With the $1 Play Project underway (and if you have 60 seconds and $1.00, you really should give what you can), and way too much to do in not enough time, I want to take a moment (read: procrastinate) and talk about what it's like and what it means to create art from a perspective of intersectionality.
Before buzzwords like “intersectionality” came along, a lot of people assumed that womanhood was White, Blackness was male, and both were straight. When Black feminists and womanists proclaimed that All the Women Are White, All the Blacks Are Men, But Some Of Us Are Brave, they created a new paradigm for examining race, gender, and sexuality that centered on the lives of Black women.
When I started writing Tulpa, or Anne&Me in late 2009, I had no idea I'd be doing the same thing for theatre.
As much as I like to fantasize otherwise, I'm not really all that brave. I hate pain (receiving or inflicting it), and I am more easily hurt than I often let on. I'm much more prone to shyness, anxiety, depression, and exhaustion than my online persona indicates. My outspokenness about racism, sexism, and homophobia says more about their magnitude and the peril they pose to human beings than about any particular courage or wisdom on my part.
So when I set out to put down on paper some of the many thoughts and feelings I have when I try to relate to White women about race and gender (all from the perspective of a woman who loves women), it wasn't because I was intentionally trying to provoke people. It initially started out on my LiveJournal on something of a lark that channeled my infatuation with Anne Hathaway into something more meaningful. Since the discussions about race I was having with real White women were often so lacking, why not make up the conversations I wanted to have?
As Black women, we are constantly being asked to hide away or tear off chunks of who we are to make us safer for consumption. When we are with women, we're supposed to magically forget we are Black. When we are Black, we're supposed to ignore our womanhood. And we'd better keep that queer shit deep in the closet if we know what's good for us. Yet in Tulpa, all three of these identities are necessary to fully understanding the characters and the story.
Tulpa, or Anne&Me is not Intro to Intersectionality. The dialogue is pretty exclusively about race. But it's a queer woman's experience of race and how it impacts her most personal moments. The play focuses on an intimate relationship. But it's a relationship between women trying to maintain that intimacy in the face of racism and what that means for both of them.
“Your silence will not protect you,” Audre Lorde once said. Even prior to reading Sister Outsider, I may have sensed that this was true. As much as I hate being the center of attention or the object of scrutiny, the alternative – my silence – was even worse. My silence would mean allowing someone other than myself to define what my life means or what it should mean. My silence would mean becoming a shadow not only of myself but to myself. My silence would mean accepting my own dehumanization.
Despite the fact that I live as a queer Black woman in my queer Black woman body, as an artist I often wrestle with a sense that my life as I live it diminishes my art because it's somehow not as universal. But creating Tulpa, or Anne&Me cured me of that.
My art does not happen despite my queer Black woman self but directly because of it.
My queer Black woman self is not an obstacle to my humanity – it's the key to truly acknowledging and understanding it.
A blog by a playwright who wrote a play about a famous actress coming out of a TV, with a few thoughts on diversity, social justice, and indie theatre.
Showing posts with label black women. Show all posts
Showing posts with label black women. Show all posts
April 16, 2012
May 23, 2011
I have to say this because I can't not say it anymore
Someone said something to me about That Conversation that really clicked. It was one of those moments when I see something I experience and realize that what happens is not my fault. To paraphrase, that person said, "You know how no matter what you say White people always think you're yelling at them?"
As soon as I heard that, a huge fog about many things I've been stewing on suddenly lifted, and something very important became clear: I am not the problem.
I usually keep things like this to myself (although recently I've been trying to break out of that habit), but with the show coming up and many of the things I've been involved with this week, as well as things that have happened to me and are going on in the world today, staying silent is self-destructive.
There's this pattern of behavior I notice in White men that really has to stop. It goes like this:
It's racist and sexist. I tried not taking it personally. I tried giving it the benefit of the doubt. But you know what? It is personal, and there is no defending or excusing it. I don't care who are, who you vote for, who you're friends with, who you work for, who you studied, or who you're fucking - this behavior is racist and sexist. And if you see this happening and you sit by and watch and not say or do anything, you may as well be agreeing with it.
I am not Mammy. I am not Sapphire. I am not Jezebel. Just because I'm not mothering or fucking you does not mean I'm trying to castrate you. For real, I have better things to do with my time than to deliberately go out of my way for the express purpose of making you feel bad. Will I sugarcoat my exasperation at your ignorance and apathy? No. You need to know what your shit does to people like me.
I tell you because I want to believe you're a decent person and that you care about not doing racist, sexist things. If you can't see that my telling you when you're fucking up is not about hating you, but about still having hope that you're a decent human being - then that's your shit, not mine. So stop putting your shit on me and acting like I'm the one stinking up the place.
To recap:
And tell me you're sorry if you have. Yeah, I know you don't think you did anything wrong, but it lets me know you're not a calloused asshole.
As soon as I heard that, a huge fog about many things I've been stewing on suddenly lifted, and something very important became clear: I am not the problem.
I usually keep things like this to myself (although recently I've been trying to break out of that habit), but with the show coming up and many of the things I've been involved with this week, as well as things that have happened to me and are going on in the world today, staying silent is self-destructive.
There's this pattern of behavior I notice in White men that really has to stop. It goes like this:
- I say something critiquing or poking fun at White privilege, male privilege, and/or straight privilege.
- White man decides that I'm hostile and angry and personally attacking him - as though he knows me and my thoughts/feelings/beliefs better than I do. And certainly those feelings matter less than his own because Black women are (to coin a phrase) "rhino-hided she-beasts" until proven otherwise.
- White man decides to verbally put me in my place by attacking my intelligence, my sanity, or my morality - as though I must be stupid/crazy/evil to say what I say. They have learned the lesson very well - Black women are intellectually and morally inferior.
- I shut up and keep my pain to myself because it's no use talking to the person who does this. I've been trained very well and know that I am supposed to remain silent in the face of White/male anger and disapproval.
- The person who does this walks away with no clue how fucked up this whole thing is. They too have been trained very well and know that there's no point listening to that Angry Militant Black Bitch about anything.
STOP FUCKING DOING THIS!
It's racist and sexist. I tried not taking it personally. I tried giving it the benefit of the doubt. But you know what? It is personal, and there is no defending or excusing it. I don't care who are, who you vote for, who you're friends with, who you work for, who you studied, or who you're fucking - this behavior is racist and sexist. And if you see this happening and you sit by and watch and not say or do anything, you may as well be agreeing with it.
I am not Mammy. I am not Sapphire. I am not Jezebel. Just because I'm not mothering or fucking you does not mean I'm trying to castrate you. For real, I have better things to do with my time than to deliberately go out of my way for the express purpose of making you feel bad. Will I sugarcoat my exasperation at your ignorance and apathy? No. You need to know what your shit does to people like me.
I tell you because I want to believe you're a decent person and that you care about not doing racist, sexist things. If you can't see that my telling you when you're fucking up is not about hating you, but about still having hope that you're a decent human being - then that's your shit, not mine. So stop putting your shit on me and acting like I'm the one stinking up the place.
To recap:
DON'T FUCKING DO THIS TO ME EVER AGAIN!
And tell me you're sorry if you have. Yeah, I know you don't think you did anything wrong, but it lets me know you're not a calloused asshole.
April 27, 2011
LGBTQ erasure and the hunt for the elusive Good Black Man (TM)
I don't normally talk about the intersections of race and sexuality that much. It's not for lack of awareness, but all too often, the commentary I make can be abused by people who don't know and/or don't care about the broader context. There are people who have a vested interest in seeing Black people as uniquely sexist, misogynist, and homophobic and would take what I say as ammunition to fire that charge. Being that I am Black and woman and queer, I would be less than thrilled if such a thing were to come about.
Cyberstalking trolls take note.
That said, I'd like to address a really persistent meme that keeps going around about Black women and what we want out of life. It goes like this: every Black woman is desperately searching for Good Black Man (TM) to make her life complete. Everything she is and everything she does is made to snag such a rare and elusive creature. He must (among other things):
In the case of the hunt for the rare and elusive Good Black Man (TM), it's a problem because the assumptions involved in that conversation cut out pretty much every Black person who is not cisgender and heterosexual. Oh, it's never as blatant as "no homos allowed," but not formally excluding Black LGBTQs is not the same as including Black LGBTQs. Saying, "I don't have a problem with the gay lifestyle" is not the same as inviting us into your space. There's a huge difference between a lack of overt hostility and the presence of welcoming.
Heteronormative assumptions about Black relationships used to not bother me. I used to take the attitude that the conversation was by and for straight Black people, and I didn't begrudge them that. Now it's starting to get to me, and I'm just starting to figure out why.
For a long time I couldn't articulate what irked me so much about it. Reflecting on experiences and conversations I've had about this, it's not merely the erasure of queerness. It's the fact that in order to contribute in these conversations - at least around straight people - I need to mute or dilute my queerness. I have to pretend that my queerness is ultimately a different flavor of heterosexuality. Unfortunately, that's not how I experience it.
Queerness is not just about who we want to fuck. It's also about the visceral relationship we have to gender and the nuances of how attraction and affection work for us while single or in a relationship. I am always queer no matter who I'm with or who I like. Even if I were to settle down with a man, I am still queer because I would relate to him as a man differently from the way straight women relate to men.
How can we have that Gotta Find A Good Black Man (TM) conversation in a way that's queer-inclusive? I honestly don't know. Maybe it starts with broadening our ideas about the relationships we can have with Black men. How about we stop focusing exclusively on romance? Think beyond boyfriends and husbands. What about Black men as fathers, brothers, uncles, cousins, mentors, muses, students, peers, and (gasp!) friends?
Cyberstalking trolls take note.
That said, I'd like to address a really persistent meme that keeps going around about Black women and what we want out of life. It goes like this: every Black woman is desperately searching for Good Black Man (TM) to make her life complete. Everything she is and everything she does is made to snag such a rare and elusive creature. He must (among other things):
- make good money
- have good looks
- be Christian
- have no Baby Mama Drama
- love his mother without clinging to her
- be straight
In the case of the hunt for the rare and elusive Good Black Man (TM), it's a problem because the assumptions involved in that conversation cut out pretty much every Black person who is not cisgender and heterosexual. Oh, it's never as blatant as "no homos allowed," but not formally excluding Black LGBTQs is not the same as including Black LGBTQs. Saying, "I don't have a problem with the gay lifestyle" is not the same as inviting us into your space. There's a huge difference between a lack of overt hostility and the presence of welcoming.
Heteronormative assumptions about Black relationships used to not bother me. I used to take the attitude that the conversation was by and for straight Black people, and I didn't begrudge them that. Now it's starting to get to me, and I'm just starting to figure out why.
For a long time I couldn't articulate what irked me so much about it. Reflecting on experiences and conversations I've had about this, it's not merely the erasure of queerness. It's the fact that in order to contribute in these conversations - at least around straight people - I need to mute or dilute my queerness. I have to pretend that my queerness is ultimately a different flavor of heterosexuality. Unfortunately, that's not how I experience it.
Queerness is not just about who we want to fuck. It's also about the visceral relationship we have to gender and the nuances of how attraction and affection work for us while single or in a relationship. I am always queer no matter who I'm with or who I like. Even if I were to settle down with a man, I am still queer because I would relate to him as a man differently from the way straight women relate to men.
How can we have that Gotta Find A Good Black Man (TM) conversation in a way that's queer-inclusive? I honestly don't know. Maybe it starts with broadening our ideas about the relationships we can have with Black men. How about we stop focusing exclusively on romance? Think beyond boyfriends and husbands. What about Black men as fathers, brothers, uncles, cousins, mentors, muses, students, peers, and (gasp!) friends?
February 26, 2011
fezzik on hostility and privilege
Fezzik? You mean Andre the Giant from The Princess Bride?
I recently replaced my copy of The Princess Bride DVD, and for some reason when I watched it, I really identified with Fezzik. I even looked up some tropes to figure out what made Fezzik so compelling. It wasn't until I reflected on a few recent interactions that I made the connections.
At one point in time (until fairly recently, if you follow this blog fairly regularly), one of the things that consistently irritated and saddened me when it came to That Conversation was when people would accuse me of a hostility that I didn't feel. Vehement, yes. Passionate, yes. Intense, definitely. But never hostile. There was nothing malevolent about anything I said, yet I kept being treated as though I was pretty much telling people to go die in a fire, even though I feel I exercise great restraint compared to what I've witnessed in other people. It's pretty confusing and frustrating to deal with, especially when you see other people say far worse without getting called on it.
For the longest time, I thought it was simply derailing or projecting the Angry Black Woman stereotype onto me because I spoke my mind without going my way to express myself in a conciliatory or equivocating way so as not to offend people more privileged than me (ie, not all White people, not all men, I don't mean you, etc.).
But now I believe there is more going on than that.
Back to Fezzik
Here you have this character, a giant, with immense physical power, who has to be careful with how he navigates the world around him lest he cause harm to others. I am like this when it comes to words. Whether I intend it or not, the words I use carry tremendous power. You would think that'd be obvious, but it really isn't. Unlike Fezzik, a good chunk of the time, I literally don't know my own strength. I never thought of myself or the way I expressed myself as particularly powerful. Truth be told, I'm very introverted (almost withdrawn) and rather shy (especially around people I don't know well). Nevertheless, a love tap from Natalie Portman wouldn't feel the same as a love tap from George Foreman. So I've resolved to be a bit more careful in my approach, or at the very least give fair warning.
I honestly don't know what to feel about this. On the one hand, it's always good to affirm something empowering about yourself. As someone who faces marginalization due to race, gender, sexuality, and class, it's hard not to internalize the barrage of messages telling me how powerless I am (and how good it is that I remain so). It's difficult to describe what kind of effort that takes, but it's very similar to what survivors of abuse go through.
On the other hand, it sucks that something that should be positive - in this case, a power with words - becomes a liability because of those same forces that seek to undermine my sense of my own power, even as embodied in the same people who endeavor to oppose those forces.
Power versus privilege
It's quite a paradox. But that's how it goes for pretty much any empowering trait coming from marginalized people. Any attempt to claim your own power without paying your dues (so to speak) is always met with resistance. Speaking intelligently, and with passion and clarity, without apology, is not praiseworthy in anyone except well-off straightwhitedudes.
Don't believe me? Go to any social justice blog or website (like this one) where a marginalized person states an opinion without coddling the privileged. You won't have to dig very deep to find somebody acting like that person just said, "FUCK OFF AND DIE MOTHERFUCKER!!!" Even if the "meanie" is responding to something fucked up that someone else said. Even if that person does not use all caps or any exclamation points. Even if that person does not make a direct accusation against anyone.
If you're feeling up to it, try prodding a bit. Say something like, "Really? Where did s/he say that?" If you don't get a bunch of projections and assumptions and conjecture, you'll get them saying something about the tone*. Note who it comes from. I'm willing to bet money that a good chunk of the time, when someone objects to "tone"**, it's coming from a place of privilege.
* That's not to say anybody from a marginalized identity has a carte blache to be an asshole. But they don't have to be polite to you when you reinforce ugly shit. When it comes to the deliberately obtuse or willfully ignorant, my personal preference is to say something sarcastic then disengage.
** If the bulk of your objection can be, "Watch your tone," please don't say it. It's what you say to disobedient children, not adults who you presume to treat with respect. Even if you think they're being immature, don't say it. If the issue you're talking about is important to you, and the person you're talking to is someone whom you otherwise respect, it's not worth destroying that to take a few pot shots at them.
So what now?
Speaking for myself, it would help a great deal to ask rather than assume. It's pretty hard to read intent on the internet at the best of times, so it would probably not be remiss to clarify before proceeding. Even - scratch that - especially if you think you know what's going on. There are tons of conversations that could have saved a lot of turmoil had myself or other participants simply asked about where everyone was coming from before rushing to attack or defense. And when it comes to discussing power and privilege and oppression and the myriad forms they take, it comes at a great cost to the people on the shit end of that stick.
I recently replaced my copy of The Princess Bride DVD, and for some reason when I watched it, I really identified with Fezzik. I even looked up some tropes to figure out what made Fezzik so compelling. It wasn't until I reflected on a few recent interactions that I made the connections.
At one point in time (until fairly recently, if you follow this blog fairly regularly), one of the things that consistently irritated and saddened me when it came to That Conversation was when people would accuse me of a hostility that I didn't feel. Vehement, yes. Passionate, yes. Intense, definitely. But never hostile. There was nothing malevolent about anything I said, yet I kept being treated as though I was pretty much telling people to go die in a fire, even though I feel I exercise great restraint compared to what I've witnessed in other people. It's pretty confusing and frustrating to deal with, especially when you see other people say far worse without getting called on it.
For the longest time, I thought it was simply derailing or projecting the Angry Black Woman stereotype onto me because I spoke my mind without going my way to express myself in a conciliatory or equivocating way so as not to offend people more privileged than me (ie, not all White people, not all men, I don't mean you, etc.).
But now I believe there is more going on than that.
Back to Fezzik
Here you have this character, a giant, with immense physical power, who has to be careful with how he navigates the world around him lest he cause harm to others. I am like this when it comes to words. Whether I intend it or not, the words I use carry tremendous power. You would think that'd be obvious, but it really isn't. Unlike Fezzik, a good chunk of the time, I literally don't know my own strength. I never thought of myself or the way I expressed myself as particularly powerful. Truth be told, I'm very introverted (almost withdrawn) and rather shy (especially around people I don't know well). Nevertheless, a love tap from Natalie Portman wouldn't feel the same as a love tap from George Foreman. So I've resolved to be a bit more careful in my approach, or at the very least give fair warning.
I honestly don't know what to feel about this. On the one hand, it's always good to affirm something empowering about yourself. As someone who faces marginalization due to race, gender, sexuality, and class, it's hard not to internalize the barrage of messages telling me how powerless I am (and how good it is that I remain so). It's difficult to describe what kind of effort that takes, but it's very similar to what survivors of abuse go through.
On the other hand, it sucks that something that should be positive - in this case, a power with words - becomes a liability because of those same forces that seek to undermine my sense of my own power, even as embodied in the same people who endeavor to oppose those forces.
Power versus privilege
It's quite a paradox. But that's how it goes for pretty much any empowering trait coming from marginalized people. Any attempt to claim your own power without paying your dues (so to speak) is always met with resistance. Speaking intelligently, and with passion and clarity, without apology, is not praiseworthy in anyone except well-off straightwhitedudes.
Don't believe me? Go to any social justice blog or website (like this one) where a marginalized person states an opinion without coddling the privileged. You won't have to dig very deep to find somebody acting like that person just said, "FUCK OFF AND DIE MOTHERFUCKER!!!" Even if the "meanie" is responding to something fucked up that someone else said. Even if that person does not use all caps or any exclamation points. Even if that person does not make a direct accusation against anyone.
If you're feeling up to it, try prodding a bit. Say something like, "Really? Where did s/he say that?" If you don't get a bunch of projections and assumptions and conjecture, you'll get them saying something about the tone*. Note who it comes from. I'm willing to bet money that a good chunk of the time, when someone objects to "tone"**, it's coming from a place of privilege.
* That's not to say anybody from a marginalized identity has a carte blache to be an asshole. But they don't have to be polite to you when you reinforce ugly shit. When it comes to the deliberately obtuse or willfully ignorant, my personal preference is to say something sarcastic then disengage.
** If the bulk of your objection can be, "Watch your tone," please don't say it. It's what you say to disobedient children, not adults who you presume to treat with respect. Even if you think they're being immature, don't say it. If the issue you're talking about is important to you, and the person you're talking to is someone whom you otherwise respect, it's not worth destroying that to take a few pot shots at them.
So what now?
Speaking for myself, it would help a great deal to ask rather than assume. It's pretty hard to read intent on the internet at the best of times, so it would probably not be remiss to clarify before proceeding. Even - scratch that - especially if you think you know what's going on. There are tons of conversations that could have saved a lot of turmoil had myself or other participants simply asked about where everyone was coming from before rushing to attack or defense. And when it comes to discussing power and privilege and oppression and the myriad forms they take, it comes at a great cost to the people on the shit end of that stick.
September 23, 2010
We need more dads like this
And kudos for James Jones teaching his daughter that Black women are worth protecting. Could you imagine what James Jones would've done if Nita Hanson ("Jade") was his child? Let's just say that call to Dr. Laura would not be necessary.
August 26, 2010
Witchsistah is right (h/t Sister Toldja)
Sista Toldja lays out something Witchsistah and I have been saying for years:
This really does make me wonder, though: Why are Black people burdened with this particular expectation? Not just Black people - Black Americans, especially African American women. For real, no other group of people is held to such a standard. Know why? Because it's fucking ridiculous.
If Dr. Laura screamed, "Seig Heil!" eleven times on the air, do you really think people would expect Jews and other groups persecuted during the Holocaust to "just get over it"? Nope! Know why? Because it's fucking ridiculous.
If Mel Gibson yelled, "You're gonna burn in hell with the fags! You're gonna get raped by a bunch of dykes!" do you think people would dare to tell LGBTQ people to "let it go"? Nope. Know why? Because it's fucking ridiculous.
Now women - especially battered women - are at times held to this standard, especially by people who don't know battered women. Trust me, decent human beings who have known women in abusive relationships are a lot less forgiving of abuse. But the thing is - people know how fucking sick it is to ask (demand!) forgiveness for that. People know how sick it is to expect a woman who's been abused to not be fearful or distrustful of men in general because of her experience and the fact that we live in a society that requires men to prove their manhood through their domination of women and turns a blind eye to the inevitable violence that results. Nevertheless, when abuse does come to light, a position of forgiveness and reconciliation is rightly seen as unhealthy, particularly when the abuse is extremely violent.
So why are Black people supposed to tolerate bullshit 'til the cows come home without so much as criticizing - let alone retaliating - the most horrendous shit humanity has to offer? What is it about us that inspires the requirement of saintlike virtue on our part?
Truly, I want to know.
Blatant racism forgiven with the simple words “I’m sorry” brings to mind the phenomenon commonly referred to as Battered Woman’s Syndrome. The victims are unable to walk away from their abuser and continue to return time and time again, without instituting any true demands for an improvement in how they are treated or rehabilitation for their abuser. I have said it once and I will say it again: Black folks will gladly take the moral high road all the way to Hell. Saying “It’s okay” doesn’t always make you the bigger person. ("The Power of No Forgiveness")
If Dr. Laura screamed, "Seig Heil!" eleven times on the air, do you really think people would expect Jews and other groups persecuted during the Holocaust to "just get over it"? Nope! Know why? Because it's fucking ridiculous.
If Mel Gibson yelled, "You're gonna burn in hell with the fags! You're gonna get raped by a bunch of dykes!" do you think people would dare to tell LGBTQ people to "let it go"? Nope. Know why? Because it's fucking ridiculous.
Now women - especially battered women - are at times held to this standard, especially by people who don't know battered women. Trust me, decent human beings who have known women in abusive relationships are a lot less forgiving of abuse. But the thing is - people know how fucking sick it is to ask (demand!) forgiveness for that. People know how sick it is to expect a woman who's been abused to not be fearful or distrustful of men in general because of her experience and the fact that we live in a society that requires men to prove their manhood through their domination of women and turns a blind eye to the inevitable violence that results. Nevertheless, when abuse does come to light, a position of forgiveness and reconciliation is rightly seen as unhealthy, particularly when the abuse is extremely violent.
So why are Black people supposed to tolerate bullshit 'til the cows come home without so much as criticizing - let alone retaliating - the most horrendous shit humanity has to offer? What is it about us that inspires the requirement of saintlike virtue on our part?
Truly, I want to know.
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