First, let me commend you on succeeding against all odds. Somehow you managed; you managed to make it through junior high and high school with your confidence intact. Despite my incessant barrage of negative imagery, you somehow made it this far in your life with a positive sense of self. I applaud you for that. While I constantly tried to beat it into your head that you were undesirable, you somehow managed to discover just how amazing you really are. And again, I applaud you for that. But don’t let your guard down. I have a trump card.
No man=no happily ever after. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you. I thought it was enough to drill it into you every night but I see I have to remind you because Beyoncè has tried to undo all of my hard work. Let me say it again: NO man= NO happily ever after.
About a month ago, a YouTube video of a mid-November performance by Beyonce at the O2 Arena in London was brought to my attention. Performing in the round, and hitting the climax of a rousing rendition of her international smash hit “Halo,” the 28 year-old R&B phenom inexplicably makes a b-line for the edge of the platform and stagedives into the crowd. Wearing only what I can basically gather to be a diamond-studded, black leotard, stilettos (Beyonce’s trademark shoe ware), large earrings, and her hair out and wild, Beyonce completely submits to the will of her audience, a move that could have resulted in her hair and jewelry being snagged and pulled, her private parts being groped, or her body simply being dropped. Instead, the crowd catches her, and lifts her into an epic, Christ-like pose, screaming and applauding in total adoration and awe as she continues to sing the song, hitting almost every note perfectly.
It’s a beautiful, exhilarating, and decidedly surreal sight. You see, I have neither seen nor heard of a mainstream pop performer, ala Britney Spears or Rihanna, stagediving into an audience; it’s risky and dangerous, and requires the performer to not only trust their fans unequivocally, but to be moved and invested in the emotionality of performing to such a degree that one would basically throw caution to the wind and thrust oneself into the hands of their spectators.
Of course, Beyonce is clearly not your average mainstream pop performer.
So, why is it that every time I talk about black women’s lived experiences feeble-minded always on the black woman’s titty black man hollers in his best tonka truck voice, “We got it hard not black women?” Wow. My first immediate response is, “Did I say anything negative about the black man?” No. My second response is, “Did I even use the male pronoun in any part of my statement?” No. So, how is it that you, Mr. Beans and Rice eating barefoot and pregnant needy black man, are offended, wounded, and betrayed by my acknowledgement of black women’s stories? You see, Beyonce calls it your big ego. I simply refer to it as your broke-down Napoleonic black male privilege having @$s. I know the tone of this blog seems reminiscent of Erykah Badu’s Tyrone and Beyonce’s Irreplaceable, but my intent is not to lyrically serenade you with all the ills black men have visited upon black women, but to say that I am sick and I am tired of the, “I am black man and the world is on my shoulder boo who who” whine every time I mention anything about black women.
I mean, I can say, “I as a black woman sneezed today,” and the black man would counter, “I have a sinus infection.” I as a black woman could slip and fall and the black man would argue for dear life that he invented the slip then fall movement. I can say, “As black woman I love my vagina,” and the black man would say, “Not as much as I do (hearty John Coffy from the Green Mile’s laugh).” I can say, “I scraped my knee,” and the black man would moan like an old southern Baptist minister, “I am quadriplegic . . . I am so oppressed.” Really, is it that important that you, Mr. I am an Endangered Species, be the center of attention all the damn time? When I go to the bathroom, I have to seriously think about how my brown poop will oppress you. When I sleep at night, I have to think about how my dreams will challenge your manhood and rival your oppression. I am so over, “The world is against me” black man’s dirge. Go sing that song to a group of people who care, people like Tiger Wood’s wife and even they are tired of your big ego.Read more »
Beyonce performs during the MTV Video Music Awards at Radio City Music Hall on Sunday, Sept. 13, 2009, in New York City. (Brad Barket/PictureGroup via AP Images)
Beyonce’s Thanksgiving special airs this week, and I know there are plenty of folks hating. Had I not seen the light, I would’ve been one of them. A few weeks ago, I was checking my Facebook account, and a friend’s status message read that she intended to write a negative (feminist) critique of Beyonce. Of course there were the co-signers with their expected “This is so necessary; can’t wait to read it,” responses. Whatever. These people probably bowl with bumpers in the gutters, and celebrate when they roll a strike. Either exercise is about as difficult as convincing a 4-year-old that there are monsters in the closet. The implicit position, the crux of “Beyonce makes feminists nauseous,” argument, I imagine, might be described as something about Beyonce failing to meet certain expectations–her apparent lack of depth, her music, her relationship to men, her skin tone in those makeup ads. Such critiques are ironically similar to a Tyler Perry movie: you’ve seen the tropes before and you how that it’s going to end. Read more »
?” Wow. My first immediate response is, “Did I say anything negative about the black man?” No. My second response is, “Did I even use the male pronoun in any part of my statement?” No. So, how is it that you, Mr. Beans and Rice eating barefoot and pregnant needy black man, are offended, wounded, and betrayed by my acknowledgement of black women’s stories? You see, Beyonce calls it your big ego. I simply refer to it as your broke-down Napoleonic black male privilege having @$s. I know the tone of this blog seems reminiscent of Erykah Badu’s Tyrone and Beyonce’s Irreplaceable, but my intent is not to lyrically serenade you with all the ills black men have visited upon black women, but to say that I am sick and I am tired of the, “I am black man and the world is on my shoulder boo who who” whine every time I mention anything about black women.
