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Turning to the Dark Side: Bad Girls are My New Role Models (pt. 2)

20 May

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After my last post, “Bad Girls are My New Role Models,” I’ve got some explaining to do. A few folks felt that my views had changed tremendously, and they were right.

I used to hate super sexy artists like Nicki Minaj. A few years ago, she was the enemy: she was a living, breathing black feminist’s worst night mare (so I thought at first)—the devil, reincarnated to set women back 300 years with her silicone body, overtly sexual lyrics, and constant references to Barbie.

Now, contrary to what I previously believed, she is not the problem. Though Nicki has had many flaws (I’ll never be down for her “nappy headed hoes” comment or that abomination of a song “Cuchi Shop”), I’ve relinquished my disdain for super-sexual artists who get a bad rep like Nicki. Actually— after lots more research, I’m beginning to like her.

Yes, I know the history of the dehumanization of black women’s bodies. I know the current “deviant” hypersexual stigma we’ve carried on our backs since white men first stepped foot on African soil. Previously, I blamed these artists as part of the reason black women haven’t been able to transgress that stigma. However, I’ve recently undergone a Black Feminist make-over, which included a bit of intellectual plastic surgery—and I’m ready for my big reveal:

I’m giving up on Respectability Politics, which is the system of beliefs that decide which black women are “respectable,” based on whether or not she fits a certain wholesome, classy, not-too-sexy mold. Respectability politics is the reason we often embrace Janelle Monae’s work as artistic expression, while we view Rihanna’s as a cry for help. It is reason we love to hate overtly sexy artists like Nicki Minaj believing that these women make it harder for black women shed the hypersexual stereotype.

Yet, these sexy pop stars aren’t the problem; we are.

Our views on these artists are the problem. We may argue endlessly that these artists uphold “imperialist white supremacist patriarchy,” as scholar bell hooks loves to say. Yet, in judging them, we are doing the exact same thing.

Writer Tamara Winfrey Harris explains in Bitch Magazine’s “No Disrespect,” that we expect black women, especially those in the public eye, to uphold the same standards of “good womanhood” expected of white women in the 20th Century. You know: women must be noble, submissive, and chaste (Chaste being the most important: some of y’all get all up in arms when married women sing about sex…Let me hear you say “Hey Mrs. Carter”). So in making these demands for black artists, we align ourselves with the same white patriarchal ideas that we so passionately fight against.

If it were up to the devout believers in respectability politics, black women would never sing about sex and never celebrate our bodies. As Writer Cate explains over at one of my favorite blogs BattyMamzelle respectability politics suggest that black women should render ourselves asexual in order to combat white supremacist ideology about black women’s bodies.

Explain this to me: White men, white women, and black men can be sexual, but black women need to keep it on lock? Hmmm, sounds like another double-standard.

We shouldn’t have to deny our sexuality in order to please people who are uncomfortable due to historical stigma about black women’s bodies. This sexuality policing approach denies part of what makes many of us human, as sex is natural for most people.

As Cate says, “While combating the sexual stereotypes of black women is important, I think that it’s essential that we find ways to do it that don’t necessitate denying ourselves access to our own sexuality.”

Ok, I going to stop here cuz I know attention spans tend to lapse after about 600 words (mine included). But I have so much more to say on this subject, so check back for part 3,

 Read Part 3: 4 Reasons Respectability Politics Has No Place in Black Feminism

 

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And if you’re not feeling what I’m saying, let me know. Your counter arguments help me grow (when they’re informed, that is). Thanks!

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Where Are All the Leading Ladies of Color?

10 Apr

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A few years ago, my boyfriend and I sat in a movie theater in Malibu, watching the opening of Couples Retreat. When the first black actress came on the screen, my date smacked his teeth in disgust. The woman was loud, obnoxious, and senseless. Within the first 5 minutes of seeing her on the screen, the only other black couple in the theater walked out.

They were lucky: Had they stayed any longer they would’ve seen the other black woman in the movie, who was louder, violent, and even more irrational, knocking other women out of her way while she searched for her cheating husband.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen that black woman on the screen, and definitely wouldn’t be the last. Although not all black characters in film behave as badly, actresses of color are often pigeon-holed into playing the same typecast roles again and again.

In “Typecast,” their brilliant parody of Lorde’s “Royals, actresses Tess Paras, Haneefa Wood, and Ayana Hampton display that for actresses of color, the road to stardom means playing race-based, cookie-cutter characters, with the role of the leading lady often remaining just out of reach.

Actresses who look like the ones in the video are sometimes subjected to typecast roles: Sassy black girl, geeky Asian, fiery Latina. Actresses of other races and ethnicities may not even be considered for a part. This leaves opportunities few and far between for actresses of color.

When placed in a historical context, Typecasting becomes even more problematic. In the parody, as Hampton sings, “Any maid could look like us,” I was taken back to the historical mammy figure. While we’ve come a long way from the Hattie McDaniel’s mammy in Gone with the Wind, the pool has only expanded wide enough to include other stereotypes and subordinate roles, with a few exceptions here and there.

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Hatti McDaniel in Gone with the Wind

Typecasting women of color into supporting roles such as the main character’s best friend, secretary, or nanny, reinforces the idea that people of color are only supporters or “extras” in America, while white people are the central figures. It displays a dynamic where actresses of color don’t have their own story outside of helping the main character, not unlike the historical mammy, who usually has no life outside of serving her bosses. Such roles are seen in movies like Sex and the City, with Jennifer Hudson playing Sarah Jessica Parker’s personal assistant, and in the upcoming comedy The Other Woman, with Nicki Minaj playing Cameron Dias’ legal assistant.

Then there is the obvious problem with typecasting: the roles play off of stereotypes that project sexist and racist ideas. When consistently casting women of color for the same typecast roles, the industry renders possibilities for these women to exist outside of their stereotypes unlikely. While typecasts like the fiery Latina, nerdy Asian, and sassy black girl, are usually written for comedic affect, they reduce human beings to a one-dimensional devices that garner a few laughs at the woman’s expense and move the plot along.

Moving away from these stereotypes and adding some color to leading lady role can be good for audiences. After backlash from fans of movies Annie (2014), Hunger Games, Catching Fire, and Fantastic 4 (2015), where black actresses and actors were cast for traditionally (or what people believed to be traditionally) white roles, maybe audiences could use a little help expanding their imagination. It seems that when actors of color are cast in central, not typecasted roles, racist commenters masking themselves as “fictional purists” storm twitter with remarks about how their favorite character’s skin should be white. Yet, the more we see actresses of color playing central figures, the more we can shed the stereotypes and break down barriers for women in the industry. Maybe then American audiences will become a little more comfortable with diversity on the screen.

While we’re moving in the right direction, with shows like Scandal and The Mindy Project (though they also have their flaws) and movies like the latest remake of Annie, we still have a ways to go before we see more accurate and equal representation.

P.S. This article is part of the Top Posts. Check out the Best of A Womyn’s Worth.

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Falcon and the Human Torch: Why Black Superheroes Matter

3 Apr

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Captain America: The Winter Solider hits theaters this weekend—and I will be seeing it. As the daughter of a Marvel comics fan (an O.G. 1960’s Marvel fan), and a girl who flocks to the midnight showing of nearly every Marvel and DC movie, I cannot wait to see Captain America 2.

But honestly, I could care less about the actual Captain America. He’s cool and all, but it’s the Black Widow (badass Scarlett Johansson) and the Falcon (handsome Anthony Mackie) who I really want to see.

Yes yes, it’s about time Marvel brought some diversity.

If you haven’t heard, this movie introduces the Falcon one of Marvel’s first black Superheroes. In the movie, he’s a military soldier who a wears a high-tech winged suit that allows him to fly. The original Falcon was introduced in 1969, and fought alongside Captain America and the Avengers.

We also saw a bit more color in the casting of Fruitvale Station’s Michael B. Jordan as the Human Torch in the upcoming Fantastic 4 movie.

Of course, angry racist fans masking themselves as “comic book purists” had a lot to say about how the Human Torch is supposed to be white, how producers should stick to the historical (fictional) truth and blah blah blah. People have said that about all the black characters in The Hunger Games, Catching Fire, and the remake of Annie. I think we’ve all grown tired of the BS. In 2014, it’s not a sin for the good guys in the movies to be black.

Quite frankly, America needs black superheroes.

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Seeing someone other than the typical strong white male saving the day is bigger than just “diversity on the screen.” Media representation has always been an uphill battle for people of color. It’s a historical struggle: from the white actors in blackface in the 1800s, to the mammies and sambos of antebellum films, to the bitchy and irrational black women of Tyler Perry’s films. We’re still struggling for representations that don’t exemplify nasty stereotypes. So when I see a black superhero in a movie, I jump for joy. Because when Anthony Mackie and Michael B. Jordan appear on the big screen, they won’t be playing thugs, drug dealers, criminals, the characters who die first, or anything Tyler Perry and his white imagination can drum up; instead, they will be the ones fighting crime and saving the world.

When it comes to media representation, skin color does matter. It matters in a similar way that having black president matters. Why do you think all the elders that lived through the Civil Rights movement were crying after Barack Obama’s victory in 2008? Why do you think people celebrated the first Indian-American Miss America? These moments show historical turning points, when someone goes up against centuries-old racial tensions and comes out victorious.

It’s extremely important that children (and adults for that matter) see reflections of themselves in all aspects of society, especially in the heroes of American culture. So that we can tell our young black daughters that not only can they stop a mutant vs. human war with their superhuman abilities, like Storm, but also, they can that they can run for president or win a seat in congress with their strong determination and intellect, like Shirley Chisolm.

Of course, Marvel’s got a long way to go. Sure they get a few points for casting Jordan, Mackie, Halle Berry (X-Men’s Storm), and Samuel L. Jackson (Avenger’s Nick Fury). But they need to do more. I can’t wait until Marvel decides to feature another black woman superhero. Right now Halle Berry’s holding it down as Storm, but that’s pretty much it. While they’re at it, they must cast other people of color as well. The world’s more colorful than just black and white.

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