The Beyonce Effect: Black Country Music Finna Blow

The Blacks are coming! The Blacks are coming! Ha, you're damn right. And we are coming in numbers. I'm not talking about artists. There are Black country artists that are currently doing their thing, and there will certainly be more. There has always been Black artists in country music since the inception, because we invented it. Many of us just weren't aware of them, for a couple of reasons; 1. Country music has all but erased our presence and 2. it tends not to be a preferred genre of music for us as consumers due to lack of representation.

When the images we see in the media are majority white, we often back up. I grew up in spaces where country music was in heavy rotation, but it was always white artists. I had no idea that Black people did country too. Some Black folks don't believe that they can relate, some can't get past the twang of it all, some liken country music to racism which isn't unrealistic by far. Only 1% of the 400 artists signed to the top three country labels from 2000 to 2020 were Black. Interesting stat for a genre of music created by Black people. We were instantaneously boot, scootin’ boogied out of country music. Although some artists tried, very few have gotten back in. The lack of representation obliterates interest amongst many of us.

Basically, Black folks haven't really been checking for country music since we don't see US in it. The Black artists that have had some success, have dealt with racism in the country industry from labels, CMT, the Academy as well as the consumer base. Mickey Guyton told us she sang in front of confederate flags when she toured with Brad Paisley.

Holly G. a Black, queer woman of Nashville, TN saw the need for a safe Black country space for artists and fans. So, she created The Black Opry. It first began as a website but has since grown into a collective of over 200 artists in country, folk, Americana, blues and roots music. Artists from TBO tour as The Black Opry Revue.

Then, there’s Rissi Palmer. A Black country singer that has created the Color Me Country radio show on Apple music. Every year she names a new class of Black country artists to watch, kind of like how XXL does the Freshman Class for Hip Hop. I'm here for it!

It always intrigues me how racist people locate the audacity to be curious and offended about why we create our own versions of things and safe spaces just for us, when it's always been due to us being ostracized and oppressed.

Now that Beyoncé Giselle Knowles Carter has entered the chat and dropped her singles, I anticipate a surge of interest in country music amongst the Black community. Some people can’t stand Beyoncé, some are annoyed that she’s getting credit like she’s the first Black woman in country music. All of this is good for Black country music. Terrific actually, nah let’s go with stupendous.

Let me break it on down.

What I love most about this is, no matter what occurs, it's a win. If the masses enjoy her version of country music, Awesome. If not, still a win. What the key to all of this is, is that she has sparked curiosity. The Black fan base is now curious about country music…….. Black country music at that. Googling the origins of country music, Black country musicians, streaming their music, having literal aha moments! I've read comments on TikTok that said, “I had no idea I liked country,” and “who knew country was fiye!” (I spelled that how I meant to. F. I. Y. E.)

All of this during Black History Month. Ske-yeee! This is a monumental moment. We have activated the “me and you, ya sista and ya cuzzin’ too”! We have called Tyrone! Pookie and ‘nem are pulling up and all the aunties and uncles are on alert. I already know why country stations don’t want to play Beyoncé’s music, because more Black fans will be requesting more Black artists to be in rotation and they can’t have that now can they?

Guess what though? They have no choice! Put us in coach, we BEEN ready to play!

Escaping Narcissim.

It took me six months to get my ERD (early return of dependents) paperwork approved. My ex husband and his commander were buddies. They played ball together, went out for drinks together, hell, he even dated his commander’s daughter briefly after I left. That’s what narcissists do. They are strategic.

After months of his commander refusing to sign off on my ERD paperwork, I had grown weary. I felt like I was going to have a nervous breakdown. I called my mom in hysterics, “Mama! I’m trying to leave! I go to his commander’s office every day and he won’t meet with me! His secretary tells me he’s busy. I’m trapped mama and I want to come home!” My mom spoke to me calmly and helped me ground myself before she prayed for me. Then, she said, “I’ll call the American Red Cross and tell them what’s going on.” I thought about the repercussions that would follow, I decided to decline that offer. I remembered my therapist telling me that narcissists can get violent, especially if they feel they are losing control. He had control for ten years, I had to move with intent, but quietly. I sat on it. What could I do? After a couple of days, it came to me. I decided to reach out to a commander of a squadron in his career field at Ramstein AB in Germany. 

It was worth a try. I got online, went to the Ramstein AB page and searched for the commander of the services unit at Ramstein. When I found his name and contact information, I became nervous immediately. What if he doesn’t help me? What if he listens to my husband instead of me? I had to shake the negative thoughts that were pouring in. I composed the email:

Sir,

My name is _____________, I am the spouse of Tsgt. ___________. We are stationed at SHAPE in Belgium. Six months ago, I submitted my ERD package to my husband’s commander. After I submitted the package, he called me personally to invite me to his office. When I arrived, my husband was there and his commander informed me that he would not be signing off on my package because my husband wanted me to stay. I feel like a prisoner. 

I’m miserable and I want to go home. I do not like to over share, but my husband is verbally, emotionally, financially and mentally abusive. It’s only gotten worse since we pcs’d here last year. Please help me. I have three daughters that I am trying to leave with. He told me that I could leave “for a break”  but I’d have to leave my babies, I can’t do that. Please help me. 

Respectfully,

Mrs. _______________

**SEND** There was no turning back. 

The commander at Ramstein emailed me back the next day apologizing for my experience. He promised to help me and I had orders cut within three days. My therapist secretly arranged for a hotel room for my daughters and I just in case things went south before we left. And they did. 

After the movers came to pack up our household goods that we would be taking to Alaska with us, my husband became triggered. He lost it. He cussed me out, broke some dishes, threw my suitcases over the upstairs loft down to the first floor. My clothes exploded ever. My daughters cried. He was foaming at the mouth with rage. “Girls! You see this? Your mother is a cheater! Your mother is a dirty cheater!” He was grasping at straws. 

He decided that I needed to get out immediately. He had already canceled my debit card two weeks prior. What he didn’t know was that I had been stashing cash. I Both euro and the dollar. I had $125 euro and $535 US. I also had a secret savings account with $3500 in it and two credit cards in my name that he wasn’t aware of. As he cussed and fussed in my face, I stood my ground. “Just know if you hit me, we gonna be FIGHTING.” I had a pocket knife tucked in my bra. He told me that I was a low life and wasn’t worth him risking his career. So, he packed up all of our luggage into the car and drove us to the hotel. Still cussing and fussing. Threatening to put me out of the car every couple of minutes. “Ain’t no n*gga ever going to love you. You’re used up. Three kids? They will only want to f*ck you. You are pretty with a nice body, that’s about it.” I just stayed focused on telling the girls that everything would be okay. Blocking out his hateful monologue. He had no idea how I would pay for the room and didn’t care. 

Once we arrived at the hotel, he put us all out and said, “I don’t know what you’re going to do with no money,” and left. I knew. I had been planning for weeks. I called my therapist as soon as he drove away. She told me the room was reserved in my name and that she would drop us off food shortly. I then called my friend, Mimi. Her and her husband had allowed me to hide my money, credit cards, passports and other important documents at their home. She brought them to me. I still have the ziploc freezer bag that I kept everything in (it’s pictured below).

After dragging our luggage into our little bungalow room, I tried to relax and make it feel “normal”. There was absolutely nothing normal about the situation. My older two daughters were scared he would come to the room so we all slept together in one bed. We had to stay two nights. 

The morning that we were leaving, I had already made arrangements to catch the shuttle to the Brussels International Airport. Surprisingly, he came to the hotel as the driver was helping me pack everything up. He hugged the girls and told them he loved them and would see them soon. He grabbed my wrist, but I snatched it back without making any eye contact. 

I remember boarding that plane on that cool fall morning. As much as I had always wanted to live in Europe, I was leaving after just over a year. It didn’t feel real. “Walk in front of me and listen for me to tell you where our seats are, do you hear me?” My two oldest responded in unison, “yes, ma’am.” I had my baby girl in a stroller with her car seat strapped to my back. In my head, I repeated over and over, “you did it. You did it. You did it.” After getting to our seats, and buckling everyone in, I exhaled. I closed my eyes as tears rolled down my cheeks and my lips trembled. My oldest looked up at me and asked, “why are you sad mommy? It’s going to be okay.” I replied, “I’m not sad sweetheart, sometimes people cry when they are extremely happy.” I did it and I was determined to never go back. 

I recently watched Maid on Netflix. A friend gave the recommendation. Once I read the description, I knew it was a must. It’s October. National Breast Cancer Awareness, National Downs Syndrome Awareness, National Depression Education & Awareness (and a plethora more). But, for me personally, October is important because it is National Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Watching Maid incited unsolicited and unwelcome flashbacks. Being a survivor, you become an expert at compartmentalizing. No matter how much healing work that you do, certain things will trigger you forever. A raised voice, a song, a scene from a show or movie, loud sounds, a chore, even a scent. If you are a survivor, the healing work is an ongoing labor of self love. If you are currently going through domestic violence in any form, please seek help.

Dixie.

When I was in the 8th grade I went to the state band championship. I was overly hyped about my accomplishment. I had just gone to the state science fair for my ingenious project, “Does second hand smoke effect your heart rate?” I placed second, I believe (I’m an if I’m not first, I lost type of person) and won an award from the American Red Cross. I didn’t get first, but I still felt unstoppable. I was determined to win first place for my clarinet solo too. 

I was first chair clarinet playing the trumpet music for our selections. Our trumpet section was small so our band director added me and one other clarinet to the trumpet section. 

I practiced my solo every day after school for about two hours, I was striving for perfection. We were to be moving to Anchorage at the end of the school year and I couldn’t wait. In my mind, winning the state solo competition would make my goal a reality. I was determined to go out with a bang by winning the solo category. I wanted to leave my mark on Dillingham in some way, make them remember how great I was. Not that I was the tormented Black girl. 

I always had this need to be the “equally as good as Reecy,” Mookie. My older brother walked on water. He woke up daily and chose to be good, whilst I woke up and chose other options……regularly.  I  chose the clarinet like he did, thinking it would get me some points or something. Just so we are clear, I really wanted to play the drums. My playing the clarinet did nothing positive for my home life. I still found myself in trouble, often. But, I digress. 

My parents dropped $500 on my brand new Selmer clarinet. Nobody could tell me a thing. They made sure I was aware of the cost, to ensure that I was very aware that me not playing it was not an option. Especially after how hard I went to get them to purchase my clarinet. I was stuck. 

Before I dive right in. Let me provide a little backstory. My band teacher was a fun, jovial woman. She allowed students to call her by her first name. She actually insisted that her students did. When I first got into band class, I was 11 and in the 6th grade. I was the only student that called her Ms. Mason. She didn’t like it and would call me out for it in front of the class, daily. She insisted for months that I call her by her first name and I refused. My father didn’t play those first name games. He’s old school and from Henning, TN. I was not going to allow her to get my butt whooped. Nope and nope. 

After growing tired of my refusal to conform, she called my father. She called and told him how I had refused to call her by her first name just as my older brother did before me and how she would greatly appreciate it if he gave me permission to call her Julie. He reluctantly gave in, although he was upset with me that my teacher called him to ask such a thing. What you don’t do in Black households is blindside your parents. He initially thought that I had put her up to it. I had to defend my name and insisted that she was just crazy (in my opinion) and called on her own accord. 

I looked forward to band class every day. I was a proud member of the band and grew to love my band teacher. It was the one class that I felt close to normal in. So, when Julie informed me that she had hand picked me to compete in the solo category for state, I was beyond honored. I was determined to make her proud as well as myself and my family. 
Julie assigned the song that I was to ‘WOW’ the judges at state with. She chose Dixie as my selection. My white band teacher that was from Texas, assigned the only Black student in her band, Dixie to play at the state competition. I was none the wiser. 

I had heard it played throughout Gone With The Wind, but at 13, in Bush Alaska, with white washed history and mostly white educators, I was not educated on the history of the song. Instead of my usual time at the police station “helping”, I went home to practice every day, for about two weeks. I hadn’t told my dad what my solo song was. He had poured himself into work even more after him and my mother separated. We were also still grieving and recovering from Uncle Tony’s murder having occurred a few months prior. 

One day, my dad came home early from work and I was in my bedroom practicing. The door swung open and he shouted, “Mookie! Why are you playing Dixie?! Why on earth are you playing THAT song?!” I froze, I was shook. I knew his tone and body language was off. I didn’t understand why. I told him that Julie chose it just for me because it was a more difficult song to play, and I was playing the trumpet part. 

He sat me down and gave me a lesson about the Civil War. I immediately felt sick to my stomach. The competition was the next day and I couldn’t change my song selection now.  

I wanted to quit. I didn’t want to play it. My dad hugged me and told me it wasn’t my fault and left it up to me if I would compete in the solo competition. I was angry, I went to Julie the next day and shared how I felt. She acted surprised, but she wasn’t. I played the song and I won first place. In hindsight, I wish I hadn’t competed. In hindsight I wish that my father had taken that anger he had upon hearing me playing that song and let Julie know just how out of line she was. Instead, he did what the chief of police was supposed to do and keep the peace.

I stopped playing the clarinet after that. Julie recently posted an ‘apology’ to her former students on Facebook. She posted it along with a photo of herself in a hospital gown in a hospital bed with an oxygen tube in her nose. She halfway apologized to her former students “for any wrong I did,” my sister texted me after seeing the post and asked if I prompted it. I didn’t, it was curious though. She has never apologized directly to me. We only became connected on Facebook about three or four years ago and she deleted me at one point (I know I make her uncomfortable with my posts about racism) but sent me a new friend request earlier this year. Why did I accept? Because, I knew I’d be writing this piece and she needs to read it. I don’t accept her half ass indirect apology from her hospital bed, I am not obligated to. She had an obligation to me as her student, she was trusted and instead she inflicted trauma by being a selfish, proud, white Texan.

Educators have a huge job and not adding trauma to your students should be at the top of your list. Julie isn’t an all around bad person. Just as many people like her aren’t. She is active in her church, directs the church choir, loves animals, fears God and is a proud American. But, guess what? Julie has racist thoughts, tendencies and belief systems. And, Julie was trusted to educate BIPOC children.