I had to post this article from Clutch Magazine (if you don’t know them and you got some color, even if its rosy, you need to) because it’s been a long time since somebody really got down to the lovely bones of why Beyonce is either loved or hated.

I personally have ZERO issue with Beyonce, even when others are annoyed by her repetition, the rumors of her song ganking (listen, I only know the music biz from the sidelines and there’s A LOT of that going from a whole lot of folks AND let’s not ever forget the biggest creative rule of all: EVERYTHING THAT’S HERE HAS ALREADY BEEN DONE SOMEHOW!), her secrecy, her ability to use her power without question…none of that bothers me. I am sometime bothered by the fact that she could use a few more words in her vocabulary when talking to the press but I don’t know her personally and, for all I know, she could be Shakespeare with the fam. Who cares? At the end of the day here’s what I know: most of her songs are catchy, she can dance her ass off on screen and in concert, I heard her SING in concert and not mouthed the words, she is not afraid of her thighs like I’m a little shy of mine.

In other words, she gets play on my music player without shame. I’ll not say the same for J. Lo who could learn a few things from B (neither one of them should be acting very much, btw, unless they go hard in acting camp like Marilyn Monroe did) in terms of song selection, being private (dude - Bennifer thoughts still makes me cringe when I listen to that WHOLE album dedicated to a due who’s now married to another Jennifer) and commanding her choreography.

Geneva Thoma’s article goes further:

Step into my office. And just for a second, let’s leave our ultra-feminist/womanist egos at the door. The imagined barriers that separate us from our “other” sisters. The “I graduated from college–she didn’t” wall–you understand. This isn’t another postmodern feminist read. This is rather best received as an unsolicited response. Guns down ladies. I come in peace.

Why does Beyonce get under our skin?

Beyonce presents a hybrid of stan allegiance, angst and utter disgust. And dare I say, closeted envy? She’s pretty dumb, pretty blonde, pretty fake, pretty married, pretty paid and pretty pretty.

Face it, the sista has it all. Or at least all we were sold on having. She has the dream career and the dream marriage (would you have ever thought we’d describe the “Girls, Girls, Girls” Jay Z as such?). But we no longer gag at these classic “I have arrived” formulations. We’re more interested in substance–why do we presume this is the very thing Beyonce lacks?

The singer’s early interviews revealed she wasn’t the smartest chick off the Houston block or the best prepped. She fumbled over words, appeared uneasy, and at times her eyes roamed to the ceiling. Beyonce quickly earned Black music’s airhead title and we’ve given her little room to out grow it. Beyonce’s ‘60 Minutes’ interview however has shut down those staining coming of age moments. Albums later, the strings were seemingly unfastened, a 28-year-old confident and mature Beyonce emerged– in charge of her brand. The superstar declared she puts herself first.

She’s far from the loud mouthed industry prima donna, she saves her “Diva” antics for the stage brilliantly marketing an alter ego Sasha Fierce. The gusty temptress allows space for a more private Beyonce she leaves only to a curious public imagination. We actively wonder what of Beyonce, the woman and Beyonce, the wife.

On Jay: “Make him think he’s in control”

Beyonce gives the Southern Belle makeup able to compliment a larger than life hip hop king’s ego. She stands in demure posture; the 16 Grammy Award winner is a quiet storm who quietly upgrades. Imagine the couple vacationing on a private island (as they probably are right now). In the company other wealthy lads Shawn Carter boasts on a yacht about his latest capitalist venture and his “on to the next one” spend. The men blow out hearty laughs and cigar smokes. Somewhere in a noiseless corner Beyonce sits near a pool smiling on the inside giving only the gracious *sigh*. Nearly 10 years later she epitomizes Destiny’s Child’s chart topping “Independent Women Part 1″ single — she tops the Forbes list and yes she makes more dough than her man. Lest we forget with a pretty crafty prenup in tact.

She simultaneously offers her latest alter ego creation B. B. Homemaker. A stylish 50’s housewife where dusting in 4-inch designer heels is a fashionable inconvenience. Beyonce belts out lyrics Betty Draper could only imagine. A nostalgic symbol of Americana juxtaposed by sassy temper–to many of our counterparts this is a shock factor, but for Black women in America, it’s in our matrilineal blood–audaciousness is what we do.

“You ain’t never seen a nigga like me ever in your life.
And that’s what you can’t understand!” — Diddy, “Hate Me Now”

Beyonce the branded brainless girl is no distinction. The artist has clearly taken cues from her mother. Tina Knowles quietly dismissed herself from a cheating husband, managing to skip Wade-like controversy. Beyonce’s squeaky clean image is perhaps more than due to a PR strong hold, could it be her rearing? Beyonce’s success rivals if not out performs her counterparts. Yet we’ve seen little of a wild party girl. No DUI. No criminal court appearances and no panty-less car exiting. She seems to have mastered old school ‘good girl’ rules — the kind that will make him ‘put a ring on it’ while concocting an unparalleled career arguably unseen in recent memory. Beyonce sells sex and ‘House of Dereon’ sheets. What’s outwardly unusual about it all is that she anchors and sails her own ship.

What’s wrong with being sexy?

Decades after the women’s/feminist movement, some how we still conceptualize the feminist or more liberally, the socially conscious woman as a makeup-less, bra-burning, hair wrap wearing butch. A disregarded or misinterpreted sexual revolution unrealized, today a woman in towering Brian Atwoods and a cute mini is still not taken seriously. Beyonce’s stage costumes and sidewalk paparazzi shows are visual appetizers to men and an eye-rolling, nose-turned up presentation to some women. No doubt some looks and moves are suggestive and we aren’t co-signing ‘Single Ladies’ children. But why can’t a near 30-year-old woman be sexy? Much of her off-stage looks are often casual and understated ensembles, excluding her signature fire-hydrant red lips.

A friend-less Bey?

Notice she never runs in packs. That is outside of her own entourage. Beyonce isn’t spotted conveniently lunching at a California camera hotspot with the coveted Hollywood BFF crew. Her friends much like her image is protected. Entertainment’s female rat packs often appear to be constructed to solicit some kind of media attention. Twitpics of peace sign and kiss throwing images shows industry camaraderie gone fake. Ever since Beyonce tied the knot with Jay Z, she’s rarely seen with anyone else. This is met with relative contention and understandably so. But when you’re on top of the world its presumably hard to have genuine friendships, even with a cousin. Damn.

Beyonce vs. Black Women

Beyonce strikes a strange discord with Black women. We’ve undoubtedly witnessed a decade of Beyonce-over load–making her the woman we love to hate and perhaps the woman we’d like to miss. What really stops the singer from receiving the kind of nobel Alicia Keys praise? Even amid the Swizz Beatz-MaShonda controversy, Alicia Keys escapes the fight nearly blameless. We spare no punches with Beyonce. We deconstruct her every flaw–such is the life of an international celebrity.

But can we stand to consider the things we can learn from her? Is there some concealed part of our collective selves that admires her? Perhaps her pleading vocals in “Why Don’t You Love Me” speaks not only to an ungrateful man but also to her estranged sistas, “why don’t you love me, tell me (sista) why don’t you love me?”

This video is Kill Billy Genius. Even for “older” women like myself, the dancing totally takes me back to when people really memorized routines for videos. Even if you don’t get Lady Gaga, you have got to admit that she has put her own box around herself and nobody else is able to penetrate it. Everyone else is damn near xeroxing each other. Hell, she even made Beyonce avant garde (off page that is - we all know Miss Thing loves to pull some “Mahogany” shots on the regular)…not so much for the acting though. Sorry, B. I stan for you but you need to pull a Marilyn Monroe and get some more method training. Tyrese…just thank them as many ways as you can, brother. Pray to the relevancy gods…

Having just gone through a slew of birthdays (mine and my dad included), I’ve discovered another tendon important to maturing in life. Auto correct. You may have read this elsewhere in this kind of phrase “pay attention to the little voice in your head” but I think it’s really larger than that.

There comes a moment in your life when you’ve got to give yourself a little credit on first impulse. Everything that has come to past in your life has lead you to this moment so sometimes, your first reaction is correct. Yet it seems we are taught to second guess our first reaction just in case it’s incorrect. Even if it is incorrect, sometimes it is incorrect for a reason. It’s to auto correct you.

I’ll give an example:

The other day, someone asked if I was okay because there were a couple of things I was doing that fell through the cracks. This is a normal question of course because I pride myself on my work. But this person was also witness to some of the reasons behind this crack falling episode I had (actually just two things that went left of center but not two major things) that were including but not limited to a bank fraud on my account, a tire with a nail in it, that woman monthly visitor, some crazy work stuff and a low immune system. My initial reaction was to be who I was and say outright why I was acting the way I was acting. Without an attitude but definitely with perplexion because this person was a witness to said things. In the past, I would have tried to cut myself around the idea of being nice as opposed to calmly truthful. I would have shucked and jived my way into making the situation comfortable as opposed to letting it happen. I’m not saying that I didn’t think about my actions over and over again after my response. What I am saying is that I don’t regret how I responded because somewhere I autocorrected myself without realizing it. Something in me needed to be me at that moment and not listen to the fears, expectations, proper blah blah that we are taught to layer over our own feelings. Feeling what you feel is just as important as understanding where someone else is coming from. In fact, it should give color to all other things that relate to relating to other people.

This is a tangent but then most of my posts are because they are coming from my own experience as I navigate the art of autocorrection and hashing out my life without “putting all my business in the street” (I’ve been accused of that before).

The purpose of this though is to acknowledge that my thirty some odd years have lead me to unconscious lessons that have benefited me in areas where I don’t have to overthink anymore. Think of Neo in the Matrix when dodging bullets. He was not sitting there contemplating the bullets so much as he listened to his own rhythm. I’ll not tell you this works ALL the time but I can tell you that sometimes it’s just what you need to do to be you.

If you know anything about me, you know that I love this woman. She can do zero wrong. I even went to her concert alone without even thinking asking anyone if they wanted to go (folks are too slow and I had to be there! I made it a date. Took myself to dinner. Had an allergic reaction. Showed up at MSG with a swollen face. Got moved down to the ground floor through some miracle of God and was close enough to see her freckles. Real talk).

Her new song is below:

Sade’s Soldier of Love

The above is literally one of my favorite quotes from my homegirl, Jessica care Moore. We’ve known each other for _________ years (I’m so not telling but it’s been a long time) and she never ceases to amaze me with what her lovely talented brain comes up with. Below are some poems on light skinned girls and Michael Vick. I watch her and I think, maybe that poetry scene from the 90s wasn’t a comet in the sky after all. I hope not.

Listen, I remember Roxanne Shante from back in the day. Granted I was too young to completely understand her rhymes but I cop to being there and really wanting some doorknocker earrings just like her. But if you look at her presence from a hip hop historical perspective, she was an inspiration to a lot of women since she was busting down some rhyme doors that were previously closed to women (as usual) let alone girls. We haven’t made THAT much headway since then save the few mainstream acts you can rattle off that completely fall short of the dudes still trying to get their old man wordsmithing on and the new dudes who’s words I can’t even understand. But the interesting perspective in the story below is that for Roxanne Shante, it was not enough to just be dope early on as a female. She had to take a few steps further and cross the fourth wall with her imaginings. I like a good story as much as anybody but as professional storytellers, there’s a skill in knowing where the stage ends and where it begins. When you go two steps too far, especially now that Kylie from the Windows commercials can put together an internet Power Point presentation for you at seven years old, you’re bound to get caught and likely not forgiven.  Old marketing trends from the 80s might as well be the marketing campaign for the 1900 World’s Fair. Ancient is yesterday nowadays so Roxanne pulling the rulebook out from when she was hot and trying to pass her game off is, well, insulting and shows her age. Lady, get it together. Just get a reality show like everybody else.

My first tapes (yes, tapes, and for you youngins I mean a CASSETTE tape - look it up) I was ever allowed to buy on my own were from the gas station around the corner from us on St. Antoine in the D. I eagerly selected my choices carefully: Eric B. and Rakim, LL Cool J, Salt N Pepa and Whodini. For the better part of the year, those tapes were played on my purple Finger Hut boombox with the built-in mic whenever and wherever possible. Not only would I make my own mix tapes with the dual cassette recorder (Pause, play, pause, play. Throw a little “West End Girls” in there to show my versatility.) but I would also rewind and play, rewind and play to write down the lyrics. By the time the school sockhop or the next grade school neighborhood party happened, I was in the know. I would faux rhyme and faux beatbox and make faux music with my mouth like nobody’s business. All while rocking the ribbons my mother INSISTED on, Pre-Con gel baby hair hugging the side of my face, my  fiercest gear (a red and blue sailor top and matching pleated skirt with red socks and navy shoes - shut YOUR mouth) rocked the only way I could rock it - FRESH.

This was my special life event.

Gradually more special life events featuring hip hop came along. I mean who could forget Two Live Crew. Sixth to eighth grade I spent riding with my best friend Kerry and her old sister Kim with her friends in her mom’s car spouting lyrics that would be illegal in most countries. In her living room is where I learned the fine art of girl booty dancing and how it can be chorea graphed to flow with a nice young man behind you.

High school brough NWA and my girl Trena (the first to get a car in the group) who liked drive down Six Mile and break to the beat of Easy E and Dr. Dre. Soon that gave way to the Native Tongue movement where I forced my father to listen to De La Soul (he thought they were WEIRD with all that D.A.I.S.Y movement business) as we drove down Woodward to the NBD Bank to cash his check from Ford. He really just wanted to listen to Sir Mix Alot and would, eventually, just palm that tape from me in the end. I learned how to jump in a car to Blacksheep and House of Pain. I would feel most grown up once Cathy Kelly and I had dinner, went to see Deep Cover and immediately needed to play Dre and Snoop’s “Deep Cover” cut from the soundtrack. This is also how I learned police codes such as 187.  This would eventually lead to my addiction to Maurice Malone’s parties at Stanley’s Chinese Restaurant after hours (me explaining to my parents that their favorite chinese food place transformed into a baggy jeaned and black medallioned Maurice Malone flagship store where you could buy his latest t-shirts for twenty bucks and dance to the the most innovative hip hop in the city. They still didn’t understand. It’s a restuarant, they said).  At Maurice Malones, I would meet Darryl Dawsey, the journalist to whom I had the most respect because he was young, unabashed and the closest to temperament of these new hip hop kids the Detroit News had ever seen.  I would also keep in vague touch with Maurice group, including his then fiance whom I’d later run into in Florence, Italy of all places, joyfully recounting the dark, disco lit hot dining room where everyone danced like a Ernie Barnes painting.

Then I hit New York and the DOC had his vocal chords injured in a car accident but still made his scratchy Deep Throat appearance on Dre’s new album, Boss was the hottest female rapper anyone had ever seen, Onyx was the midget crew that everyone swore was on some kind of coke driven binge because of their energy and my college professor, Kurt Lamkin, had us study Das EFX.

As a new semi-journalist in New York, I was in heaven. My first week I saw KRS One live and not just on BET videos where he appeared with Miss Melody and kicked off the first ever hip hop peace summit video with “Self Destruction.” Then I saw the NOTORIOUS on stage in cheap windbreakers, about fifteen deep with a little bitty girl swimming in her windbreaker jacket, thick eyebrows visible from the back of Irving Plaza.

Through Jessica (the Care Moore of my life) I would eventually meet Mos Def and Talib Kweli in the EARLY stages of Blackstar when only my poet friends like T’Kalla and Jasiri were in the know at Frank’s Place in Brooklyn. There was the night that we left a small club after seeing them hold the mic down, traveling through Prospect Park and almost getting swooped up by bats, only to end up at Wood Harris’s apartment, drinking and watching crazy movies while the boy half of the living room, tried to rap to the girl half (Tyren, you remember there, right?).

Somewhere along the way, these joyous moments faded as hip hop got bigger and people did summits and held festivals about its impact on kids from Columbus to Japan. The special life event sort of became regular and not so special. There are shining moments like the first time I heard Eminem (a white boy rapping is not so odd in Detroit, FYI, especially with the infamous reputation of the drug dealer White Boy Rick who was almost more powerful than most drug dealers on the Eastside of the D. I should know. Kerry made me keep my eyes peeled for him wherever we went so she could make herself known to him in THAT way), Jay Z’s smooth and almost quiet rise to the top, Salt N Pepa maturing, DMX and the Rough Ryders hard sexy dangerous carefree lyrics, Mobb Deep really ill and dark samples, Wu Tang Clan’s storming the entire set, Tribe Called Quest quietly disbanding (but it sounded like a thud to the fans, trust) and De La Soul’s eventual rare release of always innovative musical themes (Pierre, I will always think of you when I hear De La Soul!). At some point, John Coltrane became louder to me than hip hop. Even hip hop flavored R&B got louder with Mary J. and the whole Bad Boy crew (especially when they all became Bad Boy alumni).  Eventually, it just drowned out. Sure there are moments where I hear something fresh and can’t stop listening to it (Mos Def’s “Black on Both” Sides, Kweli’s “Get By” and “Four Women” featuring the Queen Goddess herself Imani Uzuri) but all in all, it has became a sea of choices with the notable storms too few and far between.

Today I just listened to Jay Z’s “Blueprint 3″ and I think I’m back to where I was before.  I jumped in my car to some tracks. Others made me feel like that cool girl back in Detroit who drove down the block with her man in the passenger seat, leaned all the way back, as they enjoyed the crystal fresh sharpness of the Detroit sun. Some tracks made me feel like I was in that Maurice Malone club that doesn’t exist anymore where people are there for the music and the company and not the company alone.  I feel like a special life event is once again in the spotlight with the Jigga Man. I’m not saying that there aren’t fantastic underground groups or groups that are a little below the mainstream. Lupe Fiacsco is great. I’m learning to get Kid Cudi. I unfortunately am no where near understanding Lil Mama. Weezy is an epic story but in no way do I know half these kids like the artists trapped behind the plastic cash register glass at the gas station like I used to. And I refuse to believe it’s because I’m getting old. Recently Scott and I went to Power House 90, solely for Jay Z of course, and I realized that some of this music isn’t so bad if you hear it live. It wasn’t until Jay Z took the stage though that we felt like we were in a brand new LaZBoy chair. There is no mistake that there is a way things are done. And that was a return to the special life event.

I have a confession: “Set It Off” changed my life.

Put aside your ghetto “Mystery Science Theater” comments for a second. Was the acting stellar? No. Did you come away with such great lines as Keisha’s “New Jack City” rant, “Rockabye, baby!”? No. But listen, you had four women who attempted to be earnest and change their lives by robbing banks in masks. Four black women mind you. There was no understanding best friend stereotype, no black man played a black woman for shits and giggles (do NOT make Latifah comments), no wayward black youth broke out in tears because of his broken home. Pookie and them (whoever the hell that is) did NOT stink up this movie.

I bring this up because lately some very very conservative folks have been pulling some very desperate moves that almost made my heart warm for the moment ‘Cleo’ (Latifah) puts that Newport in her mouth right before the stand off with the po pos and hits the gas. How else can you explain some crazy dude trying to add me on Facebook with a profile that reads like something out of Rush Limbaugh fan site? How else do you explain McCain choosing to vote against a Supreme Court nominee (for the first time which means he and Clarence Thomas go way back) because he caved to the Republican pressure, thus giving a middle finger to his Latino peeps? Or the impatient antsies convinced that the President is not doing his job after less than a year of cleaning up of what surmounts to a social Katrina on our economy? Where were these people before when shit was tanking??

Anyways, do you, Right Wingers. Say the word “racist” like you can really own it. Slam stimulus and then ask for some cheddar in your account. Be mad because the media attacks your kids after you put them on the podium like pagent stars. Whatever. Just make sure that last cigarette, like ‘Cleo’ popped in her mouth is a good one because this about to be a stand off.

Normally I pour my tears out on a Father’s Day post but this year it’s simple. Yes, I miss my father. Yes, I feel him with me. I struggle with holding tight to images, smells, memories, songs. I still cry spontaneously over little triggers that remind me.  I do have some miracles that have come out of this. My life has changed in two years in many ways, for the better for me (it isn’t really a question about if my life change has been better for others though I do think about that sometimes).

I still find injustice in the most obscure news related stories that have to do with fathers. For example, I do feel bad for the South Carolina Governor Sanford’s boys. They didn’t even hear from their dad on Father’s Day because he was in Argentina, unbeknownst to anyone but him and his paramour.

Yvie sent me a Sekou Sundiata video today and my link to my dad in that way is that Sekou met my dad at graduation and I could see some similarities in kindness and temperment that always make me ache. They’re both gone, Sekou and my dad. I hope they’re able to speak wherever they are.

Sekou Sundiata on Def Poetry Jam

There’s a father/daughter annual dance that happens in some parts of this country that makes me jealous. But then I still check myself that I did dance with my father at my brother’s wedding and I savor it in my head like a last meal. I am happy that I was able to appreciate that dance at the time.  Fuck Hallmark.

Once my mom and I watched “Terms of Endearment” together. That was probably not a good idea on a couple of fronts, namely putting ourselves in the position of discovering each other’s mortality on top of the contentious mother/daughter relationship. My mother insisted she would go bananas if I was suffering in a hospital and a member of the staff waited two seconds longer than they should have to give me my medicine. That brought a tear to my eye and not for the usual reasons a daughter would feel moved by her mother’s expression of love. More because I realized that she had no idea how some of the other things she did actually did feel like being two seconds late for my medicine. I won’t go into detail here but I am guarded in certain areas for reasons that stem back to childhood (um, like I have the only membership card to that club, right?). Part of me has always wanted to do a either my very own “Taxi Driver” monologue in the mirror (”You talkin to me? ARE YOU talkin to ME?”) or slap my own face for not getting over it. Shit happens. Parents make mistakes. Blah blah.

At some point though both get old and you are still left with what the hell are you supposed to do. Parents are people and when the Joe on the corner does something to piss you off, why wouldn’t you let them know? Who wrote the rule that we are supposed to do ballet tip toes around our parents for fear of hurting their feelings when our feelings are hurt? I attempted this tough love trip down memory lane once and my mom flipped out. I mean FLIPPED THE EFF OUT over the phone. When she does this, there’s this very scary Exorcist sound in her otherwise sing songy stepford wife voice. It sounds like an ocean of gravel is pulling up from the depths of the sea and it, along with Captain Jack, is going to do a water karate number on you like you wouldn’t believe. You can just hear the hurt tears and spit and saliva coming out of her face and well, that’s not fun. That’s the not the point of trying to get your parent to remember some crazy shit they did when you were kid that still has you sort of messed up in the head a little. And the trip I took her on was not one of the worst ones we could’ve traveled yet and still, she couldn’t handle it.

What brings me to this? Well, I’ve been thinking about this whole Sarah Palin/David Letterman thing and while the depth of my soul wants this opportunistic woman to go away and govern her state before they kick her in the tush for her backwards mouth, the other part of me wants to put this on the table they way I can’t do with my mom. Willow, Branch, Tree and Shrub or whatever her kids names are, should basically just let her know to stop talking about them. This morning she referenced Obama being able to lay the hammer down on the media talking about his family and how that was a double standard because he got what he wanted and she didn’t. There’s lots of crazy flaw in this argument. One, your teenage girl had a baby with a kid you brought along on the campaign trail and endured the long suffering rhetoric of your family values, twisting and turning all the while, condescending to those who weren’t middle class vanilla salt of the earth. Two, you never asked the media to stop talking about your family. You couldn’t do that because they would have promptly reminded you that you were talking about your family. Three, your family is on the cover of every tabloid and non tabloid magazine whether it’s the poor baby dady insisting your Moose Mafia is preventing him from seeing his kid or its your daughter who’s trying to become her own woman and turn her slip up around. Four, you talk too much about things that have nothing to do with you and you’re not smart about some of them so there goes your credibility. Every time you open your mouth to criticize in a specific way, that way is then slammed dunked (Dwight Howard style) by regular media that sheds light on the holes of your theories.

I get kind of embarrassed for her kids because not only are the enduring this kind of crazy opportunistic woman but they also have to figure out how to deal with this later on, their Mom none the wiser. There’s nothing like feeling like your Mom is using you, even if she doesn’t realize it and she is, it sucks. So that’s why I put two and two together and got Terms of Endearment. That two seconds past medication time is always hard to digest.