After watching her Facebook news feed fill up with links to articles adoring the politics of Gaga, Thea emailed her local sex/race/gender/pop culture expert: Andrea.  Thea was puzzled by the wild adulation heaped upon Gaga as “transgressive” and “binary-breaking” by the gender studies crowd…not because Gaga is without merit, but because Thea could think of lots of other mainstream artists who had tried to play with appearances and femininity, and not gotten the same love.  When those adulations started to slide towards race, suggesting that Gaga’s work could be read not just as gender subversive, but also questioning and decentering whiteness, it was time for a Racialicious convo.

Thea: I was reading some articles over the weekend about how trangressive the video for “Telephone” is, and I couldn’t help but feel that people are reading things into her work. Not that there is anything wrong with that (especially considering what I do on Racialicious), but it seems as if people are giving her credit for being deeper than she is, rather than saying, oh look what this work could represent, regardless of the artist’s intentions.

There’s this article, which beyond seemingly giving Gaga way more credit than she deserves, makes a gratuitous comment in the article about how the positioning of Beyonce vs Gaga in “Telephone” is a reversal of the black/white dynamic. But I don’t think so at all. For example, in the video Gaga addresses Beyonce with a silly, cloying nickname with is a little condescending, and the video ends with Gaga definitely being the Decider. The article says that Beyonce breaking Gaga out of jail shows that black/white reversal, but the video ends with Gaga “taking care” of Beyonce: the reversal (which I’m not sure I buy in the first place) effectively nullified.

I do get the Gaga mania among queer and feminist theorists, but I also feel like there have been artists before her who were doing interesting things with gender in their work — like M.I.A. who really does not fit easily into either poptart or rock goddess categories. (And M.I.A. has gone so far as to call out the racist-sexism of the music industry, even at the risk of alienating key collaborators.) Even the evolution over the years of Beyonce has been fascinating, in terms of how she went from being this ideal of hetero desire (and also being a blond, light-skinned black lady who was accessible from a white point of view) to making these crazy-ass videos. Like the video for “Video Phone” is just weird.

So why does Gaga get all the love? How much of it is because, as a small young blonde woman she appears to be trangressive in a way that artists like M.I.A. or even Trina cannot be transgressive, because to begin with they are already seen as non-normative, simply because they aren’t white? Is it because the feminist model is predicated on whiteness, so that is what it is drawn to untangling?

Clearly Gaga is not oblivious to her own “normativity”; she actually uses it as a weapon, drawing in the viewer with the expectation that she will be blonde and submissive, and then upsetting those expectations by doing intentionally weird, gross things.  But while she’s playing with her whiteness, she (& her critic fans) seem somewhat oblivious to her white privilege. And the attendant attention she gets, while women of colour’s contributions to redefining music and gender performance are marginalised.

Or does Gaga get the props because she really is much more transgressive and interesting than any modern pop star, and I’m just too bitter to admit it?

Andrea: If I had to analyze her, I see Lady Gaga as the latest in a line of white women who use the paradox of white womanhood to gain attention and, through that, fame.  She does this by using the tropes of idealized white womanhood (various shades of blonde), her “minority” status of being a woman, and 1st-tier-school artiste (her outrageous outfits), so she’s seen as being able to “relate” to other marginalized people, like PoCs (especially the educatarati) and white queer folks and white feminists.  Through her blonded-out whiteness, she stands on the assumption of default whiteness as baseline for “racelessness.” She puts on the outfits to make her stand out, to make her “different,” which gets read as her signifying that she “understands” people with marginalized–especially visually marginalized–identities and/or politics.  For those folks who society makes to feel different via “looks,” LG is viewed white pop-cultural ally.  And the fact that LG does sincerely seem to stand up for non-hetero sexual and gender identities helps her gain a fan base, too.

Depending on the type of song, LG can affect an R&B melisma (“Video Phone”) or choppy dance-pop singing tone (just about all her other songs).  And the fact that she can, dancing-wise, keep up with R&B princess Beyonce–and that Beyonce and she guested in each other’s video–gives LG extra cred. Of course, her being all interracially “taboo” with Kanye–as ridiculous attention-whoring obvious as those various pairings appeared–just burnishes her cache.  She adds to the mythos of the “complexity” of whiteness via her image which, as you astutely pointed out, simply isn’t accorded to MIA.  MIA–for all her pretty right-on international politics and funky gear–is simply seen as an “exotic.”

My generation had Madonna and Cyndi Lauper, two white women who affected white womanhood and visual difference with famous results.  Cyndi Lauper, unfortunately was 1) a better songwriter than singer (can’t tell you how many version of “Time After Time” I’ve heard!) and 2) her one-note Noo Yawk squawky-punky schtick lasted for but so long.  Madonna rode her wave much longer by constant visual metamorphosis, but 1) she was still within confines of certain ideals about white ciswomanhood and 2) people called out the fact that her constant changing was really based on constant culture-vulturing.  And now, she’s simply seen as a middle-aged woman trying too hard to be relevant to young people.  Comparatively speaking, Lauper seems to have become a bit of an pop-cultural elder stateswoman, Celebrity Apprentice gig aside.  LG seems to have picked up on Lauper’s and Madonna’s outre white womanhood with more talent than Lauper and without the same culture-appropriation embodiment squick that Madonna causes.

Then, a couple of days later…

Andrea: I may have to (sorta) take back what I said about LG not taking from women of colour. This article says she bites Kelis’ style.   Gaga just doesn’t culture-rake, unlike Madonna.

Thea: Hoooweeeeee!

Hm, do you think this is a fair allegation? I do remember that Kelis had over-the-top sexuality and that that whole “I hate you so much right now!” stuff made a bit of a dent, but was she as surprising and challenging of gender norms as Lady Gaga? I don’t see them as being that parallel…even though Kelis’ “Caught out There” video also features a dead (drugged?) man. It’s interesting also to think about cultural support – maybe Lady Gaga came onto the scene more at a time when people were willing to see her art/music as confronting gender normativity, than they were able to recognise that in Kelis.

But at the same time, I really do think we have to weigh the role of race in this – why have all the gender studies academics gone mad for Lady Gaga, and there was nary a spike over M.I.A.’s, Kelis’, and Beyonce’s evolution? I think you see the same thing with MCs like Foxy Brown or even Trina; within their art there is a bold attack and a pushback on a certain idea of what makes a woman – often in fierce and creative ways – but they are not getting the cred or the recognition that these virginally blonde women, like Gaga, Madonna and Cyndi Lauper.

Which I think both has to do with the fact that women of colour are already non-norm, but also just the fact that racist media gives much less time to women of colour than white women.

And then a few weeks later…

When two of the most original singers of color back up your opinion, you get a whiff of the minty lemon scent of vindication.  At least that how the two of us felt when none other than Grace Jones and M.I.A. recently gave Lady Gaga direct side-eye in the press.

Perhaps what we made explicit is what Jones implied to in her comment about Gaga:

Has she copied her? “Well, you know, I’ve seen some things she’s worn that I’ve worn, and that does kind of piss me off.”

Is she talented? “I wouldn’t go to see her.”

So, did she ask to play with her? “Yes, she did, but I said no. I’d just prefer to work with someone who is more original and someone who is not copying me, actually.”

And M.I.A. said this:

Again, there’d Lady Gaga – people say we’re similar, that we both mix all these things in the pot and spit them out differently, but she spits it out exactly the same! None of her music’s reflective of how weird she wants to be or thinks she is. She models herself on Grace Jones and Madonna, but the music sounds like 20-year-old Ibiza music, you know? She’s not progressive, but she’s a good mimic. She sounds more like me than I fucking do!

M.I.A.’s comments seem particularly spot on: while the spectacle of Gaga is dazzling, ironically as a singer, her music is the least progressive thing about her. Especially when you contrast it with M.I.A’s bonkers rhymes and bold call-outs to volatile political conflicts.

Is this just a media-fed beef of two women of color against a white woman who reached out to at least one of them (Jones) because they want to create some buzz for their projects?  (The color-coded dynamics of that set-up alone…)

Perhaps. But, within their individual complaints, is the very real observation of how the media (again) marginalizes the innovations of female entertainers of color by exceptionalizing or otherwise exoticizing them as they hail the white woman who copies their style all the way to the bank and back to the pedestal.

Photo credits: WireImage

These are the notes for “Gaming Masculinity: Video games as a reflection on masculinity in Computer Science and African American Culture.” The notes are from a paper by Betsy James DiSalvo, presented at the Texas A & M University Race and Ethnic Studies Institute’s Symposium exploring Race, Ethnicity and (New) Media.

The abstract to the paper reads:

There are a number of efforts to broaden participation in computing to include underrepresented groups. However, few of these efforts have identified African American males as a population with cultural and gendered values that may inhibit them from entering Computer Science (CS). In this paper we will explore masculine identities within computer culture and African American culture by using video games as an object of inquiry. We hypotheses that the technological agency exhibited with video games is based upon cultural and gender practices; and by exploring video game play practices we can better understand how to increase the technological agency of African American males and broadening their participation in CS.

The paper/project was funded to help increase participation in the computer sciences, with a particular focus on underrepresented groups.

The research (hosted at the Georgia Institute for Technology) began by examining video game use by African American males, sparked by an exchange with a student. The student lamented:

Me and some of my black friends were talking about the other guys in CS. Some of them have been programming since they were eight. We can’t compete with that. Now, the only thing that I have been doing since I was eight is playing basketball. I would own them on the court. I mean it wouldn’t be fair, they would just stand there and I would dominate. It is sort of like that in CS.
– Undergraduate CS Major

This led to the researchers (Betsy James DiSalvo, Sybrina Y. Atwaters, Jill Dimond, and Dr. Amy Bruckman) to re-examine the assumptions around what makes for a successful computer science graduate. They decided to take a closer look at play practices. Play practices of being outside are the norm in many communities, but are not conducive to computers/gaming which require long amounts of indoors/solo time to become proficient.

The researches also examined the dominant environment in CS programs. Hacker culture is privileged in the CS learning environment, meaning that many students are drawn to the program because of their existing skills. This marginalizes many students who decide to enter at the college level, and do not have years of experience experimenting with programs on their own. CS programs also tend to trend toward the strongest programmers in the class, encouraging a DIY approach to learning, and leaving behind students who are new to the discipline.

DiSalvo and the other researches created a model for the “Idealized CS Masculinity.” The researchers were looking at cultural influences and how our presentations shape our interactions with our peers. For those in the CS community, the norms there rejects the body. There is not a premium placed physical performance, personal appearance, or even in some cases, hygienic personal care. Instead, the community values technological agency and proficiency above all. Competitiveness is encouraged. This type of person is also heavily attracted to technology, computer parts, and the latest gadgets and inventions.

In contrast, the researchers noted Idealized African American Masculinity was very different than computer science norms. For one, feedback from respondents noted that there was a body centric emphasis. A premium was placed on athleticism, physical power, appearance, and physical performance. There was little value placed on technological agency. So, from the beginning, the divergence in values could contribute to why there are less African American males in computer science programs.

However, there was a strange quirk in the research: Young black males may play video games more than most other groups. However, DiSalvo notes this data is not statistically significant – with gaming becoming a ubiquitous activity, there is only a slight increase over other groups with reported play rates.

Connections between video games and CS have been documented, but not qualitatively, meaning there isn’t a definitive connection between a heavy interest in games and an interest in working with computers. “Hardcore” gaming also does not have a consistent connection between hours played and the interest in CS Major. However, research has shown that gaming practices can be leveraged into CS Interest – and since video games are a cultural touchstone for the Millennial generation, it makes sense to pursue that link.

Looking at the data also revealed more trends: young black males often participated in community of practice, where video game competition was also a form of bonding. Sportmanship was emphasized. From a tech standpoint, African American males are more likely to playing on consoles instead of PCs, which limited opportunities for hacking, cheating, and modifying. However, they did play console games online with using digital cable. In contrast to the CS respondents, they did not consider online gaming to be a social activity, preferring in person play.
Family members were considered important in game play, and game time was often multi-generational. Their gaming experiences were also heavily gendered, playing mostly with male friends. Solo play is considered practice time for family events.

With these differences in mind, Georgia Tech created the Glitch Video Game Testers program to introduce more technical concepts into gaming and to encourage more African American youth to enter computer science programs by demystifying the field.

Latoya’s Note: Clearly, Betsy and I had a lot to discuss with reference to her research. I am fascinated by the paper she and her co-authors produced, and the interesting potential to increase the ranks of blacks in tech through gaming outreach. However, post presentation, one factor stood out to me in particular as needing further exploration. The paper examines the role of race, but not class in the development of skills – and, just speaking from personal experience, class heavily influenced my gaming experience. We discussed the divides around the ability to deconstruct technological items in the home, and how for some families, there would not have been the opportunity to experiment with the family computer by taking it apart. The console vs. PC divide is also, in some ways, a matter of class – to purchase a game console means that the owners will be able to play all the games issued for that console for the next 3 – 5 years, if not more. If a new version comes out of a system comes out, the system will not become obsolete. However, in the 1990s in particular, there was a constant need to upgrade your computer to keep pace with the changing technology. This dynamic was not present with a console – though the desire for new games would be there, older games could still be obtained and played. I am interested to see how discussions of social issues and technology continue to develop.

Related: Can Video Game Testing Spark Interest in Computing Among Black Youth?

This weekend, I received the following breathless entreaty through a listserv that I subscribe to:

Ebony/Jet Magazine on The Verge of Financial Collaspse (J P)
Date: Thu, 12 Mar 2009 07:45:31 -0400

One of the most notable permanent fixtures in every black household (back in the days), was the Ebony and Jet magazine. If you wanted to learn about your history, the plight of Black America, current issues facing Black Americans, how the political process of America affects you, how politics works, who the hottest actors were, what time a particular black television show aired, who got married recently, who were the most eligible bachelors and bachelorettes in your town, what cities had black mayors, police chiefs, school superintendents, how to register to Vote, what cars offer the best value for the buck, who employed black Americans, how to apply for college scholarships, etc., more than likely, Ebony or Jet magazine could help you find answers to those questions.

We have recently been informed that the Johnson Publishing Company is currently going through a financial crisis. The company is attempting a reorganization in order to survive. Many people have already lost their jobs with a company that has employed thousands of black Americans during the course of its existence.

In order to support this effort to save our magazine, my friends and myself have pledged to get a subscription to both Ebony and Jet magazine, starting with one year. We are urging every other club member who comes across this plea to do the same. Please post, repost, and post again, to any blog that you may own or support.

Please email this to every person that you know, regardless of their background. Let them know that Ebony and Jet magazines have been part of the black American culture for three quarters of a century, and that there is a lot that they can learn about black American culture from reading them.

We are currently discussing the idea of throwing an Ebony/Jet Party, where people can eat, drink, and sign up for their subscription on the spot. Please spread this idea around to all that you know. Your Sororities, Fraternities, Lodges, VFW Posts, Churches, Civic Groups, Block Clubs, Caps Meetings, Book Clubs, etc.

It would be a crying shame, to lose our historic magazine, during the same year of such an historic event as the election of our first black President of the United States.

Now, like a lot of other black people, I grew up with Ebony and Jet magazines on the family coffee table. I remember fondly sitting in the brown recliner in my grandparents’ back room reading a then-oversized Ebony with Billy Dee Williams, James Earl Jones and Richard Pryor on it. (Don’t know why I specifically recall that issue of the magazine, but for some reason it is one that remains etched in my mind.) I say this to illustrate that these magazines are part of my cultural history. Nevertheless, when I read the missive above, my first thought (after wondering if the message-writer understands that subscriptions generally account for far less of a publication’s revenue than advertising does) was…”Meh.” I’m not so sure that Ebony and Jet, as they stand today, are institutions worth going to the mat for.

To be sure, John H. Johnson, founder of the Johnson publishing empire that produces Ebony and Jet, represents an inspiring success story. When the 27-year-old entrepreneur launched Ebony in November 1945 (Jet was founded in 1951.), he did so in a climate of mainstreamed racial injustice. Black GIs, like my grandfather, were returning from fighting for “freedom” in World War II to find they were less than free at home in America. Real black voices and black life were obscured by stereotype in American media. Local black newspapers, such as another iconic Chicago publication, The Defender, and Johnson’s magazines were among the few places where black people could see their lives and culture reflected and read news important to them. We mattered to these news and lifestyle outlets. Forget the New York Times, these were our publications of record.

Today, Ebony enjoys a circulation of more than 1.4 million, while Jet reaches nearly 1 million people each week. But I suspect neither magazine is as ubiquitous in the homes of my generation of black folks (GenX) as they were for my parents and grandparents. The truth is, like many Civil Rights-era institutions, both publications began feeling irrelevant a long time ago. Yes, black people still need someplace to see their lives and culture reflected and to read news important to them. (Today’s media is much better in covering people of color, but far from perfect.) But are Ebony and Jet the go-to places for that anymore? No, because while black America has changed over the last 60-some years, these publications have seemed largely the same–like museum pieces. I think of them fondly (like my grandparents’ old recliner in the back room), but emphatically not as publications-of-record.

An example of Johnson Publishing’s out-of-touchness? Sunday at the neighborhood Wal-Mart, I picked up a Jet for the first time in forever, in preparation for this post. I wanted to know if it was still there. In an age when black women are fighting stereotyped images of ourselves as Jezebels, playthings and acoutrement for the latest hip hop star whose cuts are banging in the whips of white, teenage suburbanites–it couldn’t still be there. But, yeah, centerspread, there it was–that paean to black woman thickitude–the Jet Beauty of the Week, a young, black woman in a teeny swimsuit giving sexy face. Is this what I’m supposed to rush to the battlements to save?

The forefront of the black communications revolution is now on the Web, where brothers and sisters are breaking news (Jena 6), championing causes and serving up provocative opinions. Ebony and Jet, I think, have failed to keep pace with a world where there is Ta-Nehisi Coates and What About Our Daughters and Racialicious and Aunt Jemima’s Revenge and Womanist Musings and TransGriot and Something Within and Color of Change and Pam’s House Blend and The Root and Black and Married with Kids, and, hell, Bossip. Today, black readers can get superior writing about politics, black life, marriage, parenting, sexuality, pop culture, identity, racism, sexism, spirituality, finance and a host of other issues, for free, everyday, all day, online. The topics covered (or not covered) by Ebony and Jet, the lack of depth in writing, the formats, the frickin beauty of the week, make these publications seem frozen in time, while the world speeds up around them.

Beyond all that, how is Johnson Publishing going to adjust to the new digital age? It’s not the only print purveyor facing this question. Local newspapers across the country need to answer it too. America has changed the way it consumes information, and so far, print media hasn’t found a profitable way to adapt. That’s a shame, because we desperately need the Fourth Estate. We need in-depth reporting. Marginalized folks need these things more than most. God knows that black folks could use the shot to our collective self-esteem that Johnson Publishing’s products offer. But taking extraordinary life-saving measures to rescue publications like Ebony and Jet is merely stalling the inevitable unless ailing publications put strategic plans in place to innovate and evolve.

Look, the older I get the more pieces of my past mean to me. (That’s probably why I spent the weekend watching old episodes of “Columbo,” “Quincy” and “MacMillan and Wife” on Netflix.) But nostalgia isn’t enough reason for me to join the charge to save Ebony and Jet. All the Ebony/Jet parties in the world won’t make a difference if these black cultural icons aren’t making the changes necessary to save themselves.

Newbos: The Rise of America’s New Black Overclass, a one-hour CNBC documentary examining megarich black entrepreneurs which premiered last night, comes at an odd time. Hosted by Lee Hawkins of The Wall Street Journal (who is also a CNBC contributor), the show emphasizes the tremendous successes a select group of African-Americans have had in the sports and entertainment industries, but does so during a period in which African-Americans as a whole—along with just about every other demographic—are suffering immensely as a result of the United States’ collapsing economy. Why, then, focus an hour on stories of stratospheric accomplishment, some of which have as much to do with freakish distributions of natural talent as business savvy? Don’t we have more important things to learn about race and wealth, especially given that African-Americans were disproportionately affected by the subprime mortgage crisis?

Newbos could have overcome these troublesome questions if it had explained something novel about how race and wealth interact in America, or if it had advanced some bold new argument about what it means to be rich and African-American. Unfortunately, it does neither. In many regards, Newbos instead follows in the footsteps of the chronically ill and chronically myopic economic reporting that failed to predict the current collapse (a lot of which emanated from, ahem, CNBC). This reporting—which often looked more like cheerleading—was fixated on success stories, treated “millionaires created” as one of the only meaningful economic metrics, and decided not to bother tackling that whole pesky inequality thing. Newbos, despite the occasional noteworthy nugget, makes all the same blunders: It celebrates black entrepreneurship and focuses on some of the obstacles that very successful African-Americans must overcome, but refuses to face or address any of the real issues related to wealth distribution and race.

Hawkins, who devoted three years to researching and writing an upcoming book with the same title, devotes chunks of the hour to interviews with and examinations of NBA superstar LeBron James, Major League Baseball star Torii Hunter, gospel singer Kirk Franklin, BET founder and Charlotte Bobcats majority owner Robert Johnson, NFL wide receiver Terrell Owens, and, as a pair, brothers Ronald Slim and Bryan “Baby” Williams, the CEOs of Cash Money Records.

These interviews have some interesting moments. James exudes selflessness when he discusses how he hopes his success opens doors for those around him, how he wants the legacy of the management company he founded, LRMR Marketing, to reflect not just his own influence as a basketball player, but the hard work of the talented roster of African-American businesspeople who built it from the ground up. Johnson talks about the “loneliness” that comes from being one of only two African-American billionaires (Oprah Winfrey is the other). And Slim and Williams discuss the importance of diversifying their business interests in order to survive the tough economic times to come (the two have dipped into the seemingly endless market for ring tones, and have signed the artist Kevin Rudolf, who is closer to rock than rap, to their hip-hop label).

There’s a thinness to all of this, however, because a lot is left unsaid. Every one of these success stories is undoubtedly inspiring in its own way. But we don’t hear much about what’s new here. Michael Jordan rewrote the rules of what it means to be a megarich African-American superstar 20 years ago, and was in certain key regards the first such star to see himself not just as a successful athlete or singer, but as a marketing asset to be built up over time. How are things different now? More importantly, Hawkins doesn’t show much interest in looking at the systemic inequalities and dysfunctions that continue to plague African-Americans to this day.

The easy response to this is: Well, it’s CNBC. The network covers business and businesspeople. Social commentary isn’t its thing. But the intersection of race and class is about as fraught a topic as you can get. We live in a country in which race-based inequality is, and always has been, a pressing human-rights issue. Whether or not this falls under CNBC or Hawkins’ “beat,” the exclusion of a serious discussion of any of this means only a tiny fraction of the intended story is told.

The one time Newbos brushes up against these topics comes not from Hawkins or any of the famous interview subjects, but from a kid in a youth group Franklin (the gospel singer) heads at his church. He tells a heartbreaking story about how, when he told his teacher he wanted to go to law school, she immediately cut him off and told him it wasn’t going to happen. This is a far more revealing, affecting moment than anything else that occurs during the documentary. It’s a brief glimpse at the complicated structures and institutions that undergird inequality, which, other than during this brief moment, never get more than a passing glance.

Another curious aspect of the show is the lack of any female African-American success stories. Obviously there are some—though not enough—and obviously their stories would have added an extra layer of interest to some already wrought issues. Hawkins mentions Oprah plenty (how could he not?), but she doesn’t garner her own segment, and no other successful female African-Americans come up. Why not discuss Beyoncé? Or, perhaps more interestingly, Gwen Ifill? Or how about Tyra Banks, Kimora Lee Simmons, or Sheila Johnson? For a documentary already hampered by its narrow level of focus, the exclusion of any female presence hurts.

Newbos tells us very little about race and class, and it tells us very little that is new or useful about rich African-Americans. What it does tell us, albeit inadvertently, is that the CNBCs of the world don’t seem to have quite learned their lesson. We’re living through what some are calling the biggest economic crisis in eight decades, and during every step of the run-up to it we were presented with smiling images of successful, recent millionaires and billionaires. We were told that they were paragons of the entrepreneurial spirit, of the potential of the free market, of the value of hard work. And in many senses they were. But as the cameras lingered on them and their lavish lifestyles, ignoring the alarming, widening gap between rich and poor, the unsustainable system that many of them exploited began to fall apart, taking us all with it. Newbos, rather than turning against these rose-colored tendencies for what could have been an important discussion on wealth and race, has instead embraced them. The timing could not be worse.

Jesse Singal is an Associate Editor at Campus Progress.

(Photo Credit: CNBC)

For all its considerable charm and sharpness, there’s a patina of sadness that hangs over Medicine for Melancholy, a new film written and directed by Barry Jenkins that just entered limited theatrical release. The story focuses tightly on a man and a woman (Wyatt Cenac and Tracey Heggins) in the wake of their one-night stand at a party. The initial awkwardness gives way to a tenuous connection, as the two quasi-bohos realize that they share many of the same cultural affinities (which Cenac’s character, Micah, refers to by the shorthand, “indie”). The stuff they like, Micah notes at one point, is decidedly about not being black.

This could all be cute and earnest in the way a lot of mumblecore is — quirky boy meets quirky girl in hip, scenester-ish town — but Melancholy has much bigger questions to ask.

Micah is a preternaturally chill native San Franciscan who feels increasingly alienated as the city rapidly gentrifies. “Imagine the Lower Haight filled with nothing but black folk and white artists,” he tells Jo, his would-be lover, about his long-gone San Fran. (It’s become the least black of America’s major cities.) Jo, wary at first but charming over time, is a transplant who doesn’t see the world in Micah’s specifically racialized terms, and it’s implied by the relative sizes of their living spaces that she occupies a higher position in the economic food chain. Both though, are black people partaking in a social milieu where Negroes are rarities. None of this tension is anywhere near as didactic as it may sound; these issues come up intermittently in the course of the pair walking and biking around, making each other laugh and generally feeling each other out.

The film is almost relentlessly plausible, and there are plenty of long silences between the two; they’ve had sex, but they don’t know each other. As well as they begin to connect, there’s enough difference in their respective outlooks for those things to become real fissures in the future — a future, which given the circumstances under which they’ve met, is far from assured. There are as many reasons for their dyad to work as there are for it not to. And so they (mostly) avoid discussing it.

The two leads are in just about every shot in the movie, and Cenac, best known for his work on The Daily Show, is a particular surprise. Tracey Heggins is the right mix of opaque and warm as Jo, and it’s obvious why Micah is so taken with her. Jenkins imbues Melancholy (which is shot almost completely in sepia tones) with an excellent sense of pace and place; San Francisco is as much a character as Jo or Micah. It’s Jenkins’s first film, and it’s an assured debut. Even the scene in which Micah and Jo listen in on a community meeting on the city’s rent control laws doesn’t seem forced, though by all rights it should have.

I saw Melancholy two days ago, and I’ve been trying to get it out of my head since then. No dice. It’s the rare film that gets everything right about city life: random connection, anonymity, loneliness, class tensions, and most importantly — possibility.

Remember my ex-friend “Mona?” I wrote about our “breakup” in a post called “Race and friendship:”

The social construct we call race is complicated, but there are a few things about it that I know to be true. One thing is that everyone who grows up in this country absorbs some prejudice–everyone, no matter their race. Also, many people have no real relationships with anyone outside of their own culture. Most racial misunderstandings are borne of ignorance not malice. As a woman of color, I try to keep that truth in mind. Nevertheless, last year I lost a good friend. And our parting can be blamed on race–biases that I felt my friend was unwilling to examine and that I was unable to forgive.

There were other strains on my end of our friendship. My friend, let’s call her Mona, could be overbearing and self-centered, and she possessed a frankness that sometimes crossed the line to rudeness. But to be honest, that was part of her charm. When we met, we were both working for a large public relations agency. I liked Mona the minute I met her. I have a soft spot for misfits, and she didn’t fit in with the agency types–those skinny, stylish girls with their Kate Spade bags and rich daddies. Neither did I. Mona was smart, loud, sassy and a little hippie dippy. She liked to talk about past lives and “bad energy,” and she would rail against the patriarchy and “the man.” While I philosophically talked about politics, she would get in the trenches and volunteer to help Democratic campaigns in other cities. Mona and I became good friends.

It occurred to me sometimes that my friend’s “power to the people” ideology was somewhat theoretical. I knew she had other friends of color, but I also knew that they were like me–educated and assimilated–friends who could slip easily into the mainstream. But aren’t we all most comfortable with people who share our interests, values and likes? Race was not a precious topic between Mona and I. We discussed it openly. I explained the black women and hair thing. She talked about what it was like as a white woman to date black men. Then something changed.

About a year and a half into our friendship, Mona moved away to Washington, D.C. and I gradually began to sense that life in that black city was changing my friend. She seemed hardened and less tolerant. Maybe for her, familiarity bred contempt. Estrangement began with a comment here and there. There was the remark about a colleague that was a black woman but really sharp and pretty. Then something about how she usually didn’t get along with Jewish women. Then, Katrina happened.

I was horrified watching civilization fall apart in New Orleans–people begging for water, bodies floating, towns keeping neighbors from crossing bridges to safety, the media labeling American citizens “refugees,” and our president congratulating the inept crony who failed to grasp the magnitude of the whole disaster. In the aftermath, I talked to Mona on the phone. “Yeah, I sent money to the animal shelters down there,” she said, adding “but I didn’t send any money to those fucking people.”

Those fucking people. Her words felt like a slap. I wondered if she meant those fucking poor people or those fucking black people. I didn’t like it either way. I realize that internal and external factors affect one’s situation in life. But those desperate people on my television set didn’t need a lecture or contempt. They needed compassion. Though I sat warm and safe in a home more than 1,000 miles north of the Gulf, I identified with the Katrina survivors–those forgotten and inconvenient black people. And I felt attacked by my friend’s inhumane position. We spoke for a long time that evening about poverty and race, but Mona failed to muster much sympathy for the victims of the hurricane. I hung up the phone feeling anxious and sad.

Some people would have ended the relationship there, I know. But I knew Mona as a friend who had always been generous, supportive and good to me. Her recent comments didn’t square with the person I had known for years–the good liberal who had a guru and took annual treks to commune with nature in the mountains. We spoke sporadically over the following months, then it ended with one last phone call. We were speaking on the run, as long-distance friends often do. I was in the drive-thru at the neighborhood Dairy Queen and Mona was running some errand hundreds of miles away, annoyed she said by D.C.’s celebration of “fucking” Emancipation Day, a commemoration of the day the city’s slaves were freed. “Everything is closed. It’s ridiculous!” She said. “Between this, the Duke case and Don Imus, I’m getting really sick of this shit.” I didn’t have to ask what shit that was.

I ended that conversation quickly and I haven’t spoken with Mona since, though she has left a few messages. I just let the figurative and literal distance grow between us. I feel like a coward for not confronting her and telling her why we can’t be friends. Maybe she agrees. Maybe she was finding our discussions about race difficult and frustrating. I never asked. I feel guilty, like I betrayed people of color by not getting angry, not slamming the phone down at the first sign of my friend’s prejudice, not immediately thinking Mona was a bad person–a racist. But what would that have solved? I am old enough to know that a lot of good people have screwed up beliefs about other races. You don’t educate people and change minds by walking away. But I did walk away. It’s just easier not to talk about race, isn’t it?

I don’t hate Mona. In fact, as I write this, I feel a little protective, like I’ve painted her too negatively. In addition to doing the things that ended our friendship, Mona wrangled the photographer at my wedding, listened to me kvetch and moan when corporate life got to me, stayed on the phone with me during a late night hysterical drive from Chicago to Atlanta (don’t ask), called herself my husband’s “football wife” because she likes to talk about the NFL as much as he does. She did a lot of good things. And I miss her. I tried to understand her. I tried to educate her. I just couldn’t accept feeling that someone who was dear to me held my people in disdain, even as she called me friend.

I wish race weren’t so damned complicated.

Reading this post again, I am struck by how I have evolved over the past two years.

I had coffee with Mona two days ago. She called to say she was in town for a conference. We should do dinner, she said. I was ambivalent. Nearly two years of distance had erased any longing I had for our former friendship, but the wounds of her racist comments were as fresh as the day they were inflicted. Racism can be like that. It’s poison spreads to obliterate good memories. But I agreed to meet in the cafe in the building where I work.

We fumbled for conversation.

“So, how have things been?”

How do you catch someone up on two years of personal happenings, workplace drama and general trivia?

“Oh, fine.”

Mona and I could always talk about politics. We are both political junkies. Both Democrats. She has worked on The Hill and currently lives in D.C. I used to love hearing from her what was going on inside the Beltway. I asked how it felt to be in the thick of things during the inauguration.

My former friend rolled her eyes. “I left town. I hate that piece of shit Obama.”

That pronouncement began a vitriolic monologue in which I learned that Mona was a P.U.M.A. I also learned that I had not misjudged the level of her racial prejudice. I had hoped it would be better–that I had misunderstood her somehow and that the Mona who was the first to learn when my then-boyfriend bought my engagement ring would show up.

“Oh, but you should have come for the inauguration. It would have been a nice moment for YOU.”

I steered the conversation to a safe zone–work. And after less than an hour, our meeting was done. So, too, is our friendship.

Race and sisterhood: I’ve written about these topics many times over the last year. In the heated days of the 2008 Presidential Campaign, I debated, attacked, cajoled and found resolution online with many anonymous “sisters” who seemed a lot like Mona. Why, then, won’t I try to heal a relationship with a woman I’ve actually met–a friend with whom I’ve gossiped, hung out and shared secrets?

Because it is one thing to debate a commenter on a feminist blog. I am not invested in whether Anonymous #5 respects me as a black woman. We can agree to disagree. But I need more from my friends.

You know, I’ve been thinking about the Paul Laurence Dunbar poem “We Wear the Mask” since it came up during my podcast a few weeks ago. As an African American woman, I wear a mask everyday, from the time I leave the house before 7 a.m. until the time I come home. I censor. I hide. I edit. I temper. That’s just what black folks do to make it. But I am nearly 40 and the mask is getting heavy and stifling. I need to breathe. I breathe on this blog. And I breathe in my private time. I don’t need more relationships that force me don that damned mask. So, Mona and I are through. And I don’t feel guilty. I don’t feel longing for a lost friendship. I don’t feel bad at all.

This story isn’t so complicated. It’s not even so much about race. It’s about self-respect. And I intend to keep mine.

We Wear the Mask

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,

We wear the mask!

A couple of weeks ago the NY Times ran a piece about the lack of progress of African American directors over the last decade. It seems that African American filmmakers suffer the same issues as women filmmakers — being stuck in a niche and unable to get out. Whether it’s right or not, or desired or not, most African American directors get pigeon holed into creating stories for African American audiences which are still not seen as “mainstream.” Personally, I would rather see a film like The Secret Life of Bees directed by an African American woman like it was, because I would venture to say that Gina Prince-Bythewood (pictured top right) would do a better job than a white woman or white man. I don’t see anything wrong with that. But because women and people of color are seen as “niche audiences” anyone who is in those groups gets stuck. I don’t think the problem is with the audiences. The Secret Life of Bees was a steady earner all through the fall with black and white women. I think the word niche is evil and should be banished. Why aren’t stories like Cadillac Records which boasts an amazing performance from Beyonce (tell me why they couldn’t sell her?) seen as American stories? Once the movie business figures out that they can make money by getting people beyond the “niche” maybe we will see more opportunities for African American directors and women directors.

Some points from the article:

You could now literally count on one hand (using two fingers) the number of black directors who can get their projects made and distributed at a steady rate. One is (Spike) Lee…while the other is Tyler Perry.

Momentum for African-American cinema, it would seem, has been curtailed or at least stalled in part by studio executives’ preconceptions that black films are “niche product” with limited appeal. Yet at the same time black directors and producers still express optimism that they not only can continue to cultivate their black audiences but also can reach out further and wider to the mainstream…

Darnell Martin, the director of Cadillac Record is a cautionary, yet surprisingly typical tale of what happens to women directors:

Ms. Martin places much of the blame for her sporadic career in the feature-film business on the conflicts she had over the promotion of “I Like It Like That.” “They insisted on making me the poster child for the film, the ‘female Spike Lee,’ and I said, ‘Look, I don’t mind that. I’m proud to be a black woman director, and I want that out there.’ But we’d gotten some great reviews, and I felt that was what they should be leading with. If it had been a white director, they would have emphasized the reviews, but instead they were trying to get people to see it only because I was black.

“So I fought pretty hard over that. Actually it was more like a head-on collision. And I was told, ‘If you continue like this, you will never work again.’ And I thought, ‘That’s O.K., I paid off my student loans what’re they going to take away from me?’ So I was getting known for being someone you couldn’t control.”

She also held on to a stubborn selectivity. “I was offered a lot of things that were about women of color, but I didn’t know yet how to make those things good.”

Though the success of movies like “The Secret Life of Bees” perpetually makes black filmmakers more hopeful about their prospects, African-American films still have barriers to break. “The biggest,” Mr. Berney said, “is outside the U.S. where the perception remains within the industry that the international audience for African-American product is close to zero. And yet when you consider the global popularity of hip-hop culture and by extension, black culture, you have to wonder whether this perception comes from outmoded thinking from international buyers who aren’t in tune with today’s audience.”

Tyler Perry is set to release a film version of his play, Madea Goes to Jail, which I happened to watch with my family back home in Nashville over the Christmas holiday. TP flicks are best enjoyed as a community, because as you’re responding to your mother’s giggles about Madea’s swinging bosom, you can forget about what appears to be his real message, lurking beneath all that homespun wisdom.

Almost.

(Spoilers ahead.)

In Madea Goes to Jail, Sonny, Madea’s nephew, his wife Vanessa, and their infant son, live with the outspoken matriarch. Vanessa is in graduate school, and Sonny works hard at the local jail, pulling extra hours to finance her education. The two have a deal that once she earns her degree, it will be his turn to go back to school. But it soon becomes clear that Vanessa is an ill-mannered, disrespectful, spoiled, ungrateful bitch who doesn’t want to do the right thing by catering to her husband out of gratitude for his hard work and support. She loudly complains about taking care of the baby or performing any other domestic chore, stressing the need to complete her graduate study so she can make something out of herself. She’s so out of pocket that the busybody next door neighbor, Ella, admittedly manless, irons Sonny’s work shirt for Vanessa, as she sings about how to take care of a man and keep him happy.

Of course, Sonny loves Vanessa’s dirty underwear, despite rumors of her sexual past. He’s willing to overlook her thankless behavior, in part, because she’s beautiful and that’s what good husbands do. We see more of Sonny’s good heart once he goes to work to help Madea get out of jail. He doesn’t like confrontation; he just wants to do his job and be properly compensated for it. At the jail, we meet Wanda, an old high school friend who is now a successful prosecutor for Child and Family Services. Wanda is quietly attractive, saved, and holding a serious torch for Sonny, who either doesn’t recognize it or doesn’t acknowledge it, setting his role as Good Married Guy firmly in place.

Still, things continue smoothly until we learn that his boss and good friend, Nate, is having an affair with Vanessa. As a result of this infidelity, the child’s life is put in danger, and Vanessa lands in jail, seemingly without remorse for her part in the situation. The child needs a blood transfusion to live, which is when we discover that Sonny is not the father. And neither is Nate. Poor, poor Sonny. Overworked, underpaid, underappreciated, and now given the ultimate insult to a good Black man– he’s been taking care of a child not his own! How much more sympathy can we the audience have for him? And what is more natural than for him to turn to Wanda, the less obviously beautiful, already accomplished, spiritually grounded, and — did I mention? — celibate friend, who’s been secretly pining away, waiting for him to notice her.

To be fair, it appears that the film for Madea Goes to Jail will be almost completely different from the play. However, I probably won’t see it, unless my aunt is playing the bootleg version in her nail shop the next time I go home. Finding love through salvation doesn’t sit well with me, and the possible colorism in effect (perfect, fair-skinned fiancee vs. pitiful, dark brown prostitute) also sets my teeth on edge. An internet chum, in a discussion board debate surrounding TP and T.D. Jakes, recently claimed that all Tyler Perry wants you to do is go to church. I’m not so sure.

There is little to dispute that TP’s target audience is Black women, so let’s look at the message we’ve received so far from the play. A beautiful, ambitious driven woman is a promiscuous, shrill bitch and a danger to the home. A good woman doesn’t turn heads with her beauty, is soft-spoken, religious, and will wait- sexually and emotionally- for the right man to come along. We see this play out as well in the movie version of Tyler Perry’s Why Did I Get Married?

Angela, the successful entrepreneur, drinks, is unruly, and loudly and frequently emasculates her somewhat inept husband Marcus, thereby leaving little sympathy for her during his constant forays outside of the marriage. It is only when he finally snaps, calling her out on her behavior (i.e. starts acting like a man) that she becomes soft-spoken and even takes on the womanly responsibility of cooking him a meal. Patricia has a patient, good husband in Gavin, a great career that reaches high levels of professional praise, but her busy, perfect schedule has a tragic affect on her ability to be a parent. Diane, a powerhouse attorney glued to her Blackberry and laptop, neglects her patient, good husband Terry (played by TP), is ambivalent about her relationship as a mother and, without telling her husband, has made a major decision about her body that directly affects his dreams about family. These professionally successful women just don’t know how to make a home! And finally, we have Sheila, whose beauty must be qualified with the phrase “Plus-Sized,” soft-spoken, devout, unemployed, willing to take on the emotional and mental abuse of her brazenly unfaithful husband Mike, until her friends force her to accept the truth. Sheila, once dependent on Mike, then must rely on Sherriff Troy, who gets her a job, helps rescue her from being overweight, and gives her the confidence she needs to realize he’s the man she’s been praying for.

I suppose all that would have churches swelling to capacity because in the end, the gentle, pious, overlooked woman gets her man and the career-oriented, no-nonsense, attractive woman must make sacrifices, lest she end up in jail — or worse — childless.

So getting “us” into church is not his only objective. TP wants to teach women how to have successful relationships by making sure their male partners are satisfied. His morality plays, on stage and film, scold women: Be quiet, in appearance and voice. Don’t try to be more than what you are. Serious ambition is a danger to the family. Be grateful for “good enough.” Wait for the right man to notice you. Don’t bring attention to yourself. Be appropriately thankful when a man takes care of you.

For some, it’s easier to swallow these tidbits of wisdom with humor and the comforting memories of an outspoken matriarch. TP disguises his lessons as carefully as he disguises himself in floral prints and exaggerated twang, but sometimes, the man peeks out from the caricature, and I wonder how long it will be before he has removed the mask completely.

From the Washington Post:

Republicans who are vying to lead the national party offered a mix of reactions yesterday to the decision by one candidate for the job to mail out a music CD including the song “Barack the Magic Negro.”

Chip Saltsman defended his actions, telling the Hill newspaper that the song — and others on the CD, which was mailed to party members — was nothing more than a lighthearted parody. But his rivals in the contest to chair the Republican National Committee said it carried an inaccurate message about what the GOP stands for.

My favorite quote:

And former Ohio secretary of state Ken Blackwell defended Saltsman and attacked the media.

“Unfortunately, there is hypersensitivity in the press regarding matters of race. This is in large measure due to President-elect Obama being the first African American elected president,” Blackwell, who is black, said in a statement.

“I don’t think any of the concerns that have been expressed in the media about any of the other candidates for RNC chairman should disqualify them,” he said. “When looked at in the proper context, these concerns are minimal. All of my competitors for this leadership post are fine people.”

Whenever I read about incidents like this (and there have been many throughout the primaries, the election, and will continue beyond the inauguration), my mind keeps straying back to Keli Goff’s book Party Crashing: How the Hip Hop Generation Declared Political Independence.

I voted for Barack Obama in the general election. (This should be no secret to regular readers of this blog.) But I still identify as a political independent.

And according to Goff, I’m not alone:

According to the 2001 study from the Joint Center for Political and Economic Studies, approximately 30% of black Americans ages eighteen to thirty-five identify themselves as political independents. It is tempting to dismiss such provocative findings as a fluke, so in 2007, in conjunction with the Political Research Center of Suffolk University, I conducted a follow up study of four hundred randomly selected black Americans ages eighteen to forty five (the age range of respondents was expanded to incorporate the responses of those who would have been thirty-five at the time of the initial Joint Center Study). Our findings confirmed that a definite shift has occurred in how younger black Americans are defining themselves politically. More significantly, more than a third of younger black Americans no longer feel the need to conform to traditional party labeling.

(Goff, pages 4-5)

So here is what drives me insane about this whole situation.

Are we seriously saying that all these well-paid political strategists can’t see the writing on the wall? Thirty percent of young black voters identify as independent and in each general election, the Republicans still can’t pull more than 10% of the black vote?

Goff dedicates a chapter to the GOP in her book, titled “Can the Party of Lincoln become the Party of 50 Cent?” The section of the book goes into detail about GOP strategies for outreach to the black community – and the subsequent setbacks it suffered due to the racism within the higher ranks of the Grand Ol’ Party.

Goff also cites Ken Mehlman, former chair of the Republican National Committee, who made diversifying the Republican Party a key aspect of his work with the GOP. In the book, Mehlman explains that his upbringing influenced his embrace of diversity, pointing out that “historically, the Jewish and the black communities have worked together on a variety of issues.” Staunchly against bigotry, Melhman stood before the NAACP in 2005, famously stating:

“Some Republicans gave up on winning the African-American vote, looking the other way or trying to benefit from racial polarization. I am here as Republican chairman to tell you we were wrong.”

Unfortunately, that sentiment was not shared by many in his party.

The rest of Goff’s chapter is peppered with political gaffes made by various high profile Republicans that helped to drive away black voters. Starting with Richard Nixon (who earned 32% of the black vote when he ran against JFK in 1960), the Republicans have relied on divisive campaigning based on race (soon to be known as the Southern Strategy).

Goff counts off the various other tactics employed by the GOP: the use of a Willie Horton based, racially inflammatory ad during the Dukakis race, the “Hands” ad run in 1990 by Jesse Helms, G.W. Bush’s speech at Bob Jones University (which at the time had a ban on interracial dating), the Bush administration’s challenge of the University of Michigan’s undergraduate admissions procedures (with both Condoleezza Rice and Colin Powell voicing dissent), Trent Lott’s 2002 comments at Strom Thurmond’s 100th birthday, former G.H.W. Bush appointee William Bennett’s comment in 2005 that “you could abort every black baby in this country, and your crime rate would go down*,” and the response to Hurricane Katrina.

And of course, we all saw how race baiting in the 2008 election went down.

Much discussion in political spheres has been on how the GOP can move forward and become a party that can attract a diverse coalition of voters.

However, the GOP doesn’t actually have to do much to attract minority voters. Support good candidates with a solid platform with something to say. Bring candidates to debates that actually add something to the national conversation. Redefine your idea of “real America.”

And it would also help if you took the “racists welcome” sign off your front door.

- – -

*The full quote is:

If you wanted to reduce crime, you could – if that was your sole purpose, you could abort every black baby in the country, and your crime rate would go down. That would be an impossible, ridiculous, and morally reprehensible thing to do, but your crime rate would go down.

If you follow the Wikipedia link in the text, you see the full context of Bennett’s remarks, as they stemmed from a Freakonomics theory that proposed the legalization of abortion led to the declines in crime. But the rub is that the Freakonomics study did not focus on race. They focused on “teenagers, unmarried women, and the economically disadvantaged” in the press surrounding their study and in the analysis. Race is discussed on page twelve of the study as another marginal factor and some statistics are provided about crimes committed by blacks versus crimes committed by whites, correlated with the number of abortions for each racial group. The other 41 pages of the study mainly touch on class, crime rates, and break downs by region.

So, the question here is why did Bennett equate crime with black? Or abortion with black, depending on your interpretation of his comments?

Ericka Andersen:

I continue to hear — from politicians and their constituents — that Republicans must start connecting with voters on a cultural level or they are screwed. It was reiterated again this morning by Saul Anuzis, the Michigan Republican Party Chairman running for Chairman of the Republican National Committee.

He had a story for us: On a bus ride, he struck up a conversation with two African-American women who’d just come from a church event in the city. He said they spoke of traditional values and many conservative principles they all shared. When Anuzis asked them what it was like to be black Republicans, they were taken aback. They weren’t Republicans, they said. It was clear to Anuzis that the women possessed principles of the Republican Party but that Party had not reached out to them on a level they related to.

“You can’t ignore groups of people and expect them to vote for you,” he said. Republicans have not done a good job with African-American voters, as we’ve seen. Culture has been put to the side in favor of political agenda but now there is an opportunity to change that.

Frankly, this is (or should be) obvious to anyone who has actually taken the time to analyze African-American political views. The plain fact is that there is – always has been – a natural constituency in the African-American community for conservative ideologies. And I’m not only referencing gay marriage or abortion here. Despite high rates of single motherhood within the African-American community, plenty of black people – I’d say most – are really committed to the idea of two parents and a stable marriage. Indeed, our history almost dictates that we should be; one of the great injustices of slavery was the refusal on part of slave owners to recognize slave marriage vows. What’s more, slave owners purposefully tore slaves apart, sending husbands, wives and children to separate plantations. As such, when the opportunity to marry freely came, blacks cherished it and still do as a community.

It is also worth adding that there is a strain within African-American thought which can be accurately called “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” conservatism, where “yourself” refers to the black community as a whole. Until the 1930s, blacks (at least those that could vote) were a fairly reliable Republican constituency and in the early 20th century, men like Booker T. Washington and Marcus Garvey had wide followings. Even the “Black Power” movement was focused – mainly – on black empowerment and black self-sufficiency. Hell, the famous Malcolm X image “By Any Means Necessary” could stand as an advertisement for the NRA if you simply replaced Malcolm’s image with a slightly heavy-set white guy.

Ericka says that if the GOP wants to attract African-Americans in significant numbers, it needs to adopt a new tone. And on some level, I agree. Republicans lost African-Americans for good in the 1960s, when Nixon responded to black support for the Democratic Party by embracing Southern (and for that matter, Northern) whites embittered by the Civil Rights movement. As we all know, Nixon ran against blacks using coded language couched in issues like busing and “law & order.” Ronald Reagan continued this proud tradition, by again running against blacks, this time decrying “welfare queens” and the like.

An improved tone would help; African-Americans would feel more comfortable voting for Republicans if they didn’t believe that Republicans were either A) vicious racists or B) pretending not to be vicious racists (this is only a slight exaggeration). But an improved tone is a little superficial. If the Republican Party is serious about contesting the black vote, it needs to offer policies which address the problems in the African-American community. A good deal of political science literature (”linked-fate” theory, to be precise) suggests that African-Americans don’t vote for individual interest as much as they vote for group interest, and since Reconstruction, have support the party which they believe will benefit African-American interests as a whole. Blacks were Republicans for so long because Republicans – at least until the beginning of the 20th century – were actually interested in improving the conditions of blacks. Republicans proposed civil rights and anti-lynching legislation, and directed the federal government to assist black efforts to establish economically successful communities.

I don’t want to diminish the importance of an improved tone; simply repudiating the racist element of the Republican Party (and this election reminded us that it is there) would help a good deal. This – however – is really an effort which local Republican organizations will have to pursue. For national Republicans, pursuing good policy – and framing it in a way that shows its benefits for African-Americans – is vital if they want to contest the Democratic hold on the black vote.

*Warning: Strong Language*

Regular readers might remember a piece I wrote a year or so ago, called Hair, Apparently. In the piece I wrote about an incident where I felt like someone had insinuated I was a “house nigga” because my hair was straightened with a chemical relaxer.

The piece sparked an interesting conversation in the comments and I was comforted by the reactions by most of the readers – do you and let it be done. The overwhelming consensus was your hair is your hair and you should be able to do with it what you please. (Should is the operative word, but more on that later.)

However, a lot of time has passed since then. In the interim, I read Tami’s piece (the original version of the piece posted here), started reading Afrobella’s blog regularly, and watched as my friend Spiffany transitioned from chemical relaxers to a beautiful and natural do. I admired what people could do with their naturals, but never felt motivated to do it myself.

Yet, Tami posed a little question in her original piece that always stuck in my mind.

Earlier this year, a fellow blogger very smartly observed that black women may be the only race of women who live their whole lives never knowing what their real hair looks and feels like. Think about that.

I was one of those women. Aside from a happy little puffball photo from the fifth grade* and a couple of shots of me with pressed hair, I had a relaxer for as long as I could remember. And that question stayed with me, for the next six or so months until I had my third Catastrophic Relaxer Disaster^TM and found myself bald at my temples and missing a big chunk of hair from the back of my head.

From that day on, I was like “Fuck it – I’m letting it grow.”

And so it has. Today, I’ve been relaxer free for more than a year. My hair is fully natural – I cut out the last of the chemically straightened hair six months ago and haven’t really looked back. I love my hair now, love everything it does, how it looks, all that.

But it occurs to me that this was strange journey for me. Navigating transitioning my hair out was never really about my hair – it was about notions of societal influence, beauty, intra-group standards, cultural conditioning, and asserting my own personality. It was about my hair as a political battleground – where people read the pattern of my stands like tea leaves, trying to divine my personality and political views. It was about everything except what I actually wanted to do – which was stop relaxing my hair and wear a new style.

While I scoured all the pro-natural sites on the net for advice, all I learned were new styles. No one told me how to cope with the transition itself. Everyone cuts to the happy – “You’ll love yourself! You’re free from chemicals!” speech, but no one really talks about how tough that road is to walk. So, let’s look at a few of the things we tend to gloss over when we talk about natural hair.

The Influence of Men and the Perception of Attractiveness
Let’s start with the outside influence aspect of things. About two weeks out from the Catastrophic Relaxer Disaster,^TM I was hanging out with my friend KJ, the natural haired friend I referred to in the first piece. Artfully rocking a cap and a long bang to cover my bald spot, I excitedly told her my decision – I was switching to natural hair.

She stopped fumbling through earrings and looked up at me, face locked in a hesitant expression.

“What did your boyfriend say?” she asked carefully.

I was kind of shocked that this was the first comment from my pro-natural, all organic food eating, anti-make up, womanist, vegan friend. However, she was simply expressing a sentiment from her own experience – sometimes, something simple like transitioning your hair can end your relationship. KJ still felt the sting from prior relationships that were seemingly full of love, trust, and shared personal politics – except when it came to the issue of her hair. In that case, she was encouraged to conform to a beauty standard she did not believe in to please her boyfriend with a long sheet of silky hair – after all, she’d been growing it out for years, so it should be really long by now, right?

Luckily for me, the guy I am currently dating was 100% down with natural hair. So that hurdle was crossed. However, about nine months into the transition, I got a reminder as to why this is an issue in the first place.

My boyfriend and I were invited to a wedding, where I was seated with a group of other young, soon-to-be-married couples. (My boyfriend was in the wedding party, so he was at the head table.) The other women I sat with all had shoulder length or longer weaves. They entered into a conversation about the proper upkeep of their hair, and one women politely decided to include me.

“I like your hair,” she said, looking at my curls which – on that day – looked like they belonged in magazine. Another woman mentioned that she too liked my hair and would love to try cutting her hair off and doing a natural. Her boyfriend shot her a look before coughing into his napkin. The first women quickly added “Not that I could – [my boyfriend, he] wouldn’t allow it.” The first woman’s boyfriend carefully nodded, and with a glance at me said “Well, that kind of thing only works for some people.” He went back to his food.

I signaled for another glass of champagne.

Speaking from personal experience, it appears that men – and their perception of beauty – do hold a lot of influence over how women choose to wear their hair. Men supply their (often unsolicited) opinions and negative ideas and negative reactions have a tendency to paint how we see ourselves. When I was a teenager, I remember hearing a male friend make an off-handed remark that there was nothing worse than seeing a fat girl with short hair – and the group of guys he was with wholeheartedly agreed. Another guy added, “It’s worse if the woman is black. It’s like she’s not even trying to be pretty.”

That sentiment stuck with me – especially as I have heard it echoed in different forms by men I met in adulthood. While there are some men who will bitterly argue that a woman without a relaxer is attractive because she is confident in herself, in my experience, those men are in the minority. Yeah, everyone’s fine with the curly headed girls – the ones who have loose ringlets, or cute little crimps hanging down. But dealing with kinks? Or naps? Oh no, that wasn’t the natural they were thinking of. Is it any wonder that some women with naturals actually start using things like silkeners to achieve the “right” natural look?

In addition, the way we present our hair often “compensates” for other, perceived flaws. Some of us use our hair to hide other flaws (like a strong jawline, or broad features) or to try to balance out a chubby figure by using extensions to create volume. Switching up your style can cause all kinds of issues of both confidence and wardrobe.

Parent Issues

When I called my Mom and told her I was transitioning, she rolled her eyes at me over the phone. (She does this often.)

“Latoya, why do you want to go back to dealing with that?”

That, she says. I replied as honestly as I could.

“Because I want an Afro, mom.”

And I really did too. Spiffany’s transition produced lush layers that were easily coaxed into a full, luscious ‘fro. Visions of Afrodite danced in my head, and I even bought a tee-shirt for ‘fro inspiration.

My mother laughed, and said “Your hair won’t give you an Afro, Latoya. All you’ll get is a pile of frizz. You better buy a wig if you want that.”

I didn’t believe her. After all, as long as I could remember, my mother has been forcing weaves on me. She is a fake hair devotee, who has recently started selling lace front wigs as a side business. Mom’s shoulder length weaves are her trademark, and when the relaxers damaged my hair while I was in middle school and high school, she would often force me to sit down while she glued tracks in my head to cover the damage. She did a good job – as a former beautician, that was her trade – but it never felt like me, and I resented all the upkeep. When I was about fifteen, I rebelled against the tyranny of fake hair, forcibly pulling out the tracks (and damaging my hair even more in the process) and ignoring all edicts to sit still and start looking civilized.

To this day, I still don’t go within five feet of weaves or foundation (something else that was also forced on me.)

So, while I was transitioning, I didn’t see my mother unless my hair was pressed out.**

This past Thanksgiving, I was finally ready to show her my hair in its true form. I was comfortable with it, confident in my ability to style it, and pleased with the result. My mom opened the door and was shocked.

“Oooh, that’s cute,” she said.

However, I should mention that she was correct in her initial assessment. I do not have Afro hair. That fact, to me, was the hardest thing for me to take during the transition. For some reason, I had equated black hair to ‘fro in my mind, and found myself disappointed at the waves and curls that naturally sprouted from my head. Oh, I can pay someone to blow my hair out and to shape it so it approximates a ‘fro. But if the wind hits it, the jig is up.

So, after a few months of preparation, I met my mom with my hair – mostly curly, in parts wavy, and kinky one small part at the very back of my head.

She patted it for a second as if trying to figure out what it was.

Then, she said “I got some new lace fronts – come try them on!”

Sigh.

Style Issues

One of the things I wished people had told me before the transition was that if you are a style chameleon, like I am, your hair will take over your life. Some people love the freedom of not having to worry about their hair every day and are happy to wear their hair as it grows or in a once-every-few-months style like braids.

Not me. I like to change my hair all the time. And I generally have two style settings: (1) conservative hair + vivid color or (2) conservative color + styled hair.

One of my great vices is hair dye. My mane has been every color under the sun except for green and blond. (I don’t go blond for a lot of different reasons, and having green show up in my hair would require me to bleach large chunks for the color to hold.) When I first figured out what my hair can do, I was thrilled. I hate doing things like wrapping my hair at night and now, I don’t have to. I literally have four steps: take a shower, conditioner wash it, blot with a towel, work in product. My hair takes five minutes of prep, ten to fifteen minutes to air dry, and I am out the door.

Loved it.

Then I realized my curls might look a little different with pink streaks running randomly through them. Or blue chunks.

Suddenly, I found myself trying to figure out how to style my hair. (And I dyed it an all over brown color.) Learning the various up-dos, bantu knots, twists and rolls has been a pain in the ass to this hair challenged blogger. Natural hair salons (and my stylist) are happy to do whatever style I want to achieve – for a hefty fee. I thought getting relaxed hair done and styled was expensive at about $60 a salon trip, plus tip. Natural salons in my area charge the upwards of $80-150 per style and my stylist (who does both relaxed and natural) clocks in around $70 ever couple of weeks. Ouch. While I may make the investment to learn how to do flat twists, having a quick change hair personality is proving to be costly.

I also realized that having natural hair freed me up from a lot of styling constraints. There was a stint over the summer where I wore it curly so long, I actually forgot how long it takes to style straight hair. Curling iron? Pssh…pass me a misting bottle, I’m good.

But the heat styling and associated accessories gave way to a new hair holy grail: The perfect product. Here’s the issue with my hair: My hair loves a good, creamy styling product. A couple dabs and I am good to go. The problem is that the perfect product changes based on season, humidity level, and geographic location. Walking around Manhattan last Friday, I drove Andrea crazy by setting up shop in a Ricky’s. Unlike the stores where I live, where finding products for natural hair requires a trip to the salon, Ricky’s had a whole aisle dedicated to product. With testers.

And, it should go without saying that the products my hair loves (Ojon!) are the products my wallet hates ($50 a tub, are you serious?!?)

Work Issues

A few months ago, one of my friends was applying for a job, and noticed something strange in their employee policy book.

“It says, ‘No ethnic hair styles’ in the professional dress section,” she read to me.

Uh-oh. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

“Ethnic” can mean anything from wavy hair to cornrows to Afros to braids. We were both puzzled at this description, particularly as there were apparently no models from which to see what hair qualified as “appropriate.” Many of us remember the big to-do back at Glamour last summer when a staffer mentioned that Afros were political styles, inappropriate for the workplace. That particular instance made the rounds of the blogosphere and magazine trades, but there are actually millions of microaggressions that play out in offices every single day on what kind of hair is considered professional.

One would think professional would sway toward neatly groomed and clean, but apparently, different people have different interpretation of what “neatly groomed and clean” means. To some prejudiced eyes, braided, twisted, and locked hair will never look clean, regardless of what the actual upkeep of the style is. And while I have been fortunate enough to work in more web based/creative industries that allow me a lot of flexibility in wardrobe and styling, I still feel quite a bit of pressure to start out pressed and ease people into my curly reality.

No, I shouldn’t have to straighten my hair before I go on a job interview or on an appearance or what have you. But it’s easier if I do. I remove one less variable from the equation, one less thing I have to try to work around. I already have enough race baggage from my given name. So while I stand by my choice to use my first name, and not default to my more race neutral middle name, adding natural hair into the equation gives me a headache.

Even thinking about simple things, like headshots for my website, brings up a whole host of issues tied into racism and perception. I have already decided I am going to need pics of both straight and curly hair – but which one will be the dominant pic? Which picture will I post here, on Racialicious, so people can start sending me anti-Black hate mail instead of anti-Asian hate mail? (Obviously, those sending said hate mail have issues with reading comprehension.) If a magazine wants me to write for them, will rocking natural hair and a black face get me bounced off the contributor page?

Once again, should I have to ask myself these questions?

No.

Do I?

Yes.

Color Struck Considerations

This small section could be a whole post in itself, but I’ll keep it light for the purposes of this piece. When I wrote the original piece, Hair Apparently, I only got one negative reaction. It was from a woman who felt like my piece indicated I had issues with natural hair and felt that I should learn to embrace my natural self.

I went over to her site and checked out her picture.

Light skin.

Keen features.

Long hair.

I remember thinking We move through the world differently, we will be perceived differently, and we have two totally different considerations when it comes to the social cost of “embracing” your natural hair.

Now, I do not believe in perpetuating the black color wars because it is a foolish division.

But I would be remiss if I didn’t mention having that thought (among a few others) pre-transition.

Can We End the Hair Wars Now? Or at Least call a Truce?

When I got Tami’s piece as a submission to the Things We Do to Ourselves piece, I laughed. Things had sure come full circle. Here was a piece I had read pre-transition when I had one opinion, and now I read it post transition after having gone through the process myself. I must say I do love my hair now. I am glad I found out that my hair had habitual breakage in the back because that is where my kinks are fragile, not just “because [I] have hair that doesn’t grow” as one misguided stylist told me. I’m glad I know what my natural hair looks like. I’m glad that my hair is so easy to manage now, I’m going to finally learn how to swim.

But after I transitioned, I didn’t forget. I didn’t forget how shitty it felt to have other blacks use my hair as a litmus test for my personal politics or beliefs, or how annoyed I got with the preaching of the newly converted. I hated hearing about black women having an ingrained slave mentality when for many of us, we just adapted to the way the world views beauty. It was hard enough finding a stylist I liked doing relaxed hair – you say natural stylist and it’s like you’re trying to find the password to a members only club.

And I absolutely hated the implication that everyone, without exception, will find their hair to be fabulous and flawless and will never want to straighten their hair again. I talked to a great many people while going through the various stages of the transition and spoke to women who had been natural their whole lives, who had transitioned like I had, who kept a close crop, who went from wigs to natural and back again, those who decided to stop twisting and just lock it up, and women who had done the natural thing but realized that they preferred the relaxer.

And the only thing that remained constant was that these women were happiest doing what they wanted to do.

I often say that the kinds of conversations we have on Racialicious happen on two levels – the societal level, where we look at the big picture impact of all of our choices and the individual level, where people are just living their lives, doing what they do.

On a societal level, the discussions around black hair do dovetail into politics. The ideas of assimilation, Eurocentric beauty standards, having hair investments with no financial investment, and actively embracing a nappy reality in a straight focused world are all important things to deal with and discuss.

But it is on the individual level where we deal the most immediate damage. And grasping with a decision that is so fraught with personal politics is challenging enough without dealing with everyone else’s projected value on what amounts to a bunch of keratin.

So, how about we shift this conversation? How about we stop placing value judgments based on how we choose to style our manes, and instead work on building confidence in making the choices we make?

Of all the stories I heard from the women I spoke to, it is the incident at the wedding that stands out to me most. Two women expressed the desire to have natural hair and yet would not do it because of the perceived social cost. And that saddened me, because two women subverted what they wanted to do to please others.

We don’t need to start critiquing each other’s choices.

We need to figure out what would inspire enough confidence in ourselves so that each woman would be able to choose to do whatever she wished with her hair – with pride, and without apology.

—-
*I actually remember that day well. My mother had meticulously pressed my hair for picture day, and put a pretty little white ribbon at the top, that hung straight down my back when I left the house. The picture taken at about 2pm that same day shows that same ribbon holding on for dear life atop a frizzy dandelion-like poof of brown waves. C’est la vie.

**Sidenote: For those of y’all who have researched the transition, you will know that one of the things sites tell you time and time again is that you should not continue to press your hair while you are growing it out because you are damaging your hair. For your hair type, this may be true. However, something else you will find is that no one’s advice will work for you all the time. I grew my hair out under the supervision of a stylist who has a hair texture very similar to mine. She pressed it out once a week, and told me to just bump the ends under using low heat while I was at home. She also showed me how to style my short natural and my lengthening natural. I highly suggest that if you are transitioning your hair out, you consult with a few different stylists – that way they can guide you through the process and you will not be as frustrated.

My hair is nappy. It is coarse and thick. It grows in pencil-sized spirals and tiny crinkles. My hair grows out, not down. It springs from my head like a corona. My hair is like wool. You can’t run your fingers through it, nor a comb. It is impenetrable. My hair is rebellious. It resists being smoothed into a neat bun or pony tail. It puffs. Strands escape; they won’t be tamed. My hair is nappy. And I love it.

Growing up, I learned to covet silky, straight hair; “bouncing and behaving” hair; Cheryl Tiegs and Christie Brinkley hair. But as a young black girl, my appearance was far from the American ideal. Making my hair behave meant hours wriggling between my grandmother’s knees as she manipulated a hot comb through my thick, kinky mane. The process stretched my tight curls into hair I could toss and run my fingers through, something closer to the “white girl hair” that so many black girls admired and longed to possess.

My beautiful, straightened hair came at a price. It meant ears burned by slipped hot combs and scars from harsh chemicals. It meant avoiding active play and swimming pools, lest dreaded moisture make my hair “go back.” It meant having a relaxer eat away at the back of my long hair until barely an inch was left. It meant subtly learning that my natural physical attributes were unacceptable.

I was not alone in my pathology. Pressing combs, relaxers, weaves and the quest to hide the naps are part of the fabric of black beauty culture. It is estimated that more than 75 percent of black women straighten their hair. In the book “Hair Story: Untangling the Roots of Black Hair in America,” Ayanna Byrd and Lori Tharps write: “Before a black child is even born, relatives speculate over the texture of hair that will cover the baby’s head, and the loaded adjectives “good” and “bad” are already in the air.” In the same book, a New York City dancer named Joicelyn explains: “Good hair is that silky black shit that them Indian girls be havin’…Good hair is anything that’s not crazy-ass woolly, lookin’ like some pickaninny out the bush.” Too often, black women find their hair hatred supported by media, men and the rest of the mainstream.

Cultural and professional pressures kept me relaxing my curls for 20 years. In the late 90s, the neo-soul movement caught fire in R&B. Young, bohemian singers like Jill Scott, Erykah Badu and India Arie were rocking stylish natural looks, and I began seeing more natural heads strutting down Michigan Ave. in Chicago, where I lived. Two of my close friends took the plunge, shearing their permed hair to start anew. Suddenly natural black hair was fashionable—at least for a small group of people.

Seeing more women, however few, freed from the tyranny of constant straightening, inspired me. I began poring over books about the care and politics of black hair. I became a member of a popular Web site devoted to championing natural hair. I learned about the toxic ingredients in chemical relaxers and the lasting damage they do. I discovered the origins of negative myths about black hair. I learned how to properly care for natural locks and discovered the myriad styles that can be achieved. I met women of all ages who embraced “nappy” as a positive description. And I slowly came to realize the inherent foolishness of believing black women’s hair, apart from that of all other races, needs to be fixed—pressed, weaved and manipulated into something it isn’t.

In August 2006, after years spent admiring the growing number of nappy heads around me; fretting whether my husband would still find me attractive; worrying whether my unruly ‘fro would frighten my co-workers; I chopped my near shoulder-length hair off, leaving barely an inch of kinky curls. I was free!

Going natural was one of the best things I have done. And while I respect the right for all women to make decisions about their appearance and personal care, no one proselytizes like the converted. Now that I have had my follicular epiphany, It dismays me that most black women choose to obsessively hide their true nature from the cradle to the grave. Earlier this year, a fellow blogger very smartly observed that black women may be the only race of women who live their whole lives never knowing what their real hair looks and feels like. Think about that.

And think about the many things that some black women deny themselves to keep their hair fried, dyed and laid to the side. We will avoid working out, vigorous sex and a good night’s sleep. We will devote entire Saturdays to the hair salon and spend our last dime to ensure roots are touched up every six weeks. We will weave “better” hair from women of other races into our hair. Few of us can even successfully care for our natural hair, as much of what we’ve been taught involves minimizing our hair’s natural qualities, not working with them.

You may say “it’s just hair” or merely “preference.” But surely it means something when the vast majority of women of a certain race “prefer” to mask physical characteristics associated with their ethnicity. The doll test, oft-mentioned in anti-racist circles, revealed black children’s preference for white dolls with European features. There is a clue here. Societal norms don’t stop influencing us just because we’re too old to play with dolls. It pays to examine your preferences.

Today, my preference is for a natural me.

My hair is nappy. It is soft and cottony, a mass of varying textures. My hair is fun to play with. I like to pull at the spiral curls and feel them snap back into place. My hair defies the laws of gravity. It reaches energetically toward the sky. My hair is unique. In a fashion culture that genuflects to relaxed, flat-ironed tresses and stick-straight weaves, my fluffy, puffy, kinky mane stands out. It is revolutionary. My hair is natural. It is the way God made it. My hair is nappy. And it is beautiful.

*Please note, the essay presented here is an updated version of what originally appeared.

My mother is a black American, raised Baptist in Tennessee. My father is a Muslim from Nigeria. More specifically, for those in the know, he’s Yoruba.

When I was a baby my American relatives, all natives of small-town Tennessee and wholly unfamiliar with Africans, took to holding me up in the air and anointing me Kunta Kinte, like the character in “Roots.” Although the gesture annoyed my mother to no end, her family members found it hilarious.

Africans, you see, are hilarious. If there is one stereotype about Africans that has lingered throughout my life it is this. Perhaps because of this stereotype, before my birth my maternal grandmother envisioned that I would look less like a baby and more like an offensive cartoon character. She warned my mother to expect me to have coal black skin and bright red lips like Little Sambo. In expressing her fears, my grandmother ignored the reality of my father, who is dark-skinned but not especially so. In fact, he is a shade or two lighter than my mother is. Because Africans are an “exotic other,” however, my grandmother adopted a white supremacist gaze in connection to my father.

She’s far from the only black American to adopt that stance in relation to Africans. In Chicago, where my parents met and lived, my mother recalled being approached by a black woman curious to know if I cried in “African.” Now, I was born in the late1970s, before Akon dominated music charts or Hakeem Olajuwon (a fellow Yoruba) dominated basketball courts. Still, it’s somewhat shocking to note that some of the African Americans in my midst then viewed me as an entirely different entity from themselves.

Fortunately, such experiences never gave me a complex about being African growing up. Perhaps this is because my classmates included other blacks from foreign locales—Trinidad, Jamaica, Haiti and Panama, among them. Another reason is that my parents divorced when I was just an infant, resulting in me growing up with my maternal relatives and culturally as a black American. There were no markers, such as dress, food or an accent to distinguish me from my classmates. Even my name, which is not Nigerian but Arabic, didn’t seem particularly odd growing up because of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s popularity then. Classmates often linked me to him, nicknaming me Nadra Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, rather than to Africa.

Being a first-generation African seemed like no big deal because I knew that my black American friends were originally from there, too. In middle school, when I encountered a Haitian classmate who angrily denied that her ancestors originated in Africa, I was shocked. I never believed that being from Africa was something to be ashamed of. I had been given reason to believe so, I suppose. I grew up watching the “Gods Must Be Crazy” films, in which Africans are portrayed as lovable buffoons. And during the “We Are the World” craze, I watched bloated Ethiopian children the same age as me, too weak to swat away the flies that swarmed around them. Still, I couldn’t get why anyone would be embarrassed to be African. The first time I saw the scene in “Boyz n the Hood,” in which a lead character disowns Africa and uses the insult African “booty scratcher,” I simply rolled my eyes.

By the time I was 17 or so, I was exposed to another viewpoint about my heritage. Being African was cool, being African American, not so much. People—white people and a few bohemian blacks—wanted me to dress like an African, speak like an African, etc. I was to be a portal to an exotic world. The fact that I have just one African parent and was not raised by him was completely overlooked. In my early 20s, when I read Malcolm X discuss how whites responded to black Africans with an awe they would never extend to black Americans, I could totally relate.

Some argue that whites treat African blacks differently from American blacks because slavery (and therefore guilt) is removed from the equation when dealing with the former group. I’m not convinced this is it, though. When the eyes of whites light up upon learning of my Nigerian heritage, it seems that they are just excited by the fact that I come from a continent with lions and tigers and bears (okay, so no bears). To boot, because many whites mistakenly believe that they have no culture, they take particular pleasure in learning about other cultures—the farther removed, the better. Ironically, I have met young Africans who feel that they have no culture because of the dominance of American popular culture. They feel they must emulate American culture rather than draw on their native cultures for inspiration.

In black American culture, Africans are at times celebrated and at other times denigrated. Take the film “Barbershop,” in which the West African employee in the shop is more or less an updated version of a character from “The Gods Must Be Crazy” films. Only in this case, he is a lovesick buffoon rather than an ordinary one. Throughout the film, I tensed each time this character found himself the butt of another joke or it was made clear that he could never win Eve’s heart.

These days, my American relatives no longer take their cues about Africans from movies. They wouldn’t dare address me as Kunta Kinte now. However, when my father does something to piss me off, they are quick to come to his defense by blaming his African-ness for his lack of sensitivity about an issue. Their behavior in these instances is more of a hindrance than a help, for it implies that we can’t hold an African to the same standard of conduct as we would ourselves. Their behavior reminds me of a short story called “The Man from Mars” by Margaret Atwood in which the outrageous behavior of a Vietnamese character is ignored because he is “a person from another culture.” In my situation, my American relatives suggest that Africans are simply too assbackwards to understand common courtesy. Never mind the fact that my father has lived in the U.S. for nearly four decades and is a true citizen of the world in that he has visited more countries than I can count on both hands.

During my travels to different parts of the world, the Africans I have encountered don’t fit the buffoon stereotype. In the UK, ask someone to name a stereotype of a Nigerian, and you’re likely to be offered up the image of a cab driver or a drug lord. There are also the privileged Africans I have met from all over, children of ambassadors and prominent businessmen. For a cinematic example of this, check out the French film “Café Au Lait.”

In fact in the U.S., both Africans and West Indians tend to be better educated and more financially comfortable than their black American counterparts. I have sometimes seen this lead to tension between the groups, with certain Africans capitalizing on the positive perceptions white Americans have of them and distancing themselves from black Americans. On the other hand, I have seen black Americans argue that African blacks believe that they are superior, all the while making fun of Africans for their accents, customs and physical features.

Another source of resentment comes from American blacks who visit Africa and are disappointed by the reception they receive. I’m not sure what these blacks are seeking when they visit Africa. I have visited Nigeria only once and was warmly received. Many people I encountered there greeted me with a “Welcome Home” when they encountered me, which I did not expect or ask of them .

I know that some American blacks have it wrong. I think of those, for example, who visit South Africa looking for ancestral connections when more than likely they are descendants from West Africa. I think of those who, as Sarah Palin was recently accused, seem to think that Africa is a country rather than a continent. They—whites and blacks, alike—are the ones who have asked me if I speak African, unaware that in my father’s country of origin more than 400 dialects are spoken alone. And there are those such as an American aunt I have, who despite knowing my father well, told me that she knew that he was from somewhere in Africa but didn’t know the exact country. “Nigerian?” she asked. “I didn’t know he was Nigerian.” This, after 30-plus years of knowing him.

Changing times may signal improved relations between American and African blacks in years to come. Not only has the U.S. elected a half-African to lead the country, at this time in history, more Africans have entered the U.S. than did during slavery. This could result in more awareness among black Americans about the cultures of Africa, not to mention more unions between the groups that produce children who aren’t the subjects of curious stares, jokes and inane questions because of their heritage.

Professor Tracey has me thinking…as usual. Over on Aunt Jemima’s Revenge, she has launched a spirited discussion about black women and marriage. Rather than go the usual “why can’t black women get married” route, hand-wringing over dire statistics like these:

The marriage rate for African Americans has been dropping since the 1960s, and today, we have the lowest marriage rate of any racial group in the United States. In 2001, according to the U.S. Census, 43.3 percent of black men and 41.9 percent of black women in America had never been married, in contrast to 27.4 percent and 20.7 percent respectively for whites. African American women are the least likely in our society to marry. In the period between 1970 and 2001, the overall marriage rate in the United States declined by 17 percent; but for blacks, it fell by 34 percent. Read more…

…Tracey asked something different–something no one else seems to be asking, since it is easier to cast black women as powerless victims or simply undesirable (too educated, too aggressive, too black, too too). She wants to know, “Do black women really want to get married?”

Yet every time I look around black women are single. And I mean single, not alone. There is a difference. Plenty of black women have healthy and hearty dating lives. I just wonder why black women getting to the altar still seems to be an issue. Particularly for educated, financially sound, well-traveled, high-powered, and ambitious black women. Read more…

Sisters are weighing in with their thoughts for and against getting hitched in the 21st century. (Head over to AJR and leave a comment.) Here’s my take:

Marrying a man and sharing my life with him was always one of my life goals. It wasn’t a primary goal or a goal I necessarily thought I could achieve (dire statistics and all), but it was something I hoped for. My desire wasn’t about the spectacle of a wedding, or the idea of being “chosen,” or being taken care of. I hate the whole “my day” foolishness; I like to do the choosing, thank you; and I was raised to take care of myself. What I wanted out of marriage was a partner for my life journey–someone to be my friend, lover, supporter, cheerleader, rock, protector and challenger. (Before anyone balks about gender bias…I know words like “protector” are loaded…EVERYONE–man or woman–needs someone to serve in these roles at some time. I like to think that I am all of these things for my husband,as he is for me.)

As a single woman, I think that I was pretty level-headed about marriage. Like anything else in life, circumstances may well have put matrimony out of reach. No truer words about marriage and family have been spoken than by Baz Luhrman in “Everybody is free (to wear sunscreen)”:

Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t,
Maybe you’ll have children,maybe you won’t,
Maybe you’ll divorce at 40,
Maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary…
What ever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either
– your choices are half chance, so are everybody else’s.

I’d be lying if I said I was immune to pressure to get hitched. My parents and grandparents all have/had till-death-do-they-part marriages. It would be hard not to be a part of that tradition. And though most of my black girlfriends were single in their 20s as I was, most of the white women at the Chicago PR agency where I worked began to get engaged as they approached 30. All those flashed diamond rings, European honeymoons and new Northside condos can wear on a sister. I won’t lie, feminist me was envious of my colleages’ “chosenness” and the increased financial stability that being one of two earners in a household brings. Sometimes adult life feels hard when everything rests on your shoulders and yours alone.

But that insecurity was a sometimes thing. I didn’t want to marry young. In my 20s, I built my career, traveled, took classes, dated, made friends and discovered myself. I enjoyed every minute of my single life and wouldn’t trade it for the world. I miss it sometimes. I was determined not to wait on a Prince Charming that I knew might never come. Turns out, though, he did show up. I met my husband the summer of my 30th year and married him exactly a year later.

Seven years on, I believe that getting married is one of the best things I have ever done. I love my husband deeply. He is all those things I wanted in a partner and more. (He shares my love of dry, British comedy, politics, and he has great legs. Bonus!) As wonderful as my husband is, understand that he didn’t make my life, he just makes it better. I had a good life before I married. I would have had a good life if I had never married. If my life is a cake mixed from all of my experiences, hard work, dreams and skills, my dear husband is the icing. And a very sweet icing at that.

That’s what marriage is to me: Icing on the cake. I love it. I recommend it. It is not; however, a substitute for personal growth and development. Put another way: the right life partner can greatly enhance your journey, but he or she can’t walk it for you. YOU are the only person who can make you happy, successful, financially stable, etc.

And because there is nothing folks love more than advice from pompous, know-everything married people, here’s some other random wisdom about being hitched:

There are no rules in marriage.

I often hear people say, “Girl, you know I can never get married, because I hate [insert hated thing that no one said you have to do here].” If you don’t like sharing a bed, cooking or children; have separate rooms, order in and use contraceptives. Forget tradition and what your friends, in-laws, parents think your marriage should be like. A committed couple needs to negotiate a relationship that works for their unique needs. I get confused when I hear people voice opposition to marriage, based on a traditional structure that no one need adhere to. Your marriage is what you make of it. Thus, I should have called this essay “My truth about marriage,” because it is only my truth.

But there are truisms about building rewarding relationships.

A few women on AJR mentioned not wanting to trust another person with financial information or personal information, or voiced fear of being controlled. It seems to me that, marriage aside, any successful long-term relationship hinges on honesty, trust, respect and compromise. You have to be clear about who you are and what you want. You also have to get a little “naked” in the figurative sense; you can’t reap the benefits of being truly loved if you won’t cede control enough to drop your guard and be vulnerable. It also helps to know the difference between respect and control. When my husband tells me he’s grabbing a beer with a friend on Saturday night, it’s not because I’m in charge of his actions; it is out of courtesy and respect for the person that shares his life and home. If I’m planning to spend all Saturday hanging our with girlfriends I let my husband know–not for permission, but because we are a team and it is courteous to let him know where I am and what my plans are.

Racism can force black men and women into constant defense mode. It can make us wary and suspicious–even of each other. Wary and suspicious are not exactly recipes for good relationships. I’ve always wondered if the shell we develop to guard against racism is at the crux of the sorry relationship between brothers and sisters.

There is something about saying “forever.”

You may be rightly thinking that all of the things I love about marriage can be achieved without the marriage license. Indeed, gay people have long had deep, committed relationships not recognized by America as marriages. There was a time when black folks weren’t allowed to marry, but we know our ancestors formed bonds and families just the same.

For me, though, there is something about pledging commitment to someone in front of family and friends. There is something about being certain enough about your loyalty to another person to enmesh your life with theirs legally, as well as spiritually.

Right or wrong, our culture places special honor on the marriage commitment. A spouse is revered as something more than a live-in lover. Don’t believe me? Take it from a gay person who is fighting for the right to marry. Check out Tom Ackerman’s essay “A Marriage Manifesto…Of Sorts.”

I no longer recognize marriage. It’s a new thing I’m trying.

Turns out it’s fun.

Yesterday I called a woman’s spouse her boyfriend.

She says, correcting me, “He’s my husband,”
“Oh,” I say, “I no longer recognize marriage.”

The impact is obvious. I tried it on a man who has been in a relationship for years,

“How’s your longtime companion, Jill?”
“She’s my wife!”
“Yeah, well, my beliefs don’t recognize marriage.”

Fun. And instant, eyebrow-raising recognition. Suddenly the majority gets to feel what the minority feels. In a moment they feel what it’s like to have their relationship downgraded, and to have a much taken-for-granted right called into question because of another’s beliefs.

Just replace the words husband, wife, spouse, or fiancé with boyfriend, girlfriend, special friend, or longtime companion. There is a reason we needed stronger words for more serious relationships. We know it; now they can see it.

A marriage is a lot of things. Culturally, it’s a declaration to the community that two people are now a unit, and that unity should be respected. Legally, it’s a set of rights and responsibilities. And spiritually, it’s whatever your beliefs think it is. Read more…

The personal benefits of marriage can be found in many a committed relationship, the legal and social benefits…not so much.

No one needs to be married.

All that said. No one needs to be married. It is a personal choice. God knows I know some people that ought not be married. And I know some people who don’t want to be married. That’s cool. Even for those of us who do want to “jump the broom,” stuff happens: “the right one” just never comes along…or we choose wrong…or we choose right at the wrong time…or we choose right and circumstances change…marriages fail. Life is mercurial; no one should invest all their happiness in part of it.

There are numerous paths to a rewarding and happy existence and not all of them include marriage.

That’s the truth.

As America fretted about Obama’s exoticism and he sought to calm the waters with speeches about unity and common experience, Michelle’s body was sending a different message: To hell with biracialism! Compromise, bipartisanship? Don’t think so. Here was one clear signifier of blackness that couldn’t be tamed, muted or otherwise made invisible. It emerged right before our eyes, in the midst of our growing uncertainty about everything, and we were too bogged down in the daily campaign madness to notice. The one clear predictor of success that the pundits, despite all their fancy maps, charts and holograms, missed completely? Michelle’s butt. [...]

I can’t talk about Michelle’s butt without acknowledging her hair, another physical feature that stirs anxiety about black female difference. Let me just say that I hope that gets unleashed, too. How sad that, in order for a black family to prevail — because Michelle and the girls were all running for office, not just Barack — they had to sublimate their blackness like crazy, starting with the visuals. Michelle’s ethnic butt might have snuck under the radar, but an ethnic do wouldn’t have stood a chance.

So writes Erin Aubry Kaplan, in her piece “First lady got back” which was recently published on Salon.

Reader Virigina sent in the tip, writing:

Although Erin Kaplan does make a few decent points about how black women are viewed in this culture, most of the article just reinforces stereotypes. She is defining Michelle Obama and black women in general by their butts and hair. There are so many other traits that she could have discussed.

After reading the full piece, I’m inclined to agree. I get the semi-tongue in cheek tone of the piece, but this article just feels a bit wrong for the audience. Perhaps if it was written for a magazine like Essence or Clutch, which routinely explore the issues of black women and how a lot of our politics are wrapped up in our appearance, I would feel differently about the end result.

But it’s at Salon.

And while the commenters debate back and forth about whether or not the article is “joyful” or “disrespectful,” a large part of me wonders when Salon will publish an article on what faces Michelle Obama in the White House, or an article about racial trends in America penned by a woman of color, or a review of a book like Naked which lays all these issues bare. My problem with the article isn’t that it’s a lighthearted musing on Michelle’s attributes, as seen through the eyes of another black woman (who – according to Kaplan’s website – has also whipped out personal essays on her own butt, as well as musing on J.Lo’s.)

My problem is that articles about Michelle Obama’s wardrobe, booty, and mom duties are what is fit to publish, what is seen as relevant to a mass audience.

And everything else – like a reflection on how Michelle’s “makeover” was to make her more palatable to a certain set of Americans and what that says about race and gender in this country – seems to fall by the wayside, stuck in the niche analysis category.

Funny how that works.

On February 12, 2008, Duanna Johnson was brutally beaten by a Memphis police officer after she refused to respond when the officer called her “he-she” and “faggot.” That night, Johnson became yet another of the countless trans women of color to be targeted and brutalized by police in this country. Two officers were fired after the attack; neither was prosecuted.

Just to be trans, just to be a woman, just to be a person of color in this country is enough to drastically increase one’s exposure to hatred and violence; when oppressions overlap, violence tends to multiply.

This past Sunday, Duanna Johnson was found murdered on the streets of Memphis. I didn’t hear about this until today, when I read a post on my friend Dean’s blog. When I read the awful news, I felt heartsick in a way that has become all too familiar and all too frequent.

After reading Dean’s post today, I was surprised to find out that Johnson was murdered nearly three days ago already and that I hadn’t heard about this until today. I know that I haven’t been very good at keeping up with the news or the blogosphere these past few days. But I can’t help but notice that despite this relative disconnection, I’ve read and heard no shortage of commentary, protest, and outrage about Proposition 8.

A Google News search for “Duanna Johnson” yields 50 results, many syndicated and therefore redundant. Much of the coverage is tainted by the transphobia and victim-blaming that tends to inflect media coverage of violence against trans women of color (like this Associated Press article). A search for “Proposition 8″? 18,085 results – 354.6 times more than for Duanna Johnson.

The skew in the blogosphere is less severe but still pronounced. A Google BlogSearch for Duanna Johnson: 2,300 results. For Prop 8? 240,839, or 100 times more.

Don’t think I’m being deliberately unrealistic or dismissive here. I don’t deny that the passage of Proposition 8 is harmful to the LGBT community and bears much anger, attention, and agitation. I understand the difference in magnitude of the number lives directly affected by the passage of Proposition 8 versus the number of lives directly affected by Duanna Johnson’s murder. I get that.

Yet still, the disparity in attention is damn stark. And that skew isn’t limited to this particular incident; it is a skew that is present in the collective coverage of and attention paid to all violence against trans women of color. And it is a skew that reflects what the GLb(t) mainstream chosen to prioritize with time, energy, and resources, and what it has chosen to address primarily with lip service and leftovers. An apt example of this: the Prop 8 op-ed written by Human Rights Campaign president Joe Solmonese communicates more anger, more commitment to an enduring fight for justice, more of a sense of giving a damn than his brief, comparatively tepid statement in HRC press release on Duanna Johnson’s death.

There is a call out for people to donate money to help Johnson’s mother pay her funeral expenses, which are right now expected to total $1195. Unfortunately, there is some confusion about how to make donations and concern about whether the funeral home is doing right by Mrs. Skinner. I advise folks who wish to donate to use caution; I hope that a clearer, more secure way of donating is established soon.

UPDATE: It’s been established.

But when it is possible to make donations safely, I hope that many people donate whatever they can. $1195 is a relatively small amount to raise. Given that the No On Prop 8 campaign was able to raise $37.6 million – or 31,464 times the cost of Duanna Johnson’s funeral – raising this far smaller amount should be no problem for our community. Right?

UPDATE: The Tennessee Transgender Political Coalition has set up a fund for Duanna Johnson’s funeral expenses that you can donate to via PayPal. This seems to be the most legitimate and secure way of donating. Any funds collected above the cost of the funeral will go to Johnson’s family. Please donate if and what you can, and do it soon. A special request to everyone (like me) who donated to the No On Prop 8 campaign: try to match that donation, or even just half of it if you can’t manage the whole thing right now. We can get this raised fast if we all commit to that.

UPDATE 2 (11/14/08 7:46 EST): TTPC reports that they have received $4745 in donations for Duanna’s family. “The response has been tremendous. We have received around 165 donations from as far away as Japan. Duanna’s family will be thrilled. Thank you world!” I echo their thanks to everyone who donated and helped spread the word today. I wish we hadn’t had to raise this money in the first place, but I’m glad that we did. While no amount of money can undo the tragedy of their loss, at least we can help ease their financial burden and give them one less worry as they grieve. (end update)

Well, look at what slipped under the radar.

In the midst of the election run up, the results, and the waves of discussion about proposition 8, Logo launched a movie based on their popular (yet mysteriously canceled) series Noah’s Arc.

The New York Press’ Armond White has a thought provoking review on the significance of the movie, titled “MEET THE BLACK CARRIE BRADSHAW – LOGO’s Noah’s Arc makes the jump to the big screen—showing a completely different African-American experience”:

Noah’s Arc’s quartet of young black men counteracts the prevailing image of gayness as a young, rich, white male phenomenon. The title refers to Noah (Darryl Stephens), an L.A.-based aspiring screenwriter whose love and social life resist Hollywood storybook cliché. Noah may dress in couture like Carrie Bradshaw (he enters Jumping wearing a Russian toque, cape and calf-high boots) but his style is provocative; he flouts ideas about masculinity, blackness and class. If you accept Noah (his gentle, gazelle-like demeanor stresses effeminacy), his friends still test your tolerance: Chance (Doug Spearman) is a snooty, over-enunciating university professor; Alex (Rodney Chester) is a plus-sized drama queen who likes to cook when not dispensing counsel at a gay men’s health center; and Rickey (Christian Vincent) is incorrigibly promiscuous.

All these characters are dark-skinned except for Ricky, whose light (possibly Latino) complexion gives him social advantages—such as racially determined sex appeal, which he squanders in self-destructive ways. Yet Polk’s affection for these characters equals his determination to validate them. (The performances have gained substance; even a “voguing” sequence is in character.) Like ABC-TV’s 1977 production of Roots, Noah’s Arc acquaints viewers with aspects of African-American character and experience that are usually hidden or ignored. Noah and friends inhabit a parallel universe to the whites-only stereotypes of West Hollywood and Chelsea. When they discuss the image tyranny of pop figures Terrell Owens and Fitty Cent, they articulate stress all men feel. Ethicized pioneers always perform this breakthrough in the arts. Disrespect and discredit is the price they pay—whether it’s Noah’s Arc being screened like a B-movie, or Wong Kar Wai’s profound gay Asian love story in Happy Together being denied the acclaim given Brokeback Mountain. [...]

Basic questions of human happiness have a different ring in this context than they did in Boys in the Band (1970) and Love! Valor! Compassion! (1999) because Polk and Brocka don’t take social privilege for granted. Their humor poses a radical re-take on mainstream virtues: Wade complains to his shocked bourgie mother, “It’d be easier telling you I was an axe murderer,” which connects to the campy defiance of Alex calling his African foster child “O.J., short for Ojomodupe.” Polk uses different (radical) examples of love, valor and compassion. That these marginalized men don’t acquiesce to the mainstream’s oppressive morality is confirmed in the measured vows Noah and Wade exchange. They seek an answer to male companionship that redefines love and sex. Describing “a fear and yearning beyond lust,” Noah breaks past the superficial blandishments typically used to attract, sell and distract gay audiences from their truest well-being.

Polk has more in mind than the LOGO idea of placating a potential market. Jumping the Broom exalts an underserved audience yet Polk’s discussion of the socio-economic connection of slavery and contemporary gay politics doesn’t patronize them.

The IMDB message boards report:

by thebigham69 (Sun Oct 26 2008 18:35:08)
Noah’s Arc had the second highest per screen theater average ($32,200) at the box office over the weekend.

It came in second to Angelina Jolie’s Changeling.

I think this bodes well for the movie. Hopefully, it will convince Logo to put the movie in more cities

The movie opened on five screens.

Noah’s Arc: Jumping the Broom is currently playing in nine cities.

Please Note: This is NOT a D.L. Hughley fansite. You cannot contact him directly through this site, or leave feedback about his show.

Before I sat down to watch D. L. Hughley Breaks the News, I was skeptical of the whole project. D.L. Hughley doesn’t immediately come to mind when I think of a comedian that is well versed in politics and current events. The author of the NY Times article seems to concur, noting:

For the last week Mr. Hughley, 45, has had to arrive every morning at his office at CNN in Manhattan at the ungodly (for a comedian) hour of 11 a.m. to digest reams of information from newspapers, Web sites, television and talk radio. He has no time to goof off during the 8-to-12-hour days; only the occasional moment to glance at his new profile in the CNN company directory that lists him as an anchor.

“I’m like, ‘Come on, man,’ ” an incredulous Mr. Hughley said in a recent interview. “I barely even know how to read. I’ve got a G.E.D.”

Just 10 days ago CNN announced that Mr. Hughley would be the host of a new comedy-news show, “D. L. Hughley Breaks the News,” which has its premiere Saturday at 10 p.m. Eastern time.

AverageBro already laid down his thoughts on the show, writing:

I’m not saying Hughley isn’t funny. His early days of Comic View were classic. And for the record, his standup career is far more successful than anything Stewart did pre-Daily Show.

But DL just doesn’t seem to have the gravitas to pull this off. His shortlived Comedy Central talk show, Weekends At The DL, was atrocious. His appearances on shows like Real Time With Bill Maher and The Glenn Beck Show don’t give me the impression that this cat is extremely knowledgeable when it comes to politricks.

He also brings up another large elephant in the room when it comes to D.L. Hughley’s idea of comedy:

Is it wrong for me to still be upset about that “nappy headed hoes” comment more than a year after the fact? Prolly not, but I’m sorry, I just cannot get over that. That sh*t was a straight up James T. Harris b*tch move in my book.

I wonder how dude could go home and look his wife and daughter in the eyes after that bullsh*t.

I prolly won’t watch this show, so I guess I shouldn’t bash it. Could it possibly be any worse than Chocolate News or The Tony Rock Project? Even though I wished CNN’s affirmative action hire had been Roland Martin instead, I guess I should just be happy to see black men working, no matter how mediocre the product.

Nah. Bump that.

If you wanna support a black man on TeeVee, peep BET’s slept on Somebodies. Now that’s comedy.

Screw DL Hughley. A true Nappy Headed Hoe!

Melissa Harris Lacewell was also enraged, but for a different reason:

I don’t have words to express my irritation with this development. CNN has been nearly lily white. Black commentators, guests, and hosts have been the rare exception rather than the rule. This is a network that responded to Hurricane Katrina, the most visible class and race disaster of our age, by promoting the blond, blue-eyed, Vanderbilt heir Anderson Cooper to a two-hour nightly show. They have now decided that the appropriate response to a likely Obama administration is to have a black comedian host a farcical news show. Hmmm. [...]

CNN is purportedly the most respected source for news. We are sliding into an economic recession rivaling the Great Depression. We are fighting wars on multiple fronts. Trust in our political system is at an all time low. This is not really a funny moment. In today’s NYTimes, recent Nobel winner Paul Krugman even opined that American support for Barack Obama represented our nation “desperately seeking seriousness.” So why does CNN think that black people have to serve as the court jesters just as we are moving into the White House?

It feels to me like the reassertion of racist notions of black people and our proper place in the world. Sometimes popular culture and media operate as forces of regressive and reactionary sentiments even as the political system is changing. It happened during the feminist movement. As white women were gaining control over their fertility, asserting their independence, and moving into the workforce, popular culture developed a new feminine aesthetic saying that women must be rail thin in order to be beautiful and desirable. Whew! Don’t worry about women competing for power if they are so worried about the size of their thighs that they starve themselves and stay at the gym all day.

Same deal here. No worries about black people as serious contenders for political leadership on the world stage if we can be safely constrained to our stereotypical role as the comedic relief.

Both Melissa Harris-Lacewell and AverageBro raise good points that should not be overlooked. It is important to understand the personal context (as expressed in AverageBro’s post) and the political context (as expressed in Harris-Lacewell’s post) as to why there might be opposition to the show.

However, after watching the show, it appears to hold some promise.

I am still not convinced that D.L. Hughley is right for the anchor position on the show – and from what I saw, it doesn’t appear that he is convinced either. He was visibly nervous on camera and stumbled over multiple jokes. He also didn’t seem very comfortable onstage, in stark contrast to many of his stand up performances. But I can respect that – it is difficult to try something that is kind of out of your league, and there are so many ways political comedy can go wrong.

And indeed, some of the sketches felt extremely stale – the issue of Fannie Mae/Freddie Mac was recast with Donnell Rawlings as Freddie Mack, with all the predictable “government and politicians as pimps” jokes. There was a fake attack ad from the RNC, which is fairly unmemorable save for the last few lines – “You know he’s black, don’t you?” and “Paid for by the Committee for Irresponsible Racism.” Often times Hughley talked over guests and the editing was kind of strange.

Yet, there were parts of the show I found quite compelling. I enjoyed the CNN Fact Checkers breaking in on DL’s opening monolouge (though most write ups hated that part), and the sketch where DL Hughley actually attends a Palin rally and tries to get them to vote for a Palin/Hughley ticket in 2012. The responses to his questions were classic.

What I most enjoyed were the frequent format changes and his discussions with the experts. His segment with Neil deGrasse Tyson was my favorite, but I’m biased toward people who like to talk about astrophysics. (It’s a total brain crush, for those of y’all who can read between the lines.) Hughley’s other notable segment was where he compared the rise of Barack Obama to the trajectory of black presidents in films. Illustrating his point beautifully was a 1933 film called “Rufus Jones for President” with a young Sammy Davis Jr. declaring that pork chops would be free once he was sworn in as President. It’s Minstrel-icious. You can see the film reels and Tyson’s segment in the video below:

I hope that this show turns out well. And it probably will if it can zero in on how to produce a smart, factual comedy show. I’d love to see more experts, more intelligent discussion, and please, producers, let D.L. be who he is – the asshole who cracks jokes both on and with the smart folks. I’ll check it out next week and report back on how it progresses.

That is, if my brain doesn’t rot from watching Chocolate News.

What’s the first image that comes to your mind when you think of a Muslim woman? Is she Arab or South Asian? White or maybe Afghan or Indonesian? Notice that I haven’t mentioned African American (and also Latina). The media depiction of Muslim women usually does not include African American women. Often, Muslim women are depicted as coming from the Middle East or South Asia, and occasionally sub-Saharan Africa. Also, there has been increasing focus on Muslimahs of European descent, especially converts such as Yvonne Ridley and Dr. Ingrid Mattson.

When African American Muslims are depicted in the media, it is usually a male face (Siraj Wahaj, Abdul Hakeem Jackson, Malcolm X, Imam Warithdeen Muhammad, etc.) that is presented to the public. There are exceptions such as Dr. Amina Wadud. However, the overall trend is rather disheartening, considering how much African American Muslimahs do for other black Muslims as well as the whole Muslim community. I have often wondered why the stories, needs and concerns of African American Muslimahs are not focused on and come up with a myriad of possible answers.

One is the sexism that black Muslimahs encounter in their own community. This is probably symptomatic of the sexism that black women as a whole face in the black community. Black Muslimahs still have a long way to go in gaining leadership positions in mosques and national organizations, such as the Muslim Alliance of North America, which focuses heavily on issues affecting African American Muslims. When there are few of us in leadership positions, it is hard for us to become the faces of the community in the media.

There’s also the racism, both covert and overt, that African Americans face in the Muslim community. Often, we’re not on the boards of masajid that aren’t predominately African American and if we are, our numbers are insignificant. African Americans are also not well represented in national organizations like ISNA, ICNA and CAIR. Also, the issues that affect African American Muslimahs are often ignored by organizations like ISNA and ICNA. When these organizations are pushed as the voice of American Muslims but lack significant input from African American Muslimahs, then it is not surprising that representation of African American Muslimahs is seriously lacking in the media.

Lastly, there is the racism of the mainstream media. On MMW, we have often discussed how Muslim women are portrayed as victims and otherized. The face of this woman is usually brown. Fatemeh has a great post about the racialization of Islam up at Racialicious. I think that this racialization of Islam leaves little space for the representation of Western Muslim women and almost no space for the representation of African American Muslim women.

While this post thus far may sound bleak, I do think that there is slow progress in getting African American Muslimahs heard. The blogosphere has provided an outlet for many African American Muslimahs to speak to the world. Not too long ago, NPR did a piece on polygyny among African American women. About four years ago, a great ethnography of African American Muslim women titled Engaged Surrender was published by the University of California press. Additionally, there has been more focus on African American Muslimahs in the entertainment industry as well. So things have been getting better. However, there needs to be more coverage of African American Muslimahs, as well as Latina Muslimahs. We are Muslim women too and we’re not invisible.

(Photo Credit: Margari Aziza Hill)

Last year Puerto Rican artist Miguel Luciano created a pair of Nike Air Force Ones with the image of Filiberto Ojeda Rios, head of the Puerto Rican Indepencence group Los Macheteros.

Filiberto was murdered by the FBI in his home. Miguel Luciano’s piece wanted to explore the way that Filiberto had been commodified as a slain revolutionary (similar to the way that Che is commodified on t-shirts) and created these sneakers. The sneakers garnered some mixed feelings (check out Raquel Z. Rivera’s amazing piece about the tensions these sneakers bring up at Reggaetonica and here).

Well now the battle of the political A1′s on!

Artist Jimm Lasser recently opened his exhibition in New York, with Obama as the theme of the exhibit. “The Obama Force One” is one of the most interesting pieces in the show, with graphics of Obama engraved onto the sole.

What do you all think? Interesting comments on the commidification of “leaders” or just plain commodity?