Solange Set The Table and I Took a Seat With Arms Wide Open
I opened my arms and because they are so long — I hit the jug of liquid-wonder and it poured and stained the cloth.
The color was a lucid pink.
The girls seated around us smiled with acknowledgement. But, I was horrified. This storied visit was now an exercise in self-preservation.
The sun darts in with no mercy and I wake up.
Headphones still intact as the interlude of my liking rings in my ears.
What a dream! Excerpt this is real.
Solange really did come through and the result is a jamming session that wasn’t choreographed in a starried hurry.
She took her time. You can tell that this empress of dopeness took her damn time.
She won’t rack up the eminence of desperate editors — gathering writers in haste and effort — to thwart the threat of suffocation from competitors vying for first place. She absolutely can’t compete with the gold-plated manuscripts of big sis.
Even though her offerings hit the chord of overheated resonance.
Lemonade was the blueprint for Black women in search of biblical validation.
A Seat at the Table arms us with the weapons of astute discovery in the eyes and arms of the men — who love us in the midst of our self-acceptance and worldly defiance.
We are poetically Black.
We are entangled in the web of discovery and we don’t want to be removed from the consequences of such magnificence.
Solange’s latest offering is epic and I hate using that word because it somehow fails to adequately summarize her gift — without drifting into generic fodder but it’s all I got.
How can you listen to Junie without holding yourself from the goosebumps that erode your pores?
Losing You was my shit and signaled things to come — but, then she just dropped Cranes In The Sky and Don’t You Wait.
The sweat. The quiet adulation that was once reserved for Lauryn Hill. The confusion that you fell in love with the wrong sister.
Then, Don’t Wish Me Well and Where Do We Go made landfall.
Your faculties are elapsing into a coma of recognition and pride. The bloating that you feel is the fever of victory.
Being Black these days requires a lot. It demands more than you thought you could give. It’s a hard slap in the face.
White people who mean well reach out with empathy but you frown on the privilege that dictates their proposition.
Being a Black woman is on another level.
We are amazingly refined inwardly and outwardly and yet the message of our devalued status trumpets loudly without our assistance.
Basically the White man who fucked us crazy back in time — successfully made us believe that we are a righteous pile of shit.
We bought it and gobbled it all up without choking.
We should’ve spat it out.
The indigestion still persists. It’s awful. It’s painful. It even paralyzes our senses beyond coherency. Black men refuse to mate with us. They need that blood of freedom that doesn’t flow in our veins.
Sometimes we turn against each other — because the stakes are so high that we can’t resolve the liklihood that the quota will pass us by in favor of the one that resembles us.
I knew it would take a Black superwoman to rescue us.
She arrived just in time.
She didn’t sport a cape. There was no dented rock of kryptonite to light the way. No ceremonious headband or massively diagrammed background to notify the source.
The Black source.
This has to Rise above the ordinary fray of what we’ve been assigned.
No! No need for those formalities.
According to Solange — all we need to do is accept A Seat at the Table. And we are automatically The Chosen Ones.
I accept. Weary no more!
This shit is for us!