In the past weeks, Americana has flooded our screens. Kendrick Lamar’s Super Bowl performance featured an all-Black cast of backup dancers adorned in the colors of the American flag, while Samuel L. Jackson dressed like the symbolic embodiment of the American political apparatus himself: Uncle Sam. A week before that, Beyoncé’s “COWBOY CARTER” dominated the Grammys by winning Best Country Album and Album of the Year, cementing a new era of Americana in today's culture.
In her song “YA YA,” Beyoncé sings “Whole lotta red in that white and blue,” framing her engagement with Americana as a reclamation — one that highlights the integral contributions Black Americans have made to the nation. In this way, reclaiming the genre of Americana becomes a microcosm of reclaiming the identity and history of the nation itself.
From the literal construction of the country to its cultural legacy, what better way to assert this history than by singing in genres and dressing in styles that are undeniably American? This reclamation has also extended into queer spaces, with artists like Chappell Roan and Ethel Cain embracing proudly rural and Midwestern aesthetics in their recent albums.
When Black and queer artists wrap themselves in the American flag as a statement of belonging, they engage in a nuanced act of resistance. Yet this same flag has historically been wielded to erase their contributions. What does it mean to reclaim a symbol that has so often been used for exclusion?
While country and folk music are regarded as quintessentially American, hip-hop and jazz — genres undeniably born and bred in America — do not receive the same nationalistic reverence. The difference lies in perception: country music has been marketed as a “white” genre, while jazz and hip-hop remain deeply tied to their Black origins. As Americana continues to be reclaimed, the question remains: can this reinvention truly challenge the exclusionary history it seeks to overturn, or does it risk reinforcing the very structures it aims to disrupt?
America’s current political climate shows the urgency of reclaiming Americana. It’s rife with efforts to erase the country’s history, particularly its harms against marginalized communities. At the same time, acts of division, such as Nazi salutes, threats of mass deportations and the dismantling of diversity, equity and inclusion programs, have become increasingly prominent.
The targeting of DEI programs has explicitly resulted in stripping acknowledgement of this history on the federal level. The Department of Defense, under former Fox News host Pete Hegseth, discontinued Black History Month observances and slashed programs aimed at recruiting Black professionals in STEM fields. Further, the National Institutes of Health removed exhibits celebrating women and scientists of color and the National Science Foundation reportedly instructed staff to reject grant proposals referencing DEI initiatives. These actions make reclaiming Americana not just an aesthetic choice but a necessary cultural and political statement.
While Americana’s resurgence carries political importance, aesthetics alone are not enough. If they are not paired with active engagement — reading, learning and reckoning with the history behind these symbols — at what point does the political meaning dissolve, leaving only a camo hat that someone bought because they saw their favorite fashion blogger wearing it?
Artistic expression can spark important political conversations, but it can also dilute the message. Listening to country music is not inherently revolutionary — engaging in the political sphere, resisting historical erasure and learning about those who shaped this aesthetic and history — these actions hold salience. Despite its problems, reclamation remains useful for uniting all Americans regardless of race or sexual orientation under a collective statement: I am just as American as anyone else, and I can listen to this music and wear these clothes, and I am not rendered less American for it.
