I used to love Drake. Now our relationship is far more nebulous. I still party to him, and when nostalgia washes over me I’ll even close my eyes and sing along; wishing it was all the same. Picture this, an eighteen-year-old Black boy from the suburbs who previously defined himself by his taste for alternative rock and American Eagle graphic tees. He’s driving down a highway late at night when “Marvin’s Room” comes on the radio. A distorted female voice enters the car through the speakers. She’s responding to a series of questions. “‘Did I go out’ yeah I went out, I went, I went to a couple of clubs.” The bass drops…