In the final minutes of last night’s Grammy Awards, we see Adele accept the award for Record of The Year.

ANTI is Rihanna’s best album, but alas. 

Adele thanks her team and Beyoncé and declares that “…I want [Beyoncé] to be my mummy.”

This is true for most of us.

Faith Hill quips about wanting the same and announces the nominees for Album of The Year.

Lemonade obviously. Show over. Goodnig—

Except Faith says 25 and it feels like Election Night all over again.

It’s Super Bowl 51 Part Deux as I watched the Falcons flounder a 25 point lead. It is the Warriors blowing a 3-1 series (an event I, personally, may never recover from.) But most of all, it is the harsh reminder that Black (Women’s) Excellence always comes second.

Lemonade was a finely crafted, poignant anthology of the struggles and triumphs of black womanhood. We universally rejoiced in the power of “Freedom” and no-effs-given “Don’t Hurt Yourself” and mourned in the love and loss of “Pray You Catch Me” and  “Love Drought.” “Daddy Lessons” was a conversation on the influence on fathers in their daughters lives. There was a completeness in the album that, even for those who don’t regularly relish in its entirety, resonates but for a moment.

And these are the ONLY two albums I actually own.

And 25 was another album of heartbreak songs.

It was a beautiful body work, but it was not artistically greater than Lemonade. Its impact and importance alone was not greater than Lemonade and is that not what the Recording Academy insists it highlights? I know this. You know this. Beyoncé knows this. Adele knows this and also announced this very sentiment to the world.