Revisiting Solange’s A Seat at the Table
In her own words, Solange described her [at the time] new album as, "a project on identity, empowerment, independence, grief and healing." This album is a classic; because its message is just as potent, relevant, and crucial in 2020 as it was when it dropped in 2016. When your identity is at the intersection of Blackness and womanhood, realizing that you are often a target for social injustice because of either one of the two, or both at the same damn time, you start to wonder if this is how life is—constantly grieving, constantly healing, and all of the work that grief and healing call for. With her [Solange] project description, I am reminded of the legend, James Baldwin; who said, “To be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage almost all the time.” Not so coincidentally (because of its frequency), the time A Seat at the Table was released was yet another season of indisputable police brutality, and the album came right on time as we all mourned. Now in the familiar midst of mourning, I revisited the album in search of everything it gave nearly four years ago.
I’ve been a fan since Sol-Angel and the Hadley St. Dreams, when all of her videos for “I Decided," "Sandcastle Disco," and "T.O.N.Y.," would be on constant replay at the Burger King by my middle school. What I remember most is the feeling of being seen for who I was, and not who I pretended be; being able to be myself and enjoy being young right alongside my friends— Black girls with whom I could share space without the fear of exclusion. For those brief moments we didn’t have to be students, and our parents weren’t around to enforce whatever façade we’d formed in their usual presence, so we just were ourselves; and the laughter, dancing, singing, and greasy food early in the AM or after school was always enough. The vibe of her music blended rather seamlessly with the retro-feel of Burger King’s décor. You realize that she [Solange] has, for a long time, paid homage to the greats. For that album in particular she was heavily influenced by Motown girl groups. Being so close to (and writing songs for) one of the biggest girl groups of all time; the amount of talent it takes to be an artist that does the work to connect the dots, and have that level of artistry to make such clear paths that encompass your influences so well; as a Black artist myself I find it absolutely admirable. What I’d latched onto in my youth was an artist whose sound was so different from what I was hearing on the radio at the time (and the videos far more thought-provoking) but also the feelings that the music stirred within me. It brought past styles to the forefront, and celebrated decades of Black glamour both visually and sonically, with lyrics that simply belonged. Then (with the impressive EP, True in between), A Seat at the Table came eight years later. The same artist that soundtracked my Black girlhood had evolved (as I’d now evolved into a Black woman) into a force that dared to be reckoned with— in all its Blackness, in all its womanhood, in all its authenticity, ready to be heard.
“Rise” as the introduction into “Weary,” honestly had me close to weeping. Very retrograde of me but yeah, she knew what she was doing; and she did it over and over again on this whole album. These two songs in their exact order, remind me of how heavy depression can feel, but you find the strength to pick yourself back up and rise as the song says. As we are ascending (passing Master P on the way) into “Cranes In the Sky”, it’s the literal pick-me-up, in tempo but also in subject matter. After all these things I’ve tried to do to not feel this feeling anymore, they’ve only felt good temporarily, and now I’m left to feel it again. And it hurts. Then, her interludes soothe the wounds. “Mad” is self-explanatory and I love it. We are pissed the fuck off, rightfully so, and Solange and Wayne together ain't missed yet. I can’t pay enough respect to the anthem that is “Don’t Touch My Hair,” and when “Where Do We Go From Here” soon follows, I feel seen. Countless Black people experience the microaggressions that come along with our hair/appearance, just as well as a countless number of us also experience displacement. I would like to end my walk-through with “F.U.B.U,” and leave others to enjoy or use the art in whatever way they see fit. “F.U.B.U” is one of the most poetic ways to say, back the fuck off, if there ever was one.
I’m appreciative of this album for how it has caused me to search inward over the years. This familiar image/metaphor of “a seat at the table,” calls for a variety of interpretations at a time when just a seat at the table doesn’t feel like enough. Whether it’s a seat at the table of a predominantly non-Black space, or a seat at the table of your Black home (where you will also encounter views different from your own), the space that you take up—your identity carries weight and what’s being brought to this table so to speak is an offering. What winds up happening is that all of these nuances are captured when we put Blackness in all its multifaceted glory at the forefront. Seeing the growth of someone who I’ve always been a fan of, as well as seeing how I’ve grown myself, has become therapeutic. As someone who finds music to be almost medicinal, finding an album that I can keep coming back to (with no skips) is rare.
During these past three and a half months of quarantine I’ve fallen apart many times. From relationships ending, plans failing, the distortion of life as I knew it; with tragedy after tragedy I, as my grandmother says, don’t know if I’m coming or going. When usual forms of escapism became drastically limited, I’ve had to dig deeper, peel back layer after damaged layer, and care for my core. Listening to A Seat at the Table now as I embrace solitude, I am reminded that not only is everything I need to succeed already within me, but so are the tools needed to put myself together again. A Seat at the Table allows me to sit back, admire my patchwork, and steady my hands for what’s to come.
