It’s no secret that black women love Beyoncé. I wouldn’t say I love her, but I have been known to say, “if he liked it then he should’ve put a ring on it ring on it.” In these past few days following the release of her new album Lemonade, I have to say I’m ready to give Beyoncé a rest, mostly due to the hubbub surrounding her new album’s fourth track, “Sorry.” Some of my sisters need to do the same.
In the lyrics, Beyoncé calls out a cheating partner. She tells him he better call Becky with the good hair. Becky, presumably, is the cheating partner’s partner-in-crime.
Shame on you, Jay Z.
The song isn’t a standout on the album, by any means. But, seemingly, within minutes, it was the new black woman battle cry. Beyoncé fans were so ready to burn fashion designer Rachel Roy (the woman many people think was the reason why Solange Knowles beat Jay Z’s ass in that elevator) at the stake, they accidentally took down cooking show host Rachael Ray on social media instead.
And then the internet conversation took an unexpected turn: people started arguing about whether or not Becky is a racial slur demeaning white women. I remembered the opening to Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Baby Got Back,” when, right at the beginning, the female voice says, “Oh my god, Becky. Look at her butt,” and figured that’s where Beyoncé got Becky. But apparently there’s more. UrbanDictionary.com defines Becky as, among many things, a hot white girl, a snobby white girl, and a white girl who is good at giving head. Reading through the entries, the latter seems to trace back to three things; one, the fact that Becky is a common name among white women; two, a notion that white women, according to one contributor, are “somewhat more sexually liberal in terms of frequency of encounters, random partnering, and overall lasciviousness;” and, three, a song titled “Becky,” released in 2009 by Plies, a godawful rapper. (The song starts with this: “Can Miss Becky please raise her hand? I need some of that good head right now.”)
Classy.
Beyoncé can say and do what she wants. I don’t really care. What I care about it is our thinking of “Sorry” as some kind of suitable anthem of independence or protest. And I care about the way women are now going at each other, criticizing each other’s cornrows (or are they boxer braids?) and sexualities in the comments sections of an Instagram post. Why isn’t anyone mad at Jay Z?
Sisters, when our language of empowerment comes from that tired “I will survive even though he did me wrong” narrative, we’re saying that there was a moment when our survival was in question. And when we find solidarity in the denigration of another woman, we’re not any different from the group of white girls who made fun of us at the pool when we stuffed our hair under our swim caps.
I like a catchy song as much as the next girl; but, sorry, ladies. I can’t sing with you on this one.
This article appears in May 5-11, 2016.