Soundtrack — A Black Music Month tribute to the songs that shaped my memories — “End of the Road”
(Black Music Month 2020 series preview)
Boyz II Men’s “End of the Road” (K. Edmonds, A. Reid, D. Simmons) was the number one single of 1992 on the Billboard Year-End Hot 100 Singles of 1992. It is ranked by Billboard as the sixth most successful song of the decade 1990–1999. Fun Fact: It earned Babyface his first Grammy. (Best R&B song, writer).
In 1990-whatever, my family drowned out dinnertime drama through blaring speakers. Although I was never allowed to have a meal anywhere but the kitchen table, this day I got permission to eat my hoagie on the stoop. The streetlights flickered and the sun began to set as my mother’s living room stereo howled at the rising moon. The cords dropped on Boyz II Men’s “End of the Road,” playing louder and louder while ear-splitting screams competed for velocity during the song’s climax. With knees tucked into my chin I squeezed my eyes tight and just listened to the music attempt to mask the shrills of broken glass amid a monstrous male voice writhing in intensity rivaling the Bass.
My mother emerged to join me. Her shirt was soaked through and through with what she called Kool Aid. “I think I killed my son,” she said, while cradling a confused little me in her stains. It was silent when the cops arrived. The brother I buried in my mind picked me up from school the next day; I saw my mother for the first time a month later. I could never appreciate the beauty of “End of the Road” ever since it began throwing its PTSD-painted Boomerang at me.
In mid 1990-something, my household became a war amid puberty. I was learning who I was while unlearning the life around me. And my mother was relearning the carefree life she left behind before motherhood. She had moved her sparring partner or boyfriend into our home, and I served as referee to every round until my voice gave way for sirens to ring the damn bell. This was the year I remembered how loud music played over trauma. I became a radio station with a stuck dial where only lyrics could melody anything away. And I listened for every background note, guitar string, piano key, programmed drum, and ad lib. I read liner notes as if they were novels. I became a fun fact waiting to erupt. And did you know Babyface wrote “End of the Road?” And I had to spend 52 weeks trying to avoid ever hearing that song again. My mother bought me headphones that year, because my music was always too loud especially when I couldn’t sleep at night over the sounds of unhappiness.
The first time I was allowed to listen to blasted music in an arena was due to an undeniable request — Babyface and Boyz II Men were coming to town. I knew I would have to hear “End of the Road,” but somehow, I just never felt ready for it. I begged my brother to lead us out of the arena just as they began singing it. I cannot remember if my request was obliged. I have spent so many years turning radio knobs until they twisted 360 degrees when I only needed a 180. It was nearly the fourth decade of my life when I realized that I have stuffed a written-by-Babyface sized gauze into every emotional wound I have ever received. And it’s unnatural.
I’ve never been to a concert that didn’t make me cry. Ever since the third time I saw Babyface live I knew to expect a medley of chart-topping songs he’d written for other people. In the first decade of the new millennium, I stained my dress with an overflow of memories as he sang “End of the Road.” The song earned him his first Grammy, but there I was, a little girl with my mother’s secret Kool Aid touching my bronze skin as we sat on the stoop. Memories spinning around and around. I heard the sirens again and I wondered if I could see my mother again. Then the show ended, just like hers did.
In a decade I can hardly remember, I landed third row seats to a Boyz II Men show, while a film crew encouraged concertgoers to be excited throughout the night. My skin turned red as I pretended to have the time of my life, waving my arms side to side and singing a song I’d rather have dead. I would have never guessed myself so lights camera action or repressed trauma or glutton for the pain in my head that loves me and never says goodbye.
In the second decade of the new millennium, I sat in a packed arena sucking back expectations. I didn’t want to become a smeared face child again. Then Babyface sang “End of the Road.” He tore his shirt open and ran around the stadium. My tears turned to laughter as demons exited my memory, finally allowing a new moment to breathe. And I needed to learn to release the song that has haunted me since childhood. Maybe I’ll forgive it, maybe I’ll try. In the third decade of the new millennium, this part of the show had become a signature closing act for Babyface. The familiar music had begun when he started unbuttoning his shirt to run down the aisle. I locked eyes with him and extended my hand, which he grabbed and gave a squeeze before continuing through the crowd. Still I can’t let go.
I have never intentionally listened to “End of the Road,” because each time I try I just break down and…
