I sit here. In a cabin. Sequestered away in the North Georgia mountains. It is the morning after reading The Beautiful Ones by Prince. I sat with it all night, reading first through the whole book, then reading the Prince penned section with the margin notes, then his words only, then his words only…and again his words only…
This book is an interesting scrapbook…
But I’m interested in his words only.
So that’s what I will write to here.
Again his words are…familiar. Even with the first read though I thought of my parents, specifically my mother as of course Prince speaks of his at length in this book. I thought about a picture my mother showed me of HER mother standing with Joe Simon, a popular singer of that time. I thought about a conversation I had with my mother about HER mother just last week. She also liked to have a good time, the same way Prince suggests about his mom…
I thought about my grandfather on my dad’s side. Also a stern God fearing man. Also liked order, a disciplinarian, a by the rules kind of man. He was not known to be the most affectionate person but he took care of his responsibilities and his family…and his presence commanded respect from those around him.
I didn’t get to know my grandparents very well as the last one passed when I was 11, but the stories about their lives are familiar to me. I see their influence on my parents that impacted how they moved in the world and their influence lives on, in turn, through me and my sisters.
The stories Prince tells of his parents are familiar to me I see their influence on Prince and how he moved in the world and his influence lives on in his children, his songs.
We are so used to Prince’s public persona of being ageless, much of this is because he closely controlled his image. The pictures that we trade and post of him in the oughts and later have been doctored to maintain the mystique. We don’t see the creases around his eyes that betray his age. We don’t know if the cane he carried later was for pimpery or for assistance. We laugh at the cuteness of his platform sneakers in 2004, but don’t think much about how there was a reason why he wore those instead of his staple heels.
With that mystique so prevalent, it’s easy for me to forget that Prince was a Black man born in 1958.
NINETEEN FIFTY EIGHT
Just a few years younger than my own parents.
He can be heard saying “quiet as is kept” in lyrics or while talking to folks in soundchecks, just like my dad.
He can be heard playing “less popular” jams like Who is He To You By Bill Withers…45’s that my parents had, purchased when they were new just like Prince did.
There is a certain kind of skepticism Black folks of that generation have about everything really, government, institutions, anyone in positions of power. Prince has it. My parents have it…and they will ALL talk about it at length.
There is a certain strength that Black folks of that generation have that makes them work hard without complaining, and they have no sympathy for those without a capacity for action that is as great. My uncle was diagnosed with terminal cancer last year. He was only given a few months to live. He prepared his estate for his family…and continues to go to work every single day a year later, and plans to until he is physically unable to anymore.
Prince’s story is familiar. It is my parents’ story. It is the story of the elders in my family. I’m sure P may cringe at that term, “elder”, but this was the role he was stepping into. These early parts of his story could easily be that of any member of my family, as it is, it’s already a conglomeration of my parents’ stories to an almost parallel degree.
His loss hits harder today. His loss reminds me that there are people who have sacrificed their entire lives and honestly a bit of their souls to build a world where I can be seen as human. To give me opportunities they didn’t have. To make me strong enough to fight for the opportunities I don’t yet have.
His loss hits harder today because though as Black people we aren’t a monolith, there are things that get passed down in our culture that we have in common…and sometimes it is a common trauma. Emotional blocks, abandonment, fear of intimacy, having to grow up before being a grown up….all bottled up inside and protected with walls of strength and tenacity to push through because that’s what we’ve always done. It’s what we’re told we’re supposed to do. It’s what’s expected of us. It’s what we did to survive. It’s what we DO to survive. It’s what we have been doing for generations. It’s what my grandparents did. It’s what my parents did. It’s what Prince did. It’s what I feel that I always do. Work hard. Appear to have it together. Keep moving. Keep pressing forward.
Always.
I do sometimes wonder if the ability to fully receive unconditional love for love’s sake will ever be a reality for many of us rather than an aspirational wish (or a lifelong catalog of songs), but that is a deep dive for another day… 💜
