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whole point. In a strange way, that mike, in that environment, represented one of the safest places she had ever known. It was a venue for being heard and understood.
    Gabrielle had tried to pass on to the powers-that-be at MTV her excitement about this secret revolution. Each week at Vibeology, there were brilliant wordsmiths at work who deserved national attention. But the poetry factor generated little interest. "Find a bohemian rapper with good beats," her immediate boss had told her. "Sounds cool. But what we really need is the next Drake,” another executive had said.
    Gabrielle had returned to Vibeology to participate on her own terms. Her first slot was fifth from the top, and she received a warm introduction from Theory, the sexy master of ceremonies.
    "Can I interest anybody out there in some new blood?" Theory had bellowed.
    The crowd had erupted with wild approval.
    "I don't know about you, but I want to hear what this sister has to say. And I have to be honest. I'm already crushing hard over her green, green eyes."
    There had been whistles and catcalls from the audience.
    Theory had flashed her a smile, his immaculate Chicklets teeth as blinding as alpine snow against his dark chocolate skin. He sported a white peasant shirt over tattered vintage jeans. A multicolored do-rag covered a head of short dreadlocks, and dirty espadrilles adorned his feet. Despite the lack of effort, Theory was stop-and-look gorgeous, an anti-establishment Blair Underwood.
    "If I do say so myself, she's beautiful," he had cooed to the crowd. "And this is her first time at the mike, so we already know the sister's brave. Make some noise for... Gabrielle."
    With a strange mixture of terror and excitement, she had stepped into the bright spotlight on the small stage, taking her position in front of the microphone. Looking out, she had discovered a sea of black faces, dark-skinned, light-skinned, different styles, varied backgrounds, but everyone in that space shared one thing in common: They were all black.
    In that moment, the realization had struck Gabrielle like a thunderbolt. Never in her life had she been in a room with so many of her own people. She had been raised in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, an enclave fifteen minutes from Detroit and nestled along the shores of Lake St. Clair. It was an elegant suburb for the well-heeled. Gabrielle's family home had been a five-thousand-square-foot Colonial with five bedrooms, five full baths, a finished basement that doubled as a recreational haven, and two garages. All for a family of just three. Her father was a high-level auto executive, her mother a full-time social butterfly and board president for the Edsel and Eleanor Ford House, the stately early-twentieth-century mansion that had been transformed into a premier community cultural center.
    Growing up, she had never thought of herself as black. She was simply Gabrielle. Her house became the hub for all neighborhood play. The Fosters had a pool with a slide and a diving board. Their recreational room featured video games, a full-sized pool table, Ping-Pong, a kitchen stocked with junk food, a telephone with Mama Rosa's Pizzeria on speed dial, and a cookie jar stuffed with cash to pay the delivery driver. For Gabrielle's friends, the Foster house was a home away from home.
    Looking back now, Gabrielle realized how her parents eschewed black culture. All of her mother's friends were white, and her father had gone further up the Ford Motor corporate chain than any black man in history. None of this had been a result of assimilation. It was simply who they were. Matthew and Diahann Foster lived in a white world. They just happened to be black.
    Gabrielle had never questioned it. There had never been a reason to. Her childhood had been a plastic bubble of loving arms, safety, friends, and constant fun. The same held true for her adolescent years. She was among the most popular at Grosse Pointe Academy, involved in every conceivable activity and