of this would mean anything without you."
Our eyes hold in an extraordinary recognition I could only share with her, of the sacrifices we've made and the risks we've taken together, all while falling in love. I want to call her my girl, my fiancée, my wife in front of the whole world, but we've agreed we don't want our engagement to be a lightning rod or some sideshow, a hot potato people toss around to gain more followers, get more likes and retweets. So, I don't tell these people anything that's none of their business. I just hold up the gold statue and don't give Black Twitter or Angie Black or any of my critics more to work with than necessary.
"Thank you."
I don't return to my seat because I still have to perform. Once I'm backstage, that tunnel vision that comes with such a huge performance consumes me completely, not just because it's so significant for my career, but because of the nature of the song, which has been significant for my cause. I've performed "Bruise" in larger venues, but this is the Grammys. It doesn't get any bigger than this, and I want to be a megaphone for this moment. It's a perfect convergence of my gifts and my passions, and I don't want to blow it.
From the first note, I know it's a special performance, a demarcation in my journey as an artist. The lights and imagery, a moody wash of black and blue, coordinate with typography of the song's most powerful lyrics onscreen. As many times as I've performed this song, the words have never felt as meaningful as they do tonight, with the names of slain black men and fallen police officers scrolling behind me.
We all bruise,
It's that black and blue
A dream deferred,
Nightmare come true
In another man's shoes,
Walk a mile or two
Might learn a couple things
I'm no different than you!
As I'm performing, the faces of the men on that wall behind me flash through my mind on a reel, their lives cut short. I remember the day each of them died-how I heard, what I was doing, how it felt to know things this fucked up could still happen in our country. The same coalition of anger and pain and hope that led me to write the song compels me to perform it like the next life depends on it. Like this song might save somebody, even though it came too late for these men. Like my art has no limits and love has no walls.
As hard as I try, I can't keep my voice from wobbling, can't keep the hurt and the outrage from reverberating through each lyric. Despite my best efforts, tears-fucking tears streak down my face, defying any show of strength. My tears are for the mothers and the sisters and fathers and wives and daughters and sons watching this show tonight with an empty seat at their table, watching me perform this song with a hole in their hearts. I shed tears for the tragedy of bias and the futility of revenge. None of it bears any fruit, and it could feel hopeless, except when I look out, I see the same emotion that's commanding me has command of the audience, compelling them to their feet and streaking their faces with tears, too. White, black, brown, all of them-a mosaic of the emotions warring inside of me. Though I could be cynical, though I could doubt that it means anything, that they mean it, in this moment, even with the hurt and the anger and the frustration, I make room in my heart for faith that one day, no matter how long it takes, we'll get it right.
25
Bristol
"Two out of three ain't bad." I meet Grip's eyes in the bathroom mirror. "You're officially a Grammy winner now."
"And losing best new artist to Kai is no loss at all." He grins at me, brushing his teeth as we get ready for bed. "Least we kept it in the family."
"Yeah, Kai had a huge night. Three trophies." I yawn while removing the makeup from my face with a wipe. "I think Rhyson was on a higher cloud than she was."
"He's proud of her, and he should be." Grip leans against the marble counter in my bathroom. "Grammys, movies, endorsements . . ."
"And Broadway," I insert, running a brush through my unruly hair. "Just give me a little time."
"Yeah. Kai's on that world domination trip. She's on the come up big time."
"You are, too." I lean into him, pressing my chest to his. "Song of the year's nothing to sneeze at."
Grip palms my head and lays a kiss in the hair at my temple without acknowledging my compliment.
"And best rap song." I lower my lashes to study our feet, almost touching. "With Qwest."
He tips my chin up, searching my eyes.
"Did it bother you to see us up there together?"
"It bothers me to see you with anyone who isn't me." A tired, self-deprecating laugh rumbles over my lips. "But I was okay."
I hesitate, biting my lip before going on.
"She still has feelings for you, ya know."
Grip runs his tongue over his teeth, a thoughtful frown disrupting the strong line of his eyebrows.
"Yeah, I know."
I tip up on my toes and kiss his chin, slipping a hand to the back of his neck. He rubs my back and we appreciate the closeness of each other's bodies for a minute, the silence swelling with a tenderness, an intimacy I can't imagine sharing with anyone else.
"Your performance tonight . . ." My words evaporate because I can't find the right ones to express how moved I was when he performed "Bruise." It wasn't just me, either-he ushered the entire crowd to another plane during that performance, and I still feel like I'm coming off a high. "I've seen you be amazing, but this was something else. It was on another level, from a different place."