At a time when Black millennials are watching every version of the “American Dream” fall apart, Brandy and Monica announcing their first-ever tour isn’t just an iconic moment in music; it’s a powerful reminder that some things we thought were lost can still come back to us, that joy isn’t just nostalgia, and that reconciliation, healing, and Black womanhood can co-exist in the spotlight—and change us in the process.
For so many of us, the idea that these two legends would ever stand side by side again was more fantasy than fact. We’d resigned ourselves to whispers, missed moments, and rumors of what could’ve been. When Ariana Grande dropped the “The Boy Is Mine” remix, we felt the flicker. When the Grammy nomination came, it stoked the fire of possibility, but still, we dared not hope. And now, here it is. The tour. The dream. The reunion.
It’s more than music. It’s a possibility model, especially for Black millennials who have done everything “right” and still ended up with debt, exhaustion, and curated joy for social media. For those of us spending our weekends in $1,000 sections, raising $300 bottles to escape the weight of what we never received, the dream didn’t deliver. But Brandy and Monica? They came back for us.
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I know it might sound extra to make this much of a tour, but I was born in 1982. I watched every step of their careers—the highs, the heartbreaks, and the silence. When “It All Belongs to Me” dropped, I thought maybe. But then Whitney passed. And the grief we carried for her also became grief for the future we imagined for Brandy and Monica.
Their first and only Grammy came from their collaboration. Two solo powerhouses who reached their highest award-winning heights together. And now, decades later, they return—not in rivalry, but in reclamation.
This tour is proof that time doesn’t kill what’s real.
Success alone won’t sustain an authentic relationship, and Black women, no matter what, will find their way back to each other. I often think about what it means for two “daughters” of Whitney Houston to lead us now. Not just musically, but emotionally. Spiritually. Communally.
We’ve Grown Up With Them—And Through Them
If you’re under 45, Brandy and Monica are the soundtrack to your life.
Brandy raised us with her runs. I spent years in a prison cell learning every ad lib from Full Moon with my friend TJ. Never Say Never was the balm for every part of me that felt unseen. Brandy was Cinderella. Whitney was her fairy godmother. And I believed, truly, that dreams might still come true because of them.
When I went through a divorce in 2018, Monica’s Still Standing became my lifeline. Her voice—this teenage girl singing about pain I only came to understand in my late 30s—helped me remember I was still alive. That I could still love again. Still hope again.
What They’ve Taught Us About The Politics Of Possibility
As an activist, I believe music can shift the world. If there’s chaos in a room, I can press play on “Back That Azz Up,” that room will be unified. That’s the sacred power of our music.
It’s the same magic that moves through “The Boy Is Mine,” “Have You Ever,” “Everything to Me,” “Just One of Them Days,” or anything off Full Moon. Black joy. Black catharsis. Black memory.
And now, with Monica’s children growing into themselves, and Brandy’s daughter Sy’rai stepping into her own light—we are literally witnessing the legacy continue. We’re not just fans anymore. We’re witnesses.
This Was Never Just About Them—It Was Always About Us
Let’s be honest: the root of their “feud” was never just them; it was patriarchy. It was media. It was Brandy’s little brother on The Breakfast Club. A generation of men helped craft a narrative of rivalry between these two young girls before they even had a chance to shape their own story.
“The Boy Is Mine” was 99% male-produced—from lyrics to studio politics. On a recent podcast, Rodney Jerkins admitted that the producers engineered the collaboration assuming the girls would clash. Before Brandy or Monica even heard the song, grown men were already scripting tension between two teenagers—driven by fandom, fear, and the belief that there’s only room for one.
Because the world still believes that two QUEENS can’t find a room large enough to hold two thrones.
But here they are. Sharing the stage. Holding space. Refusing to shrink.
And they’re not coming alone. They’ve brought Kelly Rowland—one of the children of Destiny—and Muni Long, a student of Brandy, Mariah and Whitney. The lineup is an ecosystem of Black woman excellence, bridging generations and legacies with intention. This isn’t nostalgia. This is reclamation.
This Is Our Ceasefire
In a moment when our icons are dying or disappointing us, Brandy and Monica have given us a ceasefire. A sacred offering. A vision of what’s still possible when Black women choose healing over history, power over pettiness, and the people over perception.
And that’s why I believe it matters to put activist language, academic theory, and liberation strategy into the moments the world would tell us are “just a concert.” Because if we dismiss this as trivial, we miss the miracle.
This isn’t just a show. This is resistance. This is recovery. This is revolution.
And the boy?
He was never the point.
The girls are.
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