Sipping From Her Cup: A Black Man’s Appreciation of ‘Lemonade’
I am sitting beside the woman that I am husband to. It is a sunny day, and we are lounging in front of our townhouse. We do not have a proper porch, but the bit of neutral space between our garage and the shared drive into our complex makes for a great place to set up some lawn chairs on a hot day. I sit there, enjoying the sun and the company of my partner. I look over and see her sipping on cool glass of something pinkish green, the condensation of the contrasting temperatures beading on the contours of the glass. She only has one glass, and she seems to be enjoying her cool drink in a way that seems singular. It’s her glass. It’s her drink. It’s her enjoyment. She looks up, seeing my interest, and smiles in that way she does. Her nose crinkles as she looks over her glass. Then she offers me a sip.
This was my experience as I sat next to the woman that I’m husband to and watched ‘Lemonade’, Beyoncé’s visual album, for the first time. As I sat with the woman that I’m husband to, and followed along as Beyoncé laid out her artistry through a Black feminist lens, allowing the world of popular music consumption to gain unfiltered access to the socio-cultural worldview of a Black woman’s journey, I began to feel uneasy. I saw the woman that I am husband to identify with the anger and pain that Beyoncé translated through her art and became afraid. The woman that I am husband to looked over, and she must have seen this and said to me, “This isn’t about you.”
I knew that she meant this as a statement of reassurance. She was letting me know that I was not the man that made Beyoncé become disembodied and immersed in her own depression and insecurity. I was not the man that was making the woman that I am husband to and Beyoncé try to breathe underwater. But part of me knew that I was, and could be, and had been. It was not about me personally, but it was about the experience of Black women, and I could not absolve myself from that pain. So, my first instinct was to crouch in defense.
Lets pause now. One might ask if this man is going to try to co-opt the body of this Black woman’s work? The answer that I would offer springs from the moment when, taking time from the moment that she was in, the woman that I am husband to offered me a kind reassurance. In that moment, I realized that there was another way for me to take the words “this isn’t about you.” In that moment, I realized that this beautifully executed, exquisitely developed, and opulently produced masterpiece of light and sound, was absolutely not about, by, for, or in need of my experience and me.
In that moment, I realized that this beautifully executed, exquisitely developed, and opulently produced masterpiece of light and sound, was absolutely not about, by, for, or in need of my experience and me.
I am a man who tries very hard to be an ally to women, and more especially I am a Black man who is fervently committed to being an ally to Black women. Understanding this as a frame, what kind of relationship can I possibly have with a work that was not created for me? I think, the space that I might occupy in this conversation is similar to the superstar rapper who’s signature lyric is the juxtaposition of his initials with the Hebrew name of God, who laid his head at the feet of the woman that he is husband to. It is as the ally, the supporter, and cheerleader.
Thinking of my work in training social justice allies, I remember that this idea of not being central can be hard for, as Baldwin and Coates might put it, “people who believe they are white.” There seems to be no shortage of commentators who confuse the limits of their own encapsulated worldview, with some perceived flaw in Beyoncé’s art. They lament the unfamiliar bitter taste of ‘Lemonade’, unable to grasp the fact that the Other might begin to gag in response to the cloying processed cola provided free with “the Dream.” They mistake an urgent plea for restraint with an attack on their collective character. They live so enmeshed in the illusion of individualism that they misunderstand that exposing them to the pain in the eyes of Lesley McSpadden and Sybrina Fulton is exposing to the collective wail of Black women who’s children’s bodies have been stolen by the Dream, and Beyoncé’s right to include their pain in her art is just as inalienable as their commentary is inappropriate and unwelcomed.
Having privilege is the power to shape your own reality and the realities of others. As a man, I have the privilege of being able to look out into the world and see myself in all the works around me. This is truncated by the reality of my Blackness. I can see the reflection of white men around me and find ways to identify. As an aspiring ally, I can understand that Black women must live in a world formed and shaped by masculinity and whiteness. I do not write this with the hope that Black women will appreciate my “wokeness,” in fact I fully expect that I am missing things that are absolutely important. Instead, my goal is to put in some work towards reducing my blind spots, while hopefully reaching out to other men who aspire to be allies in the hope that they will do the same. In the end, I’m just hoping for another sip.
Copyright 2016 Bedford E. F. Palmer II, Ph. D.
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