Unmasking, One Post at a Time

This weekend, I found myself back down in the Deep South—Pensacola, Florida to Gulf Shores, Alabama. Back in my old stomping grounds. The air was thick with salt and humidity, the kind that settles in your lungs and reminds you where you are. It was Hangout Weekend—aka the Sand in My Boots Festival—thanks to Morgan Wallen, who basically made Gulf Shores his little yeehaw kingdom for the week.

Now, I’m not sure if I’ve said this before (I’m sure I have said this before), but I hate Morgan Wallen. Hate might even be too soft. It’s a full-body, sensory-based rejection. Like opening a trash can that someone left raw shrimp in. Like finding a crusty plate someone abandoned in the sink days ago. He’s that kind of bad. My nervous system physically reacts. It’s just not safe for me to be exposed.

Of course, my boyfriend loves him. Go figure. White boy who loves bro country. (Not to be bitchy. Okay, maybe a little bitchy. But also, honest.) I do respect his right to like what he likes… in theory. It’s just hard to respect things that aren’t exactly deserving of respect. I’m working on it.

Despite the unfortunate headliner (Morgan Wallen himself), I did not go to that show. My boyfriend and his friend went—he’s a fan, and that’s his thing. I dipped out, respectfully and with grace (and with permission—not that I needed it, but I still like to be considerate). I knew I wouldn’t have a good time, and honestly, I’m glad I trusted my gut on that one. It just wasn’t for me—and that’s okay. We like different things sometimes. That’s part of life and relationships.

BUT, we did get to see something really incredible: Wiz Khalifa, 2 Chainz, and Three 6 Mafia. And let me just say—they delivered. I mean delivered. They didn’t coast, they didn’t half-ass it, they gave full energy, presence, and artistry in their sets. Honestly? I was proud of them. Not because I expected anything less, but because they exceeded everything. They made me feel joy. And gratitude. And awe.

And also, something else.

During every single one of those shows—surrounded by lights and beats and sweat—I kept looking around. And I couldn’t help but notice:
There were no Black people around me.
Not in the crowd.
Not enjoying the show.
Not vibing alongside me.

Except—of course—for the staff. The people scanning wristbands, wearing “Event Crew” t-shirts, working security. There were Black people working the festival. But not celebrating. Not dancing. Not being part of the crowd.

The audience? White. Nearly entirely.
The performers? Black. Legendary.
The power dynamic? Glaring.

And it hit me—again, because this is not new—that this is segregation. Not by law, but by design. By cost. By culture. By centuries of gatekeeping and coded messaging about who belongs where. This isn’t just a southern thing. But it’s especially sharp down here.

If I were Black, I wouldn’t want to go to this festival either. It’s expensive. It’s overwhelmingly country-coded. It probably doesn’t feel safe or welcoming. That’s not paranoia. That’s lived experience.

But damn, it’s wild to see some of the most talented Black artists pour their hearts into performances, giving everything, while standing in a sea of almost exclusively white faces. It’s a gut punch. It’s an unspoken truth humming underneath every bass drop and light show:
We love the music, but we’re still failing the people who created it.

This weekend was fun, yeah. It was sweaty and chaotic and full of that Southern mix of fried food, beach salt, and bad decisions. But it was also real.
It was complicated.
And it reminded me—again—how far we still have to go.