Beyoncé Has 600 Instagram Followers, part two
A short play
Illustration by Madeline Horwath, originally published in the New Yorker ‘Shouts and Murmurs’.
Living in Georgia—the Black South—and being born in 2007, Beyoncé has always been a part of my life. Beginning high school, as social media began playing an increasingly pivotal part in my life and social survival, questions surrounding celebrity-worship and parasocial relationships began to pervade my imagination. Namely, when RENAISSANCE released, I remember my first thought being, how silly is it that grown adults are acting this way over this fellow grown woman whom they do not know? What are they escaping from, I thought? Maybe capitalism? Maybe the harsh realities of the real world? Okay. Fair enough. But then, I remembered why I found them so ridiculous in the first place. My peers, who were acting just like these adults, were naive like me, and still largely untouched by the concerns of the real world. This idol worship transcended age and circumstances. So what were they escaping from? What was the deal with all these unimpeachable idols, these appointed beacons of culture and perfection? What would happen to us, collectively, if these beacons were blown out, made “regular” like us? Who’d be our idols then? What would happen if Beyoncé had only 600 Instagram followers? This is the beginning of a play that begins to attempt to ask that question.
To be published weekly.
This a continuation of Part One.
EVE Niya, sit down.
NIYA What?
EVE Sit down, Niya!
Nɪʏᴀ, cautiously, sits down on her bed. Eᴠᴇ sits next to her.
EVE Look, love, it’s okay. Okay? Whatever is happening, I cannot claim that I understand, sweetheart, okay? I can’t. But I can tell you that it’s okay. We’re going to get you help. It’s okay.
NIYA Okay. I just-I just don’t understand this.
Nɪʏᴀ holds the picture up.
EVE What are you talking about? That’s Grandma.
NIYA Why is she wearing that?!
EVE Because she’s a fucking icon?
The opening phrase of ‘Beautiful Liar’ plays.
NIYA Mom!
EVE (giggling)
What? It’s Grandma! She is a fucking icon. God! Sorry! It’s just–it’s so hard not to curse when talking about her!
The next few seconds of ‘Beautiful Liar’ plays.
Nɪʏᴀ looks upon her collage again. What she sees causes her to rise. She rips another picture off of it, and holds it up to Eᴠᴇ, like a priest holding a crucifix to an unholy child.
NIYA Mom.
EVE What, Niya?
NIYA Why does Grandpa have a fade with a part? Why does Grandpa look like Drake?
EVE Drake? Like your cousin Drake?
Nɪʏᴀ looks back upon the collage.
NIYA And-and..Aunt Bev looks like Jay-Z..Aunt Bev got freeforms.. And your grandma is wearing an Oprah wig? Mister Gabe is being inaugurated as president? And Grandma Jean is right next to him wearing Michelle’s lemongrass dress, and…nigga the Obamas don’t got a cat! Why is Grandma Jean and Mister Gabe’s cat up there? Where the hell is Sunny, Mom! And-and-and Uncle Greasy is on the ‘12 Play’ cover? What the fuck? When did I even get this picture of him? I thought we don’t talk about him no more? And your dad/ is
EVE (pointedly)
/Niya.
NIYA (pointedly back)
Mom!
Pause.
NIYA I don’t..Mom. I don’t.
EVE I don’t either, Niya. I don’t either.
Nɪʏᴀ begins laughing again. This time less uncontrolled, at least less uncontrolled in the sense that the lack of control this time is not as a result of a nervous breakdown, but from confusion. Confusion on whether anything is as she knows it. On if her mother–who rises and hugs her, herself also quite confused and cautiously embracing an increasingly hazy picture of what she just moments ago believed to be her daughter– is actually who she says she is, who she purports to be. Confusion on if she herself is who she purports herself to be. A general crossroads, on what exactly to approach this breakdown of logic and sense with–shall it be approached with complete submission to the absurdity, or violence at the absurdity’s betrayal of the holy doctrine that is logic? This all characterizes the air. Characterizes Nɪʏᴀ’s laughing. Characterizes Eᴠᴇ’s taking of her daughter in her arms. Nɪʏᴀ laughs. Nɪʏᴀ weeps.
Blackout.
To be continued..