I am not drunk in love with what I was served last night. I’m giddy with a slew of emotions that both weigh me down and lift me up.
I used to mock Beyonce back in the day. I challenged her grammar and delivery. I regulated her fame and fortune and eventual marriage to the King of Rap to the fact that she looked the part.
Beautiful, light-skinned with enough luck to get into the game and keep her there. Of course she would be the one to shine above the others.
Even light-skinned girls with bad hair have a better chance at nabbing the spotlight from dark-skinned girls with the kind of texture even “Becky” would be envious of.
But the years have been kind to Beyonce. She has blossomed into the black woman that makes me understand better the audacity of what it takes to be exactly — that.
Without the issue of differing complexions or assigned languages.
The struggle that plagues women of color. Women who are identified as black — isn’t a process that can be revamped with the wand of #BlackGirlMagic — although those efforts are magical and meaningful in so many ways.
As the words of Somali poet — Warsan Shire propelled the potent imagery that evoked a plethora of emotions that possessed me as I tried in vain to maintain control — I was haunted…