I love Beyonce. I really do. My entire upbringing consisted of transforming myself into some version of Beyonce or a knock off. At 12-years-old, I wasn’t allowed to have the flowy blonde locks. And my little chore money didn’t permit me to prance around in high couture. But damnit, flaws and all, I was her. So 12 years later, when I find out my favorite childhood artist/doppelganger dropped a secret album I was shocked I didn’t care. I was semi emotionless and just wasn’t that hype. The feeling was gone. I’ve been absolutely stripped away from the childlike enthusiasm I once had around being a Beyonce fan which now has become a cult.
Pop culture discussions and conversations around her seem to feel trite, extensive and exhausting now. Everyone’s opinion is the same, and perhaps I’ve become disinterested in the world constantly falling to their knees. The umbrage of it all, finally made me close the door on this innocent musical relationship I had. I mean,” Me, Myself and I” got me through breakups, “Hey Ladies,” extended my first feminist power fist. Beyonce was my first example of what a young woman with beauty, power and grace really looked liked. For the past two albums, I’ve quietly felt nothing and SAID nothing. Because to voice a public opinion against anything that is not pro #queenbey is a danger zone. Am I really the only that thought her “intimate” HBO documentary was another failed attempt to get personal? Or that maybe her Four album fell a little short of “decent?” I miss my old relationship with Beyonce. It used to feel real. Almost as if I could call her and declare “oh girl, this is NOT good,” or “thank you for giving me strength through this track.”
Before there was this high demand and even higher volume of obsession and bowing down, I found comfort in allowing myself to just really hate some songs, (like her whole Austin power and beautiful liar phase) and love others. Now, when I frown upon a new Bey record, someone’s demanding me to slap some water on my face, take a few deep breaths, walk away and tackle another listen. Just so I can be on the same page and public opinion as my timeline. Before all of you Beyonce stans made life difficult, It was never this guilt or pressure of convincing myself that Beyonce CAN’T do no wrong and that I’m only permitted to LOVE just any old thing stamped Beyonce. I used to never care whether the results of her next album would live up to the last. I was free to assess it with open ears and an untainted mind. Now, “this” Beyonce doesn’t even really need to waste her time on giving her best anymore. Because in reality, we’re not even listening. We can care less if she is harmonizing about green carpet. I saw this hilarious meme on IG that read, “Beyonce can drop a track with 17 songs of silence and ya’ll would still be like Keri Hilson could never be this quiet.”
She’s become a dream figure; an abstract piece of art that we stare at for hours; lost in her world, ruptured into the illusion of perfection. We can’t look away, or critique her. And we dare to say anything slightly antagonistic or else her royal subjects will take up a part time job to lambast you for it. I forget that Beyonce uses toilets. Like she actually puts her perfect ass on a toilet seat to do the same things we do, as humans. Society has inducted her so far into this realm of high almighty, that more and more she appears further from human. I forgot what it felt like to relate to her, because we make her feel so untouchable, so far out our league. I want the old Beyonce back. Before I didn’t feel forced into loving her.
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