There is a scene in “Lemonade” that highlights Sybrina Fulton, Gwenn Carr and Lesley McSpadden holding portraits of their sons, respectively: Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner and Michael Brown. And these three women also appear in other segments of the visual album. As I watched, I was struck by the physical beauty of all three women, but I was also left to ponder: how do they wake up each morning, wipe their grieving eyes, and still continue to do good in the world?
Beyoncé’s work forces us to see these women not only as grieving mothers, but so much more—they are tied to the legacy of black women on plantations who nurtured children they knew would be sold at auction. They are connected to black women who preached in the clearing, knowing they would never be welcome in someone’s pulpit. They are connected to black women who practiced the healing arts, when the doors of the hospital were closed to colored people. All the black women in “Lemonade” are connected to a long line of women who conjured a life when the forces of racism and sexism insisted that they weren’t worthy of living.
Art is always a resource for spiritual reflection, and “Lemonade” is an aural and visual feast for black women who cannot find reflections of themselves in the liturgy, sacred texts, icons, and stained glass of their own traditions. It is a work that is particular and specific: it is a love letter and an ode to black women, deeply rooted in African-American history.
—from
Black Women and the Sacred: With 'Lemonade' Beyonce Takes Us to Church by Yolanda Pierce,