As I said on Twitter, Gloria: In Her Own Words, the new documentary about feminist activist Gloria Steinem running exclusively on HBO this month, is a “precise” work on her life and The Second Feminist Movement (and what I mean by this is the mainstream Second Wave Movement) in the last 60+ years.

Dana Goldstein took the doc to task in The Nation for not addressing race and racism in the movement Steinem helped shape:

Though there are interviews in Gloria about how upper-middle-class, straight feminists came to embrace lesbian rights and economic justice for poor women, there is no explicit discussion of an equally enduring and arguably more fraught issue: the relationship between feminism and struggles for racial equality. The film does feature archival footage showing 1970s white feminists arguing that men’s only bars are the equivalent of Jim Crow lunch counters. Doesn’t that contention cry out for debate, for analysis—for something? We see Steinem appear alongside her 1970s “speaking partners,” the black feminists Flo Kennedy (pictured above–Ed.) and Dorothy Pitman Hughes, but we don’t hear much about how these women (who were so often overshadowed by the more famous Steinem) navigated their dual identies as women of color within the feminist movement.

Steinem notes that her own brand of feminism was more radical than that of her elders, women like Betty Friedan, who were concerned mostly with the plight of white, college-educated housewives. Yet there are no interviews with either Steinem or other movement veterans that reflect explicitly on the relationship between feminism and civil rights. We hear about how Steinem’s sexy good looks helped propel her to prominence, but not about how her whiteness helped make feminism seem less threatening. We also learn nothing about the sophisticated set of critiques women-of-color, such as Angela Davis and bell hooks, have long made regarding mainstream feminism: that its focus on abortion detracted from their own struggle for maternal rights and that the assumption that women represent a united interest group often downplayed the struggles of non-white women in overcoming racism.

The reason why I called this doc “precise” is because I didn’t expect it to be nothing more and nothing less than a reflection of the mainstream Second Wave feminist movement…which was, in reality, notoriously short on analysis of race and racism as it functioned within it. When it was addressed, the rhetoric talked about white men and their race vis-à-vis “male privilege.” Some of the white women within that movement may have deeply empathized with and felt themselves in solidarity with the struggles of people of color—Steinem presents herself as such a person—but, as cravenly cynical as it seems, those struggles were also a media-friendly “hook” so people could grasp why women were fighting for, say, equal pay and the right to safe abortion. And, as critiqued again and again, loaded with white female privilege.

For Second Wave mainstream feminism, the mere presence of women of color showed how “diverse” women can come together to fight for the “common” goal of equal rights for “women.” That was “race talk” enough to show the movement’s good faith regarding this.  When it came time to really deal with how race, racism, and white female privilege infused mainstream feminism, the usual response was variations of, “We’re all sisters here. Talking about race divides the movement!” Out of that frustration of failing to address the issue came the influential works like The Combahee River Collective; Pat Parker’s Movement in Black; Gloria Hull’s, Patricia Bell Scott’s and Barbara Smith’s All the Women Are White, All the Black Are Men, But Some of Us Are Brave; Barbara Smith’s Home Girls: An Anthology; Gloria Anzaldua’s and Cherrie Moraga’s This Bridge Called My Back; Audre Lorde’s Sister Outsider; Alice Walker’s In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens; and Anzaldua’s La Frontera/Borderlands.  (And, as some hip-hop and other feminists would tell you, some Second Wavers still hold that viewpoint.)

These and other books by and about women of color that came out of the that time period were viewed as writings of outliers, not really touching the mainstream rhetoric or the “concerns” of that movement, which is reflected  in the doc by omission. The writing of Angela Davis, which Dana Goldstein mentioned, helped shape the Third Wave of feminism. Though Angela Davis was in the same demographic as Steinem—both are Baby Boomers–during the throes of the Second Wave (in the 60s through the 70s), Davis was speaking about Black Power. Though her autobiography shows a consciousness around feminism and intersectionality, it was later in her public intellectual life that Davis became famous in feminist imaginations—and required college reading–with her classic books Women, Race, and Class and Women, Culture, and Politics.

It’s the same thing, really, with bell hooks.  Though she was critiquing the Second Wave hard, she was an outlier as far as the mainstream Second Wave was concerned.  hooks was 19-year-old undergrad when she wrote Ain’t I a Woman in the 70s and had it published a decade later—long after the mainstream Second Wave, with Steinem’s help, formed its rhetoric and platform of “equal rights” and became part of the academy.

That’s why I’m not surprised that the film didn’t include these foremothers of the Third Wave or pay attention to, let alone analyze, the issue of race and racism.  This doc isn’t that doc about the race/racism/feminism conundrum.  In that sense, I can, strangely enough, somewhat forgive Gloria for not addressing that issue. That almost insta-kyriarchal critique we in anti-racist and some other progressive circles do and are used to isn’t Steinem. This doc is, simply put, a longer periscope of the mainstream Second Wave through Steinem’s view.

And the way Steinem and her feminist compatriots have seen it is that all women were “women.” There wasn’t a whole lot of difference, as Steinem and some others in the mainstream Second Wave framed it, between the issues that a woman of color had and a white woman. And, probably coming from a working-class background as Steinem was , she probably felt she was in solidarity because her white femaleness was mitigated privilege where white women from that socio-economic group were (and are still) viewed as “trashy.”

However, as much as the film did not address race and racism in the mainstream Second Wave and how Steinem may have shaped that conversation, I do think Steinem herself did shift her ideas about race and feminism–and the film didn’t reflect that, either. That moment came when she was publicly called out by Dr. Melissa Harris-Perry on Democracy Now! for her New York Times op-ed challenging then-presidential candidate Barack Obama’s qualifications to lead the country (transcript here):

Steinem, as per the Second Wave rhetoric, starts to say that “women struggle as women.” Dr. Harris-Perry checks that—she, who has not only the lived experience as a woman of color in the US, but more than likely studied the writings of hooks, Davis, Anzaldua, Walker, Smith, Hull, Moraga, and many other feminists of color.

I think the best example of Steinem’s post-debate shift is what I saw at the screening of the doc last Thursday. A friend of mine, Loop 21’s Keli Goff, asked Steinem about her thoughts on the anti-Black anti-choice billboards and how activists should move forward against future ones. Steinem responded by asking Goff if she heard about the activism that happened in NYC. Goff said no. That’s when another friend of mine, SisterSong NYC’s Jasmine Burnett raised her hand and got Steinem’s attention. All Steinem said to the audience was, “This is what we call networking.” Burnett got up and spoke very eloquently to Goff and the group on how a cohort organization, Trust Black Women, and SisterSong NYC helped galvanize people to take down the sign, the feelings of the pro-choice mom whose daughter’s photo was on those billboards, and the current situation with the ads.  The only other thing Steinem did was ask Burnett to mention SisterSong’s Loretta Ross. Other than that, Steinem fell back for Burnett: an older white feminist—an icon at that!—stepped aside for a younger feminist of color. And Steinem looked rather content in that role. I suspect that, if that call-out didn’t happen, Steinem would have interrupted Burnett and attempt to talk about the signs affecting “all women” and said and done other off-putting things.

Gloria: In Her Own Words is, if not a form of haigiography, a “legacy film”: Steinem is getting her bequethal in order for those people who may never pick her books or will wade through 60+ years of documentation about the second wave. With that understanding, I enjoyed the film: I understood her a little better. She, like me, came from Toledo, OH; she took care of her mom, who suffered a nervous breakdown; she suffered the loss of her dad, who she didn’t see transition due to being on the road for feminism; she married late in life and became a widow a short time after she married. Those details humanize Steinem when people are so used to discussing her as a controversial figure or icon to love or hate or debate about. The doc is a good summation of one person’s wide-ranging and deeply influential life.

As for the future of feminism, this is Steinem’s benediction: “Don’t listen to me, but listen to your own hearts about what’s best for feminism.” And, if it’s in our hearts to make that film about race, racism, and feminism, then I think Steinem would fall back about it.

Image credits:  Ms. Magazine and missomnimedia

By The Racialicious Editorial Board

Beyonce might not completely run the world, but she’s certainly dominated the blogosphere news cycle since the release of the video for “Run The World (Girls).” Rather than each of us having a go at analyzing the song and the video, we decided it best to get together online and talk about not just the message Beyonce’s song is promoting, but how it fits in with other representations of Girl Power, as well as the song’s problematic backstory.

Latoya: Here’s something I’m pondering:  Beyonce bought this beat from Diplo’s Major Lazer outfit. I was already a bit skeeved because it’s Diplo and we’ve had some issues with his work in the past.  But I could almost overlook that part – the beat is sick and everyone doesn’t necessarily pick up a track looking for past appropriation.  Then I made the mistake of watching the song video for Pon de Floor:

Pon De Floor featuring Afro Jack & VYBZ Cartel from Mad Decent on Vimeo.

I had no words y’all.  But to put my shock into written terms, it’s an outfit designed to amuse hipsters at clubs, peddling in images of black depravity.  This isn’t about dancing or dancehall – it’s just straight up black women as fetishized sexual object/black men as crazed beasts stereotype feed.

Just check the audience for these shows:

Most folks felt the same way.  Couch Sessions couldn’t even comment, except to say “The video is … um, yeah. If there is nothing else you can take from this, at least maybe you can find some new positions in bed.”

And in case you were curious about who made the video, Stereogum explains:

Tim & Eric’s Eric Wareheim continues stockpiling hipster cred by taking a directorial credit on this new Major Lazer video. He brought a bit of an Awesome Show Great Job! sensibility to that clip for MGMT’s “The Youth,” but this one is more akin to his work on that hardcore-sex-masked-by-cute-animations piece for Flying Lotus. Maybe Eric misread the title as “Porn On De Floor.” Or maybe Eric just really loves putting banger beats to people banging. Anyway, great job!

Arturo: I am not at all surprised that T&E were responsible for that bit of T&A. I suppose that vid is what passes as a Couples Skate for their audience.

Andrea: “Great job?” Ummm…ok. I can get to why some folks may be down with this vid: beyond the amazing beat, you do get to see plus-sized women moving their bodies and being what some may see as playfully sexual. (That whole seeing empowerment in imperfect spaces.) Beyond that, I completely agree with your assessment, Latoya.

Much in the same way I can see why Arielle Loren and some other folks can interpret Beyonce as a feminist icon, especially after “Run The World (Girls)”:

It’s one thing to complain that there are too many Beyonces in the media. I’d agree, but suggesting that she isn’t about the empowerment of women is blasphemy. Too many Destiny’s Child songs and black female karaoke sessions have proved otherwise. And there’s a reason why our First Lady can publicly state that she loves Beyonce.

Beyonce plays her role in feminism and admittedly, she’s not the spokesperson for “the pay gap between men and women or the degrading lyrics of hip-hop,” as my writer-friend Bene Viera argued. Her brand of empowerment definitely focuses on women stepping outside of the realm of shame for being sexually confident, independent, and driven in their careers.

I am disappointed in feminists that simply label Beyonce, tits and ass. Her multi-platform success has proven otherwise, she’s not just “another video vixen.” Until feminism stops becoming a clique and something primarily exclusive of the Academy, it will continue to lose power and fail to connect with a new generation of women.

Latoya: I can feel that. Like Marisol LeBron likes to say, we take what we need from what we are given. The subversive is everywhere. It’s why I feel two kinda-ways (excuse my appropriated Southernisms) about Bey’s video. It does nothing for me now. I’m grown. But it’s hard to figure out how it will impact younger folks. For example, I was the quintessential Spice Girls feminist. Really into the girl power pop days, saw the movie, thought Scary Spice was the most fabulous chick on the block, and rocked a tee shirt purchased for about $5 at a fast fashion spot that said in big silver letters “Girl Power.”

Arturo: I had a major crush on Sporty. She liked football – the real kind – rocked Adidas and drank pints. (Sorry, had to include that.)

Andrea: What? Bro… (gives Arturo side-eye)

Arturo: I was in college! I was in Kansas! I was barely old enough to drink! Different mindset, is all I’m saying. (No, but really, her solo album wasn’t horrible. Uh, I heard.)

Thinking about it a little more, though, that shows how the Spice message worked on somebody who hadn’t really thought about issues like privilege and empowerment: Sporty and the rest of the group were positioned as having taken different avenues toward independence, but the presentation was just cheeky enough so guys like me – or, perhaps more pointedly, any fathers who went to shows with their daughters – didn’t feel threatened.

Latoya: LOL – wait a sec, Art – are you copping to being a Spice Boy? Aww snap, I know what we’re doing in the karaoke bar. Anyway, back on topic. For me, that hyper commercialized super-femme performance art meets pop culture madness actually  prompted a feminist awakening – because I wore the shirt and a guy friend laughed.  “Girl Power?” He smirked at that, which pissed me off – and did start me critically thinking about “girl power” and what it actually meant and why people responded with rage, mockery, and indifference.

So, awakenings happen for all kinds of reasons.  If hearing “Girls run the world” works for some, it works.

But still – saying it in it self a feminist statement is a stretch.  I can see the critique about losing an understanding of (cis)women’s (heteronormative expressions of) sexuality – but it’s not the root of all power.  Neither is financial security, though that is a major part of women and security and freedom and power. It’s a lot of things, but it bothers me when only the bits of that are currently pop-culture acceptable are framed.

Also, just because something is fun doesn’t mean it’s feminist.  That’s why we have the fuck it, I like it rule.  Everything doesn’t have to be feminist to draw value from it.  But I think the idea of feminism has gotten super muddled.  I was watching Love and Hip Hop (more stuff to write about) and Mashonda, Swiss Beats’ ex-wife, was talking about being dropped for Alicia Keys.  And she was like “You know, you listen to these songs [like “Karma”] and think, ‘Girl Power!’  And then this happens.”

And I was sitting there on couch like “How the f-ck did you get a girl power message from ‘Karma’?”  What goes around comes around, yeah I can see that. Being jilted by a lover, can see that too.  But that song wasn’t feminist! Just like most of Bey’s songs aren’t feminist – she’s generally singing to a lover, either about loving him or leaving him.  Same thing when people were telling me “Pretty Girl Rock” was feminist – about being the cutest chick and letting boys look but not touch? Okay then…*Johnny Bravo whatever*

Again, you don’t have to say something is feminist to derive value from it.  I don’t remember people hollering that Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl” was feminist, but it’s the same basic formula with a couple words swapped out.  It’s a great step song, a great cheer song … but I’m not seeing feminist intent in the Bey machine.

Andrea: I applaud Southernisms, wherever we can get ‘em in.

I know the Bey stans may want to jump on me for saying this, but here it goes: Bey tends to be behind the curve on what some may think of as subversive or transgressive visual ideas of gender and feminism, compared to artists like Ciara. When Ciara released the (still) brilliant drag-king video, “Like a Boy,” quite a few people of color were like, “Well, all right, gurl!” (We’ll skip over the overall white-feminist silence around that vid. And the bullshit misgendering from the colored quarters.)

Then, Bey followed her with “If I Were a Boy.”

And at that point, everyone just looked at it and said, “Oh.” She’s doing a “man’s” job that folks are more used to seeing women doing instead of doing a full-on take on masculinity, which really was rarely done in a mass medium like TV until Ciara.

Same thing with Willow Smith and her song, “21st Century Girl”:

Parts of the WoCasphere were in awe with her (literal) girl-power message. Beyonce rolls out this:

And there’s contention about if she’s even feminist. Take @NineteenPercent’s excellent breakdown on what’s so jainky about the video’s message. I would disagree with her on Full Frontal Feminism being the be-all-end-all of feminist texts/ideas/whatnot. That’s a book that helped her and other people formulate their thoughts around Bey and feminism–like empowerment, people find feminism in what seems like imperfect spaces. And quite a few Indigenous people would even tell her to check her facts about her claim of matriarchal societies never existing – it’s from First Nations peoples that quite a bit of what we think of as “feminism” in the West is rooted.  (To be fair, Amber agreed with this point when I brought it to her in a separate discussion.)

On the other hand, some of folks who see Bey as “girl power” may have never heard of Valenti or may even want to be bothered with her writings or what they perceive to be “white feminism” that she embodies. Bey is their feminist text and their idea–and ideal. And whatnot.

I posed this question to folks on my Twitter timeline: What’s the difference between Beyonce’s Girl Power message and Willow Smith’s Girl Power message.  Of course, folks came back with some variation of “Willow’s ten. Beyonce’s a grown-ass woman.”  More than that:

@ChrisMacDen: [Willow’s] not saying girls run the world; she is saying love your girl-self…is more “we can do it together” than “we made it.”
@ShelbyKnox: Willlow’s video is saying, “I believe girls can be powerful if we do it together.” Lots of sisrteerhood, self-love imagery.

Racializen @KJenNu tweeted this insight:

“Beyonce, this time, is more direct about her support for girls…[it] seems B needs to refute the idea girls are inferior, but Willow assumes that girls are equal, so she can talk about other things.”

Fair enough. On the real though, Bey is not my sort of feminism — and that’s not blasphemous to say. Then again, neither were the Spice Girls … or the Riot Grrls, for that matter. And I remember folks tripped on each of those pop-cultural “generations” of feminist representations, too, trying to figure out their effects on younger people. And, in the midst of those worries, we got “Like a Boy” and “21st Century Girl.” And, yeah, we got Valenti — and we got To Be Real, The Color of Violence, The Hip-hop Wars, and Feminism for Real. Feminism is rather malleable as each generation figures out what it means to them, even when we’re fighting the same old battles.  Or because of them.

Arturo: Isaac Miller and I seem to have arrived at a similar conclusion regarding the “Rule The World (Girls)” video: it struck me as an unintentional counterpoint to Sijal Hachem’s “Khalas,” video:

That song also traded in “wartime” imagery (though, as Ethar El-Katatney noted, “Khalas” takes on another context when viewed in the wake of the Arab Spring.) As a song, though, Beyonce’s track didn’t seem to have anything to it. It’s a beat pretending it’s looking for a meaning, interrupted by the hook every so often. For the sake of comparison, “Pretty Girl Rock” came across a lot clearer, even if it’s not as heavy, thematically.

I also have to agree with @NineteenPercent on the “bill of goods” argument here: what’s Beyonce is presenting (again) is a rather vague bill of goods. It’s sort of empowering, but without any examination of what’s going on in the world around the subject. And, not to get too tin-hat here, but it does what “good” pop-culture product – like my gal Sporty – is supposed to do: keep the consumer coming back to the artist for more of the same, without asking more critical questions for him or herself.

Latoya: I think that’s an excellent point, Art – this whole idea of consumption without critical thinking leading to co-option.  I think, at the core, that’s what much of the feminist protest is about.  Movements, after they make some progress, tend to be co-opted in mass culture, even as people are acting against the core values of that movement.  We see this in race, where suddenly talking about race openly is by default “racist” and people hide behind words like diversity while still excluding nonwhites from full participation in society. And we see counterculture icons like Kurt Cobain and Sid Vicious being used to sell shoes (Doc Martens, specifically, before Courtney Love raised hell.) So it’s frighteningly easy for today’s rebel cause to become tomorrow’s marketing shtick.

But the other hand is that because the personal is so political, it’s hard exactly to state what women, as a whole, should be doing, because we all come from such different spaces and have vastly different relationships with feminism.  Samhita sent me a link from a rant by Natasha Theory defending Beyonce’s vid:

I like stiletto heels and make up. I like men. I like attractive men. When I was a single woman, I liked to look at attractive men and I liked them to look at me. Does being a feminist mean that I cannot love and embrace these parts of myself?

I used to feel a deep internal conflict between who I was and what I thought my feminism should look like. But like Joan Morgan said in When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost, I’ve learned to embrace a feminism that’s not afraid to “f*&k with the gray areas.” A feminism that lets me find peace in the understanding that my job as a feminist human being is to constantly work on checking the “isms” within myself, while also loving the parts of me that are healthy and conducive to my growth—even if they don’t fit into someone’s pre-conceived notion of who I should be.

And, it’s worth noting that the fabulous Ms. Morgan also wrestled with this issue herself, writing this:.

Can you be a good feminist and admit out loud that there are things you kinda dig about patriarchy?

Would I be forced to turn in my “feminist membership card” if I confessed that suddenly aking up in a world free of gender inequities or expectations might bug me out a little.

Suppose you don’t want to pay for your own dinner, hold the door open, fix things, move furniture, or get intimate with whatever’s under the hood of a car?

Is it foul to say that imagining a world where you could paint your big brown lips in the most decadents of shades, pile your phat ass into your fave micromini, slip your freshly manicured toes into four inch fuck-me sandals and not have one single solitary man objectify – I mean roam his eyes longingly over all the intended places – is, like a total drag for you?

Am I no longer down for the cause if I admit that while total gender equality is an interesting intellectual concept, it doesn’t do a damn thing for me erotically? That, truth be told, men with too many “feminist” sensibilities have never made my panties wet, at least not like that reformed thug nigga who can make even the most chauvinistic of “wassup baby” feel like a sweet wet tongue darting in and out of your ear.

I understood these things in one way, when I first read her book back in 2003. My politics have changed since then. I see these things very differently. But I bet Joan Morgan does too. It’s part of the complications of having ideals and living in society – navigating these ideas and structures and trying to parse out who we are from who we are allowed to be.

Joan Morgan asked above, so what if you don’t want to pay for your own dinner?  But later, she talks about the power of fiesty money – enough cash for a cab ride home if you and your date aren’t getting along.  I learned about the power of fuck you money – first in the context of dating (always have enough to cover your half…no, I don’t owe you $46.97 worth of pussy, I paid, thanks…and enough to get home after), then in the workplace, as a way out of really abusive and damaging work environments. And my understanding has grown.  From money and finances as a personal point, to a political point, to a global economics point.  So our understandings of things do change.

My understanding of empowerment has also changed, which is something I picked up in Natasha’s post:

I think any form of empowerment starts with an internal decision to be empowered. Beyonce’s song is just that…a creative, aesthetic, call to empowerment. NineteenPercent thinks Beyonce is a liar because she failed to speak about all of the challenges faced by women. I think Beyonce is an artist doing what artists do…creating her vision of what reality should be.

I think this is the issue with making everything in feminism about individual women’s choices.

Arturo: I would suggest, however, that Beyonce – much like, say, Lady Gaga now and Madonna back in the day – is an artist who’s positioning herself as a leading figure. Like it or not, that gives her both more attention and more scrutiny. I would agree that the lack of a bigger context behind works like “Run The World  (Girls)” and “Born This way” isn’t the artist’s fault, but it’s a part of the discussion that the market doesn’t want us as consumers to address, so it ends up surrounding the artist – and attempts to engage the issue more critically comes off as “hating.”

Latoya: Or, we can just quote Renina:

We need to be honest about who we are tying to be equal to.

Women do not run the world. The world shits on women. Ask Ester Baxter. Ask SusanGiffords. Ask the woman who claims that she was assaulted and raped by the former President of the IMF. Ask Shaniya Davis’s family.  Ask Ayianna Jones’s family. AskSakia Gunn’s family. Ask. Ask. Ask.

Now if we want to celebrate the catchiness of a Beyonce song, or honor her athletic ability, her fierceness as a dancer, that is perfectly legititmate. But to call her the face of modern day feminism is ahistorical and a slap in the face to Black, White, Latino, Asian, Muslim, Native American women and men who have been working to change our world so that being born with a vagina does not automatically mean being raised to be someones wife, street harassment material, nanny, slave or prostitute, but a fully developed human being.

Latoya: I also really liked Samhita’s point here:

Beyonce herself is in many ways acting within the system she was brought up in, being a performer from a very young age, her parents and record companies handling her entire career and most likely influencing, if not limiting, her choices in terms of creative direction and depth of politics. She is a product of a system that exploits women for capital gain and frankly in the face of that has done amazing, brilliant things, but that doesn’t change the system.

System dynamics are also important – again, it comes down to people being able to understand what goes into what they consume.

Andrea: I also think what we’re dealing with in talking about in this convo is the “suicide gene” of “the personal is political” ethos, which started in feminism: in saying that people make choices in their daily lives has these macro effects not only leads to this individualistic feminism but also to discussions about who is and isn’t a feminist, who fighting the system correctly and who’s not. It’s as if we’re not sure about what’s feminism but we’re going to say who’s *the* face of feminism? That, to me, gets into that slippery slope of “more-feminist-than-thou” policing. While we’re carrying on over here, marketeers are grabbing the muddled message, reshaping it, and lining their pockets with it.

Latoya: Right! It all comes back to a key issue – feminism is about equality, and everyone’s equality doesn’t look the same. So while we’re over here debating, someone is trying to figure out what kind of price tag to put on the next single. There’s gotta be a way to acknowledge two truthful and contradictory ideas, such as: (1) different people need different things out of feminism and (2) we have to have some common ground, as a movement, in order to take action. Because I am so not trying to have this conversation 20 years from now.

Andrea: There has to be a synthesis of, – or, at least a detente on – this, on how to talking about Bey’s message and Willow’s message and Arielle’s message and Joan’s message and Amber’s message and Samhita’s message and Renina’s mesage.

Can’t it be something like, “Y’all work it like Beyonce and grab your gurls and whip it like Willow. And Bey and Willow got some things right and some stuff a little off-key. Come on over here and check the women of color who allowed Bey and Willow to say what they’re saying – and even at that, they don’t have all the feminist answers. And then boogie on over and check out some of the women nowadays who are talking about Bey’s and Willow’s messages on a grander scale, on issues that do and will affect our lives, like having access to reproductive options, getting paid at the job where you work or want to work, getting your representatives to hear you, getting your own voices heard in media, and so on–and these women are still struggling with feminist responses to making the world better. So let’s take Bey’s and Willow’s songs, remix them, and do our part by, say, throwing a block party in honor of Octavia Butler and Duanna Johnson, and have the proceeds go to the Sylvia Rivera Law Project? Shall we all pitch in to fund the party? And who’s got the turntable?”

When Erykah Badu walked naked for 13 seconds (when the video was shot, she had the full song sped up to one minute and 32 seconds, then slowed back down in editing), it was for her art and not sexual consumption. It’s a stance she feels contributed to the outrage. “We’re just not fashioned for [nudity],” says Badu. “Especially the Black women, the ‘Hottentot Venus’ women, big-booty women, the large posterior, with no shoes on and a scarf on her head, you know that ain’t sexy.” [...]

“Society has a problem with female nudity when it is not . . . ”—Badu pauses to get her words together; she wants this point to be very clear—“. . . when it is not packaged for the consumption of male entertainment. Then it becomes confusing.” [...]

“To me it’s like traditional performance art like Yoko Ono, or Nina Simone. Research some of those women. They all seem to live by the same theme: Well-behaved women rarely make history. Even looking at people like Harriet Tubman and those types of women. When you have strong convictions about something you know what you already gonna do. I look at some other videos. I’m not naming names, because I don’t want that to be mentioned. There is the thing with sexuality. I’m naked for 13 seconds, and these people are naked the whole time and gyrating and saying come “lick on my lollipop,” and “suck on my cinnamon roll,” and, you know, suggesting sex. People are uncomfortable with sexuality that’s not for male consumption. Could be ‘cause I did it in public too. Do you think people would have been complaining if I had on high-heel shoes?”

— From the June/July Vibe Cover Profile of Erykah Badu

Arise: Earlier, you called performance your therapy. Is performance how you deal with pain?

Erykah Badu: I accept pain as part of growing. Everyone goes through it. And in the process of it, it’s unpleasant, but I’m still peaceful and happy.

A: Does pain ever blind you?

EB: Not at this point. Joy blinds me. Joy, happiness, sadness – they are all blinding, if you lose yourself in any of those things. I feel that I have to stay very accepting and in the moment and not get to a point where I am complacent. I am continually evolving.

A: Do you practice meditation?

EB: Yes. It’s at a point where I walk in meditation. I practise being here, being present, and not being consumed with the chatter of my mind. Being aware of my experiences and the people that I meet. Truly giving them my full attention. I am practising it now.

A: Do you feel fear?

EB: I don’t know if it’s fear I feel. Sometimes, I have caution. And it’s based on fears I’ve had in the past. Neurologically, sometimes I see something that reminds me of something I’ve feared before. I caution myself. But I don’t think there are very many things that scare me right now. Especially human beings.

A: Have you ever experienced betrayal?

EB: [Long pause] What I perceived as betrayal. But it wasn’t really betrayal. Each person has his own path. I mean I don’t blame people for the things they do. That is not for me to judge. I can’t believe I am saying all these things to you because I generally don’t get into conversations like this. Because sometimes, when it’s written, it’s not written in the spirit that I’m saying it. So it becomes confusing. I’m cautious of that. But I don’t believe in betrayal. People follow their own minds and hearts. I guess that’s a part of what detachment is about.

A: How can you be present and detached at the same time?

EB: Well, being present means you are aware of everything around you. When I say detachment, it means that you don’t connect with the emotion that others have for you. The fear or envy someone has for you, the need to leave you, or leave the situation. That’s their stuff. What they feel or think about you is really none of your business. Your business is to be aware and always know that you are synonymous with what is going on around you. And that way, your feelings don’t get hurt when they make a decision that doesn’t agree with you.

A: Which brings us to love. What is love?

EB: Love is the opposite of fear.

—From “The Naked Truth,” published in Arise, Issue 11

(Image Credit: Vibe)

By Guest Contributor Renina Jarmon (M.Dot) cross-posted from New Model Minority

So I have been thinking of Nate Dogg in general but rap music in particular and the difference between how I as a Black woman and how White men relate to rap music.

While I understand that sexism and patriarchy is systemic, that we LEARN and are taught how to be “men” and “women,” how to be racist, how to be sexist as well as  how to Love, how to forgive.

What I am getting at is, to be crude, we don’t pop out of our mommas knowing how to be men and women, we are taught from infancy on through blue and pink clothing,  girls being told to sit a certain way that is lady like, boys being told crying is weak, and not manly etc.

I also know that there are several structural things impacting the lives of Black men and women such as archaic drug laws, mandatory minimums, three strikes, the underdevelopment of public education, gentrification, police who shot and kill Black people with impunity, and the lack of good grocery stores in working class and low income neighborhoods. All this shit matters.

Culture matters as well. Culture meaning,  music, books, websites and films.

Culture is hegemony’s goon.

Which brings me to Nate Dogg. The recent coverage of his death clarified for me why some issues that I have thought of about rap music but didn’t have the language to articulate.

I am a little troubled over how White mens investment in Black mens misogyny in rap music isn’t interrogated. And how that shit impacts me and the women who look like me.

Society is organized by and for men.

And our lives in the US are hyper segregated racially.

By and large Black people don’t live around White folks, so most White men can experience the pleasure of singing “and you even licked my balls” in the comfort of their cars, homes and apartments, whereas a young Black man said to me nearly two years ago on 125th street that he wanted to “stick his dick in my butt.”

On the street, in broad daylight.

That shit was so absurd I thought HE was singing a rap song initially. No, he was talking to me.

Consequently, largely, White men are  not subjected to the kinds of violence and sexism that is sung about in the songs that Nate sang the hook on. As a Black woman, I am.

As a woman, as a Black women who Walks like she has a right to be in the street, this means my ass is toast.

For example, there is an officer in my neighborhood that harasses me so f-cking much that I am now on a first name basis, Peace to Officer Anderson. Typically he stops me because there is apparently a 11pm curfew in DC for children under 18 on week nights. He normally asks me from his car, “Hey, how old are you.”  Dead ass, the second time he did it, I responded saying I was grown. o.O

After the third time, I was like “Mr. Officer whats your name because this is either the second or third time you have asked me that, and seeing as we are going to keep running into each other, I thought we could just on speaking terms.” He smiled. Doesn’t MPD carry 9mm’s too? Sassing officers of the state who carry legal weapons?  Ummhmm. And, he told me his name.

My clarity on this issue came about after I read a excerpt of a post on NPR about Nate Dogg by Jozen Cummings. He writes,

“There’s also “Ain’t No Fun (If The Homies Can’t Get None),” a song that was never chosen as a single from Snoop Dogg’s debut album, Doggystyle but has become a favorite for many DJs trying to work a room. The song is a tour-de-force of misogynistic lyrics, but only Nate Dogg can make a verse about dismissing a one-night stand sound so sensitive and endearing.”

“Remembering Nate Dogg, Hip-Hop’s Hook Man”

by Jozen Cummings, NPR.org,  March 16th, 2011

(via beatsrhimesandlife)

Then I reblogged and responded on tumblr saying:

In some ways, Cummings comments re Nate Dogg remind me of why I think The Chronic and Doggy Style are the Devil, in terms of rap music. Men in general and White men in particular have a different relationship to the kinds of violence that I am subjected to as a Black woman who WALKS like she has a right to be in the street. Shit…two weeks ago I told two dudes to kill me or leave me alone. Dead ass. This ain’t for play. This is our lives.

Have you ever thought about White men’s investment in rap lyrics by Black men that are hella outta pocket?

I went to look for Cummings racial identity and I learned that he is African American, Japanese and Korean, so I am not saying that he is White. What I am saying is that his writing about Nate Dogg’s misogyny reminds me of how when the misogyny bomb is dropped, people who look like me tend to get hit with hella sharpnel. Whereas White men get to live out their thug fantasies singing along with Nate “And you even licked my balls.”

The Chronic and Doggystyle are sonically genius, however, did they up the ante on allowing White men and even some Black ones live out their Black sex fantasies?

Do you see the connection between Black women and White men that I am trying to make, why or why not?

Like, late night I’m on a first class flight
The only brother in sight the flight attendant catch fright
I sit down in my seat, 2C
She approach officially talkin about, “Excuse me”
Her lips curl up into a tight space
Cause she don’t believe that I’m in the right place
Showed her my boarding pass, and then she sort of gasped
All embarrassed put an extra lime on my water glass
An hour later here she comes by walkin past
“I hate to be a pest but my son would love your autograph”
(Wowwww.. Mr. Nigga I love you, I have all your albums!..) [...]

For us especially, us most especially
A Mr Nigga VIP jail cell just for me
“If I knew you were coming I’d have baked a cake”
Just got some shoe-polish, painted my face
They say they want you successful, but then they make it stressful
You start keepin pace, they start changin up the tempo

—”Mr. Nigga,” Mos Def featuring Q-Tip

Recently, I was invited to speak at a major feminist event.

It was for a cause I cared deeply about, and I would share the stage with some of the best recognized figures in feminism.

And yet…I hesitated.

Less than three years ago, I would have jumped at this opportunity, delighted to be invited, honored to be included, proud to make my contribution. But that was then.

Now, I read the email with a healthy dose of suspicion.  Why did they want to invite me? They mentioned receiving my name on referral from another marquee named feminist, which made me wonder why the referral was needed.  Did they really need more speakers at this late date? Or did they need to add some color to yet another stage that was sure to be full of white women?

I also instantly felt guilty.  Was I projecting? Over reacting? After all, this was a short notice event. Isn’t the cause more important than my waffling feelings about mainstream, movement oriented feminism? Why was I instantly suspicious of their intent? Can’t I give people the benefit of the doubt for once?

The emotional see-saw over my decisions to participate in feminist focused events has been my constant companion for close to a year or so now, but it took on a new dimension when Jessica Valenti decided to leave Feministing.  That night, I was at a cocktail meetup, when one of my friends grabbed my hand and asked if I heard the news.  I’m a lot more removed from the blogosphere at large these days (our transformation is all consuming at the moment) so I hadn’t seen or heard about the post.  My friend, who is another African American woman, told me to take a look as soon as I got home.  “Basically,” she said, “it was all about her this whole time -she got hers so fuck us!”

So Jessica Valenti’s official departure from Feministing (and Renee’s subsequent response) is why I was actually spurred to write this post, but the problem goes back far longer than just that.

Before we begin, I would like to separate the issue as it stands – representation in mainstream, funded, capital F Feminism, from Jessica Valenti.  It is a bit difficult to do this – after all, Jessica’s site boasts that she was tagged the “poster girl for third-wave feminism” by Salon. To become a symbol of a movement (intentionally or unintentionally) means to also absorb all of the baggage that comes along with being held up as the symbol. And oh, there is baggage.

First, the idea that the third wave has mastered inclusion problems is sadly mistaken, since many of us surfing this new wave still see the rehashing that happens time and time again of second wave and first wave problems. However, it is absolutely amazing how often we see the same problems repeat themselves time and time again – particularly in the blogosphere.

Second, the idea that any one of us can represent the many is inherently flawed. It doesn’t matter who we’re talking about – no one can fully represent the whole of who we are and our varied thoughts and feelings. The trouble is that our current system requires exactly that – certain groups, in order to access a seat at the table, a representative will be assigned. Some folks would call that an attempt at diversity – but it is a nefarious double bind for those of us who get the nod. To refuse to participate may mean that voice is never represented, that the voices are the underrepresented are once again unvoiced, unheard, and perhaps unknown. Unfortunately, absence can be interpreted as a reinforcement of the status quo – if women of color are not present, then the uniformed interpret this to mean we have nothing to say. Or, even worse, it is a reinforcement that critical feminist theorists of color do not exist.

However, to accept the position also means to be pressed into the token spot. To often be the only person versed in issues pertinent to women of color. To have to change what you want to say or do or talk or think about because someone else on the panel just said something so egregious (and something quietly accepted as truth) that you know have to challenge their fucked up worldview.

So, to that end I wanted to share some stories from my life being sporadically dropped into feminist circles and what I have observed there. My hope is that because I’ve accrued some (read: precious little) currency in mainstream circles, that people will seriously reflect on the feminist status quo and recognize the way in which this space encourages tokenization and exploitation.

A Ms. Nigga VIP Panel Spot, Just for me!

I get asked to be on a lot of panels. Normally, being on a panel is a great way to attend a kick ass conference for free. So when I was first starting out, was thrilled to jump on a panel. Exposure, great networking – what’s not to like?

Now, dozens of panels later, I read every panel invitation as if I were trying to break The Da Vinci code. That practice started when I was on a panel a few years back. I had been invited to sit on a panel about women and media, and I thought they asked me to come to represent the digital sector. And perhaps the organizers did. But one of my co-panelists decided she was going to talk about how women didn’t recognize how good we had it. Everytime a panelist or audience member brought up a barrier to women in the industry, she responded by talking about how many gains women had made.

Finally I spoke up. “You said things are so much better for women- but you are only talking about white women. Outside of Oprah, where’s our progress, on or off screen?”

Not only did this woman not answer my question, she acted as if I had called her a racist. For some reason, she felt the need to inform the room about how she attends vibrant multicultural celebrations in her hometown that “celebrate differences.”

Now, what the fuck did that have to do with me pointing out that she had erased the experiences of women of color in the entertainment industry in all of her responses? Nothing. But I don’t think she was responding to my question – she was responding to my tokenized presence in that environment. It was instant defense mode – “let me prove how not racist I am,” not “let’s examine the disparity that exists when one says women and really means white women.”

Earlier this year, I opted to join a feminist media luncheon. I accepted and planned out my statements – I really wanted to stress the opportunities in the new media space, and encourage the young women to branch out from standard “feminist” conversations and instead go into other types of spaces and apply feminist concepts to the general threads there.

And the beginning of the conversation went well. However the third panelist, who arrived a bit later, started changing the tone of the conversation. It isn’t that this speaker intentionally set out to minimize the experiences of anyone who isn’t in line with the mainstream version of feminism – but her second-wave swagger and broad sweeping statements had the same effect.

Then I found myself at a crossroads – do I start talking about what I intended to and let her statements go unchallenged? Or do I once again have to represent for folks who aren’t in the room, to people who would most likely repeat the mistakes of their fore-mothers because they never learned anything different?

So once again, I swallowed what I wanted to say and instead talked about race, class, and structural injustice.

I felt like I had to take the loss for the greater good of team POC.  Why? Because tokens are inherently disempowered, no matter how much we want things to be different. To not represent is equally as painful as the knowledge that I am silencing myself when I do so. But these are the terrible choices we are forced to endure when people are willing to accept tokens in lieu of equity.

The Price We All Pay

Occasionally, we’ve run pieces about the cost of racism on Racialicious, many cross posted from our friends at Resist Racism.  One of my favorites, “The Cost of Racism” talks about how white supremacy has convinced itself of its own correctness (emphasis mine):

White people are raised in an environment in which they are regularly assured of their superiority. Their experts are white, like them. And they often live in segregation, thus denying them the opportunity to be exposed to other viewpoints.

What happens in a culture of white supremacy? White people assume that they are the experts. Even in the absence of any history, education or knowledge.

The most blatant example of this is when a white person (typically a white man) is pontificating about a subject and is challenged when a person of color expresses an opinion.  The white person will assume that the person of color knows nothing about the subject and will strive to “correct” him or her.  I’ve had this happen when a white person who was not in my field was speaking with authority about something in my field.  They never assume that you might actually be knowledgeable on the subject, nor do they assume that you might have professional credentials.  (I’d also note that this is a very common experience on the part of people of color.  And I recently heard a anecdote about this happening to a writer of color with a white man who was discussing her book.  Only he didn’t know she had written it.)

It does not cross their minds.  This is racism. [...]

When people are not regularly exposed to alternative viewpoints, and when other viewpoints are not carefully considered but instead immediately discounted, the end result is a people who lack the ability to think critically. Because they never learned to consider all the evidence.  They learned only who they need to listen to.

And it is this that we bump up against, time and time again.

Here’s another story.  I get an email from a writer who wants to quote me in a piece for an international newspaper about misogyny and hip-hop. This person stresses what a good opportunity for exposure this would be for me and my blog.  This person does not mention the extensive writing I’ve done on hip-hop, feminism, and everything in between.  This person did not appear to notice that I had already written extensively about the song and video in question.  Hell, this person didn’t appear to realize that I had already written extensively for the same international newspaper they were writing for, across a couple different sections.

So I ignored the email (which is easy for me to do, since I get about an email a minute most days).  But this person persisted, and emailed the person who referred me to ask for a proper introduction. In the magazine writing world, one of the first things you learn is that introductions are golden – here is a trusted person emailing someone you want to get in touch with saying “Hey, can you take the time to talk to this person?”  Why the initial offer was refused is beyond me.

But, the referral person sent me the whole email chain from this writer. And the writer’s initial email was to the referral, with a nice gushy line about their work and how they admired them, and would they please consider commenting. The referral noted she was not the best person to answer this question, and sent that person on to me.

The person who referred me is a white, well-known feminist that does NOT write about hip-hop. She’s a generalist, and she writes about a bit of everything.  Which brings me back to Resistance’s point above: why, if one is writing about hip hop and misogyny, would you go to a generalist, rather than an expert?

Why would you seek the opinion of someone who rarely, if ever writes about hip hop on a piece about hip hop? This person didn’t need to quote me as an expert.  They could have quoted Renina. Or any of the Crunk Feminists.  Or the R.N. Bradley, the Red Clay Scholar. Or any of the ladies at Clutch. Or Tricia Rose. Or Elizabeth Mendez Berry. Or Joan Morgan. Or Gwyndolyn Pough. Or look at men who identify as feminist or do feminist work – what about Byron Hurt who created a whole documentary on hip-hop and gender? What about Mark Anthony Neal? Need someone more well known? What about Melissa Harris-Perry?

Or, if this person is such a huge fan of mainstream feminism, why not reach out to the ladies at Feministing.com, the largest feminist hub in the blogosphere, and holler at Samhita, who is a hip hop head AND has the high profile position of Executive Editor? Why not Rose, who has also written extensively about hip-hop? And these are just the folks I can think of off the top of my head.

It’s the invisibility that burns. Amazing writing from all kinds of people is only a search box  away – yet, since we are not filed under “listen to,” we are ignored. And we are ignored in favor of people who will admit to not being experts on the topic or not having certain types of experiences.  This is when we start moving into erasure territory.  It isn’t that we are not out there, putting work into the public consciousness.  It’s that our words don’t count until they fall from the lips of a white girl.

I can only speak to my particular areas, which heavily focus on race and class.  But there are a lot of folks silenced because they don’t fit the profile La Lubu so helpfully outlines on Feministe:

“The feminist blogosphere is: young, but not too young (25-35); mostly white (and of northern european extraction); middle to upper-middle class; highly educated (always degreed, usually grad school or law degree); able-bodied and healthy; non-religious (but typically with a Protestant or Jewish background); childfree by choice (also not a caretaker of an elderly or disabled adult); body size from thin to very thin; cisgender; heterosexual; conventionally feminine/pretty; fashionable; not employed in a nontraditional (>25% female participation) workforce; native English speaking (family of origin usually native English speaking also); non-indigenous and several generations removed from immigrant ancestors; raised in a nuclear family (either intact or divorced—but not “unwed” or extended family); lives in a large metropolis; favors capitalism; unmarried/unpartnered (meaning: no formal or legal ties of responsibility to a partner); never incarcerated (no family incarcerated either); and has plenty of personal contact with people in positions of actual power (gets invited to policymaking meetings/summits).”

I hit a lot of these myself:  27 years old (started here when I was about 23 or 24), able bodied, childfree by choice, cisgender, heterosexual, native English speaking, large metropolis dwelling, neutral on capitalism, currently unmarried, never incarcerated, and recently, I discovered that I’ve been thrust into contact with a lot of people in positions of actual power.  But the other things, that I don’t fit?  They figure prominently into how others perceive me.

Much Ado About Book Deals

The term “book deal” has become short hand for a whole host of other things, most specifically how the words of some women are valued over others.  It’s also kind of seen as a low-level litmus test for “making it.”  If a person without a book deal criticized someone with a book deal, they would normally be tagged as “jealous,” angry that they don’t have one of these coveted agreements that vaults you into expert status. The other side of that criticism is more quiet, kind of a whisper, but it persists nonetheless: “If your writing was better, you would have a book deal too.”

So let’s talk about book deals, shall we?

I write in this space having contributed to two anthologies, multiple magazines, dozens of online outlets, and am about to pen my first foreward for a friend’s book about the Black Blogosphere. I am also delinquent in an academic chapter I owe to another friend about the Intersectional Internet. (If you’re reading, Doc Dre, I swear I’ll get it done, Jessica Yee as my 11th hour witness!)

The first time I was informed about the politics of book deals was 2008. The first time I was offered a book deal based on the Racialicious blog was also 2008 (and, to my knowledge, that offer still stands).  The first time I was introduced to a book agent was 2009, and the first time I was offered a personal book deal was 2010.

I still haven’t written a fucking book.

So, I say this to diffuse the she’s just jealous allegations by saying it outright – I could have a book deal, tomorrow, if I wanted and it would be on the shelves by winter. But I have not committed to a book yet.

This is partially due to (1) the politics surrounding book deals and (2) my complete and utter lack of interest in penning a memoir.

The latter reason should be fairly obvious to long time readers – I am very careful about revealing personal information about myself, and I would prefer to keep as much of my life as possible private.  Memoirs are super popular in the publishing world right now, so that’s what folks tend to push me toward.

The discussion of politics…well, let’s go back in time for a bit.

Back in 2008, I was a complete and total n00b, honored to attend my very first conference, Women, Action, and the Media.  It was the first time I had ever spoken on a panel before, so I was grateful to have Carmen steering the ship and Wendi Muse in the shotgun position.  Up until that point, we weren’t super involved in the feminist space – Carmen had been featured in Bitch Magazine and received a wave of (well-deserved) attention for her effortless discussion of race and gender issues.  Still, we were definitely the race kids invited to the gender party, so we didn’t really know what kind of space we stepped into.

And what I recall most about the time was how many friends we made.  Andi Ziesler and Lisa Jervis from Bitch Magazine introduced themselves – they proved to be great friends early on.  Bitch published my first (and favorite) magazine piece and Lisa Jervis floated my name in a lot of circles, which allowed me to rack out freelance credits later.  The most of the Feministing crew was there and they put on a fabulous dinner to promote their then new direction and site redesign.  I met tons of people, and everywhere, there was the feel of opportunity.  I remember being told, twice, to hit the after party after the evening’s official festivities close.  “Two people got book deals last year!” I was informed, though I appear to have forgotten who told me this.  No matter.

Since Carmen, Wendi, and I were also interested in caucusing with the Women of Color contingent at the conference (see this link), we ended up splitting our time between two events – the Feministing dinner and the QWOC and friends party, ultimately skipping the after party.  (This is a *really* abbreviated version of events, mind – I’m only telling the book deal centric bits of the story.)

That same day, Wendi and I had attended a pre-caucus lunch where we found out that a pretty awesome writer, Adele Nieves, had sat down with a publisher called Seal Press to pitch her idea for an anthology.  From what I can recall about the initial pitch, it was about bringing marginalized voices to the center of feminist discourse – a book on feminism without the usual suspects.  However, the person who sat down with her completely missed why such a book was needed, and informed Nieves that the book just wouldn’t sell without a brand name feminist, like Jessica Valenti.

So, then came the fallout. And much of the discussions afterward explained why the ideas of book deals became so central to a lot of these debates.

• There are issues of knowing the people involved, and friendship, and wanting to believe the best about your friend’s intentions. (See the comments for why that didn’t hold up.)
• Some issues, around the same time, about ideas, credit, plagiarism, and the co-opting the work of women of color (and with defensive response here)
• Other issues, around the same time, on women of color engaging in “negative discourse” (and drama around belatedly discovered racist images here)
• On the people being protected, and why it’s always the same old, same old
• Discussions on the unbearable whiteness of feminism
• Holly going hard on why “It’s a Jungle in Here Too” and her words, which prompted me to think along the same lines:

Just add my name to the list of those who are no longer sure if we can simply “take feminism back.” Or even if it’s worth it. It’s not like there aren’t other movements out there that actually respect women — that are led by women and folks of many other genders, that work to improve women’s lives. This exodus from single-issue politics has been happening for a long time. At the same time, I want to believe that change is possible. I want to give people the benefit of the doubt. I know mistakes are made, and I know mistakes can be repaired — even mistakes that highlight what I believe is the single worst problem inside of “the feminist movement” today.

• And another Holly sentiment, quoted for truth:

Look, we all have a problem here in the feminist blogosphere. I hope that all of you bloggers will agree with me on this problem: some feminist bloggers have access to a bigger megaphone than others, and you have to be deluded to think that’s based on anything remotely resembling a meritocracy. I’m sorry — no matter how talented you are, how good a writer, how intellectually sharp and beautifully passionate, there are other things about you that play a very significant role in how you’re heard, who hears you, whether you get heard at all. That is the tough shit about the ugly world we live in — it’s not truly fair to anyone, because true fairness would be getting evaluated solely on your own merits. Nobody is — but of course, some people get the long end of the stick, and others the short end. Others are marginalized. If you don’t get that, please go read some racism 101 somewhere, okay?

(It’s interesting to note – I miss Holly’s work. She left the feminist blogosphere – like many women on the losing side of many of these battles -  to focus on other, real world based projects.)

It really isn’t fun to dredge up all the things that went on, particularly as I’d rather not think about it for too long, but it is necessarily to do so.  Because people forget.  Time went on, and this thing I remember so well as a pivotal turning point in the feminist blogosphere is history.  Digital dust. Which is why Irin at Jezebel had no idea why so many people could see where Renee was going with her piece – all this back story was forgotten.

So it’s not about the book deal. It’s about all the issues tied up in it – access to power, marketability,  the transmission of ideas challenges, (perceived and otherwise) to mainstream norms – all kinds of things.  I hang in a lot of mainstream spaces, and I have figured out the formula that unlocks things like book deals and radio appearances and television appearances and speaking gigs.  So please believe, I know the game.  And despite the fact that some of us are able to make it, the deck is stacked. Over on Jezebel, someone inquired about why Jessica received a lot of criticism for her work, and Carmen and I received much much less for similar work.  After explaining that the race space is dramatically underfunded and underexposed when compared to feminism, I said:

While I have been blessed and honored to have many of the same opportunities as many of my white, female contemporaries, ultimately I am not the face people think of when they think feminism. I could probably eke out a living there, but only as second or third string. The stars tend to fit a certain mold. That’s not a diss on Jessica (it’s really hard to talk about these things when you actually know folks) but it’s kind of like trying to get a job as an actress. Yes, you can do it if you aren’t conventionally attractive and you can even have a fun, character driven career. But you aren’t getting the best opportunities or top billing or top dollar. The conversations around book deals and such sounds like professional sour grapes, but it is actually folks protesting a system that don’t see my words as valuable as Jessicas – for a thousand and one reasons from marketing to societal structures.

The internet is littered with reasons why so many WOC opt out (of the blogosphere format anyway) – hell, the feminism tag on Racialicious should really be named “feminist drama.” I poached Thea Lim and Jessica Yee away from a feminist mag for this bullshit.

I hate that this is resting on the feet of Jessica, because this problem didn’t begin with her and won’t end with her. But I can understand feeling some rage at seeing that pattern play out yet again.

My entire piece for Jessica Yee’s Feminism for Real was based in this internal conflict, and unfortunately, I haven’t arrived at a solution within myself. The event I referenced at the beginning of the piece? I declined. Over the weekend I accepted two panel invitations. One read:

We love the voice and leadership you bring to the feminist movement, and we hope you will join us to have a dynamic, smart, and rollicking good conversation with Gloria Steinem, that will rock people’s socks and challenge the notion that feminism is just about white women above a certain age.

For their sake, I hope they understand what they just asked for.

—

Want to Keep Reading?

Lisa Factora-Borchers – Accepting Kyriarchy, Not Apologies

Latoya Peterson – The Or vs. The And – Women of Color and Mainstream Feminism

Mai’a – We Don’t Need Another Anti-Racism 101

Ok first things first I’ll eat your brains/
Then I’mma start rocking gold teeth and fangs/
‘Cause that’s what a muthafucking monster do

— Nicki Minaj, Monster

Article after article, tweet after tweet, I watched the conversation about Kanye and all the dead women in “Monster.”

But if you watch the actual video, you’ll notice something interesting. All the dead women are white, with the possible exception of the second model in the bed. There are eight or nine brown* women in the video, all with prominent roles – and all of whom are alive.

Black woman with mutilated eyes who screams at the opening? Alive. The brown twins staring while sitting on the couch? Alive. Brown woman eating the server’s remains? Alive. The two monsters in the hall during Jay-Z’s verse? Alive. The zombie girls working the jump rope? Alive. (Or, at least, currently animated.) Nicki’s alive. The black were-woman? Alive.

In some ways, the conversation around dead women in Kanye’s video reminds me of the conversations that happen around feminism and black women. The reality of black women is assumed to be exactly the same as white women – if it is mentioned at all. The fact that the majority of the women pictured lying dead where white, while black women are all part of the monster crew is generally not mentioned.

So, I’m not surprised that no one has looked at the very specific positioning of white women in the video as opposed to black women, which dives deeply into the history and construction of black women as beast-like and fearsome, the sexualization of violence, and how the video is a win for both normalized misogyny and upholding the ideals of white supremacy.

The Monstrosity of Brown Women

The depiction of a black woman as a werewolf piqued my interest immediately. In fact, the first time I watched the video, I stopped playback to get a closer look.

Last February, I quoted Elizabeth M. Clark on the racial politics of werewolf transformation. Here’s what she had to say:

Patrick Gonder’s work on “the primitive” in 1950s horror films is useful here. Gonder discusses the ‘devolved’ monsters of 50s horror cinema, such as Mr. Hyde and the cavemen-primitives, in terms of race, class, and notions of civilization. He writes that the “hybrid nature of the [devolved monster] asserts white masculinity against and through the fantasy of a primal, animalistic black sexuality.” The beast within (excessive, uncontrollable masculinity run amok) that the werewolf represents for (white) men is always coded in terms of a non-white ethnicity and/or the working class. Cinematic werewolves are almost always associated with non-white ethnicities, from the gypsies in The Wolf Man (1944) to the Indian mystic/scholar in Wolf. [...]

The contrast, the in-between hybridity of two oppositions, the becoming of the Other is what horrifies: the white male becomes more primitive and bestial, darker (for men of color, this contrast is not seen as such a huge difference). Woman of-color-as-werewolf is almost inconceivable: if the horror of the female werewolf is the shock of female moving from sexual object spectacle to grotesque/ambigendered spectacle, then the biggest contrast is a move from the most feminine woman (slender, blonde, white) to dark, hairy, muscular wolf. White women represent the feminine ideal in this culture, and this is what we see in Dark Wolf: it would be impossible for a woman of color to play Josie, since during her transformation the contrast shown would be minimal.

Watching the black video model contort herself into a lupine representation of monstrosity clicked another, more disturbing idea into place. Kanye’s inclusion of black women in the monster crew could potentially be an extension of his Bigger Thomas complex, commentary on the assumed nature of blacks in America.

Or. (This damned or.)

Or, it could be a subconscious nod to the idea that black women belong in the monster crew, simply for being born dark.

Tami does some fascinating exploration on this historical divide between black and white women on her blog, and how it contributes to the rift between black and white feminists. In a recent post, “Seeds of Our Discontent,” Tami points to the long history of mistrust between black and white women, as explained by Sally G. McMillen’s Southern Women: Black and White in the Old South.

One aspect to this distrust was the vaulted position of white women – placed on pedestals, all other women were seen as lower beings compared to this perfect ideal of whiteness. To this day, this idea plays out time and time again, on fashion catwalks, in horror films, and in music videos.

I’ll return to this idea in the third section – but for now, it’s fascinating to see who is interpreted as “monster” and who is interpreted as “woman.”

Nicki Minaj’s Dual Sexualized Selves

Nicki Minaj plays what appears to be a dungeon dominatrix, torturing her alter-ego. The two Nickis are like night and day, using the typical white/black clothing dichotomy to symbolize good and evil.

However, its interesting to watch Nicki add another element to her performance – not only is she tormenting herself, she also acts against herself sexually, fulfilling a long held trope – female suffering is sexy. By writhing and grinding on her captive self, Minaj is playing into the visual imagery that has fueled horror movies for quite some time – a woman in peril should also operate as an object of sexual desire. Minaj subverts this a bit – her pink haired self appears openly defiant, before she is re-covered with the hood.

Despite the imagery in Nicki’s set, I have to admit to some satisfaction here – while women here are casually tossed aside and used as decoration throughout the entire video, it is only Nicki’s section that brings a bit of interest to the horror movie concept. (Well, that and the zombies skipping rope.) Nicki Minaj owns this track and has the most interesting concept in the video. (Think about it: a very easy thing to do would have been to make her the severed head Kanye is holding, or pose her beautifully in a grave.)

But I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that the intent and response are very different things. While Nicki Minaj is easily the woman with the most agency in the video, she is still reduced to being the target of a simplistic male gaze. I’ve written about this before, noting that hip-hop’s visual culture has (d?)evolved to the point where female rappers are also required to serve as eye candy in their own music videos, an action not required of men in a similar position.

The bleed over has even pulled over to neo-soul and R & B. Now there was always some element of sexual allure boosting sales – but when Erykah Badu’s artistic statement in “Window Seat” was passed around on the merit of “her perfect three baby booty,” one has to wonder if anything is enough to overcome the male gaze.

Minaj is a master of playing to the male gaze while disrupting certain expectations as a way to assert her artistic individuality. So it was not surprising, but still somewhat jarring that at the height of Nicki’s dominance of the track, the person who uploaded the YouTube video inserts a little note that pops up saying “WHAT a ASSSSSS!”

Even at her moment of lyrical greatness, the perception of her body trumps all.

White Womanhood and Black Women

Kanye’s images were meant to both disturb and titillate, to intentionally contrast the beautiful with the profane. And it is this ongoing dynamic that troubles me more than the images of dead women or Kanye’s lyrics.

Andrea Rubenstein coined a very useful concept a while back: the usual amount of racism. She explains that this is the type of racism that becomes generally accepted practice – for example, shows with all white casts and workplaces in areas as diverse as New York City. It is so insidious, it becomes expected – therefore things that exceed this threshold are either applauded or condemned depending on how far they stray away from the “usual” amount.

This frame is also fascinating to explore what appears to be a violation of the usual amount of sexism in this video in particular. Women draped around as decorations in music videos isn’t new or uncommon. Lyrics about sexual dominance involving specific sexual acts also aren’t new or uncommon.

Sexualized depictions of violence didn’t begin or end with Kanye – over the years, the Jezebel team has documented dozens of ways in which advertisers and fashion photographers seek to titillate viewers and readers with images of gruesome murder victims draped in high fashion. Jenna Sauers wrote the definitive call out back in 2009, but there are examples a plenty (link mildly NSFW) in the horror genre.

So why did this video provoke such outcry?

Kanye violated the norms of the usual amount of misogyny by making the women two things: (1) dead and (2) white.

Look at that tenderness in the shot above, the almost loving caress. In divorced from racial context, it would be the same as many other depictions of the glamorous serial killer. Anthony Hopkins turned his portrayal of the disturbed, yet highly cultured Hannibal Lecter into an Oscar. Patricia Cornwell laces each of her novels with charismatic killers. That caress that Kanye gives the dead model in his bed matches the way Cornwell characterizes many of her murders – they approach their grim work feeling tenderness toward these women they intend to mutilate. The last time I picked up a Scarpetta novel, I wanted to skip through the pages, avoiding the long drawn out depictions of the soon to be dead woman lying sexily in bathtub, filled with cold water. Infusing the macabre with sex appeal is a deeply rooted tradition.

It’s also a tradition in music videos, to fuse both sex and violence as a way to sell records. As Sut Jhally explains in Dreamworlds 3, this type of violence has become so normalized, it manifests in real life interactions:

However, within the racial context, it’s designed to simultaneously play into America’s deepest fears and deepest needs at the same time: the fear of black men (in general) and their alleged desire for white women. I would think Kanye was playing into that idea consciously, and perhaps he is. But the segregation of treatment contributes to a final note, where Kanye is also upholding the ideals of white supremacy. Even in death, white women are worthy of love, tenderness, and a starring role in male fantasies. Brown women are relegated to the background, left to their own monstrous devices, shadow creatures performing their roles.

Neither depiction is great for women – it’s essentially a loss all the way around. But I do wonder, if the video was full of the corpses of black women, would it have provoked such an outcry? I would certainly hope so – but considering the silence around the rape and murder of black women (even those committed by serial killers in L.A. and North Carolina) in real life, there is room for considerable doubt.

(Images from Hip Hop Connection, via Necole Bitchie)

“Male rappers have such an amazing amount of power and influence. If they spend their time dissing African American women, then what’s expected of the people that are buying their records; its not much to be said for them to want to spend money to hear an African American woman speak her mind.”  — MC Lyte

Reader Tatisha sent in a request for us to cover BET’s My Mic Sounds Nice, saying “If that network could revamp it’s current negative image with one show, that was it.”

And was she ever correct. Over the long weekend, I caught up with my backlogged programming and found that in just one hour, the documentary managed to outshine all of the panels and conversations on hip hop and present a truly engaging conversation about the role of women and the evolution of hip-hop culture.

Ava DuVernay’s amazingly smart documentary relies on first hand testimony from those in the industry to provide the narrative, cutting between interviews with people like Eve, Trina, Joan Morgan, Chuck D, Roxane Shante, MC Lyte, Missy Elliot, Salt N Pepa, Rah Digga, Jermaine Dupri, Swizz Beatz, and Smokey Fontaine.

“Females don’t get as much exposure as men in hip-hop.” Eve provides a strong start, as the documentary begins to frame some of the challenges for women in the hip hop space.

Much of the discussion is reminiscing. Missy talks about crafting her first ryhme as a freshman in high school. A raft of women MCs including Roxanne Shante and MC Lyte reflect on how they got started in the industry, watching hip hop battles, providing answers to the assertions men made, or watching other women representing on stage.

MC Lyte and some of the other pioneers added moments of history in. Lyte traced the start of women in hip hop all the way back to Mercedes Ladies, then to Sequence and B. Angie B, who later became as neo-soul songstress Angie Stone. MC Lyte remembers Sha-Rock from the Funky Four and One More. Salt-N-Pepa wax on Roxanne’s Revenge, tributing Roxanne Shante.  Shante herself explains she was a “battle emcee…willing to battle anyone at any time without fear.”

Shante credits her willingness to go to war as a reason for her initial success. Salt N Pepa concurred, explaining “no one was trying to hear you unless you challenged someone one.” Battle rap was really how a lot of women were put on in the beginning, and its a sad reflection of our culture that this write of passage has fallen out of favor. But we’ll return to that in a moment.

Rah Digga observes how in that day, women had to rhyme like men in order to be taken seriously. Later in the doc, MC Lyte discusses studying her craft, and how she learned to rap from her diaphragm and not her throat. She demonstrates, and it’s hard not to notice how her voice also drops a few octaves, giving her that trademark depth. Was she subconsciously mirroring a male voice? That’s hard to say.

Jean Grae, looking nerdy-fabulous, talked about diversity – everyone in the game being themselves, and not feeling the need to conform to a mold. While women in the 80s had to prove they were vocal equals to men, visually speaking, women had a lot more options for presentation. The idea of rapper as eye candy wouldn’t come into vogue until the mid-90s, so women like Queen Latifah had a lot of fluidity with their images and could adopt a variety of images. Indeed, Queen Latifah came up often as a role model, with everyone from Lil’ Mama to Diamond to Medusa admiring that she claimed her own space “like an Amazon” and demanded respect.

Joan Morgan put the idea of women in hip hop in the 80s succinctly: “We thought of hip hop as ours – this wasn’t a male field and we were trying to break in.”

Most named the 90s as an era of change, where hip hop’s image of women stated to metamorphose into something completely different.

Lady of Rage talked about feeling pressured in as time went on to soften her look, to lose weight, to become more visually appealing, and all the female emcees echoed similar sentiments. They showed images of Da Brat at her debut and in the 1990s, noting that most women felt obligated to trade in their jeans, caps, and Tims for a more stereotypically feminine look.

However, the 90s wasn’t all negative – it was a time of redefinition for women. Kim Osario says it is hard to define a golden age of hip hop, but most women agreed that the mid 90s 90s was definitely a golden age – particularly in terms of framing the image of the genre.

In the 90s, there were dozens of female emcees signed. (A somewhat depressing graphic shows the faces of all the women who were being heard on the airwaves in the 80s, the large number in the 90s, and the handful that exist today).  Big Lez also talked about the crews, and how almost all camps had a woman signed. As Jean Grae noted “It’s almost chivalry – but it’s not.” Eve, who came up with Ruff Ryders, said she never thought about it, but the idea that a crew needed their “first lady” used to be considered a requirement.

Jermaine Dupri says many of these women were developed artists, and that the decline of artist development contributes to the thinning of the ranks.  However, Roxane Shante explains that being tied to a male dominated label meant you would rise and fall with the male reputations. Lady of Rage (famous for her afro puffs) talked about how at the time of her debut, Death Row Records was crumbling, which inadvertently took her down as well.

Salt mentions that how hip hop, period, is so male dominated, so masculine, that it’s just a difficult genre to survive in. Many of the established female rappers from the 80s said they were initially shocked at Kim & Foxy’s persona, but that led to what Jean Grae tagged as hip hop’s “sexual revolution.” Ultimately, due to Lil Kim and Foxy Brown’s lyrical skills and reclamation of the sexual self, it opened a new space for women to occupy lyrically.

However, to be unabashedly sexual brought about new problems, as well as a sense of liberation.  Smokey Fontaine points out that Kim strengthened the male fantasy because “you could kind of own her.” Big Lez points out how Kim appealed to almost every man on the planet because it was still an ownership fantasy, unlike Foxy’s I-could-take-you-or-leave-you attitude.  Aliya S. King pointed out how both Foxy and Kim were the sexualized rappers who can actually spit. And while both Foxy and Kim enjoyed massive respect from their contemporaries in the game, their legacy did give rise to the idea of emcee as eye candy.

Jean Grae talks about how sex sells, and in the 1990s that evoking one’s own sexuality switched from an individual preference to an industry imperative. Joan Morgan followed up by pointing out how the model of sex + rap sold, and became the model.

Yet, while everyone was trying to step their sexy game up, Lauryn Hill entered as another game changer -  which probably explains why why so many of us are still clinging to L-Boogie’s legacy nearly a decade and some later. Lauryn’s whole vibe and flow was being unabashedly her own, and there were heavy expectations put on Ms. Hill post Miseducation.

(Sidebar: Can I just say I remember watching this video on MTV and VH1 and wanting to be Lauryn Hill? From the hair down to the shoes to the city.)

The documentary spent a lot of time on the fall of Lauryn Hill.  People wanted Miseducation part II, and people were disappointed by the Unplugged album and many of L.Hill’s subsequent performances.  But what is interesting to note, MC Lyte, Big Lez, and many other women talked about how much respect they have for Lauryn to push back and preserve herself at the expense of her career. But…

“One person’s decade long break is another movement’s drought. Or tsunami.” – Questlove, on Lauryn Hill

Tiye Pheonix put forth a point that bears repeating:  L represented what is missing in hip hop culture;  to engage with that broader idea, we have to look at what is currently happening and not just mourn those who left the game.

The conversation then shifted to women and power within the industry.

Missy Elliot is the most commercially successful female emcee of all time. Her videos also helped her to stand out since she was amazing, unconventional, and unapologetic.  Much of Missy’s power, however, came from the fact that she is a writer, producer, and performer.  So why aren’t there more Missy Elliots?  Kevin Lyles said “there was no secret meeting to disempower women” but this is exactly what occurred, as women have felt the industry change the sharpest.

Chuck D explained that the industry basically said people have to sell millions. It’s a corporate decision, not solely reflection of the culture. However, the budget required to support a female artist is often presented as a reason why industry executives were unwilling to develop more women as talent. Trina and Kimberly Osario talked about the image, make up, hair, and how execs just made a budget decision, based on a bottom line.

Still, that line of reasoning struck me as strange.  They say men can wash and go – but these same labels still develop and push out low selling pop stars with the same types of budgetary considerations as female emcees. Why not the same treatment for rap stars?  I’m personally wondering if it’s an extension of devaluing black women on the corporate side.

As I pondered that, the camera cuts to MC Lyte, who pulls a power punch:

“Male rappers have such an amazing amount of power and influence. If they spend their time dissing African American women, then what’s expected of the people that are buying their records; its not much to be said for them to want to spend money to hear an African American woman speak her mind.”  — MC Lyte

Worrrrrd.

The film then shifted to one of the current queens of the game, Trina. As one of the few women left standing, Trina caters directly to her audience to stay relevant. Trina talks about her image being sexy, playing her position. She looks at it from a male perspective, saying:

“They don’t really wanna see you in the baggy jeans, they wanna see you sexy. It’s because you’re a female, I’m a dude, I’m not learning nothing from you, I just wanna see you. So whatever you’re talking about, I don’t really care, I want to see you…and that’s just real, that’s how it is.”

Nicki Minaj is brought up, and they talk about all the hoopla around Nicki Minaj, but how she’s appropriating the playbook of successful female emcees and creating a character. King notes that at the end of the day Minaj can rap. Still, there is a lot more hesitancy around Minaj’s legacy, as the women interviewed did not want to condemn her work.  However, the awkwardness was best captured by Phoenix who wondered “what is she creating?”

The documentary ends on a strong note, featuring all the women who participated in the doc as well as shouting out the names of many women who are currently paying their dues in the underground, who deserve a chance to shine. It’s a point that’s well made, and one hopes that BET commissions Ava DuVernay to continue this conversation.

As much potential as there is for female empowerment in hardcore rap through women rappers’ embrace of the erotic, given the restrictive conventions of the genre, which force female artists to straddle identities of heterosexist sexiness and simultaneous masculinity, its full potential is rarely ever realized. In Minaj’s embrace of Lil Kim’s pussy power politics, she is also inevitably embracing, regardless of her actual intent and/or acceptance of rejection of the label, a controversial and rather contradictory ideology of feminism. [...]

Implicit in Minaj’s Signification onto the male narrative is a strategic process of identity construction, relying primarily on the male narrative and male voice to help shape the hardcore female rapper’s public image. Essentially, by engaging in dialogue with the male narrative, Minaj is aligning herself with male rappers and creating her identity as one of (pseudo)masculinity, an asset valuable to her role as a hardcore female rapper. It is within this genre that femcees operate as performers of gender and are most harshly judged by an injurious rubric of masculinity. These women are forced to negotiate “androgynous” identities as visually feminine, yet rhetorically masculine artists. [...]
In hardcore female rap, femcees are constant performers of masculinity who, between their Signifyin(g) on male [sexual] discourse and (re) appropriating sexist and misogynistic language, negotiate a treacherous space where a thin line exists between the subversion of male dominance via gender performance and affirmation of its patriarchal norms. [...]

If Minaj were genuinely interested in ascribing true power to her role as a woman and rejecting female rappers’ traditional dependence on the male voice for expression and validation, she would have drawn parallels between herself and powerful public female figures to construct her version of the new-age around the way girl. Grammy-winning female rap legend Lauryn Hill does just that. In The Fugees’ “Ready or Not” she likens herself to Grammy-Award nominated singer, songwriter, and civil rights activist Nina Simone: “So while you imitatin’ Al Capone/I be Nina Simone and defecating on your microphone.” (The Score, 1996) Essentially, “Hill champions a notion of…hip hop that is not rooted in the Mafioso fantasy of the day, but that goes back to the risky aesthetic and political choices of [Nina Simone]…Hill’s lyrical phrase represents a legitimate critique of the hypermasculinity and phallocentrism that pervades hip hop – a critique that is clearly gendered in its intent.” (Neal 247) Plainly put, Hill is a rare exception to the rule(s) as defined within the patriarchy of Hip Hop.

Within Minaj’s musical repertoire, her constant Signification onto the male narrative symbolizes her dependence on the male voice as a means by which to construct her identity. [...] The female body is rarely a site of empowerment except when it is being objectified to define female strength through heterosexist sexiness, which, displayed for male satisfaction, creates little power for women. (Azikwe 354) Because female rappers’ values lies in their ability to perform masculinity as well as be sexually objectified, when a femcee is not performing the role of the sexually available coquette nor the female thug, her power and agency are non-existent.

— From “Step Your Pussy Up: Nicki Minaji and the Signifyin(g) Tropes of Hardcore Female Rap,” by Menda Francois (Senior Thesis)

A couple of weeks back I had the pleasure of attending a Rap Sessions panel that discussed the question of women and their role in Hip Hop. One particular response by Dr. Raquel Rivera really stuck with me: “we are too fast to demonize the raunch. Don’t demonize the Raunch!” Joan Morgan (yes, THE Joan Morgan) followed up with an astute observation that American society does not have a discourse available for the erotic. My first response? “Ha! I love that!” The second response? “Yeah, that makes sense.”

What is our fascination with sexuality? Particularly, what is our fascination with the erotic and its impact on our understanding of blackness? (Hyper)sexuality often frames our understanding of men and women of color since our implementation into western culture. It is a gendered and oppressive space, often maintaining rigid boundaries and unilateral interpretation. For centuries, the black body existed primarily within the confinements of sexual expression. And, unfortunately, that space has not completely evolved. The Americanized erotic is transfixed within the slave discourse and white privilege that dominated the antebellum United States. Although I do not deny that women have been objectified via the infamous “male gaze,” a “one-up” that white women have over black women is the fact that at least their “honor” and “purity” granted them access to the coveted cult of true womanhood. Their bodies and sexuality are considered worthy of preserving and being respected. Black women, however, have inherited membership in the cult of the freaknasty. Breeders, freak (a leek)s, Jezebels, and, as Abbey Lincoln suggests, “sexual outhouses of white men,” African American women have not been able to remove themselves from the perspective of a sexual lens.

This referential point has sustained itself in both white and black American communities. Because black sexuality is such a taboo topic, the push to avoid it sensationalizes this discourse and the imagery that accompanies it. One possible reason for the lack of erotic discourse available is the desire of black America to remove the stigma of sexuality from its identity. This silence bears an excruciating consequence: the continuation of a vicious cycle of misrepresentative sexual stereotypes and outside influence on the inner African American community’s understanding of identity.

Returning back to the idea of slave discourse and sexuality, there often extremities associated with categorization of the black body. For black men, the buck, brute, or Uncle Tom archetype covers the range of hypersexual to asexual. In similar fashion, African American women were categorized by the Jezebel, Sapphire, or Mammy. These representations have far from disappeared from American public culture. In fact, these proto-erotic images have transcended to reflect and evolve with (popular) black culture. Because we are now part of the Hip Hop Era, there is a Hip Hop Erotic, a gendered and emotionally charged space that all of its affiliated parties are forced to navigate.

“Don’t Demonize the Raunch!:” The Hip Hop Erotic
Hip Hop Culture has an intriguing way of presenting and reaffirming notions of black sexuality. The video vixen takes after the Jezebel while the thug is the hybrid descendant of the brute and buck. Even more fascinating is how the erotic is constructed: women’s sexuality is often encompassed in a bitter and angry space while men, also angry, present their sexual identity via a dominant and hyperviolent space (i.e. rape discourse). There are frequencies or reserved spaces that allow levels of visible blackness. These frequencies are especially noticeable for women in Hip Hop. It is obvious that the video vixen reflects the highest frequency of womanhood within Hip Hop culture. Their presentation reaffirms the suspected correlation between black women and hypersexuality. For female emcees, it is hypersexuality or obscenity. The Little Kims, Foxy Browns, Trinas, and Nicki Minajes fight to get more (radio) play. The Jean Graes and Mysteriouses (from Making the Bad Season Two) fight to be taken seriously without using their sexuality to validate their lyricism and authenticity. This lack of fluidity forces women to navigate through stringent spaces of extreme identity.

Because those lines don’t blur, it is problematic for our understanding and placement of women who try and straddle the fence (no pun intended). For example, how would we place Missy Elliot, a “femcee” who started off not being able to stand the rain in a big ass trash bag talking about YoYos ( I caught the double meaning)? She evolved into a femme fatal emcee, warning listeners about her distaste for minute men and tricks she could do with magic sticks and cho chas. In a way, Missy was a Hip Hop Mammy, often looking out for other artists (like Aaliyah, Da Brat, and the “mama” of 550 Music Group) and suppressing any trace of sexual identity. Missy, while multitalented, often had her sexuality and authenticity questioned after the transformation of her lyrical content because she aligned her music with the sexy. While not asexual, Da Brat followed similar suit (“So Funkdafied” to “Ladies Night” and “What Do You Like”). In order to maintain relevance and visibility, these talented emcees were forced to submit and learn to function within a recognizable space of hypersexuality.

Why is the erotic so enticing and prevalent? It is a sensationalized space that is often molded and shaped to fit the experiences and expectations of its beholder. The erotic space is a struggle between conservative thought (traditionalism?) and open sexual reflection (liberalism?). Sexuality is a fluid form of expression that is only a facet of the black American experience. Once this is accepted as a normative state of gender discourse perhaps we can transcend from viewing sexuality as a stigma of the black body to utilizing it as a tool for conversing about and complicating our understanding of blackness in America.

I (Latoya) originally wanted to title this post: All The Women Are Still White, All The Blacks Are Still Men, But Some Of Us Are Tired of Being Brave and Want to Kick Someone’s Ass. But that was too long, and bad for SEO purposes. So here is the situation.

Last week, Newsweek published an in-depth piece of journalism, chronicling the uncomfortable relationship between women employees at the magazine in 1970, when a gender discrimination suit was filed (with Eleanor Holmes Norton representing the 46 women who filed) and three women employees 40 years later who discovered that they still weren’t quite equal. (The piece is titled “Are We There Yet?”) While the piece was lauded by journalists (for being self-critical) and by feminists (for taking a look at the uncomfortable picture), drama popped off when the Jezebel team pointed out the image of feminism in the Newsweek headline and photo felt a little too familiar.

The text below the image reads:

Things stay the same: This just-posted Newsweek story on “Why Young Women Need Feminism” is accompanied by photo of six women…all of them white. [Newsweek]

Predictably, drama ensued.

In the interest of full disclosure, I am still a contributor to Jezebel. However, I was off on other projects when this started breaking, and when the back and forth between the Newsweek reporters and the Jezebel editors began. And I would have been content to stay the hell out of it (I have enough stuff to write – that’s why this article is so late) but the writers decided to take it to the blogosphere. In their first post, they flamed Jezebel and said:

What bothers us most about their post, though, is that it’s important for feminists to stick together—especially when there’s not much discussion of the F word in the mainstream media at all. Tearing each other down for writing about feminism in a way that could attract young women—black, white, whatever—seems counterproductive. Especially in a personal essay written by, yes, a white woman, about her own, yes, personal experience.

By the way, Kelly Zen-Yie Tsai has got your “black, white, whatever:”

Then came more Jeze-bashing.

But what piqued the antennae of Thea and I were the two posts that followed. On the Subject of Race and Feminism reveals this interesting tidbit:

We should also note—and this was one of many things that didn’t make it into the final piece—that the women of color at Newsweek didn’t sign onto the suit in 1970, for various reasons. That’s a whole other story that would be interesting to explore. It’s particularly interesting because after months of searching, with nobody willing to represent them, the white women who sued found themselves a fiery, pregnant black ACLU lawyer—now DC Congresswoman Eleanor Holmes Norton—who told them to “take off their white gloves,” and went on to become the head of the Equal Opportunity Employment Commission. To clear up any of the confusion, she’s the one pictured above, along with the all-white Newsweek organizers.

At the end of the post, the writers say:

Our colleague Raina Kelley, who frequently writes about race and feminism [add: and who has been an incredible supporter and ally of this piece from the very beginning], puts it like this: “I wish there was a fascinating history of black women at Newsweek, but there isn’t. And that’s because in 1970, black women were seen as mammies, not dollies, consigned to the kind of work where collars are washed, not given cute hued names … Our time would come just a bit later.”

Whatever your take—and we want to hear it here—the most important thing is that we’re talking about all these issues. Regarding Jezebel, we’re going to hand this particular fight off to Raina. Take it, lady!

The sign off immediately got under my skin, and after reading Raina Kelly’s statement…

You know what, it is useless to argue about history. This a struggle for equality, not a sorority. There are no prizes for “Most Feminist.”

How hard would it have been to deduce that the authors of this story were telling their own story and through that lens, the story of Newsweek and women? They are white women with similar backgrounds so to add race to the story would have been gratuitous and patronizing.

…I was about ready to fight.

I emailed Raina Kelley to get the direct scoop, and she was gracious enough to respond with a quick phone interview. She explained quite a few things from her perspective behind the scenes, noting: “Being friends with them…I think they genuinely did not believe they did anything wrong. And I don’t see [what they did wrong.]” I asked Raina about the race issue (and how the fact that the few black women working at Newsweek choose not the sign on to the suit looks to me as necessary for inclusion,) she responded: “I’m not 100% sure it would have been necessary – what they were trying to do was compare apples and apples. In this particular instance, I’m an orange.”

What Kelley means is that she felt the particular struggles of black women at Newsweek and white women at Newsweek were fundamentally different. She continues: “As a black woman, I don’t fit into the narrative that they shaped. It’s a different arc. I think people jumped before they really read the story.”

We went back and forth on this for a little while, with me bringing up the framing of the piece and photo (as a definitive statement on feminism) and Kelley bringing up the personal nature of the piece. When I asked about her being deployed as the friend of color, she was adamant about people understanding that in this particular situation, she’s backing the writers.

“I wouldn’t have allowed myself to be used [as a prop],” Kelley said. “I really believe in their story and the way that they told it.”

Kelley nails the crux of the story by explaining:

“We’re talking about a generation of middle class white girls that were promised the moon – and they didn’t get it. We did not full prepare them to deal with a world where they were second class citizens…no one older, or of a different color could have told this story.”

And that is true. But was that the only way the story could have been told? After chatting a bit with Thea, we still disagree, alternately cracking jokes and feeling those old feminist wounds open all over again.

Latoya: What did you think of the source article?

Thea: As I was reading it, I started feeling more and more annoyed.

Latoya: Me too. Imagine that…

Thea: And I wondered, am I annoyed because I have preconceived notions about this? And then I realised – no, I would’ve found this article annoying no matter what.

Latoya: I think it’s because we’re a bit beyond the type of feminism 101 piece that this presents as “Who knew there was still sexism?” Seriously, what the fuck.

Thea: Right, ha.  But it was more than that. After all, as the Newsweek 3 (and you yourself) said, it’s Newsweek, it’s not a radical feminist journal.  We don’t necessarily expect more than a 101 from them. So it took me a moment to figure out what my problem was.  But this is it: the writers do a good job of talking about how better their jobs are than they were for women at Newsweek back in the day, and the structural fight that happened to change that.  But they don’t recognise in their writing at all that part of their own success as contemporary women MUST have to do with their own race and class levels, their access to education etc.

So they are talking about sexism, trying to make a case for why we should care about sexism, talking about male privilege,  how it prevents them from feeling more at home and whole in their workplace…but they don’t talk about how their own privileges have led them to even have a position in that workplace in the first place.  I found it frustrating and dishonest.  Because they want to talk about inequality at Newsweek, but only the inequalities that they suffer. There is no consciousness of the fact that they are benefiting from inequality that others suffer.

Part of the central response from defenders of the Newsweek 3 is, why should they have to talk about race or class? They’re trying to talk about gender.  But the way I read it is that the Newsweek 3 are talking about gender only in so much as it is a structural barrier to success.  And how can you talk about one structural barrier without at least mentioning how the other ones work, or moreover, how barriers for others are advantages for you? It’s an incomplete analysis.  You can’t have one without the other.  You can’t talk truthfully and fully about structural barriers you face, if you don’t at least acknowledge the structural advantages that you have.

The argument the article posed felt a bit half-baked to me.  It was very much about giving credit to the 46 women in 1970 who worked to make Newsweek better (and rightly so).  But I needed these writers to say, you know what, because of the work of the women before us AND also because our culture rewards other things along with male privilege AND also because we worked hard, we work for this prestigious magazine that STILL could be better at dismantling inequalities.  To me that is the full argument.

Latoya: I agree. I spoke to Raina Kelley, who wrote the defense of the piece on their blog and while we disagree on most of what came up, I think she nailed it when she said that this was a deeply personal story. It’s about these three girls who were promised the moon and it didn’t arrive.

Thea: YES.  Which is fine, nothing wrong with writing a personal story.  But be honest about who you are.

Latoya: She said she couldn’t have told that story, which is true – but I also think it is because no one but a child of privilege would have the luxury of thinking these issues are over. As long as I can remember, this little black girl got the message loud and clear: shit is going to be racist, and there isn’t anything you can do about it, so suck it up and do your best, knowing the game is rigged.

Thea: I definitely got the “the world will be yours message!” from my white mama. Imagine how confused I was when it didn’t work out. But I digress.

Latoya: Ha – insert tragic Eurasian mulatto joke. You need an Imitation of Life film…

Thea: Tiny violins playing…

Latoya: I mean, I can understand some of Kelley’s argument. But the reaction of the Newsweek 3 – that to me what was most compelling. Before, I would have just skimmed/skipped over the article. But the idea that racial allegations are coming way out of left field…

Thea: RIGHT.   This is my issue with the article – and with much of non anti racist third wave feminism – it cannot admit that when it says “women” it means “white women.”  It is fine that you want to tell your own story, but please admit it is the story of a white woman.  That should not be such a shocking revelation, you know? Enough already. And the Newsweek 3 responded when Jezebel criticised their lack of race analysis: “we couldn’t talk about race because our readers don’t understand the intricacies of feminism.”  They said “Jezebel’s criticism came out of left field.”

Latoya: The exact quote is:

How is it that we’ve got the old guard championing the piece, and the young new wave—of which we’re a part—tries to discredit it with left-field accusations of racism?

Ahem.

We really need to make an LOLCatz submission:



Thea: Seriously: my jaw was on the floor.  What??? The fact that women have a race as well as a gender is an intricate notion of feminism, or out of left field? When I read that – the “left field” comment,  I actually felt real pain.  Which pisses me off! You’d think after being disappointed enough times by this kind of feminism, I’d developed any immunity to this kind of utter nonsense.

Latoya: You can’t be mixing the race and the feminism Thea. We learned that in feminism 101. That’s “race stuff” not feminism.

Thea: Hahaha. But, seriously, it really hurt me to hear that kind of “race is extra” argument, as you called.  The “race is extra” argument is still considered tenable in some circles of feminism.  Like OMFG.

Latoya: Yeah, reminds me of that slide from the gaming presentation for SXSW:



You know, I used to get mad when people would tell me “Feminism is for white girls” – but now, I completely understand. Even worse, the argument was extended to their blog – notice there wasn’t the time or ability to include women of color in the piece either as part of the retrospective or as a commentator, but I also found it strange they were able to magic someone out of the woodwork when it was pointed out that their piece was not inclusive.

Thea: Raina Kelley you mean?  Pulling out Raina Kelley was definitely a strange response.  Or just a terrible bad PR move, if nothing else.

Latoya: I have to admit, I was put off by Kelley’s online defense, which is more or less: You know what, it is useless to argue about history. This a struggle for equality, not a sorority. There are no prizes for “Most Feminist.”

Ah, no. This is the prize for “ensuring we aren’t alienating women of color YET AGAIN!”

Thea: Why wasn’t Kelley a part of the original piece? Isn’t she a woman?

Latoya: Kelley said that her support for the piece was mostly psychological but again, there is this distancing of race and feminism yet again, that appears to be considered sacrosanct.

Thea: Sacrosanct? Try delusional. We all have races and genders and class levels and levels of ability.  All of our identities contribute to our positions in society…Again, this is not a radical notion.

Latoya: They look at a lot of maybe’s in their response about race and feminism, because it’s totally important – just not important enough to put in the piece.

Thea: Right.

Latoya: And even in their half-assed mea culpa they point out issues that no one will rectify “We didn’t think about the racial makeup of our remaining sources—and maybe we should have.”
Perhaps, but clearly, it was not that important. They also bring up a major detail: black women declined to participate in the original suit. There are all these gaps, but these are not seen as gaps. They conclude it’s something to explore another time – but when? Why wasn’t it a part of the story package? If you don’t want to mention it in white girl land, fine, but shit, could we get a sidebar?

Thea: HA! Can we put “But shit, could we get a sidebar?” on a t-shirt? RIGHT. But again, for me it’s not about the race of their sources, It’s about the racelessness of their analysis. You know, they didn’t even have to include women of colour in the piece. They just needed to recognise what their own race was in the piece.

Latoya: The race of the sources is important to me and here’s why: People of color are always divorced from discussions unless we are talking about race. We are not seen as experts in history, but experts in (insert ethnic history). We are not experts on sexism we are experts on race and occasionally racialized sexism. But our voices are always considered some strange, non mainstream other. That marginalization extends to who is seen as an expert source. It is not an accident that I generally link to other women/POC experts whenever I write anything, especially if it’s a mainstream publication.

Thea: That’s a really good point.

Latoya: And, if they could reach out to someone who was not involved, like Rachel Simmons (who wrote a book they quote) and cite studies like the Catalyst one I covered for Jez a couple months back, why couldn’t they reach out to women who are experts in other fields? Where is Gwen Ifill’s perspective as a woman of color who has been excluded from newsrooms as well?

Thea: I think it comes back to that psychic split.  The inability to admit that they are not talking about women but white women. The reason why I didn’t care for them to diversify the races of their sources was because my thought on seeing that line in the Newsweek 3′s response to the race criticism — “we didn’t think about the racial makeup of our sources”  — was that from here on in they will talk to a token person of colour, who may or may not have an anti-racist point of view.

Latoya: From what they said, I agree. And again, I felt like that was how Raina Kelley was used.

Thea: Did you get a sense of how Kelley felt about being deployed?

Latoya: She says she volunteered to speak up for them because she believed in the piece, not out of loyalty or anything else. However, as an observer, I was totally put off by their “We are so not racist, we got a black friend” play.

Thea: It just seems like a big no-no.  And “Raina will deal with your race questions from now on.”  I really was stunned when I read that.

Latoya: Seriously – it was like we were playing anti-racist bingo. And this goes back to the dynamic we discussed in an earlier convo – the idea that we need to avoid the appearance of racism, rather than stop committing racist actions. (And I am preparing for the deluge of white women’s tears at that statement.)

Thea: Right.  Which I think comes from folks being shamed at a young age for expressing racist views, but not for having them.

Thea: The “tears of white women” leads to my last point.  I have to run, but I just wanted to say this.

This piece from a blog called Authentic Organisations by CV Harquail criticises the anti-racist criticism of the of the Newsweek 3, and the Newsweek 3 actually posted this quote from Harquail on their blog, which really put me off:

You’d think that feminists around the blogosphere would have rallied to the cause of the Newsweek 3. After all, advocacy requires courage, and courage requires social support. What you’ll find, instead, is a conversation about how the women and their advocacy is not good enough. You’ll read that these three women –white women, college-educated women, physically able women, English as first language women – can’t possibly represent “feminism”.

Harquail (who wrote the piece) is basically saying: the Newsweek 3 worked hard and were courageous, can’t we at least commend them for that?

Latoya: So, in sum, STFU and get in line, you ungrateful darkies?

Thea: Genuine LOL! I think part of why reading about this whole Newsweek 3 debacle was personally painful for me, is because it mirrored my own experiences of trying to talk to non anti racist feminists about why race matters.  It was a battle I lost and I no longer comfortably label myself a “feminist.” The word just has too much racist baggage for me.  The sentiment “hey, we worked really hard, and now all you want to do is pile on” is basically exactly what the feminist orgs I worked with said, when I criticised their race politics.

Latoya: Yup. That’s why my feminism is hip-hop flavored.

Thea: (And can I just sidebar that the women of colour at my organisation did exactly what the Newsweek 3 reported the 46 women of Newsweek doing in 1970 in response to sexism: we met in secret to try and validate each others’ distress. That is just how hostile the environment was. )

Latoya: Never even caring how much these thoughtless actions alienate women with brown skin and racialized gender politcs who may want our struggles acknowledged too. The question is always framed as what about their hard work – What about us? We work so hard, can’t we get a mention?

Thea: Right.  The argument is always, we work so hard, can’t we get a break? But you know, I understand this feeling. I feel that way myself sometimes, to be honest, whenever I get a load of harsh criticism. How can I not? Everyone at Racialicious has a full time job, if not two, on top of their Racialicious work.  We are seriously killing ourselves here. And when commenters tell me (often in floods) that I did a shitastic job, after I have worked my ass off on an article that I didn’t even have time to write in the first place, it is super frustrating.

Latoya: And the Racialicious crew, better than anyone, knows all about falling short of our activist goals. Shit, we don’t even have race all the way on lock, and when you add in the other anti-oppression stuff…

Thea: Right, that’s why it sucks.  It’s not the inaccurate, just-doesn’t-get-what-I’m-saying responses that sting.  It’s the one’s that are on the money that hurt. But you know what? When I have a bad comment day, I go into the bathroom and I have a cry and I get all my self-loathing out of the way. But. Then I come back, and I try and figure out how to amend what I messed up.

Latoya: Yeah – the comeuppance part always sucks, but if you handle it right, you come away with a new perspective and new friends.

Thea: Right? Because people criticising you, that’s work for those people.  They’re taking time to criticise you because they care about the cause. Jezebel and Girldrive etc take the time to criticise Newsweek not because they are jealous bitches, but because this is how the movement grows.

Latoya: The only other option is just staying ignorant in a small, diminished world.

Thea: And this is why feminism isn’t growing.

Latoya: We aren’t in the feminism of the past any more – things have changed…

Thea: But feminism  keeps hitting its head against the same wall.

Latoya: Exactly.

Thea: Because the power players can’t admit that not all women are white,  or they can’t admit that they are white But seriously – what is that reviled phrase? – “put on your big girl panties already.”

Latoya: Ha! Panty up!

(This song is begging for an anti-racist feminist remix. Just sayin’…)

Thea: You did half the work, now do the other half.  And no, I am not going to say you did a good job, until you finish the job, because otherwise I am not a good ally to your cause.

Latoya: Maybe they are honestly afraid their thunder will be stolen if they acknowledge the existence of others.

Thea: Well that’s what it’s about, I think, partly. The “let’s not divide the movement” defense.  But, newsflash! You have a race! It affects your life just as your gender does!

Latoya: The movement been divided.

Thea: Mmmmhmmmm.

Latoya: The only way to end those divisions is to start airing out the laundry.

A variety of clubs cater to queer women of color in the San Francisco Bay area. Some are wall-to-wall women of color – Black, Latina, Asian and most play hip-hop music non-stop. In each club, there are all different kinds of women. For instance, there might be women over forty with long ‘locks, Hawaiian shirts, shorts, and Teva sandals in one corner of the room and younger, Butch, women wearing crisp, indigo-colored Levi’s with thick black belts, large belt buckles and perfectly gelled hair in another. There are also femme women in tight jeans or skirts, heels, and short T-shirts, some cut around the collar so that they slide down their shoulders. In every club I that I’ve been to, there is always a clearly designated dance floor, which is usually packed tight with sweaty bodies. Some clubs have elevated dance floors or stages with one or two go-go dancers dressed in hot pants and knee-high boots. Below them are women lined up with dollars. In the background, hip-hop music fills the room with beats and voices, sometimes the only male presence in the room. What type of male, and ultimately what type of masculinity depends on the club.

On Gay Pride weekend this year, I went out to several of these clubs. Two in particular stuck out in my mind because of their similarities and differences in relationship to queer sexuality and black masculinity. For instance, at one of the clubs I went to, the deejay played songs that characterize more of the nigga, or thug image in hip-hop- 2Pac, Biggie Smalls, the Game, and 50 Cent. At the second club, the music had much more of a playa or sexualized tone – the Ying Yang twins, David Banner, and Khia. While there are two different types of masculinity being played at each club, in a room full of women of color, the lyrics fall to the background as the performances take center stage. For instance, nigga masculinity in the first club is reflected in a particular style, stance, or code. It is more about an individual identity, one that each person can take on. Women throw up hand gestures as they dance, make eye contact with one another and mouth the words to the lyrics. Some women even had on T-shirts with the ultimate “nigga 4 life,” 2Pac. The tone set at this club is also about community. The mood isn’t so much about sex or domination sexually, but rather, a stance about who someone is or declares herself to be: being down, being able to take what comes in life, being loyal to this group, this identity, and this community.

In the second club, the playa image was much more prevalent. If you wanted someone to help you get your groove on, this was the place to be. Women would grind their bodies into one another, and move one another’s bodies around to the direction of the lyrics. Queer sexuality was much more on display, as a woman, you wanted to be looked at, have somebody notice you, and maybe take you home. For instance, at one point, I noticed two women on the stage, dancing with one another. One of the women, in baggy jeans and a baseball jersey picked up the wman she was dancing with who was wearing a short, silver skirt and tank top. She then lifted her up onto the bars surrounding the stage and then put her face into the woman’s skirt under the musical direction of “work that clit, cum girl.” I had to sit down.

Even though I was a little uncomfortable with this display, I didn’t leave the bar, which is probably what I would have done had I been in a straight club. In a mixed setting, the lyrics and sexual display denote a different power struggle for me: with women more clearly marked as objects and men as subjects. That expression of sexual desire is one that all women see in music videos, movies, and hear it played out in the music we listen to. Similar to Laura Mulvey’s definition of the male gaze in popular culture in which the female is the fetishized object and the men are the spectators, mixed clubs are assumed to be spaces where women are expected to take on the passive quality of “to-be-looked-at-ness.” Over a hip-hop beat, men then possess the ability to look, taking pleasure in looking at and dominating women. I am not suggesting that straight women have no power in these settings. Mulvey has been rightly critiqued for her failure to go beyond men as spectators and women as passive objects. She, and other feminists, forget that every once in a while, a woman might like to “pile [he]r phat ass into [he]r fave micromini [and] slip [he]r freshly manicured toes into four inch fuck me sandals” for her pleasure as well as his when she goes out to a club. However, I do suggest these are the expected and most displayed roles in hip-hop music. What I am interested in is what women do with these roles.

Moreover, the expression of sexual desire between two queer women of color is rare, if at all existent, in popular culture. In these all female, queer club spaces, the decoding of black male masculinity is exciting, normalized, and even “safe.” First, these displays can demonstrate what queer women do and whom we do it with. Second, there isn’t the fear of violence or being overpowered that may be associated with mixed, straight clubs. Popular discourse often warns women, gay or straight, about the dangers of going to clubs alone. We are all too familiar with the Dateline specials on GHB or “roofies” which capitalize on horrible stories of women who go to bars sober and end up being sexually assaulted. While these stories are used to make women fear and regulate our sexuality, I have never once been worried about these “dangers” when I have walked into queer clubs alone, freshly made up in tight jeans and revealing blouse.

All queer women of color spaces have been one of the most liberating places for me as a Black queer woman, and consequently, as a feminist. I feel validated as a woman of color living in the current context of the L-Word, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, and Queer as Folk where a majority of queer people are men and most of the lesbians are white. Scrambling to see images of myself and make connections with other women of color is an ongoing struggle in the twenty-first century. And it is always more than pleasurable to tell your homegirls that you like to throw lips to the shit and have them know the queer context I am speaking of. In these moments we engage in what Stuart Hall calls and oppositional reading of rap lyrics and hip-hop music. Queer women of color construct new meanings of the text and become active consumers who change the context of sexuality and masculinity.

In her research on drag kings of color, Halberstam points to this type of reading in her conclusion that “when a drag king lip synchs to rap, she takes sampling to another level and restages the sexual politics of the song and the active components of black masculinity by channeling them through the drag act for a female audience and through the queer space of a lesbian club. ” I argue that the same is true or lesbians and queer women in the clubs I have been to. For instance, some of the women in the clubs look and dress as hard as the men in rap videos. In these moments, black masculinity is changed in that these women are exploring their masculinity in relationship to the women they love and have sex with.

In this sense, there is a clear link between a Black queer or lesbian identity and the nigga identity. To clarify an earlier question, perhaps this is why Black queer women identify, at times, with the masculinity in hip-hop. In particular, the sense of outsider status in identities like the nigga. As Todd Boy suggests in Am I Black Enough for You, “the nigga is not interested in anything having to do with the mainstream, though his cultural products are clearly an integral part of mainstream popular culture. The nigga rejects the mainstream even though he has already been absorbed by it.” Here, Black male masculinity occupies a space both in and outside of heteronormativity through the rejection and absorption of it. Similarly, Black queer women reject heteronormativity in both their identity and desire at the same time that we embrace mainstream cultures like hip-hop. This happens not only in relationship to sex and sexuality, but with racial and ethnic identity as well. For instance, even though Gwen Stefani has colonized the culture, language, fashion, and stance of women of color from her use of Bindis, to dark eyeliner around her lips, her ska musical style (collaborations with Eve and Ladysaw) and, recently her “entourage” of Japanese girls, queer women of color run to the dance floor when her songs come on, singing louder than the music, perhaps reclaiming the identities that she has appropriated from us cause “ooh, this my shit.” The decoding of masculinity and race that happens in queer women’s spaces indicates that each identity is indeed performative. And what I find important in these performances of masculinity on the dance floor is the sense of legitimacy and dare I say “pride” that comes from watching Black women gyrate with one another to a hip-hop beat, one wanting the other to know she’s a hustler, baby. There is a celebration and declaration of same sex sex and sexuality in these moments that Black women and other women of color continue to be denied in popular discourse.

Queer women of color flipping the script in dance clubs does not eliminate the rigid representations of Black masculinity and femininity in popular culture or how we internalize these images as Black men and women. As I have demonstrated through the actions and spaces I have described, queer engagement with hip-hop masculinity is mad full of complexity and contradiction. These complexities have a long history in the lesbian community long before girls told other girls they’d take you to the candy shop and let you lick the lollipop. By examining this queer space, I am in now way suggesting that the objectification of women is thrown out completely. Bending your girl over to the front and telling her to touch her toes and having her do so in high heels and a thong may not be the path to liberation. I also make no claims that queer women don’t engage in harmful acts upon one another. I was once at a party and heard a woman telling someone else that she and her friends pulled a train on “this bitch” that she picked up at a club one night. And, to my horror, one of her friends standing next to her asked her “why she didn’t invite her to that party.” The same objectification and violence towards women can happen regardless of the gender of the protagonist. And queer communities are similar to the hip-hop community in that they reflect popular culture and discourse. This is not to exclude these actions, but to point out what this ideology, which some of us have internalized, suggests about the value of Black female bodies in this culture. What does it mean to be in an all female loving space and question the sexist lyrics.

The contradictions in queer women’s spaces are similar to the complexities that Mark Anthony Neal aces as a Black feminist man who enjoys songs that are derogatory against women. As he states, “My affection for Mos Def’s ‘Ms. Fat Booty’ frames one of the contradictions in thinking oneself a black male feminist. For example, how does black male feminism deal with the reality of heterosexual desire?” I must end this essay with a similar question; how do black queer feminists who love hip hop deal with the reality that same sex desire and practice is sometimes played out over a sexist hip hop beat? How do we recognize and value ourselves as part of the hip-hop generation, many of whom gay or straight don’t identify as feminist?

— From Andreana Clay’s essay “I used to be scared of the dick”: Queer women of color and hip hop masculinity, originally published in Home Girls Make Some Noise: Hip Hop Feminism Anthology.