Over the years, as more and more information about R. Kelly’s history of abusing girls and young women is revealed, I find myself losing more and more hope. That’s not the work of a single man. I don’t know R. Kelly, and I have only ever liked his music on the margins of my life. He was never an artist I listened to often or alone. Still, his music was ever-present at family get-togethers, school dances, and when I went to college, at every single party white people threw. As news of his predilection for underage girls spread through our communities, the music never stopped. Not only was cancelling this artist not even considered, the choice not to do so was openly and vehemently defended. People might have dragged Lady Gaga for, but a lot more people continued to buy his music and tickets to his performances. Something is wrong with a person who believes that black girl’s bodies, their innocence, and their ability to own themselves apart from the hands and eyes of men is a fair trade for a slow jam. Some believed they could truly separate the “art from the artist.” Others denied anything had ever happened in the face of mountain after mountain of evidence to the contrary. Each denial and defence affirmed what I’d come to believe about black girls: we were disposable.