On Thursday night, I hopped in my car with two cowboy hats and headed to Tottenham to watch Beyoncé perform. As someone who has seen her four times before, I had high expectations — and without a doubt, she surpassed them.

Now, while the American Studies graduate in me wants to write a full-on essay about the Southern references, how this trilogy of albums interrogates who gets to be American, and how it reclaims genres of music founded by black musicians, I won’t be doing that in this newsletter — don’t worry.

Walking to the stadium and witnessing the sea of people — a blanket of black bodies in different hues, dressed in cowboy hats, double denim, furs, leather, lace, and animal print — was beautiful. It was breathtaking to see black women dressed up, carefree, and ready to dance the night away. What made it even more special was running into a few Black Ballad members after the concert ended. Seeing them on a joyful high, still glowing from such an electric night, was priceless — a reminder of what it means to share space, spirit, and celebration with other black women.