Find Your Wings

I had a reckoning with myself earlier this year about money, structure, and what it really means to run a corporation responsibly. I’d been carrying quiet anxiety about doing things right, reporting things right, and staying in alignment, so I did something about it.

I finished two years of corporate accounting and taxes in four days. It wasn’t glamorous, just me, my spreadsheets, and a kind of determination that made sleep an inconvenience. I’m proud of that. I’m thankful. I’m happy. And I’m pissed off. Pissed off at people who talk about wanting to be full time creatives but don’t want to do the real work. The same people who’ve always claimed to know more than me about business and success are never present.

I find myself alone in this realm of freedom, but I want to extend this freedom through Black Tyler Verse.

A community built to celebrate and connect Tyler, The Creator’s Black audience, the ones who see themselves in his work but rarely see that reflected online. It’s a space that honors creativity, confidence, and cultural ownership the same values I live by.

After days of being deep in numbers and logistics, I was ready to decompress. I opened Instagram to unwind, and the first post I saw was from Tyler, The Creator, writing about D’Angelo’s album Voodoo. I skimmed it, and by the time I reached the end, I knew what it meant but I didn’t want it to be true. “5 hours ago” was the timestamp on the post. I went straight to the comments. Condolences. Doves. Broken heart emojis. I closed the app.

That’s how I found out D’Angelo died.

I texted a friend about it and they didn’t respond…which only added to the anger I’d already felt. I wasn’t angry because I needed to know sooner, but because after working in silence for days, I finally sat down to breathe and was met with that news. No one told me (except Tyler lol). Maybe no one knew how much he meant to me. Maybe I didn’t either.

I muted his name online. I couldn’t stand seeing the rush of posts and clips and people throwing up D’Angelo content all at once. I get that it’s what people do, but I didn’t want to grieve like that this time.

Angie Stone’s death hit me earlier this year too. It moved me to write about her impact on my womanhood and ended up being my first published post on Substack.

And now that D’Angelo’s gone, I think about their son Michael Jr. losing both of his parents in the same year. I hope he’s as well as anyone can be after such loss, and I pray that he’s covered in comfort and ease during this transition.

If there’s one thing that the death of a parent has shown me it’s that it will turn your world upside down. Suddenly you’re the elder. The one who’s responsible for carrying forth the lessons and the gifts taught by the ones who molded and shaped your world. But when loved ones crossover into the ancestor realm, you can hear them and understand them in ways that I’m not sure are possible in the flesh.

There was something about the tone online after D’Angelo’s passing that turned me off from everything social media. I decided to put the launch of the Black Tyler Verse community on hold when I saw how disrespectful some of Tyler’s fans were being about his privacy and safety.

Like this woman who dropped his exact location on TikTok after running into him in NYC…

And this nut job who continued following and filming him against his wishes..

The last thing he needed was another fan page, even one with good intentions.

CHROMAKOPIA was the album that inspired me to start the Black Tyler Verse community in the first place. When I first heard it, I was instantly brought to tears at the sound of his mother’s voice. The presence and wisdom of Bonita Smith and everything she said to him on the opening track, all of that love and guidance and God energy she poured into her son, in that moment it felt like she was speaking directly to me, and I needed to hear those words so badly.

“Don’t you ever stop being who you are and dimming your light for none of these motherf***ers out here.”

As a mother raising a son myself, I heard her words like a transmission. That voice, that care, that grounding showed me exactly why Tyler is who he is. And it reminded me why I do what I do.

It reminded me of how important it is to make sure that his messages reach young Black people.

“Don’t even trust these motherf***ing accountants, because they will try to get over on you, okay?”

That was that same kind of wisdom that Kendrick Lamar gave on his song “Wesley’s Theory” from his album To Pimp a Butterfly — a warning about money, exploitation, and ownership. Both messages are the reason why I faced the anxiety that I held surrounding owning a corporation and making money. And ultimately the reason why I sat down and did my own accounting and my own taxes.

And then there’s my son. He’s my reason for building a world where he can live as free as he chooses to be. My son is only four years old, so there’s a lot of life he hasn’t experienced yet, and there’s a lot of mothering I’ve yet to experience. My mom has had dementia since 2019, so my son will never experience the grandmother that his older cousins knew or the mothering I once received from her. But he loves listening to CHROMAKOPIA, and thanks to Tyler putting Bonita’s voice and her wisdom on his record, where it will live forever, my son is able to receive that same guidance she gave to him every time he listens to that album.

Thanks, T.

The day I decided to put Black Tyler Verse on hold I spent the day outside, driving around and just listening to Tyler. I played Cherry Bomb on repeat. Trying to remember those feelings I had 10-years ago when I’d blast the album in my car.

Tyler quietly entered into my universe through Loiter Squad on Adult Swim.

I used to have the TV on while I was up late doing schoolwork. I didn’t even realize how much his energy was imprinting on me—the humor, the chaos, the confidence to be yourself no matter how weird it looked to other people. Before that I hadn’t listened to his music, yet he was still present. Before Loiter Squad, I saw him winning an award on MTV; a moment that is etched into my memory because at that point I had no idea who he was, but he was so loud and proud to be on that stage, and his joy was contagious. And I’m rooting for everybody that’s Black.

When I finally took the time to listen to Tyler’s music, Cherry Bomb had just come out so that was where I started.

I was working my first corporate job after college. I was a project assistant for an online K-12 school (shout out to Simone Phillips ). I was responsible for updating the lessons and making sure they were accessible. When I played the album, I found myself being surprised at how soulful, jazzy, and BLACK his music was. I was surprised because of his majority white fanbase and how crazy his live shows looked from the clips I’d seen on Loiter Squad. With legendary features from Charlie Wilson, Roy Ayers, Wanya Morris from Boyz II Men, Kanye West, Lil Wayne, Schoolboy Q, and Pharrell Williams, every song felt like a home away from home. Which was so necessary for me because when I wasn’t home, I was often one of a few if not the only black person in the space.

It’s funny how being a Black Tyler fan mirrors that experience.

Cherry Bomb is special to me. I realize now it was my coming-of-age album, the soundtrack to my own transition into adulthood. From being a college graduate wanting to have her dream corporate job, to the woman who decided to find her wings and be her own pilot.

And now, here I am in 2025, the owner of my own corporation. Free. Creative. Intentional.

When I think about Cherry Bomb, I think about how it was also Tyler’s transition, the album where he went from rapping about darkness to writing about light, confidence, and joy.

Tyler spoke on “KEEP DA O’S”

“I’m rapping about diamonds, and cars, and money now, what the f**** has gotten into me?”

And then there are the words from “PILOT” that resonated with me the most

“I’m in first class, but I feel like coach.”

He articulated the thing that I felt but didn’t have the words for. I had everything people think you should have by the time you reach your mid-20’s. A degree, a job, a brand new Audi (my second one), good credit, my own place, I even had a few Chanel bags in my closet, and yet I still felt like I was not where I was meant to be. It wasn’t until I took a leap toward my dreams and trusted my own ability to succeed that I stopped feeling like I was in coach.

Cherry Bomb is also the last album that we got from Tyler before he decided to be more intentional about being seen as a musician.

I wanted to work in the music industry, I put in my 10,000 hours and I’ve experience some cool gigs because of it, but I’ve reached a point where I’m not interested in doing anything, no matter how “cool” it seems if it’s not done with meaningful intention. And my focus is Black.

Black pride. Black confidence. Black legacy. Black wealth. Black health. Black family. Black love. Black community.

Because despite our influence in popular culture, we are still overlooked. I’ve seen it firsthand. I’ve sat in enough meetings to know that we aren’t marketed to. And even as DEI initiatives are rolled back across industries, I’ve accepted that that’s fine. That’s why we build our own platforms.

That’s what Black Tyler Verse is. A space created with intention. A reflection of Tyler’s Black fan base, the one that exists but doesn’t always get seen. It’s about showing that we’re here and showing that I know how to reach my people without being tone-deaf.

I saw a video on TikTok from a creator named Candace who she said she believes there’s a wealth gap that separates Black fans from fully engaging with Tyler.

I’m not sure how much truth is in that but regardless, I know the Black audience is there. We’re just not being marketed to directly, and perhaps that’s a disconnect that’s present due to Tyler’s team (rightfully) positioning him in spaces where his audience exists. I rarely see Tyler promoted or celebrated on Black entertainment platforms and that’s why everything I do now, every idea, every project, comes back to the intention of speaking to us.

The day after I decided to put the Black Tyler Verse community on hold, I woke up to another Tyler post on Instagram from @offrecordsounds, breaking down a discourse that started after Tyler paid homage to D’Angelo. The post highlighted how some of Tyler’s white fans were being disrespectful in his comments and how that behavior revealed a larger disconnect from the Black culture and the Black artists he constantly uplifts.

I had found out about D’Angelo’s passing through a Tyler post. And now this new post about Tyler, D’Angelo, and Black music was the first thing I saw after deciding to pause the project.

It felt like alignment; confirmation that my idea was necessary, not mistimed.

Because that conversation, about audience, influence, and the lack of respect for Black art, was the exact catalyst that led me to create Black Tyler Verse in the first place. Because despite what some Black critics have to say about Tyler, I understand what it means to give people grace as they are coming into themselves. It’s okay to not be perfect or politically correct and rehearsed all the time, and still be embraced by your community. If Lil’ Boosie can still be embraced by us, why the FUCK can’t Tyler, The Creator?

Tyler’s love for D’Angelo, my love for both of them, and my desire to carve out spaces for Black people who understand that lineage is what Black Tyler Verse is about. It’s not coincidence; it’s connection.

The music, the message, the mission, they’re all linked, and for the first time, I feel like I can actually listen to D’Angelo’s music again since his transition.

The song that’s been sounding off in my head as I’ve been writing this is “Another Life” from his album Black Messiah.

D’Angelo was the same age as my oldest sister. She’s the one who shaped my love for Black music, neo-soul specifically. She was the reason why I had access to it during the times that we didn’t have cable TV in our house. As a kid, I used to sneak into her room and play her CDs when she wasn’t home. And when I started driving, she let me borrow the Angie Stone CD that I’d listen to on my way to work.

I remember when Black Messiah came out and how much I loved it. This was during a time when I didn’t pay for everybody’s albums; if the music or the artist didn’t move my spirit, then I was downloading from message boards or streaming on Spotify. But I bought Black Messiah three times, first on iTunes and again on CD, because I needed to read the liner notes. And then I bought the CD again for my sister.

She doesn’t realize how much she inspired my grown woman swag. I remember one time she complimented my style, and I told her I got it from her. She didn’t believe me, but that’s okay.

When I think about it all — D’Angelo, Tyler, his mom, my sister, my son, I see it’s just Black love, legacy, and wisdom, passing through generations, and music is the medium. And while the messengers may change, the spirit that carries forth the message does not, and Black Tyler Verse is a continuation of that.

I’m going to listen to “Another Life” now, and on October 28, I’ll quietly open the doors to Black Tyler Verse despite the online chatter that’s taking place surrounding Tyler and his blackness.