Ebony LaDelle - Love Radio

Love Radio

Ebony LaDelle

Love Radio is pure joy.

Jasmine Guillory, New York Times bestselling author

For that young person who might be from Detroit and might say,

I could do this, I could write this story, and I might do it better.

Do it. I dare you.

[CROSSFADE OF SONG HERE]

PRINCE JONES: Detroit, what up doe! Im DJ LoveJones, the prince of love and your new host for the three to four p.m. hour, with DJ Mike coming in for rush hour from four to seven. Welcome to the LOVE RADIO! I cant thank you enough for the outpouring of love with my segment Last Night a DJ Saved My Life. You kept emailing and DMing us with so many questions that 98.6 decided I needed my own show time! And even crazier, at fifteen Im the youngest person to ever have a show here.

So, there you have it. Follow me online at @DJLoveJones or call me between three and four every day, and Ill answer any love questions you may have. But trust me, I aint forgot what time it isIll still be spinning all the hits. So hit me up too for requests and with all your love problems. I know you got them and I have all the solutions.

Im your guy. Your certified high school love coach.

[PRINCE PLAYS A SONG]

Danielle

Ive never met a person more drunk on love than my mom. Shes got a list of old-school romance movies shes always been obsessed with and has the nerve to rate them in order of her favorites. Thing is, that order changes every month.

For September its:

1. Love Jones
2. Love & Basketball
3. Waiting to Exhale
4. How Stella Got Her Groove Back
5. Jasons Lyric
6. the list goes on and on. But you get the point.

Id be lying if I said Ive never watched these movies with her multiple times maybe more like thousands of times. But the verdict is still out on how I feel about them.

This is the best part, sweetie, Mom says, pointing at the screen. Look!

Every part is the best part, according to her.

I watch her as shes intensely focused on a movie shes seen over and over again, her feet tucked underneath her butt, her elbow perched on the couchs armrest, and her head resting in her hands. Everyone says my forehead scrunches just like hers when were concentrating, the brown of it all creasing like the frosting on a caramel cake. Camille spit you out, says every single relative.

I study her face as her bright, big eyes widen and take in the movie. I guess I have her laser-sharp cheekbones and thick, long hair. But besides that, Im all Dad. Thank god hes not the constantly lovesick one.

She clasps her hands together as the hero and heroine kiss. Isnt that everything, baby?

I roll my eyes.

On the one hand, I appreciate Black artistry in all forms. But these movies always follow the same formula:

• 1. You got your main charactersthe strong Black female lead who has had enough with life and needs to get rid of some sort of deadweight. Usually she does something drasticlike chopping off her long hair, taking a trip to a remote island, or just throwing herself into her work.
• 2. And then you got your supporting cast. Friends, colleagues, that one over-the-top person who brings comedic relief to the story.
• 2A. They fit into one of two categories as well. Either they are strongly encouraging the main character to go after the love interest
• 2B. or theyre strongly discouraging them until the main character has some epiphany about their unhappiness or lack of love and manages to come around at the end.

The plotlines are predictable and always come to a lackluster climax. Super stale. But everyone thinks thats just my cynical behind.

Take Love Jones. Within the first five minutes, the scene opens with a neon-red sign in the cut, illuminating the Sanctuary, a local, moody, smoke-filled poetry spot where the main characters, Darius and Nina, meet, all while listening to the sleek sounds of a woke brotha schooling Black people about how to talk to one another *basic*. Then smooth-ass Darius rolls up on the stage, reciting some poem that was inspired by Nina, speaking on blues and funk and sex. Nina blows him off at first, but they eventually get together. Had that been me, I guess the movie would be over before it began, because theres no way he would have gotten a first date eroticizing me like that.

As the two characters profess their love for one another again, my mom glances over in my direction, expecting me to complain. But I dontthis time. She would just say that these romance tropes are everywhere, and with White Hollywood feeding us Black trauma porn, why not show more romances onscreen with Black leads?

And so, Im conflicted. As a writer I love watching for the cinematography, the banter, the showcase of a Black love story blossoming. But at my core, Im not a rom-com type of girl. The tropes alone make me uneasy when you really think about them.

Childhood friends? I gag at the thought of dating anyone in the cesspool of boys from my childhood.

Falling in love with a bad boy? Lets examine the abusiveness of this trope.

Enemies to lovers? Funniest one yet.

Forbidden love? Mkay.

Just not feeling any of these. If we really want to go there, theyre all problematic and simple. Give me writing with more conflict, more depth, something thats more nuanced and grips you, makes you question the world around you. Lets talk about real-life issues that affect us daily, and the traumas our community is untangling. At least, thats the type of writing I want to do.

I feel like the platform should be used to bring more meaning into this world than just a story about two people falling in love. Just my humble opinion.

Still, for some reason, every time Im tasked with dusting the shelves of our basement entertainment center and my moms DVD collectionyeah, dont even get me startedI cant help but pull out Love Jones and look at the package. Its the scene of Darius and Nina passionately kissing, in the rain. When no Black girl with a silk press is really gonna want to stand out there and lock lips while getting their hair drenched. And yet? Sometimes I catch myself daydreaming its me.

We all deserve a big love story, Mom says as the love scene fades out. Theres nothing better.

I guess, Ma. I take a deep sigh and exhale it into my blanket. I dont want a lecture today.

I know I sound pessimistic and all over the place. But the truth is, the concept of love just aint that simple anymore. What people call love now is merely infatuationmore about themselves than trying to actually get to know a person. Whatever happened to asking someone out to dinner, walking you up to your porch to make sure you get in safe, having picnics in the park, or passing notes to profess your love? Whatever happened to love that isnt superficial?

I stare up at the family portrait still hanging beside the TV.

Take my parents. While climbing up the military ranks, my dad always said he was searching for his other rib. And he found her in my mother, a second-year student at University of Detroit Mercy, a private Catholic school in the city. My dad did it all; once he got to know my mom and what she liked, he prided himself on taking my mom places she didnt know about, even though she was born and bred in the Motor City. He wrote her love notes with lines from his favorite poems and her favorite songs, showered her with flowers because she had a budding interest in gardening. He