Dreamt I was watching Nicki Minaj doing her thing in a pink cowboy outfit (and pink chaps) and playing the piano in boots meant to look like cow hooves. The lyrics was about self-control and independence, stressing that no matter how much the mainstream (fickle) opinion doesn’t like it, you be you.
Classical piano with a beat box backup? Yes, please!
”Ugh. What trash! Visually she’s an epilepsy trigger and her forcing incompatible music styles should have her flogged and sent back to the brothel where that mouth could do something constructive.”
Whoa. The fuck? Dream or not, someone is about to get hit.
The speaker was every mark on a hipster white male checklist. Realizing this was a dream and surmising there would be no arguing with this archetype, I asked him if accepting her, as she is, was a danger to his identity.
”If people start accepting that as something of worth, how will they recognize when something truly worthwhile comes along? Do you like… this?”
Oh, hey! Leading the witness! ”Irrelevant. She likes herself as she is. My opinion doesn’t matter to her and neither does yours. She is the authority for herself. You are only an authority for yours.”
On the screen, Nicki Minaj was bending over an upturned camera with a red-hot cattle brand. She was rapping about being selective with what you attach to your identity because associations are easy to make and hard to release. But in the end the hand that establishes your brand is still yours. She ponders if her listeners are using their brand or what other people tell them to use.
”You don’t like her because she does not accept your authority as binding. She acknowledges that you do as you please but also that your opinions of her does not define her. And that rubs your ass raw. How dare a black woman in the public eye not have you, or your surrogate, as her superior. Right?”
He puffed up (literally) in anger. ”You insignificant bitch! Now let me tell you…”
A hand wave silenced him. I will not be abused in my own lucid dream. ”No. You listen. I know what you really represent here. And what she really represents. This isn’t about music, but identity. She made her identity and did it right. And now it’s time for me to do the same. She didn’t ask for permission, or ask if it would be acceptable. She went and did her. I need to get past my fear of rejection and [some other shit]. Ms. Minaj’s branding is for her. Not you. Now I understand.”
The hipster had puffed up in so much unreleasable rage that he was a scarf wrapped blob with gloves and Doc Martens stuck to the surface. I kicked him away from the screen so I could finish watching the video.
On screen, Nicki Minaj was back at the piano again. Her ending lyrics reminded the viewer that while the components of a brand may be centuries or thousands of years old, there is still only one ‘you’. Each person has their own individual mark to make. Find it, and use it.
Yes, Ma’am.