By Arturo R. García

He was both the host and the ambassador for generations of artists, dancers, and music lovers. He was a journalist and an activist. And he was the conductor of “the hippest trip in America.”

Wednesday, everyone who ever listened to him wish viewers “love, peace, and soul” mourned the death of Don Cornelius, who was found in his home by police after apparently committing suicide.

Cornelius developed and hosted Soul Train, the kind of show that makes words like “influential” seem small. Soul Train ran for 35 years, making it the longest first-run syndicated show in history. But the show almost didn’t grow out of being a successful local program on WCIU-TV in Chicago.

As Christopher P. Lehman wrote in his book A Critical History of Soul Train On Television, however, Cornelius set out to show broadcasters the best the show had to offer:

When Cornelius decided to take “Soul Train” into nationwide syndication in 1971, he made a very savvy choice of which Chicago episode to pitch to broadcasters. he took to California the episode that featured the Dells, the Staple Singers, Tyrone Davis, and the Chi-Lites. At the time all four acts were very popular on urban radio. Moreover, three of them had crossover hits in the 1970-71 season. The Chi-Lites’ “(For Gods Sake) Give More Power To The People” was among the top thirty songs for at least one week. The Staples Singers scored with “Heavy Makes You Happy (Sha Na Boom Boom).” Davis had the biggest hit with “Turn Back The Hands Of Time.” Cornelius contacted all the group leaders to inform them of his decision to use their appearances in order to try to sell the show on the West Coast.

Cornelius’ canniness paid off: production on the national version of Soul Train, based out of Los Angeles, began that summer. However, for the next two years, he continued to host the local version of the show alongside the national one. But as the syndicated version of the show grew, so did its importance–not just to an audience that Cornelius correctly predicted was looking for what he called “a black American Bandstand,” but for the performers; as Lehman noted, in the days before Black Entertainment Television, black acts had to choose between playing to the all-white audiences on Bandstand or rely strictly on radio exposure.

The show’s platform went beyond the artistic: early acts brought with them feminist and anti-Vietnam War messages that wouldn’t have flown on other shows. And as The Roots’ Questlove wrote on OkPlayer, the presentation that Cornelius introduced to American television made him, “The MOST crucial non political figure to emerge from the Civil Rights era post [19]68″:

To say with a straight, dignified face that BLACK IS BEAUTIFUL was the RISKIEST radical life-changing move that America has seen. And amazingly enough for one hour for one Saturday out the week, if you were watching soul train….it became contagious. Next thing you know you are actually believing you have some sort of worth.

The whole idea of Afrocentrism in my opinion manifested and spread with “Soul Train” in its first 6 years.

Besides the performers, fans also found a new platform on Soul Train: young people of color got the chance–the first chance, for many–to see their peers on-screen, showcasing their own moves. As Lehman writes, the show’s exposure also yielded benefits for the Chicago-area dancers on the WCIU version of the show, where Clinton Ghent took over as host after Cornelius moved west. For one dancer, Crescendo Ward, his turn in the spotlight literally saved his life:

He once had to take home a girlfriend who lived in the Cabrini Green projects, which the Vice Lords gang claimed as their territory. After he had parted from her, some of the gang members approached him and demanded, “Represent!”

He responded, “No love,” which meant that he did not belong to a gang.

They proceeded to pat him down and take his money until one of them yelled, “Yo, wait a minute – that’s that “Soul Train” motherf-cker!” As the others recognized him, they stopped the mugging and began taking a collection for his bus fare home.

By contrast, interactions between fans and performers on the L.A. version of the show were tamer, but in at least one instance, more pivotal: an oft-told story mentions that, after one appearance on the show, Michael Jackson–by that point already a longtime friend of Cornelius’–spent time with several of the show’s better dancers, so that he could learn some of their moves.

In his book, Lehman points out that Train outlasted many of the shows it influenced, like Club MTV, Yo! MTV Raps, BET’s Video Soul and Fox’s In Living Color. But the changing musical landscape wrought by his successors led him to step down from his signature role in 1993. The show carried on with rotating guest hosts thru 2006, with MadVision Entertainment buying the property two years later.

“I took myself off because I just felt that 22 years was enough,” he told The New York Times two years after switching to an off-camera role. “The audience was changing and I wasn’t.”

The audience might have changed, but it never forgot him: last July, the show’s set and memorabilia was enshrined in the National Museum of African-American History and Culture.

By Guest Contributor Sydney F. Lewis

I have been up all night looking at vintage Jet Magazines on Google Books. A friend and fellow Black burlesque performer, Chicava HoneyChild of Brown Girls Burlesque, introduced me to this impressive online archive of Black politics, society, and entertainment. Founded in 1951, by John H. Johnson, Jet magazine was initially billed as “The Weekly Negro News Magazine.” I like to think of it as Ebony magazine’s tawdry little sister. After about eight hours of being glued to the screen, flipping virtually through captivating documentation of Black strippers from the 1940s-1970s, I have come to the conclusion that, just as I suspected, the omission of Black Women and other Women of Color from the realm of burlesque picture and history books is just willed ignorance– ignorance, lazy scholarship, and yup I’ll say it, racist brands of white feminism.

Once I learned about the online archive of Jet magazines, it took me a few hours of leisurely and pleasurable research to compile a list of almost fifty names and locations and about thirty pictures of black burlesque performers, strippers, and “Shake Dancers.” Some women were big-time enough to work on the Minsky circuit, earn $1000+ a week, insure their bodies, tour the US and Europe, and work with (and date) prominent entertainers such as Dizzy Gillespie, Sammy Davis Jr., and Little Richard. Women such as Rosalee Takeela, Rose Hardaway, Vida de Soir “The Red Hot Sex Queen,” Elizabeth “China Doll” Dickerson, and Jean Idelle were commonly pictured in the gossip columns of the national black magazine.

One woman, Rosa La Roso was in an extended legal battle with white burlesque performer Rose La Rosa after the white dancer sought a court injunction to prohibit Rosa la Roso from using such a similar name. Rose La Rosa is listed in various burlesque history books, while the Black performer, Rosa La Roso is never mentioned. This is particularly ironic given that Rosa La Roso commented about the white performer, “I’ve never even heard of that other Rose.” In the October 29, 1953 issue, Jet published an expose entitled “Why Girls become Shake Dancers” with content that, even in 2011, is fairly stripper-positive.

My pleasure perusing the Jet archive quickly turned to anger as I realized that I have been bamboozled into believing that my Black burlesque foremothers didn’t exist or were all little-known, no-name (read low talent) chorus girls. Due to racist and exclusionary scholarship, I’ve been tricked into believing that it was racism from long ago that kept these brown burlesque queens nameless and lost to history, that no one bothered to document their presence then so we can’t find documents now. And that’s a lie. Such performers were documented, extensively, by the black press, and that documentation isn’t impossible to find. If I can discover more than fifty performers of color in a leisurely few hours at my computer, then imagine what treasures of information could be found in black theater and performance archives, newspapers, or other black magazines. Black striptease artists had a voice is the 40s, 50s, and 60s and it is contemporary burlesque historians who repress their presence.

I personally own at least 10 books on burlesque, neo-burlesque, and striptease which I comb like a CSI agent for any evidence of women of color performers. Despite their claims that they are a “Pictorial History of Burlesque,” a compendium of “Legendary Stars of Stage,” or an “untold history” of striptease these books disturbingly omit countless black and brown performers.

To burlesque history (read white burlesque history) brown burlesque queens didn’t exist. Out of 342 pages (not counting footnotes) purporting to tell “The Untold History of the Girlie Show,” Striptease by Rachel Shteir contains less than 10 pages referencing black and brown performers. According to the index, “Race” is mentioned solely on page 32 and the iconic Josephine Baker merely referenced on pages 96 and 268. The words “black,” “African-American,” or “Women of Color” are not even listed in the index. Compare this to the 21 pages on Lili St. Cyr, 27 pages on Sally Rand, and a whopping 43 pages on Gypsy Rose Lee. Since a dozen films and multiple biographies have been made about Gypsy Rose Lee, hers is hardly an untold story.

Mainstream documentation of the neo-burlesque performance scene is very similar in its exclusions. Lush with gorgeous photographs, Michelle Baldwin’s Burlesque and the New Bump-n-Grind contains few images of performers of color and only one mention and no pictures of Harlem Shake Burlesque, the nation’s first Black neo-burlesque troupe and 2004 Miss Exotic World winners. The common excuse offered by researchers and writers for such “oversights” is we don’t even know how to find any women of color. These excuses for POC exclusions are hardly new and always hollow whether the context is burlesque performers or college professors and it always boils down to a refusal to look beyond one’s white cohort accompanied by the fallacy of a “qualified applications.”

To be clear, my grievances are not rooted in a simple politics of representation – begging the Massa to put one or two pictures of women of color in a book is not an adequate corrective to the purposeful erasure of a slew of folks from burlesque history. The lily-white conventional burlesque narrative must be drastically altered. These necessary changes can only come about through holding contemporary scholars accountable for their racist exclusions and demanding answers as to why women of color have been erased from burlesque history. Black and brown women must be acknowledged as pioneers and integral players in the golden era of burlesque (both in front of and behind the velvet curtain) and given their proper dues for being among the first to shamelessly bump and grind. White women did not invent sexual agency.

Historical exclusions are just the tip of a whole iceberg of racism that affects neo-burlesque. As long as the historical face of burlesque is porcelain then contemporary neo-burlesque performers will always be seen as exotic others, brown-skinned derivatives of Sally Rand, Dixie Evans, and Dita Von Teese. Despite what mainstream burlesque narratives might lead you to believe, our legends were not merely chorus girls for white headliners, thus contemporary performers of color do not have to be content with the ways in which that subordinate role continues to play out on the neo-burlesque stage.

By Guest Contributor Isaac Miller

While some critics are rightly noting the confusing and inaccurate message of Beyoncé’s new single “Run The World (Girls)” in the context of a world controlled by patriarchy, her song/video also raises the issue of how peoples, artists, and cultures from the global south are referenced and represented by artists from the first world. Several layers of referencing go on within this song/video, which makes this discussion a lot more complicated, lengthy and, at the same time, all the more necessary.

Please bear with me. This is an important conversation to have because of the ways in which this kind of sampling reinforces disparities of privilege and power. Furthermore, its important to note the ways that the profits and opportunities produced from this referencing are disproportionately transferred to people with white privilege or benefiting from larger structures of white supremacy.

I want to be upfront about my position as a white man from the United States. Recognizing my own privileges in this dialogue, I welcome critique and debate and I’m writing this in large part because I want to see what kind of conversation these issues can generate.

Beyoncé and the Ethics of Sampling

Beyoncé’s sampling from artists and cultures of the global south permeates this video. Her creative team saw a YouTube video of the kwaito dance troupe Tofo Tofo performing at a wedding in Mozambique and decided to reach out to them to choreograph and dance in part of the video. Frank Gatson Jr., Beyoncé’s choreographer, told MTV News that “It was hard finding them. They were really in a remote area; we had to get the embassy people involved. That was a process that took about two months or more. Beyoncé really loved them and I’m pretty sure we’ll see them again. It was magical.”

“Tofo, Tofo”

As “magical” an experience as this may have been for Beyoncé, its unclear what the experience was like for the dancers in Tofo Tofo. The MTV News interview with Gatson, Jr. offers the only information on them that’s available on the web. Nowhere are their names or backgrounds mentioned, let alone their opinions. Furthermore, as The Johannesburg Times notes, “While pantsula dance is nothing new to us Africans, it’s the first time that it has been given such exposure. I’m glad Beyoncé saw something great in them and the movement as a whole. But I wish the genre was as appreciated and respected here. Why do our artists always need the American/ European stamp of approval for us to value them?” We in the U.S. could also ask ourselves the same question: Why do we value third world culture only when its mediated via first world celebrity?

In one scene, Beyoncé is holding the chains of two hyenas, referencing the work of White, South African photographer Pieter Hugo and his photographs of Nigerian “Hyena Men.” This work has been stridently critiqued for the racialized and exotified undertones to his photography. This raises the uncomfortable issue of how so many images in Beyoncé’s video echo exotified, Orientalist representations of the third world (Africa and the Middle East in particular).

Gatson, Jr. explained that “The concept the team ended up settling on was a desert landscape ruled by two forces: Beyoncé and her supermodel minions and a very unwelcoming opposing army.” But these representations don’t take place in a vacuum. Particularly perplexing are the images of “Beyoncé and her supermodel minions” confronting phalanxes of riot police. Its unclear in what context we are supposed to read these images, particularly given the recent events of the “Arab Spring,” where protesters across North Africa and the Middle East have been facing the real life dangers of batons, water cannons, and bullets. Notably -in the context of Beyoncé’s video- many of the participants in these uprisings and revolutions have been Arab women who have fought for their freedom from repressive dictatorships. Many of these women have been met with violence, and even death.

Beyoncé’s audience is left wondering whether there is a clear reason for the imagery that she is using. While its possible to interpret these references as an act of solidarity with the protesters across North Africa and the Middle East, the contrast between the glamourized images of Beyoncé’s video and the violent struggles that those images reference seems disrespectful.

Furthermore, that lack of sensitivity for the experiences of women protesters actually undermines the ostensibly feminist message of Beyoncé’s song. Especially given that Beyoncé received $2 million to perform at a New Year’s party for the sons of Muammar Qaddafi, her politics on this issue are questionable. Though she eventually gave this money to Haiti earthquake relief efforts after the uprisings in Libya began, it seems hypocritical to incorporate this kind of imagery with such ease given her history here.

Ethar El-Katatney recently wrote an article (cross-posted on Racialicious), about a song by Sijal Hachem, a Lebanese singer whose video features “women as sexy riot police standing in formation behind barbed wire as men charge them”… “equating men standing up to their nagging wives with people revolting against dictatorships.” El-Katatney writes that “The imagery in the music video is disturbing on so many levels. To see scenes we witnessed in real life paralleled in a music video—of barbed wire, billowing smoke and burning tires and paper; of groups of men wearing masks to protect themselves from tear gas while holding sticks and rocks; and of state security standing in rows and hosing protesters standing peacefully with gallons of water—makes me shiver involuntarily. It was real, it was horrible, and it was traumatic.” Many of these same images also appear in Beyoncé’s video. What is their meaning there?

In thinking about these issues, its also important to examine the idea of “imperial feminism” discussed in Nadine Naber’s recent article “Imperial Feminism, Islamophobia, and the Egyptian Revolution.” Naber discusses the way that first world feminist demands for women’s rights intersect with U.S. geopolitical interests in the Middle East. Naber writes that: “Both rely upon a humanitarian logic that justifies military intervention, occupation, and bloodshed as strategies for promoting “democracy and women’s rights.” This humanitarian logic disavows U.S.-state violence against people of the Arab and Muslim regions rendering it acceptable and even, liberatory, particularly for women.” I wonder at what Beyoncé’s vision of women’s liberation implies when paired with these discourses over the “oppression of women by Islam.”

I’m not saying that Beyoncé’s video intentionally advances an agenda of Imperial Feminism, but that the very character of Imperial Feminism is that it takes a claim that is on one level liberatory -women’s rights- and grafts it onto a political project that in fact destroys the lives of those women, their families, and their communities. So no matter how earnest Beyoncé was in shaping the message of her video, that meaning is malleable depending on her audience. As an artist Beyoncé has the freedom to use whatever imagery matches her vision, but she should be conscious of the potential implications of that vision. Accordingly, does this video’s message subvert or provide sustenance to the imperial agenda that defines women’s liberation as military occupation?

Also striking is the way in which this trajectory of U.S. imperialism coincides with American cultural hegemony, or the way in which American popular culture has become global popular culture. In the video of Beyoncé’s recent performance of “Run The World (Girls)” at the Billboard Music Awards, she is introduced by such pop culture luminaries as Stevie Wonder, Lady Gaga, Barbara Streisand, Bono, and (not insignificantly) First Lady Michelle Obama. This leads into Beyoncé’s re-creating in live performance the music video to “Run The World (Girls)”, which weaves together an array of dazzling digital images, including lion and elephant heads (continuing in animal form the theme of third world inspired imagery). However, one of the most striking images was with the line “Endless Power”, where Beyoncé literally holds (an image of) the world in the palm of her hand. This serves as a powerful visual representation not only of the influence of superstars such as Beyoncé, but also of American cultural hegemony as a whole.

Interestingly, while Beyonce re-enacts the Tofo Tofo dance sequence sans Tofo Tofo (replaced instead by a legion of digitally replicated Beyonce’s), she does include a sequence with Les Twins, a French dance duo made up of brothers Larry and Laurent Bourgeois. Though its troubling that Tofo Tofo’s contribution was absent from this performance (no mention of them in Beyonce’s acceptance speech for the Billboard Millenium Award when she thanked her family, Destiny’s Child, and her husband Jay-Z), they were swapped out as Beyonce’s male backup dancers with Les Twins, two other dancers representing global hip hop culture.

Opening with the words “Power is ever present” echoing through the auditorium, this performance gives little thought the way that power plays out in this very song. Taking this statement at face value, under the guise of a feminist anthem, “Run the World (Girls)” speaks much more directly to the dynamics of power between first world artists and third world culture. But to really get at the racialized dimensions behind Beyonce’s latest mega-hit, its necessary to not only examine her music video and Billboard Awards performance, but also the song and video that “Run The World (Girls)” samples for its beat.

“Pon De Floor”: Major Lazer and the Representation of Black Bodies

“Pon De Floor”

Major Lazer “Pon De Floor” from Eric Wareheim on Vimeo.

Bianca I. Laureano writes about watching the “Pon De Floor” video by Major Lazer in her article “Major Lazer: Cyborgs, Dancehall, Racism, & Colonization in Music”:

“I was immediately excited because the dancing in the video was very much the kind of Dancehall I find fascinating, yet also complex as it is overly sexually graphic. Basically performers are reenacting some sexual activities on the dance floor, yet are doing so in a way that challenges our ideas of athleticism in dancing in this way. Another aspect of the video that I was excited about was that the women dancing were large bodied women. Some may even call them “fat dancers” yet for me their bodies were so much like my own it was as though I was watching myself dance…

My online searching led me to the shocking knowledge that Major Lazer is a fictional Black cyborg created by two White men, Diplo from Philidelphia (of M.I.A. fame), and Switch, from the UK who specializes in “House” music…

At the end of the day I kind of feel duped, hoodwinked, bamboozled. I fell for imagery that was crafted by outsiders to represent something meaningful that I valued as an important part of my Caribbean identity.”

My reaction to the video was different than Laureano’s. Before I saw the video I had followed the work of Major Lazer and knew that the group was composed of two white DJs. Watching the video, as a white person, I immediately felt uncomfortable because it seemed made by and for white people. That is to say it felt exploitative, racist, disingenuous, and totally uncritical of its own white gaze. The video was filmed by a white director (Eric Wareheim) for a group of white DJs. Though the vocalist on the track and the dancers in the video are all people of color and the song, as a Dancehall track, draws on a genre that originates from a community of color, it is interpreted through the gaze of white artists. Eric Wareheim had already created a similarly themed, but even more graphic video “Parisian Goldfish” for the group Flying Lotus and if the comments section of the Vimeo pages for both of these videos are any indication, the majority of the people watching them are white.

As Laureano points out, the Major Lazer project is itself a bizarre racialized fantasy where two white artists created a Black “cyborg” Major Lazer, who serves as their vehicle for representing Jamaican Dancehall culture to the world. What I question are the meanings conveyed when a predominantly white audience views this video and how it plays into racialized depictions of Black people as hyper-sexualized beings– stereotypes that go back to slavery and serve to reinforce characterizations of people of color as animalistic and inhuman (fundamentally Other and inferior to White people).

While “Pon De Floor” incorporates “Daggering” from Dancehall culture, the “Pon De Floor” video, as well as a subsequent one, titled “Major Lazer’s Guide to Daggering”, de-contextualize Dancehall as just another ironic commodity for white people to gawk and laugh at. Clearly these racist attitudes continue to this day (you need look no further than the YouTube comments sections to see this). So to play around with these hyper-sexual depictions of Black people in the name of hipster irony is not only confused but also dangerous. These images are not being controlled by people from the communities that are being represented. The lens is fundamentally different than if, for example, the video was conceptualized and produced by the women who appear in the video, and if they possessed the same level of creative control as Diplo, Switch, and the director Eric Wareheim.

“Major Lazer’s Guide to Daggering”

To highlight the importance of context in determining the meanings these images convey, it is necessary to understand where Daggering comes from. For example, A Newsweek article by Kate Dailey on “Daggering” quotes Jamaican DJ Jah Prince: “The majority of the time it [is] done with full disclosure to the patrons and only enacted by a hand few of ‘characters’ in the crowd.” Dailey writes, “‘Dancehall’ in fact, refers to music so suggestive that it could only be heard in clubs.” Dailey then quotes Annie Paul, a Kingston-based blogger who says “Jamaican society is extremely stratified, and people at the bottom are the core participants of dancehall culture… It is one of the few spaces and phenomenon they have control over.” The context that Dancehall comes from influences the meanings that the culture conveys. When “Pon De Floor” is posted on the internet and viewed by a majority white audience, those meanings change drastically.

And those meanings change even more live. This video interview with Diplo which showcases footage from Major Lazer’s SXSW showcase makes it clear that Diplo has no doubt about who his audience really is…

“Major Lazer Showcase at SXSW”

“We have this wild Daggering video *laughs*, its called “Pon De Floor”… anywhere you go, you can watch it. Its crazy and its just nuts. You can see it today, we’re gonna do it live. We have Skerrit Bwoy… You can expect a party that looks kinda like that video.” – Diplo

Major Lazer can’t be ignorant to the racialized dimensions of Black dancers performing a Daggering routine live in front of a majority white crowd. Diplo seems to glory in the irony of it all. But as with all minstrelsy, the contradictions do not diminish the racism involved. White artists presenting Black bodies as a sexual spectacle to a predominantly White audience is loaded with racism, however ironic it may be.

Diplo’s Relationship to Third World Artists/Artists of Color

Diplo (Wesley Pentz), even before Major Lazer, made a name for himself as a “musical Columbus” discovering the cutting edge of third world musical genres originating in some of the most impoverished and oppressed urban communities of color on the planet. He has been given credit for bringing introducing these styles to the global north, at tremendous personal success. Diplo, a former producer (and ex-boyfriend) of indie hip hop artist M.I.A. -producing her first mixtape “Piracy Funds Terrorism” as well as hits such as “Bucky Done Gun” and “Paper Planes”- is famous for bringing attention to the musical genre of Baile Funk (or Funk Carioca), originating in the favelas of Rio de Janeiro. The underside of Diplo’s rising success is his history of using the work of third world artists without attribution. This includes his baile funk mixes “Favela on Blast” and “Favela Strikes Back”, as well as the anonymous baile funk tracks he included on MIA’s Piracy Funds Terrorism mixtape, and the song Bucky Done Gun on MIA’s first album Arular, which reproduced without acknowledgement a beat from Brazilian funk DJ Marlboro. M.I.A.’s label later took steps to acknowledge DJ Marlboro (as well as Deize Tigrona, the MC whose song the beat was originally used for), and Diplo attempted to bring more attention to baile funk artists in Brazil through touring with some of them and even producing a documentary on Baile Funk called “Favela on Blast.” However, he continues to come under criticism for exploiting artists of color. This recently resulted in a heated twitter debate between him and DJ Venus Iceberg X (covered in a recent Racialicious post), a queer woman of color producer who played shows with artists signed to Diplo’s record label Mad Decent and noticed some of the shady patterns to Diplo/Mad Decent’s business practices. She called him out publicly after he tried to record one of her shows without permission. As described in another post on Racialicious, “Its Complicated: DJs, Appropriation, and a Whole Host of Other Ish”, Diplo has a pattern of using the work of artists of color who make music in the latest genre that he takes interest in and then leaves those artists behind as he moves on to the next genre that grabs his attention.

What will Major Lazer’s newfound mainstream success mean for all of the artists of color who Diplo has worked with who have not seen similar success? Diplo is now producing for some of the most powerful superstars in pop music. “Pon De Floor” was sampled not only for “Run The World (Girls)” but also for “Ass On The Floor” a Swizz Beatz produced track on Diddy’s Dirty Money album and Diplo recently co-produced Chris Brown’s hit “Look At Me Now.” Furthermore, Diplo recently starred in a BlackBerry commercial and continues to tour all over the world. In contrast, Maluca, an ex-girlfriend and artist signed to his label, recently released a video showing her life beyond the limelight. In the video Maluca contrasts appearing in fashion shows and touring as an opener for Robyn with qualifying for EBT and living with her mother. In the Fader article “Diplo Cannot Keep You Out of the Poorhouse”, the author zings Maluca for holding a Mud Truck coffee cup in her video, and in the comments section someone critiques her for showing up to apply for food stamps wearing a fur hat. But another commenter notes “In her interview with T Magazine she says that she doesn’t have a cell phone, so I think going out and buying a cup of coffee is a fair exchange. Just because she isn’t the poorest person in the world doesn’t mean she is not poor.”

What’s particularly complicated is that Diplo has placed himself in the role of ambassador and intermediary for an array of global hip hop genres originating in the global south (in particular Baile Funk and Dancehall). On the one hand, Diplo presents himself is as someone concerned with the well-being and success of the communities that he engages with. He claims to be committed to their development and has engaged in a number of projects that have brought considerable attention to artists and communities in the global south, as well as artists of color in the global north. He has worked on projects such as the “Favela on Blast” documentary on Baile Funk in Rio’s favelas and the Heaps Decent NGO that supports the development of indigenous hip hop artists in Australia. And certainly Baile Funk has received greater attention and audiences in the global north as a result of Diplo’s work. The same with Dancehall culture via Major Lazer. However, no artists in these communities have gained even a fraction of the mainstream success and attention that Diplo/Major Lazer has. Not. Even. Close. And if Diplo’s career continues to move in the direction that it has been going, that disparity will only continue to grow. Perhaps he will be able to bring increased attention to even more artists and will use his resources to support projects that create genuine impacts on these communities. I wonder, though, for how long and how deep will the impact be.

“Interview with Diplo”

“I’ve gotten a lot of criticism, from journalists mostly, and also other people who do what I do in America. I’ve tried to confront all of them because I think its really important to at least recognize that I’m a white guy from America and I can work under the guise that I’m a White guy from Mississippi, from Florida, I’m from a working-class family… [but] I have a passport and I have access to travel outside my country, which 90% of the world doesn’t have. Probably more. Doesn’t even recognize that they can do these things that I can do. So its important to confront that reality because it exists. I have the freedom to come to Rio and work, while at the same time almost all the favelados don’t have the freedom to leave the favela, or even have the notion in their mind that they’re capable of doing that because of the social aspects in Brazil…”

In this quote it seems like he understands that there are some serious imbalances in power between himself and the artists he works with in the global south. But what does it mean to “confront that reality because it exists”? And, really, what does that mean in practice, as in getting the people who came up with this music in the first place paid? It is significant that Diplo makes attempts to engage his critics, albeit in ways that are often cynical and dismissive. Perhaps this is just a publicity ploy, a learned tactic of leaning towards controversy, because of the resulting buzz. But Diplo doesn’t have to respond to these criticisms. No one is forcing him to acknowledge them, especially as he enters the rarified air of stardom. So it’s interesting that he continues to do so. It seems like a lot of his response is: What do you want me to do differently? That’s an important question for all of us who critique him. And a question that we should consider the answer to, not just when directed at him, but also when the answer is turned on ourselves.

Global Hip Hop: Creating the Alternative

Beyonce’s incorporation of Dancehall, as well as Kwaito through Tofo Tofo and “New Style” hip hop dance through Les Twins offers a glimpse into a more holistic, global hip hop culture. However, this global vision is still mediated through the work of a U.S. superstar. This is symbolic of the overarching global balance of power. However, while the U.S. still acts as the global center of media, music, and film, immense networks of media production are burgeoning across the global south.

It seems like Diplo wants to create networks, audiences, and opportunities for the communities he engages with. But so long as he is the necessary Western interlocutor for artists of color from the global south, I question how much will these artists and cultures actually be “represented” globally. Like other forms of Western “development” that created the very conditions of poverty that these musics and cultures exist in, Diplo’s brand of development reproduces the very inequality that it claims to solve.

Yes, Diplo plays a part in this and should be held accountable…but so should all of us. But what would it mean for us as consumers, fans, critics, and so forth, to genuinely support the work of artists from the global south, particularly women of color/queer artists (both in the U.S./first world and in the global south)? More specifically:

And…

When it comes down to it, this conversation is much larger than Diplo or Beyonce. They are not the creators of the systems of oppression that they participates in (consciously or not). Diplo is not the first white artist to perpetrate cultural appropriation. Beyonce is not the first First World superstar to capitalize on third world imagery and culture. And they will certainly not be the last.

Be that as it may, global hip hop culture has never been as expansive, diverse, and vibrant as it is today. There are musical genres like Dancehall, Baile Funk/Funk Carioca, Kuduro, Kwaito, and Reggaeton. There are artists like Anita Tijoux, ChocQuibTown, Buraka Som Sistema, Bomba Estereo, and DAM. There are documentaries like Homegrown: Hip-Life in Ghana, Inventos: Hip Hop Cubano, Slingshot Hip Hop, Democracy In Dakar, and, yes, Favela on Blast. Hip Hop played a role in sparking the Tunisian revolution and in raising international solidarity with the Egyptian revolution. There are even academic conferences such as the Trinity International Hip Hop Festival, and Stanford’s Global Hip Hop Conference.

If global hip hop is this vibrant, then we—white people and people of color, celebrities and everyday people– in the global north need to help create genuine collaborations and infrastructures with these artists to get them paid instead of continuing to feed off the global south’s creativity.

By Guest Contributor Eric Zhang

“I am the beautiful Asian who’s taller than 5-foot-2,” Manila Luzon (né Karl Westerberg) says in her introduction video. She is one of 13 contestants competing on the third season of RuPaul’s Drag Race to win $75,000, a lifetime supply of makeup, a headlining drag tour, and the title of America’s Next Drag Superstar.* She is also one of four Asian American contestants to have been featured on the series – the others include Ongina from Season 1, Jujubee from Season 2, and fellow Season 3 contestant Raja.

While drag performance has historically been tied to working class communities of color – the documentary Paris Is Burning in particular follows the tradition of drag balls in 1980s Harlem, and the significance of drag subculture in the lives of queer African American and Latino men – Asian American queens have not been very well represented in the drag circuit. The prominence of Asian American contestants on RuPaul’s Drag Race, thus, caught my eye. As a queer Asian American man who has dabbled in drag (inspired in no small part by Drag Race), I became interested in the ways in which these queens were represented – and chose to represent themselves – on television. While these queens are, of course, not necessarily defined by their race, two of the contestants use a rhetoric of race in their performance: Jujubee and Manila Luzon. Because Manila is competing on the current season, because her drag persona centralizes a racial discourse to a heavier extent than Jujubee’s, and because the racial politics of her performance has actively been challenged on the show itself, I will narrow my focus on her.

Manila Luzon’s persona makes heavy use of a kind of pan-Asian motif: a quick glance through her website reveals images like sushi, chrysanthemums, and Japanese katakana; costuming choices that include a cherry petal dress with an obi, a cheongsam, and a Thai headdress and brass fingernail extensions; and a tongue-in-cheek reference to Chinatown. On the other hand, her drag name explicitly marks her as Filipino – Manila, the capital of the Philippines, and Luzon, the island on which Manila is located. The discrepancy between Manila’s pan-Asian character and her identity as Filipino American, in fact, provides a key source of tension in her performance: is she relying on Orientalist stereotypes and tropes to build her character, or is she using drag to perform her Pinoy pride?

This tension comes to a fore in two episodes of Drag Race. In the fifth episode of the season, “QNN News,” the queens are challenged to perform a newscast. Manila interviews celebrity guest Kristin Cavallari. Though she normally speaks unaccented, standard American English, Manila chooses to adopt an exaggerated, stereotypical “Ching Chong” accent, speaking in broken English and switching her l’s and r’s. Although questions are raised about the appropriateness of the performance – particularly by fellow contestant Shangela – she wins the challenge. “It was so wrong that it was so right,” says guest judge Debbie Matenopoulos:

For the challenge in Episode 6, “The Snatch Game,” the contestants must impersonate celebrities in a version of The Match Game. While most of the contestants pick pop cultural queer icons, such as Cher and Tina Turner, Manila decides to impersonate Imelda Marcos, former First Lady of the Philippines. (In a snide talking head, Shangela says, “At least this time she picked a Filipino.”) She speaks in an identifiably Filipino accent, although it is still exaggerated and reminiscent of the “Ching Chong” speech used in the previous challenge, and peppers Tagalog throughout her performance. Although most of the jokes kept in the aired episode center around shoes, referencing Marcos’s infamous shoe collection, one joke in the deleted scenes mentions chicken adobo.

Many blogs have already written in response to these performances, including Hyphen Magazine, The New Gay, and Yellow Peril. Although these writers are certainly in their right to be offended – indeed, what Asian American has not been mocked by this same exact kind of ignorant speech on the playground? – I found it hilarious. I thought to myself, though: Why do I find this funny? Why am I laughing when, if she did not identify as Asian, I would be fuming? Is it because she’s Asian that it’s “okay”? No, certainly not. But there was something very particular about this performance that I laughed at; was I wrong for doing so?

In the introduction to Alien Encounters: Popular Culture in Asian America, the book’s editors, Mimi Thi Nguyen and Thuy Linh Nguyen Tu ruminate on their love of the character Data in The Goonies, whom they now recognize as a product of racist caricatures in an anti-Asian political era. In doing so, they raise questions concerning the politics of guilty pleasure, media representation, and identification:

Audiences now often ask of representations: Does it look like me? Does it feel like me? What can it do for or to me? Underlying these questions is an implicit desire to “look good” or to be “well represented” at a time when they know that the whole world is watching. […] indeed, the decades-long desire to generate “positive images” or more “authentic representations” has done little to undermine the power of stereotypes or ultimately to free Asian Americans from them. (16-17)

It is easy to condemn Manila’s act as reinforcing stereotypes and perpetuating racist representations. In fact, I am not here to argue that she doesn’t; as I mentioned above, I readily admit that she does, to whatever extent, rely on Orientalist tropes in crafting her character. However, I am more interested in complicating my own pleasure in watching her perform. Why is it that I identify with this performer who does not conform to ideas of “good” or “authentic” representations, one who borrows heavily from imagery that I would in many other contexts decry?

While Asian American scholarship has long discussed the history and politics of Orientalism, the representation and appropriation of Asian icons in Western cultures, relatively little has been written about the use of Orientalist tropes by Asians and Asian Americans themselves. In the early to mid-20th century, as Asians gained more exposure in the United States – first through immigration and, later, through war – the use of Orientalism marked Asians as foreign and exotic, ultimately working to deny them as rightful citizens of the Western world. As these generations grew and, because of strict immigration restrictions like the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act, new immigrants ceased entering the nation, American-born Asians were met with a unique dilemma: they did not “belong” to the country where they were born and raised.

During the 1930s-40s, a group of Asian American performers gained popularity in what was known as the Chop Suey Circuit. Mostly, but not entirely, composed of second-generation Chinese Americans, who grew up with an acute awareness of their “foreignness” in the United States, these performers built a name for themselves by performing a variety of vaudeville, comedy, and dance routines. In her essay “Performing a Geography of Asian America: The Chop Suey Circuit,” SanSan Kwan writes:

On the one hand, the Chop Suey Circuit entertainers succeeded at “playing Oriental,” performing acts like the “Fan Dance,” the “Chinese Sleeve Dance,” and the “Coolie Dance,” in order to give Americans a look at exactly what they expected the “Asiatic” to be. On the other hand, the Chop Suey Circuit was also about performing Americanness, as equated with  whiteness. Dressed in bunny costumes and tap dancing to “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top,”  the mostly second-generation Asian American dancers and singers strove towards cultural assimilation. Presenting their Asian American bodies onstage, performing popular American numbers (which, incidentally, were largely black and Latin American forms appropriated and whitewashed), these entertainers simultaneously reproduced and blurred the boundaries of racial otherness. (122)

In utilizing these images, were they embracing their heritage, critiquing racist beliefs about Asian people, or perpetuating their own marginalization? In many ways, they could only present themselves as Orientalist stereotypes – in order to book shows and make money in a time when such images were the only exposure to Asian people (whether real or imagined) available to Americans. But was it merely a marketing ploy?

Whether consciously or not, by mixing Orientalist imagery with nationalistic, all-American references, these performers raise questions about the precarious nature of their own citizenship in America, about who belongs and who does not. In a time in which race relations and racial segregation relied on a black-white axis, making no room for Asian Americans, these performers could only measure their identities in terms of foreign (Asian) and citizen (American). As neither “colored” nor “white,” Asian Americans were simultaneously permitted to spaces barred to African Americans and barred from places permitted to white Americans.

In much the same way, Manila inhabits a hybrid space. Of mixed race (her mother is Filipino and her father is white), she can “pass” as either Asian or white; she chooses to identify and present herself and her persona as Asian, and in Asian costuming. On the other hand, in other challenges she adopts a particularly American persona – she has dressed like Big Bird, carrot cake, a flapper, and patriotic “white trash” with a blonde wig. (Granted, all of these examples except for the Big Bird costume were challenge-specific, but my point is that she does not limit herself to these Asian stereotypes; many of her costumes are actually devoid of any specific racial or national overtones.) This vacillation between Asian and American and between white and non-white harkens back to the Chop Suey Circuit.

Of course, the circumstances are very different – the Chop Suey Circuit performers were popular in a time when Orientalist tropes were abundant in popular culture, long before Asian Americans began to gain respect as people in their own right and before their own personal stories became acclaimed literature, while Manila is acting in a time when multiculturalism is celebrated, being “politically correct” is expected, and racial stereotyping is a major faux pas. Whereas Chop Suey Circuit performers, to some extent, utilized these personas because they had to, Manila actively chooses to participate in this rhetoric of race in ways that other Asian contestants (particularly Ongina and Raja) have not. (Jujubee did also incorporate Orientalism into her character, most visibly in a challenge in which she dressed in a red cheongsam-like dress for a fake autobiography she titled Memoirs of a Gay! sha, but she did not employ these images to the same extent that Manila does, nor was she ever challenged on the show for doing so.)

Stereotypes of Asians as foreign also remain a prominent motif in Asian American stand-up comedy. Though not necessarily Orientalist in the traditional sense, these routines borrow from certain ways of thinking about Asians specifically and people of color more generally that have contributed to their oppression in America. Comedy, however, works on a markedly different level. While the vaudeville actors used these tropes in an arguably subversive manner, their primary goal was to entertain; they presented themselves as foreign and exotic because that was what their audiences expected of them. Comedians, on the other hand, explicitly challenge these ideas by turning them into jokes. Think of Margaret Cho, whose comedy routine often includes jokes about people’s expectations of her, as an Asian American woman, and impersonations of her mother.

In fact, Manila Luzon cites Margaret Cho as an inspiration for her own use of exaggerated Asian stereotypes. Although she is not a stand-up comedian, Manila does, as a drag queen, incorporate comedy and humor into her performance. Both the “QNN News” segment and the Imelda Marcos impersonation are meant to be comedic performances.

Furthermore, as Tom and Lorenzo point out: “drag is often about being outrageous and politically incorrect.” That’s a little simplistic: rather, drag is explicitly about parodying and challenging sociopolitical binaries – between male and female, straight and queer, upper class and working class, and, in some cases, white and non-white. Drag queens mirror existing hierarchies in order to reveal the true fluidity of these divisions. This is most obvious with the male-female binary: in itself, drag is inherently about the performance of gender and destroying the idea of masculinity. (The parody of women is in itself a completely different question worthy of discussion but not ultimately relevant to the scope of my particular interests here.) As I mentioned above, Paris Is Burning brings questions of race and class into the picture: by performing “upper class” as equated to rich, fashionable white women, the drag houses of the 1980s sought to fight against their disempowerment.

In many ways, I view Manila’s performance as parody – parody of herself, parody of Asians, and most importantly parody of caricatures of Asians. However, as I also mentioned above, she intercuts these exaggerated performances with moments of her own nationalistic pride in being Filipino. She wore a pineapple dress as a reference to former Miss Philippines Lara Quigaman:

She appeared at the premiere party in a terno gown:

And she donned this (very chic) Filipino flag dress:

The tension between Manila’s pan-Asian character and her sincere Pinoy pride and identity becomes central to her controversial performances on the show. Shangela, in criticizing Manila for using offensive stereotypes, says, “She was making fun of a culture that she looks to be a part of, but she’s not.” She implies a dichotomy between the “right” kind of Asian and the “wrong” kind of Asian; ironically, she ignores the fact that the “Ching Chong” accent has been used historically to erase differences among different ethnicities and to group all Asians as an undifferentiated mass of people. As I mentioned above, Shangela comments that, “At least this time she picked a Filipino,” when Manila does her Imelda Marcos impersonation, suggesting that Manila must limit herself to mocking Filipinos. (Also ironically, Shangela’s own performance also heavily relies on racialized stereotypes of the “black southern lady,” and created a pimp/whore character for one challenge.)

There’s a strong disconnect here: Shangela creates a paradigm in which being generically Asian and specifically Filipino are mutually exclusive, while Manila finds it necessary to embrace and perform both identities. And, ultimately, she does use two modes of expression that have long histories in Asian American performance and cultural production in order to challenge Asian marginalization. In parodying racist stereotypes of Asians, she attempts to poke fun at herself and at these representations; by boldly transforming herself into a stereotype, she forces us to confront these images (of course, whether she is successful is highly arguable). In performing Pinoy pride, she promotes ideas of multiculturalism and celebrating diversity (indeed, for a challenge in which the girls must create PSAs about why America is wonderful, she extolls the diversity – of American food).

The discomfort that Shangela, some of the other queens, and even RuPaul herself feel while watching Manila’s performance, along with Manila’s own hesitation to “make this into a race thing,” signifies what Professor Tricia Rose would call “racial illiteracy,” or the avoidance of discussions about race for fear of being deemed racist. Although Manila is clearly aware of her racialized body and of the media invisibility of people who look like her – “I don’t think we have enough Asian people in pop culture” – she is reluctant to discuss the racist/anti-racist implications of her performance.

In the end, do I think Manila is successful in critiquing representations and stereotypes of Asians in popular media? No, not necessarily. She has a definite understanding of her place in the United States as an Asian American, a group of people historically ignored in American racial politics, and uses her identity to carefully craft a sometimes well-defined, sometimes more unsure drag character. However, I think where she fails (when entertainers like Margaret Cho succeed using similar stereotypes) is in her understanding of nuance. While drag characters are, admittedly, not generally known for their subtlety, I believe successful ones do understand how to build a character in the context of their own identity, whether as queer, non-white, working class, etc. While I wouldn’t go so far as to say Manila does end up merely perpetuating stereotypes, because I do think there is a complexity to the choices she makes, I don’t think she has yet figured out how to use those choices to the best of her ability.

I realize I also have not properly addressed my original question, which was how it matters that I am entertained by Manila, and I also realize now that I do not have a concise answer for that. I think my pleasure in watching Manila perform this caricature of my own identity comes from my own interest in these kinds of stereotypes, and the ways in which they have affected my and other Asian Americans’ life experiences. It is encouraging to see her begin to pave the way for others – even perhaps myself – to continue challenging these stereotypes, even though she may or may not have been successful herself in doing so.

As Manila herself says, “Magtrabaho ka,” or, You better work!

–
*Editor’s Note: This piece was submitted a few weeks ago – the third season of Drag Race has ended, and Luzon came in 2nd place.

SFW? This should be required viewing at your work. From the film Stormy Weather, Cab By Goodness Calloway serves it up for The Nicholas Brothers, in a sequence Fred Astaire called the best tap-dancing scene ever filmed.

By Special Correspondent Jessica Yee

Many of you know just how riled up I get when talking about cultural appropriation and willful ignorance of things like protecting Indigenous knowledge, or just not showing any damn RESPECT for things people really know nothing about.

I wanted to alert you all to some amazing Native peeps that are taking de-bunking Indigenous stereotypes to a whole new level – via music, dance, electric beats, hip-hop, and mind-blowing remixes to decolonize you all over – especially in those hard to reach places.

They are A Tribe Called Red and they hail from un-ceeded Algonquin territory in Ottawa (Canada). I’ve been going to their monthly Electric Powwow dance parties for a little while now where I’ve been known to shake my butt off and whisper politikin’ sweet-nothings into my friends ears as the unrepentant drum mash-ups beat on. I actually got to meet one part of the Electric Powwow craze DJ Bear Witness a while back when I emceed an Indigenous women’s spoken word show where he played a 65 minute beat set to an anti-war critique of colonization.

So I was beyond pleased to learn that MTV writers are now picking up on their stuff and making progressive-for-MTV-statements about them like, “it’s as right on and brilliant as a fashion shoot with emaciated European models in war bonnets is ignorant and lazy.” Which is interesting because lest we forget that MTV also produced the Dudesons who as some may recall me writing about here, very famously rode the train of appropriation and kept going west on their “Cowboys and Findians” episode that had just about every Native stereotype you can think of (and attempts from community to pull the show off MTV and issue an apology were unsuccessful). Not to mention of course the myriad of racist typecasting that plays on MTV 24/7.

Part of the reason (and there are many reasons) why I call myself an Indigenous hip-hop feminist is because I’ve often felt like hip-hop for me is a way to reclaim my roots and speak my truth where it’s been erased in the sea of people just not getting it, and that the process of colonization is pretty linear to where hip-hop has gone from its origins (you know, been exploited, appropriated, commercialized, capitalized off of, etc).  A Tribe Called Red reclaims all that and more with fiercely composed electric beats, some hip-hop, and centralizing the many voices of our peoples whether through traditional singing or the creation of new stories in song that talk about our time. Watch any of their videos and you will see that it’s a take-no-prisoners approach in facing what everyone else thinks about us, and what we know is the truth. You decide what you see.

So here’s to another year of fighting cultural appropriation – and yes we’re going to keep on fighting. I mean, what’s another year after more than 500 of this? At least we’ve got beats for the battle where we’re calling the shots to keep us company. Who’s calling who an Indian now?!

The film “Bijli” opens with an off-key rendition of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s haunting Sanu Ik Pal Chain Na Aave. The poetry of the song describes a man who cannot find a moment’s peace without his beloved.  Some might consider this analogous to Bijli’s predicament as a woman trapped in a man’s body: constantly ill at ease without his other “half.”  Bijli is Fayaaz, the drag alter ego of this Pakistani-born dancer, who presently resides in New York City.

This short film by filmmaker Adnan Malik is a 15-minute foray into a man’s struggle with gender identity, religion, and social acceptance set against the bustling metropolis of Manhattan.  While Begum Nawazish has gained popularity internationally and in Pakistan, carving out a niche for himself as a “credible” entertainer, Bijli tells the story of a man who by day passes off as an ordinary New Yorker and by night transforms into “Bijli,” dancing on stage to Bollywood numbers in sequined chiffon, dainty wigs and fake eyelashes.  The word “bijli” is Urdu for electricity or electric current and is a name bestowed upon the dancer by a writer who, for lack of a better word, found her “electrifying.”

Fayaaz’s parents died when he was very young and the film makes no mention of a sibling or close relative, which makes the mystery of his coming to the U.S. all the more intriguing.  Bijli especially holds fond memories of his mother.  “She loved me.  She cared for me like a little girl.  She gave me clothes, earrings and bangles on Eid, as if I were her daughter.”

Like many transgendered individuals, Fayaaz is in constant battle with his Islamic upbringing and the crisis of gender that has society in his native Pakistan conveniently shuffle him into the folds of the have-nots and promiscuous.  While Begum Nawazish has a solid education to rely on, empowering him to rise above his circumstances, Fayaaz does not have this luxury.  Not being formally educated, he comically describes his “allergy to English” as a child and how he learned the language only after he left Pakistan.

Although faced with prejudice in various social settings, Fayaaz shrugs it off as part of life and the challenges that God places upon him.  “I am not hesitant about going to a mosque for prayer.  Except there is a natural shame in me,” he says.  This is a somewhat contradictory because shame is why he does not pray with fellow worshippers.  Fayaaz also wants to avoid the resulting awkwardness with anyone who may have witnessed any of his performances.  If a Muslim who visits a mosque after a night of watching him dance does not feel shame, why should he feel any different?  The social stigma associated to “mujras” or dancers like Fayaaz are deeply rooted in Pakistani society, considered inherent to Mughal culture and not accepted in a “true” Muslim community.

Fayyaz appears most vulnerable while wearing the traditional red headdress of a bride’s outfit and responding to the producer’s off camera comment.  “One day I’m bridal” he says in broken English, perhaps referring to a time when he too will have the opportunity to wear one.  “I think so,” he answers when prompted again by the producers.

“Adorning myself like a woman is not a hobby, it is a fulfillment of my soul’s desire.”  As Bijli, Fayaaz appears happy but to a discerning viewer his perky responses and good will to man attitude at times it feels like a façade, as if overcompensating for the harsher reality of being a transgendered Muslim transvestite.  Had he remained in Pakistan, things might have been different and perhaps his little slice of Americana makes all the difference between misery and basic survival.

Fayaaz insists he is not gay and this is probably the only time the producer’s voice is most prominent otherwise the questions asked off camera.  “My soul is like a woman’s.  My feelings and desires are also like that of a woman.  I even see my body as a woman’s body.  But I must accept that God has made me a man.”  Although for all intents and purposes a man, Fayaaz has been in relationships with other men where he “presents himself as a woman and not a man in drag.”

On the whole, the movie humanizes him, but one leaves feeling sympathetic to his plight in that he wants more out of life, perhaps a partnership of sort—to be loved and cared for.  The movie conveys this. What it does not convey is whether that someone should be a man or whether a snip at the doctor’s office might do the trick.

Fayaaz turns the tables on the producers at the end of the clip with a query of his own.  “If you see me at a party, and are attracted to me, even though you realize I am a man in drag, what would you do?”  The silence on the other end is palpable, followed by a sad tune which plays briefly until bookended by the same Khan song heard in the beginning.  “In everyday situations, I can’t reveal the woman inside of me.  But at least at parties and performances, I can become that woman.  What is the point of living in fear?” he asks.

By Site Lead Arturo R. García

That performance, of course, dominated the discussion regarding this year’s BET Music Awards, as an unannounced Chris Brown – his introduction by Jermaine Jackson was simply, “Here he is!” – performed a tribute to Michael Jackson. Personally, I was underwhelmed – not so much by Brown tearing up during “Man In The Mirror,” but by the silence that preceded it. As accurate as Brown’s dancing and costuming were, the absence of his voice diminished the moment’s impact. I’m not questioning Brown’s intentions, but put simply, I wasn’t moved.

But, we at The R would like to get your opinions on the performance, and on where Brown and his career could or should go from here. And collected under the cut are various reactions from around the Web.

Were his tears for Michael Jackson? Some of it probably was. But it’s reasonable that it stemmed from the events in his life as well. Either way, it doesn’t make his tears less genuine.
- Clutch Magazine

I can’t be the only person who finds the fact that a convicted woman beater was asked to perform in honor of the late great Michael Jackson more than inappropriate.
- Hip-Hop Crunch

Although unplanned, hopefully this is the reaction and apology the media has been waiting for and will now stop punishing this talented musician.
– Hip-Hop Wired

I’m sorry but CB’s tears were not winning me over .. felt like when Elizabeth Hasselbeck cries, really a way of making the moment about you.
- Jay Smooth

A few minutes before hitting the stage, Brown tweeted, “BE NERVOUS FOR ME… im s***tin’ a brick right now!!!!!” We think that showing some raw human emotion might do some good for Brown’s tarnished public image… maybe.
- Zap2It

Intimate partner violence is not something you can make up for with a few well-executed dance moves or on-stage sobs. In this view, there was something unseemly about Brown using a tribute to a late legend as an opportunity to turn the spotlight on himself and score some career-rehab points.
- Entertainment Weekly

Let’s set the scene: Friday afternoon, Stanford powwow–one of the largest powwow’s on the West Coast. Three Native powwow committee members and a friend are checking in on the vendor booths, making sure things are ready to go, and they come across the group pictured above. 6 non-Native girls, decked out in warpaint, feathers, fringe, and moccassins–playing Indian at its worst. I’ll let my friend Leon tell the whole story:

While we were walking around Powwow on Friday, checkin out the vendors, we saw this pack of little white girls come running in from the street. Now, needless to say, we were shocked at the sight. We pretty much all just stopped in our tracks, and were speechless for a minute, as we looked on in sheer disbelief. After going through a few (angry) options in our heads about what to do, we figured we should have a little fun with it first (especially since there was this crew of little like six year old Native girls who were already making fun of them)…anyways, me and Lisa devised a plan to get this picture of them for you and your blog. So Lisa approached the girls and said “Excuse me girls…” (silence fell upon the land)…”could we get a picture of you for our newsletter?” “Of course!!!” the girls replied with excitement…

So girls, here’s your “newsletter” debut.
After Leon and crew took the picture, the powwow security team talked to them and brought them over to the director of the Stanford Native Center for some education on the issue, so (hopefully) they at least walked away from the experience with a new understanding of their actions. If they didn’t, here, again, is my anti-headdress manifesto.

I was telling my mom about the incident, and she said, “Honey, you can’t be too hard on them. Clearly they just didn’t know any better.” The thing is, they should have known better.

These girls are students at Palo Alto High School. Definitely one of the best high schools in the area, if not the state. It is a high school that turns out tops students who go on to top colleges, and enrolls  children of professors, stanford employees, and other well educated silicon valley execs. To top it off, the school is literally across the street from Stanford. Across the street from a school that hosts the largest student run powwow in the nation for 39 years running, that is home to nearly 300 Native students, that has one of the strongest college Native communities in California.

I would like to think that the combination of those factors would equate some level of understanding, that a high school of their caliber would incorporate some type of curriculum on Native history, or at least a basic level of cultural sensitivity. Clearly, that doesn’t seem to be the case.

If these girls survived a talking-to by Winona (the director of the Native Center), they know what they did was wrong, and why. I feel posting their picture and story is enough of a public shaming. But as I struggle to find an analogy to another community event to analyze this incident, I’m still left scratching my head.

Why did these girls think it was ok to dress up like ridiculous “Indians” to come to a Native community event? Would these girls have dressed in blackface to go to a African American community gathering? Wear a sombrero, poncho, and drawn on mustache to a Ballet Folklorico concert? No.

But powwows, at least in areas that are not majority-Native, tend to invite non-Native spectators, encourage their participation in things like intertribal dances, and allow time and space for education about Native history and powwow traditions. I think that’s a great thing. Powwows show the vibrancy and currency of our cultures and evolving traditions; they show we are still here, that traditions are strong, that our communities exist and will continue to exist. They expose thousands of people to Native cultures that they may not ever encounter otherwise. They allow for Native artists and craftspeople to make a living selling their jewelry and art.

However, this openness and encouragement of non-Native participation creates a fine line–we want you to come, to learn, to watch, to engage; but that doesn’t mean it’s ok to mock our cultures in your attempts at participation.

I felt like that line was crossed a couple of weeks ago at the Harvard powwow, where our MC (a well respected MC throughout Indian country, great man, very focused on the educational aspects of powwow) called for a “Spectator Special”.  He invited the non-Indian spectators out to for a dance competition at the end of the afternoon, to real contest songs.

There were separate songs for men and women, and multiple rounds–semi-finals, finals, ect. The winners were chosen by the audience, and given a cash prize (like $5). As I stood on the sidelines and watched, I couldn’t help but feel extremely uncomfortable. It was like we had just given these men and women permission to mock us.

They hopped and ran around–one man even took off his socks to spin around like the fancy dancers. The thing was, it wasn’t like they were clowning, or smiling, or being silly. They were dead serious. They had looks of concentration, were sweating, breathing hard. I think I would have felt better if it was a joke–a chance for the Native dancers to take a break and poke fun at the spectators, almost like the switch dance where the men dance like women and women like men. But instead, these spectators reverted to the worst of stereotypes, jumping around like “war dances” around the fire from a spaghetti western.

I want to share the video I took on my cell phone, but beware, the quality is, well, what you would expect from a cell phone. And the sound was so bad I had to plop a Northern Cree contest song behind it so you could still get the effect. In sum, don’t judge the filmmaker, judge the content of the film.

I’m hoping you can see the young girls running around the powwow circle, and the intensity of the mom in the tank top and baseball cap. She went on to “win”.

I don’t know if I’m being oversensitive on the spectator special, but it really made me feel weird, like it somehow belittled the talent and tradition of the Native dancers. Those dancers have been dancing since they were little, know the traditions and stories behind their style of dance, and have invested time and money in their regalia. To almost imply that spectators are just as good after a few hours of watching the dancing just seems wrong.

So, in sum, powwows are an amazing opportunity for education of the non-Native community on Native traditions and cultures, and may serve as one of the only chances that these spectators have to interact with Native peoples in a modern and culturally relevant setting. However, there’s a difference between learning and appropriating. Clearly some of these spectators need to learn the difference.

Earlier: But Why Can’t I Wear a Hipster Headdress?

So we’ve been getting lots of emails about this, both from readers and friends – in late February Zeta Tau Alpha , a predominantly white sorority, beat out three black sororities at the Sprite Step-Off, nabbing the $100,000 prize and honours as the best step team in the country.

This caused an immediate backlash. In the video below, as soon as the second place winner is revealed you can hear the crowd booing while other audience members begin walking out:

Five days later, in an (alleged) panic Sprite announced that there was a scoring discrepancy, allowing them to announce a tie and give another $100,000 to the second place winners, Alpha Kappa Alpha.

For readers who don’t know about stepping and black sororities and fraternities, Lawrence Ross explains on CNN what it means to have a white sorority beat black greek associations at a massive, televised step comp:

To understand why this is a big deal, you have to understand that African-American fraternities and sororities are as close to the Animal House stereotype attached to white fraternities as Pat Boone is to hip-hop. Black fraternities and sororities, known as the Divine Nine, form the fiber of African-American leadership in this country and continue to produce the leaders of tomorrow.

…The roster of Divine Nine members is a Who’s Who in African America: the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., Jesse Jackson, Michael Jordan, Maya Angelou, Dorothy Height and over a million others count themselves as members. The civil rights movement is populated with Divine Nine members who developed leadership skills on college campuses… Pride in one’s organization is paramount to Divine Nine members, and one way to express that is through stepping.

Divine Nine fraternities and sororities take great pride in being original and innovative in their dances: highly coordinated, with elaborate costumes, and sometimes performed before thousands. It’s a point of pride to perform, but to win for the glory of your fraternity or sorority is the ultimate.

So when Zeta Tau Alpha members won the Sprite Step Off, it was not just that they’d beaten African-American sororities, it was seen as the first assault on yet another African-American cultural tradition that, if not guarded, would be appropriated from blacks like jazz and hip-hop.

For Sprite, Zeta Tau Alpha was enough of a racial minefield to justify spending an extra $100,000 to quiet folks down. Ok, so that’s just speculation.

But there’s been a backlash to the backlash. Several prominent black journalists (including Lawrence Ross) have chastised the black greek community for complaining about the white win.  Jason Whitlock writes that the case of Zeta Tau Alpha shows that “the moral of the story will be that black people have no issue with being just as discriminatory as the white power structure they rail against.”  This thread on Bossip is full of commenters saying that it is racist for Bossip to have a problem with Zeta Tau Alpha’s win.

Do I think Zeta Tau Alpha deserved to win? I don’t know a lot about stepping, but I’m going to trust the judges and I assume they were amazing.   But do I think they should have won?

Well, no.

Writing for the Root, Lawrence Ross says:

The problem with the arguments presented by the critics is that they tend to gloss over the question of whether the Zeta Tau Alpha steppers were actually better than their competition. Instead, most of the criticism has been reactionary and sought to deny Zeta Tau Alpha the opportunity to compete based solely on their skin color.

By doing that, black Greeks do a disservice to our historic legacy. African-American fraternities and sororities were born in circumstances that sought to combat judgments based on race. And to do the same as those who would deny us opportunity, based on the notion that we’re somehow protecting our black cultural integrity, is morally bankrupt.

The problem with this argument is that it lacks context.  Not historical context on stepping – Ross wrote the book on that, literally – but racial and political context.  As Ross states, black fraternities and sororities came up as spaces for black students to be together, necessary in a racist climate.  Well, it’s not as if that racist climate has disappeared.  I am not sure if there are black frats and sororities at UCSD – if there aren’t, they sure could use some.

When Whitlock argues that black folks who would deny a white step team step awards is bigoted, and akin to white folks who support segregation, he’s suggesting that systemic racism no longer exists.  In my book, the only way you can be racist is if you have the institutional power to be racist.   The fact that black folks have more presence within the world of stepping than white folks, does not delete the barrier that racism creates for black folks in many other arenas.  And you don’t have institutional power in bits and pieces – even if stepping is dominated by black folks, it exists within a racist context.  This means that even within the step world, black folks don’t have institutional power.  Stepping doesn’t exist in a vacuum.

When white folks don’t want black folks to participate in something, that’s racist. When black folks don’t want white folks to participate in something, it is not racist.  That’s right! And no, this is not because I have a delusional double standard.  In order for this to be a double standard, white and black folks would have to have to same level of power universally.  But instead power relations in our society continue to extend far far more opportunities to white folks than to black folks, or any other folks of colour.

I would have no problem with a white team winning at a historically black competition, if black students (and other students of colour) were excelling at every mainstream (read:white) college turn.  Instead, the Journal of Blacks in Higher Education has multiple statistics showing that black students have lower rates of graduation, citing racism, lack of space for supportive black campus communities, and strained family finances as reasons for this discrepancy.  And if/when black students do graduate, it’s not like skin colour disappears.  This New York Times article from the end of last year states that:

the unemployment rate for black male college graduates 25 and older in 2009 has been nearly twice that of white male college graduates — 8.4 percent compared with 4.4 percent.

Racism hampers all students of colour.  Similar stats exist for black and non-black Latin@ students, and let’s not forget the recent admissions data we’ve seen about Asian American students.

Stepping and black fraternities and sororities exist to give black students a reprieve from these barriers, and a space to be together and celebrate who they are.  As a non-black person of colour, I wish I had that – if anyone is setting up dance competitions for mixed race SoutheastAsian/Irish/Canadian women, let me know.

When top honours in such a space go to a white team, it is not an aberration or a historic event – it is a repeat of what happens all day every day, outside of that very small space.  While I am absolutely sure that Zeta Tau Alpha are a great stepping team, they are still part of the dominant culture and reap its benefits, while black students bear its brunt.  Being told that you are inferior to white folks all the time takes its toll – as the struggles of black students to achieve academic success demonstrates.  Being told that you are inferior to white folks, within the place that you built to get away from such constant rejection? That cuts deep.

An academic I know bristles whenever teaching positions in minority literature go to white academics.  Can white academics teach minority lit? I’m sure they can.  But can they get jobs in every other lit position? Yes. Is it harder for academics of colour to get, say, Victorian Lit positions? Yes it is.  So until that difference is rectified, the few positions of honour that can go to people of colour, should go to people of colour.

I went to the sold-out semifinals of the Sprite Step-Off at Texas Southern University in Houston, where Zeta Tau Alpha went on to qualify for the finals* in Atlanta. It was a great night.  The crowd was deliriously happy.  And most of the night was spent executing Texas hip hop dance crazes, like the Mr Hit Dat, the Flex and the Halle Berry.  These dances may be redonculous, but they are also cultural rituals that above all express proud membership and belonging.  In other words, it was clear to me that part of the joy of that night derived from the chance for these black college students to be together, and celebrate each other and the culture they and their elders had built together.  There are so few spaces for young people of colour to do that.

When the entire college experience is a space for all kinds of youth to celebrate their personness, then it will be racist to complain when a white team like Zeta Tau Alpha wins a step competition.  But black president or no, that day is a long way away.  I look forward to it – even though it means I will be out of a job.

–

*Alas I actually missed their performance – I left in the middle of Lupe Fiasco’s number.  I just don’t care for him. I did however, get to see Latoya Luckett, which was just delightful.

I wrote this for AO (Adults Only) Magazine in mid-October last year, for Issue 3 that was meant to come out…now. I haven’t heard anything beyond “yes we got it”, and since some people have asked, I figure I’ll post my original article here. There weren’t pictures in the original submission, mainly due to copyright issues, but I’ll see if I can add some pics here.

Thank you to everyone who helped with research and quotes.  Feel free to share!

No one is jerkin’ while looking at my merkin, my skin is cracked like a shoddy creme brulee; not even a Prozac milkshake can shake my blues away – oh no, no no, it’s not a pretty princess day!

- Kitten on the Keys

My first taste of burlesque and pinup style was on my 21st birthday in Melbourne. A close friend had brought me to the Royal Melbourne Show (a massive carnival and agricultural show) as his present to me, and while there I spotted a tent advertising Old-Style Photos. I ducked in, put on a saloon girl costume – red bustier with white “boning”, a poofy red and black skirt, fishnets and a garter holding up a set of cards – and hammed up for a set of sepia photos that placed me in the Wild Wild West. I loved the outfit (which was surprising as I don’t normally like many things girly) and ever since then I had been hunting out for anything reminiscent of saloon-girl style.

My foray into burlesque as an apprentice performer and enthusiast meant many hours of looking up photos and art of burlesque performers, many echoing the pin up art of people like Gil Elvgren and Alberto Vagras. Around this time rockabilly and alternative modelling also came in vogue, with many pinups sporting cherry A-line dresses and full-sleeve tattoos. Hollywood and mainstream pop culture also caught on to the cheesecake, with Vanity Fair continuing the tradition of casting upcoming movie starlets in classic poses as part of their annual Vanities Girls series.

While quite a number of the photos and performers were eye-catching, and often inspiring (that dress! that fascinator! THOSE PASTIES!), after a while they started to all look the same. The same poses, the same tropes – naughty teacher, just out of bed, exotic princess – the same look. The same tattoos on the same curvy bodies. The same buxom blondes, devillish redheads, sultry brunettes. Hardly anyone darker than milk chocolate – though if they were they either fit the same poses or had animal print thrown onto them.

Burlesque and pinup has been celebrated lately for its acceptance of diverse body images, and for its openness towards amateurs and hobbyists. There’s no need to look like the models in those magazines, no need for trim bellies and thin thighs; anyone can be beautiful. But does the current scene have standards of its own? What happens if you’d rather not be in a cherry A-line dress or have a tattoo, would prefer your waist be set free than wrapped in a corset, can’t stand a couquettish smile and would rather hold a sneaky sneer?

A few months ago I explored the issues of racial representation in burlesque performance, mainly dealing with cultural appropriation – could a performer take on artifacts from a foreign culture, and how does that affect the people of the original culture? My article on this on Racialicious, a blog dealing with race and ethnicity in pop culture, generated a lot of discussion from within and outside the burlesque world. Some applauded me for reflecting their concerns and worries; others thought I was imposing my assumptions onto a culture I was barely acquainted with.

In the interest of fairness, and also to broaden my own mind on this area, I decided to poll various people involved in the burlesque and pinup scenes about how they feel beauty standards played into their creative scene.

The first thing I noticed was there was a subtle split over whether burlesque and pinup had their own set of beauty standards and expectations. A few of my respondents contended that there were no such thing as set standards – that a “burlesque beauty” could look like anything, be any size or any colour. British performer Tempest Devyne describes beauty as “seeing someone confident in their own skin, it’s a sparkle in the eyes that shows an awareness, a softness, a kindness of heart”, while Rev. Jay Leal, producer of USA’s Curl Up & Dye Burlesque, describes a burlesque beauty as “the sexy / naughty underbelly of vintage class and elegance”.

The others described a set of traits defining a burlesque/pinup beauty, many repeated: hourglass figure, pincurls in highlight-less dark hair with a Bettie Page fringe, alabaster skin, well-placed tattoos. Perth’s Iskra Valentine and England’s Lucy Longlegs, who both had darker complexions thanks to Russian-South Asian heritage, described teenage years of attempting to bleach their skin with lemon juice, tumeric, and other concoctions to better match the looks of people idolized within their gothic alternative communities; the already-pale Miss Bertie Page of Brisbane has talked about touching up her crotch before shows.

Another factor that was often repeated was the importance of good grooming – tidy hair, polished feet in stockings, fully shaved, well-done nails and makeup. Mackenzie Dulcet of Canberra talks about choosing clothes that flatter one’s body – “I know most burlesque gals just love their frilly boyshorts and g-strings, but my stumpy legs are always going to look better in a pair of lacy briefs so I break those babies out!” – while Melbourne’s Lil’ Thelma Thunderbird expresses her disappointment at attending burlesque shows where she sees “girls with stockings but no shoes, no stockings with dirty bare feet, costumes that need mending, no nailpolish or makeup”.

But what really defines good grooming? Many women find the prospect of shaving or waxing body hair to be problematic politically and personally (Hair in Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues opens with a statement on the topic’s high contention amongst the people surveyed for the play): would they lose out for having fuzzier legs than normal? Who ultimately decides what is “flattering” – the wearer of the outfit, or the people running fashion lines and beauty magazines?

Such expectations, says Rev. Leal, exist from established burlesque traditions. But where did these traditions come from, and what happens if you decide to break with tradition? You may end up with Simone de la Getto, who started all-black troupe Harlem Shake Burlesque in San Francisco in 2003 after being tired of being the only black performer in her area. In an Hour.Ca interview, she describes the reaction from one of their earlier shows:

Before I would never notice, because I would go on stage and do my thing and love it, be happy, la la la la la, and my friends would be like, ‘Okay, the audience was in shock. They’re there with their mouths open.’ And I’d be like, ‘Really?’ Because I’m just there on stage, making sure I don’t fuck up, listening to the music and trying to keep the choreography, and smiling and having a great time. And then one day I actually saw the audience while we were performing, because the light bounced off the stage and I could actually see who I was dancing for – and here I was looking at people with gaping mouths. They’d been screaming for the group before, but for us… so I was like, ‘What, are we bad? Are we doing something wrong?’ And then at the end, we got this uproarious applause. I was so confused.

de la Getto is hardly the only performer from an ethnically diverse background to elicit such a reaction. Lucy Longlegs, who has a background in bellydance, mentions being told that her act based on the legend of the Seven Veils was deemed “too political” simply because it made some references to Middle-Eastern culture. Mackenzie Dulcet talks about how performers from ethnic backgrounds are often expected to perform something related to their culture, “as though the audience wants an explanation”. Iskra Valentine had trouble earlier this year being accepted into a local burlesque troupe because she was not keen on 40s style vintage. A few months ago I performed an act based on my teenage love for Savage Garden – none of my props, music, or costumes suggested anything about my cultural background. Yet the host insisted on introducing me as “the Bollywood princess”, despite me specifically requesting her to do otherwise.

Performers like us may have run into the expectations of what enthusiast Bobby Hogg calls the “collective audience”. According to him, this collective audience “wants to see Hollywood type beauty of the 1940’s/50’s. A performer can be Black, Asian, Hispanic, or White, but any performer will notice that as she molds her looks towards those 40’s & 50’s archetypes, she will become more succesful.”

These archetypes, say other performers, are examples of “altruistic glamour” and “self-created beauty”, more attainable in contrast to the highlights and tans common in mainstream media. Some say that “they wouldn’t do it if they didn’t like it” and claim that it is easy to achieve – but is it really easy to tame wild hair in tight curls or stuff ample bellies into crushing corsetry? How many put themselves through a style that is not necessarily their own to get a step ahead?

Even the mainstream media and fashion world has caught on to the pinup vibe, with performers such as Dita von Teese making deep red lips, waspy waists, and old-style glamour trendy again. The resurgence of the heydays of the 20s to the 50s, including the steadily growing popularly of burlesque and its crossovers into other facets of pop culture – such as von Teese’s appearances on Eurovision – have brought on a lot of new events promoters and agencies putting on “burlesque” shows that more resemble “historical reenactment than progressive performance art” (as mentioned on leading industry web forum Ministry of Burlesque). These promoters have a limited understanding and appreciation of burlesque, picking only conventionally-attractive performers to adopt the same corset-and-feathers-pinup styles, increasing the pressure for emerging performers to fit in to get exposure.

British journalist Laurie Penny uses her experience of being in a burlesque troupe that slowly lost its progressive edginess as proof that modern burlesque was nothing more than “fancy stripping” for the male gaze. Her article in The Guardian garnered a lot of discussion from others in the burlesque scene, saying that her perspective was short-sighted and that not every performer does strips for men’s benefit – but Penny does have a point. Newer audiences may not have a full appreciation of the diversity within burlesque, and it’s usually easier for newcomers to adopt the usual safe styles instead of taking a risk on something groundbreaking.

Indeed, there has been some concern with the upcoming film Burlesque, where a small-town performer (played by Christina Aguilera) joins a burlesque club (owned by Cher’s character) to make it big: as NYC performer Philly Caramel asks, “Will we then have a bunch of persons thinking that you can only succeed in burlesque by trying to look like whatever character Christina Aguilera will play?”

Fellow Black American performer Vagina Jenkins asks for perspective, nothing that things are much better for ethnically-diverse performers now than in the earlier parts of the 20th century. Performance legend Josephine Baker found it easier to break into the European scene than into the US, and – in an interview with New York burlesque queen Jo ‘Boobs’ Weldon – burlesque veteran Toni Elling spoke of Black performers in the 60s not being promoted, not being paid as much as other performers (in those days, Hispanic and Asian performers were considered “white” for booking performers), not being allowed be featured acts, and of always being named Samia Davis Junior. Indeed, she says that the one time she was not considered “Black” was when she was in Japan for Exotic World, where she was treated like a queen.

However, things may not have changed much in the last 40 years; there are still performers who employ cultural artifacts and stereoypes in their act, including blackface and “blueface” – evoking Hindu deities while portraying them as crazed savages instead of complex forces of creation and destruction. Granted, it’s a little difficult to book Krishna or Kali for a revue, but there’s already been years of Hollywood and mass media reducing Asian and Pagan deities to evil demonic beings (such as in Charmed) and in the process belittling the beliefs of millions of people around the world – does the burlesque world really need to perpetuate the same old damaging stereotypes?

Enthusiasts like Bobby Hogg may say that “there is no reason to get angry about these issues – no one will ever change the wants or the opinion of the audience collective, it must be accepted & worked with.”. There are, however, quite a few people in burlesque and pinup that are breaking away from the vintage mould, and getting quite a following as a result. Baroness Eva von Slut combines old-style glamour with heavy tattoos, gothic style, and the presence of a heavy metal band, while The Pinup Blog maintainer Tali Shapiro regularly trawls independent art, fashion, and design websites such as DeviantART for inspiration; her posts often display a broad definition of pinup that encompasses women of all outlooks and backgrounds confident and powerful in themselves, featuring such diverse work such as the Rosebud Burlesque Club, which uses burlesque to raise awareness of breast cancer, and Palestinian-American slam poet Suheir Hammad, whose poem Not Your Exotic smashes apart society’s concept of the “exotic other”.

Within the burlesque community, there is a growing appreciation of talent regardless of aesthetic; as Kellie Vella, one-fourth of La La Parlour comments, “looks are transitory and fashion-driven, but a hot/powerful/potent/clever/funny performance transforms the performer and the audience.”.

Burlesque and pinup are still in the beginning stages of their resurgence, which means there is still a lot of work to do to encourage a diversity of looks and body images. In many ways it’s not just limited to those scenes, but connected to societal pressure as a whole – many decades of conforming, pressure, and displeasure at anyone who doesn’t fit the correct “look”. Jenkins calls this “the everyday work of defying expectation, of claiming space and time on our terms that so many of us engage in and commit to in order to make it safer for future ecdysiasts to do their thing”.

Events and projects such as Kaleidoscope in San Francisco and the upcoming Shades of Burlesque Festival, as well as productions such as the queer, trans, and culturally-diverse Mangoes with Chili tour, provide opportunities to inject a little more colour in the burlesque scene, changing it from the days where people like Philly Caramel had no pinup performers or models to relate to.

Ultimately, though, one thing rang clear with my respondents, regardless of background: it’s talent that makes the difference, and each of them would like to be regarded as a talent in their own right – not as a Black performer or a lesbian performer or a plus-size performer, but as a performer with their own styles, tastes, and personality. With their own beauty.

Tiara the Merch Girl is an emerging burlesque/circus/improv performer who spends a lot of time analysing and researching ways to not just be the only South Asian performer in her scenes. She also provides in-character stage and production services to people who need an extra pair of hands to put on a show. Read more about her at http://themerchgirl.net and drop her a line – she’ll love to hear from you.

I guess there are days when I’m thankful for having been an ice-skating fan in my younger days, though I was absorbing some floaty, dreamy, and cornball heteronormative crap against the white-ice backdrop.  So, as much as I did enjoy figure skaters Oksana Domnina’s and Maxim Shabalin’s technical excellence, I can honestly say they should have applied all that technique—and subsequent press–to another routine that didn’t involve offending people of color.

Here’s their original routine, if you missed it:

Bev Manton, a Worimi woman and chair of the Aboriginal Land Council, sums up the outrage:

From an Aboriginal perspective, this performance is offensive. It was clearly not meant to mock Aboriginal culture, but that does not make it acceptable to Aboriginal people. There are a number of problems with the performance, not least of all the fact both skaters are wearing brown body suits to make their skin appear darker. That alone puts them on a very slippery slope.

Australians know only too well the offence that can be caused by white people trying to depict themselves as black people during performance pieces. Last year’s domestic and international furore over the blackface skit on Hey, Hey it’s Saturday’s Red Faces is a recent case in point.

That said, I don’t think it’s the most offensive part of the performance. That honour belongs to some of the claims by Domnina and Shabalin that have accompanied it.

They are not, as they state, wearing “authentic Aboriginal paint markings”. They are wearing white body paint in designs they dreamed up after reading about Aboriginal Australians on the internet. The designs are no more “authentic” or “Aboriginal” than the shiploads of cheap, “Aboriginal” tourist trinkets that pour into our country from overseas.

This is not a particularly difficult concept. For art to be Australian, it must be painted by an Australian, and for art to be Australian Aboriginal, it must be painted by an Australian Aboriginal. Russian art is not painted by Italians, and I doubt Russians would be impressed if someone tried to pass it off otherwise.

And just as the designs are not Aboriginal, nor is the music to which the dance is being performed.

I acknowledge that Aboriginal people do not own the sound of the didgeridoo. That is one of our gifts to the rest of the world. Everyone is free to use it. But that does not mean it should be sampled and then presented as something it is not — traditional Aboriginal music.

Al-Jazeera English reports :

“The dancers have defended the routine, saying it’s not intended to represent Australian culture, but a mélange of ethnicities.”

Before anyone starts in with “but Domnina and Shabalin are racially ignorant exceptions” or that they don’t “get” racism because they’re Russians (or globe-trotting sportspeople), I’d say that, like many other human societies, Russia isn’t an othering-free country, though people of color in that nation may not call what they’ve experienced “racism” as how USians understand it:

But black skin remains extremely rare in Russia. One estimate says that there are between 40,000 and 70,000 Russians of full or mixed-African heritage.

That distinction has singled many black Russians out for treatment that they say swings between curiosity, at best, and open hostility, at worst.

Grigory Siyatinda, an actor at the Sovremennik Theater in Moscow, grew up as the only black man in his hometown of Tyumen in the 1970s. His experience was that of an object of fascination in an isolated Soviet society where foreigners, and especially black foreigners, were exotic.

“How to put it? It wasn’t racism, what I experienced during my childhood in Tyumen,” Siyatinda says. “I was the only black person in Tyumen — Tyumen is a Siberian city and there were no black-skinned people at all. No one had ever seen one. That’s why there was simply this heightened curiosity toward me. It was heightened so much at times that it crossed over the borders of tact.”
….
Racism, long officially denied under the communist regime, is a reality in modern-day Russia, where nationalist groups and xenophobia are on the rise.

Russia’s Sova center, which tracks issues related to race and ethnicity, reports that 97 people were killed in racist attacks in 2008. Statistically, Central Asian migrants have become the primary victims of attacks in recent years. But African-Russians and African students remain constant targets as well.

…
Khanga notes that there was a very small percentage of mixed-race and black people in the Soviet Union.

“I was part of the first generation — now, of course, there are a lot more,” Khanga says. “But…we did not have the history of racism as they did in America. Not everything was easy, and I can be the first to tell you what kinds of problems we had. But, of course, you can’t compare them to the kinds of things that happened in America.”

Still, the few black Russians who have risen to prominence in their country have done so through sports or the entertainment world.

Of course, Domnina and Shabalin offered the usual no-intention-to-offend, we-swear-we-researched-this fauxpology and attempted to “lighten” the “tone” of their costumes:

”We heard some opinions about it being offensive, and we tried to do it lighter,” Shabalin said last night. ”We changed it a little bit to make it more authentic and less theatrical.”

The pair lightened the ”skin colour” of their costumes and slightly changed the attempted tribal markings daubed in white paint. The red loincloths were retained but more fake leaves were used.

”We changed our routine about 5 to 10 per cent, but we always do this after every competition to try and improve,” Shabalin said. ”Our whole intention when we chose this music was to be fair and friendly, we didn’t want to offend anyone.”

Domnina and Shabalin said earlier this week that they had wanted to ”pay tribute to the culture of South-East Asia” and said their routine reflected an indigenous culture that was ”1000 years old”.

Shabalin said after performing the routine last night that it had been well thought out and coach Natalia Linichuk had researched the topic thoroughly.

”Natalia had a lot of research with people who know this culture. We did big research in the beginning of the season,” he said before adding: ”You can’t be 100 per cent authentic.”

So, the Russian skating pros aren’t going to apologize sincerely for the mush-mess that is their routine…or for lumping and coding “ethnicities” (and Aboriginal, really) as “You colored folks look and dance alike, all ‘tribally” and stuff.  Ethnic enough for us!  Let’s daaaaaaance!”  And sorry, but lightening the costumes’ skin tone doesn’t equate to an apology…..

…oh yeah, Domnina and Shabalin won the bronze for their interpretive routine.

Now, before we go on (and on and on) with tirades about “those Russians,” Jennifer at Mixed Race America mused about the silver-medal winning American pair, Meryl Davis and Charlie White, who incorporated an Indian folk dance and a Slumdog Millionaire track:

Davis and White Indian folk dance routine

Jennifer sums up my initial feelings:  What’s the difference, really?

And I guess one question I have is, how authentic can any of these skaters actually be? I mean, I’m not trying to quibble for the sake of quibbling–we’re talking about ice dancing after all–not exactly a natural thing. And I do think it was smart for [Davis and White] to hire someone who knows Indian culture intimately and who could provide them with some guidance. But is this authentic? And is this appropriation? I mean, clearly the Russian pair is completely and clearly inappropriate, but the American pair? What do you think?

Because, as Jennifer points out, the potential for the racialized foolishness that Shabalin and Domnina exhibited—and were awarded for–is built into this competition:

…one of the things you have to know is that all the pairs competitors around the world had to develop a routine for their national finals around the theme of “folk dance or ethnic dance.” OK, right THERE is the root of the problem. Because it’s a fine line between honoring a folk or ethnic tradition to parodying that tradition, especially if this is something you are learning rather than something you were raised with.

A while ago, Latoya introduced a series on cultural appropriation by discussing global hip-hop.  While other commenters focused on the who/what/when/where/how/why of global hip-hop—especially the use of the n-word—contributor and frequent commenter atlasien offered an insightful working framework for dealing with cultural appropriation itself, which I think answers Jennifer’s question:

I think it’s much better to define cultural appropriation based on the people it affects. Does it hurt them in some way? If so, it’s probably cultural appropriation. If not, it’s probably just cultural borrowing or cultural drift.

There’s never going to be a 100% sure way of deciding that something is cultural appropriation, because the people being stolen from/borrowed from aren’t always going to agree. But you can make decisions informed by their arguments and weight of numbers.

There was a good conversation about this a while back at Rachel’s Tavern… someone who didn’t believe in cultural appropriation came up with the example “what about cooking Italian food if you’re not Italian?” The counterargument was that there’s nothing wrong with cooking Italian food if you’re not Italian… but if you go to Italy and start lecturing Italians that their way of cooking food is inferior to your more authentic Italian cooking style, then yes, you’ve crossed the line and turned into a rude and obnoxious cultural appropriator.

If you use this standard for global hip-hop, you could ask a series of questions… how is it hurting the group of people from the originating culture? How are these people being damaged or insulted or disrespected or taken away from, and to what extent? Are the people who view it as appropriation versus borrowing a minority opinion, or a majority opinion? And what is the level of power disparity between the originating culture and the appropriating/borrowing culture… the power disparity that determines the relative attention being paid to people who complain?

So, by this standard, Domnina and Shabalin screwed up, full stop. As for Davis and White, wellllll…

Thanks to readers Vanessa and Zora for the links!

This is a video clip of Mark Dacascos and his partner dancing the cha cha cha this week on Dancing With The Stars. Longtime readers know that I can’t stand the song “Kung Fu Fighting” — and I loathe any movie trailer, scene or commercial that features the song. I wish it would just go away.

I won’t say much about this particular routine’s use of the song and the ridiculous martial arts theme they’ve got going on… except that it made me really really sad. Granted, it’s Dancing With The Stars — the cheese factor is already dialed up to eleven. But really? Did it have to be “Kung Fu Fighting”? (Thanks, Corinne.)

…continued from Part 1!

Vogue Evolution is all about getting folks to recognise that queer culture is responsible for sooo much of contemporary dance.  So it’s a radical history lesson – what’s VE’s relationship to Paris is Burning?

Michelle: I love what Pony from VE said in an interview.

Elisha: This is Pony’s quote:

The difference between us and all the other crews is that you can tell a crew by their team, not the individual. The left girl looks like the right girl. You don’t know the difference. Cindy looks just like Cassie. With us and our community, we’re all leaders. It’s like an All-Star cast, a league of extraordinary gentlemen, as we like to say.

My clips have a hundred thousand views, Leyomi’s clips have a hundred thousand views, our MySpace is packed. We’re already legends in our community. That’s why this is big for us. Our community is like, “Wow. The big ones are getting bigger.” It’s not like, “Oh, we’re survivors.”

The problem with voguing is that it’s always been portrayed as coming from a sad place, and that’s not really what it is. We’re here to show the beauty of the scene, and the art, and the happiness and the joy. We’re the good news. It’s not like Paris is Burning where at the end of it you go, “Aww…that’s sad.” This is like, “Work! It’s over!” That’s where we’re at with it.

Thea:  What does that mean, “vogueing comes from a sad place?”

Robin: A.I.D.S., racism, rejection from families, hate-crimes, poverty… so many of the issues that that community was dealing with in the early “80′s in NYC.  They created voguing to express themselves and to celebrate fabulousness, creativity, and survival.

Michelle:  The latter part of the quote references Paris is Burning and the sadness that is felt throughout the film.  A big criticism of Paris is Burning has been that it was sensationalized by a white director who did little to financially reimburse the people interviewed.

Thea: ugh

Michelle:  They all stayed poor while the director got the accolades.

Thea: ugh ugh

Michelle: Many of the Mothers in the film have since died of AIDS.

Alaska: Nevermind a transwoman being murdered during shooting with no analysis.

Michelle: Most definitely.

Elisha: That’s true.

Alaska: A central character at that.

Robin: Really really really really really sad.

It’s depressing how much cultural appropriation – from queer culture, from cultures of colour… – is a part of dance. How does America’s Best Dance Crew fare on the cultural appropriation scale?

Michelle: Well I have to say that I really disliked this season’s focus on learning cultural dance forms and incorporating hip hop dance. It felt cheap.

Alaska: Agreed. Martial arts challenge? Bollywood challenge?

Elisha:  Ouch!  So painful!

Michelle: With one of the crews dancing to Busta Rhymes’ incredibly racist song “Arab Money.”

Alaska: I think the martial arts challenge was the MOTORAZR commercial, and the bollywood challenge was Slumdog Miserable.

Michelle: Hahah!

Robin: Inevitably when someone’s culture becomes style, there are problems with the whole thing.

Thea: ABDC basically boil down whole complex cultural histories to a bunch of wrist flicks.

Elisha: The Bollywood was all extremely tokenistic. The expert dancers were all shadowed and anonymous, none of the music was original score.

Alaska:  I think that sums it up.

Elisha: I realize that part of the ABDC motivation is to promote specific commercial music artists.  But using MIA as a Bollywood track is so degrading.

Thea: In what way?

Robin:  They were pop songs with “ethnic” fusion.

Elisha: It’s just so reductive and tokenizing.

Michelle: And why do references to Asian cultures always have to refer to martial arts?

Alaska:  Albeit, I’d rather see a martial arts challenge than a Confucian temple ritual challenge.

Michelle: Fair enough.

Alaska: How about a dim sum cart challenge?

Elisha:  Hahaha!  I want to see that!

Michelle: At least there wasn’t a geisha challenge.

Thea: How do you think a dance show like ABDC can use non-Western dance styles in a respectful way? Is it even possible?

Michelle: I don’t know…as much as I sound like a hater though, I can’t stop watching ABDC!

Robin: They were trying to cover dance styles, fine.  But martial art is not dance.  Why do something on a dance show that’s not dance?

Michelle: But to be fair there’s been a long relationship between hip hop and kung fu.  Or even funk and kung fu.

Alaska: Yeah, especially in Asian breakdance communities

Thea: When funk or hiphop take up martial arts, is it in a respectful way? I’ve been trying to figure this out with ref to Wu Tang for a long time…

Robin: [The relationship between funk and kung fu] is more about Bruce Lee being an icon for Black Panthers fighting the White Man in the ’70′s.  It was a phenomenon.

Alaska: Disagreed.  There is truth in that, but breakdancing is insanely popular in Asian American communities. The Bruce Lee thing goes back as far as Maoist influence in the 1960s.  And Asian martial arts films were popular with the Black community.  Because until the mid 1970s, white people didn’t go to movies since the 50s.  Black communities disproportionately made up a massive audience.

Michelle:  But I still think that hip hop has exoticized Asian cultures.

Alaska: For sure, but we (Asian people) are often implicit in it.

Robin: Americans deal with the boiling pot by appropriating each other.  The idea that to be American is to be anything you want to be is very delusional.

Michelle: Isn’t the whole show about reinforcing The American Dream?

Alaska: I agree with that.

Michelle: Everything’s all about overcoming your hardship and using your skill to be the best dancer you can be FOR AMERICA.

Thea: So ABDC is drawing from a long history of hip hop taking from East Asian culture in a way that is not always right.  But I agree  that East Asian cultures are complicit, because they want to get to be cultural makers too.  It seems like it’s the only chance we’ve got on the stage.  Maybe it’s via someone else’s interpretation, but we’re still on stage.  We allow our stuff to be taken up in ways we can’t control, just to have the chance to rep ourselves for one second.

Alaska: I think that’s all you can do.

Thea:  Really?? So sad.

Alaska:  You don’t have a right to ownership of your culture, and if you did, you couldn’t enforce it.

But queer folks, poor folks, folks of colour keep putting themselves on the line, demanding recognition, attempting to reclaim their cultures.  Was Vogue Evolution successful in their reclamation bid?

Robin: I just wish the credit was there from the start. Queers of colour own urban dance. The end. (lol) It’s been 30 years coming.

Thea:  Do you think the exposure for trans and queer culture outweighed the homophobia and transphobia?

Michelle: I don’t know.

Alaska: Wait, exposure is often negative in itself, even though it appears positive.

Thea:  Well, do you think the value of getting to rep queer culture to a mainstream audience was worth – or even neutralised – the nasty treatment ABDC gave VE in the end?

Robin:  [Getting the credit you deserve] always comes at a cost before it swings back to the middle. Leiomy took one for the team in a massive way.

Michelle: Well that was actually Lil Mama’s suggestion: act like a lady and take one for the team.

Thea: eep

Robin: Eff her.

Thea: cosign

Robin: (sarcasm) lol.

Thea: Would it have been better if VE had never been on ABDC?

Robin: No way. It was their choice to be on the show, and VE is representin fierce.

Elisha: For me, it was my first chance to even learn about Leiomy – Shane Sparks said that in NYC she’s “a God.” I’m glad I learned about her – that’s the kind of tv I want!

Alaska: No. I think we gotta get our asses kicked a bunch in public to get places, unfortunately. Cuz otherwise we’re just getting our asses kicked in alleys and motel rooms.

Thea: In the end perhaps VE was playing to a particular audience: people who appreciate what they do; and who are thrilled to see themselves represented on TV, finally getting some credit. The rest of the haters, can well, you know.

Michelle: For sure.  For me to see [VE representing queer and trans culture] on mainstream television seemed unreal!

Robin: I think it’s less a cost to the movement, but a great cost to VE personally. I hope Leiomy has a lot of support when this is all through.

Thea:  When you think about it, it’s a real sacrifice that VE made for the whole queer community. Sniff. VE forever!

So what’s our final verdict on America’s Best Dance Crew? Are y’all going to keep on watching, or are we organising a boycott?

Elisha: Tell me if I’m being naive: I still have this inclination to love ABDC all the same.  I think I love it because it still gives people a chance to present their own art their own way, no matter how much MTV profits from it. VE did such flamboyant unapologetic Vogueing. And the other crews also brought some genuine local codes to the stage. Do you agree?

Thea: What other crews are you thinking of?

Elisha: Like Southern Movement, who invented “Hick Hop”.

Thea: I thought that was really interesting, the way they totally appropriated a culture we associate with whiteness.

Elisha: Or Beat Ya Feet Kings, who invented “beat ya feet” as they say, in gogo parties in southeast DC.

Alaska: I really feel that most other crews are mostly Latino, Black or Asian – that race isn’t much of a barrier in this competition, though mostly white crews of women went way further than they should have in earlier seasons.

Thea: That’s one thing I love about ABDC.  It’s a POC-centric show,  and very unself-consciously so.  Like it’s not trying to market to POCs.  It just happens to, because hip hop dance crews are often POC.

Robin: Yes, I agree. I feel like giving up art entirely sometimes because it depresses the hell out of me as a black person, that other black folks historically don’t get anywhere without the help of white producers.  Or if they are black producers they exploit [other black folks] with the Master’s Tools. It makes me nuts.  So I guess ABDC is the less of two evils.

Thea:  I think we can say that ABDC does give people a platform to bring their marginalised dancing culture to a mainstream space, and really own it…at least for a few minutes. I think crews have to go into it knowing that they’re gonna get exposure, but at some cost, like we’ve said.

Elisha: I think that ABDC generally plays for a POC audience.

Michelle: Really.

Alaska: Disagree.

Michelle: I think MTV caters to a huge cross section of folks.

Alaska: I think that corporate media plays it to look like it’s for POCs, because white people love thinking they’re POCs. Cough gangsta rap cough, cough ringtone rap cough…Unless every black person in the USA buys 3 cds of every big rap album, then white people are still most of the market.

Elisha: Yeah, but how do you explain the fact that white crews don’t make it far on ABDC? Where are the Eminems? Where are the Beastie Boys?

Thea: I think because it is hip hop, people are more comfy letting POCs win at a dance battle. It might be about racial taxonomy.

Michelle: I’m sorry but a rollerskate dance crew isn’t that interesting to me.  And maybe the Tennessee tap dancers are cute, but at the end of the day, not that interesting.

Alaska: Because we’re better Elisha.

Thea:  Right. Definitely.

Elisha:  But there are plenty of successful white artists ripping off hip hop style.

Thea: Yeah, but for the moment it is a scene dominated by POCs…until Obama and postraciality change that for all the Asher Roths out there.  (SARCASM)

Elisha: I still like ABDC. Anyone with me?

Michelle: At the end of the day, I really enjoy the show, but understand that it’s being controlled for the purposes of furthering a corporate agenda.

Thea: Why doesn’t the corporate agenda dilute your enjoyment of the show?

Alaska: Honestly, after a transphobic incident like that I don’t feel like watching anymore. But at the same time transphobia is so pervasive, if I want to watch anything I have to just get over it.

Robin: It dilutes my enjoyment.

Thea: Mine too.

Robin: Totally.

Thea: I don’t feel like watching the rest of this season.

Alaska: I agree Robin.

Thea: Maybe I’ll come back later.

Robin: Can’t deal.

Michelle: But what are we expecting? Is it realistic to expect that MTV or these judges are going to have the kind of analysis that we desire?

Alaska: Nope.

Thea: I guess this is the nature of watching TV while being QPOC.

Robin: It is exactly what you would expect, and it’s still hurtful and inappropriate.

Michelle: I think that regardless of whether or not you’re a QPOC, [witnessing that kind of racism, homophobia, transphobia...] should be hurtful for anyone watching it.

Thea: That’s a good point.

Thea: But Elisha and Michelle are still on board with ABDC.

Elisha: I like those fifteen minutes of fame that everyone gets, I like that they get a bit of credit. I agree that the transphobia was unforgivable and heart-stopping. But I guess I’m so taken aback to see a show dominated by POCs delivering their own product.

Thea: Yeah, damn MTV! They’re offering something we can’t get anywhere else!

Robin: But I think the bar [for POCs delivering their own product] could be higher, it’s definitely for the lowest common denominator. I mean Mario Lopez is the host for crying out loud.

Thea: Aw. Mario.

Alaska: Nobody hates on my AC Slater.

Robin: Hahahaha

Alaska:  At least it wasn’t hosted by Screech.

Michelle: Hahahaha

Last thoughts?

Alaska: I think Leiomy should replace Lil Mama as judge next season.

Michelle: Hells yes.

Elisha: Agreed. Leave Leiomy behind the judges’ table!

Elisha: Hmm. I think I’ll use ABDC as some kind of launchpad. Now I’m going to do research now. On gogos, Beatyafeet, Leiomy and other stuff that I just learned in the last month.

Thea:  It would be good if we could just take what’s good about ABDC and trash the rest.

Michelle: We wanna bring Vogue Evolution to Canada! (Note: there was a disporportionate representation of Canadians on this roundtable.)

Elisha: Where do we petition?

Thea: Let’s not provoke that “we should all move to Canada” myth…

Michelle:  Ahhah. I meant bring VE to Canada as guest performers.  Yes, transphobia is alive [in Canada], very much so…but there’s still a community that appreciates voguers and balling that would love to see them.

Elisha: Guest performers at our queer people of colour danceparties!

Alaska: Shoulda booked them before they got real expensive.

Elisha: Right.

Thea: Damn.

Alaska:  Sissy Nobby is still cheap I hear, ha.

Thea:  Anything else that we’re dying to say about Vogue Evolution and America’s Best Dance Crew?

Alaska: Yeah. To Lil Mama:  “Lip Gloss” wasn’t that good.

Elisha: I liked “Lip Gloss”!

Thea: Traitor!!!

Michelle: I guess I wanted to say that MTV still benefits at the end of the day, they profit off of other people’s dance forms which have art as resistance…but that resistance gets depoliticized on stage.  When [artists for resistance] push the boundaries, they get policed.

Robin: Agreed.

Elisha: Not to mention that MTV/corporate media gets to glorify coming from “the street” without any accountability for having created a segregated culture in the first place.

Thea:  It’s a double-edged sword, but some folks are willing to bite that bullet. (Sorry, mixing metaphors.)

Thea:  It sorta makes me feel all weepy, when I think about that kind of sacrifice.

Alaska:  It’s like that everytime I perform. You learn to deal with it or pervert it or give up and go home.

Robin: But then art is work, important time and effort and should get rewarded financially. I think this is always a challenge for those doing political art, trying to survive.

Alaska: I agree with Elisha and Robin both.

Michelle Cho: Me too! Me too!

Thea:  Ok, so to conclude, this is our party line: ABDC provides a platform for POCs to bring their art to the world. We keep coming back because we can’t see that anywhere else, but lawd, it hurts.  But at least it’s not hosted by Screech.

Thea: I like to go back to Leiomy’s last words.  She said something about how, for all the people who are going through changes, just be who you are.  I thought that was really lovely, and that was a big part of their message.

Michelle: Thanks for having us!

Alaska: Thanks for the invite.

Elisha: This was an honour!

Robin: Yeah, thankyou Thea.  And thanks to my sisters VE.

Elisha: VE Day forever!

Michelle: Vogue Evolution always and forever!

___

The Roundtable also shared with me that Vogue Evolution cover nights are popping up everywhere.  If you are in Toronto, check out amazing POC dance crew Ill Nana when they give VE some love Sept 30th at the Gladstone.  And while you’re in Toronto, be sure to also check out Les Blues. Les Blues is a performance project run by queer women of colour, and similar to Vogue Evolution, they are all about reclaiming the queer roots of the blues.

_____

Robin Akimbo is a multi-disciplinary artist currently residing in Toronto.  She has written and produced
original work for performance in Montreal, Toronto, New York and San Francisco.  In 2007 she toured the United States extensively on the Sister Spit: Next Generation Tour, in promotion of the anthology Baby Remember My Name edited by Michelle Tea, pub. Carroll & Graf.

Alaska B is an artist, dj and musician based between Montreal & Toronto. She is one of the founding members of YAMANTAKA // SONIC TITAN, a multidisciplinary diasporic/indigenous experimental arts & opera collective.

Michelle Cho is a Toronto-based community organizer but would rather be reading, YA novels, singing Dolly Parton songs at karaoke and eating Melona bars.

Elisha Lim co-hosts Fresh To Def, Toronto’s queer people of colour weekly danceparty with Royal Newbold and Kalmplex Seen. Her graphic novel 100 Butches documents queerness, race and gender and will be published by Alyson Books in 2010.

_______

Vogue Evolution portrait courtesy of Elisha Lim.

For a show that’s had us raising our eyebrows over their representations of race, gender and sexuality for over a year, Season 4 of America’s Best Dance Crew (ABDC) kicked things up a notch by showcasing Vogue Evolution, an openly gay crew featuring a trans woman – on mainstream TV nonetheless. Yet representations on ABDC are often fraught with racism, homophobia and transphobia.  And then Vogue Evolution (VE) got kicked off ABDC  on Week 5, after judge Lil’ Mama attacked VE’s anchor (vogueing god and trans woman Leoimy Maldonado) for not being enough of a “lady” on Week 4 saying:

Leiomy, come on. Your behavior… it’s unacceptable…I just feel that you always have to remember your truth. You were born a man and you are becoming a woman. If you’re going to become a woman, act like a lady. Don’t be a bird, like ‘Oh my god, I’m not doing this!’ You know what I’m saying? It gets too crazy and it gets confusing. You’re doing this for America. Even though you’re the face for transgenders, you’re the face of America right now with this group and it’s not about anybody else. It’s about y’all. You know what I’m saying? So do it for the team. Do it for the team.

So I decided to get some of my queer community of colour together to figure out why ABDC works — and why it fails.

So why do you think Vogue Evolution decided to go on ABDC – considering how queer and trans folks are treated on TV?

Elisha: Leiomy from Vogue Evolution said three times that for her it wasn’t about winning, but about breaking barriers. So I went to check out their bio on MTV and here’s what they said:

This year, on the 40th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, a new wave of revolutionaries is born. The historic House/ Ballroom scene, which dates back to the Harlem Renaissance in the 1920s, has been on the cutting edge of pop culture since its commencement. Its ever present influence has been observed in American fashion, culture, and entertainment, yet mainstream audiences have yet to accredit the origins of this influence.

Our style has been replicated by so many people that do not execute the specific steps correctly,” says Dashuan Williams. “We as a crew selected the best from the scene to show the mainstream where it’s from.”

Thea:  So it’s clear that VE were very explicit about using this platform to reclaim the roots of dance, so much of which originates from queer venues.  So this big time reality TV show is willing to let a queer dance group be very open and political about their motivations.

Michelle: It’s pretty amazing in a lot of ways.

Thea:  Yet representations wind up being skewed.

Michelle: I have to say that as soon as I saw that they were being featured I was terrified for what the commentary was going to be.

Thea: So why did MTV have them on the show? Because MTV is sooo invested in queer culture?

Robin: It’s reality tv, and Vogue Evolution are sick dancers, MTV’d be stupid not to include them…but MTV sensationalizes VE’s personal experiences, they become “entertaining” points for the typical mainstream audience of nuclear couch sitting families.

Alaska:  I think that the [reality] nature of the show both helped and hindered VE’s goals.  The reality aspect allows competitors their identities: queer, trans, fat-positive etc…But the sensationalist aspect of also hinders their style.

Robin: It’s about exposure.  But there is the consensual exposure of their talents, and then the presumably less consensual evaluations and opinions of the insensitive judges.

Michelle: Ugghhh….the judges.  They’re awful and make me wanna hurl everytime.

Do you want to talk about little bit about the Lil’ Mama scandal?*

Alaska: I think Lil Mama directly caused their elimination.

Elisha: Wow! That’s interesting. How?

Alaska: Well they had never been into the bottom two until she called Leoimy out.

Robin: I find it really unbelievable that a crew can come onto a show and declare the foundation of their work being about exclusion – from the fashion world, from racial class barriers (Vogueing in the ’80′s) and being ostracized for their gender and orientation – and then go on ABDC only to be constantly “othered” in the exact same way.  MTV made a circus out of Vogue Evolution sometimes.

Elisha:  True. What about the unfair way that their “clips” started getting skewered?  (Note: Lil Mama told Leiomy off after a clip was shown of Leiomy apparently throwing “temper tantrums” on set. ) Suddenly the clips started portraying Leiomy Maldonado as a selfish narcissist who almost sabotages her group, instead of as a transgendered black woman facing the most homophobic, transphobic, racist public scrutiny.  I think that hurt them a lot.

Michelle: Not to mention the fact that Leoimy’s trans identity has nothing to do with her dance skills. It’s not like any other group gets put on trial in that way, where their dancing ability is conflated with other issues about their identity.

Alaska:  So to start the trans boogey man myth up in the audience’s minds seem to influence a lack of votes. Once VE were put into the bottom two, and demoralized by the scandal, their performance was actually pretty mediocre compared to early in the series.

Michelle: Most definitely.  They looked so defeated in the following episode and really didn’t have the best performance.

Is this a pattern in representations of trans folks on reality tv?

Alaska:  Reality TV shows push the trans woman forward to gain kooky cred, and then humiliate and disqualify them 2/3rds in.  It’s happened on ANTM, Janice Dickinson’s Modeling Agency…And 4 or 5 other stupid series all over the world…the exception being one big brother or something in the UK.

Thea: And Paris Hilton’s New BFF…So we are seeing a trend here, where a trans person is used on reality tv shows as a hook, presented in neutral light at first…and then halfway through the season everything gets turned upside down.

Michell: For sure.  Like Isis from America’s Next Top Model.

Thea:  It’s becoming a formula.  The trans person’s transness gets tied to “bad behaviour,” and the kind of treatment the show gives the trans person impacts their performance.

Alaska: Well and let’s be honest, being trans can be like 8 full time jobs on top of your ‘day shift at the graveyard and the graveyard shift at the Days Inn’ and when you’re getting beat on, your performance will definitely suffer or at least make you act crazy.

Thea: I think that’s really worth considering – that folks who experience various kinds of marginalisation might have so much more on their plates than say, Afro Borike.

Michelle: Think about the way Caster Semneya or Isis and Leiomy’s bodies are taken up.

Thea: What do you think Caster and VE have in common?

Robin: They are very brave.  Their personal physical beings are being examined in front of the world.  Brutal.

And what about Lil Mama’s apology to GLAAD, after the backlash in response to her attack on Leiomy?

Michelle:  It was weak.  And it was NOT followed up by an on camera apology on camera on the next episode. She actually didn’t even say anything on the next show…

Robin: “Endeavors,” meh.

Michelle: Where is the place for her accountability?

Thea: Did y’all notice that MTV actually RE-AIRED Lil Mama’s transphobic comments from Week 4 during Week 5? The fact that they RE-AIRED it (after the apology) makes it seem like no one was sorry.  But why do you think MTV didn’t air the damn apology? Wouldn’t that make good tv?

Alaska: Lil Mama didn’t even make a real apology. There was nothing to air.

Thea: Why do you think she made the apology? Like why bother?

Michelle: I think she did because she probably got a lot of complaint letters, and MTV did as well.

Thea:  But why do Lil Mama or MTV feel beholden to make nice to the queer community?

Alaska: A lot of their dancers are gay?

Robin: Because she knows that homos run tings in the dance world.  She does.

Thea:  Haha!

Elisha: GLBTQ is becoming stronger, more conservative and more commercial all the time.  I think she apologized for consumer interest, not justice.

Robin: Blech. Downer.

So, did Shane and JC support Lil Mama’s transphobia, or did they try to call her out for it?

Alaska: JC seemed a little uncomfortable.

Elisha: Yeah I agree.  Shane Sparks especially seemed to try to downplay Lil Mama’s comments. He emphasized that it “doesn’t matter what happens offstage.”

Michelle: Fair enough.  And he said that after JC’s cryptic comments about how some of us “can’t always control who we want to be” but that what we can control is how we perform.

Thea:  Blagh.

Michelle: I thought that was also a low blow dig to Leiomy.

Robin: JC’s not done “cleaning his closet” I think.

Michelle: Hahahah!…Yeah, except Shane Sparks is also incredibly sexist and tends to give positive feedback only when the girls are really sexualizing their dancing.

Elisha: I like Shane.

Michelle: Why?!

Elisha: Sometimes he surprises me with his sensitivity to class and race, and now queer issues just a little.  Like he was the first one to mention Leiomy’s reputation – that’s she’s a god in her own scene.  During Week 2 he said that all anyone had been saying to him was “I can’t believe you have Leiomy Maldonado on ABDC!”…I think he’s plugged into the queer scene.

Alaska: Let’s not start any Shane downlow rumours, Elisha.

Thea: Ha!

Michelle: Although, Shane also loved Afroborike’s crazy dance moves where the girls got flipped over and were doing dance moves that mimicked fellatio.

Thea:  But did you notice that during Week 4, when Shane was talking about VE’s dance routine, he said that what VE did with their scarves was “really sexy.”  I thought that was so interesting – a man who is totally coded as straight (not sure how he identifies) told a bunch of queer folks they were sexy.

Robin: I caught that tooo!  I loved it!

Michelle: I was surprised about that too.

Robin: Coming right after what Lil Mama said to Leiomy, that was a one step back, two steps forward moment.

Thea: ABDC is the mixiest of bags.

Elisha: Well, I also just think Shane’s a dish.

Alaska: Yeah, I was waiting for that.

Thea:  Ha! Hellllooo Shane…

Tune in tomorrow to read the end of the chat, including: cultural appropriation on ABDC; from Paris Is Burning to Vogue Evolution; and ABDC: To Watch or Not to Watch?

__

* This is a ref to Lil Mama’s transphobic comments towards Maldonado, not her whole jumping on stage with Jay-Z and Alicia Keys hijinx.  That’s a whole other roundtable…

_____

Robin Akimbo is a multi-disciplinary artist currently residing in Toronto.  She has written and produced
original work for performance in Montreal, Toronto, New York and San Francisco.  In 2007 she toured the United States extensively on the Sister Spit: Next Generation Tour, in promotion of the anthology Baby Remember My Name edited by Michelle Tea, pub. Carroll & Graf.

Alaska B is an artist, dj and musician based between Montreal & Toronto. She is one of the founding members of YAMANTAKA // SONIC TITAN, a multidisciplinary diasporic/indigenous experimental arts & opera collective.

Michelle Cho is a Toronto-based community organizer but would rather be reading, YA novels, singing Dolly Parton songs at karaoke and eating Melona bars.

Elisha Lim co-hosts Fresh To Def, Toronto’s queer people of colour weekly danceparty with Royal Newbold and Kalmplex Seen. Her graphic novel 100 Butches documents queerness, race and gender and will be published by Alyson Books in 2010.

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Vogue Evolution portrait courtesy of Elisha Lim.

Depending on who you ask, burlesque can either be a tool to poke fun at the Establishment by bringing them down to the “low-brow”, or a way to bask in vintage 1940s and 1950s glamour. It’s a growing art form with plenty of enthusiasts jumping in for a chance to shake, shimmy, and show off. However, with its overwhelmingly White presence, how does it deal with performers and fans from culturally diverse backgrounds?

I’m Tiara, a Malaysian of Bangladeshi heritage currently based in Brisbane, Australia. I started getting into burlesque in January and have recently debuted to the public as Tiara the Merch Girl (after being said Merch Girl at Brisbane’s Burlesque Ball). I also seem to be one of the very few Asian (or at the very least non-White) burlesque people in the area; the only other person I know of is Maiden Chyna, who is as new as me. I got into burlesque as I love performing and was intrigued at the possibility of expressing myself and my sexuality in ways that I was never able to when I was in Malaysia. I’ve seen fallen in love with the sheer creativity, talent, and humour that has come from burlesque performers around the world.

In my burlesque adventures I have noticed a distinct lack of resources, information, or even talent from culturally diverse backgrounds. As it is, there are hardly any growing organised scenes outside the UK, USA, and Australia, with small pockets in New Zealand, Canada, Scandinavia, and Western Europe. While they do exist, they tend to either be overlooked or exoticised. How does race and culture play out in burlesque, and its sibling subcultures such as rockabilly and pinup?

What Is Burlesque?

The word ‘burlesque’ is commonly thought to have derived from the Spanish word burla and the Italian burlesco, which literally means ‘to send up’. The original burlesques, first popularised in the 14th century by Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales but more prominent in the 18th and 19th centuries, were a form of musical or theatrical comedy that parodied classical opera and theatre pieces in bawdy and risque ways. It was also a means for satirising current political and social issues amongst the middle and working classes. Burlesque travelled to the US in the 19th/early 20th centuries, originally as part of vaudeville and variety shows, but eventually forming into a subgenre that heavily incorporated theatrics, striptease, and elaborate sets and costumes.

Currently there are two main genres of burlesque – the Traditional (Classical/British) burlesque, which is more comedic and satirical, and the American burlesque-striptease, which strongly involves glamour and sexuality. There are also subgroups and crossovers with other subcultures and art forms – gorelesque (which is more horror and Gothic-based), acrobatics and other circus skills, modelling, pole dance, and so on. While individual burlesque performances are as varied and diverse as the people that do them, there seems to be a few common elements in modern/neo-burlesque:

* “Horrible prettiness” (from the book of the same name by Robert Clyde Allen), referring to the subversion of gender roles and beauty norms by having non-conventional-looking women dress up in a often-feminine and glamourous manner, but acting rowdy, bawdy, and sometimes uncouth – like “one of the boys”
* Careful and clever use of music, props, and costuming to evoke a mood or theme
* Telling a story or making a joke through performance
* A light, fun, relaxed attitude that’s willing to send itself up
* Flamboyancy and the willingness to go to grotesque extremes with looks and behaviour

In places like Australia, burlesque performers tend to cross genres and styles; many performers come from some other artistic background and incorporate that into their performances. While there are still divisions over style – Parodic vs Pretty – they’re generally subtle and many performers play around with both main genres. There are also many enthusiasts that get involved in burlesque as a means of expressing their sexuality and body awareness, particularly amongst those that don’t fit traditional beauty standards or that come from more restrictive backgrounds. There are also many male burlesquers, or “boylesquers”, many of whom also work with drag and subverting gender norms. The burlesque scene seems to be more open than most in terms of age and looks; many established performers and new entrants are in their 30s and 40s, with not as much pressure to “stay youthful” as in other arts.

Burlesque Around the World

Burlesque in its “native” style doesn’t really exist outside the US and UK; indeed, the scenes in other countries tend to adopt American and British aesthetics and creative norms. However, the idea of using performance art as means of expressing sexuality, having flamboyant fun, or mocking the upper classes is one that is strongly evident in many other traditional and cultural art forms. For instance, many burlesquers look to Bollywood and bellydance culture as a means of inspiration, with their striking costumes and strong use of music and dance to tell stories, while the Indonesian dangdut scene has often courted controversy for being “pornographic” mainly due to the relatively-revealing costumes and gyrating.

There seems to be a thriving burlesque scene in Japan, with troupes such as Murasaki Babydoll getting standing ovations in major conventions like San Francisco’s Tease-o-Rama and the launch of the Tokyo branch of Dr Sketchy’s, an “anti-art school” franchise created by American illustrator and fine artist Molly Crabapple that incorporates live drawing classes with burlesque/alternative performers as models.

Singapore also has a Dr Sketchy’s branch ( and just recently hosted Australian performer Kelly Ann Doll in residence, making her the first burlesque performer in the country. Singapore does have a strong comedy and variety scene, with comedians such as Hossan Leong and Kumar, and Japan’s multitudes of variety TV and game shows with bizarre and humorous skits make it a strong starting point for Asian burlesque.

China has also started its foray into the burlesque world, with the opening of burlesque and cabaret club Chinatown in Shanghai. It was formed by New York producer couple Amelia Kallman and Norman Gosney, who wanted to bring a touch of ’30s Hollywood glamour to China. Despite its location and rich cultural heritage (the venue used to be a Buddhist temple), the acts are still very American; the girls in the resident multicultural troupe Chinatown Dolls have names like Miss Sassafrass Sassypants and Miss Ruby Tuesday, and English performances make up most of the acts. The inclusion of Chinese culture seems to be limited to a couple of Chinese acts and songs (including a Chinese calendar girl act), a poster of Chairman Mao on the wall, and local MCs making fun of the expats – their core audience. Are they concerned by China’s censorship to not incorporate more of Chinese culture beyond the superficial, or have they just not considered it thoroughly?

In some countries, such as my native Malaysia, it can be very difficult to satirise socio-political issues without getting in trouble with the law. While ’50s American performers such as Gypsy Rose Lee were frequently arrested over indecency charges, Malaysian productions and media have come under fire and controversy for being subversive or for “threatening national security”. (An example of this is the 2001 public production of The Vagina Monologues in Kuala Lumpur, where the performers were nearly locked up for discussing vaginas and women’s sexuality openly.) Therefore, it can be quite difficult to pull off burlesque in those areas: either you’re charged for public stripping or you’re charged for mocking the government – or, as the New Year’s Eve Paul’s Place incident shows, you could be charged for “black metal”.

There’s also the association made between burlesque, stripping, and sex work – they are not necessarily related but often get conflated with each other. While not all burlesque involves stripping – and indeed it never started out that way – modern mainstream burlesque, especially that of Dita von Teese, have made the assumption that performers need to be bare to be authentic. The question of whether or not to strip is still a matter of debate amongst burlesque performers and enthusiasts, many of whom are tired of the dismissal of burlesque (both by outsiders and within) as just “fancy stripping for the middle class” and ignore the rich artistic legacy and creativity available. The idea of women being loud, brash, open, and dominating in the public eye, especially around men – the “horrible prettieness” alluded to by Allen – also runs counter to a lot of traditional cultural norms, which stress on politeness, being demure, and modesty. It’s not surprising, then, that people who were raised in particular cultures may not be immediately drawn to burlesque; they may consider it too much like sex work instead of a flexible and diverse art form that can include as much sexuality as they wish.

Personally I would love to bring burlesque to Malaysia; there’s definitely talent for it, with seasoned comedians, theater performers, and dancers, and the creative people in Malaysia are also people passionate about social issues – such as singer/writer Shanon Shah, who is also active with Sisters in Islam and LGBT rights in Malaysia. Malaysia also has very rick traditions of culture, arts, and social commentary, and it would be very interesting to see how the Malaysian public interprets burlesque for self-expression. The trick now is to pull it off without landing everyone in jail or being accused of hosting “promiscuous sex parties” with Satanists! It takes careful navigation of laws on decency, subversion, and public speech; just the act of organising and hosting a burlesque show in Malaysia could be a lot more political than the content of many contemporary acts.

Burlesque and Cultural Expression

Despite the existence of burlesque groups outside the US and UK, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of variance in terms of cultural diversity and expression. As demonstrated by Shanghai’s Chinatown club, the burlesque presence overseas is still deeply steeped in 1930s-1950s British/American aesthetics – glamour, corsets, spangles, feathers, Moulin Rouge can-can dresses. The challenge seems to be balancing your assertion of your cultural identity (however much you want to) without turning into something exotic or a token.

There are quite a number of culturally diverse burlesque performers in the US, many of whom are inspired by the iconic Josephine Baker, the first African-American to star in a major motion picture and integrate a concert hall, as well as a strong player in the Civil Rights movement and the French Resistance during World War II. Contemporary performers such as Brown Girls Burlesque and Vixen Noir also do a lot of work in encouraging women of colour (and queer women of colour, in Vixen Noir’s case) to explore burlesque and express their sexuality through performance.

What I find interesting, but also a little bit troubling, is that quite a number of performers from culturally diverse backgrounds use their colour or race as their main means of identification. There are quite a few black performers with “Coco” or “Cocoa” in the name, or make some reference to being dark: Honey Cocoa Bordeauxx, Coco Framboise, CoCo La Creme, Miss Coco Lectric, Foxy Tann. The Shanghai Pearl and Tomahawk Tassels use their cultural heritage as a selling point. Some characters, like Alotta Boutte, are obviously tongue-in-cheek references, but does it become problematic when their image is built up on exotic stereotypes, such as Mimi RedLips’s Geisha and Harajuku acts? How about when it’s part of a homage to your heritage, such as Coco Lectric’s Indian Doll?

How about when other performers incorporate elements of cultures that are not their own? Every cultural stereotype has been part of a burlesque act one way or another – from walking like an Egyptian to being a Twisted Gypsy . My burlesque teacher, long-time Australian veteran dancer Lena Marlene, has a Buddhist burlesque act based around fire (her signature prop) and saffron yellow robes. She took up Comparative Religion in university and personally enjoys subverting religions of all kinds. Some others, like Scarlet O’Gasm, have used religious iconography to make political statements – she performed at an event commemorating Obama’s election as President with a routine involving a burqa.

Since burlesque is largely about making the sacred profane, and has never really been known for being politically correct, are all cultures fair game to any performer that wants them? Where do you draw the line between respectful inspiration and appropriation – especially when the cultures often appropriated are heavily underrepresented in burlesque? Is using common stereotypes and cultural iconography mocking the use of such stereotypes in popular culture, or does it just add to the stereotyping? Do culturally diverse performers have an obligation to involve their cultural background into their burlesque character and performances, or can they get away with being neutral?

Burlesque and I

Questions of appropriation are especially difficult for me given my multicultural background. Despite coming from Bangladeshi heritage, I know hardly anything about the culture or lifestyle; I have only been back in Bangladesh for short holidays and am generally considered a foreigner even amongst my relatives. I was born and raised in Malaysia, which itself has a melting pot culture that often borrows from Malay, Chinese, Indian, European, and various other cultures; however, as a ultra-minority I never felt liked I “belonged” anywhere, and indeed I’m very iconoclastic even amongst my peers. Things became more complicated when I moved to Australia in 2006 – what do I say when people ask where I’m from? What culture am I supposed to align myself with?

I have quite a few ideas for routines and acts, many of which involve cultural elements I was exposed to in my lifetime – traditional dances, props like the kuda kepang, songs, even advertising and other tropes of pop culture. However, a lot of these elements aren’t really “native” to me in a sense – they’re Malaysian, sometimes very specific to Chinese or Malay culture. Yet I don’t feel comfortable incorporating anything Bengali or Bangladeshi – I don’t know enough to make the best use of Bengali culture. Burlesque is a way for me to express my thoughts and experiences creatively, and a lot of that involves my upbringing and heritage. What can I incorporate fairly, and what is off limits?

The routine for my public burlesque debut, at Brisbane’s Cabaret Burlesque competition in June, is directly based upon my Muslim upbringing. It was originally a cheeky idea – what if you did a reverse strip (putting clothes on instead of off) and transformed into a Muslim woman? It’s not something anyone’s done before, and the twist would be funny at the very least. Building up the routine, especially the choice of song, transformed it into a meditation on how Muslim women are also sensual and sexual beings in touch with their bodies, despite the assumptions made by their veils and headcoverings. The choice of song, Deeyah’s “Pashto Lullaby (Lori)“, was significant in many ways – besides setting the tone for the act, it also echoed Deeyah’s personal clashes with Islamic fundamentalists over her video for “What Will It Be?“, a feminist Muslim anthem that depicts a woman in a burqa stripping off to a bikini before jumping into a pool.

Tiara the Merch Girl – Cabaret Burlesque – Islamic Routine – PLEASE READ THE DESCRIPTION from Tiara The Merch Girl on Vimeo.

I was rather nervous performing this act for many reasons: it was very personal and heartfelt, but because it was also a lot slower and more sombre than typical burlesque acts I was worried I would lose the audience out of boredom. I am usually a very restless person, but the act required careful focus and stillness – something I had to work on a lot. I was also worried that Islamic extremists would come across my act and condemn my family and I to hell – if it happened to Deeyah it could happen to me!

To my surprise and delight, the audience absolutely loved my act. It achieved what I wanted: it made them think about their own assumptions regarding Muslim women and those who wear the veil. Many people connected with the act and felt it was beautiful, heartfelt, moving, inspirational. I moved my teacher to teachers and received many hugs and kudos from the audience and beyond. And I didn’t even get a death threat! The response was overwhelmingly positive and humbling; I’m glad I took the opportunity to tell my truth through an art form that I loved.

Do other burlesque performers from culturally diverse backgrounds get to express their truth too, whether about their cultural identity or otherwise? How much of a “cultural ambassador” do such performers need to be to be taken seriously? Are culturally diverse performers participating in cultural appropriation when they dress up in traditional burlesque attire – a throwback to Victorian and French cabaret – or play around with cultural artifacts? If burlesque is so accepting of people from various backgrounds, looks, ages, and so on, why are there still so few performers of colour? How can the burlesque world be more open and accepting of performers from other cultural backgrounds, and incorporate them – not just their stereotypes – into their creative world?

The Merch Girl (my site)
Ministry of Burlesque
Kittie (founder of Ministry of Burlesque, has excellent essays about burlesque history & culture)
Burlesque Magazine (Australia)
Unleash Your Fire (Vixen Noir’s Erotic Performance academy with a strong focus on queer women of colour)
Burlesque Daily (by Jo Weldon, headmistress of New York School of Burlesque)
Brown Girls Burlesque:
Horrible Prettiness

(Tiara photo by Darcy Papparazzi; all other photos of Josephine Baker, Murasaki Babydoll, Brown Girls Burlesque, Tomahawk Tassels, The Shanghai Pearl, Mimi Redlips, and Honey Cocoa Bordeauxx from the performer’s websites)

Sexy Girls. Arab Beauty that’ll rock your world. Sea, sex and sun. Let the funky Arabs turn you on!

 The new “Funky Arabs” single by Jad Choueiri, the Lebanese singer known for crooning love ballads, has had over 150,000 views on YouTube in one month.

Choueiri spends four and a half minutes singing about how Arabs are not the evil figures typically portrayed in Western media. “We’re not what you see on CNN and the BBC. […] Ain’t no bombers, we’ve got the guts,” starts off the track. So far, so good. But then the main message of the video really unfolds, which, when translated from pop star-speak, can be summarized:

“Arabs aren’t terrorists! We’re just like you, the all-wonderful West. We too have sexy blond girls with silicone boobs dancing in next-to-nothing clothes in smoky nightclubs, gyrating their hips and filing their nails. Our guys are all cut, and walk around wearing bling. We love to smoke, drink, and take drugs. We party all night and we are oh-so-cool.’

A disclaimer at the beginning announces that everyone who participated in the music video is an Arab, just in case you can’t possibly believe that such beauty, sexiness, and botox addiction exists in our countries.

The women in this music video, are, to put it simply, nothing more than  half-naked eye candy. As Choueiri announces, “We’ve got sexy girls / Arab beauty that’ll rock your world.” The first woman we see is blond in a blue strapless dress and red heels, and her silicone implants are visible when she stands in front of an x-ray machine. Another is dressed in what looks like a pink ice-skating outfit, straddling a huge wine bottle in a martini glass. Another pours wine down her throat and then, on her hands and knees in a bikini, dances.

The men, unfortunately, don’t fare much better. Plucked to within an inch of their lives, they could not look more metrosexual if they tried. Ripped abs and humongous biceps seem to be the criteria that need to be fulfilled to be one of the “loaded guys” who “you gotta see when they get their highs.”

Strangely enough, there isn’t any “funny” stuff between men and women. The video basically goes as follows: Jad singing in his awful-looking shirt, sexy girls, Jad singing, sexy girls, guys and girls sitting in a group, Jad singing, guys and girls dancing stiltedly at the beach with a whole lot of water. For all this talk of getting freaky with Arabs, no one in the video actually gets freaky with anyone else.

With its over-the-top scenes, such as Choueiri arriving at a nightclub red carpet on a camel, and women injecting themselves with botox in the bathroom, Choueiri’s music video seems to be the poster child for parody. The singer’s handlers insist he is quite serious—inasmuch as pop can be taken seriously.

The idea behind Funky Arabs is to show a different point of view of a segment of the Arabic society,” reads an email from Jad Choueiri’s management to me. “It doesn’t have the pretension to represent the real face of the Arabs like some media has suggested. In a pop song, which is meant to be entertaining and fun, it would be probably inappropriate to display the cultural and social achievements of the Arabs in different fields. So the side that was chosen to be represented is the side that has to do with partying and fashion which is adequate when you are a member of the pop culture community. Although it may sound superficial to some, it is supposed to make us look more appealing to the West by showing that we endorse that type of ‘culture.’ You cannot follow these trends and be a terrorist or a close minded person because they are a representation of a deeper matter, the one of tolerance and openness.  (emphasis mine)

Umm, make us seem more appealing? But who said “they” are all like ‘that?’

My biggest problem with this music video is not the gratuitous amounts of flesh on show by the scantily clad women–which let’s face it, has become the norm in many similar Arabic music videos–but the political implications of Choueiri’s message. Because if not a parody, then the video is certainly a textbook case of cultural appropriation. Listening between the lines, you could well take home the message: the only way we can prove we are not evil is if we try to erase our identities and emulate selective (read: the most materialistic) aspects of Western culture.

Choueiri’s only concessions to Arab culture: bellydancing and shisha smoking, of course! Nothing else we have “over here” is worth anything anyway. The orientalist image is complete once an x-ray machine shows us that a woman is carrying on her person handcuffs, a mask, and a whip. Arabs are all hypersexual, doncha know?

Some people have applauded Choueiri for trying to highlight different types of Arabs. Others have blasted him for portraying Arabs this way. Others shoot him down for the lukewarm lyrics and music—there’s even a dreadlock-sporting rapper who pops up throughout the track, perhaps aimed at upping Choueiri’s street cred.

I agree with the message of the music video: Arabs are not all terrorists. Duh. It’s a message we have to constantly emphasis and a stereotype we have to dispel. But the substitute image Choueiri is hawking is perhaps just as a bad–substituting one extreme for another is never a good thing. As a friend of mine said:

The benevolent Jad is dispelling the bomber stereotype by replacing it with the harem stereotype, the rich-Arab-with-money-to-burn stereotype, and the inferior-Arab-grovelling-for-western-approval stereotype. Right on, Jad.

This is an edited version of the original article which appeared in Egypt Today.

This post is dedicated to Frankie Manning. Frankie died this morning of complications related to pnemonia. He was one month shy of his 95th birthday. I will really miss him.

Frankie is a lindy hop legend. He choreographed the first clip below and is the dancer in the overalls.

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In the 1980s, there was a lindy hop revival. Lindy hop is a partner dance invented by African American youth in Harlem dancing to swing music in the early 1930s. Named after the “hopping” of the Atlantic by Charles Lindbergh Jr., it became wildly popular in the 1930s and ‘40s, traveling from the East to the West Coast and from black to white youth. Since its resurgence, Lindy Hoppers have enjoyed a national scene with websites, workshops, competitions, and city-wide social events that draw national and international crowds.

Though lindy hop was invented by African Americans, lindy hoppers today are primarily white. These contemporary dancers look to old movie clips of famous black dancers as inspiration. And this is where things get interesting: The old clips feature profoundly talented black dancers, but the context in which they are dancing is important. Professional black musicians, choreographers, and dancers had to make the same concessions that other black entertainers at the time made. That is, they were required to capitulate to white producers and directors who presented black people to white audiences. These movies portrayed black people in ways that white people were comfortable with: blacks were musical, entertaining, athletic (even animalistic), outrageous (even wild), not-so-smart, happy-go-lucky, etc.

So what we see in the old clips that contemporary lindy hoppers idolize is not a pure manifestation of lindy hop, but a manifestation of the dance infused by racism. While lindy hoppers today look at those old clips with nothing short of reverance, they are mostly naive to the fact that the dancing they are emulating was a product made to confirm white people’s beliefs about black people. Let’s look at how this plays out.

This clip, from the movie Hellzapoppin’ (1941) is perhaps the most inspirational clip in the contemporary lindy hopper’s arsenal:

By the way, the dancers are in “service” outfits because of the way lindy hop scenes featuring black dancers were included in movies. Typically they would have no relationship to the plot; they would occur out of nowhere and then disappear. This was so that the movie studios could edit out the scene when the movie was going to be shown to those white audiences that were hostile to seeing any positive representation of black people at all. If you want to see how the scene above emerged (black “help” suddenly discovering musical instruments and spontaneously congregating), you can watch the extended clip here.

Here’s another clip (not to diss Duke Ellington, but the dancing starts at 0:57):

Both of those clips feature a dance troop called Whitey’s Lindy Hoppers. You can see other famous dance segments in Boy! What A Girl! and Day At The Races.

The clip below, from the Ultimate Lindy Hop Showdown (2006), reveals how powerfully contemporary lindy hoppers have been influenced by clips like the ones above. Watch for how the styling, moves, and trick reflects the clips above:

Another good example can be found here (but the angle, audio, and visual quality are not very good).

So we have a set of (mostly) white dancers who naively and wholeheartedly emulate a set of black dancers whose performances, now 70 to 80 years old, were produced for mostly white audiences and adjusted according to the racial ethos of the time. On the one hand, it’s neat that the dance is still alive; it’s wonderful to see it embodied, and with so much enthusiasm, so many years later. And certainly no ill will can be fairly attributed to today’s dancers. On the other hand, it’s troubling that the dance was appropriated then (for white audiences) and that it is that appropriation that lives on (for mostly white dancers). Then again, without those dancers, there would likely be no revival at all. And without those clips, however imperfect, the dance might have remained in obscurity, lost with the bodies of the original dancers.

As a white lindy hopper myself, for over ten years now, who desperately loves this dance, I find this to be a deep conundrum.

I don’t know what Frankie would have had to say about this critique. But I do know that he loved lindy hop to his last days and he was grateful for the revival. Here he is dancing with Dawn Hampton, another legend of lindy hop, at the age of 94:

I’lll miss you, Frankie. And I’ll keep on dancing, embodying, with ambivalence, all the great contradictions of the dance and the history of this country.