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How Beyoncé Became a Black Man’s God
After years of feeling excluded by the megastar’s music, I finally converted to the Beyhive
Update 6/7/22: Level has a new home. You can read this article and other new articles by visiting LEVELMAN.com.
In a Brooklyn bar one night, a bestselling author called me a Beytheist. A Beyoncé atheist, a nonbeliever. The Mrs. Carter Show World Tour had touched down at the Barclays Center that evening, and the BK crew wanted to know what I thought of the concert. Michael Jackson wowed me at Madison Square Garden in high school; Janet’s theatrics, pyrotechnics, and killer choreography blew me away through four different performances in the ’90s; Madonna’s Girlie Show tour, too. I said that Beyoncé fit in that tradition, but anything less than “Beyoncé is God” fell on deaf ears. I’d blasphemed and been excommunicated. I think the Beyologian (Beyoncé theologian) still mutes me on social media to this day.
I would be converted, though. First came Beyoncé, the 2013 surprise that dropped complete with music videos for each song. Lemonade and Homecoming strengthened my faith. And after this weekend’s Black Is King, I am now a firm believer that Bey is the MJ of our time. This is my testimony.
Sweet Beyhive, please don’t swarm down upon me. Forgive me when I confess that when Destiny’s Child dominated BET and the dance floors of my late twenties, I thought the Child to watch was LaTavia Roberson. When I first bumped into the most commercially successful girl group of all time, an editor had charged me with interviewing veejay-turned-talk-show-host Ananda Lewis over at MTV. She’d just wrapped up a segment with Destiny’s Child, and introduced me to the four members. I was far more excited to meet Ananda; I barely gave 18-year-old Beyoncé Giselle Knowles a glance.
Truth was, Destiny’s Child didn’t really speak to me. And upon the group’s disbandment, solo Beyoncé didn’t speak to me either. As a cishet male, I never felt her body of work took me into consideration. I don’t mean that I thought that was her responsibility. But the subject of “Bills, Bills, Bills” was a trifling, good-for-nothing scrub. The dudes addressed on “Bootylicious” weren’t ready for the jelly. Per “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It),” if we liked her…
