That Time Beyoncé’s LEMONADE Inspired the Hella Black Feminist Version of The Matrix
I made it a point not to read any reviews or other perspectives about LEMONADE, Beyoncé’s latest visual album until I watched it myself. I wanted to feel my own feelings about it, with minimal outside influence. I wasn’t a fan of her work until she kicked in the door wavin’ the .44 with her fifth album, the self-titled personal manifesto which was also her first visual album. That album brought an often left-out voice to the feminist movement for women like me who say that feminist women can desire to be desired just like any other sentient being. I started paying attention to her work after that. And now that I’ve watched it twice, and listened to Hold Up, Sandcastles, and Freedom on repeat, I can safely say that LEMONADE is brilliant and beautiful and open. Like any good body of writing, I felt like the work granted me access to a very real, very raw place in the artist’s life experience. The stunning visuals and hypnotic beats didn’t hurt one bit, either.
As with her first visual album, I see a focus on desire, but this time broadened and nuanced; hella grown-woman, hella Black. Warsan Shire’s words washed Yoncé’s feelings and intentions right to the shores, and I heard her clearly. Then she had the good sense to include Serena Williams in a black bodysuit serving her usual don’t-give-a-fuck-what-you-thankin, strong, full-self embracing energy. My lips stayed pouted and body-rolls moved through me in effortless abundance. I watched and I agreed wholeheartedly.
The team who put this together gets mad props — LEMONADE is lit. I’m feeling it. So much so that I would seriously consider shifting my whole entire life around to personally help Sophia Stewart get funding for her own movie version of The Matrix, casting Beyoncé Knowles-Carter as Neo…ooh, and Viola Davis as Morpheus. Church!
Obviously, Toni Morrison would be cast as The Oracle. Queens of all the Feels — Lauryn Hill, Cassandra Wilson, Sade, and Natalie “The Floacist” Stewart — would be tapped to grace the movie’s soundtrack. Mara Brock Akil, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and Roxane Gay would be among the project’s creative consultants. And Heben and Tracey from Another Round would host the official premier party, (again, obviously).
The feature-length film would draw from the type of cinematography that held cultural reverence, musicality, and a specialty in capturing black skin on film in high regard; you know, the likes of Hype Williams (Belly, 1998) and Malik H. Sayeed (Belly, Eyes Wide Shut). You remember that opening sequence don’t you?
Wouldn’t you watch the shit outta that?
In the opening scene, the words MY PERSONAL MANIFESTO would flash across the screen. The rest of the film would be peppered with cultural context, African-ness, ritual and waistlines swaying in circular motions. Borrowing from the strong silent narratives evoked when women in beautiful gowns and sweat on their brows sit gracefully in front of tightly-shut doors of houses designed to hide away pain from outside eyes, the film would be told from a woman’s perspective. Afros and loose curls and various shades of black and brown would converge to demonstrate deep cultural context and self-celebration, mixed strategically with with universal understandings of pain and powerlessness; a recipe that is simple and sweet, like half-pound of sugar, juice of eight lemons, and zest of half of a lemon, and water.
Then we’d hear the raspy, country-kissed voice of what’s gotta be the love child of Dianna Ross and Tina Turner, Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter, aka Neyoncé.
Some dope ass transition would bring the focus toward Neyoncé, rocking some elaborate, body-celebrating lace joint, maybe as a jumpsuit. Some fly shit that’s gonna get that designer a contract to create whatever Anyanwu, the protagonist from Octavia Butler’s life-giving science fiction novel, Wild Seed, would have worn.
Then Neyoncé would show up full screen, a beautiful blend of organic, casual confidence and well-practiced poise. Draped in Blackgirl swag and recognizing the importance of owning all of herself. Owning her entire voice, daring to risk expression. Making sure her freedom won’t rot in hell.
She would take one last sip of her granny’s Lemonade, then she would then chant an excerpt from her Personal Manifesto:
• • •
I am many things. Comprised of many feelings, steeped in various forms of magic, including and especially melanin. I speak fluent siren. I am the first version of me; Prime.
But I am comprised of many energies, bits of the women and men who came. Before me. The ones who spanned their wings to clear paths for me to sashay my beautiful black ass down. I conjure up James Baldwin and pray out loud to Maya Angelou when I use visuals
and words
and fashion
and poetry
and ritual
and history
and herstory
and context
and slang terms
and Blackgirl hair
and Jamaican patois
and real fucking emotion
…to mine my experiences, and to speak of my pain as well as celebrate myself.
I know that some people feel real uncomfortable with how much I embrace the God in Me. Yet and still, I remain Me. Love God Herself, said She. I believe Her. And I found her when I started seeing more Me.
I am not just a woman who sings, nor I am not just an entertainer. I am growing, I am aware of things. New things and old scars, fresh wounds and muffled battle cries. Love informed my lens, and I recognize Me now.
I am not ashamed to want out loud, and to say what I know I deserve. All this knowing, all this recognition, and all this grind, grants me all this access, and I will use it to tell the story of my entire Me.
This feels powerful, and sometimes it also feels very much like brokenness. In all my power and proof of magic, I can still say out loud that I am not too perfect to ever feel this worthless.
I get to feel all of that, and I get to say so. Because women can feel both broken and brilliant, pissed-off and powerful, fancied, fucked well, and fucked over. And sometimes we inflict pain too.
So, in all my pain and doubt and humanness, I still dare to own and to flaunt my power, because I am not comprised mainly of my pain.
I am comprised of many energies,bits of the women and men who came. Before me. The ones who spanned their wings to clear paths for me to sashay my beautiful. black. ass. down.
***
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