It’s been a lil minute, but she’s back y’all.
Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter, First of Her Name, told me to get on up and stand in my truth. And listen, when the Queen Mother says to do something, that’s just what you do! Otherwise you’re a hater, and that’s ugly. Don’t be ugly. Every time Queen Bey drops a new body of work, an electric feel courses through my veins. The current is stronger than mere excitement or fangirl behavior. It’s love. It’s pride. It’s remembrance. Beyoncé’s latest offering, Cowboy Carter, is the ultimate requiem of who I am and where I’ve been.
I’m a girl from St. Louis. Born and raised. Home will always be catfish, cornbread and bumpy country backroads of Tornado Alley stretching from deep, dirty Missouri lakes to swift, sun-drenched Southern Illinois wheatfields. Country music poured through the halls of my high school, but I seldom felt comfortable enjoying it. Thank goodness Nelly, the King of St. Louis himself, gave us Country Grammar (I dare you to name a better album or a better STL anthem. Can you think of anything? Didn’t think so!).
Beyoncé did not make a country album. She made a KNTRY album. I’m juking, jiving and jamming to every second of it. Cowboy Carter is what lil middle school Eva would have sung through the hallways without a lick of shame. From the sweet n’ smooth beats of “Bodyguard” (We need Nelly on the remix! He’s my cousin… maybe. I lied about it for years. Could be true! Who cares. Call him Queen!) to Beyoncé and Miley’s heartwarming duet “II Most Wanted” to the rough-riding rodeo rhythms of “Sweet Honey Buckin” ft. Shaboozey, I’m getting my life. Don’t even get me started on this “Jolene” cover. When she said, “I’m still a creole banjee bitch from Louisiana. Don’t try me” I felt ready to fight over a man I don’t even have (or want). That’s that Virgo energy seeping through this album. Beyoncé, you ain’t slick! You know the girls are about to losing their minds over this album. I’m halfway there myself.
For many Black kids growing up in the Midwest and the South, country music is not a safe space. The kids who blast country from their pickup trucks after school are often the same ones hocking up loogies in our direction and waving a Confederate flag. Not very welcoming behavior. Beyoncé herself did not feel welcomed when performing at the Country Music Association Awards in 2016. Her performance with The Chicks was the highest-rated 15 minutes the awards ceremony had ever seen, but several of the audience members barely even tapped their foot during a rare live performance from the greatest artist alive. The performance was also pulled from all CMA social media due to the backlash. Cowboy Carter was crafted as a reclamation for Black people and the genre of country as a whole. After all, we did create it. The reclamation is long overdue and quite needed. In August 2023, the top three songs in the nation were country songs, and two of the top artists behind those songs were accused of racism.
At the dawn of another election year, Beyoncé has blessed us with an album to remind all of us to let our hair down, do a lil two-step on the dancefloor and to be proud of our roots. When I first moved to New York, I was ashamed of my roots. My Mid-South cadence and colloquialisms were charming to some but comical to others.
A coworker asked me on my birthday if I ate mud growing up. “Mud? What makes you think I ate mud?” I asked with a frown on my face. “You’re from Missouri. Isn’t that what you country folk do?” He asked again without shame. I snapped before remembering that I had been in New York for barely a week’s time. I didn’t want to rock the boat and be labeled that Black girl. I saw my coworker recoil in fear. I quickly reeled my anger back in and opted for humor. “Well, we didn’t eat mud growing up, but we did splash around in it a bit.” I said with a smile. “Ain’t you ever been to Mud Mania or are you too scared to get dirty?” I told him about my summer trips as a youngin running through a mud-filled obstacle course and playground. Every summer in St. Louis County, people flocked from all over to participate in the Mighty Mud Mania Festival. My father would bring me home with grit and grime encrusted into my ears and armpits much to my mother’s dismay. “Looking back on it, I guess it was some country shit,” I joked. He laughed so hard he almost busted a gut at my stories. After he dried his tears and wished me a happy birthday, I sat back in my chair and looked out the window at the island of Manhattan. I wondered what more I needed to hold back in order to move through this concrete jungle.
The more people I met, the more they referred to me as country or Southern after hearing me speak. I was confused. Back in St. Louis, we don’t call ourselves Southern. If someone refers to someone else as country, they might as well call that person uneducated. If I came home saying “I’m finna do this” or “I’m going over thurr tomorrow,” I was hastily reprimanded. My parents wanted me to speak like someone who had some “home training.” I was told to speak the Queen’s English if I wanted to get anywhere in life, so I took those adolescent lessons with me as I navigated this new Northern terrain. I didn’t want anyone to clock where I’m from, but despite my best efforts, that Missouri twang found its way through me as soon as I let my guard down.
Cowboy Carter reminds me that I have nothing to be ashamed of. Shame is the absence of love and doubt of pride. I love my family, and I love my hometown. I’ll never forget the smell of barbeque on the grill in the middle of July or the joy of riding around in my stepdad’s pickup with my sister Yvette on a sunny day. To alter my natural cadence or to censor my stories of home is to block my own source energy. My mentor Tourmaline told me years ago that I had a lot of source energy. I just can’t be afraid to let it flow. Easier said than done.
The traumas I’ve endured as a Black trans woman have often led me to believe that I am undeserving of love and appreciation. Many of my trans siblings can relate to these feelings of despair. Many of my Black brothers and sisters can also identify with an oppressive state of mind. Black women, trans and cis, have consistently been policed for our inherent beauty and allure. We have been punished for simply existing. When surviving in a world seeking to destroy you, it’s all too easy to drink the Kool-Aid telling you you’re simply lucky to be here and should fall in line. The truth is, the world is lucky to have us. The world is lucky to experience anyone who challenges the status quo. That is what it means to be queer. That is what it means to be Black. And that’s certainly what it means to be Beyoncé. She’s taking back her own narrative with Cowboy Carter and reminding all of us to do the same. She’s also reminding us that it’s okay to just cut up and have some fun.
If anyone needs me over the next few months, maybe don’t? I’m busy! I’m listening to these Texas tunes and healing childhood wounds. This album is everything I need and then some from to gospel, rock, rap, opera, R&B and country, er, kntry. Pardon my French.
Beyoncé got me ready to hit up a county fair. Some catfish and spaghetti with a slice white bread sounds real nice right about now.
Till next time,
E
As a NYC Native the correlation of assimilation and freedom def feels more powerful hearing this album. Plus City Black queer kids 🫱🏾🫲🏽Country Black queer kids best duo