Plot Twist: Beyoncé Is a Villain (sorry, not sorry)
We often talk about white supremacy as a system, and it is. But systems have faces.
And sometimes, those faces look like us. Having a marginalized identity doesn’t automatically make someone safe, ethical, or just. Someone can hold a marginalized identity and still uphold harmful systems.
Someone can be celebrated as a symbol of progress and still protect the very structures we claim to be dismantling. In fact, racialized people who hold power—money, influence, platforms, social capital—can (and often do) replicate the very systems that harmed them.
Sometimes, because they’re trying to survive.
Sometimes, because they’ve learned power only works one way.
Sometimes, because they’re afraid to lose access to the room.
And sometimes because of internalized racism.
We don’t like to name this because many of us are so used to being erased, ignored, or harmed by whiteness, when someone who looks like us makes it, we feel proud and a fierce desire to protect them.
Calls for accountability can trigger racial trauma, especially for Black and racialized communities.
It can feel like an attack on the only one who “made it,” and we rush to defend them, sometimes without fully examining the full scope of their identity, privilege, and power. We cling to their success because we’ve had so few examples.
But protecting someone because they’re Black isn’t the same as holding them to the standard that justice demands. This is why it’s important to celebrate Black excellence, but also be mindful of the harm it can cause when it’s never examined or held accountable.
Admiration without accountability is not liberation.
And here’s the deeper truth:
In our urgency to protect Black excellence, we often create distance between Black excellence and Black struggle.
We don’t just uplift success, we separate it from the very communities and histories that shaped it.
We start to say, “Look at them, they made it,” instead of asking, “What’s happening to the rest of us?”
Even those who carry the label of Black excellence often participate in that distancing themselves.
Because being too close to struggle, poverty, or injustice can feel like a threat to their brand, their image, and their access. And yes, sometimes that distancing is also the product of internalized racism, the belief that proximity to whiteness equals legitimacy, safety, or value.
So instead of honouring both the excellence and the struggle, we split them apart. And when we do that, we replicate the very systems we claim to be trying to dismantle.
I remember seeing a post from a Black man in my network who proudly shared a moment where a wealthy white man said, “I went to Disneyland and didn’t see a lot of Black families. Why is that?”
Instead of naming the real reasons—systemic poverty, underemployment, incarceration, intergenerational harm—his response was something like:
“That’s not true. There are lots of Black families. We travel. We own property. We’re thriving.” And the post was celebrated. Clapped for. Amplified. But the actual struggle? Silenced.
That’s the danger. When excellence is used to erase struggle, it ceases to be about liberation. It becomes performance. And if I’m being honest… I’m about to put the Beyhive on notice.
If you know me, you know how much I love Beyoncé. But love can’t exist without accountability. We’ve created a binary where you’re either all in or all out. You’re either with us or against us. You love them or you hate them.
And that kind of binary thinking? It’s not just limiting. It’s a characteristic of white supremacy culture. There’s a name for it: “One Right Way.” And when we can’t tolerate nuance, complexity, or critique, we stop growing. We start protecting power instead of transforming it. This is why we need to be clear:
Proximity to marginalization does not equal freedom from accountability.
Power without accountability is villainy.
And no matter who holds it—white, Black, queer, disabled, famous, or beloved—none of us are immune to white supremacy.
If we want liberation, we have to tell the whole truth. We must hold each other with love and clarity. We must acknowledge power even when it’s wearing our faces. Because healing doesn’t come from pretending we’re all innocent. It comes from facing who we’ve become and choosing differently, together.