As she prepares to headline at Long Beach Pride, Grammy-winning singer India Arie (sans her signature hair) discusses her new album, her relationship with her gay fans, and raising AIDS awareness.

By Lawrence Ferber

Like hair, India Arie keeps growing and growing. But on her stunning new single, “I Am Not My Hair,” the Grammy-winning singer/songwriter points out that there's a profound distinction between one's inner self and what's atop—or not atop—one's head.

“Writing that song began with me cutting my hair off and deciding to do other things and confronting fear,” she reveals. “Like I'd want braids and I'd be afraid to get something as simple as braids and I had to dig deep and figure out where all this fear was coming from. It goes all the way back to my childhood and that's how the song starts. I had my hair burned off of my head with relaxers—I had scabs on my scalp, I was injured. So when I think of hair and my hair being healthy, I think of my body being healthy and my well-being. So I had to confront all that and let it all go and realize it’s just hair and as long as I'm OK I can do anything I want to do. Get braids all the way down to my butt and afro-puffs. I've been doing everything.”

But damaging, losing and changing one's hair (one verse of the song addresses friend Melissa Etheridge's chemotherapy-induced hair loss) is only part of what drives India's new album, Testimony: Vol. 1, Life & Relationship. The lyrics are fueled by painful lessons learned when a long-term relationship with the man she planned to marry deteriorated. Her first full-length studio effort since 2002's Voyage To India, Testimony: Vol. 1 (which will be followed by a second volume, Love & Politics, in late 2006 or 2007) is a rich neo-soul journey with tinges of hip-hop (“There's Hope”), gospel (“The Heart of the Matter”), and even Sade-style lushness (“Good Mourning”).

To get the scoop on her new album, relationships, whether she's considered dating women, and politics queer and otherwise (she's been a UNICEF ambassador since 2004), I spoke with India by phone.

IN: Was recording this album a carefully plotted or sporadic process?

Arie: I never plot it out. My creative process is so erratic and sporadic, and I just wanted to talk about where I was in my life—which was learning lessons about relationships. Specifically a very connected, committed coexisting relationship, and learning lessons about that and how different it is from what they say in movies and songs. The pain. You can love a person one minute and not stand them or want to be with them the next. The thing is it wasn't so much about the relationship as it was how harsh the lessons were for me. I'm a person who was born a romantic the same way I was born a female. It's very much a part of my nature. So when I learned that you can love somebody and not want to be with them, that was devastating for me.”

Is “Good Mourning” the most painful song on the album? In it you sing, “Good mourning to the pain in my chest/I know I said I wanted this but I have regrets/ Good mourning to the fact we're not husband and wife.”

It's both the most painful and most triumphant. On a creative level I worked really hard on that song. Harder than you probably have any idea. But also on an emotional level that song is something I wish I had been able to hear because it channels the story of the healing process. You start in the beginning in a whole bunch of pain. By the end of the song I'm not saying “I'm healed,” but, “You know what, if this is the way it’s supposed to be and that's OK.” That's a beautiful place to be about things. The only way I could get to where I could write the end was to be at that place emotionally. I always like to tell the truth in my songs. So when I hear that song I hear my whole healing process and it's beautiful to be able to sit back and have it heal me every time. But I think the first song, “These Eyes,” is the most painful—or most angry.

While recording this album did anyone working with you say, “Girl, I'm getting depressed!”?

(Laughs) No. Some of the people who love me and would hear the songs would say, “You went through a lot!” Or start conversations and say, “You're so different than you were–why is that?” But nobody around was like, “This is depressing!” It was just regular conversations about life, the way you talk with your friends because most of the producers are my friends first.

Having gone through all this woe with a man, do you think that lesbians might have something better going on? Is there maybe a plus to the woman-woman thing?

(Laughs) That has definitely been a conversation over the past three years! I feel like some people are born gay and others have experiences that make them feel, “I want to try this.” I have friends who told me both things. So I definitely see the value of thinking outside the box! I haven't made the decision to be with a woman, it's not my choice, but I have thought outside the box in those conversations with my friends.

Do you remember the first person you recognized as being gay?

I do, of course, remember my first gay friend [and roommate], Eric. He was looking for a roommate—he didn't need money, he just wanted different energy in his house. A beautiful person, we ended up being like brother and sister and I wrote and recorded all of [my first album] Acoustic Soul while I was living with him. He taught me a lot about making a home beautiful. He's [also] the person who made me look and see that all the stereotypes that people put, on gay men especially, are not always true. He wasn't effeminate at all. He didn't call me “girl”—but I have gay friends who do!

I was so sad when I heard about American Idol's Mandisa not loving the gays.

Well, you know what that is. It's [probably] her Christian upbringing and you can't really fault people. Sometimes people do things with good intentions and that's all you have to go off of. But I get where she's coming from. She thinks that's right. She's young, too. It's so funny. People are people. At this age I have enough friends who live all kinds of different lives, relationships and sexual preferences that I can say people are people, but even as a kid I understood that. It's so dumb to think because someone has a different sexual preference that they're not human. It's the same thing as saying black people aren't human. Maybe that's why I understood it. I don't know. But of course it's important for people for understand that.

What about your thoughts behind the song “Private Party,” which seems to be a celebration of the woman you have become even if nobody understands or notices.

In the song I talk about appreciating my body. I'm not talking about the shape of my breasts or how flat my stomach is—I'm talking about my female body. Your sexual organs, your womb. The Vagina Monologues, that whole thing was so necessary because society is like it's smelly, the whole thing. So there's that conversation, and that song is once again autobiographical. There was a day I wanted to call my mom and say, “Hey, I'm on my period and don't have cramps,” or whatever it was. But I couldn't really say that because who's going to celebrate that? But I can, and that's a great thing to celebrate because a woman's body is so connected to her emotions.

Is it also a call for women to celebrate their body regardless of the approval of others? Like I'm beautiful whether I'm zaftig like Martha Wash or as skinny as Jennifer Love Hewitt?

It's funny you say that because that wasn't my intention in writing this song. The beautiful thing about art is you can read it on many levels. But that's a nice way to look at it, too. You don't need anyone else to tell you you're beautiful to know that.

On the song “Wings of Forgiveness” you sing, “Nelson Mandela can forgive his oppressors, surely I can forgive you.” You actually met Mandela when you performed at his 46664 HIV/AIDS Benefit Concert in South Africa last year. Was this something of a shout-out?

I sing about my life and I had met him and talked to him so he was in there. He inspired me to think that if he could forgive those oppressors, who put him in prison for three decades plus, then I could forgive this person who hurt me a little. And then it helps you be gracious about things. Grace is always beautiful because it makes you look better.

You also spent time in Kenya and took part in Tracking the Monster, VH-1's documentary about AIDS in Africa. How aware were you of the situation before you arrived in Kenya?

I was aware. Everyone knows it's a pandemic. But I didn't really know what it looked like on a human level. When you see this whole sea of faces and all these people are affected by AIDS. In Africa AIDS is a death sentence. You get AIDS and die and that's it. Everyone is affected. You can say that here, too, but here it's not a death sentence. You can live for 20 years. But there people die and that's it.

Do you plan to keep raising awareness about AIDS and/or queer issues through your work now that you're back in the states?

Yeah, of course. On Testimony: Volume 2, I talk about AIDS. I have a song called 'Gift of Acceptance,' and I wrote it with [my ex-roommate Eric] and this song is not all about homosexuality but it talks about how people say it's not right to be black. Some people say it's not right to wear a short skirt. Or be gay. But you can choose to give the world a present and give the gift of your acceptance. There's one line that says, “If you don't have a husband and you're pregnant, if you're a woman and have a wife.” I'm talking more about the politics of human nature and how we treat each other.

And any thoughts on how you might treat your hair in the near future? A crazy weave perhaps?

I wouldn't do straight hair because I like textured. But the braids was a crazy weave—all the way down to my butt.

Did they ever get caught in a subway or car door?

(Laughs) No, but it was hard to sleep! When I would hug people they would hug my hair and pull it and stuff. I liked that hair but it was too much of a responsibility.

India Arie will headline the Main Stage at Long Beach Pride on Sunday, May 21. For more information, visit www.longbeachpride.com.