Oooooh, I get it. Life gave her lemons!
I saw a photo of Jay-Z in a publication yesterday which showed him relaxing, smoking a fine cigar and chilling in Miami. He seemed genuinely oblivious to all the ballistic fruit being flung around him. Or, he is very good at feining disinterest. I imagine all celebrities, real or reel, hone their skills on the daily. Don’t get me wrong, I am a HUGE fan of faking it or phone it in. But that’s because I am an alcoholic.
I tried to sit through HBO/Beyonce’s ‘Lemonade’ but could not. Mostly because I watched actual videos in the 80s and 90s. I love music as an art form. I don’t get music as performance art. I’d rather watch men and play with their instruments. But that’s because I’m old and crotchety and enjoying saying, “In my day…”
Amazing amounts of tea leaves are being read when it comes to Queen Bey’s ‘Lemonade’. I’ve read through lyrics and managed to make sense of some of the covert and overt meanings. I love it. Well, I mostly love it. I am all about empowerment of the proverbially disenfranchised. As a woman and a Latina, I have seen, with my eyes, varying levels of sexism, racism and other isms which chip at the soul of the Breathing. Researching how to rise above it while not feel my feelings has become my life’s work. But that’s because I’m a hyper-emotional imp.
The line “I don’t wanna lose my pride, but I’ma fuck me up a bitch” from Beyonce’s ‘HOLD UP’ is a totes fave, as the kids say. Personally, I love telling idiots to go eff themselves, refusing to pass up even the most minor opportunity. I spend a great deal of time stewing in my own head when something as trivial as a kind traffic gestures is not acknowledged. I mean, can I get a ‘thank you’ wave, you dumbass?
Anyways, I get her line. I get her lyrics. I am girl. I’ve loved, been loved, hurt and been hurt. Love is grand and devasting. But Beyonce wiped the floor with my emotions. I envy her ability to be so honest. She uses her words to speak her truth no matter how beautiful or traumatic. And I believe her. I believe every word of every song. To love so acutely you feel your stomach bottoms out, your heart explode and mouth water at sound of their bedroom voice. And the feeling of your chest being cracked wide open by an chilly lover holding a utility clamp and dynamite.
In my experience, all woman have had Goddess and psycho moments. I once sat outside a boyfriend’s house for 15 hours staring at his front door. Years later, I had that same boyfriend take me to a faraway B&B, filling the room with my favorite flowers for a birthday. I once had a strung-out young lady call me pretending to be the guy, as it turns out, we were both dating. Yes, that happened. It was heartbreaking. I’ve sat on the other side of corded, cordless, flip, Blackberry and iPhones gazillions of times listening to friends gush of love, unicorns, breakfast in bed and heard their tears, boogers, while broken heart chunks forced their way through transmission lines.
The Media has jumped on ‘Lemonade’ as per usual, and beckoned us to focus on the worst instead of the best. Examining how she is broken instead of how she has survived. Dissecting her hurt and anger instead of praising how she’s flourished and excelled. Focusing on “Becky with the good hair” instead of the man-tramp. Making her powerlessness the focal point and glossing past her badassness and pro-Goddess “Who the f*ck do you think I is? / You ain’t married to no average bitch boy” message.
Unable to leave well enough alone, two dilettantes came out, guns blazing like idiots, proclaiming “not to be Becky” while simultaneously authenticating themselves as self-servicing, attention-hungry 3rd tier celebrities. But why must women hate on women? Instead of supporting, caring and lifting up our fellow Goddess in their time of need, why do we make it about ourselves while sharpening our kitty claws on anothers’ broken back? And why does the wronged woman always go after the OTHER woman and not the man-tramp? This phenomena is not saved for the rich and famous. I am Judge Judy junkie and I see women go after the OTHER women for money, pain & suffering and Similac ad naseum. The men just sit back with a slimy coat of smugness lathered all up on their faces unfazed by Judge Judy’s iconic “You’re an idiot” glare.
Women are the cake, ladies. Men are just icing.
This revelation took me years to see. I too, hated women. I played the same stupid game at one point or another. Even today, when I’m not feeling great about myself, I can my claws sliding out like Wolverine. Chris Rock remarks a truth about women which is as true today as it was back when he said it 15 years ago — “You know why women don’t rule the world? It’s because women hate other women.” Hate might be a strong word but I’ll go with it. The correct word is FEAR. And the reason is HURT. Women fear other women. And hurt people hurt people. When we get our hair done and buy a new outfit, it’s not for the men in our lives because let’s face it, they’re morons and probably won’t notice. We buy outfits, get our nails done, crop our hairs, pull our whatevers, wax that and the other for OTHER women. We enjoy their jealous beady-eyed gawk as they ask, no- as we TAUNT THEM with a witty mimicky tune about our newest shoes — be them Louboutins or Payless.
As for me, I am hardly ever there anymore. Its not hard to look back and see that broken and hurt little girl and recognizing that all she wants is love. I am eternally grateful to the Universe for its healing power, loving energy and calming force. Remembering the first day I cheered a fellow Goddess at her win still brings me joy. I didn’t feel jealous or angry or spiteful. All I felt was devotion and pride for her. It wasn’t about me. My heart was on her, with her… for her.
And that is because I am a hopeless romantic and a fan of love.
