Ain’t I a Diva?: Beyoncé and the Power of Pop Culture Pedagogy

SCHOOLIN’ LIFE

I WAS SETTLING INTO BED AT MIDNIGHT ON FRIDAY, December 13, 2013—the exact moment Beyoncé bent the entire music industry to her will. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand to check social media one last time, and as I clicked on the Instagram icon, the first thing to pop up was a post from Beyoncé that read simply, “Surprise!” My eyes went wide. “Drunk In Love” (though no one knew the song at the time) played over a video montage while that now-iconic pink font announced: “BEYONCÉ. Visual album. 14 songs. 17 videos. Available now.” It was not a drill. Zero marketing or promotion, no teaser single. A paradigm shift in the way music was released. I threw my phone across the room, tossed my blankets to one side, hopped up, and darted to my computer. I pulled up iTunes and started the download as fast as my fingers could click after inevitably fumbling my password and cursing once or twice at the top of my lungs. Forgetting sleep completely, I stayed up well into that first night soaking up sounds and lyrics from the surprise record like a sponge. I watched from start to finish, the way Beyoncé intended the project to be consumed, and then immediately returned to songs and videos that stuck out as instant favorites. I couldn’t get enough.

Beyoncé’s digital drop may not seem like a major political event, but the landscape of the music industry immediately shifted. Countless artists have since tried to re-create the same surprise impact, to varying degrees of success. The phrase “pulled a Beyoncé” gets bandied about now as part of the pop culture lexicon, with its own entry on Urban Dictionary. The industry quickly changed its overall release structure to coalesce worldwide, with new music coming out on Fridays, mirroring the truly legendary release of BEYONCÉ. Earlier that summer, Beyoncé had retreated from public life. She’d stopped giving interviews and began communicating with the public almost entirely through sporadic Instagram posts and her website, defying the demands and expectations society places on its most popular celebrities. Her silence not only amplified the impact of the surprise release in December but also marked a monumental shift in Beyoncé’s public relations toward a new survival strategy. She set strict boundaries in order to carve out a meaningful life for herself as both a private person and a public artist. As a Black woman in an industry run almost exclusively by rich white men, where Black women were never meant to attain the level of power she has, her 2013 feat is even more earth-shattering.

Oprah Winfrey calls transformative, split-second sea changes “Aha! moments”: instances when things shift and reform, on either a small or large scale. And as a featured guest on Nicki Minaj’s song “Feeling Myself,” Beyoncé boasts about that December 2013 night in just those terms. She explains to any lingering doubters that she effectively changed the game: “I stopped the world.” It might sound hyperbolic, but it’s not bragging when it’s true; Beyoncé stopped the world. More than once now. Each of her subsequent releases have come as additional surprises or initiated further radical shifts in previously tested music promotion and marketing strategy. She emphasizes that “world stop” in the music with a break of silence, ended a few seconds later with the command, “Carry on.” And we did. We have. And we’ll continue to anticipate each and every time Beyoncé will stop the world. Not just because she consistently delivers innovative, interesting music and visuals, but because she creates cultural Aha! moments across the globe.

To quote some wise words from writer and cultural critic Janet Mock that served as a backbone to her MSNBC series So POPular!, pop culture is so much more than a guilty pleasure, it’s an “access point”—for education, entertainment, critical inquiry, politics. One that is available and accessible to most everyone in one form or another, unlike often exclusionary academic theory or biased formal education. Pop culture teaches us, and sometimes pop culture can stop our world. Those electrifying and sometimes suspenseful moments are when pop culture gets powerfully translated into politics, when what entertains us also educates. And if we’re paying critical attention, they’re when we, as an audience, change too. Beyoncé’s music is built on countless Aha! moments. Not just regarding the music industry, but encompassing the entire organization of society and our various roles in it. Beyoncé may not hold any formal teaching credentials, but she can definitely teach us something, just as she ensured in the chorus to her 2011 track “Schoolin’ Life.”

Full disclosure: I was late to the BeyHive. I wasn’t living in a cave, so of course I knew of Destiny’s Child and Beyoncé. I bought The Writing’s on the Wall on CD and bopped to “Bills, Bills, Bills,” “Survivor,” and later “Crazy in Love,” but my musical tastes shifted all over the place; Beyoncé was constantly there, but in the background. It wasn’t until I heard B’Day, her second solo album in 2006, that I become a full-fledged Beyoncé devotee. Something visceral and immediate about the sounds of B’Day grabbed me by the collar, shook me, and never let go. While Dangerously in Love and B’Day both start off with infectious, horn-fueled singles featuring Jay-Z, the recordings couldn’t be more different. Listen to the first thirty seconds of each track back-to-back. “Crazy in Love” finds Jay calling the shots, with Beyoncé’s classic “Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh, oh-no-no” providing background punctuation, whereas “Déjà Vu” begins with Beyoncé’s sultry but commanding voice calling in the bass before the music even starts. In a complete reversal, Jay then complements her with intermittent “Uhs” and “Uh-huhs.” She continues to call in the rest of the instruments before allowing Jay himself to enter the song with his verse. He quickly tries to claim that he “runs the bass, hi-hat, and the snare,” but any close listener knows it’s a bald-faced lie. Beyoncé just called each in one by one. She’s in control.

The opening of “Déjà Vu” stands as an astute inverse to “Crazy in Love” in order to mark a major artistic transformation in the direction of Beyoncé’s career. She’d always featured empowerment in her music, solo and with Destiny’s Child, but this new Beyoncé was also unapologetically and aggressively beginning to seize the means of production from record labels and the music industry. Though she would finally attain creative autonomy in 2010 through her own Parkwood Entertainment, Beyoncé planted the seeds of her eventual sovereignty in B’Day. Listening today, I’m always transported back to those initial moments of excitement, feeling shaken up by Beyoncé’s new sound and presence. A sound and presence rooted in defiance of a record label that hadn’t been supportive of Dangerously in Love until it started producing multiple number-one singles, and in a restorative exhale after playing the weak-willed Deena Jones in Dreamgirls. B’Day, in my mind, is forever most associated with the rattling opening bass note of “Déjà Vu” that refuses to be contained.

The audio levels of Dangerously in Love and B’Day are like night and day too. “Crazy in Love” is energetic but confined, bass and treble in equal parts, a neatly packaged, restrained studio recording. But that first bass note in “Déjà Vu” rudely breaks through the speaker to slap listeners in the face. The levels get pushed beyond their own limits to ensure a different affective auditory experience. No matter what volume the track is played at, the speakers shake slightly. The phenomenon is known as sonic redlining or clipping, where the sounds get recorded at levels too high to be properly processed as audio; it’s literally too much for playback. In extreme cases it can sound like a record or CD is skipping; on B’Day it creates a mild, low buzz. The aggressive recording mirrored what Beyoncé spoke to as a business strategy in her later documentary, Life Is But a Dream: “Me being polite was not me being fair to myself.” Letting others determine how her work and sound would be produced was no longer being fair to herself. B’Day was an impolite concept album that emotionally and physically moved me via the redlined vibrations. And I liked it. Each record she’s released since has built on that same foundation.

My growing Beyoncé obsession coincided with entering graduate school for American studies and women’s and gender studies, and my own deepening queer identity and feminist political consciousness. Academically, I was particularly interested in the intersections of race, gender, sexuality, and pop culture, so I wanted to marry my love of this music with critical thinking—to link Beyoncé’s work to larger phenomena and politics. Today, countless articles, books, and investigations boast a burgeoning field of Beyoncé studies, but in 2006, serious analyses were few and far between. I eventually came across writing by Daphne Brooks that made my world stop, just like the B’Day album itself. The article, “Suga Mama, Politicized,” originally published in the Nation, functions as passionate cultural analysis and album review simultaneously. Brooks followed the Nation article with an extended scholarly piece in the interdisciplinary feminist journal Meridians on Black women’s soul singing as political activism in times of national catastrophe that also takes Beyoncé as case study. While celebrating the beauty and power of B’Day, Brooks argues for readers and listeners to see it alongside more traditionally recognized protest music by Black women, rather than dismiss it as just pop music, drawing connections to political work by the likes of Nina Simone, Odetta, Tracy Chapman, Ms. Lauryn Hill, and Martha and the Vandellas, even comparing it to more current artists like Mary J. Blige and Keyshia Cole, of whom she also offers brief, subversive readings.

While critically lauding the album, Brooks presents compelling, unapologetic Black feminist analysis that locates B’Day both in the immediate aftermath of 2005’s Hurricane Katrina and within a longer history of Black women’s subversive cultural production. She convincingly argues that B’Day was a complicated response to the ways Black women had been forced to negatively represent and bear the weight of the nation’s pain in mass media following Katrina, especially apt given Beyoncé’s Creole ancestry and familial ties to the Gulf Coast region. Brooks imagines that Beyoncé was reclaiming a meticulously nuanced political image of Black women with her work—participating in a longer Black feminist historical trajectory, with which I was also familiar and in which I was deeply interested. Reading Brooks, I realized the vibration and feeling I had initially received from listening to the album could be grounded in politics, cultural commentary, and critique. The excess that couldn’t be contained by the speakers had a critical counterpart.

Brooks’s articles provided a perfect, serendipitous crash course. I began playing around with my own analyses informed by her observations, thinking about Beyoncé’s work in other contexts and alongside other writers, using Brooks’s example as a map. As far back as Dangerously in Love, Beyoncé noted that “harmonies are colors” in the spoken “Beyoncé Interlude,” marking a meaningful synesthetic marriage of music and visuals and inviting a deeper analytic dive, particularly into the visual aspect of her work. What else was Beyoncé hiding beneath the surface? Just like BEYONCÉ and Lemonade to come, B’Day was essentially a visual album with a video for each song, so there was ample material to pore over. The videos were just released later on a separate DVD, more like bonus features or anthology than integral elements, so many paid them less mind. Late nights watching and rewatching Beyoncé videos, searching for deeper meanings and associations, taking furious notes, and compiling them all for future use became a regular pastime.

At my first opportunity, I assigned Daphne Brooks’s initial article to my own full class of students in an introductory gender studies course. It provided an exciting template to discuss race, gender, and sexuality within the context of something with which students were often already familiar. The days I assigned the article always found students engaged in intense and animated conversation, much more so than during other sessions. Students who had never spoken in class before finally had everything to say, and weren’t scared to speak up. Some students balked and said Beyoncé couldn’t possibly be trying to be political or make statements in her music, that this was all coincidence and conjecture. Others were amazed and quickly convinced that she was being subversive and making major political statements about Katrina in unconventional ways.

Students in these intro courses came from a wide variety of backgrounds, majors, and identities. Each group is unique in specific composition, but diversity in perspectives in the classroom was a constant. I taught students from many different racial, ethnic, and class backgrounds, as well as multiple sexualities and gender identities, though groups did tend to include a higher number of women than men by virtue of being located in a women’s and gender studies department. College students often consider these intro courses easy ways to satisfy university diversity requirements. Instructors are lucky when students enroll already passionate about the topic. One of the main goals of these courses is to pitch women’s and gender studies as a major or minor any student might consider more in-depth, to show how race, gender, and sexuality impact the ways society is set up and the ways everyone moves through the world. In rooms of forty-five or fifty usually rowdy and disinterested college students, the sustained conversation around Beyoncé’s music and newly elicited fervor about the topics this focus inspired, even if just for a day or two, felt like the holy grail. What’s more, Beyoncé engaged the room in ways that both highlighted differences (whether in identity among students in the classroom or in society at large) and passionately encouraged connection across those differences. Students shared an excitement for the material from their own unique perspectives. As she’d later proclaim on 2016’s “Formation,” Beyoncé was already “caus[ing] all this conversation” in the classroom nearly a decade prior.

Meanwhile, Beyoncé released I Am … Sasha Fierce, another concept album rife with politics of gender, sexuality, and identity. The historical context was obviously different—the album was not situated in a particular geography like B’Day—but contained other subtle, subversive politics about race, marriage, and gender roles, perfect for unpacking gendered expectations in society. I started asking students to meditate on the lyrics of “If I Were a Boy” as a way to deconstruct stereotypical, gendered double standards—a skill they were then asked to apply to other pop songs of their choosing. Again, they couldn’t get enough. The exercise connected the sometimes-theoretical course material directly to their everyday lives and the music they regularly consumed. At the same time, I was enjoying myself more than ever before, as a teacher and critical fan, facilitating and participating in the conversations myself. It proved how essential excitement, pleasure, and fun are as elements or core values in building a productive learning environment, just as bell hooks stipulates in Teaching to Transgress: Education as the Practice of Freedom. Given the success and enthusiasm that just a couple of examples provided, I kept experimenting with ways to add other songs, concepts, and social issues to the syllabus, kept exploring ways to see the world that revolved around analysis of Beyoncé’s music. So why not invite Beyoncé into class for the entire semester?

Enter “Politicizing Beyoncé.” The course title itself is a bit of a misnomer, though. Beyoncé never needed anyone to politicize her, especially me as a white man. The work she does as a Black woman in an industry (and society) where white men hold most of the power is already inherently political. And since the first time I taught the full course in 2010, she’s become progressively more determined to delineate explicitly political layers in her work, while still rarely delivering formal pronouncements on electoral politics. The title wasn’t about politicizing Beyoncé as a person—rather, politicizing the gaze through which audiences and the public see Beyoncé as an artist and the work she creates. Peeling back the layers of her music to reveal additional influences, references, connections, and even critiques of the ways race, gender, and sexuality have been understood and operate in the world. It meant, to me, learning to locate and talk about the intersections of race, gender, sexuality, class, etc.—their impact and force—through Beyoncé’s music, regardless of how removed an individual’s identity may be from those intersections. Pragmatically, “Politicizing Beyoncé” was also a quick and catchy phrase meant to grab a student’s attention while they flipped through a jam-packed course catalog. And on a purely cosmetic level, “politicizing” served as reference and homage to Brooks’s “Suga Mama, Politicized”—the original article that inspired me to create the course.

In the fall of 2010, I got the opportunity to teach a special topics course under the broad heading “Feminist Perspectives.” For those unfamiliar, special topics courses in any department typically provide general education credits toward an overall degree, sometimes meet specific university diversity requirements, and count toward that department’s major or minor. They give instructors a chance to focus on special interests and research in progress for an entire semester in a collaborative environment with students. I jumped at the opportunity to bring “Politicizing Beyoncé” to life. That fateful semester, students didn’t even know they were signing up for a full Beyoncé seminar. Given the snail’s pace of university bureaucracy, and the fact that I had been assigned to the special topics course late in the summer, the “Politicizing Beyoncé” subtitle wasn’t featured in the catalog. On that first September afternoon, students were … shocked, to put it mildly. After some stilted introductory conversation where I asked students what they were expecting, I dropped the ultimate bomb. “This semester we’re going to be looking at feminist perspectives of one particular topic,” I said, and paused for dramatic effect, almost a beat too long. Then I finished, “And that topic is Beyoncé.”

First, there was a wave of disbelief. A couple of students who had been glancing at phones or laptops looked up, confused. One student pulled out their earbuds to see if they’d heard correctly. “Did you say Beyoncé?” Another previously disinterested student yelled, “SHUT UP!” at full volume and unintentionally threw a pen (I ducked!). I couldn’t hide my own excitement and amusement either, and doubled over laughing. It was exactly the reaction I’d hoped for. After a couple more minutes of eager questions and chatter, I handed out the full syllabus, and we went through the logistics of the course—journal assignments, research papers, attendance policy, etc. But the energy and interest in the room remained palpable. That energy never diminished over the entire semester, and engagement levels haven’t dwindled over subsequent years, though students have been far less surprised about what they were signing up for at the outset.

“Politicizing Beyoncé” was a way to practice carefully analyzing media, using lyrics and music videos as texts themselves, but also a way to create conversations around important social issues while keeping Black feminist voices at the center. I decided early on in organizing the course that I would exclusively assign work by Black women writers, thinkers, artists, and activists alongside Beyoncé’s catalog; following Brooks’s example, I wanted to put a longer history of Black feminist thought and action in conversation with Beyoncé’s music across time. None of the assigned reading would be about Beyoncé, but would be selected and positioned to inform her work or draw out particular themes through careful pairing, always organized around the syllabus’s central questions: How does Beyoncé challenge our very understanding of the categories of race, gender, class, and sexuality? How does Beyoncé push the boundaries of these categories to make space for and embrace other, supposedly more deviant, bodies, desires, and/or politics? “Politicizing Beyoncé” attempted to undeniably position Beyoncé as a progressive, feminist, and queer icon in an attempt to answer the question: Can her music be seen as a blueprint for social change?

As a white man with certain privileges and access to a classroom, I have also long felt a political responsibility to attempt to subversively marginalize traditional, overrepresented white male voices in any way possible, even though those voices come from the same social position as my own. Black women’s voices are still too often only tokenized on syllabi, when included at all. Black feminism is first and foremost about the experience of Black women, and because I can’t speak to that experience or identity, I wanted the assigned texts to speak for themselves, to and with one another. I’d been reading Black women’s work privately for years after being deeply inspired by individual writers and the field of Black feminist thought overall as a young person, and centered Black women’s work in my graduate study as well. It may have been an unlikely area of interest for a white queer kid from Utah, but I do believe listening to Black women holds the answers to building a better world, and wanted to make that truth central to my teaching. The work of the class would be putting the sources into conversation with Beyoncé’s music, using them as lenses to uncover hidden lyrical and visual layers in Beyoncé’s work. Letting the texts together guide students to ways of seeing always grounded in the intersections of race, gender, sexuality, class, etc.—a hallmark of Black feminist thought even before it became codified as theory or academic discipline.

Of course, some students are more familiar with seeing the world through this lens already, given their own experiences and identities; for others, it is wholly new. In conceptualizing the class, I wanted to cast a wide net and emphasize conversations across differences to reflect the diversity found in the BeyHive and among casual Beyoncé listeners. Her music speaks to many groups, for different reasons. Of course, Black women and LGBTQ+ students, especially queer folks of color, enroll in high numbers, as they comprise major portions of Beyoncé’s fan base, but the overall makeup of the class is quite similar to the introductory teaching I was already used to. In fact, I hoped “Politicizing Beyoncé” would function as another kind of introductory course to feminism and issues of social justice solely through Black women’s work and voices. I never intended the class to speak to or for Black women, or any one specific group, as I never could or would do that. Being a white man facilitating the course requires a lot of consideration and self-reflection, as well as deferral to the students in many cases. I obviously have theories about Beyoncé’s videos, but try to create space for students as they come to understand the analysis organically and offer their own additional insights. I never lecture—I just prompt discussion with strategic questions and initial ideas. To me, teaching is largely about listening, and improvising. I try to provide a scaffolding to build on, but never impose any particular interpretation of the material as the only correct one. A mentor once taught me to think of teaching as choreography, so my plotting of the syllabus was a kind of rough sketch of steps students could infuse with their own energy, experience, and unique movement.

By foregrounding and always speaking from my own identity and privilege in my teaching and analysis, I’m trying to highlight complicities and responsibilities many share in creating and sustaining a society that has hurt so many, while de facto insulating others. I hope that angle encourages students to consider themselves within Patricia Hill Collins’s “matrix of domination”—a theory that complicates the simple oppressed/oppressor binary—to expose and interrogate their own levels of power and privilege, whatever they may be. Coming to terms and engaging with one’s own privilege in order to recognize its roots and challenge them from that particular vantage point, while simultaneously never speaking over or for others, can help dismantle this unequal society. It’s the necessary first step toward solidarity. The classroom is a space where students and instructors alike can discuss these issues in ways that wouldn’t likely be as useful or prudent in organizing or activist spaces, though education shares elements with both, and so I wanted to harness what the classroom makes possible, while instilling a critical awareness of and respect for boundaries around identity for those who do wield some privilege.

There are some conversations around Beyoncé’s work that are most effectively led and conducted by Black women. Conversations that come out of shared identity with Beyoncé as a Black woman. For instance, I have no place in a conversation around Lemonade and the intricacies of Black women’s romantic relationships, heterosexual or queer. Those collective dialogues speak to certain pieces of experience I can never access or likely understand. However, I can respectfully listen to learn more, if and when granted the permission to observe, as can others. But I believe Beyoncé’s work as a whole is also marketed to and meant to be discussed and analyzed by diverse audiences, even while her references become increasingly and more explicitly Black. By relying on close textual analysis and interpretation, along with healthy doses of admiration, reverence, and humility, it’s possible to create those conversations in the classroom with wider audiences. It’s about perspective and direction. A large part of Beyoncé’s brilliance as an artist lies in how she makes these multiple conversations possible simultaneously—calling out complicities in society, while empowering those that aren’t traditionally included in the American project. And always, always centering Black women.

After that first semester in the fall of 2010, the media got wind of my course, and demand grew exponentially. I had no idea that anyone outside those thirty original students would ever hear about it. Since then, I’ve been lucky enough to teach the full course over a dozen times and be invited to speak about the curriculum around the world, which has been a dream, especially for an adjunct lecturer not typically guaranteed any job security. Beyoncé also continues to release new music, evolve, and expand her empire. The class changes and becomes new again with the passage of time. But the conversations around gender, race, class, and sexuality that take place are as necessary as ever. America’s deeply fractured and divided society was put in even starker relief after the 2016 election. Talking about the divides that plague the US and discussing the differences that exist between people—not ignoring them—is increasingly essential to healing this world. Listening to Black women’s solutions, especially, is of the utmost importance. In “Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference,” Audre Lorde says, “Certainly there are very real differences between us…. But it is not those differences between us that are separating us. It is rather our refusal to recognize those differences, and to examine the distortions which result from our misnaming them.” More recognition, more examination, less misnaming. Beyoncé continues to spark conversations that include all three.

Intersectionality was never put forth as an account of identity but rather an account of power. That we have taken up intersectionality as a way primarily to speak about ourselves … is unfortunate…. [I]t often means that we can’t think productively about how racism, sexism, classism, heterosexism, ableism, and yes, neoliberalism … disadvantage people multiply placed along these axes.

Intersectionality’s origins and Cooper’s rearticulation highlight it as a lens everyone must necessarily see through.

After years of teaching Beyoncé—or rather, centering Beyoncé while I teach—I wanted to turn what I’ve learned into a book for a host of reasons. To share what I hope is exciting, thought-provoking analysis of Beyoncé’s music. To extend classroom conversations beyond formal university walls. To trace a story of possibly subversive politics layered into Beyoncé’s music, or at least highlight the potential to create conversations about subversive politics using Beyoncé’s music. To insist that pop culture, and Beyoncé in particular, can be useful, even essential political tools to revitalize education, needed now more than ever. To cultivate critical fandom, inspire fans to always search for deeper meaning in what they love. To prove there is merit in the things that many gatekeepers of the ivory tower pretend to be too smart to enjoy. To demand that more people with privilege become politically engaged, push beyond their own privileged experience (my own included), and recognize those privileges and work from their unique social position in productive solidarity with others. To highlight Black feminism and intersectionality as essential analytic lenses for all people working toward a healthier, more equitable society. To insist that education can also be fun.

I also wanted to record the unique story of “Politicizing Beyoncé” as the first in-depth, semester-long, college-level examination of Beyoncé’s larger career, catalog, and artistic, political layers dating back to that first fall 2010 semester. Additional courses have come together in recent years post-BEYONCÉ—from a Harvard business study on her marketing innovations and a course focused on image and social media, to a performance studies investigation of gender and race in her work, a deep dive into Black folklore and horror influences in Lemonade, and an exploration of feminism and womanism through Beyoncé and Rihanna, among a handful of others. Beyoncé herself has even become more academically involved since 2010 via her BeyGOOD philanthropic endeavors, creating a “Formation Scholars” program for the one-year anniversary of Lemonade, and joining with Jay-Z to give away over one million dollars in scholarships during the On the Run II tour. With all these exciting developments and interest in Beyoncé inside and outside the academy, I hope this book also shows that “Politicizing Beyoncé” still offers something unique, exciting, and necessary.

Ain’t I a Diva? leads the reader through the most current iteration of the “Politicizing Beyoncé” syllabus and analysis that has emerged from my own work and class conversations. It follows a loose three-part structure—past, present, and future—but one that is thematic, not chronological. Beyoncé’s work regularly features the past, historically and metaphorically; a critique of various systems of power in the present; and ways of imagining a better future. Chapters include major pairings students read and study as homework in order to place them in conversation with Beyoncé during class sessions, but I’ve also attempted to inflect the analysis with additional sources that provide valuable context, some specifically about Beyoncé, that I don’t typically ask students to read. Obviously, a book can’t fully capture live discussion, but the story and analysis in these pages is pieced together from semesters and years of lively conversation following lines of flight, unpacking layers, and making connections using Beyoncé’s music. Plus I’ve included some notes on my own pedagogical practice. Hopefully, you’ll finish the book feeling as if you’ve taken the class itself, not just read about it, and I hope you’ll watch the videos with each chapter as you read, just like students are required to in class, though you’re clearly not being graded on your participation. As with the syllabus, I’m purposefully only citing Black women in this book as part of my own political practice and commitment.

Chapter 1 is a condensed version of the first few class sessions: laying the groundwork to approach Beyoncé as public artist and not private person, plus an introduction to course methodology via a blend of Beyoncé’s political conception of a diva and Sojourner Truth’s life and speeches. The next three chapters chase ghosts through Beyoncé’s catalog, from Lemonade backward into American history and her earlier work, reenacting a performative loop. The middle four chapters address stories Beyoncé tells about current intersecting systems of power and control, and how those same systems are normalized and generally haunt society’s common sense: beauty standards, sexuality, the Western gender binary, and capitalism. The final three chapters look to building better worlds and healing. Of course, themes spill over and resist containment, just like that first bass note of “Déjà Vu” that grabbed me and still hasn’t let go. An epilogue and two appendices finally return to the beginning, and, along with the previous sections, nod to Beyoncé’s prescient assertion in Lemonade: “The past and the future merge to meet us here.” The full book then hopefully turns into its own performative loop that continues to spiral outward. Here we are.

Ultimately, “Politicizing Beyoncé,” and now Ain’t I a Diva?, embrace and attempt to extend the themes of “Schoolin’ Life.” To blend education, pop culture, and honest conversation across difference, history, and politics, in solidarity with a longer Black feminist trajectory and deep appreciation of the sources. I want to reimagine, from unlikely places, what a political fight might look like, and illuminate various ways individuals can do politics and engage politically. I want to create useful conversations that follow the bread crumbs Beyoncé has scattered throughout her music. I hope you’ll join me. And I hope, in whatever small way, while reading this book, your world stops. Just a little. Maybe you’ll frame an issue differently. In a bold new way. I hope this book leaves you optimistic and inspired, and produces the same enthusiasm Beyoncé’s music continues to spark in me and so many others. And then, after worlds stop, as Beyoncé insists in “Feeling Myself,” I hope you “carry on.” I hope we all carry on as students in Beyoncé’s classroom. Connect, critically. Carry on, renewed.