Christmas 2004, freshman year of high school. Between squeaks of Happy Birthday, Jesus! my sisters and I greedily ripped into our presents. Beneath the green-and-red wrapping paper were two albums by soft jazz singer Diana Krall. It was a Christmas miracle—I had gotten exactly what I asked for. My father, stirring the shit, asked if there were any albums I wanted by, you know, Black people. “Well, what I really wanted was Ciara’s Goodies, but I knew you wouldn’t buy it for me,” I retorted, and he agreed. Sure, I was corny, but whose fault was it?
Since she first came onto the scene, Ciara, now 39, has been an unstoppable force, so cool and self-assured and comfortable in her sexuality that even my parents couldn’t deny it. In the…
