What Haitian girl doesn’t like her self some “l’eau sucre” with lemons to make it tart? I love limonade/lemonade. That Simply Lemonade/Limeade is everything to my tastebuds. There is something about that sweet/bitter flavor that keeps me coming for seconds. Then in comes Beyoncé serving up her own Pitcher of Lemonade for millions to sip from.
Disclaimer#1: I only watched it once.
Disclaimer #2: I half watched it while typing up a report and still mulling over that last scene on Game of Thrones season six episode one. You just had to be there.
Disclaimer #3: I watched it with a husband who kept asking me to decipher the double meanings for every, single scene.
Disclaimer #4: I wore my psychotherapist lenses and kept my feelings out of the equation (yeah right). Bey was a client and I was the therapist/pastor wife/big sister who had no idea this was going on in her baby sister life.
There was some seriously heavy stuff goings on in that video. Swinging bats a la Waiting to Exhale. Happily smashing out windows and riding on monster trucks crashing all them dope cars. Wow. In your face messaging. My personal favorites: Two-timing daddy/husband. Like a magician. Living two separate lives. Malcolm X “Black women in America.” Most disrespected. Most maligned. Most all the bad stuff you can think of. Ashes to ashes. Dust to side chicks. Mezami! Call Becky with the good hair. Oh! #HandsOnMouth #HeadCockedToDaSide #Whoosh
Anger. Sitting in the very fire that threatens to consume your soul. You must go through the fire, the pain to see your way through. That’s what anger does to you. It eats, gnaws, erodes. Leaves wormholes where your heart should have been.
Apathy. It’s the worst place to be. Middle fingers in the air. Peace signs with the hand twist. What woman hasn’t been in that mind space where a cold heart begs to be thawed but boo thang done did it again and there’s not a dog house big enough or a couch long enough to put him in. Reminds me of me and my squad during those college years. He dumped you? Well forget him! Let’s ride out and sing these sorry sad songs. R Kelly knew full well when he said when a woman’s fed up, there is NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT.
So many emotions. Given names. Given their equal share of air time. Heart racing. Heart resting. Heart racing again. Heart standing still.
How our first love, our daddies, can break our hearts like no other. How that bleeds into our relationships with other men. The first disappointment that prepares us for all future disappointments. When daddy hurts mommy, he also hurts baby girl.
Intimate glimpses of her past and her present. Confirmation that yes, she was actually pregnant. Unless you believe in body doubles that is. Conspiracy theorists still at it. #SideEye
Colors of gray. Black. Red. Yellow. Pasty white. Vintage beige. Off white. Ecru. Beautiful women. Who look like me. Who look like my friends. I see my nieces in there. My late mother. My grandmother’s wrinkles make an impromptu appearance too. My girlfriend’s locs. Cocoa. Caramel. Charcoal. Onyx. Colorism be damned. Hair issues be damned.
You having issues with your man? You talk to your college roomies. Your daddy abused your momma and now she wants a divorce? You call up your ace. Momma bears her soul to you in a mother daughter talk. You take that to your grave.
Mrs. Carter goes through similar issues, she gets to sing everything from country to rock to gospel, with a feast for the eyes imagery. But we all ain’t able. I don’t know about you, but I don’t have half the antebellum wardrobe in my closet to process my personal angst. There is no huge monster truck parked in the yard to crush my personal demons.
My prayer is that women of color begin and/or continue to acknowledge the pain that life has dealt us. That beyond the slayed hair, fleeked brows, and served face, there is a wounded woman buried deep; whose hurts demand attention, demand consoling, demand restitution. And when we come face to face with that bare face, no lipstick wearing, half browed self, we now elect to take the first steps towards personal healing.
I walked into a marriage holding on to “daddy’s girl hurts.” I thought my husband should cure them. I thought he would repeat them. Then God reminded me–wait one minute. That’s My job. Not some mere mortal’s.
This a reminder of the important role that human suffering and hurt plays in our lives and what should happen when our cup becomes too full. I can get real “preachy” right about now and remind folks about Jesus paying the ultimate price for those very same hurts. Or how He is near to the broken hearted. But I won’t. Yet I will say. He. Is. Enough.
Grandma did it best. She took all those lemons thrown at her and made one helluva good pitcher of lemonade.