I Brought Every Version of Myself to Cowboy Carter

There’s a version of this story where I just post the photos, posted up in front of the American flag (🤢) screen, ready to get my life. But the truth is, Cowboy Carter wasn’t just a concert. It was a pilgrimage. A reckoning. A moment that felt like I was stepping into the center of a Venn diagram where every version of me finally sat down at the same table and said: “We made it.”

Her music has been the soundtrack to my growing up, my becoming, my blooming. And somehow, it has always met me exactly where I was.

I brought every version of myself with me to the Cowboy Carter Rodeo Chitlin’ Circuit Tour.

A collage of photos of me (a Black woman) over the years.

7-year-old Jaz who heard “No, No, No (Part 2)” on the radio.

10-year-old Jaz, who was obsessed with Carmen: A Hip Hopera, and watched DC3 tribute Mike at his 30 year anniversary concert.

12-year-old Jaz who loved Lilly (AND Aunt Sally) in The Fighting Temptations, and who always rooted for the girl with the big voice.

14-year-old Jaz who sat curled up with Mildred D. Taylor books, listening to Dangerously in Love, soundtracking stories of Southern Blackness and Black girl yearning.

15-year-old Jaz who lost her mind hearing her say “Bass... hi hat…” on “Deja Vu” and saw Deena & the dolls turn it tf out in Dreamgirls on Christmas Day.

16-year-old Jaz who watched The Beyoncé Experience DVD like every day, with my House of Deréon purse and Heat perfume spritzed on my wrists. No budget, just vibes lmao.

17-year-old Jaz crying to “Disappear” and “Broken-Hearted Girl,” discovering that vulnerability could be art, and that it was okay to feel everything deeply.

20-year-old Jaz who heard “Love on Top” for the first time. The modulations! HELLO?! 

22-year-old Jaz who took off work the day after she dropped Self-Titled like a thief in the night, because that was a cultural reset, not just music.

25-year-old Jaz who got in Formation, bought the Ivy Park, and listened to Lemonade with reverence.

27-year-old Jaz who sat on the edge of her seat watching Bey redefine the very concept of a festival performance with Beychella. 

28-year-old Jaz who heard “Bigger” and “Find Your Way Back” and shifted the course of her life accordingly. Those songs held me through transition, through fear, through rebirth.

30-year-old Jaz who spent a hot, stressful summer on Capitol Hill blasting “Break My Soul” every morning just to make it through the day. Renaissance didn’t just keep me sane. It helped me reclaim my joy in a place that tried to grind it out of me.

32-year-old Jaz, who pressed play on American Requiem and felt the ancestral threads tighten. Felt everything come full circle.

I brought all of those girls with me to Cowboy Carter. I stood there (with my VERY best friend in the world) in my immaculate mesh skirt showing off my incredible legs and ass, and said to 16-year-old Jaz, “Girl. You are a whole lawyer now. A Policy Director. You have a girlfriend! 🤭 Anything is possible, baby girl.”

That night, Beyoncé wasn’t just performing. She was testifying. Standing on the shoulders of her ancestors (both musical and blood), creating magic, conjuring healing, and putting on a HELL of a show. And the Black femmes, the queer church kids, the Southern girls and girls with Southern roots, the quiet rebels, the healed/healing women and people — we were her choir. We didn’t just sing. We belonged.

Because that’s what Cowboy Carter did. It took the pieces of our identities that were always told to quiet down, blend in, or go unnoticed, and put them center stage with a spotlight, a guitar, an organ and some ol nasty drums.

So yes, I danced. I hollered. I ugly cried. I sang every lyric like it was gospel. But more than anything, I gave thanks. For the years of music and moments that shaped me. For the woman who kept pushing the art forward. For the freedom to show up fully.

Thank you, Beyoncé. For giving us the soundtrack, the blueprint, the permission. For reminding us that the journey to our highest selves is scary, messy and worth it. For making room for every version of us to come home.

Something about seeing Beyoncé again, over 25 years after I officially became a fan, as the truest, fullest version of myself - embracing my Black queer self, loving my body (and GIVING it to you hoes!), and truly being one with myself - there are no words. I left Mercedes Benz Stadium CHANGED (and in great pain about my feet and back lmao).

Fact: the GREATEST entertainer EVER is a Black girl from the Third Ward of Houston, Texas. Imagine NOT being Hive lmaoooooo.