I was dead. Flatlined. No line. Believe it. Dead. Check the date of my first and last entry before this one. It was two years ago. I wrote an introduction, a “Hello all, this is me” letter entitled: Third World Diva Part 1″. “The Haitian girl born in Canada and raised in Brooklyn” letter. The , “Im labeling this part 1 because there will most certainly be a part deux next month” letter. See, in my mind I had this all planned out: I’d submit a new topic each month to keep the verbose- witty-silly bitch in me satisfied. But then I died. I was creating in other ways but the talkative- I got a lot to say about a lot- chick died. I gave up before putting in any effort past the first submission. Not a quitter but didn’t finish the race. Feel me?
Then, it happened. On a random Saturday afternoon (random for me not for Bey) some spectacle entitled “Formation” (Dirty) by Beyonce appeared on my timeline and like any Black woman of my generation you obediently watched the video. Then you watched again to process what you just witnessed.
Watch it here, again.
The video rocked my brain. My world shook, earthquake, seismic shifts took place in my toes.
My toes twitched bitch. I contacted my sister immediately. She would do the same for me. We, the collective we, do not keep good information to ourselves people, we share, we must spread the gospel. How could you not call up a friend then another, then another and type endlessly on Twitter or FB about Formation? I mean even Melissa Harris-Perry had a panel ready to discuss the Bey-Formation impact a day after the video dropped. Stop. She was ready to discuss dissect reframe and be revived. See people, even if you weren’t dead like me something in Formation woke you up, pushed you, motivated you, touched you made you FEEL.
The Slay Revival
Beyonce revived Messy Mya, New Orleans 11 years after HK, Trayvon and his hoodie a day after his would be 21st birthday, hot sauce in your bag, the Jackson family’s original noses, a mini-documentary about Bounce music, Red Lobster, the magic found in the South, me and other closeted dead folks masquerading as woke. Spirits. She conjured the spirits. Not only with the images of beautifully embedded New Orleans Voodoo deities but with the spirits in all of us to be bad asses, to be magnanimous to SLAY. She evoked something in me with the line, “I dream it, I work hard, I grind til I own it.” I’m here writing this entry all owning my ish. Catch me next month. I’m in formation.