“I’m not very good at letting go,” Bridget Kelly says to me very matter of factly. “Can you tell that I’m a ride or die type chick?”

We’re sitting in a crowded trailer in the middle of Coney Island where Bridget, one of the first signees to Jay-Z’s Roc Nation, is shooting her very first music video and there’s a rush to finish before we lose natural sunlight.

“Special Delivery” is pure R&B. “Wrote him a goodbye letter today, with conviction in every stroke, licked the envelope and sent it away,”  Bridget’s raspy voice sings. I couldn’t help but think about a recent experience in my own life.

After a hectic weekend in Atlanta for the BET Hip-Hop Awards, I got up dumb early and stumbled into Hartsfield International Airport to catch my 8 a.m. flight back to NYC. But after an unfortunate run-in with some over-zealous TSA employees, I missed my flight and found myself at another gate on an intimidating stand-by list. Pissed, annoyed and confrontational, I contemplated going back to security and filling in this empty time with cursing them all the way out.

I got some coffee instead.

As I sat there looking at the gate, I thought about everything the Universe has been teaching me recently about life. Something about this bizarre experience made me feel like it was all apart of The Plan, so I chilled out, waited the hour for the next flight and for what the Universe had in store.

Back on set in Coney Island…

Back on set in Coney Island, Bridget and I chatted while she got her makeup touched up. “There was something special about this song. It’s not your typical ‘dirty dog, you cheated’ song.” And it’s not. Boy in your arms, I never felt more alone. This song is about realizing that the relationship just isn’t working then deciding to walk away.

For many of us, leaving a relationship alone can sometimes be the hardest part. “I’m not a quitter,” the conviction in Bridget’s eyes makes the statement feel much more personal than perhaps she intended. “I always feel like I should find meaning in everything I’m involved in, so I work hard at my relationships.”

And here I am thinking about this ATL airport incident again. I’d gotten up on time, the driver picked me up on time, I’d already checked in and had my boarding pass in hand. I’d literally done everything I was supposed to do to make my flight, then security decided to fuck with me, all because they could.

Anyway, back to Bridget…Watching her perched on a beautiful 1972 Nova, I was proud of this woman. I first met the New York native more than a year ago, when I interviewed her in advance of the Every Girl EP. Since then, I’ve gotten drunk with her, been to intimate gatherings in her home, met her mother and gotten to see firsthand what a genuine, talented woman Bridget is. So I sort of get it when she says, “I don’t believe in ‘aha’ moments, it takes a lot to make me a believer. There’s a series of reasons why I’m with you, so you gotta give me several reasons why it doesn’t work…But some things just don’t work.”

Okay, last time about Atlanta. So the next flight begins to board and halfway through they announce they’re out of overhead space and everyone remaining, will have to check their carry-on bags–not a good sign for someone on stand-by. Still, I waited. I trusted there was a lesson in here somewhere for me. Maybe it wasn’t on this flight but the next, maybe I’d meet the love of my life or maybe I’d avoid some sort of crash. The point was: the lesson could be anything.

Finally, it was two minutes before the agent could open the stand-by list. Of the seven checked in, only two stand-by passengers were present, me and another guy. Finally the moment arrives and the other guy gets called. He’s clearly been there all night, so I couldn’t even be mad as he checked his bag at the gate then boarded. It wasn’t looking good. My chances were grim as the agent began to page the missing passenger (who ironically had the same last name as I), but when he looks at me, hangs up the phone and hands me a boarding pass, I was already on the plane before I realized the agent had upgraded me to first class.

See that’s the thing about life: whether you’re shooting your very first music video, trying to make a broken relationship work or just trying to catch a flight home, all you can ever do is your part. The rest is up to the Universe. You just have to know that when the Universe says ,”Let go,” it’s because what’s coming, is so much better than what you’ve got now.

And what better way to send it off, than with a song.

Check out ‘Special Delivery’ available now on iTunes and the visuals next week.–JasFly (@JasFly)

This article isn’t for the perfect. You know, those people who just naturally seem to have it all together? Yeah, I’m not talking to them. Today, I’m talking to the fuck-ups. This conversation is for those who have made mistakes more than once, struggle with choices that “should’ve been easy” and went against better judgment when they “should’ve known better.” I am one of you. But don’t worry, I have a feeling there’s a whole lot more of us out than there are of them.

I spoke once before about Frank Ocean and being true to who you are, then we spoke about Nas and #TheUniversalTax, and today, I’d like to talk to you about failure and a young woman named K’La. But before I get into her story, raise your hand if you’ve ever had a dream that didn’t quite work out. Keep your hand raised if that situation left you lost. Like I said, there’s more of us than them.

In 2009 Gary, Indiana was far from popping. The blue-collar town was wrought with drugs, gangs and violence. And for K’La, it was becoming a hopeless situation. At 21, with two young girls whose father was in prison, K’La had a decision to make. She’d been exposed to entertainment early, having acted in a small indie film The Ballad of Sadie Hawkins, but her true passion was music. K’La could rap. But the music industry in Gary isn’t exactly all that, so she made a decision: in order to pursue her dreams and make a better life for herself and her daughters, she would have to leave.

Only her deeply religious family didn’t see it that way. “They were not for it at all. My brother tried to park his car in front of my dad’s so he couldn’t take me (to the airport).” But K’La was determined, and packed up her 3- and 4-year-old and moved to Atlanta to pursue her music career.

Now, raise your hand if you’ve got a pretty good idea of what happened next…Things in Atlanta weren’t as easy as K’La anticipated. “In a city like Atlanta, everyone has a hustle and they all claim they can help you. Regular people say they have labels but don’t,” she says. “You have to be very careful.” And K’La learned the hard way just how real it could get.

Within a year, she and her two young daughters were homeless, and that’s when K’La had to make another tough decision: would she abandon her dreams and retreat back to Gary, or figure out how to make it work? “I’ve always had a very close relationship with my daughters. One of the most difficult things for me was [the decision to] send them back.”

With her children safely back in Gary, it was far from party time. While sleeping on friends’ couches and sharing motel rooms with her friend Shayna, K’La became more focused than ever. “I became aggressive business-wise. It was difficult to leave them but, if anything, it gave me more drive. If they were going to grow up without me there everyday, it was going to have to be worth it.”

K’La’s sacrifice paid off one night when she showed up at a party. She was there to network (and eat free food) when she had a chance encounter with Producer/A&R Anthony Tate. “I had never met anyone like her, I knew right there she was going to be a star. But it just made me more protective of her, she was instant little sister.”

With a manager in place, K’La began recording her well-received debut mixtape, featuring the track “All Your Luv,” which contained a Lauryn Hill sample. “When it came time to clear the sample, we sent the song to Ms. Hill, and everyone kept telling us that she doesn’t clear anything,” Anthony says proudly, “But she cleared this, easy.”

Her journey is far from over, but that isn’t my point. K’La could’ve given up two years ago–separated from her daughters, bouncing from couch to couch in a foreign city hundreds of miles from home. She could’ve listened to her naysayers, criticizing her decisions, but then where would she be?

Today we’re sitting in the 7^th floor conference room at Def Jam, where K’La is now signed. She’s here promoting her new single “Blame” featuring Nas. “I am a young, single mother. I was never supposed to be here.”

How many of us can say the same thing about ourselves? After becoming homeless with her children, K’La could’ve proclaimed her mission a failure, being “reality checked” by those who didn’t see the vision. How many times have our loved ones said “just come home” or “maybe you should try something else” or even “what makes you think this is going to work?”  How many of us have let our dreams become sidelined by failure?

K’La saw her failure just for what it was: a gift. Often when things don’t go as planned, what’s really happening is an opportunity for growth. A door must close in order to force you to figure out how to open a new one. Failure is simply the process of stripping away what doesn’t work. It’s learning who you are, in real time.

“I believed the vision I had for my music. When nobody else believed, I believed.”

There is no greater gift and better fuel than that.–JasFly

I’d slept in because I’d just come off a failed night shoot for Powerade the day before. I was 20, making my own money–good money–doing film and TV production and felt sleeping past 9 a.m. was a luxury I could afford. It was the call from Ma that woke me. “Sugah, did you see what happened?”

Disbelief.

This had to be a hoax. At best, some tragic accident. Twice? Both towers? Within an hour, I suddenly understood what terrorism was. Glued to the television, my day-off plans cancelled, I was stuck. Confused. Scared. We’re the number one country in the world. We help everybody. Why would anyone want to do something like that to us?

I knew nothing of foreign policy, and aside from an extended vacay in Europe, I hadn’t left the U.S. My first lesson of the day came as Tom Brokaw announced an organization out of the Middle East was taking responsibility. Sometimes we can get so caught up in our own lives, that we don’t consider how we affect others.

What was I supposed to do? A thousand miles from Ground Zero, nestled within the suburban confines of Evanston, Illinois. I felt helpless. I called my old high school, dazed, and spoke to my former guidance counselor who, like everyone else, had no words. I didn’t know of anyone the might’ve lost their lives, but as night fell, my heart raced awaiting word of survivors, ordinary people willing to do what’s necessary to make it out of extraordinary circumstances.

The President asked everyone to stay indoors, but by 8 p.m. I couldn’t watch anymore. I had to get out. Be around people. I cried in the car listening to Aretha offer a bridge over trouble waters. Troubled.

I don’t remember which DJ informed us that a large number of those still missing were the first responders. Firemen. Police officers. Many lost their lives fighting a pointless mission. Years later–tracing the physics of it–it was man against metal. Tons of it. They never stood a chance, but sometimes courage is ignoring the improbable odds and doing your job anyway. Gratitude. I stopped by the pizzeria I’d gone to my entire life and picked up a large pie. Walking into the firehouse, I visited as a forth grader. I can still remember being too scared to slide down the pole. Years later, I didn’t know what to tell the Captain as I handed him the large sausage and pepperoni. Just…Thank you.

On the way home, I drove down Ridge, one of the three streets that stretches from end to end of my hometown. Traffic was unusually slow, until finally I wasn’t moving at all. I got out and walked to the corner. From Oak street to Lake, the curbs were lined with people. Men, women, families. Many held candles. Some cried. Everyone felt lost.

Like me, they just wanted to feel apart. This life can be lonely, and despite what we’ve been led to believe, we’re all a lot more alike than different. On that night we hurt, collectively. I never thought myself to be a patriot. Love of country was something I thought reserved for Bible belters and southern white people. But on that night, I learned that we are all connected, that pain is not exclusive and that it was okay to care, even about people you didn’t know.

In the days that followed, I’d learn more about the world we live in than I ever thought possible. I’d become grateful for the liberties I now understood weren’t just given on other parts of the globe. I begin to comprehend the idea that with great responsibility comes the risk of attack, but true leadership means seeking to understand your attacker so you might avoid a war.

Today, as I pray for those affected eleven years ago, I realize out of the heartbreak and rubble, some of us were made better. For that, I’m grateful.–JasFly

That feeling returned as I left the Philadelphia Parkway Sunday night (Sept. 3) to the sounds of Pearl Jam rocking out together for the first time since 2006. If day one of the Made In America festival was filled with jam-packed performances, meeting personal heroes and hanging out with the artists of my iTunes catalog, then day two was about reflection and personal motivation.

Photo credit: Rolling Stone

We kicked off a rainy Sunday morning with brunch at Ms. Tootsie’s. After munching on shrimp and grits and their famous sweet tea, we fought off the itis and dragged ourselves to the park just in time to catch Santigold. The crappy weather made for a less crowded park, so I ventured over to check out some of the vendors.

There were lots of booths to choose from. The NAACP of Pennsylvania urged everyone to take a second to register to vote, while local DJs took the time to chat directly with listeners. I found some amazing art from @FlyGirrl and @Ameerahkart and gorgeous earrings from Diva Ears. Drake even had a booth set-up selling exclusive OVO gear, including a dope bright red hoodie embroidered with their signature gold owl.

I continued to wander around talking to strangers as Jill Scott took the main stage and put on for her city. Jilly from Philly covered all of her hits, looked amazing and sounding like smooth, velvet perfection. I made it back just in time for Gary Clark Jr.’s encore performance. Clark opened the festival the day before, but now on the smaller stage (with Beyonce, Jay-Z and Rita Ora off to the side), the Austin, Texas native took the crowd through a bluesy/soul/rock journey playing a different set list from day one. Of course, he killed it.

Back in the artist village, OVO land was being created. Tyler the Creator and the Odd Future crew looked on as staff erected the Drake Hospitality Suite. (Make no mistake: OVO is a movement.) Between a half dozen production assistants in OVO tees, several massive security guards and about fifteen friends and family–including Noah “40″ Shebib, Drizzy’s producer/engineer)–the Toronto native had the largest clan at the festival. But the support was most evident as he emerged from his trailer dressed in all white. Drake stopped to take pictures with Darryl “DMC” McDaniels who’d just come off stage for the first time with Rev Run since the death of Jam Master Jay. Then he steadied himself in a massive huddle for the pre-performance prayer with his crew. OVOXO indeed.

While Drake and company filed out, I hung back to catch up with 2 Chainz. Worried about the crowd spotting him, the 6-foot-5 rapper darted up the famous Rocky steps and hid behind a pillar until Drake segued into “No Lie.” The crowd went bananas as Tity Boi took the stage, performing his verse then his hit “Spend It” before heading immediately back on the road to make a D.C. performance later that night.

Drake proclaimed, “Now THAT’S how you bring out 2 Chainz!,” referencing the technical difficulties that left 2 Chainz with a faulty mic for his “Mercy” performance the night before.

As Drake finished the rest of his set, I looked out over the crowd of thousands–of all ages, races, socioeconomic backgrounds–and recalled a conversation I’d had earlier in the day with a friend of Jay’s. The corporate attorney brought his two sons to Philly because they’re all fans of the music. When I told him my favorite song was “Juicy,” the 40-something Long Island native expertly rapped all the lyrics then shared with me his philosophy on life. “I’m just a regular guy. I worked hard and I do well for myself. I feel very fortunate that I’m able to do the things I do, so I know I have a responsibility to give back.”

Instantly, “Made In America” came back to me. By all stretches of the imagination, Shawn Carter isn’t supposed to be Jay-Z. He was supposed to be incarcerated or worse. Instead, he’s redefined what’s possible, not just for the hood, for everyone. It made me proud, of him, of Hip-Hop and of everyone who can continue to put aside personal stereotypes and just enjoy the music.

Frank put in best: Sweet Jesus, we made it in America.–JasFly (@JasFly)

Jay-Z warned us that he was coming with something different. He wasn’t lying.

Upon arriving in Philly I promptly lost my phone during an emergency bailout on a crazy cab driver. Convinced this was karma for stiffing him on the bill, I was leary about my first real trip to the City of Brotherly Love.

Imagine being miles from home, in a new city, without a phone…At midnight. I mean, what else can you do but party? So I headed to The Walnut Room to catch Young Guru spin. The Delaware native considered this his “second home” party and played everything from old Roc-A-fella classics to a monster reggae set to deep Philly house jams. Epic. Just what I needed to get my mind right for Saturday.

Walking over to the Philly parkway, you couldn’t help but be impressed. A joint venture between Roc Nation, Budweiser and Steve Stoute‘s Translation, the grounds were transformed into a fully branded village, complete with everything you think you might need.

There were three stages: The Rocky for the big boys, The Liberty for the mid-level acts and The Park, which felt like it could’ve been plucked directly from SXSW. A really dope addition was the Freedom tent, which housed an amazing rotation of DJs.

Gary Clark Jr. kicked off the day with an impressive set. We watched from a great spot on the grass as people filed in, marveled by the various food trucks, beer stands and vendors. We had our first Hov sighting early as he chilled on the Budweiser über-VIP risers. As OG Juan smoked a cigar and tossed a football around, it felt very much like a large picnic, only Rick Ross and MMG were performing right behind us.

The crowd loved the Maybach Music set, especially Meek Mill, who was happy this was all taking place in his own backyard. Being at home meant the Philly native got to hang around all night with many of his close friends.

The funniest moment of the day happened shortly after the start of Janelle Monáe‘s set when Jay-Z decided he needed a better view. Dashing out into the crowd, Hov’s longtime security guard Norm tried to keep up as the top dawg expertly darted through thousands to get to the side of the stage. Oh, the look on everyone’s face as you heard, “Oh my God, that was Jay-Z!”

Hilarious.

As the DJs got the Freedom tent rocking with amazing dance music, I decided to venture over to the Artists Village where the Roc Boys sat, alongside Latin sensation Prince Royce. Funny man Aziz Ansari walked around the grass lounge sipping beer and people watching.

I played kickball with Meek Mill‘s son as D’Angelo chilled nearby. Gary Clark Jr. chatted-up members of Janelle’s band when Jay Electronica stopped to give him props on his set. Stalley hung out, readying for his own performance backed by Young Guru, while Wale just sort of bopped around being, well, Wale.

As Skrillex KILLED the stage, the magic hour approached and the entire artist village began to migrate to the main stage for Jay’s set.

Backstage was pandemonium. Meek Mill, Bridget Kelly and Mike Kyser greeted each other. Jay’s mom and sisters climbed the stairs to the birds’ nest above the stage that held Beyonce, Gwyneth Paltrow, Jaden Smith and Def Jam OG Sean Pecas. The energy was palpable and a little hectic as the venue literally ran out of room to accommodate all the VIPs trying to get a good view of the show.

Then it happened.

Ron Howard, who’s directing a concert documentary about the festival, emerged. “Don’t worry guys, we’ll figure it out,” was all he needed to say. Soon I was standing in between Brian Grazer and Jimmy Iovine, as they discussed which shots they hoped to get. Unreal.

Hov threw up the peace sign when he saw Pearl Jam watching from the press pit. Freeway was all smiles as he posed with his son Jihad for pics. Too young to remember the golden Roc days, this was Jihad’s first time seeing Dad alongside Jay.

All of this happened before G.O.O.D. Music even touched the stage. Swizz Beatz watched intensely as Kanye led his crew through an impressive number of hits before reuniting with his big brother for yet another go round of the still epic “NIP.” You know you have a hit when the stand-by medical team is dancing on the roof of their ambulance.

As fireworks closed the show, the feeling of excitement met pride and patriotism. The crowd chanted “USA!” and I finally got it. This was so much more than a show. It was a rally call.

Now I’ve been to plenty Jay-Z after parties, complete with bottles of Ace, top DJs and the typical scene. That night was nothing like that.

As Nearly 50,000 people emptied the park, VIP moved on to the top of the museum stairs to just hang out. Standing at the very sight where Rocky proclaimed himself ready, Beyoncé chatted with a few friends as her husband filmed some final scenes for Ron. There was no music. The bar was running out of drinks, but no one seemed to care. The day was exhausting but adrenaline and spirits were high.

If this was day one, what would tomorrow hold?

It wasn’t until I was fourteen that I realized my crazy cousin Melvo’s “good friend” Josh didn’t sleep in a different bed at night, but no one ever talked to me about that. Homosexuality was just something I had to figure out on my own, and in the beginning, I got a lot of things wrong.

I remembered this while speaking with a close friend shortly after Frank Oceans big “announcement.” I asked how he’d explain homosexuality to his son. My friend–one of the most intelligent people I know–admitted he really hadn’t thought about it and, quite frankly, didn’t think it was necessary.

I disagreed.

Times have changed since I learned the birds and the bees. “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” has been repealed, openly gay characters anchor television shows and gay marriage is slowly becoming legal in many parts of the country. Homosexuality is losing its taboo and becoming an accepted presence in society, so are we doing our children a disservice by not explaining it to them as we would heterosexuality?

My friend was incredibly candid. He would be more comfortable discussing the topic with his daughters than his son, wondering if “exposing” him to a world was going to encourage him to try it. Again, I disagreed.

Often times parents don’t have the ‘sex talk’ until the child has already exhibited signs of curiosity. It’s not a pep talk to ‘get in the game’. But the point is to educate your child, making sure they know how to correctly use and protect their bodies. And more importantly, the sex talk is to help prepare them to understand how interpersonal relationships will change between men and women…so shouldn’t that include men and men and women and women as well?

Let’s say you don’t (for whatever reason) ‘agree’ with homosexuality, wouldn’t you still want to make sure your child is fully equipped to understand the world around them?  And the fact is, be it conversation on the play ground, an openly gay teacher, same-sex parents and even the choir director in their church, children are being exposed to homosexuality. So do parents have the responsibility to include the topic in their education?

Let’s be honest, what’s the fear here, that your son would see this information as an instructional guide to homosexual living? What are the numbers on people becoming gay by suggestion?  The flip side is purposefully giving your child less information based on personal beliefs and (perhaps) discomfort. And isn’t the point to send them out in the world as equipped as possible?

But then again, what do I know? I don’t have children yet and my dog is already into humping other males.*–JasFly

*Yes, I know this is a sign of dominance and not sexual intention, but you get my point* 

Thursday, August 9th. Whitney Houston’s birthday.

She was supposed to turn 49 today, probably celebrating with her daughter Bobbi Kristina, her mother Cissy Houston and a few friends at some fabulous restaurant that most of us could never get a table in. I imagine Houston would listen as her loved ones gather around a cake she wouldn’t eat, and sing “Happy Birthday” immediately followed by the soulful Stevie Wonder version. She’d smile at her 49 years and the unimaginable platinum-coated life she’s created with it.

Instead, as we approach the release of Sparkle, her final film, today we celebrate without her.

Whitney was our first Diva. Our mothers had Diana, our grandmothers had Aretha, but Whitney was ours. This skinny, brown girl from Jersey whose hair was never quite right, but her voice was undeniable. She couldn’t dance to save her life and she never had elaborate pyrotechnics in her stage show, but Whitney came at just the right time, when we still valued voice over everything. And now the voice is gone.

It has taken me a long time to reconcile just how I feel about Houston’s sudden passing just one day before the Grammy’s this pass February. I was in LA to cover the awards ceremony. I remember being in my editor’s truck parked on Melrose when I got a text from a friend saying, “Whitney’s dead.” The friend worked with Houston’s agency, so I immediately went to TMZ on my phone as I ran into the store to grab my editor. “Whitney’s dead!” was all I could get out as I grabbed her to leave. From that point on, it became about the story. My focus was getting the correct–and respectful–information out as it was happening in real time. I wrote our official announcement post on my Blackberry as we sat in the parking lot of El Pollo Loco, then sent updates from my hotel, a cab and the lobby of Clive’s party, just floors beneath the very bathroom where Houston’s body still sat.

It was, surreal, altering, humbling.

Still it would be months before I was able to identify exactly how I felt. On the morning of the BET Awards, I was given the heads up that Cissy would eulogize her daughter using one of my favorite songs. That night as I watched her sing Simon & Garfunkle’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” it finally became clear to me. I was angry at Whitney and I just didn’t know how to say it.

Whitney was one of us. She was undeniably black in a culture that subtly skews towards the racially ambiguous. We still don’t know what her “real hair” looks like because she too had issues with it, and her body mirrored my own mother’s–a bean pole except in the hips and ass. She would later add the line in Waiting To Exhale: “If I had some real nerve I buy myself some bigger breasts.” Whitney could’ve been that crazy auntie who chain-smoked, always knew how to get the party started and could sing her ass off. Only I don’t think she ever saw that.

Whitney was about the show. When she was “on,” she was on and expected everyone around her to either come up to her level or step aside. It was when the consummate performer was “off” that ruined it for everyone. Like so many of us little brown girls, there was a hurt in Whitney. A void she tried to fill with the love of a toxic man and later a young and reckless one. In between? Drugs.

I wonder if she ever truly saw the miracle that she was. Beginning at a church in Newark, our beloved star journeyed to the Super Bowl to The Bodyguard to side-by-side with Nelson Mandela in South Africa; Whitney was living proof to all of us little brown girls that we too were good enough. Only I don’t think she ever truly believed that. Despite the fame, adoration and overwhelming praise her talent and hard work had brought her, she continued to search for something to love her, soothe her, until it finally took her life. And that angers me.

I was reminded of this again just yesterday as I rode the NYC 4 express train downtown sitting across from two young brown girls deep in conversation. They spoke a little too loud, every other word a curse while recalling the night before. There had been a fight over a guy. As I looked at the bruises on one girls arm, I wished she–much like Whitney–could see herself for what she truly is, a miracle.

So on today, Thursday August 9th–as we prepare to see Sparkle–I’m wishing Happy Birthday not to the world renown Diva whose voice helped soundtrack my childhood. No. My wishes are for the little brown girl who never knew just how special she really was. There are so many of us out there. I hope the next little brown girl to make it, gets it right.–@JasFly

I wanted to talk to you about our little one Gabby Douglas. At sixteen years old, Gabby has become an Olympic Gold medalist, ranking her a world-class gymnast. The online support for her has been wonderful. The #GoGabby hashtags during competition and the many gifs of the Virginia native in truly impossible poses are enough to make me want to attempt the splits…Don’t worry, I’m not.

The problem is the other chatter.

There’s an ongoing conversation taking place, both online and off, about Gabby’s hair. Apparently some find it ‘unkempt’ and are displeased. Even more surprising is that this discussion isn’t taking place amongst white people, or fellow gymnasts or even young men trying to see what’s good – but instead, the majority of the criticism is taking place amongst other Black women.

A simple twitter search of Gabby’s name produces a mixed bag of commentary, with a great majority of negativity generated from other women of color, complaining about Gabby’s need for a perm. It would be easy to simply say it’s a matter of taste, but really there’s a bigger issue here, that as we continue to grow as a culture, we are going to have to address. We are not our hair.

I’ve always had thick, long hair but as a child it was wild and hard to manage. I can recall the ‘great hair decision’ of ’86, when I was given a perm without my father’s permission. It sparked outrage, changed the texture of my hair and began a cycle of chemical dependency that would last until 2004 when – as an adult – I decided I didn’t want the chemical treatments anymore. It took me two years to grow it out but what was left was a healthy head of hair. On my best days, I can do anything I want – flat iron straight, loose curls, tight ponytail – but humidity is my kryptonite. Muggy summer days narrow my options to the natural fro or a high bun pinned to the top of my head. Recently I’ve been on two-a-day workouts, averaging 4 hours of intense sweating has meant I don’t get to wear my hair down as much as I’d like.

The irony is, I’ve been having conversations with my own style team about weave, being heavily encouraged to get a sew-in. Now, I’ve worn weave years ago, so there’s no judgment against it. But as I listen to the people on my team – who truly have my best interest at heart – I can’t help but think of Gabby.

Do we really believe that the only way to be beautiful, as Black women, is to have a perm or a weave? And in 2012, when we’re doctors, lawyers, Olympians, aren’t other things to take pride in besides our hair?

The relationship between Black women and our hair stretches all the way back to Africa, but the current sub-cultural standard of straightening took root in post-slavery days when we began to adapt European standards of beauty as our own.

I applaud Madame CJ Walker, but aren’t we advanced enough as a people to finally ask: my hair is not long enough for what? Gabby’s hair isn’t straight enough for what? I am Black and I’m proud of that. But my pride in that fact can’t begin or end with my hair. And if it does, then what does that say about our prioritizing?

Black women account for 41% of revenue for the hair care industry, totaling $9 billion in 2011. But we only account for 12% of the fitness industry, largely in part because of the complications vigorous workouts cause to our hair. So there should be no surprise that 1 in 4 Black women will develop diabetes by the time they’re 65.

Listen, every culture has its vanities. But confusing them with our values only sets us up to fail. Yes, you should always look your best, especially when the world is watching. But ‘best’ is subjective. And just because Gabby’s hair isn’t as you would like it, doesn’t mean she isn’t at her best. And let’s not forget she’s competing at the Olympics, not Bronner Bros.

There’s a lack of clarity in our communal value system. Instead of encouraging our sisters, daughters and friends to take pride in their talent, their abilities and what they’ve been able to accomplish first, we’re sending the message that your medals don’t mean as much if you don’t fit into a standard of beauty that was never meant to serve us anyway.

At some point, we will have to either reclaim ourselves and begin to set our own standards that include more than our hair, or we will continue to grow ever frustrated with how we’re portrayed in a society that is taking their cues from us. And you cannot be upset with how we’re depicted if you’re not even sending the right message to ourselves.

Am I telling you to ditch the box perms and pressing combs and go full on Angela Davis afro-chic? Not at all. I love my pressing comb. Rock your perms, straw sets, naturals, braids, locks, and anything and everything else we can come up with. Hell, I may even actually get a weave. But do so understanding that your hair is not what’s on your head that makes you regal, it’s who you are that makes you worthy to be called Queen.

Go Gabby.

Love,

Jas

I have a theory about this new Nas album. I believe there is a Universal Tax.

Just one day before the 2008 Presidential Election–where Barack Obama would make history–he received word that his grandmother, who raised him, died at her home in Hawaii. Similarly, just as Jamie Foxx began his award show run for the film Ray, culminating in an Academy Award for Best Actor, his grandmother (who raised him) died, never getting to see him win. He dedicated all of his awards (24 in total) to Esther Talley, whom he credits with stepping in and making sure he had the life his own mother was unable to give him.

Most recently, 2011 saw the end of what Kanye West described as the darkest period of his life–the sudden death of his mother, public breakdowns. He and Jay can joke now about the infamous “I’m a let you finish,” but the actual backlash and death threats were enough to drive him to Rome and then to Japan and then finally, after he’d stewed and distracted himself enough, to Hawaii to record unarguably his finest solo effort to date: My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy.

Yesterday, as I listened to “Bye, Baby” off of Nas’ forthcoming album Life Is Good, I began to think about the Universal Tax. Buzz on the album is high. Early critiques place it amongst his finest after a long string of misses; that’s evident in the exhausted resignation of Nas’ voice as he chronicles the undoing of his marriage to Kelis. Here is a man who has nothing left which is often the perfect time to win.

Closer to home, some of my biggest personal victories only followed by my most painful losses.

In 2009, one year to the day after the death of the woman who raised me, I found myself covering my very first red carpet at the BET Awards. Michael Jackson had just suddenly died, so my minimal press room coverage was beefed up to report first hand the entertainment community’s reaction to his passing. That four hours worth of work became a working audition.

Later that year, following another familial crisis, I chose to move to New York. I hit the ground running and never looked back. I could give you dozens of other more personal examples, but the point is that I believe that the Universe requires each of us to pay our taxes. Life must take from us before it gives.

The Universal Tax is this…

Life will give you a dream and the winds to start the race, but in the midst, life is going to test you to prove how bad you really want it. In the end–after all of the blood, sweat and tears–you will know that the victory is yours to keep because you have earned it. It’s a universal theme of light and dark. Christianity defines it as good and evil, Eastern philosophy calls it the Yin and the Yang, but the basic principle is the same: without darkness, there is no light. Life is about balance and contrast, and it’s impossible to recognize, appreciate and sustain the ups if there aren’t any downs.

Your darkest hour is often your greatest gift, but whether it’s what does you in or pushes you forward is solely up to you. It’s so easy in the midst of the storm to think you’ve failed. The rapper from Queensbridge had become a living meme, the phrase “smarten up, Nas” used as a cautionary tale for anyone on the downswing.

But he didn’t smarten up. He picked himself up. One of my favorite sayings is: “When the mason finally broke open the stone, he knew that it wasn’t the final blow that did it but instead all the many blows that came before it.”

Nasir used the many challenges to fuel his creativity and tell the story that only he could tell. Then he had sense enough to title it Life is Good, because it is, even the parts that don’t seem like it. After a very public and bitter divorce, in which he lost half of his net worth, then a seven-figure tax lien and a daughter publicly spiraling, could it be possible that a great album–one that fans have been waiting years for–was inevitable? Perhaps, this is just the long-awaited return on his taxes.

What do we take away from this – in addition to some great music? You might be in the thick of the pack right now, there are many ahead of you and you can’t quite see how you will get to the front. Consider this the period where you pay your taxes. The race isn’t over and you never know where you’re going to place until you cross that finish line, so keep running. –JasFly (@JasFly)