A Reflection on Black Womanhood

This week Beyonce dropped her newest visual album called Lemonade. It is beautiful, artistic, narrative, poetic... I could go on an on with descriptors. But the reason I have fallen in love is that Beyonce gave witness to our inner life. In the legacy of Zora and Toni, Beyonce gave us an opportunity to see ourselves in this modern moment just as we do in the works on our shelves. 

In her collection of poetry, Directed By Desire, June Jordan ends her poem *Poem About My Rights with these words:

"I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name
My name is my own my own my own
and I can’t tell you who the hell set things up like this
but I can tell you that from now on my resistance
my simple and daily and nightly self-determination
may very well cost you your life”  

And this all I can think about as the scenes from Lemonade unfold. Wrong is not Beyonce's first, last or middle name. Her name is her own. And so is mine. Bey has entered a new phase of womanhood, and I. Am. Here. For. It. She takes the lemons of her life and transforms them, allowing us to pause so we can sip slowly, deeply from the cup of artistry that is this album. She is free. (And if you are asking, free from what? You havent spent enough time with black women.) Thankfully, she doesnt leave us to our own devises for figuring out how to make our own lemonade. She gives us the recipe.  

1 PINT OF WATER

Bey opens so transparently. "I tried to make a home out of you," she confesses. This is a dangerous practice. A practice that is taught to us with every breath we take. Its an expectation thats in the air. We are told to step into the one we love, set up designer furniture, give our all, and love till the distinction between you is erased. We are not told to make a home with someone but in someone, taking us to the edge of losing but also finding ourselves.

Turns out even Bey is not immune from the expectations that the world places on black women. She lays it out so clearly, "I tried to change. Closed my mouth more. Tried to be soft. Prettier. Less awake." If thats not a black woman's story I dont know what is. We are always told we are too loud. Too disrespectful. Too hard. We learn quickly that we are expected to bend to the will of others... with gratitude and a smile. We wish we could go back to sleep, to close our eyes, to go back to naïveté. But thats not how it works. And so Bey pushes forward cause she'd rather be crazy than walked all over.

When those are the only two options, Imma go ahead and be crazy- wild, risky, bold too. After living in denial for far too long, I can no longer make my home inside someone else, something else. Because the truth is, we are expected to create homes out of our workplaces, our churches, our seminaries and universities, our children and spouses. We are expected to conform, to submit, to remain asleep to oppression, to pretend that we aren't being used, taken for granted. 

As Bey explores the pain and anger of this reality, she gives us a whole heap of sugar to add to our souls. 

1/2 LB OF SUGAR

"Love God herself" is a line I missed the first time I watched this visual album. But this is the theological pin on which her narrative arc rests for me. Black women have to work hard to resist the white male God shoved down our throats.

In our churches we are told in the same breath that God is genderless but its inappropriate to refer to God as anything but He. We are told God is raceless (or race-full) and in the same breath told God is not black. What is a black girl to do when told her identity has nothing to do with God? Destroy that ish. Beyonce gives us the perfect illustration of owning completely that we are fully made in the image God. Black Femaleness Is An Image Of God. We are purposeful creations. To not love us is to not love God. To not love myself, to deny myself is to do violence to the God whose image I bear.

Even in this, Beyonce doesnt give us an angelic woman who transcends the cares of this world. Instead Beyonce dives deep into what it means to be human. She gives us a woman fully experiencing the breadth of an emotional life, fully experiencing the very emotions that God displays over and over again in the Scriptures. She shows us everything from anger and emptiness to hope and redemption. God doesnt expect me to be God. "God is God and I am not" she literally spells out for us.

We are human. And we get to be FULLY human, with all of our emotions. As black women our emotions are policed on a regular basis. "Perhaps if you said it this way..." "Well, maybe your tone made it hard to hear..." "Well perhaps you misunderstood..." "Oh, but you shouldn't feel that way..." "I think you might have an anger issue..." "There is nothing to be angry about..." "But aren't you glad to be working, writing, studying, giving, singing, preaching, teaching, performing all this emotional labor here?"  

We do not have to accept the policing of our thoughts or feelings according to someone else's limited standards of who we are. Im fully human, and I aint sorry.   

JUICE OF 8 LEMONS

Not apologizing for who you are and who you are becoming doesnt mean avoiding the pain and confusion of betrayal.  The bitter taste of America, of life is unavoidable for a black girl. Beyonce turns the lemons over and over and over. She creates the space for us to express the bitter taste of disrespect and dehumanization: Sometimes a trash article, open viciousness, mockery, trolls for days, hand written death threats. Sometimes a gun shot, a choke hold, a hashtag, a life gone. Bey doesnt shy away from exploring both ends of the sour spectrum black women often occupy- Hyper-visibility and Invisibility. The sheer exhaustion of both is hard to express, and yet we know it so well. Bey even gives us a glimpse of society's obsession with Becky. Becky's obsession with a feminism that serves only herself.

And if we weren't all in our feelings by this point, Beyonce chooses to take us to her beginning, the beginning of the hurt, the questions about love and being loved and giving love. When Beyonce can no longer stay in apathy and emptiness she goes back. Cutting open the lemons, Beyonce exposes the pulp, the seeds of her heartbreak. She goes back. Back to daughter staring at her mother. Back to daddies who place their arms around mothers neck while seeking his daughters kisses. Back to disappointment but also delightful laughter. Back to seeing ourselves and deciding who we will be. Back to Daddy's lessons and generational curses. Back to grandmother's alchemy. Back home. Back to the drought of love, and its abundance, its enoughness. Back to where we need just a little more to push forward. 

ZEST OF HALF LEMON 

Sisterhood and Freedom. Im not sure I yet have the words to fully describe how much the images of these black women together, barefoot in the woods, digging in gardens, creating in the kitchen, playing in one another's hair, climbing trees and dipped in water meant to me. All I can say is somehow all of those images reflect the way my soul loves my sisters. Around them all the elements that had been raging- gushing water, consuming fire are suddenly controlled. The raging waters in Hold Up have become stilled. The burning flames of 6 Inch are now tamed. Both are present- fire and water. Passion and peace now resist becoming rage or emptiness. Surrounded by sisters. Cutting, Shaping. Demanding.

Demanding freedom. For ourselves. For one another. For our people. No more surrendering myself to others, "Im painting white flags blue." I could talk about every line of Freedom, but I will just keep singing it to myself for now. 

POUR WATER FROM ONE JUG INTO THE OTHER SEVERAL TIMES

As Beyonce begins to close this narrative, she gives us an almost love song. She acknowledges her care, the sweetness and power of their love. But she is also giving herself time to rebuild trust. Part of that is exchanging someone else's broken wings for hers. Here's the thing. More than once I've believed that someone else's wings could carry me. I believed they were strong enough and healthy enough and perfect enough to carry all that I am. But their wings are always broken unable to take me where only my wings will fly. I must practice believing in my own strength to love, to work, to create, to achieve, to rest. 

STRAIN THROUGH A CLEAN NAPKIN

One of the things I love most about the arc of this album, is that Beyonce's final song isnt All Night; its Formation. Listen. She emerges transformed, evolved, more of her self. She strained out the denial and emptiness. After being unsettled, she is left with the good, the sweetness of knowing who she is. I am pretty sure Beyonce has found her home within herself- and all that being herself encompasses. In Formation she brings it all together- past, present and future, sexiness and love, confidence and playfulness, reality of the ongoing need for #blacklivesmatter and resistance to the status quo. 

Since Beyonce released Formation, white, mainstream outlets have been referring to her evolution as "Militant" but Bey is an entertainer and artist. She is not in anyone's home who decides to turn off the tv or internet. She is not militant. She is DEFIANT. But America is so used to demanding the compliance of black women, defiance is often confused for being militant. White people, nobody is out to get you. All we have ever wanted is freedom.

But when others dont understand who we are or how we are shaping the world, Beyonce has already told us how to respond, "I aint sorry. I aint sorry. I aint sorry. I aint thinkin bout you."

Im not either, Bey. Now, where is Serena so I can twerk with her and drink this chilled lemonade? 

*Poem About My Rights may be triggering for those who have experienced trauma. 

If you like this post, you may also like: Our Formation

I learned about being a black woman from my mother. The secrets of black womanhood were written into the shape of her brown eyes, buried in the kink and softness of her curls, coursed through the playfulness of her hips and the strength of her stride. My mother purposefully shared with me the joys of being a black girl- dancing to Stevie singing about sunshine on vinyl, braided hair that could survive the summer, books that reflected my face back to me. She taught me to love the laughing sound. Music. Poems. History. Literature. She wanted me to know it all; she wanted me to know myself. 

But it wasnt long before she had to tell me that most of the world could not see the beauty of blackness. Our beauty is a secret not shared with the world. She asked me to gently turn over my name. Austin. And I realized on the other side a long line of white men, some other bodies too, but mostly white men. She wanted to keep the secret of my identity safe. Wanted others to know my list of accomplishments, activities, anything I chose to write on a page, before the secret was revealed. Constantly walking the line between being honest with me and her urge to protect me, she tried to give me a fighting chance in a racist, sexist world. 

She knew about lemons. She tried to protect me from their sour taste for as long as she could. 

"When life gives you lemons, make lemonade" should be much too cliche for a woman like Beyonce. It has been said too often, too flippantly. But in the hands of Beyonce's artistry, it renews its depth. Beyonce doesnt shy away from life's sour taste as a black woman. She takes us on a journey. Intuition, denial and anger become apathy and emptiness. Accountability and reformation fill the space. Forgiveness breaks into resurrection, hope and redemption. We are left with a Beyonce we're just getting to know in Formation. We witness the journey on the edge of our seats most explicitly through her relationship with Jay. 

Much will be written about infidelity and who is she and what possessed Rachel Roy to even suggest she is the one with the good hair, and me thinks some of you owe Rachel Ray an apology. But truth be told, Im not all that interested in those details. I am far more captivated that Beyonce reflected back to me the emotional journey of a black woman being hurt by a black man. I know that pain. Heartbreak is all around us. Heartbreak exists beyond the boundaries of black relationships for sure. My point here isnt to make heartbreak exclusive, its to make exclusive the unique pain of trying to find and hold onto love in the midst of a society that doesnt love you. A society that doesnt see you. A society that worships Becky, that holds her with care, that believes in her innocence. that has convinced itself her appropriation of blackness is wholly creative and original. A society that thinks Becky is better than you. 

Its really hard to put back together a broken heart in a world that derives pleasure from black women being treated inhumanely. Though Beyonce gives us a window into what that means for her and Jay, she does not stop there. She gives us the faces of black women who have been publicly and viciously dehumanized. She visualizes their humanity. Twerking and still. Looking fierce and soft, playful and serious. Standing shoulder to shoulder. Playing in each others hair. Beyonce plays with subtly and boldness as she sometimes whispers and sometimes screams, "I see you. I am you." 

She makes it clear that she is not God. She literally, spells that out for us, as she places the depth of her humanity on display and dares us to attempt to turn away.

As she moves from her raw emotions into the search for accountability, I am struck by the ways she centers the black woman's relationship with her mother, her father, her grandparents and her home. She acknowledges the heartbreak and complication of seeing your mothers heartbreak, mistreatment, and pain. She explores the intricacy of recognizing how your father had "his arms around your mothers neck" while also desiring his daughters kisses. She returns to the woods, gardens, water. She returns to the words and wisdom of our grandmothers. "Life served me lemons. But I made lemonade." 

Beyonce brings home for us in that moment, that the lemons a black woman swallows are altogether different, and have always been. The bitter fruit. The strange fruit. We have had to bear. The "lemons" in the life of a 90 year old black woman are not just a couple bad days. I dont know her story, but the truth is I could probably guess. White supremacy is awfully predictable and consistent. Her sweet voice smiles and says she made lemonade; my eyes fill with tears. Is there anything sweeter than a black woman who has survived it all? 

My thoughts, my interpretation of Lemonade is ongoing. I have much to process as I drink in specific songs like Sorry and Freedom. I have only just begun to think about the Church and its relationship to blackness. I cannot get the mothers of the slain out of my head. Im still thinking about art and vulnerability. About middle fingers and honesty. About the power of anger and the meaning of forgiveness. I can still hear Malcolm's voice in my head. Im still thinking about the healing power of sisterhood. I think there will be more processing, more writing from me. But for now, I just want to say to my sisters, to my mothers, to my grandmothers- I love you. I love abiding with you.

And I love being a black woman who is served lemons but has been given an intergenerational recipe for making lemonade.   

If you liked this, you may also like: The Recipe 

While it is still dark, Mary Magdalene rises from her sleep. Its time to visit the tomb. She fully expects to continue her mourning, grieving in the quiet stillness. No crowds. No Romans. None of the terror that surrounded her hours ago. 

Arriving at the tomb, the stone is rolled away. Here the gospel accounts share differing details, but what becomes clear is that the terror is not over for a moment!

The body is gone! Did someone move it? Another earthquake shakes the ground. Who are these frightening angels? Guards meant to ensure no one steals the body are rendered helpless.  What is going on?! 

"He has risen. He is not here." 

Jesus is on the move. Death could not contain him. State violence could not stop him. Humiliation could not distract him. The tomb could not hold him. Hell could not imprison him. Guards could not control him. The cross could not restrict him. The human body could not limit him. Jesus is alive! 

Sunday has come. Hope is restored. The Good News of the risen Christ is carried by women to the disciples. The story isnt over! 

For the next 40 days Jesus makes appearances. Showing up. Teaching. Revealing. Communing. It is beautiful and sweet and miraculous. Jesus is also preparing. Preparing them for his ascension. His disciples will stay in the world. But they wont be alone. A Comforter is coming. A Comforter will be needed.

A Comforter will be needed because Jesus crushed violence but this has yet to be fully realized in the world. A Comforter will be needed because death has been conquered but we still feel its pain. A Comforter will be needed because the state still tramples across people for power. A Comforter will be needed because the world is still awful. Jesus has conquered it all, but we wait for our Sunday. 

For when Sunday comes our troubles will be over.  

I know its hard to look at the world and believe in Sunday. Its hard to be witness to the destruction and devastation, the injustice and pain, the hatred and evil. At every turn the world makes a mockery of our hope. Hitting us in the gut, it demands to know, "where is your hope now?"

Our hope is no longer in a tomb. Our hope is not dead. Our Hope is on the move. He is risen! And Sunday will come again. May our hearts rejoice in this! May we lay down the fear and doubts, allowing ourselves to encounter Hope again. 

Amen. 

And Happy Easter!  

Gathered with friends, his night is interrupted as loud footsteps come closer. He is in the place where he's spent time meeting with his disciples. But tonight this place will cease to be peaceful, he can feel it. Guards approach fully armored, fully alert, fully prepared to take him into custody. This is not an investigation or inquisition. Tonight, under the cover of darkness, he will be arrested. He sounds a little incredulous when they arrive, "Have you come out, as against a robber with swords and clubs?" (Luke 22:52). He is not surprised by their presence, but by the apparent assumption that he is dangerous. He is placed under arrest. 

Once arrested his trial begins immediately. Standing before the high priest, he is peppered with questions. The witnesses cant get their story straight. The evidence is leading no where. The high priest gets frustrated that Jesus isnt incriminating himself.  He asks about Jesus's doctrine, his disciples. Jesus responds, "I spoke openly to the world. I always taught in the synagogues and in the temple, where the Jews always meet, and in secret I have said nothing. Why do you ask me? Ask those who have heard me what I said to them. Indeed they know what I said." (John 18:20-21). Please allow me to paraphrase. "Y'all came and arrested me, bound me up and brought me to this illegal trial. I have been upfront, speaking in front of crowds, answering calls questions all along. There is no secret plot. I have been open. And now you want me to incriminate myself for you? This is a trial! Ask your witnesses? They are all here. Ask them what I said! Make your case." 

This is not the response they were looking for. An officer who stood nearby, reached back and swung at Jesus, hitting him with the palm of his hand. Then he preceded to scold Jesus for being disrespectful (though it was he who was breaking the law by inflicting a punishment before the trial was over). After being hit, Jesus turns to the officer, protesting being hit, "If I have spoken evil, bear witness of the evil; but if well, why do you strike me?" (John 18:23). The trial goes on and on as false witnesses try to get their stories to match. 

Finally they come close. "He said he is going to tear down the temple and then rebuild it," (Matt 26:51) which is not quite what Jesus said. But its close enough to qualify as the necessary indictment... except Jesus still wont respond. The high priest is having none of it. Putting Jesus under oath and demanding that Jesus incriminate himself, Jesus is asked, "Are you the Christ, the Son of God?"  Matthew records Jesus saying, "It is as you said." Mark records Jesus response as, "I am." In either case, it is all that is needed to move forward... to the death penalty. 

And the physical abuse begins. While in custody, Jesus is spat upon. Blindfolded and punched. The officers turn it into a game of mockery. Punch. "Tell us who hit you!" Punch "Come on, prophesy!" Punch. Punch. Punch. (Mark 14:65) 

When morning comes, Jesus is taken before Pilate. Pilate is unconvinced by the proclamations that Jesus is disturbing the peace among other charges. He ultimately determines that Jesus is not a criminal, but sees an opportunity to hand off the case to someone else- Herod, who jurisdiction is Galilee. 

Herod is thrilled to see Jesus for a chance to witness one of the miracles Jesus has been known to perform. Jesus is rather magical he hears, and he cant wait to be entertained. But after being arrested, submitted to trial, beaten, examined by Pilate and now Herod, all that stands before the political leader is a bruised man. There is no fairy dust, no magic, no miracles. Jesus does not even speak. 

Fed up or perhaps bored and disappointed, Herod allows his officers the chance to mock Jesus as well. They place a rich garment on him, no doubt teasing him about being a king or leader. Herod sends Jesus back to Pilate. 

Pilate must now take the decision-making weight. He tries multiple ways of wiggling out of the decision, even symbolically washing his hands of the matter. The shouts from the crowd. The silence of Jesus. The increased political risk. Jesus will be crucified. 

But first he will be scourged. Jesus is stripped of his clothing. His arms are tied to a post in the ground. The entire back of his body is completely exposed- shoulders, back, buttocks, legs- already covered in bruises. Two soldiers stand on either side of his body, leather whips in hand. With a snap, they crack across Jesus back. Bits of iron and bone dig into the flesh before being snapped back to the control of the guards. They alternate. Snap. Rip. Snap. Rip. Snap. Rip. Jesus back begins to look like red ribbon as tissue and muscle are torn apart. 

When finished with the beating, the mockery has only just begun. Across his tender wounds they clothe him in purple. Smashing a crown made of thorns into his head, they then beat on it. (Matthew 27:27-30) Blood surely runs into his eyes. He is given a wooden staff and then a wooden cross.

The cross. A punishment of pain and public humiliation. A punishment reserved for lowly criminals or those who committed a crime against the state. The cross. 

Jesus carries his cross through the crowd with the help of Simon of Cyrene. Slowly they plod toward Golgotha, place of the skull. There Jesus submits to crucifixion. The mocking continues. The women lament. His garments are taken and divided like some sort of prize or memento. After hours of torture, Jesus dies.  

Jesus dies. 

And it seems all that his followers had hoped for was gone. All that was given to the ministry evaporated with his final breath. There was no miraculous recovery. Things did not turn out to be "okay". Things got strange, but things did not get better. The world was dark. Jesus was gone. 

This suffering matters. The bruises. The abuse. The illegal trial. The violent arrest. The accusations and false witnesses matter. The torn flesh, the crown of thorns, the blood spilled before he got to the cross all matter.

Jesus knows suffering.

Jesus didnt opt out. Jesus didnt save himself; Jesus chose to save us instead- not symbolically, not abstractly, not intangibly- but through waves of torture at the hands of both the religious and the state. Jesus knows the pain that both can inflict- the religious and the state. Jesus knows. 

There is no hope on this night. The politics of violence and control seem to have won. 

The politics of violence and control seem to have won. 

This is Good Friday.

Jesus.