In “Beep Me 911” Missy dons the mannerisms of high-gloss femininity, wearing swatches of neon and leopard print like a Barbie doll. The metaphor is deliberate—it’s not coincidence that when Missy mimics the ultimate in feminine beauty, she is also at her most rigid. In her pseudo Dream Castle, Missy ruefully asks an emotionally distant lover to be honest with her about his feelings, while lamenting the time he’s wasted.
The video is almost comedic, especially when Missy makes kissy faces as though to say, “you’re giving this up?” Like light through the clouds, Missy’s irritation peeks through her people-pleasing plastic exterior. It reminds me of the Betty Homemaker look Beyoncé rocks in her “Why Don’t You Love Me” video as a signifier of the perfect woman, competent in both beauty and brains. Much like Bey, Missy realizes that her Barbie burden—embodying a passive feminine ideal—isn’t worth keeping a man who isn’t absolutely crazy about her.
I struggle with the idea of perfection. My eating disorder often acted as a vehicle to reaching my warped idea of “perfection.” I convinced myself that I needed to be perfect to be loved, and that being thin was a big part of being perfect. I know now that chasing perfection—for your partner or any other harmful reason—just slows you down. It’s OK to want to be good at things or shine at your brightest, as long as you know that what you’ve got going on right now is enough. Missy laments her dwindling love, but doesn’t blame herself because she knows what she brought to the table.
“Work It” is a national treasure: it’s four minutes of actual chaos set to the soundtrack of timeless Missy missives—“If you’re a fly girl, get your nails done,” “Ain’t no shame, ladies, do your thang.” “Work It” marks a memorable time in Missy’s career: She’s on the other side of three platinum albums and a hefty collection of star-studded collaborations. It makes sense for her to opt for the hilarious art direction of this era in her career when the pressure to prove herself is practically nonexistent. Nearly a decade after being cut from music videos, Missy is the medium’s most innovative, often turning to special effects to create her visual free-for-alls. At her most ridiculous, she raps verses in a handstand, lounges in the presence of “Prince,” and swallows a Lamborghini. The video is filled with her sly humor: in one shot, her dinner date’s beer goggles transform her into a vision who looks not unlike her female proxy from the Raven-Symoné video.
The gag is that the song is all about Missy’s sexual prowess, something she’s never shied away from in her music. Navigating an industry that desexualized her as a dark-skinned, not-thin woman meant that she rarely played the idealistic love interest outside of her own videos. Never deterred by industry standards, Missy consistently presented herself as someone deserving of love and affection without room for rebuttal. Sex was another natural presence in her worlds, often worthy of a few verses and certainly a couple of laughs. The latter is what makes Missy’s context distinct: sex could be fun—or it could be funny, messy, or just a touch weird. Missy embraced it all head-on, sometimes in her lyrics or with eye-popping visuals. (I still snort when she holds up a mound of her pubic hair, and pries her own head off pre-makeout session.)
In “Work It,” Missy isn’t just someone’s interest, she’s his challenge. On top of her craft, she’s only interested in dudes who can keep up—and, honestly, who can blame her? The one lucky enough to grab her attention gain access to her, but unfortunately for them she’s pretty precise in what she wants. “Is it worth it?” she asks her legion of male fans who know not to ask the same of her. After all, she’s the show you came to see.
Missy’s lessons of self-love, self-worth, and trusting your own standards extend far beyond these videos. To me, they serve as immediate reminders of the endless gifts Missy has given me as a black woman, and a shining reminder of what’s to come in 2016. Though it took me some time to understand some of her lessons, I am grateful for their place in my life, and that I’m always two clicks away from remembering what greatness looks like. ♦
Michelle Ofiwe is a writer and warrior princess lounging in the belly of Houston, Texas. She loves rap goddesses, Caribbean food, and getting in formation. Keep an eye on her here, or say hi on Twitter.