A scant few hours later, #Beckycon2019 was elevated as a trending topic, much like white womanhood.


Since the cat is out of the bag, I wanted to share the speech I presented at the keynote event of BeckyCon2019 presented by Uggs. I was chosen as a headliner because of my groundbreaking research in Wypipology, although many people aren’t aware that I studied Beckynomics as an undergraduate, a degree I earned taking online courses at the heralded institute of higher learning that bears the second-whitest name ever: Bryn Mawr College (Ole Miss is still number one).


Here is the complete transcript of my speech:

Rebeccas, Beckies and Rebas, lend me your ears.

I greet you in the name of our Goddess and Savior, Taylor Swift, who could not be here today because of a medical emergency. However, we send our thoughts and prayers out to Taylor and all women who are unable to find their favorite bedazzled scrunchie. We have all battled through the scourge of ponytail-related depression and I just want you to know: You will rise.

First, I would like to recognize the women who were inducted into the Becky Hall of Fame in a ceremony earlier:

And last, but certainly not least, Ivanka Trump, the first woman to enter the Hall by an unanimous vote.

I hope you had a chance to take in some of the workshops, including the very instructional session on “Speaking to the Manager.” The panel session “How to Explain Why You Can’t Be Racist” was my favorite event. And while I was overwhelmed with multiple requests to serve as conference-goers’ “black friend,” I promise I will answer each and every request in the upcoming days. However, I cannot, in good faith, knowingly serve as the black guy you dated in college.

I wasn’t that drunk during my undergrad years.

Tonight, I chose to address a very pressing subject I have heard a million times over the course of this conference: “But What About Me?”

This is perhaps the most important issue of our time. Whether you are considering calling the police on a random black kid strolling through your neighborhood; are concerned about negro children attending your schools; or dealing with the oppression of being stripped of the entitlements that white supremacy gifted you at birth, I just want you to know that you will make it.

Yes, indeed. What about you?

As a black man, I must often address the inequality and disparities that America dishes out like candy corn on Halloween. But I want you to know that when we insist that “Black Lives Matter,” we do not mean to imply that yours do not. There is no doubt that this beloved nation values the lives of white women. Ask Emmett Till. Ask the people who lived in Tulsa in 1921. Ask Terence Crutcher.

Oh, wait. They’re not here.

Never mind.

What I am trying to say is that you should never doubt how much you are loved and valued. So, when someone dares to utter the word “white people,” do not get defensive or reply “not all white people.” We don’t necessarily mean you specifically. It is just difficult to individually name all of the white women who are actual allies. I’ve already apologized to Rachel Maddow. Isn’t that enough?

Also, we probably mean you, specifically.

Instead of bursting into a crying fit (I hope you had fun at the White Tears Pool Party), think about all of the great things you’ve accomplished lately. You invented the hair bonnet. You brought back the measles. You paired yoga pants with flip flops. You made “dukeless” Daisy Dukes a thing. You stole the #MeToo Movement.

Even at 52 percent strength, you managed to put a white supremacist pussy-grabber in the White House. If that’s not a testament to your enduring strength and power, I don’t know what is.

So whether you’re upset because a black woman is playing a fictional character, incensed that Beyoncé won’t act like she’s your maid or offended by a black woman’s refusal to let you touch her hair, fear ye not. Whenever you are troubled, just repeat this poem that a white woman came up with all by herself:

Melanated women wonder where my secret lies.
My name is Megan but I’m not built to a Stallion’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They know I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my 911-dialing,
The straightness of my hips,
The depth of my white privilege,
The thinness of my lips.
I’m a Becky
A white woman,
That’s me.


May Taylor Bless.

And goodnight.