Beyonce. Beyonce released her first solo album the year I was born. Jokingly, I like to believe this is what innately drew me to her music. I see a lot of myself in her work. It renders itself vulnerable in this way. It invites everybody (Black folk) in and lets everybody (Black folk) take a lil piece of somethin’. It is a sort of Southern hospitality.
Friday, March 29th, Beyonce released the second act of her three-act project titled “COWBOY CARTER”. I’m still floored. I’m still processing. I’m still gathering the breath to say I needed this and that I’ll hold it tight forever. Just as Beyonce holds Houston, Texas and just as I hold Weldon, North Carolina.
COWBOY CARTER makes me want to write about Weldon, North Carolina. We aren’t cowboys, necessarily, but if we’re not country then tell me who is. I want to write about the places in the South that raised me. I want to tell you about the clean white tee and dirty-boot-wearing, oiled-skillet using, on the avenue cruising country people that held my hand and guided me to wherever I am right now, today.
Grandma. God made sure to see that I have two of them. My momma’s mother mowed the lawn and tried to teach me. She ripped the road at all times of the days with Mamee, that’s her mother. They brought me with them and they dressed me in doll baby dresses and they wore their nicest blue jeans and colorful sweatpants. My daddy’s mother went and goes to church almost every Sunday. Second Sunday is for communion and the fourth Sunday…well that’s when the youth pastor preaches and “I just don’t know what he be sayin’ half the time.” I went to church almost every Sunday.
Growing up, God made sure to see that I have neighborhood friends. My best-friend and I were named “Love and Basketball” by our neighbors. We didn’t pay that no mind, though, we just wanted to play. I needed someone to play with because my brothers and cousins were older. But they taught me how to eat neckbones, make jokes, and feel cool.
The front porch and its wind chimes. The sandy patch of grass we danced on to create our basketball court. Grandma’s kitchen that glimmered burgundy and yellow largely because of the haze from the hot grease. The chickens behind Mamee’s house that seemed to be laying eggs every time I laid eyes on ‘em. The church house and its cushioned pews, girl, they felt like heaven on early mornings.
Similar to Beyonce, I want to write about all these places and the people who made them. I want to write to you as if you know me. No, not every sentence will look right. There will be words that look misplaced and feel like accidents. And though I probably should, I don’t feel the need t to appeal to the politically correct. At least not right this second. It’s not urgent. My grandmothers don’t and my momma didn’t.
