Why Piers Morgan Gets the @$$ Face — I Mean Gas Face
By Ida Harris
Ain’t nobody surprised by Piers Morgan’s critique of Beyonce’s Lemonade — nope, not na’an bit— because it is enmeshed and developed in comparison to his [e]urocentricity. And it is mis-understood through a set of abstract actions: vague observations, slight interactions, third-party accounts; all’a which skew its actual nature. [w]hite assessments of Blackness are flawed for several reasons:
(1) They are processed through a cataract gaze
(2) [w]hiteness does not benefit
(3) It ain’t for them
[w]hite assessment feigns Blackness and that’s preposterous since whiteness doesn’t even see it. Of Blackness, whiteness solicits a special brand of ass-kissing. It likes Blackness to be accessible, appeasing, apolitical, homogenized, passive — unblack. Whiteness prefers that Blackness be unseen and unheard. This violent request for the erasure of cultural identity was not uncommon to slaves or Blacks, surviving during the Jim Crow era — except then, it was hardly a “request”.
Piers Morgan is no different in his demand, nor his appraisal of Bey’s Blackness — except he prefers his Lemonade heard and not seen. For his comfort, he’d rather Beyoncé perform Blackness instead of be Blackness. Images of lil’ Black boys in hoodies and dancers blinged out in Black Panther swag irritate the fuck outta him. He is irked by visuals, connoting Hurricane Katrina’s devastation on New Orleans. He can’t stand the look of Beyonce’s carefree and beautiful Black body sprawled across a sinking cop car — its disrespectful. Lemonade’s inclusion of Leslie McSpadden (Michael Brown’s mother) and Sybrina Fulton (Trayvon Martin’s mother), who are the ultimate representation of contemporary Black pain and suffering at the hands of white brutes — pains him. Morgan feels as he stated in his article for Daily Mail.com:
“…uneasy watching these women being used in this way to sell an album.” (Umm — right — ’cause the Queen of Puttin’ Out Albums on the Low and Shuttin’ Shit Down needs help with that).
Piers Morgan’s article demonstrates white fragility at its finest. He, and whiteness, romantize shucking and jiving and cooning and crooning — Blackness devoid of humanity. That is why having space of our own is imperative.
Blackness is not a one trick pony. Nah. It is a continuum which runs so differently across an African diaspora that its light is obscure — to those who are not ’bout it — because outside eyes see it simply. Inside eyes inhale deep and listen intently, for pain or pride, or lesson, or love. They palm Blackness with a tender grip and taste it with their entire tongue. Inside eyes savor each ingredient, while consuming the whole — and they swallow, too. Blackness, like a stew, is full-bodied: aromatic, juicy, spicy, meaty, abundant. It’s stank, sweaty, tangy, big-boned, thick-thick. It is a complex compound. It is THE distinction represented in Black artistic expression, where ALL five senses need be employed — to get it: audition, gustation, olafaction, tactition, vision.
Black art, nor expression can ever be fully realized by an unknowing lens. You see — the way interpretation is set up — the stranger’s gaze mainly misses the point (the stew) by extracting the main ingredient (the Black). It is this kind of immaturity and inability to see forth that taints a visiting palate. A fool’s lip sips on soup (performance) and cannot distinguish it from roux (Blackness). In Black deconstructive spaces, spectators ignore spectrum, but Black will recognize Black. The ingredients (Black) may be dissimilar from dish-to-dish, but the stew (Blackness) is always kindred. Because — really — Gumbo is Pepperpot; is Brown Stew; is Joumou; is Doro Wat; is Birria; is Cachupa; is Chapea; is Maafe; is Chitlins; is Jumbalaya; is Chicken & Noodles; is Franks & Beans. Period. As curator of words, my purpose is to be a steward of Blackness and its art — its function and its form. I’mma keep it a-hunned y’all, but most of all — I’mma keep it Black-Black.
