You don’t have to be any kind of sports watcher to be compelled and moved by Althea’s story. It is not (though Althea herself might have wished it to be so) merely a story of athletic excellence, but a tale of race, class, and gender, of how these factors are inextricable in the United States: a story of intersectionality.
“I never knew.” In a voice soft with wonder and respect, director Rex Miller expresses the sentiment with which he hopes audiences will respond to his biopic about Althea Gibson. “I never knew.”
Miller is likely to get his wish. Unless you’re a tennis buff, or (like me) you live around the corner from a statue of Althea, you may not ever have heard of her. The erroneous factoid still circulates that Arthur Ashe was the first African American to win a Grand Slam, erasing Althea’s legacy.
Statue of Althea Gibson in Branch Brook Park, Newark, NJ. Image via Wikipedia.
Tennis remains nearly the only sport I have voluntarily watched, but you don’t have to be any kind of sports watcher to be compelled and moved by Althea’s story. It is not (though Althea herself might have wished it to be so) merely a story of athletic excellence, but a tale of race, class, and gender, of how these factors are inextricable in the United States: a story of intersectionality.
The details of Gibson’s career – winning the French Open in 1956, with ten more Grand Slam titles to follow in the next two years – are only a Wikipedia search away. It’s both Althea’s complexities as a person and the broader social context of her life that the film portrays with grace and nuance.
As an African American woman, born in South Carolina in the 1920s, raised in Harlem, Althea might not have been expected to play tennis, of all sports. Then as now, tennis was the sport of the genteel, and it seems to have been very much the hobby of the aspirational classes. Althea began playing paddle tennis as part of the Police Athletic League, and was mentored by Black doctors who were also tennis enthusiasts.
At the time, the structures of the sport tended to exclude those who lacked an independent income, so Althea’s success was as much a matter of transcending economic and class barriers as race barriers (not, of course, that these have ever been fully separable in United States history). And yet, despite being hailed as the Jackie Robinson of tennis, she was extremely reluctant to be a civil rights figure. Althea Gibson was not particularly interested in politics; she was interested in playing excellent tennis.
Winning the hell out of Wimbledon, like a boss.
As a Black woman, of course, her life was inherently, unavoidably political. The Athena Film Festival screening of the film featured a discussion with the director, and the politics of Black womanhood were an integral part of this discussion. For much of the film, interviewees describe Althea’s toughness, her steely determination and hard edges born of a childhood playing hooky in the streets of Harlem; yet in all of the footage of Althea herself, she appears very poised, dignified, and ladylike. Black women in America are subject to stereotyping and exclusion from all sides, and have used their double and triple consciousness to make enormously important contributions to the pursuit of justice. Even a Black woman like Althea, who rejects the burden of explicitly fighting for racial and gender justice, carries within her the multiple consciousness necessary to survive in America.
A second aspect of discussion was the film’s silence regarding rumors around Althea’s sexuality. Miller explained that he consciously chose to exclude all mention of the rumors, because with so little information available (Gibson leaves, it seems, no relatives who might have been able to confirm or deny), he felt he would have been able to do little more than pander to sensationalism. Whether this was the appropriate decision or not is an open question. It is certain that Althea was married to a husband with whom she seems to have been very much in love, but it is not hard to read subtext into her close friendship with British tennis star Angela Buxton. Given that rumors did exist in Althea’s lifetime, their omission does leave a lacuna; and yet, given the meticulousness of the rest of the film and the dearth of certainty regarding Gibson’s sexuality, it is hard to fault Miller for shying away from such speculative territory.
Impoverished and forgotten, Althea Gibson planned to take her own life in the early 1990s. Her friend and tennis partner Angela Buxton galvanized the tennis world to provide financial support, and Althea lived another decade. Hopefully, this fine film will help to ensure that her legacy survives long into the future.
Firstly, a definition of sorts: the myth of the “strong Black woman” is loosely defined as a Black woman who is emotionally hardy to the point of feeling no pain. She is never fazed or hysterical. She is cold and calculating. She has no personal needs or desires and doesn’t complain. She can take a beating and come out on the other side unharmed. This is supposed to be seen as a good thing. Black women are “so strong” that no amount of abuse will break them. They will always keep plodding on. “Strong black women” are superhuman.
This guest post by Cate Young previously appeared at her blog, BattyMamzelle, and is cross-posted with permission.
Last week, I read a great article by Nichole Perkins on Buzzfeed that talked about the way the character development of the leading ladies of both Scandal and Sleepy Hollow were working toward dismantling the harmful depictions of “strong Black women” in media. It was a great read, and I loved that someone else shared my conclusions about Olivia Pope’s characterization.
What stuck out to me however, was Perkins’ characterization of Gabourey Sidibe’s character Queenie on American Horror Story: Coven as a negative embodiment of the “strong Black woman” stereotype. She says:
Then there is Gabourey Sidibe as Queenie on American Horror Story: Coven, a “human voodoo doll” whose supernatural power is the inability to feel pain, even as she inflicts said pain onto someone else. […] These Strong Black Women feel no emotional pain, tolerate severe physical trauma with no reaction, and menace others with stone faces.
I love American Horror Story: Coven. But even though I had immediately made the connection to the racialized violence against Black bodies this season, I hadn’t picked up on Perkins’ perspective of Queenie as an SBW. After seeing the episode “The Replacements,” I not only vehemently agree with her, I also want to expand on her observations.
Firstly, a definition of sorts: the myth of the “strong Black woman” is loosely defined as a Black woman who is emotionally hardy to the point of feeling no pain. She is never fazed or hysterical. She is cold and calculating. She has no personal needs or desires and doesn’t complain. She can take a beating and come out on the other side unharmed. This is supposed to be seen as a good thing. Black women are “so strong” that no amount of abuse will break them. They will always keep plodding on. “Strong black women” are superhuman.
Immediately, we can see the issues with this so-called “positive stereotype.” It paints Black women as unfeeling, and incapable of emotional pain. It justifies abuses perpetuated against them as “not as bad” because “they can take it.” In essence, it makes Black women a target for “warranted” violence, because the belief is that said violence will not affect them.
Now, on Perkins’ original point, AHSC‘s Queenie is a Black witch (superhuman) whose magical power is to literally injure herself without feeling pain. The only way she is able to inflict pain on other people is to inflict it on herself first. Her suffering is part and parcel of her experience. And yet, she feels no pain, therefore hurting her isn’t really hurting her is it? She can take it! With Queenie, Ryan Murphy has conceived of a character that is the literal embodiment of a harmful stereotype.
That’s not all. In “The Replacements,” Fiona Goode (Jessice Lange) appoints the racist Madam LaLaurie (Kathy Bates) as Queenie’s personal slave as punishment for her bigotry. LaLaurie is openly racist towards Queenie and uses every opportunity she can to demean her, and “remind her of her place” even though their “traditional roles” have been effectively subverted. Queenie takes it all in stride until she realizes who exactly LaLaurie actually is and recalls her reputation for torturing her slaves.
Later though, the minotaur that LaLaurie created comes back to haunt her, sent by former lover Marie Laveau (Angela Basset). Terrified, LaLaurie begs Queenie to protect her. The very same woman who she said wasn’t worthy to be served at breakfast, should put her own safety on the line to save her. And she DOES. Despite all of LaLaurie’s ill treatement, Queenie still feel compelled to protect her against the present threat. This plays into ideas about Black women being in service to white women, but never equal to them. Think The Help and Hilly Holbrook‘s “Home Health Sanitation Initiative.”
The other major issue I had with this episode was the presentation of Queenie’s sexuality. Queenie is presented as being the only one unworthy of love or sex. Early on, we learn that Queenie is the only virgin in the house. Later she tells LaLaurie that she is fat because “Dr. Phil says that kids from broken homes use food to replace love,” indicating quite explicitly that love is not something she feels she as access to. After confronting the minotaur to save LaLaurie, she offers to have sex with him as she masturbates:
You just wanted love, and that makes you a beast. They called me that too. But that’s not who we are. We both deserve love like everybody else. Don’t you want to love me?
So, not only is Queenie not worthy of love or sex, the only love/sex is entitled to is from a literal beast. And let’s not even get into the demonization of black sexuality by literally and figuratively turning a Black man into a beast. Queenie’s sexuality is degraded as being less than, a fact that she seems aware of. She is so “desperate and deranged” that she loses her virginity to an animal.
The use of the word “we” is significant to me also. Not only does Queenie see the minotaur as a beast, she sees herself as one too. She has internalized the idea that her blackness correlates to bestiality, and has now literally given into that characterization. The fact that she sees herself as equal to an animal that is subhuman and that that idea isn’t challenged in any way is a very problematic and racist way to portray black sexuality.
There is a lot of anti-Black sentiment tied up in Queenie’s character and it makes me uncomfortable and unhappy. It could be argued that half the story is about a racist slave owner who was renowned for her cruelty, and so anti-Blackness is to be expected in the narrative. But in my opinion, not enough is done to subvert those stereotypes. Having Fiona declare that she hates racists simply isn’t enough if every interaction of Queenie’s upholds the existing status quo. It is a disservice to have a talented actress like Sidibe, who has already been heavily maligned because of her weight, be characterized in a way that reinforces ideas about why she isn’t suitable for better more complex roles in Hollywood.
This isn’t the first time that AHS has had a problem with women. The show has a long history of disempowering women through rape, so it’s not surprising that it would also have a problem with Black women specifically. But to play into deeply racist ideas about Black womanhood is unsettling to me in a completely personal way. Having Queenie be characterized as a superhuman beast who is unworthy of love is a powerful message to send in a world rife with anti-Blackness where #stopblackgirls2013 can trend for an entire day. I can only hope that the rest of the season gets better.
Cate Young is a Trinidadian freelance writer and photographer, and author of BattyMamzelle, a feminist pop culture blog focused on film, television, music, and critical commentary on media representation. Cate has a BA in Photojournalism from Boston University and is currently pursuing her MA in Mass Communications so that she can more effectively examine the symbolic annihilation of women of colour in the media and deliver the critical feminist smack down. Follow her on twitter at @BattyMamzelle.
The story of Eve also elevates the image of Black women as the foundation of families. This element becomes most important as the film progresses.
This guest post by Rachel Wortherley appears as part of our theme week on Black Families.
Eve’s Bayou (1997) begins with the haunting lines: “The summer I killed my father I was 10 years old, my brother Poe was 9, and my sister Cisely had just turned 14.” With this preamble is the expectation of the tragic to occur. While the core of a majority of Black family dramas involves tragedy in the form of slavery, poverty, or mental/physical abuse, Kasi Lemmons’ directorial debut reinvents the way audiences view Black families. On a rare occasion, the story of a Black family is allowed to be told through the eyes of a Black female protagonist. Eve’s Bayou is in part a “coming of age” drama.
The history of the Batiste family of Louisiana lies in their ancestry. Eve, an African slave, saved a French aristocrat, Jean-Paul Batiste, from cholera. In return, Batiste granted her freedom and named the island in Louisiana, after her. In turn, Eve bore Batiste 16 children. Ten-year-old Eve Batiste (Jurnee Smollett), the story’s protagonist, is named after her and is a descendant of Eve and Jean-Paul Batiste. The fact that their ancestry is an integral part of their lives reveals several things: the first being that they clearly know who they are in terms of culture. Through the sordid decades of slavery, Blacks in America have little to no knowledge of their genealogy. It is a part of our past that is not clearly defined. However, in Eve’s Bayou, their background is not only acknowledged but embraced. They can often be heard speaking French phrases throughout the film. The story of Eve also elevates the image of Black women as the foundation of families. This element becomes most important as the film progresses.
The first time audiences meet the Batiste family, we are immediately thrust into a world that is uncharted and unfamiliar for most Black families in motion pictures, as well as the audiences. The hot sound of jazz fills the Victorian mansion, women are dressed in fine satins, and laughter fills the air. The young Eve appears and immediately incites mischief upon her brother Poe (Jake Smollett), while her sister, Cisely (Meagan Good), reprimands them, likening them to William Shakespeare’s Tybalt and Mercutio. Louis Batiste (Samuel L. Jackson) is their father and a successful, beloved doctor in the community. Their mother, Roz (Lynn Whitfield) is a homemaker, whose beauty is referenced throughout the film. There appears to be a strong family dynamic and they are living the quintessential American dream. Here, the Black family to audiences is “normalized” to a general American landscape. This factor becomes a metaphor for the supernatural aspects—the gift of second sight—of the film. Lemmons forces her audience to see beyond what is generally depicted about a Black family in the 1950s.
While the traditional family dynamic is important in the film, the coming of age aspect is even more so instrumental to the plot. When audiences first meet Eve, we see through her eyes how she feels marginalized within the family dynamic. She suffers from the classic “middle child” syndrome. Poe, her younger brother, is the quintessential “mama’s boy” to Roz, while Cisely is the clandestine “daddy’s girl” to Louis. Eve finds kinship in her aunt Mozelle (Debbi Morgan). Both share two qualities: their beautiful red hair and the gift of second sight. Not only do Eve and Mozelle see the future, but they are hyper-aware of their surroundings. This becomes especially significant when Eve becomes cognizant of her father’s infidelity. This realization not only disrupts the harmonious father-daughter relationship, but ultimately changes their family dynamic.
Louis’ penchant for adultery is not something that is usually portrayed in stories about Black families. Largely, Black fathers are either portrayed as: physically/emotionally absent or highly upstanding. In comedies, fathers are most likely the source of comic relief, while his wife is the “straight man” and the situational aspects generally focus on him or he is involved in some manner in the resolution. A current example of this is ABC’s Black-ish, while earlier incarnations are The Cosby Show, and The Jeffersons. I think that in Lemmons’ film, as well as Spike Lee’s Jungle Fever, fathers are portrayed as loving, yet flawed. Louis is undoubtedly a serial adulterer, but that does not change his affection toward his children.
When Eve discovers Louis’ infidelity she and Cisely begin to either cling to or detach themselves from him. Eve accompanies him on his house calls—once he closes the door in Eve’s face to give a patient what can be presumed “sexual healing.” This later prompts Eve to question, “Do you ever want other children besides us?” Louis assures her by telling her that he loves her mother, but the seed of distrust was planted the night of the party when she witnessed his infidelity in the shed with family friend, Mrs. Matty Mereaux. Cisely begins to cling to her father. She waits up for him at night when he arrives home late from house calls and pours him a drink to assuage his stress. Cisely also contends with Roz, who scolds Louis about his late nights. Cisely sees her mother as the antagonist who is driving her father out of their lives. This anxiety arguably prompts the “kiss of death” that transpires between Louis and Cisely.
The kiss that occurs between Cisely and her father is what Eve thinks led to his subsequent death. Cisely confides to Eve that one night, she went to comfort her father and a sexual kiss was exchanged. At her resistance he slaps her to the grown and a look of rage filled his eyes. This admission prompts Eve to procure the local witch, Elzora (Diahann Carroll), to cast a spell of death. However, the night that Louis is killed, something within Eve prompts her to attempt to save her father. In going to the town bar to bring him home, it is likely that Eve has reservations about how he hurt Cisely. But it is hard to not believe her sister when Eve has witnessed her father’s distrust on a number of occasions. Yet, it is too late, Mr. Mereaux in a crime of passion, shoots Louis dead, with Eve as witness. This moment leaves Eve forever changed, even more so when she discovers that Louis did not molest Cisely. Rather Cisely’s prominent memory is that Louis hurt her. Symbolically this means that everything Cisely disbelieved about her father to be true.
It is significant that in the beginning of the film, adult Eve states: “The summer I killed my father I was 10 years old, my brother Poe was 9, and my sister Cisely had just turned 14.” Whereas at the end she says: “The summer my father said goodnight I was 10 years old, my brother Poe was 9, and my sister Cisely had just turned 14. ” This changing in lines demonstrates that Eve accepts that her father’s death was not of her provocation, but his own.
The death of Louis allows for several new things to occur. It brings Roz closer to her children, it allows Eve to understand that not everything is “black and white,” and most significantly, women continue to be the foundation of their family. Though Poe is the sole male in their household, perhaps upbringing from Roz, Cisely, Eve, and Mozelle will influence him on how to respect women. However, Cisely and Eve are missing years in their adolescence in which fatherly love and influence is key. Yet there is not the sense that the sisters will stray. The indicator of this lies in the final shot as Eve destroys Louis’ letter in which he reveals the miscommunication between him and Cisely. Ten-year-old Eve assumes the role of her ancestor Eve by nurturing her sister. As they stand together, hand in hand, looking out across the bayou, they intend to deal with this situation and future hardships together. Eve’s Bayou ultimately becomes about how women and sisters look beyond tragedy to find strength in one another.
Rachel Wortherley is a graduate of Iona College in New Rochelle, New York and holds a Master of Arts degree in English. Her downtime consists of devouring copious amounts of literature, television shows, and films. She hopes to gain a doctorate in English literature and become a professional screenwriter.
What makes ‘Desmond’s’ unique is its layered and often nuanced portrayal of immigrant Afro-Europeans and their assimilating progeny that are more closely connected to their African roots than any African American TV show I’d ever seen. It also has a cross representation of class in Black British society by showing retired, working class, upper-middle class, college-educated, college-bound, and not college-bound Black people interacting together all the time. Not only are different classes intermingling, but there are also four series regulars who are white, and their whiteness is not the punchline of tired racial jokes.
Desmond’s: DVD Collection Seasons 1-4
Written by staff writer Lisa Bolekaja as part of our theme week on Black Families.
The first Black family sitcom (with under-aged children) I ever saw on TV was Good Times. For the majority of Black Americans raised in the 70s, The Evans Family was supposedly America’s first real exposure to a Black nuclear family on television, albeit one in extreme poverty living in the projects. I distinctly remember my mother and step-father sitting down with me to watch people who looked like us eating grits, turnip greens, or ribs on an old second –hand kitchen table the way we ate our own regular southern foods. Black families were such a rarity on television that Good Times became event viewing–the original must-see-TV in my neighborhood. The Evans family wasn’t as rich as The Brady Bunch, but they did go through comedic shenanigans that were solved at the end of the episode.
At the time I wasn’t aware of the problems actors James Amos and Esther Rolle dealt with trying to focus more attention on the family and not the stereotyped antics of J.J. (White producers and white writers wanted to up the ante on the clownish, uneducated, slapstick behavior of J.J, who eventually became the main focus of the show.) Good Times still had a nostalgic place in my heart. I used to own a Jimmy Walker J.J. Evans doll where you pulled the string in his back, and the toy would yell “Dyn-o-mite!” back at you. Even today, if TV Land or Centric plays re-runs, I will stop and watch it. On the heels of Good Times, came What’s Happening? and of course, the 80s brought the NBC savior/juggernaut, The Cosby Show, the 90s The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and in the new millennium, The Bernie Mac Show,Everybody Hates Chris, and now Black-ish.
But I’m going to write something that may hurt some Black Americans’ feelings.
The best Black Family sitcom in my non-humble opinion is a little-known gem from across the pond that debuted in 1989. A show about a Black British/West Indian family running a barbershop in Peckham, London, it was called Desmond’s (created by Trix Worrell) and you need to buy it on DVD and watch it right now.
Desmond’s on the surface looks like any early 90s family comedy that served up plenty of corny jokes, familiar plots we’ve seen in similar family shows, and raucous studio audience laughter. What makes Desmond’s unique is its layered and often nuanced portrayal of immigrant Afro-Europeans and their assimilating progeny that are more closely connected to their African roots than any African American TV show I’d ever seen. It also has a cross representation of class in Black British society by showing retired, working class, upper-middle class, college-educated, college-bound, and not college-bound Black people interacting together all the time. Not only are different classes intermingling, but there are also four series regulars who are white, and their whiteness is not the punchline of tired racial jokes.
West Indians and West Africans on the same show. Porkpie (Ram John Holder), Desmond (Norman Beaton) and Matthew (Gyearbuor Asante)
I was lucky to catch Desmond’s in the early 90s when Black Entertainment Television (BET) started airing re-runs in the states. I was cooking a box of mac ‘n cheese and flipping channels when I saw some Black actors I didn’t recognize. I had to turn the volume up to hear their voices because their patois sounded like the Jamaican folks I partied with at my local reggae dancehall. I watched every single episode BET aired.
Desmond Ambrose (Norman Beaton) was a popular calypso singer back in his native Guyana who immigrated to England with his beloved wife, Shirley Ambrose (Carmen Munroe). Desmond’s plan was always to work and live in England and then retire back to his native Guyana and build his dream home. Once settled in Peckham, Desmond and Shirley had three socially mobile children who were part of a wave of first generation Guyanese/Black Brits.
Tony (Dominic Keating), Desmond Ambrose (Norman Beaton) and Shirley Ambrose (Carmen Munroe)
Shirley Ambrose has spent more than half her life in Peckham, and has no desire to return to Guyana. Her children are British, and she often fusses with Desmond about not sharing his dream of returning back home. Home is with her children in this new country. Their oldest son Michael (Geoff Francis) is a bank manager, a Buppie, and social climber. He fancies himself cultured, classy, and sometimes above his West Indian Roots. The middle child, Gloria (Kim Walker) is a college student, fashionista, and later in the series a professional writer who always calls Michael out on his pretentious behavior. Then there’s the youngest son Sean (Justin Pickett, my favorite), the first black teen geek and computer coder I’d ever seen on TV. What makes Sean special is that he is a computer whiz without being the cliché nerd, and he is a rapper and a D.J. He is smart, cool, and respectful of his parents and culture. Imagine Will Smith’s Fresh Prince combined with Carlton sans the corniness of both characters and you get an authentic Sean. So refreshing.
Sean (Justin Pickett) explaining coding to his father Desmond on those big ass old school desk tops in the 90s.
Desmond’s takes place inside a barbershop in a sometimes rough working-class neighborhood. The Ambrose family (without Michael) resides in an apartment above the shop, and three of their regular friends (and occasional customers) hang out there most of the day with them. One regular is Desmond’s Guyanese childhood friend and former band mate Porkpie (Ram John Holder). Another regular is Lee (Robbie Gee), a boxer and unofficial adopted son who often peddles goods inside and outside the shop. Still another drop-in is a West African from Gambia named Matthew (Gyearbuor Asante) who brings in his African culture and a grand sense of African pride. Matthew is also a university student who never seems to ever finish his studies, although he has been a student for many years. What I enjoy about Matthew is a new view of African characters. Often in Black American shows (especially the early TV shows in the 70s) African characters are made fun of, whether it is their names, food, or skin color. They are often depicted as being poor and overly grateful to be away from their homelands. Not Matthew. He has a superior air about him and comes from a wealthy family. He’s always chiding the West Indians that they need to respect their elder culture (Africa), while at the same time giving off the impression that he is delighted that West Indians have retained so many Africanisms in their own New World culture.
Matthew sharing an old African saying with Desmond, Shirley and Sean.
Desmond’s allowed me a peek into the world of my Black cultural cousins who wound up in England instead of the States. I learned West Indian history, I saw how Blacks over there also code-switched their language when they spoke among themselves and among outsiders. One minute the family would speak British Standard Vernacular English, and the next minute, flip into Guyanese patois, or even Black British Rude Boy Slang. This code-switching reminded me of my own people in the States where many of us speak Standard American English at work, African American Vernacular English (AAVE) at home or among friends, and can also slip into Southern Creole languages like Gullah (Geechee), or New Orleans Creole.
While Desmond’s was re-running in America, I was listening to a lot of British neo-soul music like Soul II Soul, Sade, Loose Ends, Tricky, Omar, The Young Disciples, and especially the songs of Caron Wheeler the singer whose voice put Soul II Soul’s sound on the map. Listening to Caron Wheeler’s album U.K. Blak, which was the title track, I was given a mini-history of how so many new West Indian immigrants landed in English ports. Caron Wheeler sang:
Many moons ago We were told the streets were paved with gold So our people came by air and sea To earn a money they could keep Then fly back home Sadly this never came to be When we learned we had just been invited To clean up after the war Back in ’49 never intended to stay here Who could afford to leave these shores
UK Blak, ending the silence now UK Blak, letting you know that we’re about
The opening credit sequence of Desmond’s shows actual black and white film footage of Blacks from the Caribbean on large British ships sailing into English ports after WWII. I watched Desmond’s, listened to Caron Wheeler sing some history to me, and felt an immediate connection to the characters on the show. I love Desmond’s more than most popular Black American shows I grew up with. It tells me more about my own history and roots from the viewpoint of my figurative cousins across the big water. Think about that for a minute. Every African American from enslaved America was merely one random port stop from being British, Brazilian, a Caribbean Islander, or a North American. Like Desmond’s people, African Americans migrated too, going North and West within America, leaving family back home in the deep south. Like Desmond’s people, we have strong roots in the south that some of us want to cut off and forget, and some of us have actually returned to retire there. A reverse migration. A returning to the old culture that sustained so many of us in the dark days from the Civil Rights struggles and back beyond that.
The younger siblings, Gloria and Sean, showed me that there was a cultural exchange of Black music and styles from the U.S. From the posters on their bedroom walls of Ice Cube, The Fresh Prince and Jazzy Jeff, Whitney Houston, and mentions of Michael and Janet Jackson, to the Malcolm X hats and T-Shirts that marked the debut of Spike Lee’s X. Rap music mixed into the ragamuffin sounds of Black England. The cultural cousins have been keeping in touch. As young Blacks in the States were calling out sexism and homophobia in rap culture, an episode of Desmond’s demonstrated that it was an issue in British rap too. Sean has to push back on his best friend Spider for selling rap/dancehall mash-up music that is sexist, misogynistic, and homophobic, making Sean’s openly gay university buddy Bernie feel uncomfortable around the school. Sean demands a safer space for his gay and female friends, even if it means cutting Spider out of his inner circle.
Gloria (Kim Walker) and Sean listen to their father impart West Indian wisdom to their Bicultural upbringing.
The show itself is available for purchase on DVD, but for only Seasons 1-4. A few years ago I was hunting for any copies of the series last two seasons. Luckily, I found Seasons 5 and 6 on YouTube. Desmond’s was a show that could’ve gone on for at least three more seasons. Unfortunately, the star of the show, Norman Beaton, died on a trip to visit his family in Guyana. There was an attempt to keep a part of the Desmond’s legacy alive with a spin-off series called Porkpie with Ram John Holder, but it was short-lived, lasting only two seasons.
Actor Norman Beaton (Desmond Ambrose) passed away after Season 6.
Ram John Holder was given his own spin-off series called “Porkpie”
Just to entice any potential new fans, you will spot some familiar faces in some of the episodes. The very cute white barber/ stylist Tony was played by Dominic Keating who later went on to star on the TV series Star Trek: Enterprise.
A brother-in-law of Gambian forever-student Matthew was played by Joseph Marcell, who later gained American fame playing Geoffrey the butler on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.
And for some real fun, if you watch an early episode called Veronica, you will see the child actress Amma Assante who grew up to direct the phenomenal movie Belle from last year.
Bet you didn’t know Amma Asante, director of Belle, was a child actress who appeared on Desmond’s
Do yourself a favor. Come ‘round the shop and listen to some Soca. There will be tea and toast and good times. I promise.
Tea, toast, and good times with the Ambrose clan and their extended family.
When you only share narratives from a small percentage of the population, chances are the stories might start to overlap. Only allowing a certain group of people access to representation is merely a way of securing total domination, and normalizing white supremacy. This trend is especially common in the comedy space.
This is a guest post by Aph Ko.
I am the actress, writer, and producer for the new independent web-series called Black Feminist Blogger. The show centers on the protagonist Latoya as she attempts to navigate the competitive terrain of the online feminist blogging marketplace.
She is a full-time blogger for the online feminist magazine Sapphire Mouth Magazine, which is run by a white woman named Marie. The show comically highlights some current issues within blogging culture such as the exploitation of writers, the overwhelming amount of under-paid writing positions, as well as the overt privileging of white women’s voices over minoritized women.
As the show unfolds, we see all aspects of Latoya’s life impacted by the massive amount of time she spends online catering to Marie’s requests for more sanitized, mainstream, “page-clicky,” commercial material. From not receiving regular paychecks, to having relationships fall apart, Latoya’s world spins upside down as she attempts to find a way to balance her love for feminism and writing, with the exploitative market inherent in many blogging spaces.
The struggles that Latoya faces are not all that different from many other bloggers online. Blogging is still largely seen as a hobby rather than a business, therefore, exploitation runs wild. Additionally, because so much of the labor is invisible to the mainstream, there are rarely any entertainment products that cater to bloggers. The blogosphere functions much like any other workspace, except much of the communication is done online. There are so many funny narratives lurking “behind the scenes” of blogging and I decided that I would start with some of my own stories.
I think it’s important that young women of color pick up cameras and film their own narratives, regardless if you don’t have a budget or camera experience. Hollywood shouldn’t have a monopoly on creativity and expression. I’m so tired of going to movie theaters or turning on Netflix and seeing that white people (predominantly men) dominate all stories. It’s not right, and frankly, it’s boring as hell.
When you only share narratives from a small percentage of the population, chances are the stories might start to overlap. Only allowing a certain group of people access to representation is merely a way of securing total domination, and normalizing white supremacy. This trend is especially common in the comedy space.
A lot of comedy today is politically, critically, and intellectually bankrupt.
Even when the media product is supposedly “progressive,” it still centers whiteness. Think about the Colbert Report or The Daily Show, where they say some of the most progressive commentary on television, yet they are the first to carry the torch of whiteness and continue on the tradition of white men dominating media. In fact, when I watch these shows, sometimes I feel like they’re explicitly talking to white people, so I laugh, but again, I laugh from the margins.
The privileging of whiteness is the underlying foundation for mainstream comedy today.
“Mainstream comedians like Louis C.K. are well known for acknowledging their white privilege, but they continue to use racism in their routines. Because people of color are not the intended audience, we are the targets for jokes.
White comedians’ refusal to acknowledge audiences of color has been painfully consistent. I’m tired of waiting for the Mexican joke to be over so that I can go back to listening to the rest of the show. Instead of hoping for white comedians to validate my experience, I have since begun to actively seek out comedians of color.”
It’s time we disrupt this trend and take over. If you really think #blacklivesmatter, then you should support the hell out of Black independent artists. Waiting for white people to “get it” doesn’t have to be the activism. Actively seeking out Black comedians, artists, musicians, intellectual thinkers, and filmmakers is the activism.
Being able to relax, being able to be entertained (without the drudgery of a thousand side-thoughts about how white-centric or sexist a program is), and being represented is revolutionary.
We must continue to cultivate, foster, and support Black independent media.
“Imagination is a powerful tool that white supremacy keeps trying to hijack. When imagination becomes institutionalized, corporatized, or white-washed, it can become a tool of violence that can shape reality. Black independent media is a revolutionary reclamation of imagination.”
I caught up on the series and decided that hands down, it’s one of the best genre TV shows around. It’s a success not because of the kooky Sci Fi aspects of the show, but because of the diversity of the characters in race, class, and language, and also the engaging representation of women. The characters all start off as archetypes in the beginning of the series, but slowly over the course of the first season, layers are revealed and the audience grows to love each misfit for being the messy and vulnerable people they really are.
Misfits TV Series
I was introduced to the British TV show Misfits by accident in 2012. In the parlance of my inner voice, the show became “my shit.”
I couldn’t believe I’d never heard of the Misfits show before. Moi, who was so on top of the smart Sci Fi British flick Attack the Block the previous year. Yours truly who was always looking for cool Sci Fi movies and TV shows from other countries–especially if they had people of color in them. I was kinda miffed with myself, especially since Misfits had been around since 2009. Not only had I missed it, but my ass was really late on the come up too. The shame!
I caught up on the series and decided that hands down, it’s one of the best genre TV shows around. It’s a success not because of the kooky Sci Fi aspects of the show, but because of the diversity of the characters in race, class, and language, and also the engaging representation of women. The characters all start off as archetypes in the beginning of the series, but slowly over the course of the first season, layers are revealed and the audience grows to love each misfit for being the messy and vulnerable people they really are.
Alisha (Antonia Thomas), Curtis (Nathan Stewart-Jarrett, Kelly (Lauren Socha), Nathan (Robert Sheehan), and Simon (Iwan Rheon)
At the start of the series, Curtis (Nathan Stewart-Jarrett), Alisha (Antonia Thomas), Kelly (Lauren Socha), Simon (Iwan Rheon), and Nathan (Robert Sheehan), all have committed minor offenses that have made them delinquents who must perform community service for a local community center. Forced to wear loud orange jumpers, they are required to serve out a term of about three months under the guidance of a probation officer. Most of their service work is picking up dog shit from the streets, helping elderly citizens, or collecting trash and debris at various assigned locations. Most times the misfits sit around bitching on the roof of their community center, trying to figure one another out. It becomes clear who the archetypes are early on.
Curtis is the local track star, accustomed to getting girls with his athletic prowess. Alisha is the typical gorgeous girl who every guy wants, and spends a lot of time fluffing her curls, or putting on make-up. (What isn’t typical about her from my Black American perspective is that this Black girl is the ultimate hottie for all the boys and men near her, Black, white, Indian, Asian,etc). Kelly is the tough girl from the wrong side of the tracks, ready to fight anyone who she thinks makes fun of how she talks (a class giveaway) or infers she’s just a chav. Simon is a socially awkward introvert. Nathan, the comic relief of the series, has a “live for today” attitude that annoys everyone. They are truly misfits among themselves, and in normal circumstances, would never choose to be around one another.
While performing their community service outdoors, they are assaulted by a freak thunderstorm that hurls fist-sized hail stones down upon them. Unable to reach the indoor safety of the community center, they are all zapped by lightening. Surviving the preternatural lightening strike, the crew discovers that they each have developed unique powers. They have to master them quickly because as the show progresses, these powers will help save them from other victims of the freak storm. Victims who become antagonists. Victims who use their unusual powers to bring crisis, chaos, and even death for some of the misfits.
And talk about powers.
Curtis, who has deep regrets about his failed track career, now has the ability to go back in time and change history.
Alisha, known for having casual sex without regards to the feelings of her partners, has the power to make anyone desire her sexually by simply touching them. Even if she isn’t attracted to them. She can no longer experience the joy of human contact in any form.
Kelly, who was always conscious and on edge about how she thought people viewed her, can now read minds. She gets to hear exactly what people think about everything.
Simon, who already felt invisible and overlooked by people, literally becomes invisible at will.
And Nathan, the class clown and bothersome trickster who lived in the moment? He doesn’t have a power. Envious of the others, he spends the entire first season trying to figure out what his power could be. Eventually he dies at the end of the season. No worries though. We learn with Nathan that he’s an immortal. Great. The most annoying character will last for eternity.
The rest of the series and consecutive seasons (five in all), follow their trials and tribulations, and if this had been a lesser show, probably wouldn’t have held my interest after a couple of episodes. But the characters are so rich. And there’s lots of sex, drugs, dance raves, fantastic background music, and the best romantic pairing of two unlikely people. There’s no way this show could fail me. And did I mention lots of sex?
Kelly (Lauren Socha) and Alisha (Antonia Thomas) share a little girl time.
My favorite aspects of the show (besides the sex positivity) are the growth of the characters and the depictions of the women. What intrigues me about Kelly the tough girl, and Alisha the hottie, is the reversal of the depiction of white and Black female characters. Know this: had Misfits been an American show, Kelly, the white female, would have been the desired woman with the apex standard of beauty. Alisha would be portrayed as the toughie, the strong black woman from the wrong side of the tracks. It is so refreshing to see a Black woman centered as beautiful to all men on TV. (I must point out that Alisha walks a thin tightrope of the Jezebel trope that haunts Black women in the media. But her character arc supersedes my Jezebel concerns later in the series.)
Misfits introduces a lot of Black female minor characters who we meet in various episodes, all of them (except for one who has beef with Kelly in an early episode) are centered as beautiful and desirable by all men. To white women, and non-Black women of color, this may not seem like a big deal, mainly because white female beauty standards across the globe are heavily touted as the ideal—straight hair, thin lips and nose, slender body, and light-colored eyes. Black women the world over spend billions trying to attain a white standard of beauty. (Hair weaves and relaxers, skin bleaching creams, rhinoplasty etc.) On Misfits, Black British women of all hues, body types, and hair textures, are treated as equally desirable as their white counterparts. I watched the show thinking, “Man, the creators of this show have love for the sisters.” This was happening in 2009 when Misfits debuted. In America, it was not until Scandal came on the scene in 2012, that there was a sexy lead Black female being fought over by men (especially non-Black men) on a major TV network.Sleepy Hollow and Gotham have joined the mix in 2014 bringing much attention and centering the beauty of actresses Nicole Beharie, Lyndie Greenwood, and Jada Pinkett-Smith. But Misfits was doing this on the regular since 2009.
Black Girls Are Magic. Alisha (The Flawless Antonia Thomas)
Kelly is a treat for me also because for one thing, she is what the old-timers call a broad. Not necessarily a lady, or a bitch, but a woman who can handle her own. Kelly is bawdy, boozy, and will knuckle up on a dude with a quickness. She’s a working-class plain Jane on the surface, but will curse you out with English slang, break into a building if she needs to without skipping a beat, and smoke you out with some herb if you need to talk it out. She’s built like a Rubenesque Goddess, and yeah, her bra may not fit properly with all that thickness, but she cleans up swell when she needs to, and she’s loyal to her mates. A boss chick who will ride or die for the misfit crew. And I love her for it. Her beauty comes from inside and through her actions. She’s not a Mary Sue, nor side-kick babe. Both Kelly and Alisha are treated as equals among the male characters, and their leadership at various times has saved them from the bad guys. As Season 3 commences, Kelly and Alisha are unlikely friends for life. Their bond is genuine. And the men grow from viewing them as possible sexual conquests to one of the homies.
My Gangster Goddess, Kelly (Lauren Socha)
My favorite Misfits: Alisha, Kelly, and Simon.
Misfits plays with gender roles in Season 3. The crew loses their powers, but are given the opportunity to acquire new powers from a “power dealer.” After losing his time-traveling skills, Curtis gains the power to change his sex at will. He uses it to run track again, but this time on a Women’s team. He names his female self “Melissa” and strikes up a friendship with a fellow female runner. After having sex with the female teammate, as a man (and as a woman later) he soon discovers that the sexual prowess he thought he had was really bad self-serving sex. He also learns inadvertently as Melissa, that he’s a whiny chap that needs to grow up and get over is track star past. What’s a guy to do? He starts self-pleasuring himself as a woman to learn how to really make love to a woman as a man. When Simon asks Curtis if he’s a lesbian, Curtis replies, “I don’t think there’s an official term for this shit.” I want to tell him, “Yes love, it’s called being free and genderfluid.” There’s an honesty here that is refreshing. We are a part of Curtis/Melissa’s discovery of non-gendered sexuality. Curtis masters autoerotic pleasure to become a better lover. And much like Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie, Curtis becomes a better man by being a great woman. Of course, things get a little wonky when Curtis gets himself pregnant!
Venus as a Boy. Curtis is about to gender swap.
I’m coming out! Melissa, a.k.a Curtis (played by Kehinde Fadipe)
With all the fun, zany, and often poignant things that happen to all the characters on Misfits, my favorite character out of the bunch is Simon. Simon has the most dramatic character arc, literally doing a 180 degree turn from when we first meet his shy, bullied, and often sketchy behavior in Season 1. He has a good heart, but lacks the confidence to be the true leader he really is deep inside. Hands down, he has the best genre love story I’ve seen in awhile. His transformation and how it happens is based on his love affair with Alisha. Trust me when I say, you will root for these two unlikely lovers to be together forever. Simon sees Alisha’s inner beauty, and Alisha sees his inner strength of character. It is real true love, and how it’s handled in Misfits is brilliant.
My boo: Simon (Iwan Rheon)
True love: Simon and Alisha (Iwan Rheon and Antonia Thomas)
Sadly for me, there were major cast changes in Seasons 4-5. All my favorite characters were gone, replaced with new faces and new powers. The fun continued, but it was harder for me to enjoy because I was so invested in the original cast. I missed the sisterhood of Kelly and Alisha, and I especially missed the surprising and sweet Simon/Alisha romance. With mates like these, you want to hand out at the pub forever. Trust me. Go watch it now. You won’t regret it.
Freak lightening storm that started it all.
I even learned to love snarky Nathan (Robert Sheehan)
However, I want to challenge that particular narrative: that nothing has changed. If we juxtapose McDaniel’s Mammy alongside Nyong’o’s Patsey, we might realize that, apart from being slaves, their characters are nothing alike. Indeed, from a historical and cinematic context, something significant has changed. Mammy is the mask that pro-slavery apologists used to erase the existence of the Patseys in slavery. It is remarkable that it took 75 years to remove that mask from depictions of cinematic slavery.
Hattie McDaniel
This guest post by Janell Hobson previously appeared at the Ms. Blog and is cross-posted with permission.
It was not lost on some that, 75 years after Hattie McDaniel became the first African American to win a Best Supporting Actress Oscar, the beautiful, poised, and talented Lupita Nyong’o would become the sixth black woman to win that same Oscar—and for playing the same type of role, a slave.
If we count Halle Berry’s Oscar for Best Actress in a Leading Role, that brings the full count of African American women Oscar winners to seven. And when we look at the types of portrayals that won these awards—McDaniel as “Mammy,” Whoopi Goldberg as a con-artist spiritual adviser, Halle Berry as an oversexed and imbalanced grieving widow and mother, Jennifer Hudson as a sassy yet rejected lover singing with much attitude, Monique as a deranged abusive welfare mother, Octavia Spencer as a sassy yet abused maid, and now Lupita Nyong’o as a raped, whipped and victimized slave—it’s very easy to imagine that our subservience as black women (or even our hysteria as women in general; just look at the roles that white actresses often win for) is what is recognizable and later celebrated. In short, such recognition might convince us that nothing has changed.
Classic Mammy dolls
However, I want to challenge that particular narrative: that nothing has changed. If we juxtapose McDaniel’s Mammy alongside Nyong’o’s Patsey, we might realize that, apart from being slaves, their characters are nothing alike. Indeed, from a historical and cinematic context, something significant has changed. Mammy is the mask that pro-slavery apologists used to erase the existence of the Patseys in slavery. It is remarkable that it took 75 years to remove that mask from depictions of cinematic slavery.
There are other changes that we cannot overlook: The fact that McDaniel was forced to sit in the back row the night of the Oscars ceremony, segregated from the rest of her white cast members in the movie Gone with the Wind, contrasts with Nyong’o sitting up front with all the other A-list stars. There is also the fact that McDaniel and other black actors in the Negro Actors Guild fought to remove the n-word from the script of Gone with the Wind, as well as other offensive scenes of racial degradation (shoe-shining her master’s shoes on her knees, or having Butterfly McQueen’s Prissy eating watermelon or being slapped onscreen by Vivien Leigh’s Scarlett O’Hara). I sometimes wonder: Had the Negro Actors Guild not intervened and those elements remained in the film, would we be able to celebrate this classic without embarrassment? Thanks to the efforts of McDaniel, she infused a long-standing stereotype of Mammy with some complicated humor, and she also helped make Gone with the Wind respectable for later generations.
Vivien Leigh and Hattie McDaniel in Gone with the Wind
But this is 2014, and we no longer play to respectability politics. The Civil Rights generation exposed the harsh realities of slavery’s history, with its legacy of racism and white supremacy, through our own felt experiences; the hip-hop generation embraced and poked holes in the n-word with a vengeance; and the millennial generation rightly condemns the nostalgic lies that movies like Birth of a Nation and Gone with the Wind have fostered about slavery. Those lies are hard to erase, since the big, expansive movie screen, with its elaborate montage in Birth and dreamy technicolor in Wind, solidified these myths. Against these grand narratives, the marginal and enslaved black woman’s story is often silenced.
It took a no-holds-barred black filmmaker like Steve McQueen to not only face the harshness of slavery—as told in Solomon Northup’s 1853 narrative, 12 Years a Slave—but to paint its cruelty in sharp colors, to sparingly use sound to build up dread or emotional release and especially to cast a dark-skinned actress such as Nyong’o who could interject sexuality and emotional depth to a character who might otherwise have been reduced to symbolic black woman victimhood. Instead, she emerged as the emotional center in one of the few slave movies that fully humanizes the slave story.
Lupita Nyong’o in 12 Years a Slave
Which is why the journey from Mammy to Patsey is a historic big deal. The image of Mammy was deliberately designed by pro-slavery advocates to deny the existence of slave rapes. Her dark skin (now celebrated thanks to Nyong’o’s natural beauty) was loudly negated as an aesthetic ideal. Her big and shapeless body created in the white imagination an image of safety, in which racial mixing did not occur except in the realm of loyal servitude and fierce protectionism. Moreover, her unfeminine, aggressive style made it difficult to view her as victimized by the slave system (imagine how Mammy would look in a scene with Michael Fassbender’s terrifying Edwin Epps).
Mammy was literally the visual opposition to Scarlett O’Hara, someone confined to slavery and sidekick status to the white heroine. Contrast such a pairing with Patsey and Mistress Epps (portrayed icily by Sarah Paulson), two women confined to the same man while one is given the privilege of her class position as wife and the power of whiteness to subjugate Patsey to cruelty and violence—an added insult to the injury of sexual violence that Patsey must endure from her master.
Lupita Nyong’o
12 Years a Slave removes the masks from Gone with the Wind, and we recognize this through the very different depictions of Mammy and Patsey. As we bask in the afterglow of Lupita Nyong’o’s win—the climax to a whirlwind awards season in which we witnessed Nyongo’s transformation “up from slavery” to red-carpet fashion icon and role model for darker-skinned women everywhere—her Oscar acceptance speech said it best:
“It does not escape me for one moment that so much joy in my life is thanks to so much pain in someone else’s, and so I salute the spirit of Patsey.”
How can we, like Nyong’o, salute the spirit of Patsey? It only took 75 years for us to even catch a glimpse into the truth of her life. I would call that cinematic progress, and it’s merely the tip of the iceberg of painful history that technicolor tried to distort and which we can now watch with a bit more realism.
At best, the White Gaze can be challenged on Twitter (see: #lessclassicallybeautiful); at worst, it can get you killed (see: Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Ezell Ford, Renisha McBride, Trayvon Martin). And for black women, in particular, our complex experiences disappear in the crossroads of intersectional oppression. Where racism and sexism meet, we fall through the cracks.
Shonda Rhimes
This guest post by Janell Hobson previously appeared at the Ms. Blog and is cross-posted with permission.
Anyone who may have seen interviews with Shonda Rhimes, read her forthright speech on diversity on television, or watched her hit TV show Scandal, would not recognize her in Alessandra Stanley’s description of an “angry black woman.”
It would be easy, actually, to become an “angry black woman” after reading Stanley’s New York Times review, but what such descriptors ultimately reveal is how certain critics fall back on readily available stereotypes and misrecognize the complexities of black womanhood.
Rhimes has rightly been lauded for bringing much nuance to her portrayals of black female characters in her television shows: the brilliant and assertive Dr. Miranda Bailey on Grey’s Anatomy, the ultra competent but vulnerable, wine-guzzling Olivia Pope on Scandal, and now the take-charge but flawed Annalise Keating in the new murder mystery, How to Get Away with Murder. Such characters have demonstrated a wide array of emotions on screen. Yet, Stanley reduced them all to “Angry Black Women.”
Chandra Wilson as Miranda Bailey on Grey’s Anatomy
In her clumsy attempts at praising Rhimes for enabling more complicated portrayals of black womanhood, Stanley revealed the often difficult task of transcending the White Gaze, which has a long history of racial distortion and misrecognition. “Confidence” or any behavior not characterized as servile from a black woman becomes “angry” and “scary.”
These distortions often manifest in other ways too, so that dark-skinned Viola Davis becomes “less classically beautiful” and “menacing” in her sexiness, and Nicole Beharie, who stars in the Fox TV show Sleepy Hollow, is reduced to a “sidekick.” Even when these women land leading roles in their respective TV shows, Stanley reduces their star power (through looks or character status). No wonder, then, when black women assert themselves, appear confident, or fail to merely be “of service,” they can only become the “Angry Black Woman.”
At best, the White Gaze can be challenged on Twitter (see: #lessclassicallybeautiful); at worst, it can get you killed (see: Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Ezell Ford, Renisha McBride, Trayvon Martin). And for black women, in particular, our complex experiences disappear in the crossroads of intersectional oppression. Where racism and sexism meet, we fall through the cracks.
Kerry Washington as Olivia Pope on Scandal
This is why so many have been eagerly awaiting Shonda Rhimes’ latest drama to arrive at Shondaland. We know she will feature shows that reinforce black women’s humanity.
In a culture where Janay Rice‘s suffering at the hands of her husband, Ray Rice, was only believed once her privacy was breached by TMZ’s release of a video illustrating her husband’s violence—and not when earlier video showed him dragging her out of an elevator, which merely prompted conversations that she must have “deserved” his treatment (i.e. a black woman’s “anger” instigates domestic violence)—and in a society where Oklahoma City police officer Daniel Holtzclaw can have his bail reduced when he is accused of raping and sexually assaulting eight black women, the “Angry Black Woman” trope makes it difficult to view these women as “victims.”
And even when black women’s bodies become the site on which national outrage and public conversations emerge to address problems such as domestic and intimate partner violence, they are still excluded from the table, as occurred when the NFL’s attempts to form an advisement panel—in the wake of the Ray Rice scandal—failed to include women of color. If we are not readily recognized as “victims,” we are also not recognized as “experts” or sources of knowledge and wisdom. And when we complain of this unfair treatment, we once again become “Angry Black Women.”
Viola Davis as Annalise Keating on How to Get Away with Murder
Of course the media landscape does not have sole power to transform our society and change what ails us. However, media normalizes concepts of race and gender, and any portrayals that advance our humanity can help us unpack our assumptions and challenge the racialized and gendered gazes that we bring to such images.
Will we recognize complex characters when we see them? Or will we resort to convenient stereotypes, as Stanley did in her review? And I don’t wish to only single out this one New York Times writer. Recently, advertisements for Fox’s new TV show Red Band Society, featuring Octavia Spencer as Nurse Jackson, described her as a “scary bitch“; they were eventually pulled from Los Angeles public buses after complaints from community members. Obviously, this rush to stereotype manifests not only in the pages of a widely read newspaper.
We need more diverse stories and more complex characters and images of black womanhood in media. But more than that: We need viewers to push themselves to interpret what they see on screen beyond recognizable stereotypes.
Octavia Spencer in one of the “scary bitch” ads for Red Band Society
Fortunately, Rhimes has led the way. It’s time the rest of us learn to complicate our views.
Janell Hobson is an associate professor of Women’s, Gender and Sexuality Studies at the University at Albany, State University of New York. She is the author of Body as Evidence: Mediating Race, Globalizing Gender and Venus in the Dark: Blackness and Beauty in Popular Culture, and a frequent contributor to Ms.
Classism, racism, sexism, and colorism are very real in the world of ‘Antônia.’ But the film shows us a fresh narrative of Black women succeeding despite living in a slum, despite poverty, despite violence and all the ills that pervade real life. For just a moment, I’m able to watch Black women who are free to be themselves. They don’t have to unpack external baggage based on a checklist of intersections involving their skin color, social status, or gender. That is a rare treat. It’s their tight friendship that sustains them. Music is friendship, and friendship is music.
Antônia Movie Poster
This guest post by Lisa Bolekaja appears as part of our theme week on Female Friendship.
Antônia is a Brazilian film from 2006 that I watch at least once a year. Its fictional female characters are ones that I consider my cinema family, ladies who I like to visit with for a spell and reminisce about rap music and female MCs. It’s an uncomplicated story, and perhaps even a little melodramatic. However it boasts one of cinema’s rare contemporary explorations of Black female friendship while navigating the hyper-masculine world of hip-hop. The simple slice-of-life storytelling using real-life female MCs resonates with authentic sisterhood.
Antônia chronicles the rise and fall (and rise again) of four young women from Sao Paulo who sing backup for a male rap group called “Power.” Scratching out a basic living in the Brasilandia favela are Preta, a single mom who recently left her cheating husband; Mayah, a songwriter into fashion as much as her lyrical prowess; Lena, a hardcore lyricist who juggles her music career with her insecure boyfriend; and Barbarah, a martial arts expert who lives with her closeted gay brother.
These four women, friends from childhood, named their group after their respective grandfathers who coincidentally all had the name “Antonio.” What makes them all so special to me is the fact that all four women have an exuberant agency and a nuanced security in their Blackness, which is refreshing to see onscreen. From their hair, clothing, skin color, to the way they walk and rap, there is a sense that they have never doubted that they were fly and worthy of respect. This confidence they display doesn’t come from the stereotypical and clichéd tropes of the sassy Black woman, or the Black chick with neck swiveling finger-pointing “attitude,” or the hyper-sexualized Black female dimepiece. Even the tiresome “strong” Black woman trope is absent in this film. These women are vulnerable, assertive, flawed, supportive of one another, and critical of one another. This confidence comes from their collective need to persevere in the face of undeniable hardships.
Walking above favela: Barbarah (Leilah Moreno), Lena (Cindy Mendes), Mayah (Quelynah), and Preta (Negra Li)
Although the film is only 90 minutes long–time for only light character sketches at best–the subtext I read is a world of complexity and pride beneath each woman. At one point, while waiting for a train after a late night performance, they sing a cappella about their love for the curl in their hair and being “Criollo” (Creole in the sense of being Black Brazillians who, like Black Americans and others outside of the African Diaspora, exist because of blendings of African, Native, and European blood). Mayah even raps this in one of her rhymes, which reinforces the notion of self, a self rooted in the pride and knowledge of Black cultural history. I’ve never really seen that in a contemporary film before.
While most American films featuring Black female friendships deal with misogyny, rape, drug use, damsels in distress, broken families, crime, poverty, and the often contrived horrors of being…gasp… single—flicks like Sparkle, Dreamgirls, Set it Off, Waiting to Exhale, The Color Purple, Daughters of the Dust, et al (notice that I had to reach way back for titles) — Antônia stands out as the one rare film where the Black women are the captains of their own ships, beholden to no one but themselves. Men support them, but don’t run them. They are sexual beings without being overwhelmingly sexual. (Mayah loves high heels and mini-skirts when she performs, but her attitude shows us it’s just for her pleasure and not for the male gaze.) Having a young child doesn’t deter Preta from performing; she brings her young daughter Emília to rehearsals where the women help care for her there and also outside of performing. Men don’t save them physically; they can handle male bullies with one kick from Barbarah’s Capoiera skills. Most importantly, they don’t wait for someone to discover them. Early on Mayah convinces the male rap group Power that the group Antônia has a hot song that they should consider opening their next show with. The guys agree and back them up. The women even tell the rap fans directly that they are feminist because they spit it in their lyrics to predominately male audiences. The real beauty is that their feminism is centered in a deeply Black female narrative vein. Alice Walker calls this being “womanist.” And the audience will deal.
Antônia surpasses the well-known Bechdel test and what I call the People of Color Agency Test: 1.) More than one Black person or PoC, 2.) Who speak to each other, 3.) About anything other than saving/serving White characters. That is the greatest joy I get from this film–watching beautiful, talented, and engaging Black women live their lives and cultivate their friendship without the heavy burden of structural racism brow-beating them All-The-Damn-Time.
The favela in the film is evidence of historical shenanigans. The scene of the women singing “Killing Me Softly” at a private and very White birthday party (because it’s less threatening musically) speaks volumes visually, especially when we know the group’s core audience is very Black and very rooted in the public streets. Classism, racism, sexism, and colorism are very real in the world of Antônia. But the film shows us a fresh narrative of Black women succeeding despite living in a slum, despite poverty, despite violence and all the ills that pervade real life. For just a moment, I’m able to watch Black women who are free to be themselves. They don’t have to unpack external baggage based on a checklist of intersections involving their skin color, social status, or gender. That is a rare treat. It’s their tight friendship that sustains them. Music is friendship, and friendship is music.
When an up-and-coming promoter and new manager of the group tries to shape Preta’s image into a solo career, one pleasing to a cross-over audience, Preta lets it be known that toning down her Blackness is not what she’s about. Singing mainstream pop hits is not her goal. Rap is. Without her sister-friends and their powerful energy, performing means nothing.
Mom and daughter: Emília (Nathalye Cris) and Preta (Negra Li)
The only negative criticism I have of the film is that I wish the music, the literal sounds backing the lyrics of the female MCs, was just as good as the tracks the men had. Scenes in a local hip-hop club bristle with a restless kinetic energy when male performers inhabit the stage, but for some reason, the backing track for the ladies’ signature song is softened to a listless and defanged pop sound. This music doesn’t match the fierce content of the lyrics. The writer/director Tata Amaral ran an open casting call for local female rap talent, and the casting of real-life MCs makes a huge impact on the performances. The actors, Negra Li (Preta), Cindy Mendes (Lena), Leilah Moreno (Barbarah), and Quelynah (Mayah) hustled for this dream in their real lives. They know how to spit fire on a mic. They wrote their own verses performed in the film and those verses deserved beats that slayed.
Ultimately it was friendship that brought Antônia together as children. Nurturing that friendship is the only thing that stabilizes their chaotic lives while hustling for the showbiz dream. The simple narrative and the real-life raw talent of the women playing Preta, Mayah, Lena, and Barbarah makes Antônia a rich film that broadens the role of Black female friendships in cinema. It’s the friendship that makes me watch this film so often. And as corny as it sounds, I also get a happy ending. Perhaps if there were more films showing Black female friendships being nuanced, vulnerable, and just plain regular (no Super-Duper Negroes, no Magical Saviors, no There-Can-Only-Be-Exceptional-Black-Folks), I probably wouldn’t have to watch it so much. Antônia will always be in my regular film viewing rotation. I wish I had friends like these young women. The Sistren are here. Don’t sleep on ‘em.
Lisa Bolekaja co-hosts a screenwriting podcast called “Hilliard Guess’ Screenwriters Rant Room” and her work has appeared in “Long Hidden: Speculative Fiction from the Margins of History” (Crossed Genres Publishing), “The WisCon Chronicles: Volume 8” (Aqueduct Press), and in the upcoming Upper Rubber Boot Books anthology, “How to Live on Other Planets: A Handbook for Aspiring Aliens.” She can be found on Twitter @LisaBolekaja
