Lunch ladies in blue nurse-like uniforms trooped the cafeteria back and forth wiping down the salad bar, opening packages of tater tots and frozen flash fried chicken in anticipation of three lunch rushes. It was morning, and I flipped through my spiral notebook furiously scraping the page with last minute answers on my homework. The donut wrapper crinkled as I brushed it to munch and write.
A girl flopped into the cafeteria, golden hoops clacking at her glasses. She carried a stack of books. From the top of the pile, she pulled and dropped a Vibe magazine on the table. We all knew the news - LaTavia Roberson and LeToya Luckett were out of Destiny’s Child. A picture of the former members appeared in the middle of the issue, smiling, unaware of their impending fate. The girl furrowed her brow.
“That bitch Beyoncé.”
Her diatribe began. She didn’t like the new “Say My Name” video. “I heard she got her dad to kick them out of the group. She can’t sing all that good anyway.”
I nodded and “hmm mmmm’d” with the girl as she unscrewed her Fruitopia bottle and took a sip. I had been sitting alone doing my homework, not expecting to be included in the gripes and the gossip of the day. If I argued back and said “actually, Beyoncé is a great singer,” she may not choose my table tomorrow.
“Yes, the video for ‘Say My Name’ is kinda dumb”, I agreed.
LaTavia and LeToya had just appeared in The Writing’s on the Wall the previous summer. They had also appeared in the video for the first single “Bills, Bills, Bills.”
I expected any subsequent videos to feature them, so it was jarring to watch the two new members sing over LeToya’s and LaTavia’s vocals.
“All they do is sit there on the couch and move their sway. It’s shots of them moving their head, that's it.”
She sprinkled in a few more “bitches” before we packed up and headed to class.
I had acceded with the girl on how dumb the video was, but after school, there I was in front of 106 & Park studying the moves, popping out my booty and swaying my head to imitate the women.
I had anticipated seeing more of LaTavia and LeToya.
And I needed to see them in Destiny’s Child. I needed to see four girls of varying brown skin tones be glamorous pop stars. Brown girls rarely receive the crossover success that Destiny’s Child was on their way to. Beyoncé had the star power, and Kelly, LaTavia and LeToya got it by proxy.
There were of course other girl groups I adored, especially TLC and SWV. But groups like those seemed strictly R&B, and adult. Destiny’s Child’s subject matter edged towards unsatisfying relationships with men, emulating a vernal and pop sound. Whereas when I listened to SWV, TLC, and other female R&B singers, their relationships sounded unyielding - no matter how hard they tried to quit them they remained tethered to their men. Destiny’s Child, however, dropped their relationships quickly - an empowering message for me as a young teenager, but a reminder that these relationships weren’t all that deep in the first place. And as a pre-teen and young teenager, ephemeral romances were my existence.
Destiny’s Child was us. They were the girls in our classes or our churches or our neighborhoods, that is, if we girls had the glamour, the sparkly clothes and professional hair extensions and glitter makeup. Our style was limited to pre-teen pink matching sets with our relaxed ends “bumped” and large nerdy glasses. Destiny’s Child was the bridge between girlhood and womanhood, where our fleeting relationships could get caustic but where we were still children who couldn’t get too involved because our lives were guided and protected by adults.
I took it as a personal affront when LaTavia and LeToya left. Why would Beyoncé, my aspirational peer, remove two dark skinned girls and leave behind the notion that brown girls could rise to stardom? While we knew Beyoncé was the star, brown girls like me could rest in the superstardom that wasn’t always afforded us. And I was resentful because she is the lightest member and I couldn’t ignore that that contributed to her popularity and success.
How come she couldn’t use her success to continue to prop up LeToya and LaTavia?
I mused on this thought, outwardly disdaining Beyoncé and the remnants of Destiny’s Child for years while privately loving the music. I made little mention of Beyoncé with my friends, occasionally commenting on her growing curves and just wanted to be free to enjoy the music without struggling with the skin color politic.
I was in college when Dangerously in Love dropped. Maturing a little, I forwent my sardonic ways towards other women to belong. Plus, the album was good.
I listened to the album from top to bottom and found myself dancing and bopping to every song. I remember jamming in my dorm-mate’s room, waiting for the “Crazy in Love” video to come on so I could imitate Beyoncé’s catwalk and dance moves, wishing I had jean shorts and red pumps. Dancing with my friend in her room helped me realize that I did not hate Beyoncé. She made great music. I loved her.
I listened to the titular song and belted out the words with all my little eighteen-year-old belly. I had just broken up with my high school boyfriend and whether or not we were in love was debatable, but I wanted to feel like we were. But I had Beyoncé and this song as I waited for true love.
I realized it wasn’t my responsibility to be invested in the inner-workings of a girl pop group. I can only be responsible for responding honestly when art I hear and see lands in my ears and shoots through my legs.
My resentment of Beyoncé was rooted in my need to be seen and reject the light skinned beauty who didn’t look like me. Instead of seeking out artists I would have liked, I relied on her well-earned popularity to express my frustration with the music industry itself.
When BEYONCÉ, Beyoncé’s first visual album was released, I was attending RootsCamp, an annual activist conference and making new friends. I had bonded with a few women, but at midnight, Beyoncé released an entire album complete with videos accompanying each track. It was incredible. I stayed up all night with my friend Irene watching each video and dancing along. For me, this album put her as the undeniable greatest. No one could ignore or deny it anymore. Including me.
This is the album that brought my closest friends together. I enjoyed every minute of it, along with the rest of the world.
Beyonce brings Black women together to share joy, art, music, and dance. In a world where many people, Black men included, fight to make Black women miserable, ridiculing us for starting our own businesses, calling us hoes and thots, highlighting our single status by saying we have too high standards, talking about our attitudes, our short dresses and long nails. The argument for hating Beyonce doesn’t make sense, except, men hate Black women having fun.
Men who hate Beyoncé simply target a powerful woman that highlights their lack of talent, wealth, and either the level of attractiveness or access to ideal (for them, light skinned, thin women). Their mediocrity shines through when Beyoncé comes on and women dance to her lyrics.
Just like I needed to be seen and celebrated in the image of Destiny’s Child and other brown-skinned pop stars, men’s need validation. Unfortunately, because of patriarchal structures, men’s power, visibility and validation is rooted in the denigration of women. For many men, Beyoncé is an easy target. They know their hatred will go unchecked and would illicit the most attention. Additionally, Black men (and men in general) have a weird need to disdain things women love. Black men always want to “humble” Black women and Beyoncé isn’t humble.
I can only compare it to my past resentment, my irrational need to concentrate my own societal exclusion onto a single person. As a brown skinned woman, it’s easier to focus my anger on the disregard for brown skinned women because she is a successful, beautiful light skinned woman than it is to fight the vast and intricate structures that contribute to her success. I pretended to hate Beyoncé to be accepted, but embracing my love of her music brought me closer to others.
Still, Black men’s hatred feels much more sinister.
I’ve been with a couple of men who hated Beyoncé. They hated how much I talked about it. “You’re not gonna Beyoncé me to death, are you?” one partner said as I plugged my phone into an aux cord to play Beyoncé’s album. He hated Beyoncé for no reason, and brought up inane reasons to talk about her. I used to fantasize about being with someone who would let me enjoy things. Let me enjoy Beyoncé.
It was 2016. Lemonade just dropped in the middle of the night on HBO, and I stayed up to watch it. My then lover was out of the house and I was dreading his arrival. The television lit my face aglow as Beyoncé's alto swathed the room. His shadow appeared in the corner, ready for a tirade.
“I bet she brags all the time. It would be difficult being her husband. Jay-Z probably has to listen to her being cocky.”
I nodded my head in agreement saying “yeah, Beyoncé probably is too much,” wondering whose words were floating from my lips. It was the ‘me’ that didn’t want to argue.
Lemonade was nearing the end and we were headed to bed. I slipped in my headphones to finish the album. As I awoke to obsessively listen to the studio album the next morning, I had to endure eye rolls and scoffs every time I turned on the album or sang the songs. I mostly hid behind headphones.
I listen to a lot of Beyoncé. I bounce around to “Schooling Life” while brushing my teeth. Homecoming fuels my three mile runs. When I want to feel something, I sing “I Rather Die Young” or “Me, Myself and I” and when I need energy after a day of meetings, I twerk to “Get Me Bodied”. “Formation” is for my daily commutes, pretending to be a model or someone very powerful.
If I dated someone who hated Beyoncé again, my constant need to please and fit it would train me not to enjoy my favorite artist. Much like I nodded along to the girl in high school and her peppered “bitches”, I would acquiesce my daily pleasures just to be with someone. I would have to diminish my daily routine to be with someone who would talk shit about Beyoncé. It would be as if they hypnotized me to believe syrupy biscuits tasted like soggy white bread.
And I refuse. I will no longer hide my appreciation of an artist to please someone I am dating.
I met another man on Bumble. I have no clue why I swiped right on this man, but I am certain that it was only because he was handsome because he had very few words on his profile. We went putt-putting for our first date, and he kept stealing touches (arm around my waist to check my height, fixing my makeup), and I was hooked immediately.
Until…
We were texting late one night, while I was watching Homecoming (again). He hit me with WYD. and, this is how it ended. [REDACTED FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT]
me: I’m watching Beyoncé homecoming!
him: *vomit emoji* garbage trash devil
me: we don’t Beyoncé-bash here.
him: that thot.
me: I don’t think we’ll work. hope you find what you are looking for.
him: wow.
I find this hysterical, at the same time I am really proud of you. For clarification, I’m not a big Beyoncé fan, but that is neither here or there. I promise to not Beyoncé bash, or call her any names outside of that given to her. I also promise not to deride you for your choice to love her. That’s on you. I’m happy to see that you are doing you, and if than man can’t deal with that, keep it moving. You are in control of who is on your life, and speaking your truth. You get it girl!! 👏🏽👏🏽🤜🏽🤛🏽