As the mother of a brown-skinned daughter, my wildest dreams involve giving her the tools to cultivate a self-image in which she sees herself as beautiful, despite society’s continuous degradation of black womanhood.
Each time I think I’ve found the secret to positive self-image for both of us, someone reinforces the idea that black women aren’t enough, in and of themselves. Perhaps if we were lighter, thinner, or less assertive, we’d be valuable. A recent attempt to put conditions on which portrayals of black womanhood matter came from the singer Chris Brown.
I typically try to avoid all Chris Brown-related stories, as I’ve yet to read one that’s been worth my time. But this go-round, Brown was in the headlines for commenting on something that’s been a point of contention in the black community, ever since white supremacy made it one of a few bonus tools that offer limited access to the kingdom via white acceptability. I’m referring to the community bias in favor of black women with “nice” or “good” hair.
He’s not the first (or the last) black man who felt the need to proclaim his dating preferences, for those with light skin and loosely textured hair, to the world. However, we didn’t need this information.
If you decide to waste time following Chris Brown’s public opinions, you’ll notice his consistent preference for dating racially ambiguous light-skinned women, who often slide into blackness at the buzzer via our old-school interpretation of the one-drop rule.
His comments are the latest to affirm the beauty of “light skin and good hair,” but the colorist and ignorant roots of this conversation regularly surface in pop culture. And each time, the black community wastes precious time arguing over the validity of the preference.
As with everything else, hair texture and complexion are relative.
Most often, this beef plays out between black men and darker-skinned women, while lighter-complected women are often silent and watch the conflict play out from a distance. So I never could have anticipated that just three weeks after Brown’s gross pontificating, Queen Bey would release the latest single to challenge colorist sentiments like Brown’s, and celebrate the beauty of the dark-skinned black woman.
Don’t laugh at me for this, but the first time I listened to Beyoncé’s latest single, Brown Skin Girl, I cried.
I heard her beautiful daughter Blue Ivy singing the hook:
“Brown skin girl
Your skin just like pearls
The best thing in the world
Never trade you for anybody else”
And I was transported.
At first, the tears confused me. I’m late to the Beyoncé bandwagon. I believe she’s had many good songs over the years, but I had no interest in proclaiming her excellence until recently.
Aesthetically, Beyoncé is the black woman men like Brown and others praise as the pinnacle of success and beauty. She’s worth hundreds of millions of dollars, it’s almost impossible to enter a public setting where her name doesn’t carry weight, and she’s often perceived as light-skinned.
She’s everything many of us wish we were. She regularly mentions the “creole” in her blood, as many black women of lighter phenotype do. But over the past few years, her music has started speaking to me.
Her latest song Brown Skin Girl is an extension of that. It joins the list of her hits from the full Lemonade album, with stand-out singles like Freedom and Formation that are undeniably and unapologetically black and pay cultural homage to her community.
Bey’s recent evolution toward a more targeted type of pop and R&B, one that has widespread appeal but speaks specifically to the experiences of black women, has captivated me. I never imagined her content would give me chills or move me to tears the way it has in recent years.
As a black mother, I can’t help but wonder if Beyoncé’s gradual shift toward more outspoken pro-black content is a result of her own motherhood.
Beyoncé and Jay-Z share three children: 7-year-old Blue Ivy Carter, and 2-year-old twins Rumi and Sir Carter. As she wades further into the depths of motherhood, she is highlighting more of the issues that will impact them one day. This is important because the Carter-Knowles family could easily win the title of “The First Black Family,” listed only behind the forever in our hearts, hopes, and dreams Obamas.
In a way, her content has shifted from a little less pop to a little more purpose.
Interestingly, Beyoncé has a direct connection to the criticism we regularly hear in the black community about hair texture. Her eldest child Blue Ivy, who sings the chorus of Dark Skin Girl, was the subject of headlines over her hair early on.
There has been no shortage of criticism from folks on Beyoncé’s decision to allow Blue Ivy's hair to be natural. Blue Ivy represents an unaltered image of black girlhood that many of us were excluded from during our childhoods.
Too often, black women’s stories include having parents who altered our hair with creamy crack (chemical relaxers) and pressing combs, in hopes that if we adapted white supremacist logic we might gain access to power. Some folks were even encouraged to bleach their skin or limit sun exposure to avoid getting darker.
I don’t know Beyoncé’s exact reason for releasing this song at a time that black women, like myself, are in need of her message. Perhaps she felt the collective uncertainty of black mothers seeking to raise black daughters who love themselves, despite being told they’re pretty “for a dark-skinned girl.” Or maybe she too was annoyed by Chris Brown's comments on hair texture since despite being a multi-millionaire, Beyoncé has a kinky-haired, brown-skinned daughter.
There’s also a chance that for a hitmaker such as herself, it was never that deep.
Regardless of her intentions, the song meant something to me. It felt like another tool to combat the colorist intercultural logic that says my hair isn’t good enough. It’s a deep breath of relief for a mother trying to navigate the politics of black hair, when I just want my children to be free from the European-based beauty standards that have stunted self-love in the black community.
I believe black people are one, regardless of shade. But to pretend like those with darker complexions don’t have harsher experiences is ignorant. One must be particularly self-aware to see the value in advocating for a group you don’t belong to, and I think Beyoncé has done that.
In a world where American black women are under constant scrutiny, Beyoncé’s words matter. Her decision to let her child wear her hair freely matters. Her decision to write odes that connect to the lived experiences of black women matter.
I’m grateful for her song and look forward to similar masterpieces in the future. Beyoncé, who’s beautiful, happens to be light-skinned, and wields a massive public presence, is offering a lesson that all of our community can benefit from.
Even light-skinned women with “good hair” can go on to have brown-skinned children with kinks. So be careful who you talk down on. In the end, we’re all connected.
A. Rochaun Meadows-Fernandez is a diversity content specialist whose work can be read in the Washington Post, InStyle, the Guardian, and other places. Follow her on Facebook and Twitter.
This post was written through our Daily Kos freelance program.