Mammy – Bitch Flicks

‘Living Single’ and ‘Girlfriends’: The Roots of Sex Positivity for Black Women on TV

There were never any shows that centered happy, single, child-free Black women that prioritized good sex as part of successful living. That is until two television shows came on the scene, ‘Living Single’ (1993-1998, created by Yvette Lee Bowser) and ‘Girlfriends’ (2000-2007, created by Mara Brock Akil).

Women in the African diaspora have had a hard time claiming healthy ownership of their own bodies. From slavery to the present, Black women (and Black girls) have endured the stigma of having their bodies shamed and sexualized in ways that have been physically, psychologically, and spiritually damaging (see the history of Saartjie “Sarah” Baartman). They had not been afforded healthy representations of Black female sexuality. The Black female body has been viewed as naturally wanton, lascivious, or “fast-tailed” because of sexual exploitation during enslavement. If the sexual revolution of the ’60s and ’70s liberated White women to explore their bodies with abandon, this sex positivity didn’t free Black women from the baggage of their inhumane body history.

Historically in U.S. film and television, Black women have never been allowed to have sexual agency without stigma. If Black women actually showed up in the media, typically she was boxed into several known stereotypes— the Mammy (the asexual being who fixes white people problems while neglecting her own), the Sapphire (angry Black woman or Sassy Black woman), Tragic Mulatto (the light-skinned Black woman who can’t seem to fit into the White world because of the stain of Black blood), or a Jezebel (the hypersexual, loose woman, known today as a THOT—that hoe over there), and even the Respectable Negro (a Black woman who is married/widowed, often pious, and successful based on selfless motherhood. She often places judgment on other Black women who don’t fit her mold).

From the earliest days of television featuring Black characters, shows like Beulah, The Amos ‘n Andy Show, Julia, Sanford and Son, Good Times, The Jeffersons, and right on through Gimme A Break, and 227, Black women have played riffs of the traditional stereotypes. The emergence of Claire Huxtable, the successful attorney and mother of five children on The Cosby Show, fashioned a new type of Black woman we hadn’t seen before (although low-key, she could be sassy and gave off a whiff of subtle respectability in some episodes), and yet she was still bound up in family life. There were never any shows that centered happy, single, child-free Black women that prioritized good sex as part of successful living. That is until two television shows came on the scene, Living Single (1993-1998, created by Yvette Lee Bowser) and Girlfriends (2000-2007, created by Mara Brock Akil).

These two shows revolutionized Black female sexuality on television by giving Black women sexual agency without falling back on tired tropes. They also opened the door to later shows featuring Black single women who embraced sex as a part of good living without stigma (Half and Half, Single Ladies, and Scandal). Two characters in particular stood out from both series that became the precursors for sexually carefree Black women:

Maxine Shaw (Erika Alexander) and Lynn Searcy (Persia White)

Living Single

Living Single followed a group of four female friends and their two male neighbors living in a Brooklyn brownstone apartment. They were upwardly mobile in their careers as lawyers, magazine owners, stockbrokers, and independent building maintenance handymen. The show gravitated around rap star Queen Latifah’s character, Khadijah James, and each week found the crew in various complications related to their jobs, love lives, and each other. It was rare to see a show dominated by Black professionals. Finding “Mr. Right” is often the end goal for women-centered shows, but thankfully Living Single didn’t spend too much time having the women lament about not having found “the one.” One character, Régine (Kim Fields), was painted as a gold-digger, but she was the only one who had a hint of desperation in terms of having a relationship based on material comfort. Khadijah’s cousin Synclaire (Kim Coles) was the naïve, sweet-natured friend who dripped with positivity and wholesomeness. But it was Maxine, the high-powered attorney who was the standout favorite.

From her shaved head with braids, gorgeous dark skin, and power suits, Maxine had healthy sexual relationships without strings. She dated often, and was typically the one to cut relationships short when men wanted more serious (and more monogamous) relations. Some women who watched the show faithfully wore their hair like Maxine as well as imitating her fashion sense. She lived her life on her own terms (she was not a roommate with the other women because she had her own place), and she had the income to do as she pleased. She was verbally assertive, and was quick to challenge men, especially her epic battles with Khadijah’s neighbor and friend, stockbroker Kyle Baker (T.C. Carson). Their verbal spats underscored the sexual tension and attraction they really had for each other. When they get drunk one night and slept together, they choose to keep the relationship a secret, with Maxine pushing to keep the hot sex in the realm of platonic fuck buddies.

Unlike Black women from previous TV shows, pleasure and freedom was the goal for Maxine. This didn’t mean that marriage or motherhood, or some form of connection wasn’t a possibility for her, it just wasn’t the ONLY goal in her life. Her career and her friendships meant just as much as having a man, or dreaming of a family. After finally revealing their sexual connection to their friends, Kyle accepts a job in London and asks Maxine to join him. Kyle was the best sex partner Maxine ever had. He was successful, gorgeous, and her equal in every way. And yet Maxine turned him down because she valued her autonomy and wasn’t willing to give up her life and lifestyle to follow him. She didn’t try to convince him to stay (even though she really wanted him), and they parted as lovers who respected each other’s decision, even though it was a difficult one. Maxine had such a sense of self that she allowed her dream man to leave without a fight. That was a revelation to the core audience.

Unfortunately, in the last season of the series, Maxine was shown to miss Kyle, and had the wild idea that her life would have meaning if she had a baby. She goes to a sperm bank and inadvertently gets inseminated with Kyle’s sperm. In the series finale she reconciles with Kyle and we are left to believe that they will be happy raising their baby together. It is a cliché happy ending, especially since Maxine had been presented as the ultimate carefree Black woman. However, the fans loved it, and on some level, it was nice to see her get the partner she deserved, one who was as sexually uninhibited as she was, and one who respected her choice to be that way. She owned her beautiful Black body. Maxine offered Black women watching the show an opportunity to embrace their sexual sides with humor and much needed positivity.

Girlfriends

Much like the template of Living Single, Girlfriends followed the humorous trials and tribulations of four young success driven Black women living in Los Angeles. In this world, attorney Joan Clayton (Tracee Ellis Ross) was the main protagonist who set the pace for her three friends– Maya Wilkes (Golden Brooks) her Compton hood girl personal assistant, Toni Childs (Jill Marie Jones) her college roommate and a high end real estate agent with a taste for expensive things, and Lynn Searcy (Persia White), another former college roommate with several post graduate degrees and counting, but no real job because of her unsettled bohemian lifestyle.

All the women on Girlfriends were sexually active and enjoyed good sex (although Joan had a ninety day waiting period for her beaus prior to sex which became an issue with some), but it was Lynn who was the most sexually experimental. She openly discussed her sex toys and personal sex tricks (The “Lynn Spin”), ménage à trois, group sex, sex swings/chairs, and same-gender hook-ups. There was no sexual experience she hadn’t tried or was afraid to engage in. She even had her own fuck buddy arrangement with the clique’s mutual male friend, the lawyer William Dent (Reggie Hayes).

Lynn essentially stepped up the sexual freedom of Maxine on Living Single, and overall, the women of Girlfriends were a little more nuanced in their performances than the characters of Living Single (except for Maya, who took some time to lower the hood shtick she displayed in earlier episodes). Both Maxine and Lynn brought a refreshing and openly accepted sexuality that had never been present in Black female television characters. These two women were the ones viewers like me wanted to sit around with holding glasses of wine and listening to the details of their sexual exploits.

None of the women from either show carried the stigmas of the past that haunted the Black female body. They revealed to the world the Black Female Gaze in sexual matters which upset some critics (including Bill Cosby, and Spike Lee who accused them of being oversexed embarrassments). Like most new shows, it did take time for Living Single and Girlfriends to hit their stride, and each had their corny struggle moments to figure out their voice. However, in the end, they brought forth Black women with positive and healthy sexual pursuits. They left the sexual baggage and shaming in the past in order to present Black female sexuality in a healthy new light.

Staff writer Lisa Bolekaja co-hosts Hilliard Guess’ Screenwriters Rant Room, and her latest speculative fiction short story “Three Voices” can be read in Uncanny Magazine. She divides her time between California and Italy. She can be found on Twitter @LisaBolekaja lurking in the hashtags #SaturdayNightSciFi and #FridayNightHorror

The Fantasy of Mammy, the Truth of Patsey

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.

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.

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 — 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 — 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.

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.

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 (SUNY Press, 2012) and Venus in the Dark: Blackness and Beauty in Popular Culture (Routledge, 2005), and a frequent contributor to Ms.

Bitch Flicks’ Weekly Picks

Check out what we’ve been reading this week–and let us know what you’ve been reading/writing in the comments!

New Documentary “Anita” is a Powerful Look at Race, Work, and Scandal by Tiana Reid at Bitch Media

The Nonhuman Disney Princesses (Deconstructing Disney) by Corey Lee Wrenn at Human-Animal Studies Cinema

Why We Need More ‘Ugly’ People On TV by Lindy West at Jezebel

10 female directors you, and the Academy, should keep an eye on by Harriet Minter at The Guardian

MPAA Data Shows That Women Are Still The Majority of Moviegoers by Melissa Silverstein at Women and Hollywood

So…where’s Dolores Huerta’s movie? by Verónica Bayetti Flores at Feministing

Drop everything and take your kids to see ‘Divergent’ by Margot Magowen at Reel Girl

‘Gone With the Wind’ prequel starring Mammy may be a mistake by Ronda Racha Penrice at the Grio

Disney’s Missteps on “Alice in Arabia” Show the Need for Complex Muslim Characters on TV by Stephanie Abraham at Bitch Media

What have you been reading/writing this week? Tell us in the comments!

Women of Color in Film and TV: Mammy, Sapphire, or Jezebel, Olivia Pope is Not: A Review of ‘Scandal’

Scandal, created by Shonda Rimes and starring Kerry Washington

Guest post written by Atima Omara-Alwala.

Like every other woman of color who enjoys film and probably many film and TV critics alike, I waited with baited breath to see what the debut of Scandal, the first major network television show in nearly 40 years with an African American woman in the lead would bring. Even with a number of film awards that many black actresses have received in recent years, there has always been the criticism, and justified, that they are stereotypical limiting roles. With Shonda Rimes as creator of Scandal (the godmother of Grey’s Anatomy and Private Practice), whose work pioneered color-blind casting and complex characters regardless of race, I had exceptional high hopes this show would be different. Shonda didn’t disappoint.

Many writers and film critics have written about the three usual archetypes that black women have fit into in popular culture representation. And it is through this prism Scandal is viewed. The Jezebel, who is very sexually promiscuous; the Mammy, who is the tireless devoted mother like figure regardless of all the wrong you did; and the Sapphire, a head-whipping, finger-snapping, anger-filled black woman. These stereotypes permeate all aspects of the American black women experience.

In Scandal, the actress Kerry Washington (from Save the Last Dance, The Last King of Scotland, and Django Unchained) plays Olivia Pope. Olivia Pope is based loosely on the life of Judy Smith, a real Washington operative who is a former member of the George H. W. Bush White House and a well-known crisis manager in DC circles. Like Judy, Olivia works with her team of lawyers, former CIA operatives, and political operatives to fix the problems and very real scandals of her very prominent clients.

Olivia Pope is tough but not in a stereotypical overbearing black woman portrayal like Sapphire. She is tough with necessity. She works in Washington DC and is in the thick of national politics and crisis managing. As someone who actually has worked as a woman of color in politics, I know for a fact no shrinking violets need apply to a world where required skills to success are extreme confidence, intelligence, and very quick thinking, and in Scandal, apparently very fast talking. Among Olivia’s clients are Congressmen, candidates for public office, corporate executives, a renowned pastor, a President, and a former Presidential candidate.

Olivia is not a tireless devoted Mammy because to fix other people’s problems and scandals, Olivia takes a NICE check to clean up your mess. (Evidence: A townhouse in Washington DC and a designer wardrobe to die for, ladies!!) Olivia truly is the lady boss. Her team is fiercely loyal to her as she takes care of them and they do the best for her because she is the best at what she does. It’s established within the first couple of episodes how good she is at what she does. The White House, which she left, calls her back often, and people come to her because her gut, as she infamously says, “is never wrong.” While many of us have seen this in our personal and professional lives (eg. Judy Smith), Olivia Pope is something rarely seen in black women representation on screen and is LONG overdue.

Being a Shonda Rimes created character, Olivia is like all of Shonda Rimes’ female characters: while tough and brilliant, Olivia is a flawed and complicated women. Kerry Washington is a great actress with a broad range who can pull this off well. In one second Olivia is talking tough and intimidating even world officials and next she is sensitive woman with a trembling lip in the next.

But even though Olivia is the great fixer of other people’s problems and scandals, she hides and really can’t fix her own major one: Olivia has a long running affair with the President of the United States, Fitzgerald “Fitz” Grant III (Tony Goldwyn), from when she worked his campaign, who is also white.

Herein lies the debate on Scandal: Is Olivia a Jezebel dressed up in 21st century political correctness? Instead of being a hooker on the stroll, slave mistress, or black girl in heat, she has her own job and career but still got to be all up on someone else’s man, especially a white man? The black blogosphere and Twittersphere debate and differ in opinion. Some say yes: 45-year veteran in advertising Tom Burrell, who has worked to promote positive portrayals of black people in media, calls Oliva Pope “a “hot-to-trot” sexually aggressive trope as old as the institution of slavery itself in the character” (damn!). Some brought up, by extension, the inevitable comparison to a Thomas Jefferson/Sally Hemings drama pretty darn quickly (of course) and some go as far as to guilt other black women (specifically) viewers for watching the show, in one popular meme (seriously?). Others defiantly say no, Olivia Pope is NOT a Jezebel. For my part, I tend to agree with the naysayers.

Olivia Pope is a groundbreaking black female character on television, period. She is a self-reliant, highly accomplished most sought-after professional. But she also made the mistake (something which she very much realizes) of falling in love with a white married man, who also happens to be, oh, the leader of the free world. The show is sharp in that it doesn’t make Olivia blind to her circumstance as any black woman in her shoes wouldn’t be. You find out in Season 2 that not only does she leave the White House to start her own firm but to get herself away from the President and let him focus to be the President he needed. Even in a fit of frustration she says of her relationship with Fitz to him, “I’m feeling a little Sally Hemings-Thomas Jefferson about all this.” Later Fitz confronts Olivia and tells her that the comment was “below the belt.” Because, he said: “You’re playing the race card on the fact that I’m in love with you.” He then proceeds to soliloquize his love so intensely for Olivia, that she (and even I) were a bit worried for his mental state.

Olivia is no Jezebel, because she takes control of her destiny being tied to Fitz and leaves it to chart her own path. Olivia is no Jezebel because the show has progressed long enough for her to have built a relationship with another man, a highly accomplished black man at that, while she still unquestionably loves Fitz she actually attempts to move on with her life, unlike him. No, she’s not perfect, but raise your hands in the air and wave them like you just don’t care if YOU are. As a black woman I realize we want to see ourselves escape the stereotypes because we’ve been held down by these images so much that we inevitably hold ourselves up to perfection to escape it. But this is also damagingly unrealistic for the black woman to do that not only to our mental health but perception from others. Frankly, the more of our stories are out there, the more we’ll reach parity in representation in film and television.

If I have any criticism on Scandal, it’s who IS Olivia, before Fitz, before the White House, and how she came to do what she does. We have a better snapshot, if not complete, on most characters, and knowing Shonda likes to take her time unfolding a character, I am looking forward to what that brings.

All in all, I think Shonda Rimes has done an outstanding job breaking barriers and it looks like she has struck a chord with African American audiences, according to the latest New York Times article. According to Nielsen, Scandal is the highest rated scripted drama among African-Americans, with 10.1 percent of black households, or an average of 1.8 million viewers, tuning in during the first half of the second season. Real life crisis manager Judy Smith live tweets during the show as do other prominent black political operatives and commentators, namely Donna Brazile and Roland Martin. Among the group aged 18 to 34, the show typically ranks first in its 10 p.m. Thursday time slot, which means success to the industry. It’s fast moving, jaw dropping, how-in-the-hell-did-I-not-guess-that cliff hangers that Shonda Rimes is so good at, combined with great actors, projects nothing but continued success for Scandal.

And I will be there every Thursday to watch.

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Atima Omara-Alwala is a political strategist and activist of 10 years who has served as staff on 8 federal and local political campaigns and other progressive causes. Atima’s work has had a particular focus on women’s political empowerment & leadership, reproductive justice, health care, communities of color and how gender and race is reflected in pop culture. Her writings on the topics have also been featured at Ms. Magazine, Women’s Enews, and RH Reality Check.