Too often, I have seen my pasty brothers and sisters flame out when they try too hard to be d-o-w-n. If you are Wonder-bread white, as I am, and meet a hip-hop artist, do not give a complicated handshake with many different permutations if this is not your practice in ordinary life. If they crack a joke, do not clap loudly, bray with laughter, and holler “That’s what I’m talking ’bout!” as I watched a white MTV production assistant do to the bemusement of Busta Rhymes. Grover from Sesame Street put it best: Be yourself, and if that self makes George Plimpton look like a chocolate funkateer, so be it. I’d rather find my way in with furious research and try to impress artists with my knowledge of the name of their childhood friends or the résumés of their sound engineers.
I once watched an obsequious blond reporter ask the three women of Destiny’s Child if they met “in the ’hood.” The trio, normally personable, stared at her frostily: Beyoncé Knowles and Kelly Rowland were raised in a comfortable Houston suburb; Michelle Williams grew up in similar circumstances in Rockford, Illinois. No, they said, we did not meet in the ’hood.
When I sat down with them, I did not make that mistake. That said, I wasn’t entirely myself, either. Originally, our interview was to take place in Los Angeles, but just in case, I asked the publicist if the group was doing appearances anywhere else. “Well, they’re going to Omaha to perform at some high school that won a contest by raising money for charity,” she said. Perfect. Off I went to the Millard North High School, where a few thousand white kids boinged off of one another in a frenzy as they waited for the girls to stride out onto the tiny stage. “You need to calm down and be quiet!” hollered the school principal in vain. “No one should be on anyone’s shoulders! Feet on ground!” Love that. I wrote that down.
Then they appeared, golden Glamazons resplendent in hot pants the size of a dryer sheet and gold stiletto boots. The kids in the front row, clearly on funkiness overload, had the walleyed look of the Today’s Catch section of the supermarket. The trio smoothly ran through a forty-five-minute medley of their hits, and then quickly retreated to their gargantuan tour bus.
My palms were flowing as I timidly approached the bus driver. They seemed so coolly untouchable. “They’re in the back,” he said. I followed the sound of giggling.
It was bizarre. The gold lamé outfits were dismantled, the makeup was hastily wiped off, and three girls who were barely out of their teens were lounging in jeans and chomping bags of Cool Ranch Doritos and Cheetos with such enthusiasm that the air around them twinkled with orange dust. The disparity between the sophisticated ladies onstage and these clean-scrubbed girls was surreal. For the rest of the day, we had a g-rated slumber party, as they goaded each other into laughing fits. I helped myself to some Cheetos as we compared pedicures and talked about dating. (At the time, they were single, so they earnestly discussed the self-help books they were reading in order to meet the right man, such as Knight in Shining Armor: Discovering Your Lifelong Love.) Even though they were blindingly famous, it was all reassuringly familiar territory. A gathering of girls: That, I can do.
We moved on to the topic of cellulite, and then zits. Beyoncé mentioned that she had recently counted the blemishes on her face, and got up to thirty-five. No matter what the topic, they frequently invoked the Lord, holding up a testifying hand when they did so.
Of course, I did, too.
“God has a plan,” said Beyoncé. “And God is in control of everything.”
“Yes, He does,” said I. “Yes, He is.” At that particular point, the Creator had every right to strike me down right on that tour bus, because I had not been to church in years. That didn’t stop me from chiming in, of course. I was able to remember Bible passages because my folks used to frog-march us kids to church on Sunday, and for years, I sang hymns in Bible day camp, so as the day wore on, I threw in any allusion to the Lord that I could.
At one point, Kelly said that as long as they didn’t take their eyes off of God, they would be fine. I nodded in solemn agreement. “Amen,” I said. Can I get a witness! I loathed myself. Why did I have to go that extra unctuous mile?
“He will make straight and true your paths,” I added.