I’m stunned. Literally stunned. And overcome with an overwhelming amount of emotion. The reasoning behind it can be obvious to some but to me, it was mind-blowing. Not only did Beyoncé Giselle contribute to arguably one of the best moments of 2013 (nay — POP CULTURE) but she also awakened a vicious hunger inside of me that was on the verge of dying.
I had planned to start my fast at the strike of midnight on Friday, December 13th. I always plan these things around a symbolic number. I was born on the 13th and quite contrary to superstition, that number has been nothing but a blessing. Seemed pretty clear to start it four months before I celebrate my Jordan year, right? It was honestly long overdue as my mind was cluttered with a lot of self-destructive thoughts; these thoughts had plagued me much of the season and I had to give them their eviction notice for the upcoming year. As I grabbed my water and climbed into bed a few minutes after 11, I assumed that this day would be special merely to me because it symbolized the moment I finally didn’t RSVP to my pity party.
Then, “Beyoncé” dropped. And nothing was the same.
Let me back-peddle a bit.
A few months ago, when my best friends accused me of closeted fangirling and secret membership in the BeyHive, I pushed that notion aside. Me? A Bey fanatic? One of them? I always respected her artistry and trust, when there was a Beyoncé track on, I was hitting those notes like I was of Mama Tina’s womb myself. But, to be of those folks who lived in meme infamy? Who came in droves, on the hunt for both blood and edges, if ANYONE questioned anything Queen Bey did? Those people? Nah, b. Not Bee.
But, I watch enough “Iyanla: Fix My Life” and “Love and Hip-Hop”. Taking a page from Ms. Vanzant and K. Michelle, I need to stand in my truth. And, baby, on this day, I stand in my standom. Now, I proudly boast that I am stan for any and all things BEYONCÉ GISELLE KNOWLES-CARTER a.k.a. “Snatch The Wigs and Let Them Have It” b.k.a. “The Fave Your Fave Could NEVER Be”.
Never could I have imagined that an album could evoke so many feelings inside of me. You could feel the feminist energy in every track from “Rocket”, a track dripping with sex that my children are probably going to be conceived to, to fan-favorite “Flawless” (previously “Bow Down”) with a monologue by Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche that will have you burning your bras with your fist firmly lifted in the air. Then, of course, there are the visuals. Orgasmic, artistic, essentially flaw-free visuals like “Drunk in Love”, an ode to the marriage that we’ve dedicated countless Instagram and Tumblr posts to admire. Or, how about “No Angels”, profiling the hometown of our shero in all it’s raw, swangin’ and bangin’ glory?
Please, Bey — don’t hurt ’em.
This album arrived right on time. At a time when I was questioning my womanhood and struggling to be one with myself and my rate of progression, Bey was able to show me that I just need to own it. She taught me with this major career move that it’s okay to stay silent. Just because I don’t broadcast my hustle doesn’t mean the hustle isn’t occurring. Instead, I can use my time wisely to perfect my craft and, for a lack of better words, s**t on the competition. I can master my steps before even declaring that I have taken them. Now, THAT’S superpower.
So, as I continue to refresh my social media apps and listen to “Superpower” for the umpteenth time (seriously, I will never tire of Frankie on a Pharrell masterpiece), I reflect on my womanhood, my bout with complacency, and how in seconds, Beyoncé made me feel like I could build my empire to be epic effortlessly.
One question for the naysayers — you mad, bruh?