My life changed last August.
I’ve been an entertainment reporter for 17 years. Nothing and no one has ever given me pause.
And then it happened — Aug. 8, 2015.
I met Prince.
As a member of the National Association of Black Journalists, I attend an annual convention that we host every summer. I was one of 10 journalists invited to sit down with Prince at his home, Paisley Park. It was a free-for-all discussion about anything and everything.
The circumstances caught me off guard. My expectation for that evening was to dance in Prince’s home at a party his estate was hosting. I thought I’d marvel at artifacts — such as the motorbike from Under the Cherry Moon hanging over a door — in the various wings of his palatial space in Chanhassen, a suburb outside of Minneapolis, Minnesota. But I happily obliged this invitation to “sit down” with one of the world’s most influential musicians of all time, and tried to shift from fangirl to respected entertainment journalist.