Black Women Cannot Redeem America

The day that Beyoncé’s most recent album Cowboy Carter was released, Vice President Kamala Harris sent a congratulatory tweet to the singer. “Thank you for reminding us to never feel confined to other people's perspective of what our lane is,” Harris wrote from the official VP account on X (formerly Twitter). Here we have a snapshot of a world that maybe even a decade ago would’ve felt improper to envision. A Black woman occupying the second highest of the land, publicly communing with the most powerful Black woman in entertainment. 

It’s the kind of interaction that would’ve been charming, say, a decade ago. An obvious attempt at trying to return us to a sociopolitical era that has long lost its luster. A politician showing off their pop culture prowess and their ability to relate with their young constituents of color feels very of the Obama era. Now, however, one can only think about the atrocities being carried out by an administration that’s apparently being soundtracked by the new Beyoncé record.

It is a sign of progress or a sign from God of an imminent apocalypse that Black women are allowed this kind of power, depending on where you stand. A sign of wokeness gone amok. The Great Replacement set into motion. A dream of Martin Luther King Jr. proportions. It’s been fifteen years since the inauguration of the Black president, a historical feat that seemingly signaled America’s willingness to loosen its chains on its Black citizens.

In recent weeks the word reclamation has been used a lot, primarily in regards to Beyoncé and her new country album. On the album’s cover the singer sits side saddle on a white horse while holding the American flag. The image is striking, causing easy provocation. A Black woman in possession of one of the country’s most hallowed symbols, dressed in rodeo garb, riding off on a horse as her platinum blonde hair blows in the wind. One wonders where she’ll have us follow her on that white horse she’s on. In another photo, she reinterprets herself as the Statue of Liberty instead of being adorned in gaudy green paint, she allows her long braids and sash to cover her otherwise naked body while she stands tall, trading the torch for a lit cigar. 

These photos taken by photographer Blair Cadwell depict Beyoncé as a Black woman occupying a space America has told her she has no place belonging. Remaking American iconography in her image, forcing us to contend with her presence. There’s something admittedly very titillating about seeing a Black woman in a place where people say she’s not supposed to be. Traversing through scowling gazes, muttered disdain, and proverbial Do Not Enter signs. But once the temporary dopamine rush subsides, you’re left wondering if this was worth the temporary high. 

A few months ago at a UN Security Council, Linda Thomas-Greenfield, the UN ambassador for the US and a Black woman, raised her hand proudly as she represented the US vote against a ceasefire of the genocide against Gaza. The current U.S. press secretary Karine Jean-Pierre is a Black woman (the first in this position) who stands at her podium and defends the actions of the current administration.  It's in these moments when you realize that whiteness isn’t loosening its reins, it's expanding who it’ll allow to participate in its violence.

Despite right wing fear mongering about diversity programs and initiatives, the state has found an asset in Black women who are willing to be a face for a violent empire. Like giving the plantation walls a new shiny Black coat of paint when it should it instead be demolished, aesthetic changes to the state only makes the brutality easier to look at. There’s an impulse to redeem iconography or institutions steeped in colonialism and white supremacy by giving them the sheen of a pro-Black revamp, but that only affirms their existence and their power. 

Even as America existed as a mere embryo forming in the colonists’ imagination, Black people have been grappling with their place on this land. In her 1773 poem On Being Brought from Africa to America, Phillis Wheatly wrote that it was a “mercy” that brought her from her “pagan land,” owing her religious rebirth to her newfound homeland. Langston Hughes described himself in his 1926 poem I, Too as being “the darker brother” that America hides away from company in its proverbial kitchen, but regardless, Hughes continues to fortify himself for the day when he’s invited to their table.

It’s an election year so, if you haven’t already, you’ll eventually hear a lot of waxing poetics about the heroics of Black women voters. “Black women will save America,” as one of the slogans goes. Is it any wonder where the uptick in Black female faces in high places have come from? A steady incline since 2016 when people first began listening to Black women. What is it that’s being saved exactly? Black women have proven that we, too, sing America. It’s just not a song worth singing.