They want everything about black women, but black women. That is our truth. These are the things we whisper in to each other in hair salons, in our secret spaces that are just our own
There are critiques in me that wanted to say Beyoncé is overrated. Parts of me that might have resented her unknowingly because arguably, Beyoncé is a child of wealth and privilege: born of the middle class, light-skinned Creole, and beautiful beyond argument. To say her success is predestined. To say she is simply selected by the music and success gods because she fit a palatable mold is insulting to she and we.
Because, when she gives us the best in black girl magic — from Serena Williams, to Amandla Stenberg, to Ibeyi, to Zendaya, to Winnie Harlow, to Quvenzhané Wallis, to Chloe and Halle. When she gives us images of us in our own hoods. In our own truths. When she gives lyrics and imagery, rhythm and blues, art and practice. Her werk can not be denied or diminished to stoke the flames of my own insecurities.
I could write a doctoral dissertation on the imagery of black men in the form of lovers and fathers in her visual album, but I’ll leave that to the likes of my bestie Dr. Osbourne. Instead, I will simply say: Wow!
Beyoncé captured the best and worst of us:
Our faith.
Our incredulity.
Our sexuality.
Our relationships.
Our self-hate.
Our joy.
Our pain.
Our death.
Our life.
Our failures.
Our triumphs.
Our flesh and our essence in the form of culture.
She did something black women have been taught to be fearful of doing: being us. Can you imagine success in the form of unapologetic authenticity? Cornrows, full lips, black love in black skin. Plural Yaaaaaaaaaaassss’ all around.
Beyoncé made me think: “how lucky am I to be born a black woman!”
Beyoncé’s visual album is available to view on HBO on demand or TIDAL. I highly recommend it.
What did you say?