Hey Jill Scott.

I forgive you.

Last week, you returned to the scene of the crime at the Bank of America Pavilion in Boston, for the first time since 2001. I think, anyway. I haven't really been keeping track of your travels lately. And honestly, things could have turned out so differently for us. I am a fiercely loyal fan.

More than a decade ago, I was wondering, along with the rest of the world Who Is Jill Scott, with your debut cd burning up my stereo. Audio perfection. R&B mixed with a bit of jazz and spoken word. This lady could sang! I was in love. If only we could have left it right there.

But there was a problem, your mind at least, because I'm also in love with a black man. http://www.essence.com/2010/03/26/commentary-jill-scott-talks-interracial.

Truthfully, I wish you'd been a bit more forthcoming with your message ten years earlier, so André and I had an inkling of what we were getting into. Instead, we were blindsided on that warm August night, as you riled the audience against the evils of our coupling and our romantic night out declined into a squirmfest in our seats. Unnecessarily uncomfortable? You bet, especially when the women behind us began saying over and over again, 'Mmmm-hmmm. Yeah, you know who you are.'

Wow. So much for my viewing of music as a positive unifying force.

And the truth is, you know nothing about André and I. That we've been together for nearly twenty years and have an amazing partnership, filled with incredible love, respect, humor and growth. By the way, how you rackin' up in that department?

I actually wrote you a letter after the incident. Sent it to your record company. You didn't reply, but I don't think I was really expecting an answer. It was just therapy for me, like putting words on paper has always been. Sold your cd. Vowed to never go to another one of your shows. Ever.

But that anger? It remained.

Then the universe stepped in with one of those annoying life lessons. I scored fifth row tickets at Madison Square Garden to see my musical love, Maxwell. The opening act? Mmmm-hmmm. Ms. Jilly from Philly. I considered going in after your set. But in the end, I decided that it was some sort of cosmic test. One that I would pass with grace--and a glass of wine or two.

So, I sat in the 5th row and grooved to your music. And at the end, I stood, with my strong, intelligent, handsome, compassionate, open-minded and, yes, black husband, André, and we applauded, not for your beliefs, but for your musical talent, 'cause I'll never deny you got that.

You could not have missed seeing me. Only this time, I didn't care what you saw. I feel really good about my life, my relationship, my convictions and where I am in this world. So, I forgive you, Jill Scott. And you didn't even know you did anything wrong.