Beyonce Part 1 -

The piano player struck a C chord. Then another.

A young girl in the front row, Kelly, dropped her doll. Another girl, LaTavia, felt a chill run up her spine. They didn't know it yet, but in that moment, the hierarchy of their generation was being established.

The song was "Jesus Loves Me," but it didn't sound like Sunday school. It sounded like a warning. Her voice was too deep for her body, a rolling river of soul that made the old deacon drop his fan. She didn't just sing the notes; she bent them, twisted them, held them until the silence between the phrases hurt.

"We're not good enough," LaTavia whispered. beyonce part 1

She wasn't nervous. That was the strange part.

She pulled out a notebook from her bag—a ratty, spiral-bound thing with a broken cover. Inside were lyrics. Hundreds of them. Songs she wrote while standing in the mirror. Songs about love she hadn't felt yet. Songs about power she was only beginning to understand.

Here is of a story about Beyoncé. The humid Houston air clung to the walls of the tiny church on St. John Street. The lights were low, save for a single spotlight that hit the worn wooden floor of the stage. A little girl, no more than seven, stood in the center. Her name was Beyoncé. The piano player struck a C chord

She didn't smile. She just walked off the stage, sat down next to her little sister, Solange, and asked, "Can we get ice cream now?"

When she hit the final note, the church didn't clap. They just stared.

Part 1 of the making of a queen.

And then, the girl opened her mouth.

Beyoncé looked at the sky. No stars. Just the orange haze of Houston light pollution.