Ma’am. Ma’am! I did not realize the registration fee for the revolution was going to be so high.
First of all, thank you. You are a phenomenal performer, businessperson, icon and GIF factory. We are lucky to share the Earth with you.
Second of all, what the fuck are you doing charging me all this money for your concert? Where am I supposed to get the scratch to pay for your Givenchy-brand event? Can I pay in Frank’s Red Hot? Do you take Red Lobster gift cards? Do you?
No. You do not.
I, like many of my compatriots, am woke af. Now. This morning I greeted my fiance with a hearty “Black Power!” (He is white. This was awkward. Yes we can, amiright?) But, ma’am, I got to pay for cable. And a wedding. And, Bey, your husband told me I had to pay for Tidal so that I could get Rihanna’s new album and I did it, ma’am, because I didn’t know that you were about to sound the horns of Jericho and make every other album irrelevant.
(I literally just remembered that Hamilton and Adele exist. It has been days since I thought of them.)
And I’m trying to support you, you know. We have to stick together as a people. It only took two and a half days from the time that you released a Black empowerment anthem for all the conversations to turn to how white people feel about it. But whatever. I’m still here for it. I’m still here for America. Yes we can. Am I right? Am I?
You gotta understand, I’m trying to have a Diana Ross in Central Park moment with you. That is, free and potentially life-threatening. I'm not here for these $300-a-seat reindeer games. I’m not for it!
I logged on to Ticketmaster with my BeyHive access code and I couldn’t, for the life of me, find the Black Excellence discount. This site was treating me like one of those… regular people. I was whispering at my computer screen “Girl, it’s me. What’s the black password? ‘Damn damn damn?’ Should I screenshot my nostrils?”
All very distressing.
This site tried to come back at me with some $600 for two tickets.
Ma’am! I didn’t pay $600 for my bed and my ass is in that every damn day. You think I’m going to pay $600 to stand in the middle of a stadium and squint to see you?
(I mean, yes ma’am, but really…)
These prices are not Cheddar Bey-informed.
Where are these seats, anyway? In an underwater police car? In Angela Davis’ living room? Am I going to be sitting directly on Jesus’ lap?
Props to you, ma’am, for charging what you’re worth. We all should. We should all make what we’re worth. If we were paid our worth, we’d all be Black Bill Gates. But then if we were all paid our worth, no one would be poor, I guess. So, upside–we could all afford your concert. Downside–we’d all have to admit Bernie Sanders is right, or something.
But that’s not the world we live in. I ain’t got this kind of money even though I am also a Democratic Socialist. (Doesn’t everyone join the Socialists as a get rich quick scheme? Just me?) I mean, I put your tickets as an item on our wedding registry but I don’t have high hopes, Bey. We also need some Wedgewood dishes. I love you Bey, but I can’t serve dinner for 6 on your fabulousness.
As much as I have tried in the past.
Alls I’m saying, you’re stumping super hard for Red Lobster when you need to be shilling H&R Block. Cuz all your stans are going to be slaying their tax refund to pay for tickets.
But, in conclusion, I ain’t mad. Get that money, girl. You deserve every penny.
R. Eric Thomas is a playwright and standup dramedian. He is also the regular host of The Moth in Philadelphia.