ARE YOU ENTERTAINED?

SIMONE C. DRAKE &

DWAN K. HENDERSON
EDITORS
 ARE YOU
ENTERTAINED?
BLACK POPU­LAR CULTURE
IN THE TWENTY-­FIRST ­CENTURY

Duke University Press ​Durham and London ​2020

© 2020 Duke University Press
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of Amer­i­ca on acid-­free paper ∞
Designed by Matthew Tauch
Typeset in Portrait by Westchester Publishing Services

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Drake, Simone C., [date] editor. | Henderson, Dwan K., [date] editor.
Title: Are you entertained? : Black popular culture in the twenty-first century /
edited by Simone C. Drake and Dwan K. Henderson.
Other titles: Black popular culture in the twenty-first century
Description: Durham : Duke University Press, 2020. | Includes bibliographical
references and index.
Identifiers: lccn 2019016289 (print)
lccn 2019981471 (ebook)
isbn 9781478005179 (hardcover)
isbn 9781478006787 (paperback)
isbn 9781478009009 (ebook)
Subjects: lcsh: African Americans in popular culture. | Racism in popular culture—
United States. | African American arts. | Popular culture—United States. | Politics
and culture—United States. | United States—Civilization—African American
influences.
Classification: lcc e185.625 .a74 2020 (print)
lcc e185.625 (ebook)
ddc 305.896/073—dc23
lc record available at [Link]
lc ebook record available at [Link]

Cover art: Still from Beyoncé, The Formation World Tour. Photo by Matthew Tauch.

Duke University Press gratefully acknowledges The Ohio State University, which provided
funds toward the publication of this book.
For Jesse . . .
This page intentionally left blank
 CONTENTS

1 Introduction

I PERFORMING BLACKNESS

29 1 “Mutts Like Me”: Mixed-­Race Jokes and Post-­Racial

Rejection in the Obama Era ​· ​Ralina L. Joseph

44 2 Black Radio: Robert Glasper, Esperanza Spalding,

and Janelle Monáe ​· ​Emily J. Lordi

58 3 Camping and Vamping across Borders: Locating Cabaret

Singers in the Black Cultural Spectrum ​· ​Vincent Stephens

77 4 The Art of Black Popu­lar Culture ​· ​H. Ike Okafor-­Newsum

91 5 Interview ​· ​
Lisa B. Thompson
 II POLITICIZING BLACKNESS

101 6 Refashioning Po­liti­cal Cartoons: Comics of Jackie Ormes

1938–1958 ​· ​
Kelly Jo Fulkerson-­Dikuua

118 7 Queer Kinship and Worldmaking in Black Queer Web Series:

Drama Queenz and No Shade ​· ​Eric Darnell Pritchard

134 8 Styling and Profiling: Ballers, Blackness, and the Sartorial

Politics of the nba ​· ​
David J. Leonard

153 9 Interview ​· ​
Tracy Sharpley-­Whiting

III OWNING BLACKNESS

161 10 The Subaltern Is Signifyin(g): Black Twitter as a Site of

Re­sis­tance ​· ​Sheneese Thompson

175 11 Au­then­tic Black Cool?: Branding and Trademarks in

Con­temporary African American Culture ​· ​Richard Schur

191 12 Black Culture without Black ­People: Hip-­Hop Dance beyond

Appropriation Discourse ​· ​
Imani Kai Johnson

207 13 At the Corner of Chaos and Divine: Black Ritual Theater,

Per­for­mance, and Politics ​· ​Nina Angela Mercer

229 14 Interview ​· ​
Mark Anthony Neal
 IV LOVING BLACKNESS

237 15 The Booty ­Don’t Lie: Plea­sure, Agency, and Re­sis­tance in

Black Popu­lar Dance ​· ​Takiyah Nur Amin

252 16 He Said Nothing: Sonic Space and the Production of

Quietude in Barry Jenkins’s Moonlight ​· ​
Simone C. Drake

268 17 Black ­Women Readers and the Uses of Urban Fiction ​· ​

Kinohi Nishikawa

288 18 Interview ​· ​
Patricia Hill Collins

301 CONTRIBUTORS

307 Index
This page intentionally left blank
INTRO MORE THAN ENTERTAINMENT / BLACK
CULTURE AND SUBJECT MAKING

In an August 2016 interview for Vulture, Rembert Browne

asked musician, writer, actor, director, producer, and creator Donald Glover
to “[explain] the genesis of [his soon-­to-be tele­vi­sion phenomenon] Atlanta.”
Glover replied, “I wanted to show white p­ eople, you d ­ on’t know every­thing
about black culture. I know it’s very easy to feel that way. Like I get it, you
can hear about the Nae Nae the day it comes out. You follow Hood Vines,
and you have your one Black friend and you think they teach you every­
thing.” But they do not, and Glover’s reproof is fitting. Perhaps more than at
any time in history and more visibly ­because lives are so technologically in-
tertwined in real time, the “popu­lar” in Black popu­lar cultural productions
is commodified, consumed, appropriated, and then, often, mass-­produced
with startling simultaneity through the very lens that Glover references, as
if “white ­people . . . ​know every­thing about black culture.”
Tellingly, Glover’s words recall Stuart Hall’s seminal question about
Black popu­lar culture and bring it into the twenty-­first ­century: “What is
this ‘black’ in black popu­lar culture?” In his provocative and widely antholo-
gized 1992 essay, Hall asserts that the answer to the question he poses is never
the same; similarities and continuities surely exist over time, yet we can al-
ways identify Leroi Jones’s (a.k.a. Amiri Baraka) “changing same.” Far more
so now than when Hall composed his essay, Black popu­lar culture occupies
a central space in mainstream popu­lar culture and the public sphere. As we
approach the twilight of the second de­cade of the twenty-­first ­century, we
are twenty-­five years removed from the first edited collection attending to
the place, space, and weight of Black popu­lar culture in 1992. When a three-­
day conference at the Studio Museum in Harlem spurred the production
of Michele Wallace’s proj­ect Black Popu­lar Culture, co-­edited by Gina Dent,
Black cultural productions ­were only beginning their crossover into the
mainstream. When t­ hose crossovers yielded corporate wins, Black cultural
producers rode the waves of a par­tic­u­lar type of pro­gress—­one that si­mul­ta­
neously illustrated Black culture’s marketability and the price of commodi-
fication. Take, for example, Berry Gordy’s refashioning of soul m ­ usic and
Black artists for a crossover audience during the 1960s and 1970s. Or, con-
sider Motown wunderkind-­turned-­pop-­icon Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean”
becoming the first ­music video by a Black artist to air on mtv in 1983. In
fact, according to Rob Tannenbaum, if not for the commercial success of
Jackson’s videos in the 1980s, mtv would have been shut down by its parent
com­pany due to a $50 million loss when only a $10 million loss prior to profit
had been expected.1 As the Root​.­com conjectures, and justifiably so, Jackson’s
musical genius resulted in mtv experiencing their first ever quarterly profit
during the first three months of 1984. The move away from whitewashed
rock and roll saved the network, and that lesson was not taken lightly. Five
years ­later, though not without reservation, mtv executives aired Yo! mtv
Raps as an “experiment,” and “the ratings ­were phenomenal and resulted in
a significant programming change.”2 Notably, Jackson’s integration of mtv
occurred just one year before The Cosby Show would hit primetime tele­vi­sion
in 1984, introducing many to a positive visual repre­sen­ta­tion of an upper-­
middle-­class and highly educated professional Black ­family and becoming
one of the world’s most beloved sitcoms. Just two years ­later, in 1986, Spike
Lee premiered his first feature-­length film, She’s Gotta Have It, launching a
­career of politicized filmmaking that would extend through the 1990s and
begin to carve out a space for Black directors and writers in Hollywood.
As increased repre­sen­ta­tion met the increased visibility of the Informa-
tion Age, the 1990s brought expansion of Black repre­sen­ta­tion and influ-
ence; but, it also generated a burgeoning insistence on multiplicity as well
as historicity in portraying Black identity. For example, Michael Jordan’s
preeminence on the basketball court presented an image of blackness that

2 Simone C. Drake and Dwan K. Henderson

was perhaps a historically comfortable one for ­those who could objectify his
Black body, marvel in its athleticism, and understand his celebrity. Yet, the
corporate branding of Jordan and his subsequent shoe and apparel game re-
negotiated the reach and power of athletes, particularly Black athletes, in
the popu­lar sphere. Si­mul­ta­neously, tele­vi­sions around the nation previously
privy to the visual, if not societal, normalization of the Huxtables in The
Cosby Show had also “seen inside” a Huxtable child’s journey from suburban
space to a fictional historically Black college in the spinoff A Dif­fer­ent World.
This world, for Denise Huxtable and the viewer, was one in which singular
definitions of blackness w ­ ere necessarily consistently defied. On the stage in
1990, August Wilson won a Pulitzer for The Piano Lesson, the fourth play in
his “Pittsburgh Cycle,” which began with a seminal question about identity:
“Can one acquire a sense of self-­worth by denying one’s past?” In 1993, Toni
Morrison would win a Pulitzer for Beloved, a novel that also delves into the
effects of denial and, in Angela Davis’s words, makes it “pos­si­ble to humanize
slavery, to remember that the system of slavery did not destroy the human-
ity of ­those whom it enslaved.”3 Evoking gendered realities of slavery and
the potentially disabling weight of the past’s ghosts, Morrison allows readers
room to lay claim to the strength of ancestors in newly i­ magined ways. Each
of ­these texts would necessarily speak differently to Black audiences seeing
or revisioning themselves than to white audiences who might engage black-
ness superficially but not feel the impacts of repre­sen­ta­tion.
In 2020, it is likely safe to say that discourse on Black popu­lar culture in
the acad­emy has less investment in debates of high versus low culture or
of justifications for allotting critical, academic attention to Black popu­lar
cultural forms than it once did. But, the proliferation of Black culture in the
age of the internet lends credence to Ellis Cashmore’s insistence that Black
culture has been subsumed by white corporations and converted into an
exceptionally profitable commodity.4 And it is this truth that makes Hall’s
articulation of Black popu­lar culture as an “area that is profoundly mythic”
all the more relevant. “It is where we discover and play with the identifica-
tions of ourselves, where we are ­imagined, where we are represented,” Hall
argues, “not only to the audiences out ­there who do not get the message, but
to ourselves for the first time.”5 As a result, the ste­roidal commodification
of Black popu­lar culture has long raised a dif­fer­ent set of concerns about
value, consumption, and incorporation into the U.S. body politic for con­
temporary Black cultural producers, as accompanying mass consumption is
a phenomenon of deracination that has sometimes shifted the meaning of
“Black” in Black popu­lar culture. For example, in 2013 the American M ­ usic

Introduction 3
Award for Best R&B ­album was presented to Justin Timberlake, which, pun-
dits quipped, infuriated Robin Thicke, another white R&B artist. That same
year, the Best Hip-­Hop ­album was awarded to Macklemore and Ryan Lewis.
To add insult to injury, just a few months ­later, the 2014 Grammy for Best
Rap A ­ lbum, Best Rap Song, Best Rap Per­for­mance, and Best New Artist ­were
also awarded to Macklemore and Ryan Lewis, creating dismay among many
Kendrick Lamar fans—­dismay that Macklemore’s “shout-­out” to Lamar did
­little to console. And Jay-­Z only won in the Best Rap/Sung Collaboration
category for “Holy Grail,” a collaboration with Justin Timberlake.
What does the “Black” in Black popu­lar culture mean when white male
artists not only win but dominate m ­ usic awards in categories that are histori-
cally Black genres? What does the “Black” in Black popu­lar culture constitute
when the newly elected mayor of New York City, Bill de Blasio, performs a
choreographed “smackdown” dance on stage with his Black wife and two
biracial ­children? And how have the politics of Black popu­lar culture meta-
morphosed when the hip-­hop mogul Jay-­Z launches an exorbitantly priced
clothing and accessory line at an establishment (Barney’s) notorious for
racial profiling (a.k.a. shop-­and-­frisk), around the same time Macklemore
chooses to forgo a traditional ac­cep­tance speech at the ama and instead
speak bluntly to the murder of Trayvon Martin?6 A baseline response to all
of t­ hese questions is that the stakes have shifted in Black popu­lar cultural
production. Propaganda remains alive and well, but the development of
new models for engaging Black art and its relationship to power, capital-
ism, and consumption demands critical dialogue on how white corporations
have hijacked Black culture for their own profit. Where that is normalized,
Miley Cyrus is twerking and employing Black identity tropes to give herself
street cred, and Kylie Jenner seemingly “discovered” cornrows in 2013. T ­ hese
examples demonstrate the “changing same” of white corporate owner­ship
of Black culture and artistic production. W ­ hether it was during slavery or
­after emancipation, through minstrelsy and blackface, that legacy repeat-
edly manifests in the Black culture industry, as Black ­people and their cul-
tural productions are locations of “entertainment” that dominant culture
has strategically manipulated to represent Black pathology and a presumed
knowledge of Black identity.
The renewed national activism spurred by white vio­lence and, particu-
larly, police vio­lence has ­shaped many Black cultural productions in the
space between the police shooting of Michael Brown in 2014 and the 2017
white supremacist rally in Charlottesville, V ­ irginia. The twenty-­four-­hour
news cycle, social media, and other technologies have changed forms of

4 Simone C. Drake and Dwan K. Henderson

Black protest within popu­lar culture and made them more vis­i­ble. In fact,
technology is integral to the Movement for Black Lives. Perhaps the most
prominent indicator of the phenomenon occurred at the 2015 Super Bowl and
Grammy Awards; both illustrated the potential for dominating social media,
news cycles, and cultural conversations to influence culture broadly. One
day prior to her scheduled Super Bowl halftime per­for­mance with Coldplay,
Beyoncé released the “Formation” ­music video on Tidal, the subscription-­
based ­music streaming platform that she and her husband, Shawn Car­ter
(a.k.a. Jay-­Z), founded and, in large part, own. The ­music video, with its cri-
tique of the devaluation of Black lives through conjoining images of police
vio­lence and Hurricane Katrina, was si­mul­ta­neously an instant success and
the subject of negative scrutiny both in conversation and online. Her live
per­for­mance of “Formation” the next day at the fiftieth Super Bowl added
insult to injury for haters as she and her crew of Afro-­coiffed sistahs rocked
black leather leotards and berets, paying homage to the fiftieth anniversary
of the Black Panther Party. At the conclusion of her per­for­mance, she an-
nounced her Formation World Tour, and just two months l­ ater released her
equally earthshaking Lemonade studio ­album—an ­album that she somehow
kept ­under wraps u ­ ntil its release. In spite of All Lives M
­ atter and Blue Lives
­Matter protests and boycotts in response to both the m ­ usic video and Super
Bowl per­for­mance, her tour sold over two million tickets and grossed over
$250 million between April 27, 2016, and October 7, 2016.7
Before all had settled around the Super Bowl controversy, Kendrick Lamar
performed “The Blacker the Berry” and “Alright” at the 2016 Grammys clad
in “prison blues” and chains on a stage set with a literal prison cage, pyro-
technics, and African dancers. Although Rolling Stone declared Lamar “stole
the show” in their headline, it was not a national sentiment. His per­for­
mance, combined with Beyoncé’s just weeks ­earlier and Colin Kaepernick’s
protests against police brutality in fall 2016, reinserted a disruptive trope
of fiercely resistant blackness into the popu­lar realm.8 Their per­for­mances
came at a moment in which re­sis­tance was increasingly swift, loud, and fu-
rious. With the election of the forty-­fifth president of the United States in
November 2016, fear and anger as a result of his administration’s support
for racist, sexist, anti-­lgbt, xenophobic, and other­wise bigoted action and
policy reached a fever pitch. Lin-­Manuel Miranda, who had taken the nation
by storm one year ­earlier with his revolutionary marriage of hip hop and mu-
sical theater in Hamilton, used his platform to combat discrimination. With
a predominantly nonwhite cast, Miranda reframed U.S. national history vi-
sually and aurally, penning a reclamation story of founding f­ ather Alexander

Introduction 5
Hamilton, “a bastard, orphan, son of a whore and Scotsman, dropped in a
forgotten spot in the Ca­rib­bean,” “another immigrant ­comin’ up from the
bottom” whose “enemies destroyed his rep [while] Amer­i­ca forgot him.”9
His reiteration of Hamilton’s occupation of such socioeco­nom­ically and
sociopo­liti­cally beleaguered identity spaces, the melding of genres long
perceived both artistically and culturally incongruous, and his race-­blind
casting are symbolic and literal manifestations of inclusion and defiance of
norms. But, it was a statement collectively prepared by the cast and read
to then Vice-­President-­elect Mike Pence at the November 18, 2016, per­for­
mance in New York City that went viral, showing the power of cultural pro-
ductions and cultural producers in the digital age. In a profoundly divided
and divisive post-2016 election moment, Miranda and the cast expressed
hope that President-­elect Trump and Mr. Pence would indeed embrace a
diverse Amer­i­ca and “work on behalf of all of us.”10
Stuart Hall’s questioning of the “Black” in Black popu­lar culture spoke to
his theorizing about the nonlinearity and multiplicity of African diasporic
cultural identity. Fred Moten revisits the shifting, changing nature of black-
ness across time and space that Hall addressed. Thinking about re­sis­tance
and the history of blackness, Moten defines blackness as “the extended move-
ment of a specific upheaval, an ongoing irruption that anarranges [sic] ­every
line—[blackness] is a strain that pressures the assumption of the equivalence
of personhood and subjectivity.”11 In this sense, LeVar Burton’s chains in the
1977 Roots tele­vi­sion miniseries reflect an “extended movement of a specific
upheaval” or “an ongoing irruption” that manifests again in Lamar’s 2016
Grammy per­for­mance. Twenty-­first-­century iterations and productions of
blackness are disruptive and repetitive. They are synchronous, and impor-
tantly, they increasingly refuse to serve white consumers and interlopers as
“purveyors of plea­sure” through their own subjection to degradation and
vio­lence and the consequential “transubstantiation of abjection into con-
tentment,” as Saidiya Hartman theorizes about the sordid “nexus of plea­sure
and possession” that pervaded chattel slavery.12
The disruptive trope of blackness in the twenty-­first ­century often weds
re­sis­tance to plea­sure, not for the white audience but for the Black audience
in need of catharsis. Evidence of this resurfaced at the 2017 Grammys. Be-
yoncé was once again at the forefront, centering an unapologetic blackness.
Pregnant with twins, Queen Bey dramatically performed “Love Drought”
and “Sandcastles” from Lemonade, nominated for ­Album of the Year. Decked
out in a gold bikini, invoking the Yoruba Orisha Oshun, Beyoncé embodied
both Black plea­sure and resistance—­both the plea­sure of reproduction and

6 Simone C. Drake and Dwan K. Henderson

c­ hildren heightened by the significance of twins in Yoruba culture and the
insertion of an Africanness that traversed the Atlantic during the ­Middle
Passage. ­After a hiatus, she followed that with #Beychella, her per­for­mance
as the first African American ­woman to headline Coachella in 2018. Her mid-­
set words perhaps best capture the purposeful re­sis­tance and “education in
black expression” that she undertook: “Coachella, thank you for allowing
me to be the first Black ­woman to headline. ­Ain’t that ’bout a bitch?”13 Pro-
ceeding to combine couture and ele­ments of Black culture from Nefertiti to
the hbcu, as well as a tribute to the artistic journey that led her to become
Beyoncé—­with all the weight that moniker carries, reinforced by the scope
of her production—­the artist and performer created a spectacle that played
on the largely white audience’s consumption of Black expression without
background knowledge; it made the set, as Hall argues, the identification,
imagination, repre­sen­ta­tion, of ourselves. With sixty-­two Grammy nomina-
tions, she is the most nominated female artist in history and a m ­ usic goddess
in her own right.14 Her calculated per­for­mances during a two-­year period
are about much more than Black p ­ eople occupying prominent spaces in the
popu­lar realm. They position Black cultural productions in this epic mo-
ment as moving beyond the corporeality of the black flesh and representing
and interrogating blackness as embodiment, per­for­mance, and re­sis­tance.15
The 2018 film Black Panther, directed by Ryan Coogler, manifests re­sis­
tance, plea­sure, and pain, bringing Black audiences from the United States
to Africa to tears. Why? It features not only the first Black Marvel superhero
in a lead role on the big screen but also Black w ­ omen visibly catapulted be-
yond victimhood to intellectual and physical badassery, a theorized African
continent untouched by colonizers’ pillaging of the continent, its ­people,
and its varied cultures, and juxtaposition of that theoretical space with the
varied seen and lived impacts of colonization in both the Black f­ amily and
in the United States as a ­whole. In contrast to Black Panther’s creation of
­imagined space, in 2018, Lamar’s damn, winner of the 2018 Pulitzer Prize
for ­Music, and the release of Childish Gambino’s (a.k.a. Donald Glover)
“This Is Amer­i­ca” pointedly negotiated the complex and often stark reali-
ties of varied Black experiences without effacing them. As critic Matthew
Trammell notes and as Lamar’s 2016 Grammy per­for­mance visually and lyri-
cally testified, where Lamar excels is in his ability “to articulate, in h­ uman
terms, the intimate specifics of daily self-­defense from [his] surroundings.”16
Through his art, he speaks his own truth, the ways in which his blackness
and American experiences shape his own life. And that, perhaps, is what
links Lamar’s text to Childish Gambino’s. The lyr­ics and video for the latter

Introduction 7
code and historicize the complex subjectivit(ies) of blackness in a United
States of Amer­i­ca that si­mul­ta­neously celebrates and criminalizes melanin,
often relishes per­for­mances rather than realities of Black lives, and is prone
to vio­lence and destruction. Where Lamar’s m ­ usic is heavi­ly downloaded on
platforms like Spotify, YouTube made Gambino’s video viral with over fifty
million views.
In the digital age and beyond, newer ave­nues by which artists and con-
sumers push back against continued, rampant marginalization and discrimi-
nation in the culture industry are cultural productions to be reckoned with
in themselves. The significant role once held by Black radio and Black print
culture in the Black po­liti­cal sphere has been displaced in many ways by so-
cial media and the digital explosion. Even though, according to a 2018 report
published by the Pew Research Center, YouTube can claim the highest num-
ber of online American adult users (73 ­percent), Instagram, Snapchat, and
Twitter usage by demographic reveals the power of social media to activate,
politicize, resist, and consume in the con­temporary moment. Compared
to YouTube’s white (71 ­percent) versus Black (76 ­percent) usage, separated
by only five percentage points, the report noted a significant difference in
white versus Black Instagram usage (32 vs. 43 ­percent) and white versus
Black Snapchat usage (24 vs. 36 ­percent), as well as a shrinking difference in
white versus Black Twitter usage (24 vs. 26 ­percent).17
Disproportionate usage is also evident in terms of age, where the eighteen-­
to-­twenty-­nine-­year-­old demographic is the most inclined to use Facebook
(81 ­percent), YouTube (91), Instagram (64), Snapchat (68), and Twitter (40).18
Social media, then, functions as an impor­tant communication platform for
Black Americans in the twenty-­first ­century in spite of the “digital divide” in
other areas of technology. In a February 2018 report also published by Pew,
the fifteen percentage-­point difference between Black (57) and white (72)
home broadband usage adjusts to only a three-­point difference—­Black (75)
and white (77)—­for smartphone usage.19 ­These numbers explain the degree
to which young Black users have a­ dopted social media as a platform for ac-
tivism and re­sis­tance. The “clapback” christened “Black Twitter” in par­tic­
u­lar as an entity that the mainstream media and Black cultural critics must
acknowledge.
Black Twitter became “a strain”—­invoking musical expression or outburst
(aesthetics) and excessive exertion or ­labor (force)—as it vocalized its dis­
plea­sure with the absence of blackness (and all other racially and ethnically
marginalized folk) in the 2016 Acad­emy Awards nominations. The refusal of
the Acad­emy to recognize both Black l­abor and Black genius catalyzed the

8 Simone C. Drake and Dwan K. Henderson

hashtag #OscarsSoWhite. A similar discontent was echoed on social media
­after the 2017 Grammys and the widespread perception that Beyoncé was
snubbed, particularly in the coveted category of Rec­ord of the Year. Even
Adele, who won the category, was confused and contrite, as she proclaimed
in her ac­cep­tance speech, “The artist of my life is Beyoncé, and this ­album to
me, the ‘Lemonade’ a­ lbum, was just so monumental.” Off-­stage, still dubious
of her win, Adele followed up with “I felt like it was her time to win. What
the f *** does she have to do to win ­album of the year?” As Adele left the cer-
emony with awards in all five of the categories for which she was nominated,
Beyoncé, who was nominated in nine categories, won only two, Best ­Music
Video and Best Urban Con­temporary. While few would deny that Adele is
talented in her own right, discourse on white mediocrity and the limits of
recognizing Black genius permeated Black Twitter and even some main-
stream media at the conclusion of the award ceremony. Although clearly
more incorporated, blackness in the popu­lar realm continues to hit ceilings
and obstacles.
In spite of the continued challenges, sometimes blackness is blue. When
film director and writer Barry Jenkins (Medicine for Melancholy) collaborated
with Tarell Alvin McCraney to adapt the latter’s play In Moonlight Black Boys
Look Blue, neither may have ­imagined that the film adaptation, Moonlight,
originally showing almost exclusively at art ­houses, would take home an
Oscar for Best Picture, Best Writing Adapted Screenplay, and Best Support-
ing Actor at the 2017 Acad­emy Awards. Moonlight disrupted the whiteness
of the Oscars, generally and particularly during the previous year, when it,
along with Hidden Figures, Fences, and Loving, inserted Black narratives into
the mainstream. This was particularly true given that, in nearly e­ very pos­si­
ble category, La La Land was nominated. As the supreme exemplar of revived
tropes and nostalgia for Hollywood’s Golden Age and thus, perhaps, white
artistic mediocrity in 2016, La La Land was boldly nominated in fourteen cat-
egories and won six (­after a bizarre fiasco in which it was wrongly awarded
Best Picture). La La Land, a musical whose leading actress is neither a singer
nor a dancer but won Best Actress, and whose leading actor’s claim to sing-
ing and dancing fame was The Mickey Mouse Club alongside Justin Timber-
lake, Britney Spears, and Christina Aguilera, was the critics’ hands-on favor-
ite to win Best Picture. Moonlight was second; its win, then, over a film that
checked all of the acad­emy’s go-to boxes for success was somewhat shocking.
Moonlight’s disruption extends further than its win, however, b­ ecause it
offers a story that challenges the familiar, complicating poverty and mascu-
linity and their intersections with race and gender. Jenkins and McCraney

Introduction 9
disallow blackness to be defined in the hegemonic manner Hollywood so
often imposes upon Black bodies. Plea­sure and pain converge, as the story is
both empowering and probes deeply the pain and hate that ­human beings
can inflict upon other h ­ uman beings. The narrative, sound, and aesthetics
embody the beauty and pain of the coming of age of a gay Black boy in the
Liberty City neighborhood of Miami during the Reagan-­Bush era. Jenkins
masterfully develops the narrative around three stages of the protagonist
Chiron’s life through portrayals by three dif­fer­ent actors. Growing up with
a single, drug-­addicted ­mother in abject poverty, Chiron spends his child-
hood and youth being bullied and abused by his peers and his m ­ other. Al-
though the film received critical acclaim both before and ­after its release,
in an Acad­emy whose membership is dominated by white men, it would be
easy to expect merit would not outweigh whiteness. Appropriately, though,
representing Black pain and plea­sure during an epoch of hateful rhe­toric
and opposition to difference outside of white, heterosexual, middle-­class
manliness, Moonlight continues a legacy of Black cultural producers embrac-
ing culture and per­for­mance as disruptive tools.
What constitutes “Black” in Black popu­lar culture, then, becomes a more
complex discussion than ever before in the twenty-­first ­century ­because
nearly 150 years ­after emancipation, Black cultural production is always al-
ready still linked to the affirmation of Black humanity. ­Whether a Black in­
de­pen­dent film like Barry Jenkins’s Medicine for Melancholy, a film franchise
like Tyler Perry’s Medea films, YouTube-­producer-­turned-­hbo-­creator Issa
Rae’s interest in “telling a very specific, au­then­tic story, not trying to answer
for all Black ­people” through Awkward Black Girl or Insecure, Janelle Monáe’s
futuristic, cyber-­girl, pansexual blackness, the new-­money, “ghetto fabulous-
ness” of T.I. and Tiny, the respectability politics re­sis­tance of Tiffany Haddish
or Cardi B., or the seeming endless spectacle of blackness in the sports arena,
Black cultural producers respond to stakes of Black art that continue to be
inextricably linked not only to the entertainment of white folk but also to
the dependence of dominant culture upon static notions of Blacks as hyper­
sexual, primitive (premodern), violent, lazy, feckless, conniving, childish,
and ultimately lacking humanity.20
And their responses can be quite complex. What might seem like a
­simple contrast of positive versus negative cultural producers in pairing
a Black indie film with Tyler Perry and Janelle Monáe with T.I. can never
be so simplistic when the stakes are so high. As propaganda in the twenty-­
first c­ entury, Black popu­lar cultural products resist static repre­sen­ta­tions
through alternative realities. But, t­ here also must be space for articulations

10 Simone C. Drake and Dwan K. Henderson

and repre­sen­ta­tions of Black life and culture that embrace the plea­sure,
joy, and freedom embodied in the production of what some call the “buf-
foonery” of Perry and the oft-­perceived degeneration of con­temporary rap
and hip-­hop ­music. Such appellations create quite the paradox—­the Black
masses, including professional Black ­women who seem to never escape being
objects of punishment in Perry’s storylines, support the “low-­down folk” cul-
ture represented in Perry’s theatrical and filmic productions. Perry, then,
emerges as a controversial figure, and the controversy is rooted in the high
stakes of Black repre­sen­ta­tion in a nation that readily accepts blackness as
synonymous with pathology. Plenty of white directors traffic in buffoonery
and misogyny, but their art does not suffer from the same high stakes of
repre­sen­ta­tion. Perry epitomizes the challenges of producing Black art in
a space and time in which the stakes of repre­sen­ta­tion are high precisely
­because the rules of the game change depending upon who is producing
the images.
The same can be said for Black athletes and the multiple levels of per­
for­mance they engage and are subjected to on the playing fields and public
stage; their bodies, physical prowess, and voices have permeated popu­lar
culture and become propagandistic in their own right. Venus and Serena
Williams, for example, have had to negotiate an often ugly dialectic of en-
tertainer and spectacle. In par­tic­u­lar, Serena’s unapologetic display of her
curves and musculature in elaborate, unconventional tennis attire and her
vocal declarations of self-­confidence and self-­love have thwarted the ef-
forts of mass media and many opponents to diminish her. In August 2018,
for instance, the French Tennis Federation, through its president Bernard
Guidicelli, attempted to make her Black body a site of pathology, banning
a high-­compression, black catsuit inspired by Black Panther and designed to
prevent blood clots—­a chronic condition that nearly killed her both in 2011
and during childbirth only one year ­earlier. In words that seemed a meta­
phor for Serena, herself, Guidicelli told Tennis magazine, “It ­will no longer
be accepted. One must re­spect the game and the place.”21 In short, her body
and need for self-­care ­were disrespectful to a game that she has enhanced
through her skill, perseverance, presence, and brand. Fittingly, one year
­later, with multiple August 2019 covers and an accompanying first-­person
essay for Harper’s Bazaar, Williams boldly claimed the beauty and grace in
her power­ful “unretouched” Black body, as well as her space and place in the
world that forged her equally power­ful spirit. Well aware of the hard-­won
influence and inspiration that she and her brand represent, both in the game
and outside of it, she writes: “As a teenager, I was booed by an entire stadium

Introduction 11
(I took the high road and even thanked ­those who ­didn’t want to see me
win). I’ve been called ­every name in the book. I’ve been shamed ­because of
my body shape. I’ve been paid unequally ­because of my sex. I’ve been penal-
ized a game in the final of a major ­because I expressed my opinion or grunted
too loudly. . . . ​And ­these are only the ­things that are seen by the public. In
short, it’s never been easy. But then I think of the next girl who is ­going to
come along who looks like me, and I hope, ‘Maybe, my voice ­will help her.’ ”22
While perhaps the earliest example of the influential power of Black male
athletes on Black popu­lar culture was Allen Iverson’s appeal to the hip-­hop
generation, Lebron James’s widespread cultural influence rivals that of any
artistic entertainer.23 For example, his tweet calling the forty-­fifth president
of the United States “a bum” was one of the “[Nine] Most Retweeted Tweets
of 2017.”24 His reach challenges that of Michael Jordan within Black culture,
largely ­because James has gradually grown keenly aware of the cultural, so-
cial, and po­liti­cal responsibility that his success and visibility bring in ways
that Jordan seemed unwilling to do at the dawn of personal corporate brand-
ing. The historic po­liti­cal activism of athletes, like Muhammad Ali’s out­
spoken denunciation of the Vietnam War and Tommie Smith’s and John
Carlos’s Black power salute on the medal stage at the 1968 Olympic games,
stands in bleak contrast to Michael Jordan’s explaining that he chose to be
­silent regarding the 1990 North Carolina Senate race between Jesse Helms
(R) and Harvey Gantt (D) ­because “Republicans buy shoes.” In contrast,
LeBron James’s awareness of his im­mense leverage is increasingly on display
as he evolves. For example, in a February 15, 2018, joint interview with fellow
nba star Kevin Durant on YouTube’s “uninterrupted,” both men railed
against social injustice and the po­liti­cal climate in the United States that
continues to disproportionately harm ­people of color. James, cognizant of
how his Black maleness is perceived despite his success and conscious of the
reparative work that he can do with his platform, professed, “I’m a black
man with a bunch of money and havin’ a crib in Brentwood and havin’ the
word ‘nigger’ spraypainted over my gate. . . . ​That lets you know . . . ​I still
have a lot more work to do. And no m ­ atter how far, money or access or
how high you become in life as an African American man, female, they ­will
always try to figure out a way to let you know that you still beneath them,
and it’s e­ ither one of two t­ hings at that point. You e­ ither cave in to that no-
tion or chalk it up and say, ‘You know what? Imma paint over this goddamn
gate and Imma make it taller.’ ” More pointedly, in the same interview, James
publicly censured the forty-­fifth president of the United States, arguing that
“the No. 1 job in Amer­i­ca, the appointed person, is someone who d ­ oesn’t

12 Simone C. Drake and Dwan K. Henderson

understand the ­people and ­really ­don’t give a fuck about the ­people.”25 In
response, recalling the tired trope of Black male bodies as mindless physi-
cal specimens, the president called James “dumb” in a tweet; similarly, Fox
News host Laura Ingraham suggested that James was “ignorant” and should
“shut up and dribble.” James’s reply was two-­fold and fully rejected the labels
and directive: an Instagram post with a neon image of the words, “I am more
than just an Athlete” and artful taunting of his detractors in a subsequent
interview during 2018 nba All-­Star Week. In that interview, he both reiter-
ated his own journey and fully claimed the power­ful impact of his celebrity
at Ingraham’s expense: “You know, to be an African American kid and grow
up in the inner city with a single parent, ­mother, and not being financially
stable and to make it where I’ve made it ­today, I think I’ve defeated the odds.
I want ­every kid to know that . . . ​all ­these other kids that look up to me for
inspiration who are trying to find a way out, finding some leeway on how
they can become as ­great as they can be and how ­those dreams can become
a real­ity. [Ingraham] did the best ­thing to help me create more awareness. So
I appreciate her for giving me even more awareness.”26 His words reify the
truth that in the twenty-­first ­century, sports function as a critical space for
negotiating Black culture and the high stakes of repre­sen­ta­tion. Thus, the
disruption of static notions that Toni Morrison positions as necessary to sub-
stantiate white supremacy in Playing in the Dark are part of the challenge Black
popu­lar culture must negotiate as it contends with white consumerism—as it
is subjected to the white gaze that depends upon not seeing the full humanity
and complexity of Black folks.
Endlessly, concertedly, meticulously, Black cultural producers have had
to combat historical efforts to diminish their experiences and their iden-
tities; current explorations of Black popu­lar culture cannot be divorced
from that history. Significant effort was made by Eu­ro­pean Enlighten-
ment pseudo-­science and white supremacist ideologies to prove African-­
descended p ­ eople lacked culture and civilization, and many of t­ hose argu-
ments w ­ ere intricately linked to artistic production. Thomas Jefferson, for
example, in Notes on the State of V ­ irginia, denigrates Phillis Wheatley and
Black artists generally when he insists that religion enabled Wheatley to
produce something that “kindles the senses” but lacks imagination. Jeffer-
son insisted on an inherent inferiority in Black thought and creativity: “But
never yet could I find that a black had uttered a thought above the level of
plain narration; never see even an elementary trait of painting or sculpture.
In ­music they are more generally gifted than the whites with accurate ears
fortune and time, and they have been found capable of imagining a small

Introduction 13
catch.”27 Sentiments like Jefferson’s made it impossible for discourse on the
social uplift of African Americans to be divorced from culture, since culture
was deeply entwined with racist ideologies of what constitutes civilization
and humanness.
The real­ity of art and culture being inextricably linked to white suprema-
cist rhe­toric and vio­lence is precisely why African American cultural move-
ments have coincided with African American social movements. ­There are,
in fact, three distinct cultural movements in which such critical discourse
has not only been closely linked to social and po­liti­cal change, but the criti-
cal discourse has also informed the production of the art: the New Negro
Movement, the Black Arts Movement, and the Post-­Soul Aesthetic. Histori-
cizing ­these movements is critical for understanding Black popu­lar culture
as not simply entertainment but an integral space for Black intellectual de-
bate around Black subject making.
The publication of Alain LeRoy Locke’s anthology The New Negro in 1925
functioned as the definitive text of the cultural revolution popularly referred
to as the Harlem Re­nais­sance and known by academics as the New Negro
Movement. Locke served as a mentor to Black artists and ultimately as dean
of black letters and art during the New Negro Movement. Coining the term
“New Negro” as a way of recognizing the production of Black art by Black
artists as opposed to previous work about Black artists, Locke argues that his
anthology concentrates on self-­expression and agency. By letting the Negro
have her own voice, Locke proposes that a New Negro displaces the Old
Negro, who is “more a myth than man,” and humanizes Black ­people who
had theretofore been represented as a formula. He also suggests that urban
migration from the South to northern and midwestern industrial centers
accounts for the shift from discourse on the “Negro prob­lem” to the recogni-
tion of class differentiation among U.S. Blacks.
Ethnic diversity, then, also informs the metamorphosis from Old to New
Negro, as Harlem itself represented an African diasporic population of Afri-
can, Ca­rib­bean, and both southern and northern African Americans. While,
on one hand, Locke calls for race cooperation, on the other, he offers an
Afrocentric manifesto calling for Black artists to appreciate and incorporate
“African repre­sen­ta­tion of form.” According to Locke, “A more highly styl-
ized art does not exist than the African,” and he uses that assertion for his
ultimate mandate: a “racial school of art” to be composed of the younger
Black artists of the era. “It is not meant to dictate a style to the young Negro
artists,” Locke concedes, “but to point the lesson that con­temporary Eu­ro­
pean art has already learned—­that any vital artistic expression of the Negro

14 Simone C. Drake and Dwan K. Henderson

theme and subject in art must break through the ste­reo­types to a new style,
a distinctive fresh technique, and some sort of characteristic idiom.”28 The
Eurocentric, middle-­class dictates how Locke is engaging Black art. Like
many of his contemporaries—­most notably Langston Hughes, Zora Neale
Hurston, and Aaron Douglas—­Locke was largely dependent upon financial
support from his white benefactor; in both Hughes’s and Locke’s cases, the
benefactor was Charlotte Osgood Mason. The ideology of pursuing “social
or racial uplift” by embracing middle-­class values and decorum was, however,
a vexed pursuit. The mimicry of Eu­ro­pean modernism and its infatuation
with primitivism helped to distinguish Black art and artists as capable of full
citizenship and incorporation into the body politic. But the formalist ap-
proach to Black production of primitivism-­influenced art reified racial ste­reo­
types and worked against Locke’s cultural and national agenda. Arguably, the
central paradox of patron-­based artistic production during the New Negro
era continues to hold true for many Black cultural producers ­today.
A year ­after the publication of The New Negro anthology, George Schuyler
published his essay “The Negro Art Hokum” in the June 16, 1926, edition
of The Nation. His essay takes to task the very notion of a “racial school of
art.” Though not stated explic­itly, Schuyler’s essay responds to the cultural
agenda laid out in Locke’s The New Negro. He offers an anti-­essentialist argu-
ment that resonates more with post–­civil rights rhe­toric than the rhe­toric
of his time period. Schuyler insists that geography and the influence of
(­Eu­ro­pean) educational institutions is what determines the content and
style of Black art, rather than some shared ancestral essence. He declares,
“This, of course, is easily understood if one stops to realize that the Afra-
merican is merely a lampblacked Anglo-­Saxon,” and he points to the assimi-
lation of Eu­ro­pean immigrants as evidence that the “American Negro is just
plain American.” Arguing that Black and white Americans of the same socio-
economic class invest in the same material culture and ideologies, Schuyler
asks, “How, then, can the black American be expected to produce art and
lit­er­a­ture dissimilar to that of the white-­American?” Failing to account for
class disparities along racial lines, he concludes that when considering the
cultural production of a conglomerate of esteemed international Black art-
ists, one finds the influence of nation—­not race.29 In many ways, the goals of
Schuyler intersect with t­ hose of Locke. Both seek to debunk racial ste­reo­­types
of the Old Negro, yet Schuyler’s advocacy for assimilation directly contra-
dicts Locke’s espousal of Afrocentrism and primitivism. Moreover, where
Locke turns to ancestral heritage to prove humanness, Schuyler proposes
that national identity, region, and social class debunk ste­reo­types.

Introduction 15
 Just one week ­after Schuyler’s article appeared, Langston Hughes’s “The
Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain” was also published in the Nation. De-
parting from the theorizations of both Locke and Schuyler, Hughes privileges
Black folk culture in a way that suggests an artistic freedom surely informed
by his break from his patron. Hughes repudiates racial assimilation, mourn-
ing the urge by certain Black artists to understand real art as American art and
therefore devoid of any Black aesthetics. He locates the privileging of white
culture and aesthetics within the realm of the Black m ­ iddle class, claiming
that within it, “­there ­will perhaps be more aping of ­things white than in a
less cultured or less wealthy home.” This broad generalization sets up his
argument in praise of the “low-­down folks” who, to use the con­temporary
vernacular, “keep it real.” He praises a Black folk culture that, unlike the
Philadelphia clubwoman, is not ashamed of jazz and Negro spirituals. Paint-
ing Schuyler’s argument as mere “race shame,” he unequivocally rejects the
proposition that ­there is such a ­thing as de-­raced American art. His mani-
festo for younger Black artists, then, is to embrace their blackness, recognize
its beauty, and do so without fear or shame.30
A ­couple of months ­later, the preeminent W. E. B. Du Bois offered his
own Black art manifesto in the October 1926 edition of the Crisis. In what
would ­later be published as an essay at the annual naacp conference in
Chicago celebrating the twelfth recipient of the Spingarn Medal, Car­ter G.
Woodson, Du Bois makes clear that, in his mind, Black politics and art are
inextricably linked. He implies that white U.S. materialism results in the
inability to appreciate Beauty, and he proposes Black youth might help stir
“the beginning of a new appreciation of joy” by tapping into the usable past
Woodson emphasized in his work. By accentuating a history that elicits ra-
cial pride, Du Bois is not echoing Locke’s Afrocentric rootedness for Black
art. Instead, he suggests that if Black Amer­i­ca accepts its “duty” to create,
preserve, and realize Beauty, ­those artists “become the apostle of Truth and
Right.” Art, therefore, is and always must be propaganda, according to Du
Bois: “I stand in utter shamelessness and say that what­ever art I have for
writing has been used always for propaganda for gaining the right of Black
folk to love and enjoy.” Du Bois ultimately calls for an unbound Black artist
who is ­free to debunk white ste­reo­types, as well as to ignore the conservative
politics of a Black public that wishes to distort “Truth.”31
The po­liti­cal manifestos of the Black Arts Movement, the s­ ister move-
ment of the Black Power Movement, register Hughes’s embrace of Black
as beautiful and his rooting of Black artistic production in the “low-­down
folk”; in it, however, t­ here is also a healthy dose of Du Bois’s insistence that

16 Simone C. Drake and Dwan K. Henderson

Black art be produced as truth-­telling propaganda and not simply art for
art’s sake. Amiri Baraka’s 1969 poem “Black Art” defines a Black aesthetic
that goes beyond functioning as a material object or cultural product, de-
manding revolutionary art:

We want “poems that kill”

Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
with tongues pulled out and sent to Ireland.32

Similarly, Nikki Giovanni’s 1967 poem “For Saundra” demands a violent mil-
itancy, questioning the possibility of producing any art that is not po­liti­cal:

so i thought again
and it occurred to me
maybe i ­shouldn’t write
at all
but clean my gun
and check my kerosene supply
perhaps ­these are not poetic
times
at all.33

Poems by artists like Baraka and Giovanni dictated the Black aesthetic,
serving as mini manifestos that, in 1970, found a voice in Gil Scott-Heron’s
spoken-­word per­for­mance “The Revolution ­Will Not Be Televised.” Insisting
that the revolution ­will not be something you watch—­something co-­opted
by the white media and white values even when featuring Black ­people—­but
something that happens in your mind, Heron offered a truncated version of
treatises on the Black aesthetic by Hoyt Fuller in “­Toward a Black Aesthetic”
(1968) and Addison Gayle Jr. in The Black Aesthetic (1971). Fuller, like Baraka
and Heron, locates the streets as a central space for revolt and observes,
“The serious black artist of ­today is at war with the American society as few
have been throughout American history.” He declares in earnest:

Few, I believe, would argue with my assertion that the black artist, due
to his historical position in Amer­i­ca at the pre­sent time, is engaged in a
war with this nation that w­ ill determine the ­future of black art. Likewise,
­there are few among them—­and ­here again this is only conjecture—­who
would disagree with the idea that unique experiences produce unique

Introduction 17
 cultural artifacts, and that art is a product of such cultural experiences. To
push this thesis to its logical conclusion, unique art derived from unique
cultural experiences mandates unique critical tools for evaluation.34

Hughes’s assertion that a par­tic­u­lar experience produces a par­tic­u­lar type of

art resonates loudly.
­After the civil rights era, discourse on the Black aesthetic became
grounded in anti-­essentialist critiques. ­These critiques also began to be more
cognizant of “Black popu­lar culture” as a space in which the Black aesthetic is
produced. The controversial yet seminal essay by Trey Ellis, “The New Black
Aesthetic,” lays the groundwork for a significant shift in how the Black aes-
thetic is defined. Playing on the concept of a racial mulatto, Ellis conceives
of the “cultural mulatto,” Black p ­ eople like himself whose socioeconomic
privilege trou­bles notions of both Black aesthetics and Black authenticity.
His argument, rooted in class and gender privilege, has been the recipient of
much critique, but his intervention in the discourse has been foundational
for millennial discourse on race and cultural production.
Take, for example, Harlem’s Studio Museum director and chief curator
Thelma Golden and visual artist Glenn Ligon coining the expression “post-­
black.” Describing the Studio Museum’s Freestyle (2001) exhibition, the mu-
seum’s website explains how this exhibition of work by a young group of
artists “brought into the public consciousness the concept of ‘post-­black.’ . . . ​
It identified a generation of Black artists who felt f­ree to abandon or con-
front the label of ‘Black artist,’ preferring to be understood as individuals
with complex investigations of blackness in their work. Post-­black art be-
came a transitional stance in the quest to define ongoing changes in African-­
American art; it ultimately became part of the perpetual redefinition of
blackness in con­temporary culture.”35
Golden and Ligon’s application of “post-­black” to a par­tic­u­lar type of
Black art and its subsequent application to Black popu­lar culture is simi-
lar to the use of “post-­soul aesthetic” by the popu­lar culture scholar Mark
Anthony Neal in Soul Babies: Black Popu­lar Culture and the Post-­Soul Aesthetic
(2001). Focusing on film, tele­vi­sion, ­music, and cultural criticism, Neal ex-
plains how he strug­g led to find a language to address the postmodern reali-
ties of African American communities. He selects the concept of “post-­soul
aesthetic” (borrowing from the cultural critic Nelson George) to do that
work, explaining, “In the post-­soul aesthetic, I am surmising that ­there is an
aesthetic center within con­temporary Black popu­lar culture that at vari­ous
moments considers issues like deindustrialization, desegregation, the corporate

18 Simone C. Drake and Dwan K. Henderson

annexation of black popu­lar expression, cyberization in the workforce, the
globalization of finance and communication, the general commodification
of black life and culture, and the proliferation of black ‘meta-­identities,’
while continuously collapsing on modern concepts of blackness and reani-
mating ‘premodern’ (African?) concepts of blackness.”36 Both concepts—­
post-­black and post-­soul aesthetic—­are rooted in a rethinking of modernity
and the production of the concept of blackness.
Stuart Hall’s essay wrestles with the challenges of defining postmodern
blackness and cultural production at the close of the twentieth c­ entury. He
concedes that the signifier “Black” in the term “Black popu­lar culture” de-
notes the Black community—­a space he describes as the locus for archiving
Black strug­g le, the Black aesthetic, and Black counternarratives. However,
he warns that attention must be turned to the diversity of the Black experi-
ence, not its supposed homogeneity.37 Post–­civil rights discourse on Black
popu­lar culture privileges heterogeneous experiences, ideas, and resistant
practices; therefore, it diverges from the preceding cultural movements. A
common framework among all three movements, however, is e­ ither an ex-
plicit assertion that Black artists produce Black cultural products (the New
Negro and the Black Arts Movement) or an implied understanding that it is
Black ­people who produce Black popu­lar culture (post-­Black and post-­soul
aesthetics).
The notion that art is propaganda was and continues to be real, if his-
tory is any indicator. It affects how Black ­people move through the world.
For this reason, it is imperative to develop new models for engaging Black
popu­lar culture and its relationship to power, capitalism, gender identity,
presidential politics, and countless other forces that work to marginalize, de-
humanize, and strip Black ­people of full citizenship—­especially in a nation
that struggles, visibly and vocally, to see them as complex and h ­ uman. In
many ways, the “ ‘Black’ in Black popu­lar culture” that this volume addresses
is au­then­tic repre­sen­ta­tion of the lived experience of blackness in an always
increasingly politicized and commodified U.S. space.
For that reason, Are You Entertained? offers a dynamic, interdisciplinary
analy­sis of con­temporary shifts, trends, and debates in Black popu­lar culture.
The volume is divided into five thematic sections, each composed of analyti-
cal and creative essays and an interview with a scholar who has been influen-
tial in public dialogues on Black popu­lar culture. Part I, “Performing Black-
ness,” explores the creative spaces of cabaret, tele­vi­sion, and radio as theories
of per­for­mance and performativity have become central to the theaters of
Black popu­lar culture. Ralina Joseph proposes that the Obama era created a

Introduction 19
space to position mixed-­race blackness as comedic fodder. She considers how
this trope, intended to be humorous, is reflective of how audiences under-
stand mixed-­race African Americans and the idea of the post-­racial. Emily
Lordi uses the meta­phor of “Black radio” to explore the reason and func-
tion of a recent trend in Black musicians releasing ­albums that thematize
Black radio and position the diverse range of voices, styles, and sometimes
experimentation as odes to ­free(r) airwaves. Vincent Stephens considers how
racializing cabaret as white, or “campy,” excludes African American cabaret
singers from studies of Black popu­lar ­music. Drawing on the dichotomies
of Black/white and straight/queer, Stephens reads the c­ areers of key Black
cabaret singers as constituting Black popu­lar musical production. H. Ike
Okafor-­Newsum pre­sents an analy­sis of the visual art selected for this vol-
ume. Varied in media as well as historicity and focus, the pieces capture not
only links to a Black cultural past but ele­ments that complicate that culture
presently. This section concludes with an interview with Lisa B. Thompson
on theorizing and writing per­for­mance.
­Because Black popu­lar culture is, as Hall aptly states, always a space of
contestation and politicizing, part II, “Politicizing Blackness,” explores ways
in which blackness and popu­lar culture have been deliberately politicized,
for varied public arenas have long served as opportune spaces for disseminat-
ing po­liti­cal ideologies. Kelly Jo Fulkerson-­Dikuaa turns to the journalism
and cartoons of Jackie Ormes to question how media images of Black w ­ omen
and girls operate in fights for racial equality. Moving the Black ­woman from
foil to subject, Fulkerson-­Dikuaa demonstrates how Ormes’s cartoons w ­ ere
about more than protest and po­liti­cal commentary; they also provided an
ave­nue for a Black w ­ oman to harness a form of Black womanhood often
left unexamined in dominant discourses surrounding Black w ­ omen of the
1940s and 1950s. Delving into digital literacies and platforms, Eric Darnell
Pritchard explores video blogs (vlogs) and web series as spaces where Black
queer ­people create, represent, and potentially alter realities. He demon-
strates the limitations and possibilities of ­these specific texts and the digital
sphere to story, witness, and archive diverse repre­sen­ta­tions of Black queer-
ness. David J. Leonard considers the phenomenon of “blerd ballers” and
the intersection of race and masculinity as Black nba players use off-­court
spaces for sartorial protests against racialized dress codes. An interview with
Tracy Sharpley-­Whiting ends this segment and offers insight on how dia-
sporic blackness outside of the United States is consumed.
Part III, “Owning Blackness,” explores the prob­lem of owner­ship that has
plagued Black life in slavery and freedom. Once physical property during

20 Simone C. Drake and Dwan K. Henderson

slavery, upon emancipation, Black p ­ eople found not only their personhood
and ­labor production exploited and consumed but also their creative and
intellectual production. To begin the section, Sheneese Thompson demon-
strates how Black Twitter teeters between humor and plea­sure and outrage
and pain, avowing the blackness that hegemonic society hates. A foray into
the evolution of signifying practices, Thompson’s essay offers Twitter as a
space of owner­ship and identity proclamation. Richard Schur undertakes
a legal-­cultural analy­sis of trademark law to map a debate about trademark
and authenticity in Black popu­lar culture productions. Schur explores the
question of who profits from racial trademarks by bringing hip-­hop studies,
critical race theory, and con­temporary African American art into dialogue.
Turning to dance, Imani Kai Johnson continues the interrogation of owner­
ship and hip hop. She pushes for a movement beyond the language of ap-
propriation and minstrelsy to examine the experiences of Africanist aes-
thetic sensibilities in the absence of Black bodies in breaking (breakdancing)
culture worldwide. What better way of owning blackness than to produce
your own cultural productions. Breaking from the traditional academic
essay, Nina Angela Mercer offers a meditation on Black cultural production
that, with creativity and sharp insight, defines Black ritual theater. Through
prose and poetry tapping out a polyrhythmic beat, Mercer explores how
ritual theater prac­ti­tion­ers build community and define theater as e­ very
day and everywhere t­ here are lives touching other lives. This section closes
with an interview with Mark Anthony Neal, a formidable scholar who laid
much of the groundwork for Black popu­lar culture being a serious field of
academic study.
Part IV, “Loving Blackness,” pays homage to cultural productions that
catalyze a genre of Black love and romance in print and visual culture:
self-­love, the proliferation of Black heterosexual love narratives, and the
stylized emergence of the Black queer love narrative. Takiyah Nur Amin
examines how popu­lar dances that emerge from Black cultural contexts
function as a site for plea­sure, agency, and re­sis­tance. She posits Black popu­
lar dance as a site for meaning-­making and self-­love and considers the con-
tours of embodied epistemology in twerking, the Harlem shake, j-­setting,
and similar movement practices. Simone Drake explores soundscapes, queer
interiority, and Black boyhood in the film Moonlight. She considers how at-
tention to the nuances distinguishing silence and quiet trou­bles heteromas-
culinist coming-­of-­age narratives and how the film’s musical score transports
viewers deep into the interior life of a queer Black boy who says very l­ittle.
Kinohi Nishikawa studies urban fiction’s disturbance of traditional literary

Introduction 21
traditions. Studying both the contradiction of urban fiction emerging ­after
culture wars brought African American lit­er­a­ture into the American lit­er­a­
ture canon and the divergent responses to it, Nishikawa considers the top-
ics and roles of African American ­women in the urban fiction arena. This
section concludes with an extended interview with Patricia Hill Collins, a
trailblazer in interdisciplinary scholarship in Black ­women’s studies.
As a ­whole, Are You Entertained? addresses social and cultural shifts and
changes, considering what “culture” means in the context of a cap­i­tal­ist,
consumer economy. Hall’s question “What is this ‘Black’ in Black popu­lar
culture?” still has relevance, but the culture wars and neonationalist iden-
tity politics that framed Black Popu­lar Culture have given way to postnational
identity formations, individualism, and new ave­nues for expression. Ulti-
mately, Black popu­lar culture is uniquely dif­fer­ent now. We hope that this
volume fulfills our aims: to bring together essays that engage the politics
that created the shifts, as well as the products that have emerged as highly
influential in the construction of a national identity for all U.S. citizens both
at home and around the globe.

Notes

1 Palmer, “How the ‘Billie Jean’ Video Changed mtv.”

2 Palmer, “How the ‘Billie Jean’ Video Changed mtv.”
3 Quoted in White, “ ‘Beloved’ Author Speaks about Writing.”
4 Cashmore, The Black Culture Industry.
5 Hall, “What Is This ‘Black’ in Black Popu­lar Culture?,” 113.
6 See Jacob Bern­stein, “Jay-­Z and Barneys Announce Substantial Changes in Their
Partnership, New York Times, November 18, 2013; and K. C. Orcutt, “Each One,
Teach One: How JAY-­Z Continues to Evolve His Philanthropic Blueprint,” revolt,
February 20, 2019. U ­ nder fire to respond publicly to Barney’s racial profiling in 2012,
Jay-­Z reconfigured his agreement with the clothier, mandating leadership input, a
seat on a council designed to address racial profiling, and proceeds from sales ben-
efitting the Shawn Car­ter Foundation. While the Barney’s episode does highlight
absences in Black popu­lar cultural politics, Jay-­Z cannot be fully dismissed as an
agent of change. His propensity for activist and philanthropist anonymity puts him
at odds with an older generation of activists who believe that the strug­g le should
be lived out loud, often at ­great risk to oneself—­most notably icon Harry Bela-
fonte, who claimed in the August 7, 2012, Hollywood Reporter that Jay-­Z, “like other
high-­profile artists . . . ​had turned his back] on social responsibility.” The perceived
egotism in Jay-­Z’s response, “my presence is charity,” was both acknowledged and

22 Simone C. Drake and Dwan K. Henderson

 regrettable. But, it seems integral in this twenty-­first-­century cultural space to
allow that his “presence” as newly minted billionaire, corporate entity, and brand is
often reformative. His behind-­the-­scenes work and fund­rais­ing is well documented:
for criminal justice reform, college and study abroad scholarships for disadvantaged
youth, bail for blm protesters in Baltimore, and supplies of “millions of pounds
of aid” during Hurricane Maria. While he must negotiate the power of his voice
beyond just spitting rhymes, his positioning underscores the complex relationship
between Black culture makers, money, and cultural change—­particularly when
previously unheard of levels of success and power in the cap­i­tal­ist machine are in
play, and blackness is not monolithic.
7 Palmer, “How the ‘Billie Jean’ Video Changed mtv.”
8 Although it is not addressed fully in this introduction, quarterback Colin Kaeper-
nick’s protest of police brutality by kneeling for the anthem and his ongoing efforts
to use his brand (which only increased in value, visibility, and influence post-­nfl
blackballing and public callout by the president and ­others) has been a catalyst in
the fight for social justice since 2016.
9 Miranda, “Alexander Hamilton.”
10 Quoted in Politi, “The Slatest.”
11 Moten, In the Break, 1.
12 Hartman, Scenes of Subjection, 23.
13 St. Félix, “Beyoncé’s Triumphant Homecoming.”
14 Minsker, “Grammys 2017.”
15 Kendrick Lamar also offers another provocative per­for­mance that reshapes the
popu­lar cultural landscape, opening the 2018 Grammy Awards by performing
“xxx” and other songs from his lp damn, along with the very out­spoken and
sociopo­liti­cally conscious Bono and The Edge of U2. As Dave Chapelle, who served
as a sort of “Greek chorus” in Lamar’s per­for­mance argues, “the only ­thing more
frightening than watching a black man be honest in Amer­i­ca is being an honest
black man in Amer­i­ca. Rumble young man, rumble.” See Madison Vain, “Kendrick
Lamar, Bono, the Edge Open the Grammys with a Fiery ‘xxx’ Per­for­mance,” En-
tertainment Weekly, January 28, 2018, [Link]
-­2018​-­u2​-­kendrick​-­performance/
16 “The 2018 Pulitzer Prize Winner in ­Music,” [Link]
/­kendrick​-­lamar. Note that Lamar also composed and cultivated the soundtrack
for Coogler’s Black Panther.
17 Smith and Anderson, “Appendix a.”
18 Smith and Anderson, “Appendix a.”
19 “Mobile Fact Sheet”; “Internet/Broadband Fact Sheet.”
20 Nadeska, “Issa Rae Talks.”
21 See Laurel Wamsley, “ ‘One Must Re­spect the Game’: French Open Bans Serena
Williams’s Catsuit,” npr​.­org, August 24, 2018. During the French Open, Bernard
Giudicelli, president of the French Tennis Association, targeted Serena Williams’s
attire in an interview with Tennis magazine, although she had given birth in 2017

Introduction 23
 and wore a high-­compression, black catsuit inspired by Black Panther to prevent
blood clots.
22 Harpersbazaarus, “August Cover Reveal.” Instagram photo, July 9, 2019. [Link]
www​.­instagram​.­com​/­p​/­BzssfHDFnFM​/­.
23 During his nba ­career (with the Philadelphia 76ers), Iverson was notorious for
rule breaking (i.e., practicing while hungover, missing team events, disobeying
the league’s dress code) and an unwillingness to follow societal rules. His tattoos,
cornrows, and single-­arm sleeve combined with a rule-­shirking attitude produced a
public persona that many urban youth—­both male and female—­embraced.
24 Twitter (@Twitter), “Top 9 Most Retweeted Tweets of 2017,” Twitter, Decem-
ber 5, 2017. [Link] James was
responding to the president’s rescinding of the Golden State Warriors’ invitation
to the White House ­after they won the 2017 nba Championship (via Twitter).
Although Steph Curry previously indicated that most of the Warriors would not
be ­going as a result of the president’s policies and be­hav­ior, the president’s tweet
was a means of “­saving face” for his rabid base. LeBron James threw shade in
response.
25 uniterrupted, “Kevin Durant x LeBron James x Cari Champion: Rolling with
the Champion.” Uploaded on February 15, 2018. YouTube video, 16:44 min. [Link]
www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=­HtNWc1AIU20&feature​=­youtu​.­be.
26 “LeBron James fires back at Laura Ingraham.” The Boston Globe, February 17, 2018,
[Link]
-­ingraham. And as if her words lit an activist fire in James, in August 2018, Akron
public schools opened the I Promise School with significant funding from James’s
foundation—­a school that aids at-­risk youth, largely ­children of color, guarantees
­free college tuition to gradu­ates, and embraces the lived real­ity that without ­family
education to accompany child education, many at-­risk youth and their families ­will
not break the cycles they traverse. ­Later in November of that same year, James co-­
executive produced a three-part documentary exploring the history of intersections
between the nba and civic responsibility, titled appropriately Shut Up and Dribble
(Showtime).
27 Jefferson, Notes on the State of ­Virginia, chapter 15.
28 Locke, The New Negro, 259, 256, 266–67.
29 Schuyler, “The Negro Art Hokum,” 1172–73.
30 Hughes, “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain,” 1268.
31 Du Bois, “Criteria of Negro Art,” 296.
32 Baraka, “Black Art,” Transbluency, 142–43.
33 Giovanni, “For Saundra,” The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni, 80.
34 Fuller, “Journey toward a Black Aesthetic,” 1872, 1876.
35 “Frequency.”
36 Neal, Soul Babies, 2–3.
37 Hall, “What Is This ‘Black’ in Black Popu­lar Culture?,” 28, 29.

24 Simone C. Drake and Dwan K. Henderson

References

Baraka, Amiri. “Black Art” (1965). Transbluency: The Selected Poetry of Amiri Baraka/
LeRoi Jones (1961–1995). New York: Marsilio, 1995, 142–43.
Bern­stein, Jacob. “Jay-­Z and Barneys Announce Substantial Changes in Their
Partnership.” New York Times, November 18, 2013. [Link]
/­2013​/­11​/­18​/­fashion​/­jay​-­z​-­and​-­barneys​-­announce​-­substantial​-­changes​-­in​-­their​
-­partnership​.­html.
Browne, Rembert. “Donald Glover’s Community: The Comic Turns His Eye to His
Hometown—­and Black Amer­i­ca—in Atlanta.” Vulture, August 23, 2016. [Link]
www​.­vulture​.­com​/­2016​/­08​/­donald​-­glover​-­atlanta​.­html.
Cashmore, Ellis. The Black Culture Industry. New York: Routledge, 1997.
Demby, Gene. “Harry Belafonte, Jay Z, and Intergenerational Beef.” npr, July 30,
2013. [Link]
-­belafonte​-­jay​-­z​-­and​-­inter​-­generational​-­beef.
Du Bois, W. E. B. “Criteria of Negro Art.” The Crisis, 32 (October 1926): 290–97.
Duggan, Maeve. “The Demographics of Social Media Users.” Pew Research Center,
­August 19, 2015. [Link]
-­social​-­media​-­users​/­.
“Frequency.” Studio Museum Harlem. N.d. [Link]
/­exhibition​/­frequency.
Fuller, Hoyt. “Journey toward a Black Aesthetic.” PhD diss., University of Mas-
sachusetts, Amherst, 2011.
Giovanni, Nikki. “For Saundra” (1966). The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni:
1968–1998. New York: William Morrow, 2003, 80.
Hall, Stuart. “What Is This ‘Black’ in Black Popu­lar Culture?” Social Justice, 20,
no. 1–2 (spring 1993): 104–15.
Harpersbazaarus. “August Cover Reveal.” Instagram photo, July 9, 2019. [Link]
www​.­instagram​.­com​/­p​/­BzssfHDFnFM/
Hartman, Saidiya V. Scenes of Subjection: Terror, Slavery, and Self-­Making in Nineteenth
­Century Amer­i­ca. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997.
Hughes, Langston. “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain.” The Nation, 122
(June 23, 1926): 692–94.
“Internet/Broadband Fact Sheet.” Pew Research Center, February 5, 2018. [Link]
www​.­pewinternet​.­org​/­fact​-­sheet​/­internet​-­broadband​/­.
LeBron James Fires Back at Laura Ingraham.” The Boston Globe, February 17, 2018.
[Link]
-­ingraham.
Locke, Alain, ed. The New Negro (1925). New York: Atheneum, 1992.
Minsker, Evan. “Grammys 2017: Beyoncé’s ‘­Daddy Lessons’ Rejected by Country
Committee.” Pitchfork, December 8, 2016. [Link]
-­grammys​-­2017​-­beyonces​-­daddy​-­lessons​-­rejected​-­by​-­country​-­committee​/­.
Miranda, Lin-­Manuel. “Alexander Hamilton.” Hamilton: An American Musical. New
York: Atlantic, 2015.

Introduction 25
 “Mobile Fact Sheet.” Pew Research Center, February 5, 2018. [Link]
.­pewinternet​.­org​/­fact​-­sheet​/­mobile​/­.
Moten, Fred. In the Break: The Aesthetics of the Black Radical Tradition. Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 2003.
Nadeska, Alexis. “Issa Rae Talks ‘Insecure’ Season 2, Old tv Execs ­Dying Off, and
Life Goals.” Complex, July 23, 2017. [Link]
-­rae​-­interview​-­2017​-­cover​-­story.
Neal, Mark Anthony. Soul Babies: Black Popu­lar Culture and the Post-­Soul Aesthetic.
New York: Routledge, 2001.
Palmer, Tamara. “How the ‘Billie Jean’ Video Changed mtv.” The Root, March 10,
2013. [Link]
-­1790895543.
Politi, Daniel. “The Slatest: Watch Hamilton Cast Deliver Message to Mike Pence:
‘Uphold Our American Values.’ ” Slate, November 19, 2016. [Link]
.­com​/­blogs​/­the​_­slatest​/­2016​/­11​/­19​/­watch​_­hamilton​_­cast​_­deliver​_­message​_­to​
_­mike​_­pence​_­uphold​_­our​_­american​_­values​.­html.
Pulitzer Foundation. “The 2018 Pulitzer Prize Winner in ­Music.” [Link]
.­pulitzer​.­org​/­winners​/­kendrick​-­lamar
Schuyler, George S. “The Negro Art Hokum.” The Nation, 122 (June 16, 1926):
662–63.
Smith, Aaron. “Detailed Demographic ­Tables.” Pew Research Center, January 6,
2014. [Link]
Smith, Aaron, and Monica Anderson. “Appendix a: Detailed ­Table.” Pew Research
Center, March 1, 2018. [Link]
-­use​-­2018​-­appendix​-­a​-­detailed​-­table​/­.
St. Félix, Doreen. “Beyoncé’s Triumphant Homecoming at Coachella.” New Yorker,
April 16, 2018. [Link]
-­triumphant​-­homecoming​-­at​-­coachella.
Twitter (@Twitter). “Top 9 Most Retweeted Tweets of 2017.” Twitter, December 5,
2017. [Link]
UNINTERRUPTED. “Kevin Durant x LeBron James x Cari Champion: Rolling with
the Champion.” Uploaded on February 15, 2018, 16:44 min. YouTube. [Link]
www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=­HtNWc1AIU20&feature​=­youtu​.­be.
Waddell, Ray. “Beyonce’s Formation Tour Sold over 2 Million Tickets and Made
over $250 Million.” Billboard, October 14, 2016. [Link]
/­articles​/­business​/­7541993​/­beyonce​-­formation​-­tour​-­2​-­million​-­tickets​-­250​
-­million​-­dollars.
Wamsley, Laurel. “ ‘One Must Re­spect the Game’: French Open Bans Serena
Williams’s Catsuit.”
Catsuit.” NPR​.­org, August 24, 2018. [Link]
-­must​-­respect​-­the​-­game​-­french​-­open​-­bans​-­serena​-­williams​-­catsuit.
White, Dan. “ ‘Beloved’ Author Speaks about Writing, Revelations, and Good and
Evil.” uc Santa Cruz Newscenter, October 22, 2014. [Link]
/­10​/­rev​-­fall​-­14​-­beloved​-­author​.­html.

26 Simone C. Drake and Dwan K. Henderson

I. PERFORMING
BLACKNESS
This page intentionally left blank
CH.1 “MUTTS LIKE ME” / MIXED- ­RACE JOKES
AND POST-­RACIAL REJECTION IN THE
OBAMA ERA

Ralina L. Joseph

In November 2008, the halcyon days of the first Black

president-­elect, euphoria swept many progressive and liberal enclaves of the
United States. For perhaps the first time in his impending presidency, Barack
Obama let the entire country glimpse his then-­well-­guarded sense of humor.
In his very first presidential press conference, flanked by his vice president,
chief of staff, and other se­nior advisors (see figure 1.1), Obama fielded a re-
porter’s question: “I’m wondering what y­ ou’re ­doing to get ready?” A­ fter the
president-­elect delineated a laundry list that included consulting with for-
mer presidents and choosing a school for his d ­ aughters, the reporter asked
a follow-up question: “Every­one wants to know what kind of dog you want
to buy for your girls.” Obama smiled genially, looked down, and responded
with a reverential tone:
FIG.1.1 ​More serious moments at Obama’s first press conference. Source: Getty Images,
USA 2008 Presidential Election: President-elect Obama’s First Press Conference,
accessed August 21, 2017. [Link]
barack-­obama-­holds-­his-­first-­press-­news-­photo/534289284?#president-­elect-­barack-­
obama-­holds-­his-­first-­press-­conference-­in-­picture-­id534289284.

With re­spect to the dog, this is a major issue. I think it’s generated more
interest on our website than just about anything. We have two criteria
that have to be reconciled. One is that Malia is allergic, so it has to be
hyper-­allergenic. ­There are a number of breeds that are hyper-­allergenic.
On the other hand our preference would be to get a shelter dog. But obvi-
ously a lot of shelter dogs are mutts like me [my emphasis]. So ­whether we
are ­going to be able to balance ­those two ­things is a pressing issue on the
Obama ­house­hold.1

When Obama straight-­faced but winkingly referred to himself as a “mutt,”

he ushered in some much-­needed levity to the dawn of his presidency and to
a then l­ittle joked-­about but highly debated topic: Barack Obama’s mixed-­
race African American background. In his first election campaign, the press
framed Obama as ­either African American or mixed-­race but never both Af-
rican American and mixed-­race. I use the cumbersome but inclusive phrase
“mixed-­race African American” to buck such either/or dichotomization and

30 Ralina L. Joseph
FIG.1.2 ​Obama enlightens and delights the ladies of The View. Source: Wikimedia,
accessed August 21, 2017, [Link]
_­Obama​_­guests​_­on​_­The​_­View​.­jpg.

stake a claim for mixedness in blackness and blackness in mixedness, a move

I believe twenty-­first-­century mixed-­race African American figures such as
Obama make through such “mutts like me” moments.2
Obama’s joke reclaimed a racialized slur, the misfit animal created by
crossing two “pure breeds.” Nearly two years l­ater, Obama applied a simi-
lar word not just to multiracial folks of African descent but to all African
Americans. On the daytime talk show The View he commented, “The in­ter­
est­ing ­thing about the African-­American experience in this country is that
we are sort of a mongrel p ­ eople. I mean w
­ e’re all kinds of mixed-up” (see fig-
ure 1.2). He continued, “Now that’s actually true for white Amer­i­ca as well,
but we just know more about [black folks being mixed].”3 On the one hand,
by asserting mixture further into whiteness, Obama blasphemously sullied
an assumed-­to-­be-­pure entity; on the other hand, he neutralized the poten-
tially threatening nature of racial mixture by inserting it into whiteness.
By reclaiming terms such as “mutt” and its closely related cousin “mon-
grel” as “us” terms for Black ­people, ­whether multiracially or monoracially
identified, and even tucking whites u ­ nder the Black American rubric of his-
torical mixture, Obama ensured that t­hese words would fail to stay hurtful

“Mutts Like Me” 31

“them” epithets. This remained the case even as they continued to be hurled
at Obama via anonymous missives online; it was even so in the face of celeb-
rity attacks such as when the aging rocker and rabid Republican Ted Nu-
gent described the president at a January 2014 gun expo in Las Vegas as a
“communist-­raised, communist-­educated, communist-­nurtured, subhuman
mongrel.”4 “Mongrel,” while perhaps more scientific ­sounding and certainly
more vitriolic in tone than the colloquial and lovable “mutt,” is the histori-
cal term used by defenders of enslavement for mixed-­race African Ameri-
cans and by eugenicists for Jews in Nazi Germany.5 Obama’s use of t­ hese two
words showed a simultaneous embrace of his mixedness and blackness as an
effort to cast race as a still central, and not post-­racial, issue.
In this essay I examine how the Obama era ushered in a certain brand of
masculine, mixed-­race, African American humor perhaps best performed by
Obama and two famous comedic impersonators, Keegan-­Michael Key and
Jordan Peele. This utterly twenty-­first-­century iteration of mixed-­race Af-
rican Americanness represented by Obama, Key, and Peele knits together
blackness with mixed-­race (and vice versa) for a complicated, fluid, and
inclusive conception of mixed-­race blackness for two ultimate purposes:
a rejection of hegemonic, troublesome, and ultimately false ideas that the
United States is now post-­racial, and an assertion that mixed-­race blackness
must be understood as one of the many iterations of what it means to be
African American.

Mixed-­Race (Black), Not Post-­Racial (American)

Obama’s joke set the stage for other comics to ­gently rib the president. For
example, at Obama’s first White House Correspondents’ Dinner, in 2009,
Wanda Sykes jokingly suggested that Obama’s being a “mulatto” compli-
cated other African Americans’ claiming him as “the first black President.”6
While the term “mutt” might appear to be solely about Obama’s assumed
racialized biology—as if race and biology w ­ ere actually paired anywhere out-
side of spurious science—­that biology also complicated perceptions of his
po­liti­cal and personal allegiances. Where did his loyalties lie, as a sellout mu-
latto or as a down-­for-­the-­cause race man? Throughout his two presidential
terms, Obama exhaustingly answered the question of racial identification—­
not least by disclosing that he checked “Black, African Am., or Negro” on
the 2010 census and did not choose to “mark one or more.” 7 Obama’s results
for his litmus test of au­then­tic blackness w
­ ere still up for debate, however, in
many circles throughout his presidency.

32 Ralina L. Joseph
 With Obama, “mixed” (not paired with African American) was not de-
ployed in the popu­lar press as a mere description of ­family lineage. It was a
Rorschach test of racial allegiance. Not coincidentally, as Obama ascended
to presidential heights in 2008, so did two race words: post-­race and mixed-­
race. Obama’s “mutts like me” joke occurred at the moment in which much
of the country was still grappling with the question of ­whether he identi-
fied as (in that very narrow formulation) mixed-­race or (not and) Black. At
this same moment, Catherine Squires points out, the word “post-­race” was
peaking in public discourse, and the media iterated an ­imagined “multiracial
Amer­i­ca,” not the least embodied by our new president as the magical means
to achieve a “post-­racial” state.8 While popu­lar discourses link ­these terms,
race scholars and critics refute the connection. The artist and activist Louie
Gong puts it best: “Mixed race i­sn’t post-­race. It’s not less race. It’s more
race. . . . ​In order to dialog about mixed race, we need more understanding.
It’s not a dialog to forget about issues of race.”9
Understanding mixed-­race as more race, or what Greg Car­ter describes
as “an abundance of race,” provides us with an opportunity to engage with
the structuring and multiple ideologies of racialization. We can then reject,
again, in Car­ter’s words, “racelessness, color-­blindness, or post-­raciality” and
instead form “a racial identity [as] a preliminary step ­towards antiracist ac-
tivity.”10 In a similar vein, Michele Elam explains, “Mixed race prompts us to
consider that race, too, is an image that is never perceived as ‘one t­ hing’ or
the possession of just one person. Rather, mixed race functions as a relation
among ­things and ­people.”11 What Car­ter and Elam suggest in the burgeon-
ing field of critical mixed-­race studies is that mixed-­race does not have to
be the way out of discussions of race but can be a way deeper into them.
Extrapolated further, Obama’s “mutt” and “mongrel” references provide us
with a path ­toward each other; being “purebred,” the mythical state available
to only a select few, ­isn’t offered as even a rhetorical possibility.
Yet, unlike Obama’s frame, the media often situates mixed-­race African
American figures away from larger African American communities by de-
scribing them as exceptional or pathological. This is precisely the separa-
tion Obama refused with his “mongrel” comment on The View and what
Sika Dagbovie-­Mullins calls “black sentient mixed-­race identity . . . ​[that]
intimates a mixed-­race subjectivity that includes a par­tic­u­lar awareness
of the world, a perception rooted in blackness.”12 The isolation of mixed-­
race figures in media works against a “black sentient mixed-­race identity”
through the conflation of mixed-­race and post-­race and through efforts to
excise blackness from mixedness. Popu­lar discourse offers that mixing races

“Mutts Like Me” 33

makes them diminish, become irrelevant, or even dis­appear as they descend
into this strange prefix, “the post.” The idea of being a­ fter, being away from,
being released from race circulates through ideas on racial mixing as the
media posit the browning of Amer­i­ca as the answer to our racial ills.
One strain of post-­racial logic pre­sents the notion that mixing, and in par­
tic­u­lar mixing blackness and whiteness, the two far-­flung poles on our social
distance scales, cancels out real (read: monoracial) races and all of the en-
trenched racial histories that accompany perceived monoraciality. B ­ ecause,
as Brandi Catanese notes, “twenty-­first ­century social graces dictate that
reference to race always be issued sotto voce, so as not to cause any undue dis-
comfort,” race is treated as “the unruly chin hair on the face of an other­wise
unblemished Amer­i­ca: only bad manners would compel anyone to bring it
up, and the politest among us ­will instead do ­others the ­favor of not men-
tioning a ­thing that can only cause embarrassment, discomfort, or shame.”13
What is shaming for white Americans, or what ­causes what Robin DiAngelo
calls “white fragility” or the inability to deal with race-­based stress, is that
racial difference equates to racial disparity, and that one’s racialized privilege
operates in direct relation to another’s racialized oppression.14
However, in the popu­lar U.S. imagination, mixture remains untethered
from racial disparity; it becomes a way out of the race talk. In other words,
instead of mixed-­race providing an opportunity to deal with the realities
of structural racism, as critical mixed-­race studies scholars enjoin us, it be-
comes the i­ magined panacea to all race ills. Mixed-­race creates a blank slate
akin to “the post,” two new beginnings for race—­the dawn that arises ­after
the postapocalyptic racial explosion. LeiLani Nishime asserts, “Multiracial
­people [are invoked] as an emerging racial category to argue that they act as
a stepping-­stone to a race-­free ­future.”15 Thus the pain of racial wounds is
magically healed by the salve of mixed-­race without the infection of racism
ever being treated. This false and dangerous idea is not, as David Ikard puts
it, “a radical shift in racial thinking but rather an updated version of white
supremacist ideology.”16
Obama’s “mutt” and “mongrel” references refuted such post-­ racial
“white supremacist ideology” in the manner in which ­these terms are very
much attached to primordial, old-­school notions of mixed-­race. He took an
old ste­reo­type and robbed it of its power by reclaiming it. In his first presi-
dential election campaign, Obama’s mixed-­race African Americanness en-
abled both overtly racist images of him as an ape, thug, or terrorist, as well
as post-­racial, inferentially racist images of him as messiah, whites’ “black
best friend,” or a mythical creature.17 However, Obama’s public negotiation

34 Ralina L. Joseph
of his mixed-­race African Americanness did not migrate into post-­racial
territory even as he benefited from the association between mixed-­race and
post-­race. In the first election campaign, he rhetorically transcended his
blackness by dropping a mixed-­race joke or reference to his white ­family’s
Kansas roots, thereby assuring mainstream accessibility. At the same time,
he consistently signified on his blackness, maintaining allegiance to African
American audiences.
Obama’s public naming of his whiteness and claiming of his blackness was
consistent with his joking embrace of his mixedness. Our forty-­fourth presi-
dent managed to exhibit a racial fluidity with racial narratives that became
familiar and even comfortable ­because of his per­for­mance of a mixed-­race
African American masculinity that sutured together blackness and mixed-
ness.18 Obama’s public race negotiation enabled an African American mixed-­
race form of what Catanese deems “transgression,” which acknowledges “the
histories of social location that ­people wear on their bodies and inform all
of our interpretive frameworks.”19 The lesson for audiences remains that
certain per­for­mances of mixed-­race African Americanness can indeed be
power­ful rejections of post-­racialism. While Obama is not the sole architect
of such a per­for­mance, his enactment of it has brought discourses of anti-­
post-­racialism and mixed-­race African American masculinity to the public
sphere in a more mainstream manner than ever before.

Key and Peele

Obama’s rise to fame set the stage for the ascension of two mixed-­race Afri-
can American comics, Keegan-­Michael Key and Jordan Peele. Unlike mixed-­
race stars of past de­cades such as Vin Diesel, who coyly avoided disclosing
their racial makeup, the comics have freely shared their biographies with
the press, noting that they both have a white ­mother and a Black ­father.20
­Because the most famous person in the world shared a racial background
with the two comics, the time was right for their biographies to become a
part of their public image. Peele notes that in their pitch for their show, one
line that made the network president’s “eyes light up” was his sharing that,
“­because of Obama, ­people are realizing that ­there’s this mixed community
that has a very in­ter­est­ing perspective.”21 Like Obama, both comics are regu-
larly called ­either but not both Black or mixed-­race in the press fairly inter-
changeably. ­After the two costarred on the sketch-­comedy tele­vi­sion show
madtv, they began hosting their own highly successful sketch-­comedy series
Key & Peele (2012–15) on the cable tele­vi­sion network Comedy Central.22

“Mutts Like Me” 35

FIG.1.3 ​Key and Peele as President Obama and his anger translator Luther. Source:
Jennifer Konerman, “Watch Key and Peele’s Farewell Address as Obama and His ‘Anger
Translator,’ Luther,” Billboard, January 6, 2017, [Link]
news/7647624/key-­and-­peele-­farewell-­address-­as-­obama-­anger-­translator-­luther.

Both on and off the show, Key and Peele freely played with ste­reo­types about
their own mixed-­race blackness, both literally (in exaggerated versions of
themselves during on-­stage bits between skits) and meta­phor­ically (in charac-
ters like Obama and Luther, his “anger translator,” who said all that controlled,
straight-­laced Obama could not; see figure 1.3).
The duo have become darlings of the critics as well, described by Emily
Nussbaum in the New Yorker as “the best, most transgressive comics [who]
treat ­human be­hav­ior as a form of drag, shape-­shifting with aggressive
fluidity.” The critic added, “Key and Peele’s biracialism is central to their
comedy. . . . ​It is expansive, not constricting, a Golden Ticket to themes
rarely explored on tele­vi­sion.”23 A racialized “look” d
­ idn’t ­matter in Key and
Peele’s racialized formulation; while Key would read to many audiences as
more racially ambiguous and Peele as unambiguously African American,
their explicit mixed-­race African American race talk expansively claimed
both of their phenotypes as authentically mixed-­race and African American.
If Obama’s “mutt” joking was reclaiming an old stereotype—­putting it front

36 Ralina L. Joseph
 and center in developing an ultimately transgressive, anti-­post-­racial ethos—­
Key and Peele’s mixed-­race African American jokes skewered the very idea
of the post-­racial and made all aspects of mixed-­race African American mas-
culinity available for comedic fodder.

“It Literally ­Doesn’t Get Any More Impartial Than That”

Key and Peele played up their mixed-­race blackness most explic­itly not in
the sketches on their show Key & Peele but when they played versions of
themselves outside of the sketches. To kick off the beginning of their third
season, in November 2013, Key and Peele ­were guests on Comedy Central’s
The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.24 In addition to joining Stewart at the desk,
as is traditional for his guests, the two participated in a segment befitting
their sketch-­comedy background, “Racist or Not Racist.” They w ­ ere joined
by a panel of The Daily Show contributors: the African American Jessica
Williams (whose race is underscored by her satirical title, “ju­nior black
correspondent”), the South Asian American Aasif Mandvi (underscored as
“se­nior Asian” and “se­nior ­Middle Eastern correspondent”), and the white
Jason Jones (whose whiteness is certainly played with in this skit, but not
in the same way as for the correspondents of color; for example, never in
the show is Jones—or any of the white contributors, for that ­matter—­called
“white correspondent”).
In this bit, Stewart skewered the flatness of cable news networks’ report-
ing on stories pertaining to race and how the rush to label a person or action
as “racist” shuts down conversation, much less complex analy­sis. Stewart
presented dif­fer­ent media stories, the first being an early elementary school-­
age white boy dressing up as a Ku Klux Klan member for Halloween. Stewart
asked the panelists to weigh in on ­whether they believed the story to be
“racist” or “not racist.” The capital letters on the cards accentuate the
emphatic nature of any proclamation: t­ here are no grays in assessments of
racism. For this par­tic­u­lar case, both Williams and Mandvi vehemently
flipped their “racist” cards, whereas a smiling, clueless Jones flipped his
to “adorable.” For another racialized incident both Williams and Man-
dvi flipped to “racist,” while Jones flipped his card to “creative” (see fig-
ure 1.4). This satire played with notions of post-­racialism and, in par­tic­u­lar,
one of post-­racialism’s offshoots, so-­called reverse discrimination. The cards
could be read as rhetorical iterations of “race cards,” conversation halters be-
lieved to be thrown down by sensitive or delusional ­people of color to claim
victim status. But this was not exactly what was happening ­here.

“Mutts Like Me” 37

FIG.1.4 ​Playing the “race cards.” Source: “Racist or Not Racist?,” The Daily Show with Jon
Stewart, November 13, 2013, [Link]
-­jon​-­stewart​-­racist​-­or​-­not​-­racist​-­.

Jones’s frustration mounted as he saw the disconnect between his re-

sponses and t­ hose of the two p ­ eople of color flanking him; he sputtered, “It
would be nice if we could get some impartial judges h ­ ere.” With that line,
Key and Peele sauntered onto stage. Jones, eyes wide, voice high and stut-
tering, balked, “Jon, t­ hey’re, ­they’re, ­they’re not impartial.” Key responded,
“What are you talking about, w ­ e’re both mixed-­race,” and Peele tag-­teamed,
“It literally d
­ oesn’t get any more impartial than that.” Jones stammered
further, “­You’re both, ­you’re both—” to which Key and Peele exclaimed,
“Whoa, whoa, whoa right t­here, racist right t­here, racist.” The comics
teased out the notion that they would silence their so-­called biased black-
ness and spotlight their impartial mixed-­race. This move played against
some viewers’ visual understandings of race. According to U.S. racial lit-
eracy, Key and Peele do not pass for white. Their blackness (or, in the case
of Key, nonwhiteness) is vis­i­ble—­despite their claims to mixed-­race—­and so
it has to be their “real race.” But the audience was not allowed to read black-
ness monolithically or monoracially ­because of the comics’ highlighting of
their mixed-­race.
Read through the white male auteur lens of The Daily Show, Jones, the
scapegoat white guy, could not iterate a racialized label for the two mixed-­
race African American men before getting cut off and labeled racist. This
was the true post-­racial move; as Eduardo Bonilla-­Silva argues, the confused

38 Ralina L. Joseph
logic of post-­racialism—or what he deems colorblind racism—­suggests that
real racism comes through the mere naming of race and from white claims
of discrimination.25 The Daily Show’s parody of post-­racialism, then, surged
when Jones suggested that he was the genuine casualty.
To continue, Stewart gave the duo the story they w ­ ere instructed to weigh
in about: “A Washington Post columnist named Richard Cohen . . . ​recently
defended the Tea Party against charges of racism by suggesting that the
country is just changing faster than they can adapt, which he phrased thusly,
‘­People with conventional views must repress a gag reflex when consider-
ing [Bill de Blasio] the mayor-­elect of New York—­a white man married to a
black ­woman and with two biracial c­ hildren.’ ” The two initially responded,
as the audience was set up to expect, in just the same way as Williams and
Mandvi: with ­people of color primordialism, they chose their “natu­ral” sides.
Key scoffed, “That guy is straight-up racist.” Peele seconded his sentiment:
“Oh yeah. He is a volcano of hate.” But the show flipped the audience’s as-
sumptions of racial loyalty. A ­ fter a long beat Peele continued, “Against white
­people.” Key added, “He’s giving white p ­ eople no credit.” Peele tag-­teamed,
“Basically he’s saying, hey, y­ ou’ve got to cut the Tea Party some slack b­ ecause
they ­can’t think straight ­because ­they’re trying too hard not to vomit when
they see a black guy with a white girl.”
This bit flipped the audience’s racial assumptions. With the card set up,
they w ­ ere primed to believe that Key and Peele would go with their visibly
raced—­that is, Black—­sides. But the two did not fall into racialized assump-
tions. They toyed with notions of assumed partiality and the role of racial
loyalty, or rather what racial fluidity meant in the Obama era, in a world
with a mixed-­race Black president. While primordial racialism and post-­race
attempted to delimit the repre­sen­ta­tional space, Key and Peele broke out
of it and, in d­ oing so, pushed the ideological bound­aries of post-­racialism.
Interestingly, they scripted themselves into the de Blasio bit, flipping the
white man–­Black ­woman pairing to a “black guy with a white girl,” their
own parental configurations and romantic pairings with white ­women.
This skit was part of their comedic bag of tricks where Black men w ­ ere
just as likely to do cosplay befitting a Re­nais­sance fair as they ­were to be foot-
ball players named Javaris Jamar Javarison-­Lamar or African American survi-
vors of a zombie apocalypse in which the racist zombies refused to eat Black
­people. Their mixed-­race African American characters included a teenage
boy who fretted over what he described as the diminutive Halloween candy
“fun size” bar of his “white penis,” due to the fact that he was not monora-
cially Black, as his friend had read him, but “biracial. All the white went

“Mutts Like Me” 39

straight to my penis.”26 Key and Peele regularly outed themselves as mixed-­
race in their biographical bits between sketches and examined how issues
of Black authenticity entered into their lives. But they ­didn’t isolate issues
like “hav[ing] to adjust our blackness” as mixed-­race prob­lems. Instead, they
skewered their “white talk,” or how “we sound whiter than the black dude in
the college a capella group” and how “we sound whiter than Mitt Romney in
a snowstorm” for all “white-­sounding black guys” regardless of their identi-
fying as mixed-­race. Such significations of allegedly inauthentic blackness,
of how “you gotta dial [blackness] up a bit” ­because “you never want to be
the whitest-­sounding black guy in a room,” ­were not the sole purview of
mixed-­race African Americans.27 In all of t­ hese messy negotiations, Key and
Peele ­were unabashedly African American and mixed-­race, and their black-
ness and mixed-­ness, their “white talk” and “black adjustment” served to
illustrate the vast diversity of what it means to be both African American
and mixed-­race.
Key and Peele’s mixed-­race blackness was performed in codes where it
enabled their racialized fluidity and skewering of racialized ste­reo­types; such
coding also allowed the comics to flip (and in ­doing so, occasionally perform)
controlling images of all African Americans. But when their multiraciality
was made explicit, as it was on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, they scoffed
at the conflation of mixed-­race and post-­race. Post-­race became a comedic
enabling device to explic­itly connect mixedness and blackness and to return
to, rather than run away from, race. In the Obama era, mixed-­race offered
performers like Key and Peele, and even our forty-­fourth president himself,
the opportunity to negotiate with and through post-­racialism without being
trapped in its ideological prison.

Conclusion

Michael Omi and Howard Winant’s theory of racial formation tells us

that race is i­magined, but it’s not imaginary; just b­ ecause it’s constructed
­doesn’t mean we d ­ on’t live it.28 Or, in the words of Stuart Hall, identities are
not “armor-­plated against other identities” and “are not tied to fixed, perma-
nent, unalterable oppositions.” Instead, identities are “historically specific”
and a “set of practices.”29 Hall is explicating a contradiction about race that
is also a truism. We believe racial differences. We see them. We hear them.
We even sense them. Repre­sen­ta­tions act as our barometer of and guide for
popu­lar sentiment; examining them illuminates the degree to which race is
attached to—­and untethered from—­its primordial roots.

40 Ralina L. Joseph
 Mixed-­race African American jokes, ­whether told by our president or by
the comedians Key and Peele, are neither “racial” nor “post-­racial” in and
of themselves. The jokes move to the (post)racial realm with the question of
­audience. Audiences of all racial stripes chuckled together in a race conscious
and not post-racial fashion, albeit perhaps uncomfortably, during Obama’s
press conference. In other words, audiences can laugh ­because mixed-­race
African American men remind us about the continued significance of race
while providing us with the permission to simply laugh at our nation’s great-
est strug­gle: race. We can joke together while reclaiming the “mutt” or
“mongrel” slurs, ­whether or not they have ever been applied to us, but we
cannot forget why we are laughing. The materiality of race comes up too
often in jokes by and about mixed-­race African Americans for the end-­game
to be post-­raciality. Our birth rates, our death rates, our education, health
care, mortgages—­all are racialized. None are post. One can only flip or re-
claim a ste­reo­type if that controlling image still holds weight—it ­can’t be
neutral. Obama’s “mutt” joke, while contingent upon flipping old-­school no-
tions of race, activates post-­racialism to slyly reference racism in the pro­cess
of reclaiming racial ste­reo­types and prompting all of us to laugh together.
Seeing the play and the parody with which mixed-­race blackness is repre-
sented provided audiences with an accessible and playful model for how to
reject post-­racial ideology in what now feels like the long-­ago moment of the
Barack Obama era.

Notes

A preliminary version of this paper, “Does ‘Mixed’ Mean ‘Post-­Race’?: An Examina-

tion of 21st ­Century Media Repre­sen­ta­tions of African American Multiraciality,”
was shared on February 27, 2014, at Macalester College as the keynote talk for the
Mixed-­Race Amer­i­ca: Identities and Culture conference.

1 TwoEyesX, “Obama Prefers ‘Mutt Like Me.’ ”

2 I use the terms “African American” and “Black” and the terms “mixed race” and
“multiracial” interchangeably.
3 Youngman, “President Obama Calls African-­Americans a ‘Mongrel ­People.’ ”
4 Barabak, “Ted Nugent Apologizes, Somewhat.”
5 Scales-­Trent, “Racial Purity Laws,” 273–74.
6 I discuss this par­tic­u­lar joke in Transcending Blackness, 8–9.
7 Roberts and Baker, “Asked to Declare His Race.” See also Williams, Mark One or More.
8 Squires, The Post-­Racial Mystique, 25.

“Mutts Like Me” 41

 9 Quoted in Kina and Dariotis, War Baby/Love Child, 17.
10 Car­ter, The United States of the United Races, 227.
11 Elam, The Souls of Mixed Folk, 161.
12 Dagbovie-­Mullins, Crossing B(l)ack, 2.
13 Catanese, The Prob­lem of the Color(blind), 5.
14 DiAngelo, “White Fragility,” 54.
15 Nishime, Undercover Asian, 2.
16 Ikard, Blinded by the Whites, 8.
17 I argue this in my article “Imagining Obama.”
18 In my book Postracial Re­sis­tance: Black ­Women, Media, and the Uses of Strategic Ambiguity
(2018), I argue that Michelle Obama is actually a queen of the type of strategically
ambiguous posturing that her husband enacts ­here as racial fluidity.
19 Catanese, The Prob­lem of the Color(blind), 22.
20 See Nishime, Undercover Asian; and Car­ter, The United States of the United Races.
21 Weiner, “Comedy Central in the Post-­tv Era.”
22 Siek, “ ‘Key & Peele.’ ”
23 Nussbaum, “Color Commentary.”
24 “Racist or Not Racist.”
25 Bonilla-­Silva, Racism without Racists.
26 Comedy Central, “Key & Peele: Mixed Wiener.”
27 Comedy Central, “Key & Peele: White-­Sounding Black Guys.”
28 Omi and Winant, Racial Formation.
29 Hall, “Subjects in History,” 292.

References

Barabak, Mark Z. “Ted Nugent Apologizes, Somewhat, for Calling Obama a

­‘Mongrel.’ ” Seattle Times, February 22, 2014.
Bonilla-­Silva, Eduardo. Racism without Racists: Color-­Blind Racism and the Per­sis­tence of
Racial In­equality in Amer­i­ca. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2013.
Car­ter, Greg. The United States of the United Races: A Utopian History of Racial Mixing.
New York: New York University Press, 2013.
Catanese, Brandi Wilkins. The Prob­lem of the Color(blind): Racial Transgression and the
Politics of Black Per­for­mance. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2011.
Comedy Central. “Key & Peele: Mixed Wiener.” YouTube, October 17, 2012. [Link]
www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=­klSM0AwjXJs.
Comedy Central. “Key & Peele: White-­Sounding Black Guys.” YouTube, January 31,
2012. [Link]
Dagbovie-­Mullins, Sika A. Crossing B(l)ack: Mixed-­Race Identity in Modern American
Fiction and Culture. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 2013.
DiAngelo, Robin. “White Fragility.” International Journal of Critical Pedagogy 3, no. 3
(2011): 54–70.

42 Ralina L. Joseph
Elam, Michele. The Souls of Mixed Folk: Race, Politics, and Aesthetics in the New Millen-
nium. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2011.
Hall, Stuart. “Subjects in History: Making Diasporic Identities.” In The House That
Race Built, edited by Waheema Lubiano. New York: Vintage Books, 1998.
Ikard, David. Blinded by the Whites: Why Race Still ­Matters in 21st-­Century Amer­i­ca.
Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2013.
Joseph, Ralina L. “Imagining Obama: Reading Overtly and Inferentially Racist
­Images of Our 44th President, 2007–2008.” Communication Studies 62, no. 4
(2011): 389–405.
Joseph, Ralina L. Postracial Re­sis­tance: Black ­Women, Media, and the Uses of Strategic
Ambiguity. New York: New York University Press, 2018.
Joseph, Ralina L. Transcending Blackness: From the New Millennium Mulatta to the Excep-
tional Multiracial. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2013.
Kina, Laura, and Wei Ming Dariotis, eds. War Baby/Love Child: Mixed Race Asian
American Art. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2013.
Nishime, LeiLani. Undercover Asian: Multiracial Asian Americans in Visual Culture.
Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2014.
Nussbaum, Emily. “Color Commentary: The Shape-­Shifting Masterminds of ‘Key
and Peele.’ ” New Yorker, September 23, 2013. [Link]
/­critics​/­television​/­2013​/­09​/­30​/­130930crte​_­television​_­nussbaum​?­currentPage​=­all.
Omi, Michael, and Howard Winant. Racial Formation in the United States: From the
1960s to the 1980s. New York: Routledge, 2014.
“Racist or Not Racist.” The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, November 13, 2013. [Link]
www​.­cc​.­com​/­video​-­clips​/­2jhh5v​/­the​-­daily​-­show​-­with​-­jon​-­stewart​-­racist​-­or​-­not​
-­racist​-­.
Roberts, Sam, and Peter Baker. “Asked to Declare His Race, Obama Checks ‘Black.’ ”
New York Times, April 2, 2010. [Link]
/­03census​.­html​?­​_­r​=­0.
Scales-­Trent, Judy. “Racial Purity Laws in the United States and Nazi Germany:
The Targeting Pro­cess.” ­Human Rights Quarterly 23, no. 2 (2001): 260–307.
Siek, Stephanie. “ ‘Key & Peele’: The Color of Funny.” CNN, February 24, 2012.
[Link]
Squires, Catherine. The Post-­Racial Mystique: Media and Race in the Twenty-­First
­Century. New York: New York University Press, 2014.
TwoEyesX. “Obama Prefers ‘Mutt Like Me’ [First Press Conference].” YouTube, No-
vember 7, 2008. [Link] uHn6ydl6TM&feature​
=­related#t​=­01m34.
Weiner, Jonah. “Comedy Central in the Post-­tv Era.” New York Times Magazine,
June 18, 2015. [Link]
-­in​-­the​-­post​-­tv​-­era​.­html​?­​_­r​=0
­ .
Williams, Kim M. Mark One or More: Civil Rights in Multiracial Amer­i­ca. Ann Arbor:
University of Michigan Press, 2008.
Youngman, Sam. “President Obama Calls African-­Americans a ‘Mongrel ­People.’ ”
The Hill, July 29, 2010. [Link]
-­obama​-­calls​-­african​-­americans​-­a​-­mongrel​-­people​-­.

“Mutts Like Me” 43

CH.2 BLACK RADIO / ROBERT GLASPER,
ESPERANZA SPALDING, AND
JANELLE MONÁE

Emily J. Lordi

This is not a ­great moment for U.S. radio. Streamlined and

corporatized since the 1996 Telecommunications Act, radio stations have
been displaced by new listening technologies like MP3s and streaming sys-
tems like Spotify.1 Black-­oriented stations, which since the mid-1970s have
been driven more by “preprogrammed formats” than by djs, are rendered
invisible by Billboard metrics that consistently show white artists topping the
r&b/Hip-­Hop chart.2 And on the am side of the dial, National Public Radio
canceled its one program aimed at African American listeners, Tell Me More,
in spring of 2014.
It was therefore especially curious that, between 2012 and 2013, a period
that might generously be called the twilight of American radio, three young
and critically acclaimed African American musicians released four guest-­
star-­studded radio-­themed ­albums. The jazz pianist Robert Glasper and
his quartet, the Robert Glasper Experiment, released his a­ lbum Black Radio
in the winter of 2012 and won the Grammy for Best r&b ­Album that year.
The jazz bassist Esperanza Spalding’s Radio ­Music Society appeared just one
month l­ater, following on the heels of Spalding’s own Grammy Award for
Best New Artist in 2011.3 The musical polymath and sci-fi wiz Janelle Monáe
released her radio-­centric Electric Lady in September 2013. And Glasper’s se-
quel ­album, Black Radio 2, appeared the following month. Despite their sa-
lient differences, Glasper, Spalding, and Monáe all share commitments to
virtuosic musicianship, collaboration, and historically Black musical forms.
I suggest that all three artists engage radio as a means and meta­phor through
which to explore tradition and innovation and to recalibrate their relation-
ship to an ­imagined audience and industry. A detailed analy­sis of their “radio
­albums,” from cover art to sound production, reveals how t­ hese leading Af-
rican American artists are redefining Black m ­ usic while negotiating their
ambitions for musical excellence, popu­lar appeal, and commercial success in
the twenty-­first ­century.
Why radio, and especially Black radio, now? We might begin by noting
the crucial role Black radio outlets have historically played as what William
Barlow calls “the ‘talking drums’ of their respective communities”—­sources
not only of ­music but also of other­wise inaccessible information about poli-
tics, fashion, sports, arts, and culture. A crucial space for community debate
and mobilization, especially during the long civil rights movement, Black
radio has been “a major force in constructing and sustaining an African
American public sphere.”4 This role has been increasingly hard to sustain in
our own era of massive corporate consolidation, but it nonetheless shapes
Glasper’s, Spalding’s, and Monáe’s work. All born between 1978 and 1985,
­these artists came of age just before the 1996 Telecom Act resulted in the
consolidation that now allows Clear Channel to control over one thousand
radio stations, while Radio One—­one of the few black-­owned stations to sur-
vive and thrive in an era of deregulation—­dominates the “urban market.”5
Their resultant relationship to radio suggests a more specific way of peri-
odizing Black musical production in what Mark Anthony Neal and o­ thers
have called the “post-­soul” era.6 While Neal’s work in the early 2000s was
concerned with artists born ­after the formal civil rights movement (­after
1968), Glasper, Spalding, and Monáe also indicate what is unique about art-
ists born in the late-1970s, ­after the Telecom Act: they invoke Black radio
partly in order to express nostalgia for and renewed commitment to the pre-
1996 model of musically and eco­nom­ically ­free(r) airwaves. For instance, in
2012 Spalding explained her concept for Radio ­Music Society by describing her

Black Radio 45
formative experience of hearing a variety of ­music on the radio as child, an
experience she wanted to evoke for her listeners.7 While African American
artists and intellectuals have critiqued corporate control of black radio at
least since Nelson George lamented “the death of rhythm & blues” in 1988,
­these emerging artists respond to this phenomenon in specific and ingenious
ways: their radio ­albums expand perceived bound­aries of black ­music, re-
centralize and hail black radio, and revise the ­album as a form of collective
compensation for musicians of color.8 Black ­women musicians’ work with
this concept additionally regenders the male-­dominated medium of radio,
as I explain in more detail below.
All three proj­ects display the expansiveness of black ­music by curating a
diverse array of guest artists and styles, which they pre­sent as part of a dj’s
cohesive play­list. What Neal writes of Glasper’s Black Radio applies as well
to Spalding’s and Monáe’s work: “The genius of [his] new recording is its
willingness to expand the range of what we consider Black ­music and what
Black radio might consider as appropriate for Black or so-­called ‘Urban’ au-
diences.”9 In addition, by centralizing and revaluing black radio as a spe-
cific site with its own values and history, ­these artists can be seen to contest
industry metrics that render black radio invisible. As opposed to “the old,
black-­radio-­driven system” by which Billboard mea­sured sales and airplay
at black m ­ usic–­oriented rec­ord stores and radio stations, Chris Molanphy
explains, the system launched in 2012 tracks undifferentiated digital sales
and multiformat radio airplay of songs the com­pany decides are r&b or hip
hop.10 Consequently, the r&b/Hip-­Hop Chart loses its subcultural specific-
ity and overrepresents white artists. In this context, black radio–­themed
­albums are not only representative of but also representing for black radio, as
well as the black artists and a core fan base that the industry ignores.
Glasper’s, Spalding’s, and Monáe’s evocation of black radio is symbolic
but also pragmatic: it signals their aspirations to actually get on the radio.11
Their ­albums aim to critique and reform the system whereby, as Yasiin Bey
(formerly Mos Def ) sings on Glasper’s title track, quoting Chuck D, “radio—­
suckas never play me.”12 In 1988, Chuck D was addressing black radio in
par­tic­u­lar, and while Glasper, Spalding, and Monáe have all expressed their
desire to cross over from the jazz or r&b margins to a broader audience
that we might associate with adult con­temporary or Top 40 radio formats,
black radio is also a key target for their work.13 Nearly all the guest vocal-
ists on Glasper’s a­ lbums, from Ledisi to Musiq Soulchild and Brandy, are
­those whose ­careers have been sustained by con­temporary r&b radio and
black listeners—­much as that audience once sustained Parliament, Teddy

46 Emily J. Lordi
 Pendergrass, and Anita Baker. Lalah Hathaway’s cover of Sade’s “Cherish
the Day” on Black Radio is one reminder of this history, as it pertains to
Sade’s own success; Monáe’s decision to feature Prince on her lead single
“q.u.e.e.n.” is another.14
Even if ­these ­albums do not result in singles that get radio play, the ­albums
themselves constitute an innovation too power­ful to be called a “plan b.” In
the midst of the single-­download system, ­these artists use the theme of radio
to revive the concept ­album and ask that all guest artists get paid—­and not
only for their work on the ­album but also for their own solo work, which
­these radio a­ lbums might prompt listeners to buy. In short, the radio ­album
is a unique format through which post–­Telecom Act African American art-
ists pre­sent a unified vision of musical diversity that privileges artistic col-
laboration and collective compensation.

“Lift Off”: Radios, Boomboxes, and Floating Studios

The first track of Glasper’s Black Radio, “Lift Off,” conjures an ethereal sonic
space, half–­radio station/half–­floating recording studio. As is the case with
the other lead tracks I w
­ ill discuss, the form and production of this first song
teaches us how to listen to the a­ lbum as a w ­ hole. “Lift Off ” opens with the
Golden Age of Soul Radio dj patter that artists have used to introduce their
­albums since Jimi Hendrix’s Axis Bold as Love (1967) and Parliament’s Mother-
ship Connection (1975):

Coming to your mind

live and direct from the ethers
now it’s all in your speakers,
down to your sneakers.”15

The surround-­sound production, which seems best suited for privatized lis-
tening through headphone “speakers,” ultimately places the listener in the
midst of a recording studio. The ­album’s guest artists do a simultaneous mic
check in which certain voices come through distinctly. This kaleidoscopic
mix, the sonic counterpart to the cover image that fragments Glasper’s face
into several panels, serves myriad functions. First, it emphasizes the art-
ists’ musicianship and professionalism: Erykah Badu warms up with vocal
exercises, Yasiin Bey asks for more sound in his left ear, and Glasper plays
scales. In addition to evoking the “high art” setting of a chamber ­music
per­for­mance, the warm-­ups also serve to highlight the fact that the Robert
Glasper Experiment recorded all tracks live in the studio.16 But the layered

Black Radio 47
composition additionally makes the logistically impossible suggestion that
all the guest artists ­were in the studio at the same time, recording on dif­fer­
ent tracks or coming in through dif­fer­ent stations. This is the fantasy of the
­album as radio.
What this radio a­ lbum ­will do, the production implies, is prize both live
acoustic instrumentation and electronic manipulation. Glasper’s piano oc-
cupies the lowest part of the mix, which includes the warm male voice of
Shafiq Husayn in the m ­ iddle range and, at the top, a synthesized piano-­voice
admixture in which a vocoded voice sings a melody mimicking and contra-
puntally interacting with Glasper’s piano line. While the use of synthesiz-
ers in jazz and r&b initially aroused widespread anx­i­eties about inhuman
“coldness,” with this introduction Glasper stakes his place in a generation
of listeners raised on the synthesized sounds of the 1970s and 1980s—­those
who have paradoxically “grown used to connecting machines and funkiness,”
in Andrew Goodwin’s terms.17 Thanks to artists like Stevie Won­der, whom
Glasper channels through a cover version of “Jesus ­Children of Amer­i­ca”
(1973) and who “tapped into [synthesizers’] obscured potential as ­human em-
pathizers,” the Moog synthesizer now evokes the sound of soul and funk and
the bodily experience of dance.18
Thanks to West Coast hip-­hop producers such as Dr. Dre, it also connotes
the physical sensations created by car audio technology.19 The evocation of
Dr. Dre reveals a more con­temporary reference point for Glasper’s mix of
high-­pitched synthesizer and live instrumentation.20 Describing the spatial
aspects of hop-­hip production, Justin Williams writes, “Dr. Dre’s interest in
synthesizers may be influenced by a nostalgia for funk ­music, a fascination
with ­earlier technologies, or his general feeling that they are ‘warmer’ than
sound sampled from a rec­ord. While any attempt to locate his exact rea-
soning would be speculative, the timbres of synthesized sounds are strik-
ingly compatible with car audio technology and the driving experience.”21
In Glasper’s track, the radio dj patter and the synthesized voice evoke the
mobile listening environment of the car, while the live instrumentation and
the staging of the recording studio si­mul­ta­neously evoke a stationary space.
The production thus asks us to imagine a floating or flying studio. “Lift Off ”
takes the traditional space of the recording studio and flies it ­toward an un-
known ­future.
Next is Erykah Badu’s version of “Afro Blue.” Composed by the Cuban
American artist Mongo Santamaria in 1959, set to lyr­ics by Oscar Brown Jr.,
and covered by Abbey Lincoln before being recorded by John Coltrane in 1963,
“Afro Blue” embodies the dense, international network that characterizes

48 Emily J. Lordi
the history of jazz. The tracks that follow Badu’s showcase such undersung
or emerging talents as Ledisi, King, and Chrisette Michele, before clos-
ing with Bilal’s cover of David Bowie’s “Letter to Hermione” and Meshell
Ndegeocello’s cover of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” If ­these artists,
like t­ hose featured on Black Radio 2, “­aren’t heard much on ‘urban’ radio,”
according to npr, “the point is that they [should] be.”22 Glasper’s taste-­
making proj­ect becomes clear in a dialogue staged at the a­ lbum’s midpoint
(“Gonna Be Alright”) in which he and his friends agree that “­people are
just so brainwashed” that they c­ an’t tell good from bad m ­ usic anymore.23
The Black Radio proj­ect is motivated as much by their desire to reach new
fans as by a condescending urge to save them from their own ignorance, as
induced by corporate radio. Therein lies the final meaning of black radio
that Glasper invokes: the one destruction-­proof archive on an aircraft that
is, as Yasiin Bey sings, “built to last.” As Glasper explains it, “When ­music
is crashing around us, when you hear the same five songs on the radio that
­aren’t ­really saying much, we can always go back to g­ reat ­music. ­Great
­music always lives on.”24
Whereas Glasper wants his ­music to replace what is currently on the
radio, Spalding seeks to cultivate a taste for her m ­ usic in addition to what
­people might already (justifiably) like. Thus, for Spalding, the radio is less
archive than broadcasting system. Released by Heads Up International in
March 2012, Radio M ­ usic Society was designed to ­ride the exposure Spalding
received with her Best New Artist Grammy win and to distribute that ex-
posure to o­ thers. In fact, she noted, “I want to take a lot of the players that
I know that are ­really phenomenal jazz musicians right now, put them in
­these songs, and format it in a way that ­will end up on the radio without
compromising the soul and the core of improvised m ­ usic.”25 Like Glasper’s,
her ­album features a mix of originals and covers, as well as what All ­Music
calls “truckloads of players” from across generations: Q-­Tip helps produce
some tracks; jazz veterans like Terri Lyne Carrington and Jack DeJohnette
play drums; and emerging singers such as Gretchen Parlato and Algebra
Blessett contribute vocals.26 Still, as Nate Chinen writes, Spalding is “front
and center at ­every turn.”27
Her emphasis on exposure or access reflects Gabriel Rossman’s conten-
tion that, despite radio’s decline since the 1990s, radio still plays a crucial
role in alerting listeners to new ­music and thus in driving rec­ord sales.28
As Spalding told npr, “The benefit of the radio is, something beyond your
realm of knowledge can surprise you, can enter your realm of knowledge.”29
Whereas Glasper’s collaborations with hip hop and r&b artists aim to make

Black Radio 49
jazz more aesthetically accessible—he tells npr that “the ­music is ­going to die
if you ­don’t tap into something that ­people ­today can relate to”30—­Spalding
views jazz accessibility in more pragmatic or logistical terms. She explains,
“[Radio ­Music Society] stems from my concern about the accessibility of jazz,
just how ­people can access it. If you ­don’t already know about jazz ­music,
how would you be exposed?”31 By implying that innovation and mass appeal
are compatible concepts, Spalding conveys an inviting trust and re­spect for
her ­imagined listening community.
This is true of the self-­reflexive opening track, “Radio Song,” which
shrewdly expresses Spalding’s desire to reach listeners where they are—to
acquaint jazz novices with song structure and experimental variation—as
well as a playful refusal to bend to the demands of corporate radio. The
video for the song features everyday p ­ eople listening in via transistor
and car radios and singing as they perform janitorial work or deal with
rush-­hour traffic. In this sense, the song seeks to shape its own f­ uture: it
is about how much ­people ­will enjoy listening to it on the radio. At the
same time, Spalding’s evocation of radio play is a joke; clocking in at six-­
and-­a-­half minutes, “Radio Song” is twice the length of a radio-­formatted
song. What’s more, aside from its consistent dynamics and looped refrain,
the song does not possess characteristics of car-­oriented pop production
such as synthesizers and heavy bass.32 Thus we might say that Spalding
revises listener-­friendliness as a function of repetition rather than brevity:
her song is long ­because it is designed to teach the listener how to sing
along with it.
If Glasper’s opening track engages the tradition/experimentation nexus
through production, Spalding’s does so through composition. “Radio Song”
opens with a repeated mellow “la la” that introduces Spalding’s smooth con-
tralto sound and establishes the song’s layered harmonies and syncopated
groove.33 From ­here, Spalding sings two verses and a chorus that both musi-
cally and lyrically resolve the prob­lem the verses outline:

Right now you need it,

driving yourself through the hard times,
traffic ­won’t speed up
so you turn the radio on. . . .

Well somehow he feels it

And the dj at the station
sends sweet salvation
when he starts to play this song:

50 Emily J. Lordi
 Now you ­can’t help singing along,
even though you never heard it, you keep singing it wrong!
This song ­will keep you grooving (keep traffic movin’)
Played to lift your spirits (soon as you hear it)
Words are speakin’ to you (as if they knew you)
Ooh, this song’s the one!

The chorus is looped so that Spalding’s lyrical statement that you “­can’t
help singing along” is couched in a musical structure that helps keep you
from “singing it wrong.” Aiming to familiarize the listener with the song
while also opening her to innovation, Spalding creates a song about move-
ment that keeps moving. She gives the listener a playful heads up—­“and then
they start mixing it up!”—­before launching into a b-­section that features a
saxophone solo and wordy vocal runs. At the three-­and-­a-­half-­minute mark,
she cuts back to the intro, and just as the song seems about to end, she re-
vives it so that, soon enough, “­Here comes the part you know!” She then
repeats the chorus three times, features the piano in an improvised third
section, and reprises the chorus in counterpoint to a funky vocal hook that
takes us out into the fadeout. While the possibility of ending the song at
the midpoint suggests that it could work as a radio single, Spalding’s deci-
sion to double it bespeaks both a desire to meet listeners where they are (to
teach them the song) and a desire to reform the radio system from within.
In short, Spalding makes a point musically that Glasper makes rhetorically:
this ­music should be on the radio, w
­ hether or not it is likely to be heard t­ here.
Spalding’s claim to authority in this domain has raced and gendered im-
plications. The cover of Radio ­Music Society, which shows her seated atop a
­giant boom box, regenders the male-­dominated medium of radio, both as
broadcasting system and as mobile device. Stationed at the helm of her
radio/world, Spalding is in control of her ­music and, in “Radio Song,” of the
airwaves. Her cover art also regenders the image of Radio Raheem, the char-
acter who lays a sonic claim to the urban landscape of Spike Lee’s Do the Right
­Thing through his boom box broadcast of Public ­Enemy’s “Fight the Power.”
Thus, at a moment when the mobile audio technology of the boom box has
been displaced by laptops and iPhones, Spalding’s use of this “vintage” tech-
nology signals a means of building community and of marking one’s space
within it. As Gaye Theresa Johnson writes, “Sonic expressions of spatial en-
titlement constitute some of the most eloquent articulations of the right to
space.”34 And Spalding’s ­album iconography reminds us that, as Alexander
Weheliye writes, “black and Latino youth have been early adopters of ‘street

Black Radio 51
technologies,’ especially portable ­music players such as the boom box and
Walkman”—­and, ­today, the mobile phone—­that allow users “to occupy pub-
lic space.”35 The ­giant Afro she sports on her cover marks her space as cultur-
ally black, even as her defiant posture suggests that m ­ usic is her own means
of “fighting the powers” of colonization in general and the corporatization
of radio in par­tic­u­lar.
Like Spalding and Glasper, Monáe collaborates with a diverse range of
musicians—­both her Atlanta-­based collective, the Wondaland Arts Society,
and her guest artists—to figure radio as a site of plurality and multiplicity.
But while her ­album Electric Lady in some ways anticipates the radio play of
its own singles, it also considers the expressive and ideological limitations
of radio as a public medium. The ­album features several interludes at the
­imagined radio station 105.5 wdrd (an acronym suggesting multiple mean-
ings, including “word,” “wired,” and “weird”). ­These skits preface Monáe’s
songs just as they might on ­actual radio. Indeed, the first skit on the ­album
precedes her most radio-­ready song, a standard verse-­chorus-­verse seduction
duet with Miguel called “Prime Time.” In this sense, the ­album reveals not
only the fantastical aspects of Monáe’s futurism but also the material, practi-
cal ways in which she aims to shape the ­future of her own work.
She also aims to shape the ­future of r&b. Whereas Glasper speaks of sav-
ing jazz by working with r&b and hip-­hop artists, Monáe seeks to revive
r&b. She tells Carrie Battan of Pitchfork that “somewhere along the way, r&b
got lost—­gatekeepers have recycled sounds . . . ​musicianship has declined.”36
In this 2013 interview, she expressed her ambition to “make one of the
greatest r&b a­ lbums of this year” and to “[get] g­ reat ­music on the radio.”37
The three singles she has released—­“q.u.e.e.n.,” “Dance Apocalyptic,” and
“Prime Time”—­did not chart, although the ­album debuted at number five
on the Billboard 200 chart.
Electric Lady itself stages a more ambivalent relationship to radio than
Monáe’s comments suggest. The a­ lbum’s orchestral overture, which fuses a
surf-­music guitar riff with Ennio Morricone’s spaghetti western sound à la
Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction (1994), is a far cry from a pop single.38 Like
Glasper’s introduction, Monáe’s symphonic sound echoes the orchestral
opening of her 2010 ­album, The ArchAndroid, and signals a chamber ­music
standard of musicianship. But it offers a quite dif­fer­ent sonic vision of “the
West.” If Glasper’s live-­and-­synthesized production pays homage to Dr. Dre’s
West Coast car culture, Monáe’s evocation of Morricone and surf ­music con-
jures a vision of the West as open sea and plain. Her sonic allusion to the
cinematic western sets the scene for the entrance of the Stagger Lee–­style

52 Emily J. Lordi
outlaw, the role Monáe plays in the opening rock track “Givin ’Em What
They Love.”39 Steeped in the musical and cinematic past—­Monáe’s front and
back ­album covers evoke French New Wave film, Star Wars, and Michael
Jackson’s Captain eo—­the ­album is initially geared more ­toward film than
radio. Yet the a­ lbum’s production also recognizes radio as well as newer mo-
bile technologies. “Prime Time” and the final track, “What an Experience,”
recall 1980s pop radio hits while also anticipating playback through laptops
or smartphones. Exploiting synthesizers and drum machines, including
the TR-808’s ability to simulate tinny handclaps, both tracks reflect what
Wayne Marshall calls the “trebly zeitgeist” of popu­lar ­music geared ­toward
mobile listening devices.40
If Monáe’s skits court radio play, as I have said, they also de-­romanticize
radio as a site of communal transmission. Not only is the radio station a
male space run by the funky “dj Crash Crash” and shared by his ostensibly
male cohort, but the call-in program he hosts also elicits violent, homopho-
bic comments that reveal the threat of public airwaves. On the ironically
titled “Our Favorite Fugitive,” one caller declares herself “disgusted” by (fu-
gitive) androids like Monáe’s alter ego, Cyndi Mayweather; another sneers
that “robot love is queer!,” to which the dj offers an unsatisfying rejoinder
by wondering “how you would know it’s queer . . . ​if you ­haven’t tried it.”
Through such moments, Monáe exposes the heterosexist discourse sus-
tained in the male-­dominated radio space.
The ­album as a ­whole resists this patriarchal, homophobic space both
musically and collaboratively. Monáe shares the spotlight with other black
­women artists, collaborating with Spalding on “Dorothy Dandridge Eyes”
and with Badu on “q.u.e.e.n.” Both songs express same-­sex desire and cele-
brate female beauty. Indeed, Electric Lady makes more space for black female
(homo)sexual desire than do Monáe’s other ­albums—­and far more than does
corporate radio. Although “Prime Time” is one of the a­ lbum’s least in­ter­est­
ing tracks, the sensual per­for­mance marks a break from Monáe’s own asex-
ual android mold. In this re­spect, Monáe expands the range of per­for­mance
choices available to black w ­ omen artists, ­whether or not they end up on the
radio. Her per­for­mance of desire also attunes us to Lalah Hathaway’s sensual
cover of “Cherish the Day,” as well as Spalding’s seduction song, “Kissed &
Crowned”: “Lay your burdens down, ­don’t make a sound, ­don’t worry about
a ­thing, I’m ­here to love you.” T
­ hose listeners who wished to hear more ex-
plicit expressions of black female desire in mainstream pop would have to
wait for the December 2013 release of beyoncé—­although that is a subject
for another day.

Black Radio 53
Conclusion: Sovereign Souls

Black radio has been figured as a repository for cultural memory at least since
the Commodores’ 1985 hit “Nightshift” elegized Jackie Wilson and Marvin
Gaye. The musicians I have analyzed h ­ ere, however, signal new modes of
imagining radio as a cultural force. By staging their ­albums as radio broad-
casts, Glasper, Spalding, and Monáe expand the contours of black ­music,
express their commitment to black radio and desire for radio play, privilege
group compensation, and make the ­album do the work that American listen-
ers once expected of radio: introducing them to a broad range of voices and
styles.41
Glasper, Spalding, and Monáe, as “post-­Telecom babies” whose ­albums
explic­itly thematize radio at threshold ­career moments when they navigate
or approach popu­lar mainstream success, most clearly (and surprisingly)
exploit the waning medium of radio as a model for revitalizing the ­album
format and redistributing their own growing consumer base. But ­these three
artists’ vision of the album-­as-­radio is representative, not exceptional. Their
radio ­albums also illuminate the aesthetic and economic politics of other,
similarly diverse and curatorial ­albums. Recent ­albums that host several
musicians and producers of color include Faith Evans’s Grammy-­nominated
Divas (Prolific/E1, 2012); Meshell Ndegeocello’s Nina Simone tribute, Pour
une Âme Souveraine (For a Sovereign Soul; Naïve, 2012); Bruno Mars’s Unorth-
odox Jukebox (Atlantic, 2012); and Mariah Carey’s Me. I Am Mariah . . . ​The Elu-
sive Chanteuse (Def Jam, 2014). ­Whether working with in­de­pen­dent or major
labels, ­these artists make the ­album function in ways that evoke the radio
they grew up hearing. While their musical diversity expands the bound­aries
of “race ­music,” their reconstitution of the ­album as a source of collective
promotion and compensation also reflects a model of black economic na-
tionalism for the twenty-­first-­century culture industry.

Notes

1 Rossman, Climbing the Charts, 92.

2 George, The Death of Rhythm & Blues, 130; Molanphy, “I Know You Got Soul.”
3 Given that Black Radio Society is Spalding’s fourth studio ­album, her designation as a
“new artist” is subjective, not to say ironic.
4 Barlow, Voice Over, 294, xi.
5 For more on this phenomenon see Rose, The Hip Hop Wars, 18–19; Rossman, Climb-
ing the Charts, 15; Barlow, Voice Over, 262.

54 Emily J. Lordi
 6 Neal, Soul Babies.
7 Esperanza Spalding, emp Pop Conference Keynote, New York University,
March 22, 2012. Both Mark Anthony Neal and Guthrie Ramsey describe this
mid-­twentieth-­century experience of black radio in their respective analyses of
Glapser’s first ­album. See Ramsey, “The Power of Suggestion”; Neal, “Liberating
‘Black Radio.’ ”
8 George, The Death of Rhythm & Blues, 167.
9 Neal, “Liberating ‘Black Radio.’ ”
10 Molanphy, “I Know You Got Soul.”
11 Although ­these artists’ ­albums have sold relatively well, singles from ­those
­albums seldom charted in the United States. Exceptions are Glasper’s “Ah Yeah,”
which spent several weeks on Adult r&b and Hot r&b-­Hip-­Hop charts, and
Spalding’s cover of Michael Jackson’s “­Can’t Help It,” which charted on Smooth
Jazz stations. Glasper’s cover of “Afro-­Blue” spent seven weeks on the Japan Hot
100 list.
12 Robert Glasper Experiment feat. Yasiin Bey, “Black Radio,” Black Radio (Blue Note,
2012); Public ­Enemy, “Rebel without a Pause,” It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us
Back (Def Jam/Columbia, 1988).
13 Battan, “Mind Control,” calls The Electric Lady “Monáe’s boldest bid for pop super-
stardom to date.”
14 See Molanphy’s conclusion to “I Know You Got Soul.”
15 The introduction to Bilal’s debut ­album, First Born Second (Interscope, 2001), is
another intertext h ­ ere, especially as Bilal and Glasper are longtime collaborators.
16 Nakiska, “Robert Glasper and the New Jazz Age.”
17 Quoted in Williams, Rhymin’ and Stealin’, 85.
18 Lundy, Songs in the Key of Life, 51–52. For more on Won­der and the synthesizer, see
76–82.
19 For a discussion of technological expressiveness in con­temporary r&b ­music, see
Weheliye, “Rhythms of Relation.”
20 Williams, Rhymin’ and Stealin’, 82.
21 Williams, Rhymin’ and Stealin’, 86.
22 “Robert Glasper Experiment: Tiny Desk Concert.”
23 Black Radio 2 contains a similar preachy interlude by Michael Eric Dyson, who
bemoans the loss of “black individuality” and thanks God that “­we’ve still got musi-
cians and thinkers whose obsession with excellence and whose hunger for greatness
remind us that we should all be unsatisfied with mimicking the popu­lar, rather
than mining the fertile veins of creativity that God placed deep inside each of us”
(“I Stand Alone,” Black Radio 2 [Blue Note, 2013]).
24 “Robert Glasper: A Unified Field Theory.” The ­album’s liner notes by Angelika
Beener stress this meaning, as Glasper does in several interviews.
25 In “Who Is Esperanza Spalding?” Vozick-­Levinson writes, “The Grammys exposure
should help Spalding with her next proj­ect, a more mainstream-­oriented ­album
called Radio ­Music Society.”

Black Radio 55
26 Thom Jurek review of Radio ­Music Society, AllMusic​.­com.
27 Chinen, “Rookie of the Year.” Spalding also comments on the tendency of the press
to isolate her as a star, apart from her collaborators, in this story.
28 Rossman, Climbing the Charts, 22–23.
29 “Esperanza Spalding: Jazz as ‘Radio ­Music.’ ”
30 “Robert Glasper: A Unified Field Theory.” See also Nakiska, “Robert Glasper and
the New Jazz Age.”
31 “Robert Glasper: A Unified Field Theory.” See too Spalding’s remarks to Chinen in
“The Rookie of the Year.”
32 See Suzanne Smith on Motown and automotive listening, quoted in Williams,
Rhymin’ and Stealin’, 79.
33 Spalding, “Radio Song,” Radio ­Music Society (Heads Up International, 2012).
34 Johnson, Spaces of Conflict, 85.
35 Weheliye, “Rhythms of Relation,” 362.
36 Battan, “Mind Control.”
37 Battan, “Mind Control.”
38 This and all other tracks cited are from Janelle Monáe, The Electric Lady (Wonda-
land Arts Society/Bad Boy, 2013).
39 For a more detailed reading of this track and ­others on the ­album, see Lordi, “Calling
All Stars.”
40 Marshall, “Treble Culture,” 63.
41 The obvious drawback to refiguring the ­album rather than reforming radio is that
­albums (if legally downloaded) are not ­free. Still, file-­sharing does allow ­music to
move beyond the single consumer—­and in this case to move entire ­albums, rather
than the singles that would be broadcast on radio.

References

Barlow, William. Voice Over: The Making of Black Radio. Philadelphia: ­Temple Univer-
sity Press, 1999.
Battan, Carrie. “Mind Control.” Pitchfork, September 4, 2013.
Chinen, Nate. “The Rookie of the Year, One Year Wiser.” New York Times, March 16,
2012.
“Esperanza Spalding: Jazz as ‘Radio ­Music.’ ” npr​.­org, March 17, 2012.
George, Nelson. The Death of Rhythm & Blues. New York: Penguin, 1988.
Johnson, Gaye Theresa. Spaces of Conflict, Sounds of Solidarity: ­Music, Race, and
­Spatial Entitlement in Los Angeles. Berkeley: University of California Press,
2013.
Lordi, Emily J. “Calling All Stars: Janelle Monáe’s Black Feminist ­Futures.” Feminist
Wire, September 25, 2013.
Lundy, Zeth. Songs in the Key of Life. New York: Continuum, 2007.

56 Emily J. Lordi
Marshall, Wayne. “Treble Culture.” In Oxford Handbook of Mobile ­Music Studies, vol.
2, edited by Sumanth Gopinath and Jason Stanyek. New York: Oxford Univer-
sity Press, 2014.
Molanphy, Chris. “I Know You Got Soul: The Trou­ble with Billboard’s r&b/Hip-­
Hop Chart.” Pitchfork, April 14, 2014.
Nakiska, Tempe. “Robert Glasper and the New Jazz Age.” Interview, October 31, 2013.
Neal, Mark Anthony. “Liberating ‘Black Radio’: The Robert Glasper Experiment.”
New Black Man (in Exile), March 6, 2012.
Neal, Mark Anthony. Soul Babies: Black Popu­lar Culture and the Post-­Soul Aesthetic.
New York: Routledge, 2001.
Ramsey, Guthrie. “The Power of Suggestion/The Plea­sure of Groove: Robert Glasp-
er’s Post-­Genre Black Radio Proj­ect, Part 3.” Musiqology, February 22, 2012.
“Robert Glasper: A Unified Field Theory for Black ­Music.” npr​.­org, February 24,
2012.
“Robert Glasper Experiment: Tiny Desk Concert.” npr​.­org, January 20, 2014.
Rose, Tricia. The Hip Hop Wars. New York: Basic/Civitas, 2008.
Rossman, Gabriel. Climbing the Charts: What Radio Airplay Tells Us about the Diffusion
of Innovation. Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2012.
Vozick-­Levinson, Simon. “Who Is Esperanza Spalding?” Entertainment Weekly,
December 3, 2010.
Weheliye, Alexander. “Rhythms of Relation: Black Popu­lar ­Music and Mobile
Technologies.” In The Oxford Handbook of Mobile ­Music Studies, vol. 2, edited by
Sumanth Gopinath and Jason Stanyek. New York: Oxford University Press,
2014.
Williams, Justin A. Rhymin’ and Stealin’: Musical Borrowing in Hip-­Hop. Ann Arbor:
University of Michigan Press, 2013.

Black Radio 57
CH.3 CAMPING AND VAMPING ACROSS
BORDERS / LOCATING CABARET SINGERS
IN THE BLACK CULTURAL SPECTRUM

Vincent Stephens

When historians document black popu­lar ­music production,

cabaret singers such as Pearl Bailey, Mae Barnes, Jimmie Daniels, Eartha Kitt,
Mabel Mercer, and Bobby Short are rarely included. Other than a brief ex-
cerpt in Eileen Southern’s The M­ usic of Black Americans: A History, you would
not know that black performers ­were central to the genre.1 Comparatively,
black performers figure very heavi­ly into James Gavin’s definitive 1991 ac-
count of mid-­twentieth-­century New York cabaret culture, Intimate Nights.
The genre, however, has a deep and underexplored role in providing pro-
fessional opportunities for black performers during the 1920s to the 1950s,
when the genre thrived.
This omission overlooks the significant impact of t­ hese performers as re-
cording artists, concert performers, cabaret fixtures, actors, and po­liti­cal ac-
tors. Their absence from the black popu­lar ­music canon reflects a perceived
gap between cabaret and black aesthetics, notably the dominance of “soul”
as the defining lens for framing black cultural production. In Soul Babies,
Mark Anthony Neal defines “soul” as “the most vivid and popu­lar expression
of an African-­American modernity.” He notes how

soul challenged the prevailing logic of white supremacy and segregation

in ways that w
­ ere disconcerting and even grotesque to some, regardless of
race or ethnicity. Premised on the construction of ‘positive’ black images
that could be juxtaposed against the overextended influence of Western
caricatures of black life, the soul aesthetic dramatically altered the proj­
ects of Harlem Re­nais­sance artists and critics by sanctioning both vernac-
ular and popu­lar expression largely valued within the black community
without concern for the reactions of mainstream critics or institutions.2

Presumably, the most canonical images of blackness fulfill this notion of

positive images reflecting au­then­tic black expression, yet the absence of caba-
ret would suggest something was amiss in the genre. As Jack Hamilton notes
in Just around Midnight, “The policing of racial authenticity in ­music gained
new energy in the late 1960s. During this period the concept of ‘soul’ became
a fixation of popu­lar discourse.”3 This policing manifests itself in a tendency
to essentialize blackness, black ­people, and the ­music they produce.
Cabaret provides a critical space to interrogate t­he artificial racial and
musical bound­aries implied by the omission of cabaret from conversations
about black m ­ usic. Keith Negus, drawing from Paul Gilroy’s work, proposes
approaching “black ­music” in a vein that incorporates “the diaspora of the
black Atlantic world and the idea of a changing same” that links performers to
social history without reducing them to a singular sound.4 Building from this
notion, I ask readers to consider the following. Cultural historians continue to
broaden understandings of African American popu­lar ­music and per­for­mance
­toward an anti-­essentialist definition. They do so by asking critical questions
about what constitutes the black m ­ usic canon and the reasons b­ ehind cer-
tain inclusions and exclusions. While similar inquiries are applicable regarding
blacks in country m ­ usic, punk ­music, and other genres coded traditionally as
white, cabaret is an essential genre for addressing t­ hese questions.
Two ele­ments that have historically kept cabaret on the historical mar-
gins of black ­music are its association with affluent white consumers and the
ways queer culture, especially “camp” sensibilities, inflect the genre. David
Bergman identifies four aspects of camp: “First, every­one agrees that camp is a
style . . . ​that ­favors ‘exaggeration,’ ‘artifice,’ and ‘extremity.’ Second, camp ex-
ists in tension with popu­lar culture, commercial culture, or consumer culture.

Camping and Vamping across Borders 59

Third, the person who can recognize camp, who sees t­hings as campy, or
who can camp is a person outside the cultural mainstream. Fourth, camp
is affiliated with homosexual culture, or at least with a self-­conscious eroti-
cism that throws into question the naturalization of desire.”5 I focus on the
camp ele­ment ­because it opens up a space to challenge racial and sexual bi-
naries. The scholar Pamela Robertson quotes Dennis Altman’s notion that
what camp is to gay men, soul is to black culture—­a cultural code—­and she
explores its implications, but I see a closer connection between ­these quali-
ties and view cabaret as a unique site of cultural fusion.6
In the popu­lar imagination, camp is the inverse of soul, in the same way
we commonly perceive races and sexual orientation categories as opposites.
The intersection of blackness and queerness that cabaret frequently repre-
sents, however, allows us to reimagine the ways that they speak to each other. I
argue that the combination of soul and camp provides cabaret with a unique
flavor that also deconstructs artificial bound­aries between black and white
musical expression, and straight and queer expressive cultures. I explore the
import of this fusion by examining the roots and aesthetics of U.S. cabaret,
articulating impor­tant parallels between soul and camp for their respective
communities of origin, and illustrating how black cabaret performers have
fused soul’s cultural politics and camp’s expressive aesthetics in innovative
ways that defied the racial politics of authenticity. I conclude by placing my
argument in the context of the post-­soul critical paradigm that argues for a
more decentered notion of identity.

Defining the Genre, the Scene, the Singers

Cabaret rooms originated in the Pa­ri­sian neighborhood of Montmartre in

the late nineteenth c­ entury and reached the United States a­ fter American
expatriates developed a par­tic­u­lar affinity for cabaret culture in the 1920s
and 1930s. Critics estimate that U.S. cabaret began around the 1930s and
peaked from 1945 to 1963.7 Robert Connolly generally concurs with this
timeline, noting, “The 1930s through the 1950s was perhaps the heyday of
nightclubs and night-­club singers. ­After the theater or a dinner party, New
Yorkers liked to top off the eve­ning by dropping into a club to hear some
favorite performer. T ­ here was an entertainer, an ambiance, and a price tag
to fit e­ very taste.” Described as “an intimate art, one intended to be enjoyed
by a smaller number of ­people in a small space,” cabaret has been dominated
by female performers, who “concentrate on projecting the ­music and lyr­
ics with a minimum of gestures and theatrics rather than on pushing their

60 Vincent Stephens
own personalities” and “choose their songs with the greatest care from the
best popu­lar ­music of the past and pre­sent which puts them above changing
fashions.”8 Yet Larry Kart argues that cabaret as a U.S. phenomenon “lasted
­until that indeterminate point in the late 1950s or early 1960s when the no-
tion that ­there was such a ­thing as an aristocracy of taste, let alone an ­actual
aristocracy to support it, fi­nally began to seem out of date.”9 In the late 1950s,
the rock generation’s desire for a separate culture from their parents and
tele­vi­sion’s growing appeal ­were key aspects of cabaret’s decline.10
New York was the epicenter of the American cabaret scene, though Bos-
ton, Chicago, Detroit, and San Francisco also had prominent venues. One of
the most comprehensive cabaret boxed sets, 1987’s The Erteguns’ New York, fea-
tures recordings from nineteen artists from the Atlantic Rec­ords label; ten are
primarily featured as vocalists and nine as instrumentalists.11 The collection
also maps out forty-­six venues associated with “the New York Cabaret scene,”
including forty-­two primarily in Manhattan near Central Park and four di-
vided among Downtown and Greenwich Village. ­These locations are key;
despite the era’s racial stratification, African Americans w ­ ere mainstays in
shaping cabaret culture as performers, club ­owners, hosts, and patrons. Thus
the cabaret cir­cuit arguably offered one of the most progressive spaces for
black performers. The Erteguns’ New York, in its breadth, provides a representa-
tive snapshot of the scene’s cultural diversity. In addition to Chris Connor,
Carmen McRae, and Mel Tormé, who are commonly included in vocal jazz
guides, t­ here are three African Americans, Barnes, Jimmie Daniels, and Short,
as well as Mabel Mercer, who is of Welsh and African American lineage.
More than merely players on the scene, each of t­ hese latter performers
was a staple of urban cabaret venues. Barnes was a fixture at the Bon Soir;
Daniels opened his own club in Harlem and was a well-­respected host and
performer, especially at the Bon Soir; Mercer was revered as the “definitive
café singer,” adored by songwriters and singers; Short is the most iconic male
singer in cabaret via influential recordings and his twenty-­eight-­year stint at
the Café Carlyle. Moreover, urban cabaret venues f­actor very prominently
in biographical and autobiographical accounts of performers such as Bailey,
Kitt, Mercer, and Short, and other black celebrities of their generation.12

Shifting Perceptions: Soul, Camp, Class, and Authenticity

Soul and camp perform similar expressive functions for their communities
of origin. The ways critics and historians artificially separate camp culture
from black culture, and soul from certain forms of classed and gendered

Camping and Vamping across Borders 61

black expression distorts our ability to understand their overlaps. Perceived
social class differences are integral to this gap as well. The 1950s is the com-
mercial and cultural heyday for African American cabaret singers, and ­those
mentioned have a unique relationship to the concept of soul, as defined by
Neal, in black culture. Cabaret performers fulfilled a portion of his defini-
tion by projecting a unique combination of talent, cosmopolitanism, and
professional savvy. In this sense, they projected a “positive” image of blacks
as successful, dignified entertainers. The controversial aspect of cabaret per-
formers is the “sophisticated” nature of their expression in terms of gender
expression and social class.
Soul is often interpreted as an expression of working-­class black values far
removed from the boîtes of New York, Paris, and London. For example, ac-
cording to Neal, “soul singularly emerges in its role ­because of its conscious
deconstruction of black church ­music, effectively reanimating the most po­
liti­cally benign aspects of the mid-­twentieth ­century black church, to re-
connect the social functions of the black church with the populist demands
of the black working class.”13 Whereas soul ­music fused gospel ­music with
secular lyr­ics and occasional musical ele­ments drawn from the blues and
jazz, Eu­ro­pean cabaret, torch singing, swing jazz, and Broadway primarily
influence cabaret. While an iconic black American genre (jazz) is an impor­
tant ingredient in cabaret, it is a multicultural and multinational hybrid.
Essentially, cabaret seems less culturally rooted in the black idiom.14
Though cabaret performers typically sang American songbook standards
before affluent, predominantly white audiences in sophisticated performing
venues, ­there is no clear correlation between their ac­cep­tance as individual
performers by white audiences and white attitudes t­ oward the social plight
of blacks in general.15 For example, Café Society Downtown, which opened
in 1938, was the first integrated nightclub in Amer­i­ca. Further, certain clubs,
such as the Blue Angel (“one of the foremost showcases for black talent”),
­were known for welcoming racially diverse performers and audiences.16 As
I discuss l­ater, urban cabaret scenes ­were some of the few genuinely mul-
ticultural social milieus of the 1950s where musicians, composers, artists
in vari­ous mediums, and their acquaintances seem to have interacted har-
moniously. The general association of cabaret with white culture, however,
extends to black cabaret performers who seem elite and out of touch with
“common” black men and w ­ omen by association, even though the “com-
mon” person is a reductionist fiction.
The influence of camp in cabaret is especially impor­tant, as it represents
another layer seemingly removed from the black mainstream. Cabaret culture

62 Vincent Stephens
appealed strongly to gay men. Certain clubs had a heavy gay male clientele.
For example, the Bon Soir actually featured a gay bar on one side of the
room, and clubs like the Spotlight had a palpable gay ambiance.17 Gavin ar-
gues, “Intimate clubs gave men the freedom to express ‘feminine’ emotions;
within the nightclub culture they ­were surrounded by other homosexuals
with similar interests; they could bask in the presence of the old leading
ladies they loved.”18 The theater scholar John Clum connects Broadway mu-
sicals (an impor­tant source of cabaret repertoire), gay men (a central class in
composing and consuming Broadway musicals), and camp (a cultural sensi-
bility primarily associated within gay male taste) by noting, “The gay voice
in the musical’s spectacle and pre­sen­ta­tion speaks with some irony, some
awareness of its artificiality. In discussing that gay voice, one must discuss
camp, an over-­theorized but crucial term that explains many of the links
between musical theater and gay culture.”19 The most iconic discussion of
camp is Susan Sontag’s 1964 essay “Notes on ‘Camp,’ ” where she observes,
“The essence of Camp is its love of the unnatural: of artifice and exaggera-
tion. And Camp is esoteric—­something of a private code, a badge of iden-
tity even, among small urban cliques.” She also notes Camp’s strong affiliation
with gay culture: “While it’s not true that Camp taste is homosexual taste,
­there is no doubt a peculiar affinity and overlap. . . . ​Homosexuals, by and large,
constitute the vanguard—­and the most articulate audience—of Camp.”20 The itali-
cized phrases point to the association of camp with urbanity, wit, dandyism,
and homosexual as well as homosexual-­adjacent culture. Sontag pop­u­lar­ized
camp, but drawing on Bergman’s definition, gay men have since redefined
and politicized camp as a form of cultural re­sis­tance.
Clum elaborates on camp’s unique role in gay spectatorship, noting,
“Camp allows gay spectators to find gayness in shows that are ostensibly
heterosexual and heterosexist. It allows us to identify with the indomitable,
odd ­women, whom Ethan Mordden calls ‘amiable freaks,’ who are often at
the center of musicals. For show queens, the musical offers a reading against
its own ostensible heterosexuality.”21 ­These definitions and connections are
essential for placing cabaret in a cultural context. Well before Sontag’s essay,
the iconic Stonewall Riots of 1969, and academic theories of camp, gay men
had immersed themselves in camp culture.
Ebony magazine’s 1952 profile of Mabel Mercer described her fan base
this way:

Miss Mercer’s devotees are mostly artistically minded folk who behave
very much like disciples at a shrine. For them the superbly dignified Miss

Camping and Vamping across Borders 63

 Mercer can do no wrong. A delicate wisp of a crew-­cut youngster was
heard to murmur as he left the By-­Line Room, “­Wasn’t Mabel too, too
divine to­night?”
Miss Mercer exerts a strange fascination for hordes of young men, all
very delicate and sensitive. They come to see her regularly, kiss her hand
and embrace her tenderly. They ask her to sing their favorite songs and
moon over her starry-­eyed while she rocks regally on her chair. No valid
psychological explanation for this unusual phenomenon has yet been
offered but it is one of the more curious features of New York’s night life.22

The article “outs” her audience as gay men via euphemisms like “artistically
minded,” “delicate wisp,” “delicate and sensitive,” and “curious,” quoting gay
argot and singling out the men’s fascination as defying “psychological expla-
nation.” Indeed, Gavin quotes maître d’ Archie Walker’s comment, “Who
could have a gayer following than Mabel Mercer? ­Every old queen with four
days to live came to see her.”23 The article does not specify their race, but it is
easy, given the historical context, to imagine that it was predominantly white.
Writers commonly use camp to describe classic cabaret performers. For
example, a profile of Mercer notes, “Mercer filled in for Bobby Short, an ar-
dent admirer who could be as camp as she was sincere, at the chic Carlyle
­Hotel when he was absent.”24 Camp also surfaces as a descriptor for other
cabaret performers. The New York Times obituary for Eartha Kitt referenced
her “camp appeal.”25 Her role as Catwoman on the 1960s Batman series was
the height of her camp persona.26 The producer ­behind Batman integrated
camp ele­ments into the series consciously to appeal to adults, who would
recognize its tongue-in cheek nature, and their kids, who would enjoy its
adventurous ele­ments.27
Camp was clearly understood as an “open secret” that informed the
­careers of classic cabaret singers. ­There’s no clear marker of when camp be-
came less explicit within cabaret, though the late 1960s birth of liberationist
politics is often understood as a turning point, when gay culture abandoned
some of its unique subcultures for more assimilationist forms of expression.28
This arguably coincided with changing aesthetics in black popu­lar culture.
Whereas campy figures like the singer Diana Ross and the actor Antonio
Fargas’s vari­ous roles as gay comedic foils (e.g., Lindy in Car Wash) thrived
in the 1970s, by the late 1970s and early 1980s, a hypermasculine strain also
emerged in black ­music that narrowed room for genderplay.29
While camp is not the cornerstone of e­very recording classifiable as
cabaret, an über stylization and lightness of tone defines much of the black

64 Vincent Stephens
cabaret canon. Camp is not necessarily something one looks for; it tends
to reveal itself and is most detectable and affecting when seen and heard
directly rather than described second­hand. However, a few recordings illu-
minate some of the camp aspects in the c­ areers of certain singers. For ex-
ample, the cover of the 1998 collection Eartha Kitt—­Greatest Hits: Purr-­Fect
nods to her camp iconicity as Catwoman. The punning title and the vintage
image of her lying in a reclining chair, dressed in a leopard-­skin dress, wear-
ing a bouffant wig, and staring with an amused “come hither” look signify
to ­those in on the joke.30 In the liner notes Joseph R. Laredo describes her
persona as “feline seductress” who “knows exactly how to wield her unique
vocal instrument for maximum effect.” Winking innuendos define many of
her interpretations on the compilation’s twenty-­two songs, as she sings in
a nasally voice with a coquettish tone—­somewhere between seduction and
amusement.
Alternately, Pearl Bailey’s use of “­mother wit” informs the comedy style
of multiple generations of black performers, ranging from “Moms” Mabley
to Whoopi Goldberg. Like Kitt’s, her style blends camp’s artificiality with
distinctly black forms of expression. Having gained fame with winking spo-
ken asides that softened the content of risqué material, her 1960s ­album
Naughty but Nice reveals a clear camp moment in her spoken coda to the song
“Never Give Anything Away,” which g­ ently flirts with prostitution.31 In the
last fourteen seconds of the 1:54 song, she speak-­sings a dollop of ­mother wit:

­ on’t give it away honey!

D
­Ain’t worth it
I tell ya
Put a price on it
Always comes out better
Well make it cheap . . .
Somebody’ll buy it.

The cumulative effect of listening to the ­album leaves listeners envisioning

her performing beyond the recording itself and easily visualizing her black
matron’s demeanor delivering ­these lines.
Mercer and Short are synonymous with distinctive stylistic quirks that
inflect virtually all of their recordings. Mercer, who was raised in Wales,
sings in a regal, almost anachronistic style, rolling her “r”’s and enunciating all
of her words clearly. Leslie Gourse writes, “With her rolled r’s and restrained
accent, she sounded like a mischievous dowager, not seeking an audience
but granting one.”32 The idea of a matronly looking black ­woman opening

Camping and Vamping across Borders 65

her mouth and singing with such an über Eu­ro­pean accent is ironic to the
point of almost being perverse. T­ here is an almost exotic fascination with
her Welsh affect that defies American and British ste­reo­types about blacks,
and she is more of a storyteller than a comedian—­even though her songs
often have a subtle humor.
Short, however, sings in a hoarse timbre that often sounds like he is on
the verge of laryngitis. His broad repertory often features novelty songs
punctuated by songs with bite. His penchant for camp tropes like irony and
sly comedy comes through most clearly on his 1975 Live at the Café Carlyle.33
Most of his per­for­mances on the a­ lbum are American songbook love songs
that demand a modicum of sincerity and reverence, but the fourth, “Mister
and Missus Fitch,” has an edge. He prefaces the per­for­mance with a telling
introduction: “­Here’s a Cole Porter song about Amer­i­ca’s favorite pastime.
That of social climbing.” The song details the story of peasant farmers who
discover oil and are soon the toast of the town, u
­ ntil the stock market crash
upends their fortune. Notably, ­after their change of fortunes, he sings:

Men who once knew Missus Fitch

Referred to her as a bitch
And the girls who all loved Mr. Fitch
Said he was always a son of a bitch
So love and kisses . . . ​Mr. and Missus . . . ​Fitch.

In camp fashion, the song’s affect unmasks the under­lying truth of social
climbing, the divisions inherent in society, and the false motivations under­
lying friendships of con­ve­nience. Just as soul challenges racist constructs of
blackness, camp exposes ­things for what they are.
The aesthetics of the most dominant black commercial m ­ usic forms of
the post-1960s era (e.g., r&b, hip hop) seem only tangentially related to the
campiness intrinsic to cabaret genres. A closer look reveals how performers
ranging from Millie Jackson and Toni Braxton to Busta Rhymes and the hip-­
hop group OutKast integrate discernibly campy ele­ments into their ­music
and personae. Jackson’s winking style, Braxton’s languorous reading of “Un-­
break My Heart” and its melodramatic video, Rhymes’s clownish persona,
and Andre 3000’s gender-­ambiguous fashion constitute a camp continuum
if we consider definitions of camp as a form of exaggeration. Black variations
of the camp tradition endure in multiple forms of con­temporary black ex-
pression. In 2015 the writer Daniel Mallory Ostberg coined the term “camp
heterosexuality” and listed a number of performers from within black
­music.34 Camp has never dis­appeared from black pop; it has merely gone

66 Vincent Stephens
unnamed—­hence the perception of ­earlier per­for­mances of camp as some-
how unrelated to black culture. This perceived gap possibly shapes the ab-
sence of cabaret from most black m ­ usic histories and rests on a po­liti­cal gap
between camp (understood as white and gay) and soul (understood as black
and straight).
Related to the queer nature of the campiness of cabaret is a perception of
cabaret artists as elites. Camp is a symptom of a broader elitism and distance
from a class-­specific version of blackness. Autobiographies written by caba-
ret performers, including Bailey, Kitt, and Short, are key sources for under-
standing their own sense of their identities and relationships to black com-
munities. While their autobiographies do not respond exclusively to issues
of cultural authenticity, ­these and vari­ous other public statements demon-
strate an astute awareness that blacks perceived them negatively.
Kitt’s writing illustrates the policing of blackness as an ele­ment ­these
writers have responded to frequently through autobiography. One of the key
functions of black celebrity autobiographies that Kwatkiutl Dreher identi-
fies is recuperation. She describes Kitt as “a celebrity autobiographer mak-
ing the most of the dance of autobiography to ‘take up for herself ’ against
the bully of defamation.” Among the defenses Kitt’s books address are chal-
lenging perceptions that she is “aloof ” and haughty, characteristics signi-
fied by her light (“yella”) skin color, tendency to speak foreign languages
among her cast mates, a voice perceived as “too weird,” and her tendency to
push bound­aries. Her ability to see through Katherine Dunham’s pretenses
during her mid-1940s stint with the famed choreographer generated tension
between them ­because of their parallel backgrounds. Kitt’s willingness to
challenge Lady Bird Johnson on issues related to poverty, the Vietnam War,
and the generational malaise of young p ­ eople at an infamous White House
dinner in 1968 also signified her willingness to go against the grain. Dreher
reiterates Kitt’s boldness, asserting that “Even though Kitt comes to us as
an outrageous performer willing to ­gamble her status in the entertainment
industry at the highest level, she unapologetically takes up for her actions.
They are her challenges to the national home to make good on its promise to
explore the conditions of Amer­i­ca’s underprivileged ­children living in cul-
tures of poverty”35
Arguably, the emergence of autobiographies like Kitt’s contributed to rhe-
torical challenges to the notion of a singular black experience. Black celebrities
represented the crossover dream of social ac­cep­tance on one’s own terms and
conformed to black modernity. ­These qualities aligned cabaret singers within
the confines of soul. The budding late 1960s nationalist ele­ment shifted the

Camping and Vamping across Borders 67

landscape ­toward narrower conceptions of blackness that espoused rigid no-
tions of au­then­tic blackness, frequently in heteronormative terms.36 Neal
writes of nationalist infusions during the “soul” era, “The soul aesthetic was
the cultural component to the most vis­i­ble black nationalist ideas of the
twentieth ­century.”37 Short, Bailey, and Kitt developed their talent in mostly
integrated cultural environments. Each has remarked on the ire directed
­toward them along po­liti­cal lines from other blacks. Kitt painfully recounts
blacks’ perceptions that she thought she was white; she was harassed and
threatened by members of the Black Panthers.38 In Raw Pearl Bailey recounts
her response to an inquiry on the Mike Douglas Show regarding why she had
not marched for civil rights:

No I ­haven’t marched any place physically, but I march ­every day in my

heart. I live with humanity ­every day, and when you live with humanity
then you have walked—­and the road is not easy, necessarily.
­People are so quick to point out the f­ avors a Negro gets b­ ecause he is
an entertainer. We have paved the way for many, and, too, have paid with
blood, sweat, and tears.39

Similarly, in American Singers, Short responds very pointedly to black con-

sciousness rhe­toric:

It was never in me to be the best colored singer or the best colored stu-
dent. I simply wanted to be the best singer and the best student. But
I have a re­spect for my race that might surprise some of the ­people who
discovered just six months ago that they are black. I was brought up in such a
way that d­ oesn’t allow any head-­banging. . . . ​A long time ago, I discov-
ered that the best advertisement for a minority is that member who,
without being ­Uncle Tom, takes the time to mesh with what­ever exists
socially. He makes it that much easier for the next member who comes
along.40

Both speak to an ethic of paving the way for ­others and frame themselves
consciously in relation to f­ uture generations of black performers. The issue
of authenticity related to camp, class, and nationalism that the performers
address partially explains the perceived distance between them as perform-
ers and personalities and “au­then­tic” black culture—­a notion tied to the
soul era.
Homophobia is an implicit thread that the symbolic annihilation of caba-
ret and camp traces from black cultural memory. Homophobic ideologies
predate black nationalism, and while many of its leading voices opposed it,

68 Vincent Stephens
notably the Black Panther Party’s leader Huey P. Newton, heteronormativ-
ity characterized much of its rhe­toric. An outgrowth of such masculinist
rhe­toric is a chasm between inauthentic and au­then­tic black culture. The
clash between the camp and elitist overtones of cabaret and the rigid ideol-
ogy of the mid-­to late 1960s black nationalism was influential enough to
create a historical gulf in black cultural memory.

Overlooked Overlaps: Camp as a Cross-­Cultural Bridge

The soul era birthed enduring tropes about au­then­tic blackness that
aimed to elevate blackness but threatened to narrow the contours of black
expression. As a multiracial genre largely rooted in New York’s integrated
nightlife, cabaret is useful for exploring the tonal shift in 1960s politics.
One of the overlooked aspects of cabaret was the social fusion it modeled
in its frequent mixing of racial and sexual cultures. Jimmie Daniels (1907–
1984)—­a singer, performer, club man­ag­er, and host—­symbolizes ­these over-
laps better than anyone does. Born in Laredo, Texas, he left business school
for New York, where he performed on Broadway in the late 1920s before
finding success in the 1930s in Monaco and London. ­After relocating to
New York, he gained a reputation as a party host. In 1935 he met the club
owner Herbert Jacoby, who invited him to Paris, where he worked as an
entertainer in Le Boeuf Sur le Toi. He vacillated between New York and
Paris ­until the late 1930s.41
From 1939 to 1942 he managed Jimmie Daniels’s Nightclub in Harlem, be-
fore leaving for the military. Daniels was openly gay and a staple of Eu­ro­pean
and American social circles. Esther Newton writes, “Even while working in
Harlem, Jimmie Daniels moved in a smart interracial milieu, and by the late
1940s his large duplex apartment in Greenwich Village had become a so-
cial hub for his many friends and acquaintances.”42 In 1950 he became the
host at the Bon Soir, where he worked for the next de­cade. The Bon Soir
was “a chic supper club. Known as a place where African Americans and
Whites, as well as gay and straight clientele, interacted without tension, the
club was described as having a balance of elegant, intimate, risqué, and re-
spectable ambiance.”43 In the early 1960s Daniels managed the Tiffany Room
and performed occasionally. He died in 1984, and Bobby Short arranged his
memorial.
Daniels’s prominence in Greenwich Village m ­ atters ­because New York’s
interracial and pansexual revolution in the 1950s represented an experiment
in multiculturalism. As Marlon Ross outlines, Le Roi Jones (Amiri Baraka),

Camping and Vamping across Borders 69

a key icon of black nationalism, was one of the more out­spoken critics of
the scene where Daniels thrived. Baraka’s objection was rooted in his life in
Greenwich Village and his adaption of nationalism in the mid-1960s. In the
­middle of the “classic” civil rights era, the Village-­centered cabaret scene
was an interracial social space. The scene was also intersexual and symbol-
ized the burgeoning urban gay social movement. By the mid-1960s, the na-
tionalist strain had grown increasingly divested from integration and moved
­toward separation. Ross’s perspective on nationalism’s blunt attempts at dis-
entangling African and Eu­ro­pean ele­ments is that such efforts have always
been “a prob­lem in black cultural nationalist theory.” 44 Nationalists rejected
interracial socializing and pathologized homo­sexuality as deviant be­hav­ior
outside of au­then­tic blackness.
Ross’s analy­sis of Baraka’s rhe­toric during his transition from beatnik to
nationalist addresses the artifice of separating cultures by exposing the in-
terconnectedness between queer culture and black culture.45 Baraka, who
moved to the Village in 1957, was once intimately acquainted with gay fig-
ures like the poets Allen Ginsberg and Frank O’Hara, but he eventually re-
jected the scene as the opposite of au­then­tic blackness. In his 1960s rhe­toric,
homo­sexuality, particularly the white middle-­class artistic milieu where he
developed his voice, was “both a sign of advancing European-­focused high
culture” and “a sign of the most degraded, de­cadent, abhorrent descent into
legally punishable impulses of pathological self-­destruction.” Ross frames
this shift by defining “cultural identification as a temporal pro­cess” in which
we constantly revise and reconstitute ourselves. Ross argues that Baraka at-
tacked black gay writers (notably James Baldwin) in a homophobic language
akin to the African American verbal tradition of “the dozens.” Yet, for Ross,
this attempt to disaffiliate with gay culture is tempered by Baraka’s intimate
knowledge of the gay verbal mode of camp that Ross identifies as a cross-­
cultural gay mode rather than a white gay mode. In other words, black p
­ eople can
camp as well as anyone as both performers and interpreters. Baraka’s access
to camp served as a tool for deconstructing whiteness since camp “calls out
the artifice, hy­poc­risy, parasitism, and queerness buried within the backside
of high white culture.”46 As much as Baraka attempted to revise himself by
disparaging homosexual culture, its influence is inseparable from his work.
Ross’s critical intervention is radical for linking the dozens and camp as
“verbal contests involving feats of creative insider name-­calling always with
a sexual edge in which individuals from socially marginalized groups enact
their ideological complicity with and re­sis­tance to the dominant norm.”
He illustrates how queer men w ­ ere integral to urban black communities;

70 Vincent Stephens
thus the Village was not Baraka’s first exposure to homo­sexuality but merely
a variation. In this sense, homo­sexuality is clearly not a “white” develop-
ment, nor is camp, “for black homosexuals’ inventive use of identity invec-
tive reveals a specific interaction between the dozens and camp so indeter-
minate that defining where one ‘site’ or ‘role’ begins and the other ends in
their verbal contests would be absolutely impossible.” ­These critical obser-
vations transcend Baraka and point t­oward how black and queer cultures
­were not inherently discrete, and illustrate how they developed ways to chal-
lenge hypersexual images of their cultures by turning the t­ ables and “making
sexual talk itself a playful weapon.” As such, camp and the dozens “refuse
to accept the embarrassment of shame cast onto their communities by a
dominant culture that desires to keep sex a dirty secret practiced deviantly
only by society’s suppressed o­ thers.”47 Camp, the dozens, and even soul’s
manifestations (e.g., jive talk) are highly stylized sociolinguistic responses to
marginality. Their origins differ, but they serve similar functions and cannot
be severed from each other for po­liti­cal con­ve­nience. Meta­phor­ically, this
reasoning applies to my effort to historicize campy black performers within
the black performative milieu.
Kitt’s playfulness, Mercer’s rolled r’s, and Daniels’s all-­around fabulous-
ness are intersections of blackness and camp in cabaret. Cabaret was a space
for artists to express black subjectivity outside of culturally and sexually
“straight” modes. By sitting on the periphery of r&b, jazz, and soul, t­ hese
artists differed from the black musical mainstream, making their expression
(e.g., mannered gestures, quirky repertoire) difficult to integrate into the po­
liti­cal moment. During a time of harsh social transitions ­toward civil rights
and equity, they may have seemed out of touch and indulgent. In the nation-
alist conception perpetuated by writers like Baraka, blackness was l­imited
to functionality and certain forms of productivity, but it was too narrow.48
Ironically, many of t­ hese performers engaged in unheralded forms of
“soulful” activism. Bailey pioneered the all-­black casting of a “white” mu-
sical (Hello Dolly!) on Broadway in 1967. Kitt was out­spoken about many
social issues and was one of the first performers to challenge South
African apartheid and relate it publicly to U.S. racial conditions. Short
championed black composers such as Duke Ellington throughout his
­career, wrote the foreword for the definitive book on the black com-
poser Andy Razaf, and coproduced the all-­black revue Black Broadway,
focused on black veteran performers like Eubie Blake and Adelaide
Hall.49 Collectively, ­these gestures place them within a notably black
mode of cultural production.

Camping and Vamping across Borders 71

Listening with Post-­Soul Ears

When viewed collectively in historical terms, the ­careers of classic cabaret

icons represent a distinctive fusion of “soul” politics, cabaret, blackness,
and camp that happened at a time when social and cultural integration was
idealized. The shifting po­liti­cal winds have made it difficult to place them
historically. Fortunately, writers and scholars like Nelson George and Neal
have opened this door critically by articulating the par­ameters of a “post-­
soul paradigm” that moves away from a segregation-­era modernist notion of
blacks as a monolith t­ oward a more expansive view of what blackness meant
historically and what it can mean ­today.
George marks 1971’s premier of Melvin Van Peebles’s film Sweet Sweetback’s
Baadasssss Song as a post-­soul benchmark that challenged the “positive-­image
canon” that traditionally confined black artists. He views the flowering of dif­
fer­ent “character types” in post-1970s African American culture as signifying
a more decentered notion of identity. According to George, “The soul world
lingers on, but for the current generation it seems as anachronistic as the
idea of a National Association for the Advancement of Colored ­People and as
technologically primitive as a crackly old Motown 45.”50 Neal also discusses
this expanded frame for understanding post-70s African American con-
sciousness, describing post-­soul as an aesthetic that “ultimately renders many
‘traditional’ tropes of blackness dated and even meaningless; in its borrow-
ing from black modern traditions, it is so consumed with its con­temporary
existential concerns that such traditions are not just called into question but
obliterated.”51 George and Neal offer a more open, anti-­essentialist lens for re-
flecting on black popu­lar culture of the pre­sent and the past and appreciating
the diverse musical expressions pos­si­ble within the black diaspora.
Collectively, the post-­ soul perspective clarifies the strongholds that
integrationist and separatist politics have had in shaping con­temporary
black thought. If neither perspective is monolithic, we can also recognize
how they continually bifurcate our thinking into imagining that black and
white ­music and black and gay culture are opposites. This perspective short-
changes the interplay between t­ hese cultures and the complex ways blacks
have expressed themselves historically.
Cabaret’s historical obscurity threatens to limit our attention to con­
temporary black cabaret vocalists, such as Darius de Haas, Norm Lewis,
Audra McDonald, and Paula West. They are the inheritors of a longstand-
ing, black expressive tradition that has an essential role in understanding
black American musical history accurately. ­These vocalists extend the

72 Vincent Stephens
achievements of their pre­de­ces­sors and have the potential to influence
­future performers. Renewing critical attention to the historical role of
blacks in cabaret could make it a more vis­i­ble tradition and increase the
genre’s appeal as a branch of black musical expression. The commercial
marginality of cabaret m­ usic certifies it as an in­de­pen­dent genre. As such,
its greatest hope for survival is a combination of per­for­mances as well as
support from the academic and journalistic communities. In­de­pen­dent
­music (e.g., punk, modern rock) has long had cachet within rock criticism
for standing outside of rock conventions. ­There is no reason a campy form
of expression such as cabaret cannot achieve similar status in critical ac-
counts of black popu­lar ­music.

Notes

1 Southern, The ­Music of Black Americans, 596.

2 Neal, Soul Babies, 18.
3 Hamilton, Just around Midnight, 21.
4 Negus, Popu­lar ­Music in Theory, 105–6, draws from Gilroy’s The Black Atlantic and
Small Acts.
5 Bergman, introduction to Camp Grounds, 4–5.
6 Robertson, “Mae West’s Maids,” 394.
7 Gavin, Intimate Nights, 7, 9.
8 Connolly, “Cabaret!,” 71, 72.
9 Kart, “Back to the Cabaret.”
10 Gavin, Intimate Nights, 67.
11 The Erteguns’ New York: New York Cabaret ­Music, cd 782308–2 (Atlantic Rec­ords,
1987).
12 Bailey, The Raw Pearl; Bailey, Talking to Myself; Bailey, Between You and Me; Kitt, Thurs-
day’s Child; Kitt, Alone with Me; Kitt, Confessions of a Sex Kitten; Short, Black and White
Baby; Short and Mackintosh, Bobby Short. Also see Haskins, Mabel Mercer.
13 Neal, What the ­Music Said, 40.
14 For example, Hemming and Hadju describe criticism Bobby Short received for his
style, “especially by some African-­American separatists for seemingly abandoning
his African roots by performing ‘white’ ­music in a ‘white’ style. Short explained
that his approach is ‘color blind.’ ­After all, as he often notes, classic pop has been
influenced by a variety of cultures, including African-­American, Italian, Jewish,
and many ­others, and he certainly plays it all” (Discovering ­Great Singers, 222–23).
15 Regarding audiences, Short notes, “Even in New York in ­those days it was an
uncommon sight to find a group of black ­people sitting in an East Side cabaret.
Then, no city was without its unspoken ‘no blacks’ rule, particularly when it came

Camping and Vamping across Borders 73

 to eating and sleeping. I had heard of the archaic edicts that existed even up in Har-
lem. Despite the overwhelmingly black population, it was customary for a ‘Whites
Only’ sign to be put out by uptown businessmen. It was the patronage of the white
tourists that they looked for—­not only at the legendary Cotton Club, but in other
establishments as well” (Short and Mackintosh, Bobby Short, 76).
16 Gavin, Intimate Nights, 33, 83.
17 Gavin, Intimate Nights, 87, 264.
18 Gavin, Intimate Nights, 303.
19 Clum, Something for the Boys, 7.
20 Sontag, “Notes on ‘Camp,’ ” 54, 64, emphasis added.
21 Clum, Something for the Boys, 8.
22 “Mabel Mercer,” 41, 43.
23 Gavin, Intimate Nights, 286. Archie Walker was maître d’ at the club Downstairs.
24 Lander, “A Champagne World,” 56.
25 Hoerburger, “Eartha Kitt, a Seducer of Audiences, Dies at 81.”
26 Kitt, Confessions of a Sex Kitten, 259–62.
27 Spigel and Jenkins, “Same Bat Channel,” 125.
28 Harris cites the rise of gay liberationist politics as a form of identity that dimin-
ished the relevance of cultural codes like camp among gay men (The Rise and Fall of
Gay Culture, 33–34, 269).
29 Gamson describes pressure on the openly gay singer Sylvester to tone down his
image to appease his rec­ord label and black radio stations in the early 1980s (The
Fabulous Sylvester, 192, 194–95).
30 Eartha Kitt, Eartha Kitt—­Greatest Hits: Purr-­Fect, cd 782308–2 (bmg Special Prod-
ucts, 1998).
31 Pearl Bailey, Naughty but Nice, digital a­ lbum (Stage Door Rec­ords, 2012). Originally
released 1960 on Roulette Rec­ords.
32 Gourse, Louis’ ­Children, 240.
33 Bobby Short, Bobby Short Live at the Café Carlyle, cd 7771 (Atlantic Rec­ords, 1975).
34 Mallory Ostberg, “Syllabus.”
35 Dreher, Dancing on the White Page, 92, 91, 94, 97, 99, 106–7, 109–16, 117.
36 Williams, “Living at the Crossroads,” 145–47.
37 Neal, Soul Babies, 44.
38 Kitt, Confessions of a Sex Kitten, 123–24.
39 Bailey, The Raw Pearl, 118–19.
40 Baillett, American Singers, 138, emphasis added.
41 Short, Life and Times, 80.
42 Newton, Cherry Grove, 156.
43 Galatowitsch, “Jimmie Daniels (1908–1984)”; Short, Life and Times, 80.
44 Ross, “Camping the Dirty Dozens,” 301.
45 Harper also discusses Baraka’s homophobic rhe­toric in Are We Not Men?, 49–52.
46 Ross, “Camping the Dirty Dozens,” 296, 293, 296, 297, 291, 297.
47 Ross, “Camping the Dirty Dozens,” 304, 298–99, 305, 304.

74 Vincent Stephens
48 Ross, “Camping the Dirty Dozens,” 297.
49 Regarding Bailey, see Gill, No Surrender!, 138; Kitt, Confessions of a Sex Kitten, 227–42,
248; Short, foreword to Black and Blue, xi-­xv; Short, Life and Times, 232–34.
50 George, Buppies, 3, 7.
51 Neal, Soul Babies, 67.

References

Bailey, Pearl. Between You and Me: A Heartfelt Memoir on Learning, Loving, and Living.
New York: Doubleday, 1989.
Bailey, Pearl. The Raw Pearl. New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1968.
Bailey, Pearl. Talking to Myself. New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1971.
Baillett, Whitney. American Singers. New York: Oxford University Press, 1979.
Bergman, David. Introduction to Camp Grounds: Style and Homo­sexuality. Amherst:
University of Mas­sa­chu­setts Press, 1993.
Clum, John M. Something for the Boys: Musical Theatre and Gay Culture. New York:
Palgrave, 1999.
Connolly, Robert. “Cabaret!” Stereo Review, February 1975.
Dreher, Kwakiutl L. Dancing on the White Page: Black ­Women Entertainers Writing
Autobiography. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2008.
Galatowitsch, Diane. “Jimmie Daniels (1908–1984).” Amistad Research Center,
2014. [Link] reators​
/­creator&id​=­63. Accessed March 30, 2019.
Gamson, Joshua. The Fabulous Sylvester: The Legend, the ­Music, the Seventies in San
Francisco. New York: Picador, 2005.
Gavin, James. Intimate Nights: The Golden Age of New York Cabaret. New York: Grove
Weidenfeld, 1991.
George, Nelson. Buppies, B-­Boys, Baps and Bohos: Notes on Post-­Soul Black Culture. New
York: Harper Collins, 1992.
Gill, Glenda E. No Surrender! No Retreat! African American Pioneer Performers of Twenti-
eth ­Century American Theater. New York: St. Martin’s, 2000.
Gilroy, Paul. The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness. London: Verso,
1993.
Gilroy, Paul. Small Acts: Thoughts on the Politics of Black Cultures. London: Serpent’s Tail,
1993.
Gourse, Leslie. Louis’ ­Children: American Jazz Singers. 2nd ed. New York: Cooper
Square Press, 2001.
Hamilton, Jack. Just around Midnight: Rock and Roll and the Racial Imagination. Cam-
bridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2016.
Harper, Phillip Brian. Are We Not Men? Masculine Anxiety and the Prob­lem of African-­
American Identity. New York: Oxford University Press, 1996.
Harris, Daniel. The Rise and Fall of Gay Culture. New York: Hyperion, 1997.
Haskins, James. Mabel Mercer: A Life. New York: Atheneum, 1987.

Camping and Vamping across Borders 75

 Hemming, Roy, and David Hadju. Discovering ­Great Singers of Classic Pop. New York:
New Market Press, 1991.
Hoerburger, Rob. “Eartha Kitt, a Seducer of Audiences, Dies at 81.” New York Times,
December 25, 2008. [Link]
?­module​=­Search&mabReward​=r­ elbias%3As&​_­r​=0 ­ .
Kart, Larry. “Back to the Cabaret.” Chicago Tribune, January 31, 1988.
Kitt, Eartha. Alone with Me: A New Autobiography. New York: H. Regnery, 1976.
Kitt, Eartha. Confessions of a Sex Kitten. London: Barricade Books, 1989.
Kitt, Eartha. Thursday’s Child. London: Cassell, 1957.
Lander, David. “A Champagne World.” American Legacy, Summer 2006.
“Mabel Mercer.” Ebony, September 1952.
Mallory Ostberg, Daniel. “Syllabus for the Course on ‘Camp Heterosexuality’ I
Have Not Yet Been Asked to Teach.” The Toast, March 13, 2015. [Link]
.­net​/­2015​/­03​/­13​/­syllabus​-­course​-­camp​-­heterosexuality​-­not​-­yet​-­asked​-­teach​/­.
Neal, Mark Anthony. Soul Babies: Black Popu­lar Culture and the Post-­Soul Aesthetic.
New York: Routledge, 2002.
Neal, Mark Anthony. What the ­Music Said: Black Popu­lar ­Music and Black Public Cul-
ture. New York: Routledge, 1999.
Negus, Keith. Popu­lar ­Music in Theory: An Introduction. Hanover, NH: Wesleyan
University Press, 1996.
Newton, Esther. Cherry Grove, Fire Island: Sixty Years in Amer­i­ca’s First Gay and Lesbian
Town. Boston: Beacon Press, 1993.
Robertson, Pamela. “Mae West’s Maids: Race, ‘Authenticity,’ and the Discourse of
Camp.” In Camp: Queer Aesthetics and the Performing Subject: A Reader, edited by
Fabio Cleto. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1999.
Ross, Marlon B. “Camping the Dirty Dozens: The Queer Resources of Black Na-
tionalist Invective.” Callaloo 23, no. 1 (Winter 2000): 301.
Short, Bobby. Black and White Baby. New York: Dodd, Mead, 1971.
Short, Bobby. Foreword to Black and Blue: The Life and Lyr­ics of Andy Razaf, by Barry
Singer. New York: Schirmer Books, 1992.
Short, Bobby, with Robert Mackintosh. Bobby Short: The Life and Times of a Saloon
Singer. New York: Clarkson Potter, 1995.
Sontag, Susan. “Notes on ‘Camp.’ ” In Camp: Queer Aesthetics and the Performing
Subject: A Reader, edited by Fabio Cleto. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan
Press, 1999.
Southern, Eileen. The ­Music of Black Americans: A History. 3rd ed. New York: Norton,
1997.
Spigel, Lynn, and Henry Jenkins. “Same Bat Channel, Dif­fer­ent Bat Times: Mass
Culture and Popu­lar Memory.” In The Many Lives of Batman: Critical Approaches
to a Superhero and His Media, edited by Roberta E. Pearson and William Uric-
chio. New York: Routledge, 1991.
Williams, Rhonda. “Living at the Crossroads: Explorations in Race, Nationality,
Sexuality, and Gender.” In The House That Race Built, edited by Wahneema
Lubiano. New York: Vintage Books, 1998.

76 Vincent Stephens
CH.4 THE ART OF BLACK POPU­LAR CULTURE

H. Ike Okafor-­Newsum

Understandably, in the past, fine art in the form of painting

and sculpture was not included in the discussion of popu­lar culture in the
modern age as t­hese art forms w ­ ere thought to be l­imited to museums and
private galleries and to the gaze of cultural elites. Religious iconography, which
is hegemonic in the popu­lar imagination, may be an exception, but for many,
painting and sculpture are not believed to be products for mass consumption
as are m
­ usic, dance, fashion, cuisine, movies, and video. In the 1970s and 1980s
the phenomenon of pop art was an opportunity for formally trained artists
to participate in mass consumption through the production and pre­sen­ta­tion
of graphic-­commercial-­iconographic imagery. It brought to the public aware-
ness artists like Roy Lichtenstein, Andy Warhol, and Jean-­Michel Basquiat.
The graphic art that accompanied Black Power and the Black Arts Movement,
made popu­lar by po­liti­cal organs like the Black Panther Party newspaper, en-
tertained the imagination of everyday, common folk who respected and re-
vered the organ­ization and ­those who benefited from its vari­ous programs.
The po­liti­cal art of Black social movements also included public murals, most
notably the Africobra Wall of Re­spect in Chicago that inspired social activists
internationally. Murals like the Wall of Re­spect w
­ ere intended for public con-
sumption in order to provide opportunities for artists to interact with com-
munity folks in collaborative proj­ects, for viewers to imagine themselves in
vari­ous roles and occupations, and for artists to make art relevant for every-
day, common folk. Mural art was also popu­lar in the mid-1930s in Mexico;
the images of Mexican muralists inspired African American artists like Hale
Woodruff, John Biggers, and Corey Barksdale.
­Today the tendency to exclude fine art from the study of popu­lar culture
begs the question, “What is the pop in popu­lar culture?” How, for example,
do we talk about the long-­running tele­vi­sion show The Joy of Painting that
made art educator Bob Ross a h ­ ouse­hold name and aired for thirty-­one sea-
sons, from 1983 to 1994? Imagine how many Americans ­were inspired by the
show, which featured master paint­ers and techniques of the trade. Certainly
among the mass consumers of this show ­were African American viewers.
In 1992, in an attempt to define Black popu­lar culture, Michele Wallace
and Gina Dent published a collection of essays u ­ nder the title Black Popu­lar
Culture. The contributors to this award-­winning collection read like a slate
of the top cultural studies scholars of our time and set the bar for works of
this kind that would follow. Five years ­later, the University of Pittsburgh
Press published Joseph K. Adjaye and Adrianne R. Andrews’s Language,
Rhythm, and Sound: Black Popu­lar Cultures into the Twenty-­First ­Century (1997),
which, like the ­earlier collection, is erudite and thought provoking, offer-
ing an eclectic collection of essays that pre­sents theoretical approaches and
critical commentary about cultural phenomena in Africa and its diaspora.
­These works reestablish a tradition of revisiting cultural events as they are
understood by Black artists and academics. Edited by Alain Locke with illus-
trations by Aaron Douglas, The New Negro is the grandparent of ­these more
recent works, an early treatment of Black cultural expression directed to an
academic audience. Given its ­limited consumption, it begs the question of
how effective the Black intelligent­sia has been in popularizing the phenom-
enon we call Black cultural studies. To put it another way, are the masses
as receptive to the academic study of Jay-­Z as they are to his per­for­mances?
For ­those who think critically about cultural expression, such publica-
tions are impor­tant tools that allow us to entertain diverse and divergent
views and approaches to Black cultural events. The graphic illustrations in
The New Negro suggest the impor­tant role of formally trained artists in the
study and discussion of Black cultural expression; however, ­little attention is
paid to fine art, painting, and sculpture in the two con­temporary collections.

78 H. Ike Okafor-­Newsum

In their contributions to Black Popu­lar Culture, Judith Wilson and Michele
Wallace acknowledge the existence of this prob­lem, and while their contri-
butions broach the subject of fine art produced by African American artists,
only one or two images of artwork appear in the anthology. To her credit,
Wilson’s essay, “Getting Down to Get Over: Romare Bearden’s Use of Por-
nography and the Prob­lem of the Black Female Body in Afro-­U.S. Art,” is an
in­ter­est­ing discussion of Bearden’s repre­sen­ta­tion of Black ­women and the
paucity of the Black female nude in art by African American artists prior to
the 1960s. Wallace’s afterword, which asks the question “Why are t­ here no
­great Black artists?,” offers l­ittle on the subject of Black art or Black artists.
And ­there are no art images and ­little discussion of fine art in the Black cul-
tural context in the collection edited by Adjaye and Andrews, an oversight
for which I share some responsibility as one of the anthology’s contributors.
Hence the pre­sent work seeks to fill this gap in the current discourse on
Black popu­lar culture by discussing the work of seven artists: Lehna Huie,
Shani Jamila, Soraya Jean-­Louis, April Sunami, Jason Wallace, Ike Okafor-­
Newsum, Leonardo Benzant, and Simone Drake.
Present-­day technology makes pos­si­ble the mass consumption of images
in ways that surpass the efficacy of tele­vi­sion. A search for images via social
media platforms like YouTube, Facebook, Instagram, Squarespace, and Twit-
ter ­will yield instant results. Formally trained artists have discovered the
ease of self-­promotion with the use of technology, creating their own online
galleries, and, in ­doing so, make fine art more accessible to a general audience.
The production of con­temporary Black art, like the art of the Harlem Re­nais­
sance, the Black Arts Movement, and the Post-­Black Movement, takes place
­under a condition of racial hierarchy and white supremacy that is perpetu-
ated by a Eurocentric, cap­i­tal­ist hegemony. Echoing Stuart Hall, Lawrence
Grossberg has suggested that the idea of hegemony is “a strug­g le over the
popu­lar.” In the realm of visual art this concerns the power to control the
symbolic matrix that constitutes visual experience in the most diverse and
comprehensive sense—­within and between civil society, the state, and the
economic sector.1 How can Black art be an arbiter of identity politics and an
advocate for social equality and economic justice?
Lehna Huie’s painting Say Her Name (figure 4.1) serves as one example of
imagery contributing to the public discourse that usually imagines racialized
police brutality as vio­lence against African American men. Huie was com-
missioned to create this work for the African American Policy Forum’s “Say
Her Name” cultural event, honoring the m ­ others who lost their d­ aughters
to senseless police vio­lence. The centerpiece of Huie’s contribution is a

The Art of Black Popu­l ar Culture 79

FIG.4.1 ​Lehna Huie, Say Her Name. Mixed media.

saintly depiction of the face of Sandra Bland, a twenty-­eight-­year-­old Afri-

can American ­woman who was found hanged in a jail cell in Waller County,
Texas, on July 13, 2015, three days ­after being assaulted and arrested by state
trooper Brian Encinia during a traffic stop.2 Say Her Name represents the on-
going demand for accountable policing. Surrounded by the ­faces of fifteen
figures, potential mourners, victims of state-­sponsored vio­lence, or potential
activists calling for justice, Sandra Bland symbolizes opposition against po-
lice brutality. She also represents a list of Black female victims (Charleena
Lyles, Sharday Hill, Tanisha Anderson, Natasha McKenna, et al.). However,
Bland’s activism in the Black Lives ­Matter movement has made her more
than just another victim. Bland is an inspirational figure in the lexicon of
protest art.
Black w
­ omen artists like Shani Jamila use their images and social media
networks to advocate for social-­economic justice and for gender and racial

80 H. Ike Okafor-­N ewsum

FIG.4.2 ​Shani Jamila, Lit. Photo­graph.

equality. Her photo­graph Lit, with its intense blue background and spots
and shards of light (white, blue, violet, and pink; figure 4.2), captures what
appears to be a per­for­mance, like t­ hose or­ga­nized by the photographer, who
regularly employs the arts for consciousness raising. Jamila’s social media
presence and activism in cyberspace, in prisons, and in local communities,
along with her extensive travels around the world, have afforded her, ac-
cording to Essence, recognition as “One of the 35 Most Remarkable W ­ omen
in the World.” 3 A collagist, fiber artist, and creative writer, Jamila is also
director of the Urban Justice Center in New York City, where she curates
exhibits and develops programming for social justice. Lit captures the mul-
timodality of Black popu­lar per­for­mance. An electric guitar strap on the
performer’s shoulder as he stands on a literal “lit” stage illuminated by
white, blue, violet, and pink, incandescent light conjures eruptions of funk.
The hybrid sounds of funk invoked by the image speak to the more con­
temporary vernacular use of “lit” as something that is hot and exciting—­
something that gives one life.
Soraya Jean-­Louis’s surrealistic collage painting See Them Now (figure 4.3)
uses iconographic imagery to refer to the historical roots of racial injustice

The Art of Black Popu­l ar Culture 81

FIG.4.3 ​Soraya Jean-­Louis, See Them Now. Collage.
and the oppression of ­women. The familiar icon The Brookes, an eighteenth-­
century British slave ship, infamous for its depiction of the cramped condi-
tions to which the slave cargo was subjected, echoes the visual lexicon of
racial vio­lence in the United States. Also among its symbolism are refer-
ences to Black ­women’s ­labor, the freedom quest, the exoticization of Black
­women, and fertility set against a sunbaked urban backdrop. The reclining
figure, seemingly lying on a bed of coal, is reminiscent of the Roots paint-
ings and the Henry Ford Hospital series by the Mexican surrealist Frida Kahlo,
another female artist of color and social activist, whose work addressed the
hegemonic devices used to subjugate racially marginalized ­women.
Dream Logic, a mixed-­media painting on canvas by April Sunami, features
a batik-­like textile design using splashes of squiggles, curlicues, parallel lines,
squares, and sprinkles of dots that complement the central figure, a beauti-
ful ­woman with extravagant hair of fabric-­like leaves (figure 4.4). This image
not only accentuates the beauty of Black ­women; it also brings to mind tex-
tile artists, like the weavers of Bonwire, “a cluster of some eight villages lying
about twelve miles from Kumase . . . ​the Kente weaving capital of Ashante.”4
While emphasizing Black female beauty, the fabric design in this painting
connects the central figure to a history of fabric workers who create wear-
able art. In this dreamscape that exalts Black ­women’s natu­ral beauty Sunami
insists upon a logic that privileges the brown skin and billowy afro that are
foregrounded in the frame.
An African ancestral beauty aesthetic was introduced in the Amer­i­cas
during the 1960s and 1970s that challenged mainstream white standards of
beauty and brought traditional artifacts like the afro pick into the modern
Black protest movement. Jason Wallace’s sculpture Crosshairs, in the words
of Adjaye, serves “si­mul­ta­neously as a cultural artifact of an external past
that has been lost but must be recovered and as a symbolic repre­sen­ta­tion
that is pregnant with new meaning, new possibilities for self-­recreation” (fig-
ure 4.5).5 The continuum of being and becoming is marked by reinvention.
Ele­ments of ancestral memory are deployed in modern strategies of re­sis­
tance in a continuing culture war between the West and the rest of us. As
a public art installation in Harlem, Crosshairs plays upon the fact that what
makes you power­ful can also make you a target.
My mixed-­media collage Nkisi: Head Hair represents a counterhegemonic
discourse (Bakongo cosmology) of indigenous ­people in contradistinction
to Western rationalism and Chris­tian­ity (figure 4.6). More than defiance,
the recognition of the authority of indigenous thought contrary to Western
paradigms is an act of cultural identification. Based on the Nkondi power

The Art of Black Popu­l ar Culture 83

FIG.4.4 ​April Sunami, Dream Logic.
FIG.4.5 ​Jason Wallace, Crosshairs.
FIG.4.6 ​H. Ike Okafor-­Newsum, Nkisi: Head Hair. Mixed-­media collage on corrugated
cardboard, 21 × 36 inches.
figures of Congo, Head Hair represents an aesthetic rooted in ancient beliefs
about creation, relationships among the living and between the living and
the dead, and about the power of art-­artifacts and the everyday role of art
in civil society and sacred spaces. Often presented as protectors, the Nkondi
figures (armed with the power of indigenous medicine and a knife) are apt
for the genre of re­sis­tance art.
Leonardo Benzant’s large (each nine to ten feet tall) paper cut forms are
colorful, moving, asymmetrical quadriptychs that feel more like sculptures
than two-­dimensional work (figure 4.7). Produced ­after a six-­day road trip
from Galveston, Texas, to New York City, they si­mul­ta­neously invoke an-
cient and futuristic aesthetic worlds, the urban and primal, Western art,
and African-­Caribbean culture, ritual, and archetypes. Accordingly, the
color combinations evoke the sea or other watery places from which all liv-
ing ­things evolve. Some of the shapes appear to perform an acrobatic dance;
­others seem to march; and some appear to be evolving entities, new forms of
life. ­These entities are shifting identities that suggest possibilities of change
and the ability to morph into a better self—­the idea of identity formation as
a pro­cess of becoming. ­These colorful, rhythmic entities embody the con-
stant negotiation—­continuity and disjuncture—­the changing and unset-
tling metamorphosis of blackness.
Are You Entertained?, fabric art (batik) by Simone Drake, calls attention
to one of the precursors to the internet, tele­vi­sion, which along with radio
pop­u­lar­ized the cultural products of politics, commerce, and social life, in-
cluding products of leisure from African American communities in the form
of fashion, cuisine, lore, dance, and ­music (figure 4.8). It can be said that
tele­vi­sion is the spark that ignited the field and study of popu­lar culture.
The commercialization and commodification of Black cultural products
and the corollary influence of tele­vi­sion on individual and group concepts
of self describe a condition ­under which re­sis­tance and self-­determination
are a priori. The mass consumption of negative, dehumanizing ste­reo­types
of Black ­people and the degradation of Black culture by mainstream mass
media have made necessary an audio-­visual counterculture that dispels and
corrects distorted characterizations of African Americans and other ­peoples
of color. The absence of clenched fists and protest signs in this scene of Black
subjects simply ­going about their day brings to mind the way that hegemony
works in making (through a subtle co-­optation) the oppressed accept the
domination of a ruling group, a pro­cess that uses mass media effectively.
The popu­lar in Black popu­lar culture continues to be a strug­g le against
hegemonic white racist repre­sen­ta­tions of Black ­people on the one hand,

The Art of Black Popu­l ar Culture 87

FIG.4.7. ​Leonardo Benzant, Afrosupernatural: Entities and Archetypes. Installation mixed
media on paper.

and for public access to technology on the other. The popularity and celeb-
rity of President Barack Obama and First Lady Michelle Obama, combined
with the efficacy of social media, has called public attention to two artists
whose self-­promoting media savvy had already made them celebrities in
their own right. The Obamas’ portraits ­were painted by the New York–­based
artist Kehinde Wiley and the Baltimore-­based artist Amy Sherald. Masters
of the Eu­ro­pean tradition of painted portraiture, ­these artists and their art-
work, like the ­others discussed ­here, push against the historical depictions
of African-­descended subjects as savages, buffoons, brutes, and Jezebels by
rendering dignified images of Black bodies in familiar but unexpected loca-
tions with meticulous attention to color and racial detail. I d ­ on’t know how
many viewers ­will experience the Obama portraits in the National Gallery
or on the internet. What I do know is that the potential and endless pos-
sibilities of cyber galleries are within reach with a stroke of the keyboard.

88 H. Ike Okafor-­N ewsum

FIG.4.8 ​Simone Drake, Are You Entertained? Batik.

Access to technology and the ability to traverse the inner and outer limits of
cyberspace are key to the efficacy of Black popu­lar culture. It is pos­si­ble to
produce disciplined, sophisticated Black art while at the same time creating
a counterhegemonic vocabulary of expressions—­a culture of re­sis­tance that
also mitigates white supremacy and social-­economic injustices. This should
be the role of self-­conscious Black popu­lar culture—of art and artists com-
mitted to the strug­gle for justice, equality, freedom, and peace. Re­sis­tance is
the “black” in Black popu­lar culture.

Notes

1 Grossberg quoted in Adjaye, “The Discourse of Kente Cloth,” 6.

2 Within minutes of the encounter between Bland and Encinia, the videotaped event
flooded social media, and concerns about the mysterious circumstances around her
untimely death fueled the controversy surrounding the prob­lem of racial bias and
policing in the communities of the poor and ­people of color.
3 Jamila, “About.”

The Art of Black Popu­l ar Culture 89

 4 Adjaye, “Discourse of Kente Cloth,” 25.
5 Adjaye, “Discourse of Kente Cloth,” 36.

References

Adjaye, Joseph K. “The Discourse of Kente Cloth: From Haute Couture to Mass
Culture.” In Language, Rhythm, and Sound: Black Popu­lar Cultures into the Twenty-­
First ­Century, edited by Joseph K. Adjaye and Adrianne R. Andrews. Pitts-
burgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1997.
Benzant, Leonardo. “Artist Statement.” Claire Oliver Gallery. www​.­claireoliver​.­com.
Accessed March 24, 2018.
Jamila, Shani. “About.” Shani Jamila, 2016. www​.­shanijamila​.­com. Accessed March 24,
2018.
Locke, Alain, ed. The New Negro. 1925. New York: Atheneum, 1968.
Wallace, Michelle. Afterword. In Black Popu­lar Culture: Discussions in Con­temporary
Culture, edited by Michele Wallace and Gina Dent. Seattle, WA: Bay Press,
1992.
Wallace, Michele, and Gina Dent. Black Popu­lar Culture: Discussions in Con­temporary
Culture. Seattle, WA: Bay Press, 1992.
Wilson, Judith. “Getting Down to Get Over: Romare Bearden’s Use of Pornography
and the Prob­lem of the Black Female Body in Afro-­U.S. Art” In Black Popu­lar
Culture: Discussions in Con­temporary Culture, edited by Michele Wallace and
Gina Dent. Seattle, WA: Bay Press, 1992.

90 H. Ike Okafor-­Newsum

CH.5 AN INTERVIEW WITH LISA B.
THOMPSON / JANUARY 9, 2016

What is the state of black pop culture in the public sphere and as an
intellectual field of inquiry in the twenty-­first ­century?

The public sphere is a site of—­and for—­blackness. I mean it—­I think ­people
may not identify the public sphere as one of the main sites for black popu­lar
culture, but it undoubtedly is and has been since we entered the abolition-
ist and Reconstruction print and per­for­mance cultures. Currently, we black
creators and critics seem to be ubiquitous, power­ful, game-­changing. Black
popu­lar culture consumes the public sphere at e­ very turn (and is consumed
by it), w
­ hether it is folks obsessing about poor Kanye West trying to down-
load his song yesterday to the most recent dragging or live tweeting of Empire
on Black Twitter. ­There is the Kendrick Lamar explosion—­folks cannot get
enough of him—to the latest and greatest in black film. I think t­here are
sixteen black films at Sundance this year, or some crazy number like that. Yes,
black popu­lar culture is everywhere, and yet at the same time, t­ here is still con-
cern about how much we are able to control, who speaks/blogs/​publishes/​
guest-­stars and for whom; that anxiety exists in the acad­emy as well. Who
gets to teach black life and its cultural products and producers? Who owns
­these topics, especially in the context of efforts to centralize a shared public
sphere where black lives ­matter? How do we frame analyses of black pop
culture now that we have de­cided that tv shows, m ­ usic downloads, status
updates, and tweets should be taken seriously and critically examined? How
do we as scholars relax, chill, as the kids used to say, and just do what ­we’re
­doing and still receive support, funding, get published and speaking ven-
ues across the social spheres of black and intellectual life? When I began my
­career black popu­lar culture as a justifiable academic field was still question-
able. Luckily, this is not true for my students, and hopefully it ­will not be the
case for f­ uture black studies scholars. The current generation does not seem
worried about ­whether other ­people feel comfortable with t­ hese topics, and I
am pleased about that. We [Thompson and Mark Anthony Neal] came up in a
dif­f er­ent era, when Tricia Rose’s Black Noise: Rap ­Music and Black Culture in Con­
temporary Amer­i­ca got dropped in 1994 and reverberated across the country in
grad programs and black studies courses. We ­were ju­nior faculty at the time
when ­people began teaching classes on Spike Lee, and now students are like
“Who? That old guy? Okay. Cool.” So it is both wonderful and challenging
in that black popu­lar culture is now part of academia and somewhat legiti-
mized, but I still worry about ­people not having historical knowledge about
black popu­lar culture or black cultural criticism. I am worried ­because, while
our students or our colleagues outside the field may know the hot song, tv
show, book, or movie, they often do not know the tradition of black lit­er­a­ture,
­music, or theater that it is built on, that the artists they love are referencing.

How do you see Stuart Hall’s theorization of the” black” in black

popu­lar culture influencing your intellectual engagement with black
cultural productions?

What is still useful about Hall’s piece is the insistence on always making sure
your thinking is grounded in historic specificity. The historical moment has
so much to do with what we ­were dealing with in terms of what is considered
popu­lar, what is considered black. Talking about blackness in an ahistorical
way just does a disser­vice to our notions of art and culture and black folk
throughout the diaspora. Even in a par­tic­u­lar historical period, ­there is never
one way folks understand their blackness. And that is why we are often in-
terested in artists who upend and disrupt. I have been teaching an under-
graduate course called Rethinking Blackness for over a de­cade now. Blackness
is a fascinating ­thing to think about (and to rethink). So folks like Issa Rae

92 Lisa B. Thompson
and Donald Glover basically came out of the closet about black awkward-
ness while si­mul­ta­neously celebrating “black cool”—­I call it the “black nerd
aesthetic,” or blerd aesthetic—­and now that is a dominant ­thing in the public
sphere. But I do not think it comes out of nowhere. It comes out of folks being
second-­or even third-­generation integrated, college-­educated, once the only
black kid in the class and now trying to make their way, who runs into their
tribe of other black folk who had the same kind of experience. . . .
And please let’s not forget Trey Ellis’s groundbreaking 1989 essay, “The
New Black Aesthetic.” He laid this all out very early, and we are still seeing
his theory’s relevance. We need to start being honest about how dif­fer­ent
per­for­mances of blackness are linked to region and class. What I mean is,
­there is not enough work being done to unpack how awkward blackness in
the ’hood is dif­fer­ent than awkward blackness in the burbs when your dad
is a doctor (like for Issa Rae). But maybe you get a ­little bit of that with
Every­body Hates Chris. With Chris Rock’s sitcom you start to get a sense of
what it is like when you are a working-­class black kid, but very ­little ink has
been dropped—or spilled—to talk about that. The other t­ hing that he [Hall]
emphasizes are notions of marginality—­thinking about the margins of black
popu­lar culture and how they influence the center of black popu­lar culture.
I have always hung out in the margins b­ ecause, for one, the other spaces are
already so occupied and often overdetermined. Besides that I always like to
try to intervene in new terrains. Is that b­ ecause I’m a Cali girl and our black-
ness has always been contested by ­those from the more “racially au­then­tic”
sites, such as the South or the East Coast? Perhaps. Maybe it also has to do
with my being an artist/scholar, as well as a first-­generation college gradu­
ate and a child of the urban black working class. I guess it is prob­ably also
­because of feeling, as someone who creates and writes about black culture,
I am homeless—­feeling like I do not belong in many of the spaces where my
work is disseminated, be it academia or in the theater.

Do you feel the digital age affects the production, reception, and dis-
semination of black pop culture in ways that compel us to both continue
revisiting Hall’s piece but to also build upon it? If yes, how do you see
con­temporary theorists and critics building upon Hall’s work given the
changes the digital age has produced? If no, why do you feel the digital
age does not compel scholars to revisit Hall and build upon his work?

That is an in­ter­est­ing and complex question. . . . ​I think this notion of the
digital is ­really the question of the moment. But as a playwright and critic I

Interview 93
mostly work with ephemeral per­for­mance. That show is gone a­ fter it closes.
The only recorded theatrical per­for­mance that I am willing to show students
is Stew’s Passing Strange, ­because Spike Lee had so many cameras on that stage
and ­really knew that musical so well, so intimately that the show lost very
­little in translation. He truly captured the feeling and the moment of that
musical’s closing weekend. But, for the most part, videos are such a flat, hor-
rible way for ­people to experience black theater and per­for­mance. So I think
that theater often ends up being—­I call it the baldhead stepchild of black
culture. Look at the Norton Anthology of African American Lit­er­a­ture. How many
plays are in t­ here relative to poetry and short stories and novel excerpts? We
continue to ignore the impact and power and importance of black theater.
Soon ­there ­will be two shows—­Sweat by Lynn Nottage and a new play by
Suzan-­Lori Parks—­opening in DC. T ­ here is one place that archives many of
the Broadway shows, which is the New York Public Library’s Theatre on Film
and Tape Archive. It is a palace, but not every­thing is ­there. You can only see
­those shows once as a scholar, ­because they have protected the rights of the
performers, designers, and directors (as they should). The digital age some-
times fails us, b­ ecause we think we can always see the video. When teaching
or lecturing I do show clips ­here and ­there of plays, but for the most part, I
think we are missing out on something crucial if we do not sit for the live per­
for­mance of a play (or a concert). We need to consider the fact that some cul-
tural products cannot be experienced digitally. So how do we make an effort
to get out ­there to see and support work? I often say let’s champion the work
we love or want to see instead of expending so much energy blasting what
offends us. The stages of New York are about to be lit up with all t­ hese amaz-
ing shows. You know, for the first time, ­there is a show about African ­women
being directed by an African w ­ oman, written by African w ­ omen, and per-
formed by African ­women, opening on Broadway. The production of Danai
Gurira’s Eclipsed is historic. Then ­there is the revival of The Color Purple as well
as George Wolfe’s Shuffle Along opening on Broadway soon too. T ­ hese shows
are on stages within the same block or within blocks of each other. Epic.
[Mark Anthony Neal: And critics have to be able to write about them.]
And which critics are ­there? . . . ​That’s another ­thing. Right now, ­there is
no black performing arts critic at the New York Times. . . .
[Mark Anthony Neal: . . . ​and that’s where the digital piece is also impor­
tant ­because now t­ here are at least spaces for black theater critics to write
about it and not have to go through the New York Times or the New Yorker. . . . ]
But let me tell you, when it comes to the money, a producer wants to
know what the New York Times said. It is not g­ oing to go up. Period. We

94 Lisa B. Thompson
have to create our own version of Broadway—or green-­light our own works.
That is why the Ava DuVernay model is so power­ful. She understands not
only what it means to publicize her work but also to create some kind
of mechanism to get the work in the theaters, and to support other folks
who are producing good work. That is what cultural producers must think
about. So I think digital is wonderful for us to be able to use as a teaching
tool so students can better understand some references from the text. . . .
[Mark Anthony Neal: And ironically for all the critiques that we might have
of Tyler Perry, he actually has very successfully figured out how to do that. . . . ]
True, we have to acknowledge Perry’s success t­ here. So yeah, t­ here is a
lot ­going on now, as far as digital access to black popu­lar culture—­almost to
the point where it is too much. Right, so how do you get through all of Spike
Lee’s work, all of Toni Morrison’s work, and know your Miles Davis and
Cassandra Wilson plus know your Nicki Minaj and your Drake? Black folks
are prolific. Period. Oh, can we go back to black, though, too? The black in
black popu­lar culture that Stuart Hall taught me was transnational. So, to be
knowledgeable about black culture diasporically you also need to also know
your Teju Cole, Wangechi Mutu, Fela Kuti, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie,
Miriam Makeba, and Akon too.

You straddle the realms of critic, scholar, and cultural producer in

ways that resonate with early theorists of black popu­lar culture,
such as Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, and W. E. B. Du
Bois. Can you discuss the relationship between producing cultural
products that circulate in the public sphere yet are also situated in
an academic discipline? As an artist-­scholar, how do you negotiate
the centrality of black pop culture to neoliberal consumerism in the
twenty-­first ­century?

Yes, I always find it difficult to figure out how I am g­ oing to name myself:
am I an artist-­scholar, or am I a scholar-­artist? It depends on the room. The
challenge, I think, mostly is to make sure that neither voice takes over. So
when I’m trying to craft a new play, the challenge is to keep the critic from
scaring the artist off from d­ oing the work that the artist wants and needs to
do. It also is impor­tant for the artist in me to possess a sense of history, the-
ory, form, and a sense of responsibility to the subjects I am writing about—­
whether it is the black ­middle class, black female sexuality, or intraracial
conflict. I do not know if it is always pos­si­ble, but it is impor­tant to nurture
that balance between my artist self and my scholar self. I am interested in

Interview 95
conveying black life, not as perfection or pathology but in all its messy, frag-
ile, urgent, gorgeous, humorous, sexy complexity and glory. My work as an
artist-­scholar is to help clear the way for t­ hose coming b­ ehind me. I want to
be in conversation with other folks who are straddling the fence in this way.
I want us to talk about what it means to be a black artist-­scholar. I want to
ask, “What do you give up? What do you gain? What does it mean?” I want
to share our stories so the next generation does not have to reinvent the
wheel. We need to leave them a blueprint. Besides, like you said, this is not
new. We are not new. Langston Hughes, W. E. B. Du Bois, and Zora Neale
Hurston enjoyed varying degrees of success d ­ oing both t­ hings. How many
­people ­here—­raise your hand if you read Dark Princess [Du Bois] and loved it!
[Laughter] Or, read all of Zora Neale Hurston’s scholarly work? U ­ nless you
are researching them for a proj­ect, then I think the list of folks who read it
all is very short. It is challenging to do both—be an artist and a scholar—­but
it is also a blessing. I definitely like being where I am located right now in the
acad­emy, where both ­things I do are encouraged, honored, and respected.

Langston Hughes in “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain”

insists that the masses, what he called “the low-­down folk,” produce
organic black cultural products. What interplay do you see between
the low-­down folk, cultural production (and consumption), and
participatory democracy in the twenty-­first ­century?

Well, I am so glad you brought up Langston Hughes’s “The Negro Artist and
the Racial Mountain,” ­because it is one of my favorites. I think Hughes’s essay
resonates just as much as Hall’s “The Black in Black Popu­lar Culture.” I love
talking about it with my students and juxtaposing it with George Schuyler’s
“The Negro Art Hokum” and, of course, Du Bois’s “Criteria for Negro Art.”
I have them [students] work through several questions: What is black art?
Who does it serve? Represent? What is this concern with authenticity? I keep
returning to them and this idea of the working class, the underclass, the black
“po”—­meaning poor in black English—­being central. But I think we are seeing
a move now where the black m ­ iddle class dominates certain ele­ments of black
popu­lar culture, particularly the viral video sensation, Issa Rae’s Awkward Black
Girl, and ­Kenya Barris’s Black-­ish. ­Those shows, like Being Mary Jane, are about
the black m ­ iddle class, but they show the way the black m ­ iddle class actu-
ally operates, which is among and between ­these dif­fer­ent worlds. A world
where it is not strange if you have a cousin in jail and you are off to Harvard
in the fall. The audience sees ­there ­really is not this huge divide between the

96 Lisa B. Thompson
black masses and more eco­nom­ically privileged black folks. We get to see
what is being produced with that knowledge and that kind of wink ­toward
self-­awareness of being a part of a privileged generation but at the same time
­really aware of and frustrated by the restraining limits of blackness. It has
been wonderful—­I just presented a keynote at the musicology conference last
month about how artists respond to Black Lives ­Matter. A lot of older black
folks think that the current generation is unaware of what is ­really impor­tant
and that they lack a sense of urgency and a po­liti­cal sensibility. Actually see-
ing ­these new artists like Kendrick Lamar, J. Cole, and Janelle Monáe, in par­
tic­u­lar, and Jill Scott being very much willing to put their ­careers on the line
to engage around ­these kind of issues—­not just songs they are ­going to sell
but also just speaking out. It has been exciting to think about how the black
public sphere has been ­really enriched by ­these protests despite the trauma
that we are all experiencing. I love the theater of protest that has been an
exciting place for black working class and black ­middle class, upper class, if
you ­will, to meet on that ground of contention and strug­g le—­even struggling
with each other around who is ­going to lead or “own” the movement. Is any-
one gonna try to trademark it? What’s the role of black popu­lar figures—­the
Jay-­Z’s and the Bey’s and John Legend’s and other kind of prominent folks?
­People are happy to see you t­here but also want to assure you do not take
up all the oxygen in the room, right? What happens with Netta [Johnetta
Elzie] and DeRay [Mckesson], and ­these other folks who emerged, and then
the challenges around—­what’s the brotha’s name? ­People kept questioning
­whether he was black or not? [the journalist Shaun King]. So I guess this is a
very messy mix but a very exciting time to be an artist, to be a scholar, to be
an activist, but ­there is also a lot of fatigue. Overall, I am happy to see how all
­these ­things are converging. I try to help my students understand that what
we are seeing with black artists is nothing new. I am making them aware that
during the civil rights movement Harry Belafonte and Sammy Davis Jr. ­were
­there, too, it was not just Baldwin—it was also, t­ hese black popu­lar figures:
Nina Simone, Ruby Dee, Sidney Poitier, Eartha Kitt [Mark Anthony Neal:
Quincy Jones, Donald Goines, Chester Himes] who used their visibility and
put their ­careers on the line to resist.

In the next twenty years, do you foresee everyday practical action

becoming more central to black cultural productions?

So, if you mean w

­ ill most p
­ eople see themselves as poets, rappers, dancers,
or singers? Probably not. I do hope that more black folks w ­ ill begin to see

Interview 97
themselves as artists even if they do not plan to make a living through art.
In the artist’s hustle mentality, the mea­sure of art has often been about how
many “likes” you get or your big box-­office draw or how much you are get-
ting paid for a piece of work.
But ­those who l­abor in the archives know that the song, the poem, the
dance, the photo­graph is actually what lives on, not the money. Nobody ­really
knows how much—­unless they are researching it—­how much Alvin Ailey
made in his lifetime, but he left a legacy that is priceless. What is exciting to
me is that my son, who is ten years old, loves Michael Jackson, but he came to
know his body of work posthumously. In fact, the day he died, I had him listen
to his cata­logue with me, so that he knows his work; he listened to his m ­ usic
and watched his videos nonstop and became an instant fan. To me, that is
transcendence. That is otherworldly. He had no idea of the dead man’s global
reach—he just knew he loved the m ­ usic. I learned then that ­because of his art-
istry, Jackson’s reach across time, generation, and even death was precise and
undeniable. We are all artists and consumers of art. As soon as we allow art to
be part of the quotidian in our consciousness, perhaps we ­will also be transcen-
dent. Every­one, not just t­ hose that get trained to become a par­tic­u­lar kind of
artist. It is impor­tant that we all think of ourselves as artists. Now once you
leave fourth grade, t­ here is no space for you to draw or paint or sing or write
poems anymore. And r­ eally, I think at some point I would like to write a piece
about t­ hose who engage in multiple kinds of artistic practices. And what does
that tell us about the artist’s soul? We are led to believe that the only way to be
considered an artist is to be paid for it, and the only audience members who
­matter are the critics. I think that both of t­ hose ideas are false and dangerous.
That thinking put us in a situation where we do not r­ eally get a chance to ap-
preciate all that the world has to offer us, as black folks. The beauty of August
Wilson’s work is that he understood the everyday poetry of urban poor black
folk in a way that I hope to see on stages again, and I think we are seeing some
of that with Dominique Morisseau’s plays. Not that she is the new Wilson.
Morisseau has her own vision and her own legacy to leave. Keep an eye out
for her. Her latest play, Skeleton Crew, is starting previews. It is about Detroit
faculty workers. She is from Detroit, she’s reppin’ Detroit hard. I’m writing
about her in my new book, and I think she is brilliant. Morisseau’s work proves
that the current generation also understands that t­ here is poetry in the lives
of everyday black folk, post–­August Wilson. She also believes in the beauty of
black popu­lar culture—­now ­ain’t that hot?

98 Lisa B. Thompson
II. POLITICIZING
BLACKNESS
This page intentionally left blank
CH.6 REFASHIONING PO­LITI­CAL
CARTOONS / COMICS OF JACKIE
ORMES, 1938–1958

Kelly Jo Fulkerson-­Dikuua

Who ­will revere the black ­woman? . . . ​Who ­will glorify and proclaim
her beautiful image? ​· ​abbey lincoln, “Who ­Will Revere”

In a 1955 single-­panel comic run by the Pittsburgh Courier, a

young girl tells her older ­sister, “I ­don’t want to seem touchy on the sub-
ject . . . ​but that new ­little white tea-­kettle just whistled at me.” The young
girl, Patty-­Jo, stands with one hand on her hip and waving a fin­ger at her cur-
vaceous, pin-­up-­like ­sister, Ginger, who hides a newspaper ­behind her back.
Looking closely at the newspaper cover, the words “Till” and “Boy” become
apparent as Ginger tries to hide the news from her kid s­ ister. The cartoon
artist Jackie Ormes drew this comic in response to an all-­white jury’s failure
to convict the murderers of Emmett Till, a fourteen-­year-­old boy mutilated
and lynched in Mississippi in 1955 for allegedly whistling at a white w ­ oman.
Ormes’s cartoon joins the broader tradition of making vis­i­ble that which
mainstream media often rendered invisible. Till’s death, often cited as a cata-
lyst for the civil rights movement, received widespread attention particu-
larly as his m
­ other insisted upon an open casket at his funeral to display her
son’s mutilated body. Images of Black men being murdered or brutalized by
the police have permeated recent social justice movements as well, including
Black Lives M ­ atter. Supporters of Black Lives ­Matter have taken to upload-
ing videos on social media of instances of police brutality and government
responses to Black re­sis­tance. Just as Mamie Till insisted that her son’s cas-
ket remain open at his funeral “to let the world see what it is like,” the viral
nature of t­hese videos ensures that Americans must reckon with the idea
that Black men find themselves in a “perpetual state of crisis.”1 The spec-
tacle of vio­lence and police brutality point both to the tragic deaths of Alton
Sterling, Tamir Rice, and Philando Castile, and also to the undercurrents of
racism that paint Black men in the United States as “phobogenic objects.”2
­These visual images not only reference what is seen but also gesture at
and substitute for what is and has been largely unseen in popu­lar media. In
a recent gradu­ate seminar I attended, a student raised her hand and said,
“I am all for Black Lives M ­ atter, but what about our girls? Where are the
protests for our girls?” While Black Lives M ­ atter has certainly addressed
the vio­lence enacted upon specific w ­ omen by the police, this par­tic­u­lar stu-
dent felt dismay that the case against Daniel Holtzclaw, a police officer who
stalked and raped thirteen Black w ­ omen in Oklahoma City, had not been
brought to the fore of Black Lives M ­ atter as other cases of police vio­lence
had. Simone Drake similarly points out that the “narratives [of a state of cri-
sis] consistently leave out Black ­women and girls who, presumably, are not in
crisis.” Drake argues that even the concepts of racial equality and Black man-
hood have been so deeply intertwined that w ­ omen have become marginal
ele­ments in the strug­g le for social change. 3

Given the power­ful nature of visual imagery to spark social change, the
question arises as to how media images of Black w ­ omen ­factor into the fight
for racial equality. Traditionally, as bell hooks posits, images of Black ­women
often act as a “foil” e­ ither to “soften the image of the black man” or to main-
tain the position of white womanhood in society.4 Abbey Lincoln, however,
demands that we confront this positioning of the Black w ­ oman, asking,
“Who ­will glorify and proclaim her beautiful image?” For hooks, the answer
lies not in attempting to resist this “foil-­dom” or essentializing gaze of white
heteropatriarchy but in focusing on forms of Black female spectatorship that

102 Kelly Jo Fulkerson-­D ikuua

do not “reflect what already exists . . . ​but [find] a form of repre­sen­ta­tion . . . ​
focused on black femaleness.”5 This chapter explores the visual imagery of
cartoon artist Jackie Ormes, not to undermine the power­ful images of Black
men and boys in driving social change but rather to look at Ormes as an ex-
ample of a visual artist repositioning Black ­women outside of this category
of foil and focusing on “black femaleness” in and of itself. As Toni Morrison
writes, “she [the Black w ­ oman] had nothing to fall back on: not maleness,
not whiteness, not ladyhood. And out of the profound desolation of her real­
ity she may very well have in­ven­ted herself.”6 With the deluge of imagery
focusing on Black male bodies, this chapter positions Ormes’s cartoons as
power­ful visual inventions and interventions of Black femaleness in mid-­
twentieth-­century Amer­i­ca.
Ormes’s intervention particularly explores a Black femaleness focused
on mobility, fashion, and po­liti­cal commentary. Published in both the
Pittsburgh Courier and the Chicago Defender from 1937 to 1956, her work com-
prises a significant though often overlooked form of visual artwork: protest
and po­liti­cal commentary that underscored social unrest but also provided
an ave­nue for a Black w ­ oman to harness a form of Black womanhood often
left untreated in dominant discourses surrounding Black ­women of the
1940s and 1950s. Ormes’s work pre­sents well-­dressed, po­liti­cally savvy Black
­women who migrated in and out of spaces commonly reserved for men
and white ­women. Her comic canon consists of four main strips: Torchy
Brown in “­Dixie to Harlem”; Candy, Patty-­Jo, and Ginger; and Torchy Brown in
Heartbeats. Torchy Brown in “­Dixie to Harlem” ran from 1937 to 1938 in the
Pittsburgh Courier. This character, Torchy, is a young ­woman who moves
from the segregated South to New York in search of fame. Ormes’s next
comic, Candy, ran for four months over 1945–46 in the Chicago Defender,
and portrays a subversive domestic worker who provides a definitive cri-
tique of the politics of race relations in domestic servitude, complaining
about rolling her madame’s cigarettes and joking about planting meatballs
in her Victory Garden. Ormes’s longest r­ unning comic, Patty-­Jo and Ginger,
ran from 1946 to 1956 in the Courier. This comic strip reveals a strong po­
liti­cal consciousness as Ormes uses five-­year-­old Patty-­Jo to critique for-
eign policy, World War II, segregation, racism, voting, and race relations
in general. Fi­nally, Torchy in Heartbeats documents a love story between the
stylish Torchy and a mystery man revealed only in the final panels. Ormes’s
comics are po­liti­cal by nature, in their overt po­liti­cal critique, in visual cues
that signal a social mobility for her characters, and a strong sense of sartorial
flair. The mobility of her characters emanates from their movements ­either

Refashioning Po­l iti­c al Cartoons 103

geo­graph­i­cally, such as when Torchy moves from the South to the North,
to a social mobility in which Candy, a domestic worker, transverses space in
her white employer’s home and proffers critiques of white female domestic-
ity. Torchy, Candy, Patty-­Jo, and Ginger all resist the generally ­silent po­liti­
cal stance expected of Black ­women during the 1940s and 1950s by offering
strong commentary and positioning themselves in traditionally male realms
such as sporting events and professional endeavors.

Ormes’s Life and Work: Reworking Racism in Comic Art

Ormes herself embodied this mobility, breaking into the world of print media
as the first Black female syndicated cartoon artist. By utilizing the medium
of the comic, Ormes appropriates a dominantly white male space to produce
her artwork, thus redefining the par­ameters of cartoons, a media imbued
with a deeply racist, patriarchal history and canon. While most researchers
of comics focus on white male artists, such as ­Will Eisner or Frank Miller,
­little work has been conducted on the work of Ormes. Aside from Nancy
Goldstein’s monumental biographical piece on Ormes and references to her
in Trina Robbins’s A ­Century of ­Women Cartoonists, sundry mentions of Ormes
appear in volumes about Black comics, such as Fredrik Strömberg’s Black Im-
ages in the Comics or in Frances Gatewood and John Jennings’s The Blacker
the Ink. Ormes has not been canonized in anthologies of Black visual artists
in Amer­i­ca. Her notable absence from t­ hese pages may be due to e­ ither the
relegation of comics as “low art” or the paucity of space allotted for Black
female visual artists in con­temporary collections on visual art. In e­ ither case,
this chapter seeks to build on the work done by Goldstein and Robbins in
highlighting the life and oeuvre of Jackie Ormes by approaching comics as
“sequential art,” to borrow the term used by W ­ ill Eisner, to describe cartoons
as a series of images arranged for graphic storytelling.7 Adilifu Nama’s Super
Black fights against the narrow reading of comics as superficial art, reading
comics in a “critically celebratory” perspective that “reclaim[s] black super-
heroes from . . . ​clichéd assumptions” and argues that Black superheroes
proffer a “futuristic and fantastic vision of blackness.”8 For Nama, comics, or
art that appears mundane, reveals cultural and social transformations over
time as well as the promise of ­future ideological shifts. This chapter departs
from his note of optimism, reading the transformative in the mundane.
Ormes’s comic creations Torchy Brown, Candy, Patty-­Jo, and Ginger offer
depth to the idea of the Black woman as superhero. In a world dominated
by what Robbins calls “white, white shirted-­men,” Ormes navigates not only

104 Kelly Jo Fulkerson-­D ikuua

racial barriers but also her transformative power as a w ­ oman drawing within
a world dominated by anti-­Black racism and patriarchy.9
Portrayals of Black p ­ eople in Eu­ro­pean and American comics reflect the
complicity of the mainstream media with the racist and segregated his-
tory of global white supremacy. In fact, some of the largest producers of
comic media ­today remain complicit with creating and promoting narrow,
raced comics. Disney, for instance, has been indicted for portrayals of vil-
lains as Black, including Scar from The Lion King and Jafar from Aladdin,
both of whom are cast next to ambiguously raced heroes: the light-­skinned
Aladdin, with a decidedly white American accent and Simba, the lighter-­
colored lion who partners romantically with an even lighter lioness with
green eyes. T ­ hese media ste­reo­types are embedded within a broader history
of media-­based racism and syndicated discrimination. As Kheli Willetts ar-
gues, just a­ fter the introduction of Mickey Mouse in 1928’s Steamboat Willie,
Disney produced “caricatured images of Africans and African Americans”
that joined ranks with “a history of drawings informed by racism . . . ​in ex-
istence for almost 500 years.” Willetts explains that t­hese drawings arose
as a result of travel journals and diaries from colonial enterprises and slave
trade routes as well as artwork portraying Black ­people as subservient to
white Eu­ro­pe­ans. ­These works of art, Willetts claims, served to “validat[e]
the notion of African p ­ eople as direct descendants of ‘the missing link’ ”
or primates and thus to justify the transatlantic slave trade as well as the
subordination of p ­ eople of color to white p ­ eople.10 Mainstream comics re-
inforce and toy with ideas of nativism and primitivism when it comes to
Black characters.
Cannibalism and African nativism, for instance, captured the minds and
imaginations of white Eu­ro­pean and American cartoon artists in the nine-
teenth and early twentieth centuries. Disney’s Cannibal Capers depicts half-­
duck, half-­human African natives dancing around and attempting to cook
each other and Mickey Mouse. The African characters are portrayed as stu-
pid and easily tricked by non-­African characters. Betty Boop is featured in
a cannibal piece called I’ll Be Glad When Y ­ ou’re Dead You Rascal, You, released
in 1932. In this film, Louis Armstrong’s head begins chasing Betty Boop and
Felix around Africa and morphs into a cannibal who attempts to eat Betty
Boop. This cannibalism and African nativism relates to Willetts’s assertion
that Africans have been viewed as subhuman and portrayed as such in art,
including comics. Aside from movies, a fraught relationship has long existed
between white cartoon artists and the Black characters in their art. Fredrik
Strömberg’s extensive history of Black comics highlights the vari­ous stock

Refashioning Po­l iti­c al Cartoons 105

characters Black cartoon figures have embodied, including the cannibal, the
Sambo, the mammy, and the pickaninny.
In the introduction to their edited collection, Frances Gatewood and
John Jennings disparage the attempt by many white comics to create Black
characters, arguing that ­these characters pandered to mainstream white ex-
pectations. In the 1930s and 1940s, for instance, characters like “Whitewash
and Ebony White” depicted Black Americans as “dim-­witted buffoons” in
need of a “white male ­either to save them or guide them.” Marvel, for in-
stance, owned by Warner Bros., has produced fifty-­two comics, only five
of which feature Black characters: Batwing, Static Shock, Mister Terrific, Voo-
doo, and The Fury of Firestorm: The Nuclear Men. Several of t­ hese issues w­ ere
canceled due to low circulation, and none of them features a Black female
character. Of ­these characters, only Batwing survived; he is a former child
solider from the Demo­cratic Republic of Congo who works as an African
Batman u ­ nder the supervision of Batman. Such a relationship between
Black and white characters is not unusual in a history of comics in which
the superhero is a “white-­male dominated fantasy.” Part of this stereotyping
arises from the nature of comics themselves: “Comics traffic in ste­reo­types
and fixity. . . . ​Comics abstract and simplify.” Gatewood and Jennings thus
argue for a broader reading of comics, stating that “comics, when created
by a skillful and informed hand, can speak with the power of text and words
combined.”11
Ormes rises to this challenge, creating characters who break gender and ra-
cial norms. She comments on deep-­seated po­liti­cal issues alongside claiming
a space in the fashion industry, which is largely dominated by white men and
­women. As Goldstein explains, “at a time when images of African-­Americans
in mainstream newspaper comics portrayed only derogatory ste­reo­­types,”
Ormes’s characters “commented on all manner of con­temporary topics,
from US nuclear armament in the Cold War to the vagaries of Christian
Dior’s hemlines.”12 Ormes’s work, often described as autobiographical, re-
flects her own life experiences, her enjoyment of fashion, and the po­liti­cal
climate of the Chicago Defender and the Pittsburgh Courier.
Jackie Ormes was born Zelda Mavin Jackson in 1911 in Pittsburgh, Penn-
sylvania. Her father, William Jackson, owned and operated a printing press
­until his death in 1917. Zelda’s m
­ other then worked as a head h ­ ouse­keeper
for a wealthy ­widow ­until she remarried in 1918. The extended ­family began
calling Zelda “Jackie” at this time, a gender-­neutral name that proved valu-
able when she entered the world of print media. Ormes landed her first
job in print media working as a freelance writer for the Pittsburgh Courier.

106 Kelly Jo Fulkerson-­D ikuua

Edwin Harleston founded the Courier in 1907 and by the 1930s it had grown
into one of the most widely circulated Black-­owned newspapers in the United
States.13 Ranking in sales alongside the Chicago Defender, the Afro-­American,
and the New York Amsterdam News, the Courier remained a significant mem-
ber of the Black press in the United States. It was “the most influential and
significant” of Black newspapers; its “weekly publication [in the 1940s] could
boast of having editions in fourteen major cities and a readership of over one
million. . . . ​It carried stories of the United States’ racial terror—of lynching,
of Jim Crow Laws, and of other indignities and outrages against Blacks.”14
The newspaper offered mobility of ideas and practices often meant to be
confined and contained by broader social practices.
Despite the progressive racial politics of the Courier, Ormes’s editor de­
cided not to print her name “Zelda” in the paper, instead opting for the
gender-­neutral “Jackie” to be run next to her columns on boxing and court
cases. Ormes married a banker, Earl Clark Ormes, in 1931 and gave birth to a
­daughter a few years l­ ater, who tragically passed away at the age of three-and-
a-half due to a brain tumor. It is believed that Ormes created the character
Patty-­Jo in honor of her ­daughter. In 1937, a year ­after her ­daughter’s death,
she began writing the comic strip Torchy Brown in “­Dixie to Harlem.” The strip
ended ­after one year, and as the G ­ reat Depression struck, the Ormes f­ amily
was forced to move to Salem, Ohio, and then Chicago in search of employ-
ment. Ormes took some classes at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago
in the early 1940s but felt inadequate next to her largely white classmates,
who ­were better trained. In a comic strip she depicts herself shrunken in a
chair as a white male instructor says, “Hmm you may have it l­ittle lady, but
for the pre­sent I’d say it’s still unexpressed.” Her gender critique and critique
of race relations in the United States was heightened during World War II,
when she began reporting for the Chicago Defender about Black soldiers at the
­Great Lakes Naval Training Center and Paul Robeson’s talks about interra-
cial relations. Her politics and activism within Chicago’s Black community
prompted the fbi to investigate her as a communist sympathizer. Though
in her fbi interviews Ormes denied being involved in the Communist Party
USA (cpusa), her “acquaintance with party members and her participation
in what ­were considered cp front events” filled her 287-­page dossier on file
with the fbi.15 Ormes was, however, a declared member of the National As-
sociation for the Advancement of Colored P ­ eople (naacp) and participated
in vari­ous theater productions with the support of the naacp. Given her
own rather unconventional path through both womanhood and politics,
it is unsurprising that her comics feature strong female leads with defined

Refashioning Po­l iti­c al Cartoons 107

senses of self and po­liti­cal ideologies. The mobility that both literally and
figuratively surrounded her life, w ­ hether her move from Pennsylvania to
Ohio, her break into the comic world, or her po­liti­cal mobilization, informs
the social, sartorial, and po­liti­cal mobility of her characters.

Claiming Social Space: Social Mobility

While “social mobility” often refers to class mobility, in this instance I

am deploying the phrase to refer to a physical mobility or repositioning of
Ormes’s characters as Black w ­ omen into spaces generally reserved for white
men, white w ­ omen, and Black men. ­These movements, or repositionings,
often convey a specific po­liti­cal message or social commentary. Ormes de-
picts the character of Torchy Brown, for instance, as being an active specta-
tor at boxing matches. In one panel, a February 26, 1938 comic strip entitled
“Excited! Who’s Excited?” Torchy cheers on Joe Louis, world heavyweight
boxing champ from 1937 to 1949. In this panel, Ormes draws Torchy, a well-­
dressed, feisty ­woman, standing as the single Black person and ­woman amid
a crowd of white men watching the boxing match. Torchy screams wildly
for Louis, and Torchy herself is named “De Champ” a­ fter pouncing on the
head of one of the audience members, a bald white man. The visual image
of Torchy positioning herself over his head inverts the social order that cen-
ters white men as beacons of power and knowledge. Torchy visibly irritates
the white male audience members and even unwittingly knocks out one of
the men in her excitement. Her physical and verbal domination over the
white men in the panel speaks to her lack of concern for white male com-
fort and imagines a public space in which Black ­women are able to assert
dominance over white men. The inclusion of Louis is especially impor­tant
as Louis fought the German boxer Max Schmeling and was defeated in 1936.
Nazi propagandists used this defeat as evidence that Aryans ­were physically
superior to other races.16 Though Louis would beat Schmeling in a July 1938
rematch, Ormes’s inclusion of Louis in the ­Dixie to Harlem cartoon critiques
the codification of white supremacist arguments that initially emerged a­ fter
Schmeling’s 1936 defeat of Louis.
In another instance of mobility, Ormes uses Torchy’s character to address
the mass migration many Black Americans underwent ­after World War I,
moving from the South to the North. Torchy moves from her home in Mis-
sissippi to New York City. Ormes explains that though she never lived in a
segregated state, she read about it working for the newspaper and drew inspi-
ration from the segregated South in her Torchy Brown comics: “I had never

108 Kelly Jo Fulkerson-­D ikuua

been to D ­ ixie, but I worked in a newspaper office, and I read every­thing that
was in the paper. It was a w ­ hole lot about strug­g les. Segregation.”17 The first
installment of ­Dixie to Harlem introduces Torchy alongside her Aunt Clem-
mie and ­Uncle Jeff, who “raised ‘Torchy’ along with the cows and chickens
on a ­little ­Dixie farm.” The provincial nature of Ormes’s southern characters
could be read as reflective of her own lack of exposure to the South outside of
dominant ste­reo­types surrounding a lack of education and l­ imited economic
opportunities. Torchy’s cousin Dinah Dazzle appears in subsequent install-
ments, and she encourages Torchy to consider moving to New York City.
Torchy tries on Dinah’s clothes and dreams of flying on a fireworks rocket
to the city. Eventually she sells off her pig, some chickens, and her h ­ orse to
purchase a train ticket to pursue her dreams of city life. In this depiction,
Ormes positions Dinah Dazzle, whose name reflects her glamorous appear-
ance, as the embodiment of a Black ­woman leaving ­behind her farm life and
moving into other professional and personal opportunities. Ormes imagines
a life outside of farming and sharecropping and insists upon the ability of
Black ­women to enter alternative c­ areer spaces as unmarried, in­de­pen­dent
­women.
Interestingly, Torchy does not face racism in the South u ­ ntil attempt-
ing to leave her hometown on the train. The transitional space of the train,
moving Torchy from the farm to the city reveals itself as a highly segregated
space. Torchy, however, outwits the conductor and, as in the boxing arena,
subverts racial assumptions and hierarchies. In this panel, Torchy comes
upon two arrow-­shaped signs while boarding the train to New York. One
reads “Colored” and the other “White.” Torchy initially pretends she can-
not read and slips into the much more comfortable “White” section. As the
train conductor approaches she begins to sweat ner­vously. An Italian man
notices her plight and ensures the conductor that she is with him, thus al-
lowing Torchy to remain in the whites-­only seating area. Torchy herself as-
sumes an Italian accent and pretends to be Italian as well. The character
appears to be rather light in complexion, though not perhaps light enough to
be considered Italian. The sympathy she elicits from her travel companion
comments upon the mobility of racial identities at this time and the hierar-
chies found within constructions of whiteness and blackness. Italian immi-
grants, for instance, received the status of “whiteness” in the United States
to increase the white marital pool and ensure that phenotypically lighter-­
skinned ­people rather than p ­ eople of color would receive access to suburban
housing. By drawing Torchy in this space and allied with an Italian man,
Ormes points to the tenuous nature of racial classification during this period

Refashioning Po­l iti­c al Cartoons 109

as well as the absurdity of a system of segregation based on ­these classifica-
tions. Torchy’s mobility into a white space undermines segregation laws and
practices. Her ability to “trick” the white conductor, similar to her physical
dominance over the men in the boxing arena, undermines his authority and
calls his judgment and intelligence into question.18
While Torchy often enters traditionally white male spaces, Candy, a single-­
panel comic, undermines the subservience that generally characterized the
relationship between wealthy white ­women and their ­house­hold employees.
Candy’s mobility into a white home allows her to proffer scathing critiques
of her employer, Mrs. Goldrocks. Though the readers never see Mrs. Gold-
rocks, her name alone indicates her social and financial privilege. Candy, a
signification on the dominant “mammy trope” in popu­lar media of the time,
makes jokes about Mrs. Goldrocks purchasing items on the black market.
In a par­tic­u­lar comic from June 16, 1945, Candy is perched on the edge of a
­table wearing a black dress and heels. She is stretching a piece of fabric and
says, “Mrs. Goldrocks admits her biggest thrill is black-­market ‘bargains’—­
That’s ­because she’s convinced ­they’re ­really exclusive!” Candy is referring
to the black market that emerged during World War II as the government
rationed food, fabric, and other goods in order to combat the barricade made
on U.S. ports. The black market served as means for ­those wealthy enough to
maintain a certain standard of living. Candy’s joking about Mrs. Goldrocks
“exclusivity” highlights the ways in which ­people ­were swindled on the black
market, and her defiance of her employer reverses the image of the mammy
as loyal and subservient. Ormes especially seems to be poking fun at white
­house­wives who found some sort of “thrill” by shopping on the black market
and flaunting their wealth while si­mul­ta­neously being ripped off by sellers.
Candy constantly outsmarts Mrs. Goldrocks. In another panel, Candy is
shown hoeing in a garden and saying, “Mrs. G. is telling all her friends about
my Victory Garden. Wait till she sees the meat balls I planted last week.”
­Women in the United States w ­ ere encouraged to grow victory gardens dur-
ing World War II to provide their own vegetables and fruit. ­These gardens
­were seen as an effort by ­women to contribute to the war cause and lessen
the burden on the government to provide food while supplies ­were cut short.
The reference to meatballs could have one of two meanings. The Japa­nese
flags carried by soldiers in ­battle ­were often known as “meatball flags” due
to the large red sun in the ­middle. Ormes may be referencing the burying
of Japa­nese or other U.S. opponents. Given Candy’s cheeky demeanor and
clear disdain for Mrs. Goldrocks, however, the comic reads more as a jab at
her employer. Mrs. Goldrocks enjoys the accolades she receives for having

110 Kelly Jo Fulkerson-­D ikuua

a victory garden, but she sends Candy to do the ­actual work of planting.
Candy’s planting of meatballs reflects her throwing away meat, which was
rationed during World War II, to underscore Mrs. Goldrocks’s hy­poc­risy in
claiming her altruism by having a victory garden and not actually taking
part in war-­time sacrifices.

Mobilizing Change through Po­liti­cal Commentary

While much po­liti­cal commentary in Torchy Brown and Candy remains em-
bedded in the characters’ actions or joking quips, Ormes adopts a far more
directly po­liti­cal stance in Patty-­Jo and Ginger. In one comic panel, Patty-­Jo
takes roller-­skates to Montgomery, Alabama, in response to the bus boycott
of 1956. In o­ thers, Patty-­Jo watches “Cinamacarthy” in criticism of the Mc-
Carthy era, and says she feels “proud to flunk” her history courses b­ ecause
­there is no “right text book on Negro Americans.” In this single-­panel comic,
Patty-­Jo is an out­spoken ­little girl with pigtails, big eyes, and a glamorous
wardrobe. Approximately five years old, she critiques every­thing from the
U.S. education system to the plight of c­ hildren, the Cold War, polio, racism,
and racial uplift. Patty-­Jo’s out­spoken nature and po­liti­cal acuity contrast
with the mechanisms that silenced much of the vio­lence enacted against
Black ­women and Black girls during the Jim Crow era. LaKisha Simmons
notes, for instance, that in contrast to the heavi­ly rotated symbol of the
noose and lynching tree as forms of white vio­lence, systemic and sexual vio­
lence against Black ­women and girls often remained “in the shadows” and
out of the public eye.19 Patty-­Jo further allows Ormes to move outside of
the ways in which “Black girls’ moral and social fitness became an indica-
tor of race pro­gress” during this period.20 Patty-­Jo’s po­liti­cal and intellectual
commentary, rather than her ability to conform to a specific respectability
politics or ethics of sexual chastity, becomes the marker of pro­gress.
The precocious tot also offers some lighthearted humor; one panel, for
instance, depicts Patty-­Jo peeking out of a mailbox and jokingly begging
Ginger not to be mad at her for hiding ­there. In another panel, Patty-­Jo asks
Ginger for a doll for her birthday that w ­ on’t outtalk Patty-­Jo herself. Dolls
become a central feature of the Patty-­Jo and Ginger comic strip; ­these dolls
emphasize the youthfulness of Patty-­Jo, whose cutting po­liti­cal commen-
tary makes it easy to forget her age, and demonstrate the ways in which
­children ­were affected by anti-­Black racism in the 1940s and 1950s. In one
panel, Patty-­Jo stands next to a sign that reads “Elementary Chalk Dust-
ers Union” and informs Ginger that the “Blackboard workers” are g­ oing to

Refashioning Po­l iti­c al Cartoons 111

strike and that she hopes t­here is no trou­ble from the apple polishers. By
positioning Patty-­Jo within the ­union strike, Ormes reveals her own posi-
tion fighting for workers’ rights. In addition to a few panels directly address-
ing the l­abor ­unions, Ormes also critiques inflation and the high taxes de-
manded of workers a­ fter World War II. In one panel Patty-­Jo is seen floating
in the sky while the cow jumps over the moon. She whimsically asks, “Why
not? Every­thing ­else is [rising].” As Goldstein explains, “an electric wash-
ing machine that costs forty-­five dollars in 1943 now costs eighty dollars” in
1948.21 This exorbitant inflation and high taxes appear in several of Ormes’s
comics, including a 1951 panel that shows Patty-­Jo standing near the win­dow
viewing a line of picketers. She tells Ginger that her friend Benjie’s dad says
that jobs are “okay” but that workers “want to eat ­after taxes.” High taxes,
coupled with postwar inflation and a minimum wage of seventy-­five cents—­
roughly six dollars ­today—­spurred Ormes’s critique of financial inequity.
One of the more salient, longer-­running critiques Ormes proffers through
Patty-­Jo and Ginger addresses the American education system and its un­
balanced perspective on Black history in the United States. In multiple panels,
Patty-­Jo complains to Ginger about learning the wrong history in class. In an
October 1948 panel, she claims the history textbooks are incorrect b­ ecause
they state that all races are equal. As Goldstein explains, this panel emerged
during an election year in which Senator Strom Thurmond’s platform
fought for segregation and racial integrity.22 In a similar panel from 1951,
Patty-­Jo argues that she proudly failed her history class ­because her text-
book’s discussion of African Americans was inaccurate. Ormes pushes her
critique of the schools further with comics that point to the racial in­equality
­children face. In one panel, Patty-­Jo is depicted in a classroom looking at an
American flag. The caption reads, “One naked individual with liberty and
justice for all.” On the chalkboard ­behind her are the names of a few states
and “­Dixie” with equal signs and question marks. The state names refer to
the Brown v. Board of Education ruling in May 1954 that forced school deseg-
regation. The malapropism of “naked individual” instead of “nation indivis-
ible” from the Pledge of Allegiance indicates that Patty-­Jo, as a young Black
­woman in a segregated country, felt like a vulnerable individual and not part
of a broader national concern. Ormes often plays on words in this way, such
as in a 1949 panel about school registration. In this comic, Ginger registers
Patty-­Jo for school and Patty-­Jo states that they left the “color” (race) line
blank b­ ecause she ­doesn’t want to be “incriminated” for being Black or de-
nied a spot at school. Ormes points to the structural government racism,
such as in schools, that disadvantage ­children based on racial bias.

112 Kelly Jo Fulkerson-­D ikuua

 Patty-­Jo also critiques the U.S. government’s policies on segregation and
the surveillance of organ­izations such as the cpusa and the naacp that
fought for civil rights and social change. In a 1947 panel, Patty-­Jo writes a let-
ter to her congressional representative, asking ­whether the “American way of
life” is the life that exists in Georgia or New York, referring to the segregation
of the South. In a l­ ater comic, she grabs her suitcase and dons traveling clothes
to head to Montgomery to join the bus boycott in 1956. Ormes also draws sev-
eral panels criticizing the development of the hydrogen bomb and the use of
the atomic bomb in Japan. In one panel, Patty-­Jo stands in the dilapidated
apartment of a f­ amily with an eviction notice on their door and sarcastically
encourages them to be comforted that the government is working on a hydro-
gen bomb rather than attending to substandard housing conditions. Ormes
drew several comics encouraging her viewers to vote and fight against t­ hese
policies. She suggests the politics of the cpusa as the means to spur social
change, though she treads lightly on criticism of the government for its com-
munist witch hunt. In one Halloween panel, Patty-­Jo and Ginger are dressed
as witches, and Patty-­Jo makes a joke about Hollywood scouts hunting for
witches. In another panel, Patty-­Jo asks Ginger about wearing a red feather to
a meeting to reveal her allegiance to the cpusa. Patty-­Jo’s child-­like innocence
in making t­ hese claims represents a new generation of Black w ­ omen who in-
creasingly move into social and po­liti­cal spaces to claim their own terrain and
mark themselves as agents of social change and justice. Further, her presence
becomes predictive of the emergent trope of the po­liti­cally savvy Black adoles-
cents in comics, such as Huey from Aaron McGruder’s The Boondocks.

Fashion-­Forward Sensibilities

In a final shift in her work, Ormes moves away from her direct po­liti­cal com-
mentary and pre­sents the life of Torchy Brown as a world traveler, heroine,
and fashion-­savvy ­woman. In this incarnation of Torchy, Ormes embraces a
Black womanhood not focused on making direct po­liti­cal statements or re-
claiming social space but embodying a lifestyle and humanity often denied to
Black w­ omen. She responds to Abbey Lincoln’s question of who w ­ ill “make
them beautiful” by adorning her characters in elaborate wardrobes with me-
ticulous hairstyles and accessories. Tanisha C. Ford explains that fashion is
“crucial to defining liberation on one’s own terms.” The practice of dressing
her characters in couture gave Ormes the opportunity, even on the heels of
the G
­ reat Depression and during World War II fabric rations, to imagine an
economic and aesthetic liberation in which Black ­women become empowered

Refashioning Po­l iti­c al Cartoons 113

to self-­fashion and break out of “intraracial notions of feminine propriety.”23
Ormes’s fashion and aesthetic choices visually signal an economic mobility
and c­ ounter images of poor Black ­women that often permeated media.
Physically, Ginger and Candy resemble each other, with their pin-up
like physiques and similar facial features. Their wardrobes, however, reflect
their disparate economic situations. Candy is the buxom domestic worker
whose fashion is regulated by war-­time material restrictions. Her employer,
Mrs. Goldrocks, however, always manages to finagle nicer clothing than per-
mitted, and Candy is given the castaway clothes of her employer. Ginger, in
Patty-­Jo and Ginger, escapes war-­time regulations and instead is reminiscent
of a Gibson girl with “flared skirts and practical shirt-­blouse . . . ​tailored for
clerical work in a business office . . . ​a ­woman who was at once modern and
feminine, in­de­pen­dent and alluring.”24 Goldstein suggests that Christian
Dior, in par­tic­u­lar, caught Ormes’s eye; his 1947 “New Look” promoting “an
hourglass silhouette of prominent bust line, small waist and bouffant skirt”
provided a renewed sense of femininity to her “austere” war­time fashions.25
In addition to Ginger’s modern wardrobe, Patty-­Jo boasts a sizable wardrobe
of petticoats, dresses, cowgirl costumes, and a range of seasonal clothing,
such as swimwear and winter coats.
Ormes revived the Torchy character in 1950–54 in a cartoon entitled
Torchy in Heartbeats and a paper-­doll section called Torchy’s Togs. This series,
published in color, maintained a far less po­liti­cal tone and instead told the
story of Torchy falling in and out of love and eventually becoming a nurse’s
aide, working in the South and getting engaged to Paul, her longtime love.
The Courier hoped the series would increase readership as it presented an
ongoing story week to week.26 This final installment of Torchy emphasized
the centrality of fashion to Ormes’s work. In “Fashion in the Funny Papers,”
Nancy Goldstein traces the changing fashion trends from the 1940s to the
1950s that influenced how Ormes dressed her characters. Torchy’s glamorous
nightlife style, for instance, draws on the style of Hollywood’s Letty Lynton,
whose dresses had “sensational wide, flounced sleeves” and whose hairstyles
were reminiscent of t­ hose worn by Lena Horne, who was a personal friend
of Ormes and her ­sister, Delores Jackson.27

Conclusion

Ormes’s characters became a reflection of herself and a projection of Black

womanhood that was often hidden during the 1940s and 1950s. As Goldstein
explains, “without the ways or means to realize her dreams, [Ormes] let her

114 Kelly Jo Fulkerson-­D ikuua

cartoon characters do the talking, traveling, dressing up, and strutting. As
her doppelganger Torchy said in 1937, “‘I’ve got to get away from ­here. I be-
long in big places.’ ”28 Ormes’s characters allowed for an imagining of Black
womanhood that was po­liti­cal, fash­ion­able, and in­de­pen­dent. Few male
characters feature in her work, with the exception of boxers, politicians, and
Torchy’s lovers in Torchy in Heartbeats, but even ­these men are background
pieces to Torchy’s life and work. Ormes’s characters tackle po­liti­cal topics
and social justice issues such as war, voting, equal medical care, education,
and domestic servitude. From Torchy’s entering the boxing arena to Candy’s
stealing her employer’s clothes, Patty-­Jo’s defiant refusal to say the Pledge
of Allegiance, and Ginger’s posing nearly nude in the bathtub, Ormes’s cre-
ations speak to the bound­aries set in place by society and embody a Black
femininity beyond the restrictions of the time. bell hooks argues that when
Black ­women take up the role of spectator and artist, the pro­cess of “looking
and looking back” at images, they are able to “know the pre­sent and invent
the ­future.”29 Ormes provides a mobility for her characters not just within
social, po­liti­cal, and sartorial bounds but one that permits them to mobilize
into a new, uncharted terrain that ­will “glorify and proclaim” the image of
Black womanhood.

Notes

1 Drake, When We Imagine Grace, 3.

2 Fanon, Black Skin, 72.
3 Drake, When We Imagine Grace, 3.
4 hooks, Black Looks, 120, 131.
5 hooks, Black Looks, 130–31.
6 Morrison, “What the Black ­Woman Thinks.”
7 Eisner, Comics and Sequential Art, 1.
8 Nama, Super Black, 6.
9 Robbins, A ­Century of ­Women Cartoonists, 113.
10 Willetts, Cannibals and Coons, 10.
11 Gatewood and Jennings, The Blacker the Ink, 5, 2, 4.
12 Quoted in Gatewood and Jennings, The Blacker the Ink, 95.
13 Vann, The Pittsburgh Courier.
14 Gatewood and Jennings, The Blacker the Ink, 9.
15 Goldstein, Jackie Ormes, 30.
16 Runstedler, Jack Johnson, 258.
17 Quoted in Goldstein, Jackie Ormes, 17.

Refashioning Po­l iti­c al Cartoons 115

 18 Torchy’s “trickster” nature provides a strong parallel to Henry Louis Gates’s “trick-
ster figure,” who is “full of guile, who tells lies . . . ​who is a rhetorical genius . . . ​in-
tent on demystifying” the power of ­those in positions of dominance (The Signifiying
Monkey, 56).
19 Simmons, Crescent City Girls, 3.
20 Chatelain, Southside Girls, 20.
21 Goldstein, Jackie Ormes, 57.
22 Goldstein, Jackie Ormes, 100.
23 Ford, Liberated Threads, 16, 6.
24 Goldstein, Jackie Ormes, 107.
25 Quoted in Gatewood and Jennings, The Blacker the Ink, 110.
26 Goldstein, Jackie Ormes, 135.
27 Goldstein, “Fashion in the Funny Papers,” 102.
28 Quoted in Gatewood and Jennings, The Blacker the Ink, 101.
29 hooks, Black Looks, 31.

References

Chatelain, Marcia. Southside Girls: Growing Up in the ­Great Migration. Durham, NC:
Duke University Press, 2015.
Drake, Simone C. When We Imagine Grace: Black Men and Subject Making. Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 2016.
Eisner, ­Will. Comics and Sequential Art: Princi­ples and Practices from the Legendary
Cartoonist. New York: W. W. Norton & Com­pany, 2008.
Fanon, Frantz. Black Skin, White Masks. New York: Grove Press, 2008.
Ford, Tanisha. Liberated Threads: Black ­Women, Style and the Global Politics of Soul
(Gender and American Culture). Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina
Press, 2017.
Gates, Henry Louis. The Signifying Monkey: A Theory of African-­American Literary Criti-
cism. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988.
Gatewood, Frances, and John Jennings, et al. The Blacker the Ink: Constructions of
Black Identity in Comics and Sequential Art. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers Univer-
sity Press, 2015.
Goldstein, Nancy. Jackie Ormes: The First African American Woman Cartoonist. Ann
Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2008.
hooks, bell. Black Looks: Race and Repre­sen­ta­tion. Boston, MA: South End Press, 1992.
Lincoln, Abbey. “Who ­Will Revere the Black ­Woman?” Negro Digest, 1966. [Link]
www​.­ebony​.­com​/­black​-­history​/­who​-­will​-­revere​-­the​-­black​-­woman​-­405​/­.
Morrison, Toni. “What the Black ­Woman Thinks of White ­Women’s Lib.” The New
York Times, August 22, 1971. Accessed: [Link]
/­archives​/­what​-­the​-­black​-­woman​-­thinks​-­about​-­womens​-­lib​-­the​-­black​-­woman​
-­and​.­html.

116 Kelly Jo Fulkerson-­D ikuua

Nama, Adilifu. Super Black: American Pop Culture and Black Superheroes. Austin: Uni-
versity of Texas at Austin Press, 2011.
Robbins, Trina. A ­Century of ­Women Cartoonists. North Hampton, MA: Kitchen Sink
Press, 1993.
Runstedler, Theresa. Jack Johnson, Rebel Sojourner: Boxing in the Shadow of a Global
Color Line. Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2013.
Simmons, LaKisha Michelle. Crescent City Girls: The Lives of Young Black ­Women in
Segregated New Orleans. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2015.
Strömberg, Fredrik. Black Images in the Comics: A Visual History. Seattle, WA: Fanta-
graphics Books, 2005.
Vann, Robert Lee. “The Pittsburgh Courier.” PBS​.­org, n.d. [Link] www​.­pbs​.­org​
/­blackpress​/­news​_­bios​/­courier​.­html.
Willets, Kheli. “Cannibals and Coons: Blackness in the Early Days of Walt Disney.”
Diversity in Disney Films: Critical Essays on Race, Ethnicity, Gender, Sexuality and Dis-
ability. Edited by Jonathan Cheu. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Com­pany.

Refashioning Po­l iti­c al Cartoons 117

CH.7 QUEER KINSHIP AND WORLDMAKING
IN BLACK QUEER WEB SERIES /
DRAMA QUEENZ AND NO SHADE

Eric Darnell Pritchard

In his iconic essay, “Making Ourselves from Scratch,” the

writer-­activist Joseph Beam recalls, “It was imperative for my survival that I
did not attend to or believe the images that w ­ ere presented of black ­people
or gay p ­ eople. Perhaps that was the beginning of my passage from passivism
to activism, that I needed to create my real­ity, that I needed to create images
by which I, and other black gay men to follow, could live this life.”1 Beam
rightfully notes the limitations in the repre­sen­ta­tions of Black queer lives
in media. He also speaks to the par­tic­u­lar responsibility he felt to disrupt
­those ­limited views by offering alternatives to the ways Black queer life was
being represented in mass media. Through ­these alternatives, Beam sought
to prepare the ­table for Black queer ­people of the ­future to live with more
satisfying depictions of Black queer life in media. He also provided a blue-
print on which generations of Black queer p ­ eople have continued to do their
own work as image-­makers, storytellers, and activists on the ­matter of repre­
sen­ta­tions of Black gay men in mass media.
From the mid-­to late 1980s, when Beam was writing and published his
essay, through the early 1990s, when many other Black gay culture crit-
ics echoed Beam’s critique and concerns, the very few depictions of Black
gay men in mass media ­were the primary visions through which Black gay
men ­were seen and understood. A noteworthy exception is the work of the
filmmaker Marlon Riggs, a friend and con­temporary of Beam’s, who in his
feature-­length documentary films Tongues Untied (1989) and Black Is, Black
­Ain’t (1994), as well as the short films Affirmations (1990) and Anthem (1991),
examined the complexities of Black queer subjectivity, especially as it per-
tains to Black gay men. Despite the cultural criticism and artistic-­activist
interventions of Riggs, Beam, and other Black queer culture-­makers who
sought to render the multidimensional lives of Black queer ­people, the more
highly vis­i­ble images, though very few in number, w ­ ere ­those prone to prob-
lematic caricature. This visibility and the regularity with which ­those im-
ages w ­ ere created and disseminated made ever more urgent and raised even
higher the stakes for interventions by Riggs, Beam, and ­others.
Inarguably, Black queer lives have certainly become more vis­i­ble in U.S.
popu­lar culture since that time. But this visibility has not always resulted in a
more diverse or less ste­reo­typical depiction of Black queerness than that cri-
tiqued in the past. For instance, among the televisual images of Black queer-
ness most debated and written about by Black gay culture critics and activists
was the caricature of the Black gay “snap queen” pop­u­lar­ized in the “Men
on . . .” skits featured on the 1990s tele­vi­sion program In Living Color. The skits
­were deemed dangerous by the vast majority of Black gay writer-­activists such
as Riggs, Beam, Essex Hemphill, and Ron Simmons, who all commented on
the problematic repre­sen­ta­tions of Black gay men on tele­vi­sion.2 Hemphill,
for example, noted in the mid-1990s that “the repre­sen­ta­tion of sexual, racial,
ethnic, and gender identities in the context of media is one of the most criti-
cal debates the marginalized, the oppressed, and the disenfranchised groups
in this country ­will contend with in this decade.”3 This critical debate about
repre­sen­ta­tion remains true for marginalized groups ­today. So power­ful and
po­liti­cally impactful ­were the “Men on . . .” skits and the debates around
them that they continue to be central to scholarly discussions about repre­
sen­ta­tions of blackness and queerness t­ oday.4 More than two de­cades since
the critique of ­these skits, the lack of growth in repre­sen­ta­tions of Black gay
men on tele­vi­sion is evidenced by the dearth of narratives of Black queerness
in vari­ous media generally and, particularly, in network tele­vi­sion dramas

Queer Kinship and Worldmaking 119

and comedies in which Black gay men are absent save for the rare excep-
tion. Among t­ hese exceptions are the tele­vi­sion show Noah’s Arc, written and
directed by Patrik-­Ian Polk, as well as Polk’s feature films, Noah’s Arc: Jumping
the Broom, The Skinny, and Blackbird, based on the Larry Duplechan novel
of the same name. A more recent example is the Fox drama series Empire
and the character of Jamal Lyon, a Black queer man played by Jussie Smol-
lett, as well as the characters Pray Tell, Damon, and Ricky on FX’s Golden
Globe Award-­nominated drama series Pose, played by Tony Award winner
Billy Porter, Ryan Jamaal Swain, and Dyllon Burnside, respectively. Another
example appears on own’s ­family drama Queen Sugar, which features the
character of Nova, a Black queer ­woman portrayed by Rutina Wesley. Even
fewer tele­vi­sion series and films focus on the lives of Black lesbians or trans-
gender ­women and men. The ubiquity of the absence of transgender ­people
on tele­vi­sion was illuminated upon Pose’s June 2018 premiere. Set in New
York City’s h ­ ouse and ball culture in the late 1980s, Pose made history when
it assembled the largest ever cast of transgender actors to star on a tele­vi­sion
series, including MJ Rodriguez, Indya Moore, Dominique Jackson, Haile
Sahar, and Angelica Ross as members of the fictional House of Evangelista,
House of Abundance, and House of Ferocity. Janet Mock, writer and Black
transgender activist, also serves as a writer and director on the series. Still,
even with ­these major steps in the twenty-­first ­century, ­there remain too few
depictions of Black queer life and culture on the big and small screens. In
fact, the two areas of tele­vi­sion where Black gay men are being shown more
frequently, though not necessarily any less problematically, are real­ity tele­
vi­sion and talk shows.
In the twenty-­first ­century, many Black queers find, as Beam notes, that
they too must make themselves from scratch given the absence of Black queer
­people in mass media. They find that they must seek to create images of Black
queer life apart from the very few depicted in traditional mass media (i.e.,
tele­vi­sion, film, popu­lar magazines), which does in many ways still rule the
roost of repre­sen­ta­tion. What Beam could not have anticipated, however, was
the emergence of twenty-­first-­century digital technologies that have allowed
for the proliferation of repre­sen­ta­tions of Black queer lives by Black queer
­people who are in­de­pen­dent of traditional mass media. As Simone Drake has
noted, repre­sen­ta­tions of twenty-­first-­century Black culture have “been in-
fluenced heavi­ly by the digital age. . . . ​The Internet and the availability of
social media and digital downloads have expanded the production of Black
popu­lar culture, as well as its audience.”5 ­These digital spaces have been so
successful that traditional mass media depends on t­ hese twenty-­first ­century

120 Eric Darnell Pritchard

technologies, especially courting digital social networking sites to promote
their works. Christine Acham argues that web series are a power­ful “tool for
the expression of Black voices, as empowerment for Black creative forces, and
as a potential site for creating Black community” and that t­ hese series “tackle
stories that are representative of vari­ous demographics within the Black com-
munity” that are other­wise overlooked. The popularity of the web series me-
dium is evident in that, according to Acham, “African American webisodes
from both amateur and professional producers have thrived, and at the be-
ginning of 2011, over 125 series appeared online.”6 Among t­ hese productions,
Faithe Day and Aymar Jean Christian find that within Black queer web series
“indie producers and fans collectively create new per­for­mances of blackness
and queerness via open networks online, in response to legacy broadcast and
cable tele­vi­sion networks that ignore and normalize intersectional Black
identities through closed development pro­cesses.”7
The proliferation of Black queer web series necessitates an analytic of
the critical possibilities ­these texts, and the digital sphere, offer for Black
popu­lar culture studies to undertake an assessment of the state of repre­sen­
ta­tions of Black queerness through twenty-­first-­century technologies. This
includes an analy­sis of how twenty-­first-­century Black queer culture work-
ers are using digital technologies to continue the repre­sen­ta­tional activism
of their Black queer ancestors. This essay contributes to this proj­ect by using
two Black queer web series to examine the ways Black gay image-­makers and
storytellers draw on the digital sphere to create texts we must engage in any
analy­sis of twenty-­first-­century Black popu­lar culture. I contend that Black
queer web series are a mechanism through which the Black queer p ­ eople
Beam was writing in anticipation of ­labor to create new ways in which they
might see themselves, ponder how to “live this life,” and create their own
realities and worlds. Black queer web series are, thus, counter-­storytelling
from a counterpublic sphere about life in the twenty-­first ­century through
the lived experience of individuals who are not represented as fully realized
­human beings in the images and storytelling that are created and dissemi-
nated by the dominant culture. T ­ hese image-­makers and storytellers are, in
effect, engaging in practices of queer worldmaking.
Queer worldmaking, writes José Esteban Muñoz, “delineates the ways”
individuals and groups “have the ability to establish alternate views of the
world. ­These alternative vistas are more than simply views or perspectives;
they are oppositional ideologies that function as critiques of regimes of
‘truth’ that subjugate minoritarian p ­ eople,” creating “oppositional counter-
publics” or “ ‘worldviews’ ” that reshape as they deconstruct real­ity.” Within

Queer Kinship and Worldmaking 121

Black queer web series, the creators take real-­life oppressive, discriminatory,
and ultimately marginalizing ideologies and politics that underpin t­hose
discourses, and engage them dialectically to critique them. ­Doing so, ­these
creators si­mul­ta­neously create space for a multiplicity of repre­sen­ta­tions.
­These image-­makers and storytellers thus restructure old and create anew
the very vocabularies and grammars in which Black queerness is represented
in mass media, which establishes a platform for the diverse stories to be told
about Black queer p ­ eople that are absent or misrecognized in popu­lar cul-
ture. ­These texts give “access to queer life-­worlds that exist, importantly and
dialectically, within the f­ uture and the pre­sent.”8 Viewers are invited to look
at issues affecting Black queer ­people in the context of the pre­sent through
a lens focused on race(d) and queer(ed) senses of being. Through this same
lens viewers can also engage in a critique of the oppressive systems that are
relevant to the stories being told, while si­mul­ta­neously co-­creating Black
queer ­futures that are distinct from the oppressive ideologies that are resis-
tant to Black queerness in any context.
Analyzing two web series, Drama Queenz (2008–12) and No Shade (2013–14),
I examine how the image-­makers and storytellers b­ ehind both series are en-
gaged in Black queer worldmaking. A primary site of counter-­storytelling is
the ­family. I choose the f­ amily ­because its central role in representing and af-
firming regimes of the normal make it especially significant to the ways in
which the web series forge their interventions. Each series queers ­family in
ways that honor the diversity of kinship formations. Marlon Bailey writes that
“queer kin are” families “established out of necessity and on their own terms,
while exposing the fallacy of dominant ­family ideologies by ­doing the kin ­labor
that many biological families fail to do. Moreover, kinship among Black lgbt
communities makes clear that heterosexuality is not the sine qua non of ­family.
Instead, f­ amily is about and based on the kin ­labor that members choose to un-
dertake.”9 ­These queer kinships are often invisible or disregarded by the domi-
nant culture. By disrupting traditional notions of f­ amily through emphasis on
queer kinship, Black queer web series are creating the world as they see it or
would like it to be, even as they critique the pre­sent repre­sen­ta­tion of Black
queer life that serves the interest of oppression and marginalization.

All in the ­Family: Queer Kinship and Black Male Intimacy

The queer kinships in Drama Queenz and No Shade are each examples of Black
queer worldmaking. This worldmaking takes shape through characters and
stories that critique dominant discourses of what counts as ­family defined

122 Eric Darnell Pritchard

through regimes of normativity. One of the ways the web series does this is
by displaying a range of queer kinship formations among characters that are
not biologically related. Another way is by exposing the failures of the tradi-
tional ­family to offer the material, emotional, and physical care and affirma-
tion that queer kinship provides the characters. Illuminating this failure of
traditional f­ amily, the web series challenge assumptions that the normative
­family is superior to ­those deemed nonnormative, including queer ­family
and kinship formations. Indeed, the dominant discourse of f­ amily represents
it as heteronormative, nuclear, and biological. Given the realities of hetero-
sexism, homophobia, and cisnormativity that ignore or are hostile to same-­
sex and other nonnormative familial and kinship structures, the families
queer ­people create are excluded from repre­sen­ta­tion in mass media. The
exception ­here is when lgbt families are depicted as closer to the hetero-
sexual, nuclear ­family model, a neoliberal rhe­toric of such families as being
nonthreatening and just like us.
Emily Arnold and Marlon Bailey write that ­there is “a dearth of research
on the kinship practices of African American gay, lesbian, bisexual, trans-
gender, and queer (glbtq) p ­ eople.” Studies of Black or queer f­amily and
kinship that do exist tend to exclude Black queer kinship bonds, as “studies
of African American kinship are almost exclusively heterosexual and the lit­
er­a­ture on queer kinship generally focuses on White gays and lesbians.”10
Repre­sen­ta­tions of Black and lgbtq ­family and kinship in popu­lar culture,
unfortunately, support this trend. For example, none of the major network
tele­vi­sion programs focused on Black families, few as they are as well, have
ever centered on nonheterosexual Black families. Also, while in recent years
more tele­vi­sion programs (e.g., Modern ­Family) that prominently feature
same-­sex families have gained both critical and commercial success, the
same-­sex or queer f­ amily features white gay and lesbian c­ ouples to the exclu-
sion of queer ­people of color. The impact is that lgbtq of color families and
queer kinship formations are being overlooked. By centering queer ­family
and kinship powerfully in the narratives of Black queer characters, Drama
Queenz and No Shade fill this critical gap.
Drama Queenz is a dramatic comedy produced and written by Dane Joseph,
who is also one of the show’s three stars. The web series revolves around three
Black gay roommates living in Astoria, a neighborhood in Queens, New
York. The three roommates are Jeremiah Jones (Dane Joseph), Preston Mills
III (Troy Valjean Rucker), and Davis Roberts (Kristen-­Alexzander Griffith).
Each episode includes a narrated voice o­ ver by Jeremiah as the roommates
navigate ­matters in their personal lives while pursuing their professional

Queer Kinship and Worldmaking 123

dreams as struggling theater actors. The spaces the three men share—­their
Queens apartment, the streets of New York City, casting call rooms, and a
local bar where Preston works—­provide many moments of interaction be-
tween them and the cast of recurring characters orbiting their world. Over
the series’ three seasons, Jeremiah’s story focuses on his on-­again-­off-­again
relationship with Donovan, a piano player in many of the productions for
which Jeremiah auditions. The central stories of the third season are Jer-
emiah’s becoming an escort when he falls on financially difficult times and a
story about domestic vio­lence when a new love interest of Jeremiah’s physi-
cally assaults him in that season’s finale. Davis’s initial story revolves around
a shared attraction between him and Diego, a sexually nonconforming man
who has a girlfriend. L ­ ater stories focus on Davis’s abuse of the prescrip-
tion medi­cation he receives for injuries he suffers in a physical altercation in
which he defends himself against antigay street harassment. Preston’s story
is centered between two key romantic relationships he has throughout the
series, as well as his work as a volunteer at a center and shelter for queer
youth in season 3.
The series tells us very l­ ittle about the past and backgrounds of the three
men. What we know is that none of them is a New York City native. In
season 2, episode 7, which I ­will discuss in further detail shortly, we are in-
troduced to their m ­ others, who pay the three men a surprise visit. We learn
that Davis is a closet southerner and that Jeremiah’s ­mother is a recovering
addict of ­either alcohol or drugs. This limitation on background details is
useful to seeing the ways that the characters’ relationships with one another
and ­others support my argument that queer kinship in Drama Queenz is one
example of the worldmaking Black queer creators enact through web series.
In season 2, episode 7, titled “In My Own L ­ ittle Corner,” the introduction
of the three m
­ others provides some insight into the kinds of connections the
three men draw with their families of origin. ­Because we do not meet any
other ­family members, I argue that the ­mothers stand in for their respective
larger families. As a result, the ways each roommate connects or disconnects
from his ­mother is intended to suggest to the viewer a larger story about how
each roommate relates to the rest of his ­family of origin. By episode’s end, all
three men have had one or more tender moments that display the very real
connections they have to their m ­ others. However, within this same episode
each roommate confronts his m ­ other about some way he feels neglected,
judged, or other­wise disconnected, even when the m ­ others are demonstrat-
ing concern or what they perceive as care. For example, Jeremiah’s ­mother
tells him his life appears to be imploding and that he has not been meeting

124 Eric Darnell Pritchard

his goals. This discussion is a clear source of frustration that sends Jeremiah
­running away from her and into the street, where he is almost struck by
a vehicle. When Jeremiah does voice his frustration with his m ­ other, the
conversation quickly turns to him providing emotional care for her regard-
ing her strug­g les with addiction. The mother-­and-­son dialogue ceases to be
an opportunity for an expression of Jeremiah’s grievances that need healing.
Scenes of Preston show him dodging his m ­ other, who is extremely judgmen-
tal of him and o­ thers. Davis’s ­mother takes this same judgmental approach
and goes a step further by taking him to a life coach while insisting that his
life is lacking direction.
This episode shows us why the close connections Jeremiah, Preston, and
Davis share might be better understood as an example of the queer “families
we choose,” to borrow a phrase from the anthropologist Kath Weston. The
three men are more than roommates or p ­ eople who share a racial and sexual
identity that is dwarfed by their families of origin.11 Drama Queenz could
easily have had the surprise arrival of the ­mothers be a story about how the
­mothers possess some insider knowledge integral to the lives of t­ hese men as
we have come to know them that their roommates and viewers do not pos-
sess. This would have indicated that the relationships with their families of
origin ­were more significant in knowing who ­these men are than their rela-
tionships with each other or the connections viewers forge to the characters.
This does not take place. Instead, Jeremiah, Preston, and Davis continue to
lean on each other. The interactions with their families of origin instead
solidify why each of them treats his roommates as the ­family he chooses.
This point is best illustrated by a voice-­over from Jeremiah in season 2, epi-
sode 1, when he says, “As the world goes round and round, spinning our lives
into all types of drama, it concurrently orchestrates beauty, laughter, and
friendship, introducing us to ­those ­people who are special to us, and whom
we are special to, who know that we are standouts amongst the millions and
millions and millions of ­people scraping by in the city, in the world. T ­ hese
friends and ­people are just—­they’re good com­pany.”12
Jeremiah describes his relationships with Preston and Davis as a safe place
away from the drama of life, as built on a foundation of shared affirmation
and care. Each character fulfills the kind of connection that is usually as-
sumed by families of origin. This connection between the three roommates
operates as a ­family of choice to stand in the gaps where connections to
their families of origin are assumed to exist. Jeremiah, Preston, and Davis
have formed a bond through which they uplift one another ­because of the
totality of who they are as Black gay men. Their bond does not occur despite

Queer Kinship and Worldmaking 125

any aspect of their identities or lives that anyone e­ lse may use to judge them
unfairly. Their connection queers ­family and forges queer kinship as a praxis
of Black gay male worldmaking. The relationships between ­these men cri-
tique the institution of f­amily as we are expected to consume it, exposing
its heteronormative and respectable trappings as disconnected from t­hese
characters. Si­mul­ta­neously, the relationships show the alternatives that
presently exist for some Black gay men by using the web series to promote
a ­future in which intimacy between Black men is pos­si­ble, necessary, and
happening.
Another example of Black gay worldmaking through queer kinship in
Drama Queenz focuses on Preston and a gender-­nonconforming teen who is
introduced to Preston as “Tranny Boi,” played by James E. Lee.13 Tranny Boi
lives at the homeless shelter for lgbtq youth where Preston volunteers. In
Season 3, episode 7, “Ease on Down the Road,” Tranny Boi is shown in a video
on a blog post having a rage-­filled fit in a business establishment.14 This event
occurs a­ fter Preston, in the previous episode, “When It Ends,” found the
teen at the pier in NYC ­doing sex-­work, negotiating with an older man with
whom they planned to leave the pier.15 Preston chases the older man away
and brings the teen home to his apartment when the teen informs him that
the shelter does not permit anyone to enter a­ fter their eleven o’ clock cur-
few. The next day, Preston brings Tranny Boi back to the shelter. When they
arrive Preston’s colleague and love interest, who has been wanting Preston
to commit to regular volunteer hours, flirtatiously tells Preston that he ­will
not report him as “harboring Tranny Boi” if he ­will come back to volunteer
daily. When Tranny Boi sees Preston and the shelter employee flirting with
one another they get upset and run away. We next see Tranny Boi in the
business establishment where they are enraged and subsequently featured
on the local news for having a fit. Preston decides to go on a search for the
youth and asks his love interest to join him.
While looking for Tranny Boi, Preston and his love interest have a dis-
cussion about ­whether or not looking for the teen is the right t­hing to do.
While Preston is certain they should be searching for Tranny Boi, his com-
panion believes his employer would say they should not be looking for the
teen. He argues that it is up to the teen to make their own decision. The
two fi­nally locate the address of Tranny Boi’s ­mother, Celeste, and go to
talk with her to find out if she might know where they could be hiding out.
In the conversation, they discover that when Tranny Boi was younger and
living at home, their ­mother had been hitting them for years ­because she
did not approve of the child being effeminate. The conversation reveals her

126 Eric Darnell Pritchard

homophobia, effemiphobia, and transphobia. She tells Preston and his love
interest that Tranny Boi may be at the clubs or wherever they might dance,
which Tranny Boi loves to do. She says if she sees Tranny Boi again she ­will slap
the teen again. This statement leaves both Preston and his companion disap-
pointed and saddened for the teen. Leaving her apartment, Preston is even
more committed to finding Tranny Boi and suggests that he and his boyfriend
go look in local clubs u ­ ntil they find them. This suggestion returns Preston
and his colleague to their e­ arlier debate about ­whether or not they should be
looking for Tranny Boi at all. Ultimately, Preston’s love interest determines
this is not his responsibility as an employee of the shelter, and he leaves Pres-
ton alone. So Preston decides to continue to look for Tranny Boi on his own.
In this storyline we see the remaking of ­family through queer kinship as
Black gay worldmaking in multiple ways. First, take Preston’s love interest’s
refusal to look for Tranny Boi. He knows Tranny Boi more intimately than
Preston does, so his reluctance to look for the teen and decision to give up
shows the ways the state conspires to constrain the empathy, affirmation,
and care this Black queer man has for a Black queer youth. This is evident
when he repeatedly returns to what the shelter, a presumably state-­funded
and -­governed institution, dictates as justification for why he does not feel
they should be looking for Tranny Boi. Still, he joins Preston on the search
for a ­great portion of the time. Though no one is forcing him to stop looking
for the teen, the disciplining gaze of the state is evident in his arguments
with Preston about ­whether looking for the teen is right or wrong. We know
Preston’s ethics are invested with a commitment to care for other Black
queer ­people. This ethics is best evidenced in his relationships with Jeremiah
and Davis, as well as his insistence that he w ­ ill look for the teen with or
without his love interest’s or the shelter’s approval or assistance. Preston’s
per­sis­tence exposes the state’s ethics as lacking empathy and failing in its
moral responsibility to the teen. Preston’s reasoning and morality further
expose the failure of f­amily as an institution in ways promulgated by the
state, as it is a Black gay man, an aberrational subject within the norma-
tive conceptions of f­ amily, that proves to be the more empathetic, careful,
and socially responsible actor on behalf of the teen. It is the queer kinship
Preston has with Tranny Boi that possesses the true qualities of affirmation,
care, and safety that one assumes of the normative ­family or of the state-­
sponsored shelter.
Preston’s actions also exemplify Black queer worldmaking in that the
queer kinship is intergenerational. This a real­ity that too few Black queer
­people experience due to the many, many Black queer ­people of previous

Queer Kinship and Worldmaking 127

generations lost to bias-­motivated death and the aids epidemic, to name
two primary ­causes that ravaged almost a generation of Black queer ­people.
Relatedly, it is worth noting that worldmaking is also pre­sent in that Pres-
ton, a gay adult, takes interest in a queer youth that is not his biological rela-
tion in the face of a state that is not itself assuming that responsibility, but
imposes normative belief systems that make suspect his care for the youth as
sexual or problematic. Thus Preston’s actions both critique the state and its
ethics of benign neglect ­toward the teen and provide a vision for the role of
Black gay men in the surviving and thriving of queer youth.
A heteropatriarchal reading of Tranny Boi’s story might view it as the
expected outcome given that they come from a single-­ mother-­ headed
­house­hold. Such a claim comes out of the pathologizing and demonizing
discourses of the ­house­hold led by single Black ­mothers, infamously rein-
forced in the Moynihan Report, a study whose findings have been widely
discredited.16 However, Preston’s care and concern for the teen is informed
by one Black queer connecting to another. I contend, as informed by Cathy
Cohen’s cogent arguments in her trailblazing essay, “Punks, Bulldaggers, and
Welfare Queens: The Radical Potential of Queer Politics?,” that in the eyes of
racialized heteropatriarchal structures, Black single m ­ others are also queer
subject given the pathologized and demonized, racialized sexual and gender
discourses projected onto them and their ­families.17 The outcome of ­these
discourses is that they are constructed to position the state’s ideas of a het-
eropatriarchal, nuclear ­family as normal, one built for optimal success and
thriving, as superior above all o­ thers. Thus Preston’s intervention b­ ecause
of the queer kinship he shares with Tranny Boi disrupts the lazy reading of
the teen’s ­mother as a failure and the state as morally upright. Rather, it is a
queer person (Preston) and queer kinship formations that provide the em-
pathy, care, affirmation, and safety the teen needs. Ultimately, by showing a
repre­sen­ta­tion of the pre­sent that is an alternative to how Black gay men are
seen televisually, the image-­makers and storytellers that made Drama Queenz
also create a ­future where queer kinship is not abnormal on screen. Rather,
queer kinship is a source of the survival and flourishing of Black gay men in
the realities they create on the screen and in the world.
The web series No Shade further demonstrates how such series use queer
kinship as a way of Black queer worldmaking. Created by Sean Anthony, No
Shade is also set in New York City (Brooklyn and Manhattan). It focuses on
the everyday life of four friends: Noel Baptiste (David Brandyn), Kori Jacobs
(Donny DuRight), Eric Stone (Terry Toro), and Danielle Williams (Tamara M.
Williams). Each of the four main actors is also credited as a writer on the

128 Eric Darnell Pritchard

series, with Anthony credited as primary scribe. The show departs from
Drama Queenz in several ways. One difference, crucial to my argument, is
that, in No Shade, the cast of Black gay friends are joined by a Black trans-
gender ­woman. No Shade also tends to focus more on the personal than the
professional lives of its main characters, with only a few scenes devoted to
Kori’s and Danielle’s work and ­career.
Where No Shade is similar to Drama Queenz is that we know very l­ittle
about the background and past of the characters. This a creative choice
that allows for the writers to draw from the relationships between the four
main characters and a recurring cast to inform us who the individuals are
at pre­sent. With the exception of Noel, we do not meet any of the char-
acters’ families of origin. One effect of this choice is that the four friends
operate as each other’s primary familial relationship. Examining t­ hese rela-
tionships highlights how queer kinship in No Shade evidences Black queer
worldmaking.
Noel’s relationship to his ­family of origin is a primary storyline through
the first (and only) season of No Shade. The show’s pi­lot begins with a slow-­
motion shot of the four characters walking fiercely, though glumly, through
the entrance of a public park. Viewers learn from a voice-­over that they are
coming from the funeral of Noel’s m ­ other. The next scene jumps two weeks
prior to the opening scene and explains more about why Noel’s ­mother
passed away while introducing the main characters. In that same episode,
and over t­ hose that follow, we learn that Noel’s ­mother is antigay; she tells
Noel to stop hanging out with t­ hose “sick gay ­people.”18 In episode 3, “No
Roaches,” Noel’s m ­ other again shows herself to be antigay, telling Noel to
stay away from ­those “ungodly ­people.” In that same episode, his ­mother
calls her pastor, Melvin, and asks him to come help her get this “gay demon
out of [her] son.”19 Pastor Melvin abducts Noel and brings him to the church.
Noel is l­ater rescued by Danielle, who reveals that the pastor secretly fre-
quents the website Trans-­Chat, where he has sent Danielle sexually explicit
messages. Noel’s relationship with his ­mother is vexed, to say the least. His
relationships with his friends are his source of nurture, affirmation, and love.
The queer kinship that exists between them, juxtaposed with Noel’s ­mother
and the church’s actions, critiques families of origin as innately more sup-
portive and safer.
Kori’s storyline in No Shade further speaks to the role of queer kinship
in Black queer worldmaking through web series. Kori is a dancer and dance
instructor striving to become famous, though he lacks the motivation to be
a full adult by getting a residence of his own, paying bills, and h
­ andling other

Queer Kinship and Worldmaking 129

responsibilities. A member of the NYC Ball community and the House of
Alchemy, Kori is living with his “house m ­ other,” Patti Alchemy. In multiple
episodes, ­Mother Alchemy is portrayed as throwing shade at Kori, regularly
suggesting he should move. ­Mother Alchemy also takes the money Kori wins
competitively at the Ball. By the season’s end we learn that ­Mother Alchemy
had not been taking his money as payment for his living with her. Rather,
she has been saving the money so that Kori would have it when he was ready
to stand on his own, fearing that he was not responsible enough to do it him-
self. ­Mother Alchemy, himself a Black queer man and not a biological rela-
tive of Kori’s, serves as his parent, guardian, and mentor, evidencing queer
kinship in the absence of traditional depictions of ­family.
The scenes with M ­ other Alchemy are also crucial in that they establish this
queer kinship as crossing generations. When we are introduced to M ­ other Al-
chemy, he describes his role as m ­ other by quoting directly the legendary Pepper
LaBeija, who was a ­Mother of the House of LaBeija, as featured in Jenny Livings-
ton’s 1990 documentary, Paris Is Burning. It is worth noting that in many ways
the tele­vi­sion series Pose also depicts characters that are analogs of real ­people
featured in Livingston’s documentary, and that Livingston herself serves as
a con­sul­tant on the FX series. Like Pose, the film documents Ball culture in
New York City from the mid-­to late 1980s. In having ­Mother ­Alchemy use
LaBeija’s words without attribution, the writers establish M ­ other Alchemy’s
role as part of a longer tradition of queer kinship that stretches back de­cades.
In fact, that other viewers of the series and I can immediately recognize La-
Beija’s words demonstrates the ubiquity with which the role of queer kinship
structures like the h ­ ouse and ball scene operate in the lives of many queer
­people. In addition, the historical continuity of this queer kinship solidifies
the ­family of choice as a real part of Black queer p­ eople’s lives that is worthy
of repre­sen­ta­tion. Yet it is still conspicuously missing from many repre­sen­ta­
tions of Black gay male life that are more interested in caricature.
A final way in which No Shade invokes queer kinship as a practice of
worldmaking is through the character of Danielle, a Black transgender
­woman. As with Drama Queenz, the four main characters in No Shade are de-
picted as being the most impor­tant relationships in each other’s lives. This is
a significant part of the worldmaking through this web series ­because, prior
to Pose, it was one of the only significant televisual depictions of Black gay
men in relationship to Black transgender ­women in popu­lar culture. While
many Black gay men, myself included, have Black transgender and nonbi-
nary ­people as part of our families of origin and of choice, this real­ity is often
erased in narratives of Black gay life in popu­lar culture. This erasure misses

130 Eric Darnell Pritchard

the opportunity to examine the complexities of community building across
gender identity and expression that occurs among Black and other queer
­people. This makes the storytelling in No Shade that much more significant.
This depiction of Danielle and her cisgender Black gay male friends serves as
a form of critique in that it exposes, for ­those who see this as foreign or un-
realistic, that ­there does still exist a cisnormative and transphobic disavowal
of transgender ­people that makes the connection between Danielle and her
Black gay male friends appear as fantasy. Thus, through a queer kinship for-
mation that centers a Black transgender w ­ oman alongside her cisgender
Black gay male friends, the web series offers a vision of not just what Black
queer community sometimes is, but what it is not and must be for all.

Conclusion

This essay demonstrates the limitations and possibilities of the web series
genre to increase the number of texts that portray and archive diverse repre­
sen­ta­tions of Black queerness compared to what we have seen in traditional
mass media. Black queer web series demonstrate and forecast the possibili-
ties of digital technologies and texts to document the past, pre­sent, and
­future of Black queer image-­makers’ and storytellers’ worldmaking. Some-
times ­these images and stories c­ ounter what are the most vis­i­ble repre­sen­ta­
tions of Black queerness. In other cases they bring into focus ­those aspects
of Black queer life that are overlooked in public culture. The f­ uture of Black
popu­lar culture studies would be wise to continue looking to such texts as a
site of analy­sis of the ways Black queer ­people have entered into the twenty-­
first ­century, (re)making realities on their own terms, creating a field of pos-
sibilities on which to build a world in which Black queer p ­ eople of the f­ uture
can, as we chil’ren say, get their life!

Notes

1 Beam, “Making Ourselves from Scratch,” 261.

2 Hemphill, “In Living Color’ ”; Riggs, “Black Macho Revisited,” 324–30.
3 Hemphill, “In Living Color,” 400.
4 Johnson, Appropriating Blackness, 65–75; Acham, “Blacks in the ­Future,” 67.
5 Simone Drake, email correspondence, August 28, 2013.
6 Acham, “Blacks in the ­Future,” 65, 64.
7 Day and Christian, “Locating Black Queer tv.”

Queer Kinship and Worldmaking 131

 8 Muñoz, Disidentifications, 196, 198.
9 Bailey, Butch Queens Up in Pumps, 93–95.
10 Arnold and Bailey, “Constructing Home and ­Family,” 173.
11 Weston, Families We Choose.
12 NovoNovusProductions, “Drama Queenz, Episode 201: ‘And the World Goes ‘Round.’”
13 It is imperative to note that the word “tranny” is offensive to many transgender
­people and functions as a form of harm, degradation, and vio­lence regardless of in-
tent. The central characters in Drama Queenz are all Black gay men, as is the creator,
writer, producer, and lead star of the series. Given this fact, I would be remiss if I
did not note that this phrase calls attention to the realities of cisnormativity in real
life and in the Black queer world created in the web series.
14 NovoNovusProductions, “Drama Queenz, Ep. 307: ‘Ease on Down the Road.’ ”
15 NovoNovusProductions, “Drama Queenz, Ep. 306: ‘When It Ends.’ ”
16 Ferguson, Aberrations in Black; Hill-­Collins, Black Sexual Politics; Springer, Living
for the Revolution.
17 Cohen, “Punks, Bulldaggers and Welfare Queens.”
18 Slay tv, “No Shade, Pi­lot.”
19 Slay tv, “No Shade, Ep. 3: No Roaches.”

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=­PL707C62B49DBCE0A8&index​=­6.
Riggs, Marlon. “Black Macho Revisited: Reflection of a snap! Queen.” In ­Brother
to ­Brother: New Writings by Black Gay Men, edited by Essex Hemphill. Boston:
Alyson, 1991.
Slay tv. “No Shade, Pi­lot.” YouTube, February 13, 2013. [Link]
/­watch​?­v​=z­ 22DtUGd5Q4.
Slay tv. “No Shade, Ep. 3: No Roaches.” YouTube, March 13, 2013. [Link]
.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=­7R​_­UF63ofWw.
Springer, Kimberly. Living for the Revolution: Black Feminist Organ­izations, 1968–1980.
Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005.
Weston, Kath. Families We Choose: Lesbians, Gays, Kinship. New York: Columbia
University Press, 1993.

Queer Kinship and Worldmaking 133

CH.8 STYLING AND PROFILING / BALLERS,
BLACKNESS, AND THE SARTORIAL POLITICS
OF THE NBA

David J. Leonard

Each year, with the arrival of the National Basketball Associa-

tion (nba) playoffs, comes a heightened level of scrutiny for the players’ shot
se­lection, defensive effort, and sartorial choices. Yes, the postgame clothing
choices of nba players anchor playoff coverage. Commentators routinely
analyze, mock, and celebrate the fashion choices of Kevin Durant, James
Harden, Stephen Curry, Russell Westbrook, LeBron James, and Dwyane
Wade, turning postgame press conferences into the nba’s version of the red
carpet, transforming their arrivals to each game into a catwalk. Donning
elaborately designed shirts covered with polka dots, a circus theme, or fish-
ing lures; plaid jackets, pink and green suits; an array of hats; bow ties; pink
and yellow pants; and suits with capri pants, a myriad of superstars have
pushed their own sense of style into the public square. In the face of wide-
spread pressure and newly formed rules regulating their clothing choices,
t­ hese players have extended a tradition of signifying and protesting through
clothing.
While read against the nba’s dress code, which was enacted ­after the in-
famous “Palace Brawl”1 and in relationship to the media “style wars,”2 this
chapter d ­ oesn’t conclude that ­these stylistic choices are transformative forms
of re­sis­tance and rebellion.3 Reflecting the neoliberal logics of individuality,
marketing, branding, and personal transformation, ­these player interven-
tions are constrained by the logics of white supremacy and the l­imited pos-
sibilities of individualized protests. This is equally evidenced by the media’s
response to the players’ sartorial choices in the wake of the dress code, which
seemingly made them into “exceptions” to the au­then­tic gangsta ste­reo­type
or ­children who are throwing a temper tantrum at the demands of profes-
sionalism. Part shock and awe, part cele­bration of the players’ purported
back-­turning on pathological hip-­hop styles, and part embrace of the fash-
ion industry appropriation of a hip-­hop or new black aesthetic, the sartorial
choices of nba players reflect the broader racial culture wars that have de-
fined the nba for three de­cades.4
Attention to the sartorial politics of the nba landscape is an impor­tant
con­temporary phenomenon that works ­toward one way of understanding the
complex relationship between blackness and popu­lar culture. In spite of only
a very small percentage of African American nba players performing “nerd
chic” through sartorial choices, the media pays significant attention to the
phenomenon. This hyper attention given to t­ hese fashion choices and the so-
cial politics of the nba that produced the per­for­mances represents an impor­
tant public arena wherein the complexities of blackness are represented.
At one level, the players are challenging the narrowness of profession-
alism, respectability, and appropriateness through suits and other business
attire. They are saying that t­here are many ways to be professional, to be
marketable, and to be celebrated within the American landscape. At another
level, the players’ sartorial choices are resisting the narrow constructions
of blackness that define au­then­tic hip-­hop styles and urban masculinities,
­those very aesthetics and styles used to demonize and pathologize black
youth. They try to dismantle the dialectics that equate nerddom and white-
ness and thuggery and blackness, that reduce black athleticism to body and
physicality and white athleticism to intelligence and creativity. ­These sarto-
rial choices work to disrupt ­the entrenched ideas that form the core of
antiblack racism. And fi­nally, the range of sartorial choices—­Nick Young,
Kevin Durant, and Russell Westbrook’s nerd chic, James Harden, Chris Paul
and Kyle Kuzma’s stylish bags (or anything e­ lse for that ­matter), Dwayne

Styling and Profiling 135

Wade’s capri pants and Tim Duncan’s flip-­flops and jeans, Kobe Bryant’s and
LeBron James’s jerseys and $5,000 suits—­highlight the ways that players are
complicating our understanding of the adorned black male body. The range
of styles between players and from individual players signifies on the hetero-
geneity of black masculinity. The fact that Westbrook or Durant or Jimmy
Butler or Harden or J. R. Smith or Kobe Bryant wears a jersey and baggy
jeans one day, a designer suit the next, and a nerd chic outfit on the third
spotlights the ways they perform multiple inscriptions of black masculinity.
During the 2015 All-­Star weekend, James put on a fashion show where par-
ticipants dressed as they would for the boardroom, a night out, and arriving
to the game. This juxtaposition highlights the multiple inscriptions of black
masculinity at work.
Yet despite the diversity of styles, the nba’s black players have long been
reduced not only to their clothing but also to a single part of their closet.
As evidenced by the media response to nba style choices and the broader
cultural landscape, a flattened and narrow understanding of black mascu-
linity can be seen in the reading of their sartorial choices. That is, despite
the larger history of dandyism, which sought to disrupt white supremacist
readings of blackness, the emergence of the nba’s nerd chic fails to disrupt
hegemonic antiblack ste­reo­types and the logics that gave rise to its dress
code. The dialectics between whiteness and notions of civilization, between
blackness and constructions of thuggery, between whiteness and nerddom/
intelligence, and between blackness and unprofessionalism/pathology are
held in place through the reading of nba stylings, from the pre–­dress code
era right through to our current moment.
Within this context, this chapter looks at the ways that sartorial choices,
constructions of black male identity, and commodity culture operate through,
against, and within hegemonic definitions of blackness and whiteness. Both
the dress code and the reaction to nerd chic operate in and through a hege-
monic understanding of blackness. I examine how racial per­for­mance and
sartorial choices within the nba and hip-­hop culture work through domi-
nant ste­reo­types, existing amid per­sis­tent antiblack racism. Arguing that the
fascination with nerd chic and the wardrobe of the nba’s stars embodies the
fear and loathing, the demonization and racialization, the fetishization and
commodification of black bodies, I explore the racial lessons offered amid the
clothing commentary that has become commonplace within con­temporary
sporting culture. While a part of the chapter rests with contextualizing the
sartorial choices of t­ oday’s nba stars, from LeBron James to Russell West-
brook, within a tradition of re­sis­tance, I am more concerned with the racial

136 David J. Leonard

logics attached to the clothed black nba bodies before and ­after the nba’s
dress code. Still, it is impor­tant, even while acknowledging its limitations, to
see the agency, to recognize the re­sis­tance, to see the broader history, and to
other­wise not allow for the mainstream media and broader hegemonic dis-
courses to overdetermine the meaning in their sartorial choices. Embodying
a history of dandyism, t­ oday’s black ballers are subverting the expectations
of the nba, and white Amer­i­ca as a ­whole, remixing aesthetic demands in
a way that illustrates their power, subjectivity, and agency. Irrespective of
the media discourse, which w ­ ill be a focus, that seeks to exceptionalize and
individualize bow ties and backpacks, plaid and bright color schemes, the
clothing choices must be seen within a larger history of black identity, the
nba, and the surveillance regimes of white supremacy.

Clothing ­Matters

The nba’s place on the fashion runway is long-standing. From Clyde Frazier’s
fur coats and fedoras to Dr. J’s disco funk, from Michael Jordan’s immacu-
late $5,000 . . . ​$10,000 . . . ​$15,000 ​suits to Allen Iverson’s hip-­hop gear, nba
players have always held a connection to fashion. In a gq interview, Frazier
discussed the expectations to perform off the court: “I first found out that I
was an icon for blacks, say, like, we’d go to Detroit and a­ fter the game ­we’re
on the bus, and all the kids would go, Clyde, c’mon, man, where’s the mink?
Clyde, c’mon, man, we wanted to see you dressed up! That’s when I realized
that ­people ­were ­really into the way I was dressing. So that’s when I went
somewhere I made sure I was dressed up.”5 In a related piece, Steve Marsh
argues that the centrality of nba style, on and off the court, is not surpris-
ing given the ways the league has long marketed itself through individual
stars and the ways that basketball itself is about creativity, individuality, and
spontaneity.6
More than in any other sport, basketball showcases the individual; we
can see each player’s tics and idiosyncrasies when he’s on the court, and
that’s how we begin to decide who we think he is.7 At least as far back as
Frazier, no sport has been more enmeshed in the allure of black culture and
style.8 The visibility, the primacy of a culture of cool, and the celebrity of
nba stars has compelled attention for more than three de­cades. The connec-
tion between the nba and the city, between the basketball and urban black
culture, and between 1970s black culture and the league’s stars, fueled the
crossover of t­ hese styles. Through the 1980s and 1990s, not only within the
nba but also in college with the squads at unlv and Michigan, basketball

Styling and Profiling 137

would be instrumental in shaping clothing styles on and off the court. In re-
cent years, the importance of the sartorial choices of nba players has taken
on greater meaning. Reflecting the cultural ascendance of sports media and
new media technologies, which allows for a larger platform, the sartorial per­
for­mance of ­today’s nba stars has emerged as almost as impor­tant as assist
totals and championship rings.
As evident in the experiences of Frazier and the catwalk-­like realities of
walking from car to locker room, the players’ clothing choices ­matter. They
­matter b­ ecause of the place of the nba within the cultural landscape given
the nba’s racial demographics. Yes, the nba’s cultural power fueled the in-
terest in “the style wars.” The place of hip hop and the league’s commodi-
fication of individual stars further the importance of style, aesthetics, and
sartorial choices. With each, race, the white gaze, and signifiers surround-
ing blackness sit at the center; the meaning, spectacle, and fetish surround-
ing the clothing of nba stars, from the 1970s through ­today, highlights the
power in the staging of black masculinity within public discourse. Race and
conceptions of blackness and whiteness fuel the interest in t­ he clothes. The
bodies that don t­ hese clothes further highlight the racial stakes, demon-
strating the ways that clothes become a site for the contestation of racial
meaning.

Race and the Politics of Adornment

It would be easy to simply read Frazier’s coat, Jordan’s tailored suits, Iver-
son’s baggy jeans, LeBron’s capri suit, Steph’s trenchcoat and Timbs, or West-
brook’s nerd chic as capitalism personified. Yes, the nba’s marketing of
individual stars and the efforts of players to brand themselves in financially
lucrative ways play out in impor­tant ways. Branding m ­ atters; so do com-
modity culture, neoliberalism, transnational capitalism, and the dialectics
between cool, race, gender, and clothing. Yet the sartorial choices of nba
stars are also a story of resistance—­they are part of the “hidden transcript”
and the infrapolitics that disrupt the structures of racism.9
To understand ­these dimensions requires looking beyond the market-
place, beyond corporate culture, t­ oward an understanding of re­sis­tance and
the ways that race operates within American culture. The “politics of adorn-
ment” are ­shaped by Amer­i­ca’s racial history.10 It is not just the clothing
but the body wearing the clothes, a racial body imbued with meaning and
signification in the dominant white imagination. As Herman Gray notes,
“Self-­representations of black masculinity in the United States are historically

138 David J. Leonard

structured by and against dominant (and dominating) discourses of mascu-
linity and race, specifically whiteness.”11 To understand the nba’s clothing
politics, dress code, player re­sis­tance, and media discourse necessitates cen-
tering a discussion of racism as well as the signifying practices of blackness
and whiteness.
Whereas much media discussion of the outfits of the Oklahoma City
Thunder’s Russell Westbrook and Kevin Durant and the eyewear of the
Miami Heat’s LeBron James and Dwayne Wade focuses on individual brand-
ing, rendering their styles as depoliticized practices, as l­ittle more than a
personal expression, it is impor­tant to link their sartorial choices to a larger
history of race, racism, and the “politics of adornment.” As noted by Tani-
sha Ford in her discussion of clothing and Freedom Summer, “Focusing on
the adornment politics of Freedom Summer does not trivialize its po­liti­cal
aims. It helps us broaden our understanding of ‘black freedom,’ moving us
beyond a definition that centers on the pursuit of equal access to public
facilities.”12 Noting that “black style attempts to escape ste­reo­types, fixity,
essentialization—­signify on them—­and functions as a pro­cess of identity
formation,” Monica L. Miller argues that African American sartorial choice
is “a dialogic pro­cess that exists in relation to white dandyism at the same
time it expresses, through its own internal logic, black culture.” Demonstrat-
ing the power in the clothes, the “politics of adornment,” and the sartorial
stakes, Miller further argues that “the black body alone inside the material
­will alter the fabric. . . . ​Black dandies continually ‘repeat, revise, reverse, or
transform what has come before,’ using clothing as a means to create new
images and identities and revise them yet again.”13
As evident h ­ ere, one of the primary areas of discussion concerned with
race, ste­reo­type, and clothing has focused on the concept of black dandy-
ism. Shantrelle P. Lewis, the curator for the exhibit Dandy Lion: Articulating
Black Masculine Identity, describes the “dandy lion” and “dandyism” in the
following way: “A dandy lion is a con­temporary expression of black dan-
dyism. It’s a new statement on black masculinity within a con­temporary
context. He is a man of elegance, an individual who remixes a Victorian era
fashion and aesthetic with traditional African sensibilities and swagger.”14
Noting that the stakes and significance extend beyond personal style but
are wrapped in existing ste­reo­types, Lewis reflects on the significance of
clothing in the racialization of black bodies: “Especially for young p ­ eople,
we are bombarded with this one sided, monolithic image of what it means
to be black and male, primarily around the United States and actually even
around the globe. The image is a negative one, images of black men are

Styling and Profiling 139

not reaffirming and not positive. . . . ​Express creativity and individuality.
That’s what dandy lions seek to express, especially to a young generation
that’s also paying tribute to the older generation. Respectability was a way
of life.15”
Although black dandyism has the potential to operate through a “politics
of respectability” (I w­ ill return to this at the end of the paper) that requires
blackness to disrupt antiblack ste­reo­types and buys into “the social engi-
neering proj­ect,” the importance ­here rests with the stakes and the power in
­these sartorial choices.16 In other words, while the ability of clothing and sty-
listic choices to disrupt antiblack ste­reo­types is questionable, the demands
that black bodies prove their worth, their desirability, their civility, and their
place within the white imagination is part and parcel of white supremacy.
This is part of the history of the nba. The dialogic per­for­mances and
signifying practices on full display during press conferences and as most
players arrive and leave the stadium highlight the ways they are staging
black masculinity in their sartorial choices, and t­hese choices cannot be
read outside of a larger social-­cultural-­political and race landscape. While
that was always the case, given the interest in Frazier’s pregame dress or the
fact that Jordan would rarely be seen off the court in something other than
a business suit, the stakes and importance of player clothing took on new
meaning by 2003.

NBA Dress Code

To understand the stakes, and the power in the sartorial choices of nba
players, it is crucial to look at the history of the nba and its obsession with
their closets. That is, the efforts to appeal to white fans and corporations,
to contain the league’s blackness, and to ‘civilize’ t­ hose unruly black bodies
have focused on the players’ clothes.
Not only unsuccessful on the court, the 2004 Olympic basketball team
caused a significant amount of embarrassment for the nba in the wake of its
efforts to conceal blackness from the league. Prior to the games, members
of the basketball team attended a dinner in their honor at a fancy Belgrade
restaurant. While other guests, including members of the Serbian National
Team, wore matching sport coats and dressed as o­ thers might describe as
“appropriate,” Allen Iverson, Carmelo Anthony, LeBron James, and other
members of the American team showed up in sweat suits, oversized jeans
and shirts, large platinum chains, and, of course, diamond earrings. Larry
Brown, the team’s coach and often celebrated benevolent white f­ ather figure

140 David J. Leonard

of the nba, was appalled, coming close to sending several players back to the
­hotel. Word of the fashion faux pas eventually made its way to the office of
nba Commissioner David Stern in New York, where concern was already on
the rise about how some players ­were dressing and, more broadly, how the
game’s appeal was slipping.
In the aftermath of the Palace Brawl, which saw Ron Artest and the Indi-
ana Pacers go into the stands, declining ratings, the sexual assault allegations
against Kobe Bryant, the arrest of Allen Iverson, several high profile drug
incidents, and the longstanding perception that the nba was being over-
run by “criminals,” “gangstas,” “thugs,” and ­those other­wise prone to “bad
be­hav­ior,” David Stern announced plans for a league-­wide dress code in Oc-
tober 2005.17 As the cliché goes, clothing makes a man, and Stern sought
to remake the nba’s black men in hopes of curtailing widespread animos-
ity ­toward the nba and its hip-­hop ballers. Concluding that ad hoc policies
and team-­directed rules ­were incompatible with their efforts to “rehabilitate
the image of a sport beset with bad be­hav­ior,” the league instituted a dress
code policy that governed players, all while sending a message to fans and
corporate partners.18 The dress code represented an effort to counteract the
negative perception that had plagued the nba through simply restricting,
controlling, and regularing the assumed signifiers of blackness.
Specifically, the league office directed players to be more accessible
through public appearances and signing autographs; it pushed players to
participate in events that sought to diminish the? social distance between
players and ticket holders. And, of course, they needed to dress in a more
presentable way; they needed to appeal to Red State Amer­i­ca (white Amer­
i­ca) in how they looked. The dress code, along with the nba cares program
and other changes, represented the nba’s effort “to look a l­ittle less gangsta
and more genteel.”19 It was part of a public relations strategy that emphasized
the quality and good nature of nba players. “­These guys are millionaires and
should act like it. They stay in four-­star ­hotels, go to the best restaurants, it’s
not appropriate to go to t­ hese places in a tracksuit,” said Clyde Frazier, the
one-­time sartorial rebel of the nba. “If they worked at that high a level for
any other corporation in Amer­i­ca, with their salaries, ­they’d have to wear a
suit and tie. It’s not too much to ask.”20 Their clothes needed to index their
benevolence, professionalism, and desirability. They needed to be respect-
able and to appeal to a white gaze that would see them as desirable rather
than threatening. The clothes draping their bodies needed to literally and
meta­phor­ically cloak—­hide and conceal—­their blackness, highlighting their
proximity to whiteness.

Styling and Profiling 141

 Specifically, the nba’s dress policy required that players “wear business
casual attire” whenever participating in league events or team functions
or when conducting “team or league business,” defined as any “activity
conducted on behalf of the team or the league during which the player is
seen by or interacts with fans, business partners, members of the public, the
media, or other third parties.” The policy restricted the clothing choices of
players engaged in a number of tasks: participating in league events, pro-
motional appearances, or media interviews; sitting on the bench when not
in uniform; leaving or arriving at the stadium, and, potentially, riding on
team buses or planes. In addition to regulating dress in par­tic­u­lar (public
and private) spaces, the policy also stipulated what constituted “business
attire,” specifying that to be in compliance players must wear dress shirts
and/or sweaters, dress slacks, dress jeans or khakis, socks, and e­ ither dress
shoes “or presentable shoes.” At the same time the policy laid out a series
of unacceptable clothing choices: “Headgear of any kind while sitting on
the bench or in the stands at a game, during media interviews, or during
a team or league event or appearance (­unless appropriate for the event or
appearance, team-­identified, and approved by the team) is to be excluded.”21
Although Stern and ­others inside the nba spoke of the policy in universal
terms, as an effort to highlight the professionalism and “goodness” of all its
players, numerous players saw the policy as something e­ lse: a racist assault
on hip hop and yet another instance of the nba attacking its young black
male stars.22

Changing Clothes, not the Narrative?

The dress code, and the players’ negotiation of the dress code, would spark
ample praise from Amer­i­ca’s sport’s media.23 Such praise highlights the limi-
tations of the signifying brought into focus from several nba players. De-
spite asserting their agency and voices, and despite their disruption of the
goals of the dress code, ultimately the rise of nerd chic left intact the hege-
monic inscription of blackness and the nba.
The media efforts to see the rise of nerd chic as the arrival of respectabil-
ity, as connected to whiteness, spotlights the bound­aries in t­hese sartorial
protests. At times, media discursive interest in the sartorial choices of black
nba players played into hegemonic ste­reo­types about the “selfish athlete,”
reinforcing narratives about nba players being obsessed with “style over sub-
stance.” Some within the media saw the clothing shift as further evidence
of the prob­lems of a league wrought with selfish, egotistical, and superficial

142 David J. Leonard

athletes who w ­ ere all about style and no substance. For o­ thers, it was a re-
freshing change from the dysfunction of the hip-­hop era. Still o­ thers would
dehistoricize style and aesthetics as ­little more than individualized branding,
as reflective of the power of social media, or a response to the sartorial surveil-
lance emanating from the league.24 Rachel Felder even concluded, “Fashion
has become a virtual obsession for many players, presumably fueled in part
by athletes’ naturally competitive nature to outshine other peers.”25 Yet, nei-
ther the dress code nor the shifting styles from jerseys and jeans to capris
and backpacks disrupted the narrow and flattening definitions of blackness.
Oscar Moralde makes this clear, questioning the possibility of sartorial trans-
gression given white supremacist ideologies: “Ultimately, if the nba dandy
wishes to subvert the white-­imposed league dress code, can he only escape
by submitting himself to the authentication of a dif­fer­ent dress code that
remains coded white?”26
Interestingly, Amer­i­ca’s sports racial skeptics and ­those who celebrated
the n.b.a.—­the “New Black Aesthetic”27—­among its elite ballers, shared a
similar understanding of the ways that whiteness and blackness operated
through ­these clothing choices. For example, noting how players wear “ging-
ham and plaid and velvet, bow ties and sweater vests, suspenders, and thick
black glasses they ­don’t need,” Wesley Morris, in Grantland, celebrated their
stylistic stances as a stance against racial ste­reo­types. Seeing them as black
dandies, Morris found power in the players’ adjustment to the dress code era.
For him, postgame clothing was not simply an outfit but an effort to stomp
out racial bigotry: “Their colors conflict. Their patterns clash. Clothes that
once stood as an open invitation to bullies looking for something to hang on
the back of a bathroom door are what James now wears to rap alongside Lil
Wayne. Clothes that once signified whiteness, squareness, suburbanness, sis-
syness, in the minds of some nba players no longer do.” Seemingly accepting
the premise that suits or ties are indeed the clothing of the white commu-
nity, Morris argues that the nba’s new clothing era ­will spark a new level of
ac­cep­tance of the nba’s black players and a reimagination of t­ hese sartorial
choices through a colorblind lens.28
Similarly, nba writer Sean Gregory identifies a player’s sartorial choices
as a win­dow into his broader appeal and demeanor: “In Durant, African-­
Americans are blessed with an ideal front man: a seemingly ­humble super-
star,” evidenced by his “refusal to play the part of ego-­driven hoops celeb” as
well as his propensity to wear glasses rather than chains, a backpack rather
than headphones, and a sweater in lieu of a hoodie.29 If you d ­ idn’t know that
plaid and mismatched colors ­were a sign of humility and a lack of ego, now

Styling and Profiling 143

you know. Like Morris, Gregory sees shifting style as a tool used to disprove
antiblack ste­reo­types.
This sort of sartorial respectability as antiracism was commonplace in
the dawn of the nba’s sartorial revolution. Even glasses had the potential
to convince Amer­i­ca’s racial skeptics that black nba players ­were not thugs
or gangstas but good, honest, and respectable ­people. Glasses ­were a game
changer in Amer­i­ca’s long-­standing racial strug­gle. Commenting about
the popularity of nonprescription glasses among nba stars, Dave Hyde,
another of the nba’s litany of commentators, furthered the links between
“nerds” and the sort of “style” embraced by several nba stars: “That’s just
it. No one’s sure what the statement ­these frameless glasses are other than,
well, Urkel-­R-­Us. . . . ​But wear the non-­glass glasses? You d­ on’t need to un-
derstand fashion to recognize a nerdy idea when it hits you right between
the eyes.”30
The efforts to celebrate what Gregory describes as “preppy-­dress move-
ment” and “nerd attire” are wrapped up in larger questions of identity. For
several commentators, the shifting clothing choices punctuated an ex-
panded definition of blackness common in con­temporary Amer­i­ca. Along-
side the rise of nba nerd chic, we also saw the embrace of postracial black-
ness articulated by Kanye West, Pharrell, and Touré, each of whom has
spoken about a new blackness developing inside the walls of a postracism
Amer­i­ca.
­Under this logic, our changing world allows for Allen Iverson and Kevin
Durant, Kanye West and Lil Wayne, Brittney Griner and Nicki Minaj, Mi-
chelle Obama and Cory Booker all to exist u ­ nder a larger umbrella of black-
ness, without any societal stigma, consequence, or prob­lem. According to
Touré, “I see [black irony] in nba star Kevin Durant’s penchant for nerd
chic, wearing glasses and a schoolboy backpack and thereby taking the air
out of the black male imperative to be masculine, tough, and cool.” 31 That is,
blackness exists without the mandate of respectability and the trappings of
whiteness. The scrutiny directed at player clothing, at the sartorial choices
of President Obama and the first lady, the existence of dress codes within
not only the nba but also public schools and nightclubs, and of course the
criminalization of black youth, from Trayvon Martin to Michael Brown, for
their clothing choices, all point to the ways that culture and clothing exist
as a racial signifier, imbued with the logics of antiblack vio­lence and white
supremacy.
­Here’s where the argument falls apart: Touré and o­ thers see expanded
per­for­mances available to black bodies as evidence of postraciality yet

144 David J. Leonard

ignore the ways that certain bodies, per­for­mances, and styles are privileged
as more desirable, respectable, and acceptable. Moreover, he cites nerd
chic as ironic, seemingly normalizing glasses and nerd style as the purview
of whiteness. At the same time, his argument ignores the ways that high
fashion has embraced hip hop, selling certain styles at significant profit.
Likewise, the commentary around nerd chic seemingly erases the historic
specificity of ­these sartorial choices. The failure to account for dandyism,
to look at the use of colors, spectacle, and flamboyance from ­these players,
and the larger context of black dandies point to the ways that narrative
seeks to see t­ hese players through a lens of whiteness. The irony emanates
from not only the binary between whiteness=nerd and blackness=athlete
but through imagining athleticism/blackness as disconnected from intel-
ligence, logic, and books as ­those are part and parcel of the nerd/whiteness
identity.
While oversimplifying black identity and reducing blackness to aesthet-
ics, styles, and cultural practices and erasing the long-­standing diversity
within the black community, the cele­bration of nerd chic or “black irony”
actually reinforces ste­reo­types. According to this logic, what makes their
style noteworthy, what is worth celebrating and worthy of commentary is
that Durant, Westbrook, James, and Wade a­ ren’t acting like “black men.”
What is unusual is that they are wearing the clothes and embodying the
styles of someone ­else, someone they are not. Clothing change—­check; ste­reo­­
types continue—­check.
Morris makes this clear when he equates the nerd movement within the
nba to cross-­dressing: “The cardigans and black frames, the backpacks and
every­thing ­else: It’s all as overdetermined as what happens on Proj­ect Run-
way with Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj, and with the drag queens. ‘Nerd’ is
a kind of drag in which ballers are liberated to pretend to be someone e­ lse.”
Morris, like so much of the cele­bration of the nba’s nerd chic, essentializes
blackness as “thug” and “gangsta,” so much so that shedding sagging pants
for capris is i­magined as a form of “racial cross-­dressing.” Such narratives
see liberation as pos­si­ble by pretending to be “respectable” and “sartorially
white,” which, in the end, holds up the logics of white supremacy, all while
seeing change as pos­si­ble with a ­simple shopping spree.32 While the trans-
formative possibilities of the rise of nba nerd chic are overstated, given the
entrenched nature of antiblack racism, given its neoliberal cap­i­tal­ist sensi-
bilities, this is a sartorial intervention. Whereas Morris and o­ thers see t­ hese
clothing changes through a binary that reifies whiteness and blackness, that
juxtaposes an essentialized black and white style, it is clear that players are

Styling and Profiling 145

disrupting ­these binaries, playing with and undermining hegemonic under-
standings of difference.

Shock and Awe

While much of the dominant discourse sees athletes “acting” like nerds, as if
being athletic is the opposite of being smart and intellectual, this reflects the
overall idea that the nerd look allows t­ hese black athletes to become white in
the dominant imagination and therefore transcend the ste­reo­type of young
black males. This does ­little to transform the ste­reo­type but instead leaves
them unscathed as ties and cardigans remain as symbols of goodness and
whiteness, whereas hoodies and beanies continue as markers of criminality,
danger, and blackness. Robin D. G. Kelley suggests, “In ­these efforts to rep-
resent body through dress, African Americans welded a double edged sword
since the styles they ­adopted to combat racism all too frequently reinforced
rather than challenged bourgeois notions of respectability.”33 In other words,
“Black dandyism serves as both liberation and a mode of conformity.”34 The
realities experienced in an nba of the dress code era points to the limitations
and false promises of a politics of respectability b­ ecause of the investment in
whiteness and white supremacy.
While seeing the rise of nerd chic within the nba as part of a larger his-
tory of black dandyism and understanding the liberatory possibilities, this
example demonstrates the futility of a politics of respectability. According to
Kobena Mercer, the “binarism of so-­called positive and negative images” are
“unhelpful.” Mercer makes clear that the cultural yearning to replace “nega-
tive” (racist) with “positive” (respectable) forecloses on endless positibilities:
“As black ­people, we are now more aware of the identities, fantasies, and
desire that are coerced, simplified, and reduced by the rhetorical closure
that flows from that kind of critique.”35 Cornel West, like Mercer, questions
both the desirability and the plausibility of such a “social engineering proj­
ect,” arguing, “The social engineering argument claims that since any form
of repre­sen­ta­tion is constructed—­i.e., selective in light of broader aims—­
Black repre­sen­ta­tion (especially given the difficulty of Blacks gaining access
to positions of power to produce any Black imagery) should offer positive
images, thereby countering racist ste­reo­types. The hidden assumption of
both arguments is that we have unmediated access to what the ‘real Black
community’ is and what ‘positive images’ are.”36 The demand to disprove
“negative” repre­sen­ta­tions with “positivity” mandates that artists, prac­ti­
tion­ers, and ­others further centers the white gaze. Mercer, West, Patricia Hill

146 David J. Leonard

Collins, and countless ­others identify ­these repre­sen­ta­tional movements as
futile challenges to racism, which put the burden on African Americans to
perform and embody a respectable and desirable image of blackness to be
consumed by the public. Hats, bow ties, and $5,000 suits (or significantly
higher), clothing from a fashion industry dominated by whiteness, are not
sources of “liberation and a mode of conformity”; they offer no liberation
from white supremacy; ­there is no challenge to the logics of white suprem-
acy and a practice that gives legitimacy to the binaries of white supremacy,
which furthers exploitation and abuse.
Although offering impor­tant interventions, and a symbolic challenge
to the flattening of black identity, while playing with the binaries of “re-
spectable” versus “thug,” black versus white, and the racialized constructs
of athlete versus nerd, nba dandyism is not a tool of liberation or a pathway
delegitimating dominant racial ste­reo­types. Even as an intervention, it is
evidence of the profitability in antiblack racism. The allure of a “new black
aesthetic” is understandable given the desire to challenge antiblack racism
and its consequences inside and outside the sporting landscape. Yet in the
end we see the power of commodifying both “new styles” and “transforma-
tive images.” These interventions do more to line the pockets of the ­owners,
sports media conglomerates, and clothing companies. At best, they offer
narratives of “exceptions” to the narratives of blackness that center pa-
thology, criminality, and danger. Yes, KD24 or LB6 are dif­fer­ent from their
friends back on the block. In their sartorial choices, they are the exceptions
that normalize the rule and the associated vio­lence. Nerd chic is profitable
for the league all while sanctioning daily racial profiling. The dress code,
the discourses surrounding players’ sartorial choices, and the resulting nerd
chic “gives credence to the deeply reactionary idea that you can profile an-
tisocial be­hav­ior through clothes,” writes progressive sports writer Dave
Zirin. “If someone wears baggy jeans and a chain, they must be on drugs,
packing a gat, or on their way to see one of their twenty babies. This is a
slap in the face to e­ very baller who lives clean and, as a grown man chooses
to wear what he damn well pleases—­not to mention the young urban audi-
ence that the nba depends on.”37 Despite the promise of changing white
hearts and minds, the nerd chic era gives credence to racial essentialism,
the logics of racial profiling, and the false home of liberation through per-
sonal transformation. It anchors colorblind racism.38 The importance of
exceptional blackness in seeing certain bodies as aberrations results from
the “illegibility” of black bodies not dressed in hoodies, jerseys, or (prison/
athlete) uniforms.39

Styling and Profiling 147

 The spectacle of shock, which imagines the recent nba stylings as an
aberration, as “illegible,” and seemingly incompatible with an au­then­tic
blackness, emanates from a failure to consider sartorial choices in relation-
ship to a history of black re­sis­tance. It also rests on a refusal to see player
agency, and a collective response to antiblack racism within the nba and the
broader social fabric. As Nicole Fleetwood asserts, “Authenticity is a highly
racialized and complex term in American culture. In the context of race and
masculinity, authenticity imbues the subject with a mythic sense of virility,
danger, and physicality.”40 The sartorial choices and the performative exhibi-
tions of t­ hese aesthetic markers from ­today’s nba players carve out a space
of re­sis­tance to ­those regimes of regulation, ­whether in the form of a dress
code or demands that certain styles are antithetical to an au­then­tic black
masculinity.
The discourse, thus, erases the racial history and the specifics ­behind the
dress code and how the players responded in ways that asserted their subjec-
tivity, individuality, and agency; it also erases the history of fashion within
the nba and even college basketball for that ­matter. From Wilt Chamber-
lin’s unbuttoned silk shirts and Dr. J’s Afro to Jordan’s shaved head, from
Slick Watt’s headbans to the Fab Five’s baggy shorts and black socks, from
Allen Iverson’s jewelry to Shaq’s oversized suits, from Westbrook’s construc-
tion uniform or distressed jeans to Kyle Kuzma’s turtle neck and fur coat,
nba players have always embraced a fashion-­forward sensibility on and off
the court. To reimagine con­temporary nba stylings as pro­gress, as a matu-
rity, discipline, or understanding of what’s appropriate to wear in a work
place, as the result of David Stern’s intervention, or as reflecting “their step-
ping up their game” requires erasing not only the history of fashion within
the nba but also the broader history of sartorial choices and re­sis­tance.41
In focusing on Stern, and how an intervention from the nba’s “great
white ­father” led to the “style wars,” the discourse once again reimagines
black identity and re­sis­tance from the standpoint of a white savior. That
is, it is ­because of Stern and his dress code that nba players are dressing so
“nicely” and receiving positive media attention, financial rewards, and cul-
tural appreciation. Celebrating the potential and the necessity of disciplin-
ary actions directed at the abject bodies, the dominant narrative around the
stylish choices of ­today’s nba superstars embraces the trope of white saviors
and the power of civilizing through coercion and power.
Despite efforts to dehistoricize and erase the po­liti­cal dimensions sewn
into the social fabric, ­there is much at stake within the “style wars.” ­Whether
in the threats of fines from the nba or the media commentaries about

148 David J. Leonard

clothing, w ­ hether in accepted ste­reo­types or the daily realities of racial pro-
filing, it’s clear that t­ here is much more at stake than a sense of style—­the
war is not simply about cool, the hottest designer, or appearing on some list
of “the best dressed baller”; the war is over black bodies and their significa-
tion within the dominant white imagination.
The importance of clothing and discussions of American racism are fully
evident outside the arena. The “politics of adornment” are not simply fod-
der for sports commentators but a site of profiling—­vio­lence and antiblack
racism. Responding to the release of security footage of Trayvon Martin at a
7/11 on the night of his murder, Geraldo Rivera identified his “thug wear” as
the reason he was profiled and ultimately killed by George Zimmerman: “I’ll
bet you money, if he ­didn’t have that hoodie on, that nutty neighborhood
watch guy w ­ ouldn’t have responded in that violent and aggressive way.”42 In
other words, had Martin worn Durant’s backpack, Wade’s glasses, or Amar’e
Stoudemire’s tie-­cardigan combination (interestingly many of the players at
the forefront of nerd chic also participated in hoodie protests within the
nba), he would be alive t­oday? Beyond its simplicity and offensiveness,
such a remark highlights that no m ­ atter how nerdy James, Harden, Curry,
or Durant dresses, their blackness and its meaning remain fully pre­sent in
the dominant imagination. The legibility of black criminality is entrenched
within the dominant white imagination. Their sartorial choices are surely
re­sis­tance efforts to navigate the nba rules and entrenched antiblack rac-
ism, yet their meaning and the stakes can never be covered up.

Notes

1 Leonard, ­After Artest.

2 Marsh, “Inside the nba’s New Style Wars.”
3 Leonard, ­After Artest.
4 Boyd, Young, Black, Rich, and Famous.
5 Marsh, “Legends of nba Style.”
6 Marsh, “Inside the nba’s New Style Wars.”
7 Boyd, Young, Black, Rich and Famous.
8 Marsh “Legends of nba Style.”
9 Kelley, Race Rebels; Scott, Domination.
10 Ford, “The Politics of ‘Freedom Summer’ Style.”
11 Quoted in Fleetwood, “Hip-­Hop Fashion,” 342.
12 Ford, “The Politics of ‘Freedom Summer’ Style.”
13 Miller, Slaves to Fashion, 14.

Styling and Profiling 149

 14 Haque, “Black Men.”
15 Haque, “Black Men.”
16 Higginbotham, Righ­teous Discontent; West, “The New Politics of Difference,” 130.
17 Philips, “The nba’s Bling Ban.” See Leonard, ­After Artest, for discussion of the media
discourse.
18 Philips, “The nba’s Bling Ban.”
19 Eligon, “n.b.a. Dress Code Decrees.”
20 Quoted in Critchell, “nba Stars Up Their Style Game.”
21 Morris, “nba Dress Code Policy.”
22 Leonard, ­After Artest.
23 Leonard, ­After Artest.
24 Ferrari-­King “nba Players Who Changed the Style Game for Good”; Graham
“How David Stern’s nba Dress Code Changed Men’s Fashion”; Cunningham, “nba
Style”; Lieber, “Inside the Symbiotic Relationship.”
25 Felder, “n.b.a. Style.”
26 Moralde, “The nba Dandy Plays the Fashion Game,” 70.
27 Ellis, “The New Black Aesthetic.”
28 Morris, “The Rise of the nba Nerd.”
29 Gregory, “nba Finals Profile.”
30 Hyde, “Some Optical Delusions.”
31 Quoted in Gregory, “nba Finals Profile.”
32 Morris, “The Rise of the nba Nerd.”
33 Quoted in Miller, Slaves to Fashion, 17.
34 Miller, Slaves to Fashion, 17.
35 Mercer, Welcome to the Jungle, 202
36 West, “The New Politics of Difference,” 130.
37 Zirin, Welcome to the Terrordome, 116.
38 Bonilla-­Silva, Racism without Racists.
39 Neal, Looking for Leroy.
40 Fleetwood, “Hip-­Hop Fashion,” 327.
41 Critchell, “nba Stars Up Their Style Game.”
42 Jonsson, “Geraldo Rivera.”

References

Bonilla-­Silva, E. Racism without Racists: Colorblind Racism and the Per­sis­tence of Racial
In­equality. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2006.
Boyd, Todd. Young, Black, Rich, and Famous: The Rise of the nba, the Hip Hop Invasion,
and the Transformation of American Culture. New York: Bison Books, 2008.
Collins, Patricia Hill. Black Sexual Politics: African Americans, Gender, and the New
­Racism. New York: Routledge, 2004.

150 David J. Leonard

Critchell, Samantha. “nba Stars Up Their Style Game off the Court.” Associated
Press, June 9, 2013. [Link]
04db7.
Cunningham, Erin. “nba Style: Full Court Dress.” Daily Beast, May 11, 2014. [Link]
[Link]/articles/2014/05/11/nba-­style-­full-­court-­[Link].
Eligon, John. “n.b.a. Dress Code Decrees: Clothes Make the Image.” New York
Times, October 19, 2005. www​.­nytimes​.­com​/­2005​/­10​/­19​/­sports​/­basketball​
/­19stern​.­html​?­oref​=l­ ogin.
Ellis, Trey. “The New Black Aesthetic.” Callaloo, no. 38 (winter 1989): 233–43.
Felder, Rachel. “n.b.a. Style: How Players Showcase Their Fashion A-­Game
off the Court.” Vanity Fair, June 5, 2014. [Link]
daily/2014/06/nba-­style.
Ferrari-­King, Giancarlo. “nba Players Who Changed the Style Game for Good.”
Bleacher Report, April 7, 2017. [Link]
-­players​-­who​-­changed​-­the​-­style​-­game​-­for​-­good.
Fleetwood, Nicole R. “Hip-­Hop Fashion, Masculine Anxiety, and the Discourse of
Americana,” In Black Cultural Traffic: Crossroads in Global Per­for­mance and Popu­
lar Culture, edited by Harry Justin Elam Jr. and Kennell Jackson. Ann Arbor:
University of Michigan Press, 2005.
Ford, Tanisha C. “The Politics of ‘Freedom Summer’ Style.” New Black Man (in Exile),
June 12, 2014. [Link]
freedom-­summer-­[Link].
Graham, Zach, “How David Stern’s nba Dress Code Changed Men’s
Fashion.” Rolling Stone, November 4, 2016. [Link]
/­culture​/­culture​-­sports​/­how​-­david​-­sterns​-­nba​-­dress​-­code​-­changed​-­mens​
-­fashion​-­104719​/­.
Gregory, Sean. “nba Finals Profile: Inside the Mind of Kevin Durant.”
Time, June 12, 2012. [Link]
profile-­inside-­the-­mind-­of-­nba-­superstar-­kevin-­durant/.
Haque, Fahima. “Black Men: Dandyism, Masculinity and Homophobia.” Washing-
ton Post, February 2, 2012. [Link]
post/black-­men-­dandyism-­masculinity-­and-­homophobia/2012/02/01/gIQA-
fOffkQ_blog.html.
Higginbotham, Evelyn Brooks. Righ­teous Discontent: The ­Women’s Movement in the
Black Baptist Church, 1880–1920. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994.
Hyde, Dave. “Some Optical Delusions in nba Playoffs.” Sun Sentinel (South
Florida), May 11, 2012. [Link]
fl-­hyde-­miami-­heat-0512–20120511_1_glasses-­kurt-­rambis-­nba.
Jonsson, Patrick. “Geraldo Rivera (Again) Says Trayvon Mar-
tin’s ‘Thug Wear’ Got Him Profiled.” Christian Science Monitor,
May 19, 2012. [Link]
Geraldo-­Rivera-­again-­says-­Trayvon-­Martin-­s-­thug-­wear-­got-­him-­profiled.
Kelley, Robin D. G. Race Rebels: Culture, Politics, and the Black Working Class. New
York: ­Free Press, 1994.

Styling and Profiling 151

 Leonard, David J. ­After Artest: The nba and the Assault on Blackness. New York: suny
Press, 2012.
Lieber, Chavie. “Inside the Symbiotic Relationship between Fashion and the nba.”
Racked, June 24, 2014. [Link]
fashion-­russell-­westbrook-­kobe-­devin-­durant-­amare-­[Link].
Marsh, Steve. “Inside the nba’s New Style Wars.” gq, March 28,
2013. [Link]
nba-­fashion-­style-­dwyane-­wade-­lebron-­james-­russell-­westbrook.
Marsh, Steve. “Legends of nba Style: The gq+a with Walt Frazier.”
gq, March 28, 2013. [Link]
nba-­fashion-­style-­walt-­clyde-­frazier-­interview.
Mercer, Kobena. Welcome to the Jungle: New Positions in Black Cultural Studies. New
York: Routledge, 1994.
Miller, Monica L. Slaves to Fashion: Black Dandyism and the Styling of Black Diasporic
Identity. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009.
Moralde, Oscar. “The nba Dandy Plays the Fashion Game: nba All-­Star All-­Style
and Dress Codes of Black Masculinity.” Journal of Popu­lar Culture 52, no. 1
(2019): 53–75.
Morris, Wesley. “The Rise of the nba Nerd: Basketball Style and Black Identity.”
Grantland, December 21, 2011. [Link]
­nerd/.
Morris, Wesley. “nba Dress Code Policy.” Inside Hoops, October 17, 20015. [Link]
[Link]/dress-­[Link].
Neal, Mark Anthony. Looking for Leroy: Illegible Black Masculinities. New York: New
York University Press, 2013.
Philips, Gary. “The nba’s Bling Ban: Looking Good.” Los Angeles Times, Novem-
ber 27, 2005. [Link]
-­nbablingbling27​-­story​.­html.
Scott, James C. Domination and the Arts of Re­sis­tance: Hidden Transcripts. New Haven,
CT: Yale University Press, 1992.
West, Cornel. “The New Politics of Difference.” In The Cornel West Reader, edited by
Cornel West. New York: Basic Civitas Books, 1999.
Wise, Mike. “Opinions on the nba Dress Code Far from Uniform.” Washington Post,
October 23, 2005.
Zirin, Dave. Welcome to the Terrordome: The Pain, Politics, and Promise of Sports. Chi-
cago: Haymarket Press, 2007.

152 David J. Leonard

CH.9 AN INTERVIEW WITH TRACY
SHARPLEY-WHITING /
JANUARY 27, 2016

What is the state of Black pop culture in the public sphere and as an
intellectual field of inquiry in the twenty-­first ­century?

I think we see it everywhere and nowhere in the public sphere. I say nowhere
specifically in reference to ways that it is elided, eclipsed, and repackaged as
American popu­lar culture. In effect, the elision of Black contributions in the
making of Amer­i­ca and our critical role in American history has the effect
of rendering ­those highly creative and appropriated aspects of Black popu­lar
culture as white American–­derived. It is, as the brilliant Greg Tate wrote,
an every­thing but the burden phenomenon. ­Here I am thinking specifically of
the very popu­lar New York Times best-­selling cookbook Thug Kitchen that per-
petrated a serious fraud The cookbook tapped into the organic and w ­ hole
food movements deeply embedded in African American foodways and prac-
tices (though folks just want to think we eat all the bad stuff—­history, and
my colleague Alice Randall’s cookbook Soul Food Love and academic course,
Soul Food: African American Foodways, tells us that is not so!). Mainstream-
ing/appropriation has often led to erasure and unwarranted compensation
(monetarily and culturally—as t­hese folks become tastemakers) for t­hose
other than the innovators of that cultural artifact or style. I am not opposed
to cultural metissage—­mixing, as the French say—but unfortunately, Ameri-
can culture, as hybrid as it is, via media and other power­ful mediums for
culture brokering, still stubbornly self-­presents as “white.” Intellectually, the
field is thriving in journals and books. I would like to see even more histori-
cal grounding in the approaches to Black popu­lar culture. The long arc of
history allows us to see its evolution.

How do you see Stuart Hall’s theorization of the” Black” in Black

popu­lar culture influencing your intellectual engagement with Black
cultural productions?

I came to Hall through my training in French studies and Black Atlantic cul-
tures and histories. For me, though, the “black” in Black popu­lar culture was
twinned specifically to gender and even class, so bell hooks, Audre Lorde,
and Patricia Hill Collins w ­ ere just as critical when I began thinking through
how Black ­women ­were situated at a specific historical moment (early
twenty-­first-­century hip-­hop culture), what had changed historically in
their situatedness, and how ideas of blackness and gender had changed po­
liti­cally in hip-­hop culture. The gendered dynamics, per­for­mances of work-
ing and middle-­class femininity and masculinity, attempts to rethink/push
the bound­aries of conventional ideas about femininity, are critical parts of
the cultural ­whole. For me, it was impossible to examine blackness without
exploring gender and class. Hall’s work treads the w ­ ater of intersectionality.
In effect, the work of Hall’s contemporaries helps deepen his analy­sis. It for-
tifies a critical foundation that had some blind spots—as all of our work does.

Do you feel the digital age affects the production, reception, and dis-
semination of Black pop culture in ways that compel us to both continue
revisiting Hall’s piece but to also build upon it? If yes, how do you see
con­temporary theorists and critics building upon Hall’s work given the
changes the digital age has produced? If no, why do you feel the digital
age does not compel scholars to revisit Hall and build upon his work?

Absolutely. The digital era has rendered Black popu­lar culture more easily
accessible than ever; it has allowed synergies across vast distances. It also

154 Tracy Sharpley-Whiting
allows us intellectually to mine the global nature of blackness and race as
historical terms, the meanings of blackness in dif­fer­ent spaces, and even the
ways that Black American popu­lar culture, while marginalized but its well-
spring of creativity deftly drawn upon at home, might also be viewed as he-
gemonic abroad. This last turn w ­ ill be key, as the perception has not always
been thus. How does a marginalized ­people from a global empire, which cur-
rently dominates the geopo­liti­cal landscape, parse intellectually/cognitively
their perceived power/hegemony? For an example closer to home, that is,
an academic one, I recall attending a conference on Black Europe—at the
time an emerging scholarly field. ­There was palpable tension about the re-
sources in the U.S. acad­emy that some U.S.-­located Black academics, who
­were all conflated into an African American identity, ­were able to access
versus ­those available to Afro-­European academics in Eu­rope. Of course,
some of this perception stemmed from a lack of understanding that the
vast majority of Black faculty in the U.S. acad­emy teach at hbcus, many
of which are underresourced; it was also understandably a linking to Amer­
i­ca as a cap­i­tal­ist, many-­headed hydra with inexhaustible resources capable
of exporting Black popu­lar culture on a global scale, of producing scholarly
monographs (a cultural product for the dissemination of much work on
Black popu­lar cultures), inter/national conferences (where the exchange of
ideas about diasporic cultures occurs), and the most rarified of opportuni-
ties: research sabbaticals. Moreover, we w ­ ere ­there in Eu­rope, funded by our
respective universities to attend the conference. We ­were inheritors of an
imperial identity and culture. It was a stunning position to be in. And it
pointed importantly to tensions in the African diaspora around “class” and
“location” as well as a thick tethering to local/national identities versus ra-
cial identities—­even in the face of social exclusion in Eu­rope. In the United
States, we often have a thin tethering to Americanness as a result of per­sis­
tent racial exclusion. In the end, we had to grapple with that inherited impe-
rial identity as well as the perceived and real strides made by African Ameri-
cans in spite of American racism; I had to recognize my perceived position
as an African American w ­ oman academic seemingly capable from my locale
via a power­ful cultural product/interlocutor—­the book—to unintentionally
direct even the discourse on black Europe—­whether it be about popu­lar cul-
ture or immigration.

Interview 155
 Please describe how you would situate “the transnational” in con­
temporary Black popu­lar culture, both as it is produced in the public
sphere as well as in academic discourse.

Sonic transnationality comes to mind immediately, as well as the literary arts

in the public sphere. And of course what is public has oftentimes crossed over
into what is academic. Hip hop is everywhere, though associated primarily
with the United States; we know its roots are more complicated in terms of
the African diaspora. Beyoncé uses a clip from a ted talk on feminism by
the Nigerian writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie on her trap song “Flawless.”
I am g­ oing to take the word “con­temporary” to mean more than just the right
now, but the past thirty to forty years. I remember reading Manthia Diawara’s
power­ful memoir, We W ­ on’t Budge: An African Exile in the World, for the first
time. It was for me stunning to read how influential Black American m ­ usic
and popu­lar culture ­were in his life in Mali, how it ­shaped his ideas of Amer­
i­ca and his politics. And how even when in France, knowing the ins and outs
of social exclusion with re­spect to Africans, he attempted to pass as African
American. In effect, we see the back-­and-­forth, the fluidity of identity, as Black
American musicians turned to Africa and the Ca­rib­bean for sounds. The Mar-
tinican Frantz Fanon inspires a rethinking of colonial models globally. I could
go on and on and further back ­because transnational Black popu­lar culture,
diasporic Black expressive cultures and identities, in the public sphere and in
academic modes of inquiry have been at work/play since the early modern era.

Your scholarship is consistently invested in examining transnational

blackness through a feminist lens that reveals Black ­women are often
in the vanguard of cultural movements. Can you discuss specific
Black ­women cultural producers whose work is in the vanguard of
transnational Black popu­lar culture ­today?

One of my favorite transnational Black ­women cultural producers ­today is

Rokhaya Diallo. She is a journalist, writer, filmmaker, and founder of Les
Indivisibles. She wrote a wonderful and quite cheeky piece, “The Guerlain
Affair: Odorless French Racism,” which was translated and published in
­ omen, Gender, and the Black International ­after Jean-­
Palimpsest: A Journal for W
Paul Guerlain said twice in an interview on French national tele­vi­sion that
he had worked “like a nigger” to build the luxury brand.

156 Tracy Sharpley-Whiting
 Do you foresee any critical shifts in Black pop culture as it relates to
blackness and transnationalism in the next twenty years?

Certainly, the “black” in bric [Brazil, Rus­sia, India, China] nations ­will have
an in­ter­est­ing place in terms of academic comparative study and/or what we
might stream most often on our vari­ous devices, if only ­because ­these are the
spaces/places from where we sit in the United States in which a ­great deal of
capital and negotiations is being expended; such outlay in places like India
as a geopo­liti­cal counterweight to China cannot help but enter the public
and academic discourse in in­ter­est­ing ways, especially as more work is done
on the Indian Ocean world. But I r­ eally think fast-­growing economies with
vibrant youth cultures and populations in countries on the continent of
Africa ­will be an in­ter­est­ing terrain for us to think about blackness and Black
popu­lar culture in fascinating ways. And ­here again, we ­will be reckoning
with China intellectually and in the public sphere as it continues its soft-­
power incursions into places like Ghana, Nigeria, Senegal, and elsewhere,
with flexible Chinese immigration policies and what some might call “in-
tegration,” while ­others prefer the term “sexual colonialism”; the implica-
tions are that we ­will definitely be exploring Black popu­lar culture and its
manifestations among a growing and influential mixed-­race youth popula-
tion with Sino origins.

Interview 157
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III. OWNING
BLACKNESS
This page intentionally left blank
CH.10 THE SUBALTERN IS SIGNIFYIN(G) /
BLACK TWITTER AS A SITE OF RE­SIS­TANCE

Sheneese Thompson

@deray: Twitter is home.

Facebook is grandma’s ­house.
Snapchat is your best friend’s ­house.
Tumblr is the lunch room.
Instagram is 24/7 prom.

​· ​Tweeted by the user on November 8, 2015, at 11:31 a.m.

Freddie Gray, a twenty-­five-­year-­old Black man from Baltimore, Mary­land,

was arrested “without incident” on the morning of April 12, 2015.1 Cell phone
footage of the encounter shows that Gray was not resisting arrest and that
the lower half of his body was completely limp as he was being loaded into
the police vehicle. Somehow, between the initial arrest and arriving at the
Baltimore Police Department’s Western District, where a medic was called,
Gray received fatal injuries to his spinal cord: three fractured vertebrae and
a crushed voice box.2 He went into a coma and died from his injuries on Sun-
day, April 19, 2015.3 How Gray received ­those injuries is still a point of con-
tention; however, it did become clear that, although Gray was handcuffed,
he was not strapped in with a safety b­ elt when placed into the police wagon.4
Following Gray’s death, the city of Baltimore erupted in civil unrest, which
became known as the #BaltimoreUprising on Twitter and other social media
sites.5 It was in the midst of this series of events that Black Twitter responded
to mainstream media accounts of Gray’s story and the corresponding rebel-
lion of Baltimore youth disgusted with state-­inflicted vio­lence against
Black ­people.
DeRay Mckesson, an activist and Baltimore native, makes an astute ob-
servation about the kinds of be­hav­ior exhibited by users on vari­ous social
networking websites and provides insight into the world of Black Twitter:
it is home, a place where Black Twitter users can feel ­free to be themselves.
Accordingly, users have been unabashedly taking on issues of race, rac-
ism, and police brutality as if the conversations ­were being held in their
own living rooms. Departing from Henry Louis Gates’s canonical text, The
Signifying Monkey: A Theory of African-­American Literary Criticism, this essay
asserts that African Americans are using social media in general, and Twit-
ter specifically, to contest mainstream media accounts of police vio­lence
against unarmed Black victims and advocate for change.6 I assert that Af-
rican Americans are using Black Twitter, a loosely formed but well-­defined
network of self-­identifying Black users, to talk back, and further, that they
are being heard. Black Twitter users are employing the age-­old practice of
signifyin(g) to revise biased news reports regarding police shootings of un-
armed Black p ­ eople and to address misrepre­sen­ta­tions of corresponding
Black Lives M ­ atter protests that often criminalize victims of police vio­
lence; as they have done so, hashtags on Black Twitter have become cata-
lysts for social change.
This essay homes in on the phenomenon of police vio­lence ­because of
the urgency of the issue, particularly in the way it sheds light on the long
history of the normalization of vio­lence against Black bodies. But I do not
suggest that the content of Black Twitter is l­ imited to this singular issue. I
analyze tweets from two impor­tant hashtags as examples of what has been
termed “Black Twitter activism”: #BaltimoreUprising and #FreddieGray.7
The hashtags themselves ­were used to detail and discuss the aftermath of
Gray’s death while he was in the custody of the Baltimore Police Depart-
ment. The examples reproduced ­here are in response to two distinct news

162 Sheneese Thompson
media gaffes regarding the case: first, the media’s attempt to undermine
the po­liti­cal nature of the Baltimore Uprising by employing the nonvio-
lent ideology of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.; second, cnn described Gray
as the “son of an illiterate heroin addict” in an article about the jury se­
lection for one of the six officers involved in the arrest that led to Gray’s
death.8

What Is Black Twitter?

The journalist Donovan X. Ramsey defines Black Twitter as an online plat-

form “used to describe a large network of Black Twitter users and their
loosely coordinated interactions, many of which accumulate into trend-
ing topics due to the network’s size, interconnectedness, and unique activ-
ity.”9 The network that Ramsey references is indeed large, according to a
2015 Pew Research Center report on Twitter’s demographics, twenty-­eight
­percent of all Twitter users are Black, compared to only 20 ­percent who are
white, which gives some credence to the existence of the online Black com-
munity.10 In addition to the large number of Black users, Meredith Clark
suggests that as Black p ­ eople log on to Twitter, so do their “personal experi-
ences with a shared historical legacy of marginalization, systemic and often
subtle racism, and paradoxically, a denial of opportunity to interact with
the dominant culture as individual actors uncharacterized by media ste­reo­
types of Black ­people and Black culture.”11 When using the term “Black Twit-
ter,” however, it is impor­tant not to obscure the diversity of Black p ­ eople
that make up the online community. As Sarah Florini notes, Black Twitter
“does not exist in any unified or monolithic sense. Just as ­there is no ‘Black
Amer­i­ca’ or single ‘Black culture,’ t­ here is no ‘Black Twitter.’ ”12 The online
community, then, like the offline one, is linked by shared experiences and
perspectives of blackness in Amer­i­ca and inclusive of the fact that ­those per-
spectives and experiences are diverse.
Florini also highlights an impor­tant feature of the online community:
“When the body and corporeal signifiers of race can be obscured, the social
and cultural markers of race take on ­great importance.”13 Therefore Black
Twitter became not only a place for self-­identifying Black ­people to convene
but also a site of cultural per­for­mance. One example of this is the use of what
Sanjay Sharma calls “blacktags,” or black hashtags. More specifically, black-
tags “are a par­tic­u­lar type of hashtag associated with Black Twitter users
(mainly African-­Americans), ­because the tag itself and/or its associated con-
tent appears to connote ‘Black’ vernacular expression in the form of humor

The Subaltern Is Signifyin(g) 163

and social commentary.”14 In an interview with Donovan Ramsey for The
Atlantic, Meredith Clark talks a bit about the need for cultural competency
to participate in some hashtags (or blacktags) on Black Twitter: “­Those
hashtags in so many ways are indicators of a certain degree of cultural com-
petency. To understand some of them, and I stress “some,” you have to un-
derstand African-­American vernacular En­glish. To understand ­others, you
need to have historical perspective on the issue. And so a lot of that rises out
of a common experience of living as a black person, and specifically to living
as a black person in the United States.”15
Culture, then, is a more impor­tant ­factor in participation on Black Twit-
ter than is racial phenotype since, as Florini made clear, phenotype can be
obscured. This is particularly salient with the emergence of Rus­sian bots
and white supremacist users seeking to troll Black users on the site. Vann
Newkirk, a staff writer for the Atlantic and a prominent Twitter personal-
ity, described identifying such accounts: “The t­ hing that has tipped me off
most is they often try to speak the way maybe someone who has never been
engaged with Black culture thinks Black ­people talk. It’s all very cartoon-
ish.”16 This phenomenon evidences both the po­liti­cal and cultural utility
of Black Twitter, since white supremacists have targeted it for disruption.
Additionally, the ways in which t­ hese infiltrators are identified as imposters
validates what Clark argues are a series of six steps that occur, in no par­tic­
u­lar order, and that create and sustain the phenomenon known as Black
Twitter:

It requires: 1) self-­selection by users who 2) identify as Black and/or are

connected to issues of concern among Black communities. It moves from
the individual level of personal communities to collective action among
thematic nodes via the 3) per­for­mance of communicative acts that are
4) affirmed online and 5) re-­affirmed offline, leading to 6) vindication
of the network’s power through media coverage, attempted replication of
the phenomenon within other demographic groups, and the creation of
hashtags that serve as mediators of Black culture in the virtual and physical
worlds.17

­ ecause the cultural fluency of Black ­people follows them to Twitter

B
through the pro­cess Clark outlines, trolls posing as Black Twitter users
are often easily identified as devoid of the cultural competence participa-
tion requires, especially fluency in Black Vernacular En­glish. ­Because of the
complex cultural pro­cess that Clark outlines as the transference of blackness
made virtual, it should be no surprise that the age-­old practice of signifyin(g)

164 Sheneese Thompson
is represented prominently on the social media site, and at times separates
participants from provocateurs.

Why Signify? The Criminal Identity of Blacks in Mainstream

News Media

Tele­vi­sion news is particularly effective in dictating and/or perpetuating

racial ideology b­ ecause of its pervasiveness in American society. Unfortu-
nately, the news often perpetuates racialized ste­reo­types and participates in
the criminalization of blackness. William Barlow and Jannette L. Dates address
the effectiveness of ste­reo­types in their book, Split Image: African Americans
in the Mass Media, writing, “Ste­reo­types are especially effective in conveying
ideological messages ­because they are so laden with ritual and myth, particu-
larly in the case of African Americans, but invariably, the black repre­sen­ta­
tions are totally at odds with the real­ity of African Americans as individual
­people.”18 While t­hese ste­reo­types are in opposition to Black p ­ eople as in-
dividuals, such ste­reo­types are nevertheless of long standing. As such, the
news media often employs negative ste­reo­types about Black ­people, such as
with descriptions of hyperviolence, to fasten crime and other social patholo-
gies to blackness. In so ­doing, the news media marginalizes crime (describing
it as an aberration in American society) alongside blackness (another ab-
erration), generating a narrative that social degeneration and danger come
from the margins.19 Carol A. Stabile explores the social implications of the
news media’s criminalization of Black p ­ eople, writing, “By the late 1990s,
the mainstream, national media rarely mentioned race without invoking the
twinned themes of crime and black pathology.”20 Following up on Stabile’s
claim, Travis L. Dixon created an experiment to determine viewers’ judg-
ments about race in crime-­related news reports and found that when sus-
pects and arresting officers went unidentified, participants who w ­ ere heavy
news viewers ­were more likely to identify the suspect as African American
and the officer as white. Similarly, when the race of the officer was identified,
the participants ­were more likely to have positive perceptions of the officer if
he was white and negative perceptions if he was Black.21
Stabile’s assessment of mainstream news outlets’ misrepre­sen­ta­tions of
Black ­people as criminals, in conjunction with Dixon’s analy­sis of its im-
pact, shows that the criminalization of blackness is continually being op-
erationalized on tele­vi­sion news (among other places). ­Because of this, the
need for counternarratives to be written, or tweeted, arises. The portrayal
of Black p ­ eople as the source of social ills on tele­vi­sion news informs the

The Subaltern Is Signifyin(g) 165

kind of victim-­blaming that Black Twitter users often find themselves com-
bating. Tele­vi­sion coverage of the Black Lives ­Matter protests in vari­ous
cities often treated them as anti-­American riots, giving room for “All Lives
­Matter” sentiment to develop and eclipse the ­actual prob­lem of police bru-
tality. Despite evidence that all lives do not m
­ atter as much as o­ thers, taking
the case of Freddie Gray as just one of many examples, the criminalization of
Black ­people in the news media contributes to a narrative that both devalues
Black lives and characterizes Black death at the hands of police officers as
the removal of the criminal ele­ment to keep the lives that do m ­ atter safe.
Dixon suggests this overrepre­sen­ta­tion of Black criminals “activates” nega-
tive ste­reo­types.22 Black Twitter activism undermines the activation of ­these
ste­reo­types head-on. Like the online activism in response to the coverage of
Gray’s death that I discuss ­later, hashtags geared ­toward social action often
make legible longstanding and troubling issues regarding how Black p ­ eople
are not afforded humanity or victimhood in life or ­after death. 23

Signifyin(g) on Black Twitter

Many scholars have contributed to the body of work on Black rhetorical

strategies and their usages for social critique.24 Perhaps most relevant to
this chapter, Gates concludes that “signifyin(g) . . . ​is a meta­phor for tex-
tual revision,” or repetition with difference.25 This definition of signifyin(g)
lends itself to use on Black Twitter, a web platform structured for repetition.
Through the use of the retweet and quote functions, Twitter users signify on
existing tweets, adding their own commentary and revising along the way.
This kind of signifyin(g) happens in reference to the light-­hearted, as well
as in reference to serious issues that plague the Black community. To draw
on one example of such social critique, Black Twitter broadly participated
in the hashtag #IfTheyGunnedMeDown to bring awareness to the ways in
which Black victims of police vio­lence are depicted, usually in some way
that criminalizes them. More often than not, a compromising image taken
from social media or a mugshot would be used in lieu of a more appropriate
and similarly available image, such as a graduation portrait. B ­ ecause Black
Twitter users participated in this hashtag, by posting two images of them-
selves and drawing out the difference that the picture chosen makes in the
interpretation of one’s life, or the circumstances of one’s death, it trended on
Twitter. The trend set the tone for other media sites to take up the issue as
well, generating a large national discourse on victim blaming in police shoot-
ings and other tragedies.26

166 Sheneese Thompson
 Signifyin(g) also plays a comedic role on Twitter. Sharma writes that black-
tags “are distinctive ­because they curate and virally propagate racially charged
messages expressing social critique through a par­tic­u­lar acerbic style of humor
which has been associated with ele­ments of African-­American culture.”27
Thus a hashtag like #ThanksgivingWithBlackFamilies that detailed the come-
dic events that frequently happen at Black Thanksgiving dinners trended all
over Twitter. Similarly, #AskRachel, in response to news that Rachel Dolezal
had been posing as a Black w ­ oman in Spokane, Washington (calling herself
“transracial”), trended fairly quickly. The questions that emerged tested one’s
ability to participate in Black culture broadly and nicely frame Vann Newkirk’s
comments regarding fake Black Twitter accounts. #StayMadAbby began
trending in response to Abigail Fisher’s Supreme Court case to overturn Affir-
mative Action at the University of Texas.28 It is worth noting that even though
­these hashtags employ humor as a rhetorical strategy, they are not without so-
cial critique. They do not, however, generate meaningful changes in outcomes
that other, more targeted hashtags do. For that reason they should be delin-
eated from hashtags that actually do the work of Black Twitter activism by
changing narratives and pushing movements forward. Despite signifyin(g)’s
long history as a means of communication among African Americans, some-
how this method of signifyin(g) was widely misinterpreted. The two most no-
table articles to indict Black Twitter for simply being silly are Farhad Manjoo’s
“How Black P ­ eople Use Twitter” and Dexter Thomas’s “When ‘Black Twitter’
Sounds Like ‘White Twitter.’” Both Manjoo and Thomas interpret Black Twit-
ter as more comedic than po­liti­cal, instead of acknowledging what is prob­ably
more accurately described as a balance of both.
Dexter B. Gordon clarifies the import of humor in African American
communication, writing, “Humor continues to be a relatively safe way to
do vio­lence to the oppressor in return for injustice.” In what could be a di-
rect response to the misreadings of Manjoo and Thomas, Gordon continues,
“More pointedly, this humor challenges White oppression and promotes
Black emancipation as a part of its effort to bring justice to the scene in
which both groups have to coexist. African-­American humor is neither in-
nocent nor ­free from anger. . . . ​[It] is often sardonic and full of pathos and
venom but always brimming with diversity, verve, and sophistication. Al-
ways making vis­i­ble the invisible while masking its own anger and rage.”29
In line with what Gordon describes, Black Twitter defended itself
against Thomas’s article, which is detailed in an article featured on The
Root by Diana Ozemebhoya Eromosele. Challenging Manjoo and Thomas,
Eromosele asserts that even though Black Twitter users disagree, joke, and

The Subaltern Is Signifyin(g) 167

jibe, they also launch social critiques, and further, one does not undermine
the other.30 I assert that the diverse population that composes the users on
Black Twitter consider themselves dynamic h ­ uman beings who can signify
and laugh at the #PattiPies hashtag as well as signify and rally around the
need to change the way Black victims of police vio­lence are represented by
mainstream media through the #IfTheyGunnedMeDown hashtag.31 The
online community is reflective of the humanity of its participants, and
it is telling (and perhaps historically significant) that Black Twitter users
are held accountable for the dynamism of their humanity in ways that are
often dehumanizing. Black Twitter, like Black ­people, is multifaceted and
­will not be circumscribed by what critics think Black Twitter ­ought to
be ­doing.

Signifyin(g) Meets Social Change: Black Twitter Activism

Although ­there ­were many attempts to delegitimate the salient message of

the Baltimore Uprising, one worth mentioning is the frequent reference to
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. to decry the events in Baltimore.32 cnn perhaps
provides the landmark example of this when Wolf Blitzer tells the activist
DeRay Mckesson, “I just want to hear you say t­ here should be peaceful pro-
tests, not violent protests, in the tradition of Martin Luther King.”33 At the
irrelevant though pointed question of what Dr. King would have thought
about the riots, many Black Twitter users turned to Twitter to signify, mock-
ing the question by calling attention to the state-­sanctioned vio­lence the
champion of nonviolent direct action suffered, culminating in his assassina-
tion. This position can be seen in the tweets reproduced below, which call
out mainstream media on its use of King as an attempt to decentralize the
issues of poverty and police brutality.

@ rob_theScorpion: A “RIOT” is the language of the “UNHEARD.”

#BALTIMOREUPRISING #MLK #REVOLUTION34

@ harikondabolu: White ­people using MLK against Black ­people

who respond to oppression with vio­lence has been passed down
for generations. #BaltimoreUprising35

@ IamKINGKOKE: @deray @harikondabolu #MLK ASSASSINATED

by Govt, mind you . . . ​proving our ENTIRE point in the first place!
#BaltimoreUprising36

168 Sheneese Thompson
 @ BKTechNerd: Please stop trying to pacify the ­people with
pictures and quotes from #MLK you know who I’m talking to.
#BaltimoreUprising #NYCtoBaltimore37

­Here, the users employ a more direct method to revise the narrative cre-
ated by the mainstream media and take to task liberal notions of how so-
cial change should look. Perhaps inspired by the social media uproar, the
journalist and se­nior editor for the Atlantic, Ta-­Nehisi Coates, also took to
the internet to address the glaring prob­lems with King’s sudden popular-
ity beyond the months of January and February. Coates describes the terms
upon which nonviolence was suggested: “When nonviolence is preached by
representatives of the state, while the state doles out heaps of vio­lence to its
citizens, it reveals itself to be a con,” reflecting the sentiments of many Black
Twitter users and social media activists.38 In conjunction with the work of
Coates and other journalists, Black Twitter helped decentralize the main-
stream media’s indictment of the Baltimore Uprising as unduly violent and
recenter the real issue: unbridled police brutality against unarmed victims.
In an article supposedly covering the trial of an officer involved in the
Freddie Gray case, the cnn writer Ann O’Neill characterized Gray as “the
son of an illiterate heroin addict.”39 Black Twitter users went into an uproar,
often directly tweeting the author of the article and cnn when expressing
their distaste.

@ soso_southern: @AnnoCNN What a desperate attempt to

marginalize, demonize, and berate this young ­brother and his mom.
#sad #FreddieGray #justPlainEvil40

@ KayKarter: The illiterate son of a heroin addict ­really CNN even

in death we are not respected #Baltimore #FreddieGray41

Black users took to Twitter to revise the narrative on social media, and
their actions had lasting implications. Other users w
­ ere sarcastic in their re-
sponse to O’Neill’s characterization of Gray, employing the use of rhetorical
questions about why that information would be impor­tant since the officer
was on trial, not Freddie Gray’s character or his ­mother’s parenting.

@ ChynaPoetic: It’s funny how @cnn at 12:08am edited this article

to remove “son of an illiterate heroine addict” #FreddieGray #CNN

The Subaltern Is Signifyin(g) 169

 [Link]
gray-­jury-­selection/index.html42

@ MsMakeda718: @AnnoCNN @cnn How r u certain that

#FreddieGray was angry? You masked the dig at his ­mother but still
defame the victim. U have no re­spect.43

@ Knight3k: #CNN a violent death was inevitable? Are you basically

calling #FreddieGray a #thug, which is the new N-­word?44

@ MsChanel09: #assholes @CNN what does illiteracy or drug

addiction have to do with #policebrutality #unreal #FreddieGray45

Signifyin(g) on Black Twitter, or Black Twitter activism, forced O’Neill

and cnn to make formal revisions to the biased article they created regard-
ing the upbringing of Freddie Gray. ­Here, the repetition of Twitter users
applying pressure to cnn produced a difference. Additionally, Black Twitter’s
response became the subject of articles from vari­ous media outlets, gen-
erating a counternarrative beyond the bounds of Black Twitter and social
media, further discrediting cnn’s racist commentary.46 Black Twitter ac-
tivism, then, is not just in the response to certain mischaracterizations of
Black ­people or their suffering, or the racist remarks of a reporter. It is in the
changing of outcomes and perspectives.
Sharma describes the function of blacktags in relation to activism, noting
that “the intensive, imitative repetition of Blacktags [in this case #Freddi-
eGray and #BaltimoreUprising] has the potential to interrupt the whiteness
of the Twitter network.”47 T ­ hese hashtags and tweets construct a counter-
narrative that affords the victim, Freddie Gray, and the protestors for his
cause the humanity they deserve on and off Twitter. Appropriating a space
that was intended for social networking, Black Twitter users have turned
the site into a sounding board, giving voice to the voiceless and challeng-
ing mainstream media accounts of issues concerning the lives and deaths of
Black Americans in ways that, before now, w ­ ere nearly impossible. Although
Black Twitter activism in no way replaces the serious work that is required
to launch and maintain a protracted strug­g le against state-­sanctioned vio­
lence perpetrated against Black victims, it does have import in this age of
new media that should not be understated. T ­ hese hashtags allow p­ eople to
talk, mobilize, signify, and, as we have seen, revise the mainstream narrative
being written about police vio­lence and the victims of this vio­lence.

170 Sheneese Thompson
Conclusion

As of July 27, 2016, all charges w

­ ere dropped against the six officers involved
in Freddie Gray’s arrest and subsequent death.48 Even ­after the civil unrest
that occurred in the wake of Gray’s death, the West Baltimore community
and the larger Black community still find themselves wanting for justice.
Although scholars and experienced activists alike have frowned upon social
media activism as a passing fad, often characterizing it as lazy, the tweets
reproduced in this essay and the change they created prove that Twitter
provides a ­viable space for African Americans as subalterns to engage in so-
cial critique, create change, and demand the justice they deserve. ­After all,
the Black Lives ­Matter movement started from a hashtag and tweets and
became a national movement against police brutality and other forms of
state-­sanctioned vio­lence. A protracted strug­g le against police brutality, rac-
ism, sexism, or any kind of oppression requires hard work and bodies on the
ground, although as presented ­here, profiles on the internet certainly help.
Additionally, taking one’s thoughts to Twitter does not preclude one from
taking them to the streets as well. In fact, it is precisely ­because of Twitter’s
ability to put vari­ous types of Black ­people in conversation with each other
that makes it a useful tool to defend Black p ­ eople’s humanity in this histori-
cal and cultural moment. In defending blackness, Black Twitter users w ­ ill
continue to use the platform to revise mainstream media accounts and pre­
sent counternarratives that shed light on the varying perspectives, perceived
truths, and individual and collective realities of Black ­people.

Notes

1 Berlinger, “Police Release Timeline.”

2 Graham, “The Mysterious Death.”
3 Berlinger, “Police Release Timeline.”
4 Linderman and Anderson, “Freddie Gray Was Handcuffed.”
5 Grigsby Bates, “Is It an ‘Uprising.’ ”
6 Gates, The Signifying Monkey.
7 Kang, “ ‘Our Demand Is ­Simple.’ ” ­Here, Kang identifies social media activism as the
marriage between initiating and participating in protests, and using social media to
mobilize protestors in vari­ous cities and sometimes countries.
8 O’Neill, “First Officer Goes on Trial.” The initial article was posted on Novem-
ber 30, 2015, but was updated on December 1 to remove the phrase quoted above.
9 Ramsey, “The Truth about Black Twitter.”

The Subaltern Is Signifyin(g) 171

10 Pew Research Center, “Mobile Messaging.”
11 Clark, “To Tweet Our Own Cause,” 64.
12 Florini, “Tweets, Tweeps and Signifyin’,” 225.
13 Florini, “Tweets, Tweeps and Signifyin’,” 234.
14 Sanjay Sharma, “Black Twitter?”
15 Ramsey, “The Truth about Black Twitter.”
16 Quoted in Rashid, “The Emergence of a White Troll.”
17 Clark, “To Tweet Our Own Cause,” 87. Though it is beyond the scope of this essay,
Clark elaborates on the implications of ­these steps.
18 Barlow and Dates, Split Image, 5.
19 Reeves and Campbell, Cracked Coverage, 41.
20 Stabile, White Victims, Black Villains, 173.
21 Dixon, “Black Criminals and White Officers,” 283.
22 Dixon, “Crime News and Racialized Beliefs,” 107.
23 Wanzo, The Suffering ­Will Not Be Televised, 5.
24 Roger D. Abrahams, H. Rap Brown, Dexter B. Gordon, Thomas, Kochman, Claudia
Mitchell-­Kerman, and Geneva Smitherman, just to name a few, have addressed the
concept of signifyin(g), but Gates’s seminal text synthesizes the information ­these
scholars provide on the subject.
25 Gates, The Signifying Monkey, 88.
26 Ramsey, “The Truth about Black Twitter.”
27 Sharma, “Black Twitter?,” 59.
28 Barksdale, “18 Times Black Twitter Broke the Internet.”
29 Gordon, “Humor,” 269, 274.
30 Eromosele, “Black Twitter Defends Self.”
31 Barksdale, “18 Times Black Twitter Broke the Internet.” To be clear, I am employing
Gates’s definition of signifyin(g) as repetition with difference. ­Here Black Twitter
users are using hashtags to repeat information already shared on the hashtag and
to add their difference.
32 Rothman, “What Martin Luther King, Jr. ­Really Thought.”
33 Craven, “Wolf Blitzer Fails.”
34 Tweeted by the user on May 2, 2015, at 5:36 a.m.
35 Tweeted by the user on April 28, 2015, at 5:00 p.m.
36 Tweeted by the user on May 1, 2015, at 6:42 a.m.
37 Tweeted by the user on April 30, 2015, at 10:26 a.m.
38 Coates, “Non-­Violence as Compliance.”
39 O’Neil, “First Officer Goes on Trial.”
40 Tweeted by the user on December 1, 2015, at 5:17 a.m.
41 Tweeted by the user on December 1, 2015, at 10:44 a.m.
42 Tweeted by the user on December 1, 2015, at 6:26 a.m.
43 Tweeted by the user on December 1, 2015, at 11:47 p.m.
44 Tweeted by the user on December 1, 2015, at 11:04 a.m.
45 Tweeted by the user on November 30, 2015, at 11:47 p.m.

172 Sheneese Thompson
46 Richards, “cnn ­Under Fire.”
47 Sharma, “Black Twitter?,” 63.
48 Stolberg and Bidgood, “All Charges Dropped.”

References

Barksdale, Aaron. “18 Times Black Twitter Broke the Internet in 2015.” Huffington
Post, December 10, 2015. [Link]
twitter-­broke-­the-­internet-­in-2015_56686a65e4b0f290e5217d78.
Barlow, William, and Jannette L. Dates. Split Image: African Americans in the Mass
Media. Washington, DC: Howard University Press, 1993.
Berlinger, Joshua. “Police Release Timeline of Events Leading Up to Freddie
Gray’s Death.” cnn, April 23, 2015. [Link]
freddie-­gray-­baltimore-­timeline/.
Clark, Meredith. “To Tweet Our Own Cause: A Mixed Methods Study of the Online
Phenomenon ‘Black Twitter.’” PhD diss., University of North Carolina Press, 2014.
Coates, Ta-­Nehisi. “Non-­Violence as Compliance: Officials Calling for Calm Can
Offer No Rational Justification for Gray’s Death, and So They Appeal for
Order.” The Atlantic, April 27, 2015. [Link]
archive/2015/04/nonviolence-­as-­compliance/391640/.
Craven, Julia. “Wolf Blitzer Fails to Goad Protester into Condemning Vio­lence.”
Huffington Post, April 29, 2015. [Link]
wolf-­blitzer-­baltimore-­protests_n_7168964.html.
Dixon, Travis L. “Black Criminals and White Officers: The Effects of Racially
Misrepresenting Law Breakers and Law Defenders on Tele­vi­sion News.” Media
Psy­chol­ogy 10 (2007): 283.
Dixon, Travis L. “Crime News and Racialized Beliefs.” Journal of Communication 58,
no. 1 (2008): 106-25.
Eromosele, Diana Ozemebhoya. “Black Twitter Defends Self from LA Times Col-
umnist Who Says It’s Not as Progressive as It Seems.” The Root, July 16, 2015.
[Link]
dexter_thomas_argues_that_black_twitter_is_not_as_progressive.html.
Florini, Sarah. “Tweets, Tweeps and Signifyin’: Communication and Cultural Per­
for­mance on ‘Black Twitter.’ ” Tele­vi­sion and New Media 15, no. 3 (2013): 225.
Gates, Henry Louis. The Signifying Monkey: A Theory of African American Literary Criti-
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Gordon, Dexter B. “Humor in African American Discourse: Speaking of Oppres-
sion.” Journal of Black Studies 29, no. 2 (1998): 269.
Graham, David A. “The Mysterious Death of Freddie Gray.” The Atlantic,
April 22, 2015. [Link]
the-­mysterious-­death-­of-­freddie-­gray/391119/.
Grigsby Bates, Karen. “Is It an ‘Uprising’ or a ‘Riot’? Depends on Who’s
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whos-­watching.
Kang, Jay Caspian. “ ‘Our Demand Is ­Simple: Stop Killing Us.’ How a Group of
Black Social Media Activists Built the Nation’s First 21st-­Century Civil Rights
Movement.” New York Times, May 4, 2015, [Link]
magazine/our-­demand-­is-­simple-­stop-­killing-­[Link]?_r=0.
Linderman, Juliet, and Curt Anderson. “Freddie Gray Was Handcuffed and with-
out Seat ­Belt during Arrest Transit: ­Lawyer.” Huffington Post, April 23, 2015.
Manjoo, Farhad. “How Black ­People Use Twitter.” Slate, August 10, 2010. [Link]
[Link]/articles/technology/technology/2010/08/how_black_people_
use_twitter.html.
O’Neill, Ann. “First Officer Goes on Trial in Freddie Gray Death.”
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baltimore-­police-­trial-­freddie-­gray-­jury-­selection/.
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mobile-­messaging-­and-­social-­media-2015/2015–08–19_social-­media-­update_11/.
Ramsey, Donovan X. “The Truth about Black Twitter.” The Atlantic, April 10,
2015. [Link]
the-­truth-­about-­black-­twitter/390120/.
Rashid, Neha. “The Emergence of a White Troll ­behind a Black Face.” Code Switch,
NPR, March 21, 2017. [Link]
/­520522240​/­the​-­emergence​-­of​-­the​-­white​-­troll​-­behind​-­a​-­black​-­face.
Reeves, Jimmie Lynn, and Richard Campbell. Cracked Coverage: Tele­vi­sion News, the
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Richards, Kimberley. “cnn ­Under Fire for Calling Freddie Gray ‘Son of an Illiterate
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4b072e9d1c32a77.
Rothman, Lily. “What Martin Luther King, Jr. ­Really Thought about Riots.” Time,
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174 Sheneese Thompson
CH.11 AU­THEN­TIC BLACK COOL? / BRANDING
AND TRADEMARKS IN CON­TEMPORARY
AFRICAN AMERICAN CULTURE

Richard Schur

While some genres of m ­ usic have had a more ambivalent re-

lationship with branding, hip hop, through its moguls, has seemed to em-
brace it to an unusually large degree. T ­ hese moguls see hip-­hop branding
as a cultural success that is transforming American culture. Recent texts by
Dan Charnas (2010) and Steve Stoute (2012) revel in how African American
culture has mastered the marketplace and created a bevy of hip-­hop million-
aires, even if it is unclear how much money has trickled down to ordinary
African Americans.1 The challenges provided by peer-­to-­peer file sharing
during the 1990s and the recent growth of streaming has forced hip-­hop acts
to be creative and turn to auxiliary ave­nues for generating revenues. Hip-­
hop stars have allowed companies to use their personas and street credibility
in order to gain income and visibility, while the companies have embraced
new identities and reached a broader range of consumers.
 Hip hop’s success in marketing and branding, however, may say less
about hip-­hop artistry or the creativity of con­temporary African American
culture than it does about the American cultural imagination. Seeing the co-­
optation resulting from branding, some critics have used such concepts as
“under­ground,” indie hip hop, or alternative hip hop to preserve what they
perceive as hip hop’s founding spirit. This makes sense, for in hip hop’s early
days, Chuck D boasted that “rap is Black Amer­i­ca’s cnn,” the way for Af-
rican Americans to gain real information about what is happening in their
communities. ­Today, however, hip hop is just as likely to serve as an adver-
tisement for luxury and consumer goods as it is a space to speak truth to
power. One might argue that con­temporary message rappers, the progeny of
Public ­Enemy, have strug­g led to find both financial backing and an audience
since the mid-1990s, while artists and acts more focused on materialism have
increasingly dominated the scene.
This essay explores how trademark and branding are extending the life
and meaning of race, racialization, and racial ste­reo­types in a putatively
post-­Black world. In par­tic­u­lar, I examine how hip hop and its corporate
sponsors seek to draw on concepts such as authenticity and Black cool, em-
bodied in hip hop, to sell products.2 The first part of the essay explores how
trademark law, from its earliest days to t­ oday, empowers trademark ­owners
to traffic in racial ste­reo­types, such as Aunt Jemima, ­Uncle Ben, the Morton
Salt Girl, and Mia, the Land O Lakes Butter trademarked image. The second
part examines the arguments in support of hip hop’s marriage to branding,
based on the idea that African American culture is au­then­tic and cool. The
third considers criticisms and potential costs of this marriage, exploring how
branding may reify a problematic image of Black life. The essay concludes by
questioning ­whether the branding success of hip hop, fostered by trademark
law, achieves the cultural and po­liti­cal changes claimed by its proponents.

Trademarks and Racial In­equality

Unlike many areas of law, trademark has never under­gone a revision or re-
construction based on the civil rights movement. In an e­ arlier essay, I argued
that the main concepts of trademark law—­product origin, authenticity, di-
lution, and fair use—­were products of a Jim Crow l­egal order that sought
to classify ­people and objects through racial and cultural categories.3 ­Here
I want to consider how trademark law and branding work together to pro-
mote and regulate the per­for­mance, circulation, and meaning of Black iden-
tity. In other words, hip hop seems to embrace trademarked identities, such

176 Richard Schur
as Rocawear, Sean John, Akademiks, Yeezy, and fubu, in which the trade-
mark is intimately connected to a potentially narrow vision of blackness.
­These branding efforts have raised the visibility of hip-­hop culture, enabled
a handful of hip-­hop moguls and millionaires to enter into the ruling cap­i­
tal­ist class, and succeeded in diversifying the media and musical landscape.
The use of racialized trademarks appears to strengthen the power of ste­reo­
typed images of Black life and increases their frequency as t­ hese trademarks
circulate through American culture.
According to the U.S. Code, a trademark is “any word, name, symbol
or device . . . ​[used] to identify and distinguish the ser­vices of one person,
including a unique ser­vice from the ser­vices of ­others and to indicate the
source of t­ hose ser­vices.”4 A trademark is officially granted by the U.S. Patent
and Trademark Office (uspto) and identifies the origin of an object or sym-
bol. In effect, a trademark certifies the authenticity of what­ever it marks.
For example, a trademark assures consumers that a can printed with the
name Pepsi is, in fact, a genuine Pepsi product and not a knock-­off version.
In the immortal words of Coca-­Cola, a Coke is the “real ­thing,” not a fake.
Trademark law gives the owner monopolistic control over the mark and
enables the owner to protect its use and meaning. Transforming an image,
word, or logo into private property through trademark law can insulate a
mark from criticism by ­those who are harmed or offended by it. Consider
Aunt Jemima. The trademark was created in the late 1880s ­after a small busi-
nessman attended a minstrel show. The mammy image complemented the
concept of premixed batter he was developing ­because it created the illusion
that purchasing the product put the consumer in the place of leisure oc-
cupied by white southerners who had Black maids. ­Later Quaker Oats pur-
chased the fledgling com­pany, and the syrup and its famous logo and have
become a staple of American culture ever since.5 For much of the mark’s his-
tory, African Americans, including members of the Black Arts Movement,
have protested and challenged Aunt Jemima. In response, the trademark
owner has updated Aunt Jemima’s look several times but continues to use
the Black female body to sell pancakes.
The ­legal scholar Rosemary Coombe suggests this situation typifies how
trademark law can be used to limit access to cultural symbols and signs and,
in turn, harm demo­cratic dialogue and the ongoing proj­ect of repairing the
legacy of three centuries of ­legal racism.6 Sonia Katyal makes a similar ob-
servation: “Although culture is shifting, dynamic, and fluid, property rights
are often considered just the opposite: fixed, static, and concrete.” 7 Histori-
cally, once a trademark owner produced a racial or racialized trademark,

Au­t hen­t ic Black Cool? 177

they owned that racialized image in perpetuity u ­ nless someone objected and
persuaded the uspto to cancel a mark that was scandalous or disparaging.
The prohibition against scandalous and disparaging trademarks, enacted in
the 1940s, allowed the uspto to reject eight trademark applications, includ-
ing one submitted by Damon Wayans, for racially insensitive marks, such
as variants on the word “nigger”—­even though most of the applicants w ­ ere
African Americans who sought the mark.8 ­There have also been efforts to
cancel the trademark of the Washington Redskins b­ ecause it involves a ste­reo­­
typical image of Native Americans.
In the 2017 Matal v. Tam decision, the U.S. Supreme Court held that
the prohibition against disparaging marks v­ iolated the First Amendment
­because it would require the uspto and courts to engage in viewpoint dis-
crimination and limit f­ ree speech.9 The effect of the case is that the Slants,
an Asian American rock band, can get a trademark for their name, a term
that the uspto had deemed potentially disparaging and offensive. The
Slants had chosen this name to challenge ste­reo­types of Asian Americans
and reconstruct Asian American identity. While the Court’s decision affirms
the princi­ple that racial and ethnic groups can name themselves and resig-
nify potentially racist language, it also clears the path to further trademark,
commodify, and circulate potentially disparaging terms related to race and
ethnicity, without limitation on who may profit from ­these terms and regu-
late their use.10 Trademark law thus ­will continue to accelerate the flow of
racial imagery—no ­matter whom it benefits or harms—in American culture.

Branding and Hip Hop

A brand, while sometimes the same t­hing as a trademark, serves a dif­fer­

ent purpose than identifying the manufacturer. The brand tells the story of
the product and in some cases offers cultural cachet or cultural capital; it is
the branding that distinguishes an ordinary commodity from its competi-
tors. Endorsements are frequently used in branding campaigns to connect
a product to the style of the celebrity endorser. For example, when Beyoncé
endorses L’Oréal products, the com­pany is seeking to trade on her reputa-
tion and image, which emphasize both empowerment and feminism, to
transform how consumers see their product lines. Being linked to a com­
pany associated with beauty also enhances Beyoncé’s brand. Another way to
think of this distinction between trademarks and brands is that trademarks
protect and regulate who can invoke a par­tic­u­lar corporate name, whereas
branding aims to define the content of that brand identity and what that

178 Richard Schur
brand can do for consumers. While trademark law is well established, few
laws regulate branding and businesses possess considerable freedom when
shaping their brand identities. Trademark law (before Matal v. Tam) thus had
been one of the few ways to legally challenge racial ste­reo­types involved in
branding.
An example may illuminate the distinction between a trademark and a
brand. Cadillac has manufactured cars since the early 1900s. The Cadillac
trademark identifies which com­pany produces its cars and allows the com­
pany to protect itself from counterfeit or fake goods. The brand has been
or­ga­nized around the concept of luxury. A ­ fter World War II, Cadillac cars
­were popu­lar with African Americans ­because they symbolized the benefits
of American citizenship and connoted material success.11 By the late 1990s,
the Cadillac brand was floundering. The com­pany responded by looking to
how the urban consumer had been altering and transforming their cars, and
then it built a car, the Escalade, that borrowed liberally from t­hose prac-
tices.12 The result is that Cadillac created a car that appealed, ironically, to
both young urban consumers and suburban ­mothers. Escalades began ap-
pearing in videos by Ludacris and Big Tyme and became popu­lar with pro-
fessional basketball players, who tricked them out. The car’s popularity with
white suburbanites was linked to its ability to master the codes and styles
of urban Amer­i­ca. The car’s appearance drew on ideas of luxury and con­
spic­u­ous consumption, from fancy rims to high-­end audio-­visual systems in
the backseat, pop­u­lar­ized by hip hop, even as the Escalade was designed to
chauffer suburban c­ hildren to soccer practice and school. Steve Stoute, who
recounts t­ hese brand changes, argues that the Cadillac example shows how
a com­pany can change its brand identity by meeting consumers in a genuine
dialogue without altering its trademarked symbol.13
For Stoute, Cadillac’s brand transformation symbolizes the power of
what he terms “the tanning of American culture.” The success of the au-
tomaker’s brand reimaging brought together demographics that marketers
had viewed as distinct. To Stoute and ­others, the recent commodification
of urban or Black cool constitutes a fulfillment of the civil rights movement
­because it is destroying the remaining vestiges of a Jim Crow mind-­set that
­shaped American business practices. It might be a bit overstated, but not
too much so, to interpret Stoute as saying that branding and consumerism
have replaced civil rights activism as the primary way to challenge white
supremacy, even as it allows hip hop’s biggest names to profit and frequently
allows corporate Amer­i­ca to retain owner­ship of the newly enriched trade-
marks. Stoute is well aware that many African American leaders, scholars,

Au­t hen­t ic Black Cool? 179

and critics disagree with his optimism about marketing and branding. In his
book he tries to persuade critics that economic self-­sufficiency and success is
a key ele­ment of hip-­hop culture.
Stoute is a key player in translating the urban mind-­set to corporate
Amer­i­ca. He got his start managing Kid ’n Play, the early hip-­hop act, then
worked in musical development at a major rec­ord label, and eventually got into
marketing. According to his (self-­promoting) book exploring how “hip-­hop re-
wrote the rules of the new economy,” Stoute pioneered the concept of 360 deals
centered around marketing and branding, in which artists and rec­ord compa-
nies would view m ­ usic as more than just a revenue source.14 Working with Jay-­
Z, Stoute realized that Jay-­Z’s earning potential was much greater if he used his
name-­checking rap lyr­ics and videos to sell products. Corporate Amer­i­ca has
learned that branding products, especially luxury and high-­end goods, through
hip-hop and African American culture can increase sales, making elite goods
desirable for a younger multiracial audience who aspires to wealth.
The rise of Armand de Brignac champagne illustrates this new marketing
or branding paradigm. Since the early 1990s, rappers, including Jay-­Z, had
been bragging about buying and drinking Cristal champagne. In 2006, one
of Cristal’s corporate man­ag­ers lamented that so many rappers drank their
product. Jay-­Z responded by promising to stop rapping about Cristal, which
he had been ­doing for ­free, and began promoting another brand, in which he
had an owner­ship stake.15 While some might see Jay-­Z’s actions as being too
opportunistic or materialistic, Stoute defends him from accusations of selling
out ­because “it’s not a sellout when it’s au­then­tic to your taste and style.” In
other words, what differentiates hip-­hop branding and the urban mind-­set
from previous iterations of celebrity endorsements is authenticity. Early hip
hop, along with African American culture more generally, saw certain brands
as aspirational and carry­ing the hope for social and cultural improvement.16
Products that connoted self-­improvement ­were valuable and valued indices
of personal success and talent. Even though his switch to Armand was likely
the result of his receiving a financial stake in the brand, Jay-­Z’s endorsement
did not seem contrived, merely an extension of his true self, who had always
consumed high-­quality champagne. Thus it was deemed au­then­tic.
Dan Charnas largely agrees with Stoute’s assessment and argues that hip
hop has helped transform Amer­i­ca. “From hip-­hop, but even more so its di-
verse fan base, a vision of Amer­i­ca’s new Manifest Destiny: multiracial, multi-
cultural, and willing to revel in differences rather than suppress them.” Char-
nas further notes that “most of ­today’s young hip-­hop fans came of age ­after
the decline of overtly po­liti­cal hip-­hop. . . . ​Instead of po­liti­cal artists, hip-­hop’s

180 Richard Schur
businessmen and journalists now lead the practical po­liti­cal charge.”17 He
then offers the election of Barack Obama, especially his popularity with young
­people, as evidence of the positive effect that hip hop has had on transform-
ing the values, beliefs, and actions of ordinary Americans. Charnas narrates
how artists, their man­ag­ers, and their producers found ways to commodify
and profit from hip hop. In his account, hip hop’s history is largely a romantic
tale in which a bunch of visionary and hard-­working ­people—­mostly from the
“wrong side” of the tracks—­became multimillionaires and tastemakers for the
country. This is also the narrative offered by tele­vi­sion shows like Empire and
The Get Down. More than simply selling m ­ usic, hip-­hop culture triumphed at
the cash register as hip hop’s stars learned how to brand themselves. Through
songs, videos, and other public appearances, the artists modeled con­spic­u­ous
consumption for their fans.
The logic of branding and trademarks has become so pervasive and ubiq-
uitous in hip-­hop and con­temporary African American culture that it has
come to define it. Branding started out offering a narrative or image for a
given product or com­pany, and trademarks ­were used to identify the source
of a product. Hip-­hop culture and con­temporary African American culture,
however, have flipped ­these concepts upside down so that ­every person
­ought to be a source for products and be their own brand. Neither hip-­hop
nor African American culture created the concepts of trademark or brand-
ing, but a handful of hip-­hop moguls and their corporate partners are profit-
ing im­mensely from them. The net result is that the owner­ship of the styles
and cultural practices of African American culture are transferred from the
“­people” to a few individuals who may or may not be connected to hip-­hop
culture. Furthermore, it risks transforming a vibrant culture into a series of
trademarked properties, giving mono­poly control to one person or com­pany.
Stoute and Charnas, along with Jay-­Z, Dr. Dre, and 50 Cent, would likely
respond to this critique by arguing that hip hop’s emphasis on trademark
and branding offers potentially positive role models of African American
entrepreneurs who have mastered capitalism and accumulated tremendous
wealth. Moreover, hip hop’s very financial success, they would argue, has
changed how the game has worked.

Branding and the Demise of Black Cool?

The movement ­toward trademarks and branding may have broad cultural
consequences. The questions this movement provokes are how much the
branding of hip hop has altered racial repre­sen­ta­tion and ­whether hip hop’s

Au­t hen­t ic Black Cool? 181

embrace of branding and trademarks merely strengthens racial ste­reo­types
and increases their power? ­These are not new questions or ones that are
unique to hip hop. Throughout American history, whites have borrowed
from Black culture, and vice versa. The under­lying issue, however, is not
about identifying the proper origins of cultural practices, which has been
the historical function of trademark. Rather, my concern h ­ ere is how Amer-
ican law and business practice have ignored the owner­ship rights of Afri-
can Americans in Black cultural practices and consistently found ways to
“propertize” and then transfer “owner­ship” of ­these practices and products
to white ­people and companies. The ­battles about hip-­hop branding and the
“trademarkization” of Black life seem to be the newest chapter of this long-­
standing debate over who owns Black cool.
In a series of articles from 2014, Questlove of the Roots argues that hip
hop has lost its “cool” and lacks the very authenticity that set it apart from
­earlier forms of African American popu­lar culture. In the early days, the
brands mentioned (e.g., Adidas) and the narratives told in hip-­hop songs,
Questlove argues, ­were accessible to most hip-­hop fans and created a bond
between the performers and the audience ­because ­these brands ­were rela-
tively accessible to all.18 The luxury brands in t­ oday’s hip hop (e.g., Bugatti,
Maybach) now signal a fundamental break between emcees and their fans.19
Although it once constituted a form of social and cultural protest, Questlove
argues, hip hop ­today offers ­little “re­sis­tance,” seemingly reiterating the val-
ues and beliefs of dominant Amer­i­ca.”20 Elsewhere he writes, “Hip-­hop, ­after
beginning as a site of re­sis­tance, has become, in some sense, the new disco.
The signifiers are dif­f er­ent, of course. Hip-­hop has come to know itself largely
via certain notions of cap­i­tal­ist aspiration, braggadocio, and macho postur-
ing, which are dif­fer­ent notes than ­those struck in disco. But the aesthetic
ruthlessness, the streamlining of concept, is similar. What began as a m ­ usic
animated mainly by a spirit of innovation now has factory specifications.”21
While Questlove may be painting with too broad a brush h ­ ere, the irony
in this quotation is that, with respect to Stoute, hip-­hop stars have become
more bankable, in terms of sales and marketing, as they have embraced the
very values early hip hop rejected. Hip hop’s success seems to undermine the
claims of authenticity at the center of hip-­hop culture.
To understand Questlove’s commentary, it is crucial to trace briefly the
history of Black cool and how its creators and proponents sought to inter-
vene in popu­lar culture’s repre­sen­ta­tions of Black life. In 1949 and 1950, Miles
Davis recorded an lp titled Birth of the Cool, which was released in late 1957.
Davis’s version of cool avoided the emotional extremes of t­ hose ­earlier forms

182 Richard Schur
of jazz. It also signaled a new persona for the jazz musician, who resisted the
spotlight and the demands of the audience. The ­music was a clear response
and rebuke to both big band and bop and dominant culture’s view of Af-
rican Americans. Joel Dinerstein traces the birth of cool to the influential
saxophonist Lester “Pres” Young. 22 Young was more influential within jazz
circles than he was famous. His influence, however, exceeded his idiosyn-
cratic playing to encompass his then shocking decision to wear sunglasses
indoors and speak in a hip code that was nearly incomprehensible to ­those
unfamiliar with it. Young developed his persona as a form of re­sis­tance to
and protection from white supremacy. As a marketing strategy, however, it
proved a disaster and did not garner him commercial success.
The concept of cool offered by jazz artists such as Young and Davis
quickly expanded beyond the Black community. In The Conquest of Cool,
Thomas Frank argues that advertisers in the late 1950s and 1960s, drawing
on the nonconformity of jazz and the Beats, created the idea of hip consum-
erism. The cool described by advertisers “deplored conformity, distrusted
routine, and encouraged re­sis­tance to established power.”23 Authenticity,
which was reframed as cool, served as an antidote to the mass appeal de-
ployed by ­earlier advertisements that encouraged consumers to conform
to community values and expectations. Advertising and branding brought
American popu­lar culture closer to trends within African American cul-
ture, but they did so in a way that erased the link to Black artists and Black
cool. For example, both the Beat poets and the British Invasion (i.e., the
Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Who, ­etc.) drew extensively on Black cul-
ture, but did so in a way that rendered African American artists and poets
mostly invisible. Nor did African Americans profit from ­these new brand-
ing strategies or gain any form of cultural owner­ship, including trademark
owner­ship, over the new paradigm of cool. This white version of cool ig-
nored the implicit critique of racism while embracing a depoliticized and
deracialized nonconformity.
In the 1980s and 1990s, marketers and advertisers rejected white appro-
priations of Black cool and sought more “au­then­tic” versions to sell to an
American public that was (and still is) both fascinated by and scared of Black
culture. Hanes and Nike, among ­others, used Michael Jordan’s athletic and
aesthetic prowess to transform the images of their companies. For Pepsi,
Michael Jackson was the face of a new generation of consumers. At the same
time however, Tipper Gore and the Parents ­Music Resource Center tried to
constrain rec­ord companies who ­were selling gangsta rap to white subur-
ban teen­agers. The irony ­here has not escaped critics of African American

Au­t hen­t ic Black Cool? 183

culture. Donnell Anderson points out that while many whites want to pur-
chase or experience Black cool, they d ­ on’t want to live in the same neigh-
borhood as a­ ctual African Americans. In other words, just ­because white
Americans gravitate ­toward products marked as cool by African Ameri-
can culture, that consumption has not necessarily translated into e­ ither
improved cross-­cultural communication or enhanced status or wealth for
many African Americans.24
Beyond Donnell’s humorous critique, t­ here is a potentially more ominous
side to the marketer’s embrace of Black cool; it may be reifying, through the
power of advertising and branding violent and nihilistic be­hav­iors and prac-
tices as essential ele­ments of a Black identity. In her book We Real Cool, bell
hooks describes in vivid detail how the quest for Black manhood, rooted in
Black cool, has caused many African American men to mimic white men’s
strategies for achieving re­spect: perpetrating vio­lence against the powerless.
For hooks, the answer to building the self-­esteem of young Black males and
breaking the cycle of self-­destructive be­hav­iors rooted in Black cool is to en-
gage spirituality and foster self-­love. hooks, however, does not see hip hop as
a cultural site where much healing or self-­love is happening. Instead, “black
male hip-­hop artists who receive the most acclaim are busy pimping vio­
lence; peddling the racist/sexist ste­reo­types of the black male as primitive
predator.”25
Black cool, as a po­liti­cal and artistic aesthetic, was developed and nour-
ished ­after World War II to challenge white supremacy and empower Afri-
can Americans to withstand daily assaults on their dignity. While hip-­hop
enthusiasts, such as Charnas and Stoute, celebrate that hip hop has be-
come culturally dominant through its assertion of Black cool in branding,
Questlove sees hip hop, pace hooks, as offering nothing more than recycled
imagery. Questlove argues, “What once offered re­sis­tance to mainstream
culture (it was part of a larger tapestry, spook-­action style, but it pulled at
the fabric) is now an integral part of the sullen dominant.”26 For Questlove,
art and culture ­ought to “humanize” and “open the cir­cuits of empathy.”27
Charnas and Stoute interpret hip hop’s embrace and engagement with
the world of branding, trademarks, and marketing as transforming the
business world and revitalizing cultural democracy, mostly b­ ecause they
conflate increased Black wealth with a more open and demo­cratic society.
Questlove, however, argues that hip hop has become “flat” and “meaning-
less” as it gains wealth and power ­because it no longer offers much criti-
cal commentary on American life. If Black cool is no longer a source of
strength and criticism for the African American community, then it is

184 Richard Schur
no longer “cool”; it is just another resource to be mined, owned, and ulti-
mately depleted.

Who Owns Black Cool? The Limits of Trademark Law

Over the past two de­cades, intellectual property law scholars have explored
­whether trademarks and branding enhance democracy and strengthen
cultural traditions. In her study, Coombe documents many corporations’
attempts to stifle dissent or criticism that may involve their trademarked
properties or their brands. Coombe writes that “politics is a cultural activ-
ity; its practice demands appropriate access to the materiality of means and
mediums of expressive communication.”28 Trademark law, however, can be
used to limit access to ­those signs and symbols. This means that the monop-
olistic structure of intellectual property law affects the nature and outcome
of ­these debates. For example, many hip-­hop stars, including Ice Cube and
Snoop Dogg, endorsed and made commercials for St. Ides Malt Liquor in the
early 1990s. The brand wanted Chuck D to endorse their product and even
used a sample of his voice in an ad without his permission. Chuck D then
recorded “One Million Bottlebags,” which criticizes how malt liquor produc-
ers targeted young African Americans. The song, however, did not call out
St. Ides specifically, perhaps ­because to denigrate or criticize a well-­known
brand would have invited being sued. Trademark law, in effect, encourages
artists to shout out to brands when praising them but protects ­those very
trademarks or brands from being tarnished or diluted.
David Dante Troutt, a ­legal scholar and critical race theorist, imagines
an elaborate hy­po­thet­i­cal (that seems remarkably similar to what Jay-­Z,
Dr. Dre, and Sean Combs have been ­doing) in which an African American
advertising executive sought to become the “first federally registered ­human
trademark.” Troutt demonstrates that trademark law would most likely
allow such a trademark ­because of how publicity rights already allow famous
individuals to control how their likenesses are used. He points out that any
such individual brand must distinguish the advertising executive’s brand as
being unique from African American culture more generally. Troutt play-
fully imagines that the fictitious trademark application would claim a color-
blind mark, even if it is connected to what I have been calling “Black cool.”
He ultimately concludes that his hy­po­thet­i­cal individual could trademark
his name and identity. The prob­lem, however, would be that he could not
change his core identity or he would lose his trademarked status.29 In other
words, to trademark or brand himself in this way would lock him into a

Au­t hen­t ic Black Cool? 185

relatively static identity that would over time lose its “cool” and ultimately
harm his name and reputation rather than enhance it.
In many ways, Troutt underscores what is at stake in the debates about
hip hop’s use of branding, marketing, and trademarks and points us back
to the prob­lems with Black cool identified by hooks. Using trademark and
branding to market and profit from Black cool locks it into place and tends
to reify problematic images and ste­reo­types. As hooks points out, hip hop
and other purveyors of Black cool as brands tend to emphasize consumer-
ism, misogyny, and personal appearance over other values. More impor­tant,
creating a trademark creates a de facto property interest for the trademark
owner in a par­tic­u­lar image. Rather than decrease the salience of race, such
branding practices reinscribe racial and class differences on ordinary prod-
ucts from clothes, perfumes, and liquor to cars and fast food. While some of
­these brands and trademarked goods, such as Rocawear and Beats, may be
owned by African Americans, much of Stoute’s work helps corporate enti-
ties, such as Cadillac and McDonald’s, that have relatively ­little connection
to the Black community. Moreover, the version of Black cool being marketed
and branded seems more connected to the self-­destructive version described
by hooks than the liberating and nurturing one she remembers from her
youth. While all cultures possess distinctive patterns of consumption, cul-
tures themselves ­ought not be reduced to forms of consumption.
In his analy­sis of the relationship between race and trademark law, K. J.
Greene concludes that “although we have come far as a society in reducing
racial prejudice, analysts note that our culture is still awash in negative ra-
cial ste­reo­types in popu­lar media.” He further notes that trademark law has
been complicit in this traffic of ste­reo­typed imagery.30 Despite the claims
of hip-­hop supporters, t­ here has not been a doctrinal shift in trademark or
branding law b­ ecause of their efforts. The recent U.S. Supreme Court deci-
sion in Matal v. Tam held that any limit on registering trademarks ­because of
their disparaging nature would violate the First Amendment. This decision
now allows racial and ethnic-­based trademarks, even if they are potentially
discriminatory or invoke ste­reo­types.31 Matal v. Tam, along with hip hop’s
emergence and embrace of branding, marketing, and trademarks, w ­ ill likely
give hip hop more freedom to deploy potentially degrading or disparaging
terms, such as ­earlier efforts to trademark variants on the word “nigger,” and
the uspto and critics ­will have ­little power to challenge ­those trademarks.
­There are some signs, however, that intellectual property activists are
finding ways to challenge the power and reach of trademark law. Anjali Vats
writes of the football player Marshawn Lynch’s Beast Mode trademarked

186 Richard Schur
apparel, “Lynch uses trademark law to claim property rights in his body
and . . . ​rewrites the narrative of the black beast and subverts the smooth
operation of the nfl’s money-­making apparatuses.”32 Other scholars at the
inaugural Race +ip Conference in April 2017 are developing strategies to
deploy trademark to challenge racial, gender, and social class divides, in-
cluding considering ­whether hashtags such as #BlackLivesMatter should be
owned.33 The challenge for the f­uture is ­whether hip-­hop moguls ­will em-
brace or reject ­these forms of trademark activism. It is also unclear who w ­ ill
benefit financially from ­these new approaches.
The commodification of Black cool has enhanced the visibility of hip-hop
and African American culture and made a handful of African Americans
exceptionally wealthy. This is not an insignificant t­ hing and o­ ught to be cel-
ebrated. However, what cannot be missed in the rush to celebrate the hip-­
hop mogul is that the very Black cool they are now selling may no longer
help the community deal with the nihilistic forces that Black cool had his-
torically kept at bay. Although Black cool seems to possess a rebellious and
resistant core that promises social and cultural transformation, the very acts
of branding and trademarking frequently produce caricatures of Black cool
rather than the real t­ hing. Trademark law promises control and owner­ship
over words and symbols, but cultural meaning can easily shift from critical
reappropriation to ste­reo­type and back again. As long as we remember the
cultural and social forces that animate the quest for au­then­tic Black cool, we
­will not be fooled by trademarked imitations.

Notes

1 Charnas, The Big Payback; Stoute, The Tanning of Amer­i­ca. In “Copyright and Dis-
tributive Justice,” Hughes and Menges argue that ip has enabled the richest African
Americans to gain their wealth. Their analy­sis, however, does not distinguish
between ip and branding.
2 For discussions of authenticity in African American culture, see ­Favor, Au­then­tic
Blackness; Johnson, Appropriating Blackness.
3 Schur, “­Legal Fictions.”
4 “Trademark” 15 U.S.C. Sec. 1127.
5 Kern-­Foxworth, Aunt Jemima, ­Uncle Ben, and Rastus, 65–66.
6 Coombe, The Cultural Life, 274.
7 Katyal, “Trademark Intersectionality,” 1605.
8 Trademark Application Number 76639548, May 25, 2005.
9 Matal v. Tam 137 S. Ct. 1744 (2017).

Au­t hen­t ic Black Cool? 187

10 I would argue that the Court arrived at the right result in this case but relied on
flawed reasoning. The decision to find the entire statutory scheme unconstitutional
overshot the narrower claim—­that the Slants trademark was simply not a disparag-
ing term. The Court then could have offered guidance for the ustpo about how to
analyze ­these kinds of cultural reappropriations. The decision opened a potential
Pandora’s box that goes way beyond the Slants’ initial claim.
11 Seiler, Republic of ­Drivers, 113. See also Mukherjee, “Bio-­Brand in the Blacking
Factory.”
12 Stoute asserts that “urban” refers to a consumer mindset, rooted in dense, multicul-
tural cities, rather than a specific racial or socioeconomic group; see The Tanning of
Amer­i­ca, ix.
13 Stoute, The Tanning of Amer­i­ca, 213–19.
14 Stoute, The Tanning of Amer­i­ca, 169.
15 O’Malley Greenburg, Empire State of Mind, 115, 112–18.
16 Stoute, The Tanning of Amer­i­ca, 43, 35.
17 Charnas, The Big Payback, 636, 537.
18 In the early and mid-1990s, rappers such as Ice Cube and Biggie Smalls made adver-
tisements for St. Ides Malt Liquor. At the time, they ­were criticized for not being
aspirational enough for their fans; see Questlove, “Mo’ Money.”
19 Holmes Smith, “ ‘I ­Don’t Like to Dream.’ ” 681.
20 Questlove, “When the ­People Cheer.”
21 Questlove, “Disco.”
22 Dinerstein, “Lester Young,” 266–67.
23 Frank, The Conquest of Cool, 9.
24 Anderson, “Are Black ­People Cooler.”
25 hooks. We Real Cool, 4, 14, 142, 56.
26 Questlove, “When the ­People Cheer.”
27 Questlove, “Does Black Culture.”
28 Coombe, The Cultural Life, 274.
29 Troutt, “A Portrait,” 1151, 1152–55, 1202–3.
30 Greene, “Trademark Law,” 438, 441.
31 Matal v. Tam, 1765.
32 Vats, “Marking Disidentification,” 1247.
33 See Vats and Keller, “Critical Race ip.”

References

Anderson, Donnell. “Are Black ­People Cooler Than White ­People? The Racial
Roots of Cool.” Utne Reader, November–­December 1997. [Link]
com/politics/are-­black-­people-­cooler-­than-­white-­[Link].
Charnas, Dan. The Big Payback: The History of the Business of Hip-­Hop. New York:
Penguin, 2010.

188 Richard Schur
Coombe, Rosemary. The Cultural Life of Intellectual Properties: Authorship, Appropria-
tion, and the Law. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1998.
Dinerstein, Joel. “Lester Young and the Birth of Cool.” In Signifyin(g), Sanctifyin,’ and
Slam Dunking: A Reader in African American Expressive Culture, edited by Gena
Dagel Caponi. Amherst: University of Mas­sa­chu­setts Press, 1999.
­Favor, Martin. Au­then­tic Blackness: The Folk in the New Negro. Durham, NC: Duke
University Press, 1999.
Frank, Thomas. The Conquest of Cool: Business Culture, Counterculture, and Rise of Hip
Consumerism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997.
Greene. K. J. “Trademark Law and Racial Subordination: From Marketing of Ste­
reo­types to Norms of Authorship.” Syracuse Law Review 58 (2007–8): 431–45.
Holmes Smith, Christopher. “ ‘I ­Don’t Like to Dream about Getting Paid’: Repre­
sen­ta­tions of Mobility and the Emergence of the Hip-­Hop Mogul.” In That’s
the Joint! The Hip-­Hop Studies Reader, edited by Murray Forman and Mark
Anthony Neal. 2nd ed. New York: Routledge, 2012.
hooks, bell. We Real Cool: Black Men and Masculinity. New York: Routledge, 2004.
Hughes, Justin, and Robert Menges. “Copyright and Distributive Justice.” Notre
Dame Law Review 92, no. 2 (2016): 552–55.
Johnson, E. Patrick. Appropriating Blackness: Per­for­mance and the Politics of Authenticity.
Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003.
Katyal, Sonia. “Trademark Intersectionality.” UCLA Law Review 57 (2010): 1601–99.
Kern-­Foxworth, Marilyn. Aunt Jemima, ­Uncle Ben, and Rastus: Blacks in Advertising,
Yesterday, ­Today, and Tomorrow. Westport, CT: Praeger, 1994.
Mukherjee, Roopali. “Bio-­Brand in the Blacking Factory.” Plenary lecture. Race +
Intellectual Property conference. Boston College, April 2017.
O’Malley Greenburg, Zack. Empire State of Mind: How Jay-­Z Went from Street Corner to
Office Corner. New York: Penguin, 2011.
Questlove. “Disco and the Return of the Repressed—­How Hip-­Hop Failed Black
Amer­i­ca Part IV.” Vulture, May 13, 2014. [Link]
questlove-­how-­hip-­hop-­has-­become-­the-­new-­[Link].
Questlove. “Does Black Culture Need to Care About What Happens to Hip-­
Hop?”Vulture, May 27, 2014. [Link]
-­6​-­does​-­black​-­culture​-­need​-­to​-­care​-­about​-­hip​-­hop​.­html.
Questlove. “Mo’ Money, Mo’ Prob­lems: How Hip-­Hop Failed Black Amer­i­ca, Part
II.” Vulture, April 29, 2014. [Link]
money-­jay-­z-­how-­hip-­hop-­failed-­black-­america-­[Link].
Questlove. “When the ­People Cheer: How Hip-­Hop Failed Black Amer­i­ca.” Vulture,
April 22, 2014. [Link]
failed-­black-­[Link].
Schur, Richard. “­Legal Fictions: Trademark Discourse and Race.” In African Ameri-
can Culture and ­Legal Discourse, edited by Lovalerie King and Richard Schur,
191–208. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009.
Seiler, Cotten. Republic of D ­ rivers: A Cultural History of Automobility in Amer­i­ca. Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 2008.

Au­t hen­t ic Black Cool? 189

 Stoute, Steve. The Tanning of Amer­i­ca: How Hip-­Hop Created a Culture That Rewrote the
Rules of the New Economy. New York: Gotham, 2012.
Troutt, David Dante. “A Portrait of the Trademark as a Black Man: Intellectual
Property, Commodification, and Redescription.” University of California Law
Review 38 (April 2005): 1141–1205.
Vats, Anjali. “Marking Disidentification: Race, Corporeality, and Re­sis­tance in
Trademark Law.” Southern Communication Journal 81, no. 4 (2016): 237–51.
Vats, Anjali, and Deidre Keller. “Critical Race ip.” Cardozo Arts and Entertainment Law
Journal 36, no. 3 (2018): 736–76.

190 Richard Schur
CH.12 BLACK CULTURE WITHOUT BLACK
­ EOPLE / HIP-HOP DANCE BEYOND
P
APPROPRIATION DISCOURSE

Imani Kai Johnson

Cultural appropriation is currently a prominent topic of dis-

cussion, and at any given moment t­ here are readily available examples of it
in mainstream pop culture. From such infamous examples as Rachel Dolezal
and her performed blackness to predictable practices like dressing up in eth-
nic costuming at Halloween or at frat parties, accusations of appropriation
are actually being heard and discussions are gaining traction.1 When I first
started drafting this essay, Iggy Azalea’s appropriation of hip hop—­from her
“blackcent” to her ignorance of its history—­led to demands for greater ac-
countability to the culture and the broader community.2 While ­these dis-
cussions have not been exhausted, joining ­these debates seems exhausting
­because they are so oversimplified that ­people end up repeating themselves
to ­those with no stake in listening. Therein lies the strug­g le. In my own work
on breaking (also known as b-­boying or breakdancing), the appropriation
discussion is complicated by the realities of the culture itself: though born
of African diasporic practices, it is a worldwide phenomenon dominated by
nondiasporic prac­ti­tion­ers whose w ­ hole lives have been s­ haped by hip-­hop
culture. Appropriation is not enough.
To appropriate speaks to both the fact of something being taken and to
its being taken up in a certain kind of way: with the power to do so un-
critically and unethically. Simply put, appropriation is colonialism at the
scale of the dancing body or the sacred ritual object, its life and dynamism
reduced to a t­hing for consumption or a costume for play. Though not
exactly “theft”—­and I am wary of thinking of culture through the lens of
cap­i­tal­ist owner­ship—­the presumption that one has the right to stake a
claim to something and use it, buy and sell it, misrepresent it, and rewrite
its history is colonial logic at work. With that said, appropriation only ad-
dresses one type of cross-­cultural per­for­mance, one that perpetuates systems
of power that marginalizes and excludes.
We are in a time when many millennials already know that appropria-
tion is “problematic” or that they might get “dragged” on social media for
it. Videos and articles from mtv and Teen Vogue distinguishing between ap-
propriation and appreciation, while annual articles decrying black-­, brown-­,
red-­, and yellowface costumes attest to the changing terrain.3 The clearest
message in ­these forums is that it is wrong, and millennials appear to hear
the message. What follows that ac­cep­tance though?
This question comes out of informal discussions during a lecture wherein
my students already know what not to do, yet still question what it means
when appropriation is not enough. I am interested in nurturing a discourse
that attends to cross-­cultural per­for­mances that are related to but dif­fer­ent
from appropriation, and possibly finding language that moves with, along-
side, and yet away from appropriation (yes! like a dance). ­There is a differ-
ence between staking a claim to a culture (i.e., appropriation) and the cul-
ture’s staking a claim to you, possessing you, moving you in unfamiliar and
possibly uncomfortable ways that become essential to a person’s existence.
Hip-­hop dance lends itself to expanding that discourse precisely ­because the
spectrum of cross-­racial per­for­mances is embodied evidence of something
­else. Thus this essay is not about appropriation, but about thinking of ap-
propriation as part of a spectrum rather than a binary.
Within and across dance forms, movement communicates and transmits
knowledge that allows p ­ eople of dif­f er­ent nationalities, ethnicities, and races
to speak to one another less encumbered by the limits of verbal language.
This m­ atters in hip hop ­because, as I have argued in other work, breaking

192 Imani Kai Johnson

is fundamentally informed by Africanist aesthetics even as the f­aces of
breaking are largely of t­ hose who are not recognized or might not identify
as being of the African diaspora.4 With par­tic­u­lar attention on the dance
circle, known as the cypher, key ele­ments of Africanist aesthetics are organ­
izing sensibilities.5 In cyphers, one embodies lessons in call and response,
polyrhythms, improvisation, trickster practices, and spiritual communion
not merely as features of the culture but as fundamental dimensions to the
practice itself. In learning how to cypher, one embodies Africanist aesthetics
so much so that they may also acquire a legible understanding of aspects of
other African diasporic ritual practices as well. Prac­ti­tion­ers though identify
themselves as hip hop (sometimes as hip hopppas, breakers, and the like).
They recognize that with ­these identities come some degree of playing in
and with African diasporic cultural ele­ments, and thus blackness. Appro-
priation suggests that ­there is no cultural education in such per­for­mances.
My ongoing research on breaking culture tells a dif­fer­ent story, one that rec-
ognizes the capacity for dance to articulate a broader range of experiences
than appropriation alone addresses.
While ­there are still places where black breakers figure prominently (cit-
ies like Philadelphia and Paris, countries like South Africa and Uganda), anx­
i­eties about claiming breaking’s Africanist aesthetics comingles a dearth of
black breakers with a fear of participating in a lineage of minstrelsy despite
a commitment to hip hop—­which still carries counter hegemonic politics
despite its mainstream life. Shifting our attention to hip-­hop dance means
recognizing how cultural literacy and practice-­based expertise are meaning-
ful components of how bodies physically move in and through the world. If,
as is the case in many communities, the manner by which you move your
body demonstrates who your p ­ eople are, then how does hip hop move p ­ eople
both literally and positionally in relation to blackness?
­There are other terms that have been used (e.g., cultural exchange, cul-
tural borrowing), yet they ­don’t feel satisfying. “Borrowing” feels transitory,
and “exchange” suggests a level playing field or equal sociopo­liti­cal standing,
which is not always the case. Perhaps, though, a precise glossary of terms is
not a satisfactory resolution anyway. What I am leaning ­toward is activating
the nuance and specificity of experience through language that resists blur-
ring the meaning of appropriation.
This essay is an exploration of dance and its discursive possibilities in
­understanding the convergence of race, per­for­mance, hip hop, and Afri-
canist aesthetics practiced worldwide. I attempt to build on similar work from
other scholars and bring their approaches to bear on my central questions.

Black Culture without Black ­P eople 193

What are the social politics of nondiasporic ­peoples embodying and circu-
lating aesthetic sensibilities of the African diaspora? What is at stake when
this happens in the absence of black bodies? This piece builds on work that
attempts to move through, with, and past appropriation to look to hip hop’s
own cultural imperatives in order to facilitate a language that speaks to the
nuanced complexity of cultural exposure, exchange, and belonging.

When Appropriation Is Not Enough

When breaking hit mainstream Amer­i­ca in the early 1980s, it was fre-
quently labeled a “black dance,” not b­ ecause it was solely practiced by
African Americans but ­because of the way that blackness signified in pop
culture. Multiple mainstream articles introducing its audiences to hip hop
consistently represented prac­ti­tion­ers as young, male, and black, while oc-
casionally mentioning Puerto Ricans or Hispanics as secondary or paren-
thetical members of a “black youth.” For example, in a 1983 Time magazine
article titled, “Chilling Out on Rap Flash,” Latino and white participants
are prominent in the colorful pictures spreading across the opening pages.
Yet the author only refers to their blackness. This was not an oversight;
the author is not referring to national identity. Blackness signified the fear
and titillation captured in the article’s references to gangs, vio­lence, crime,
and a new style of cool.6 Blackness was marked by the fact that it was a
street dance dominated by African diasporic youth coming out of urban,
working-­class neighborhoods. That it was literally practiced on the street,
outside of the institutions wherein dance is “supposed” to take place, is also
symbolic of its otherness.7 Breaking traveled with an aura of blackness that
signaled coolness, youth culture, and counternarratives of socioeconomic
marginalization that together contextualizes much of the black cultural
production evident in pop culture.
In the mid-1980s, hip-­hop films helped propagate narrow notions of black-
ness while also buttressing a developing discourse of breaking’s multicultur-
alism in par­tic­u­lar. Its selling point became its diversity, which still carries a
sense of social possibility. As a consequence, blackness gets discursively resitu-
ated as both a source of innovative foundation and a racializing limitation,
or the straw man to the promise of multiculturalism wherein race is po­liti­
cally meaningless costuming, “a kind of difference that ­doesn’t make a differ-
ence of any kind.”8 While Wild Style (1983) gave us a peak into a still unknown
culture, the commercial success of Flashdance (also 1983) and its two-­minute
scene featuring the Rock Steady Crew inspired youth nationwide and soon

194 Imani Kai Johnson

around the world. The multiracial and multiethnic group of young teen-
age boys dancing on cardboard in an alley surrounded by adults of dif­fer­ent
races clapping along set a pre­ce­dence. Other films followed suit, depicting
stories of a multicultural group of sometimes poor, ghetto kids d ­ oing good
through hip hop, like Beat Street (1984), Breakin’ (1984), and Breakin’ 2: Electric
Boogaloo (1984). Minor films like Body Rock (1984), Flash Forward (1985), and
Delivery Boys (1985) also showcased moments of breaking among e­ ither mul-
ticultural or largely white groups. Black and white racial relations played a
key role in some of ­these works, especially in the popu­lar Breakin’ franchise,
whose central character Kelly—­a white, upper-­class modern dancer—­sees
a streetdance circle and decides to learn in hopes of distinguishing herself
from other modern dancers to further her c­ areer. With very l­ittle ­actual
breaking in it (popping and locking are showcased primarily), Breakin’ uses
the bodies of streetdancers of color to shore up the film’s authenticity and
mask Kelly’s lack of skills. (Versions of this formula resurface in the Step Up
franchise [2006–17].)
Popu­lar storylines reek of appropriation and perpetuate narratives of
newly welcomed white interlocutors who happily attempt to translate
a culture that they have often just learned about for the consumption of
mainstream audiences both within the films and literally at the box office.
In ­these narratives, white ­people are typically the intermediaries between
the subculture and the mainstream, thereby making it clear that signifiers of
blackness (e.g., poor neighborhoods, black and brown prac­ti­tion­ers, urban
styles of dress and gesture, e­ tc.) ­were performative not substantive. Simply
put, in pop culture repre­sen­ta­tions of black culture centered on nonblack
­people is our erasure; it is appropriation. Beyond ­these fictional narratives,
though, are lived experiences of exchange that complicate ­these stories.
For example, I presented an e­ arlier draft of this article at Emory Univer-
sity in 2016, and following the q&a I was approached by a young Chinese
American b-­boy from Chicago, now ­going to college in the South.9 He asked
me how, within this po­liti­cal moment of Black Lives ­Matter activism, he and
his largely white and Asian American crew should hold themselves po­liti­
cally accountable while loving and practicing an art born in black and brown
urban, working-­class communities? Additionally, ­going to college in Atlanta
made him hyperaware of his own lack of connection to any black commu-
nity, while espousing a history that he knew came from them. This tension
compelled him to stay h ­ umble, especially in the face of his own urge to judge
the growing competitive collegiate hip-­hop “choreo” scene.10 That is, to him.
choreo did ­little to acknowledge hip-­hop streetdance histories or connect

Black Culture without Black ­P eople 195

to its current community-­based manifestations, yet the choreo scene is also
heavi­ly Asian American in practice, forcing him to confront a version of hip-­
hop culture that was both an affront to his sense of cultural responsibility,
and a mirror of his own anx­i­eties about cultural appropriation.
I have worked with several students involved in choreo. A young, white,
queer undergrad created a video proj­ect that paid homage to the form and
expressed his love and commitment to his team and its found­ers. In a class I
taught on global hip-­hop dance documentaries, two ­women active in cam-
pus choreo (one black, one white) activated ­those experiences to engage the
course materials. An indigenous ­woman form New Zealand was also in the
class and explained that videos of an Australian hip-­hop choreo team ex-
posed her to hip-­hop dance before coming to the States. I began to recognize
that for w ­ omen, queer, and international students choreo teams offered a
place to enter and join communities of practice that supported their jour-
neys through college life. They too understood that appropriation is bad,
but nonetheless one asked, “But t­ here’s good appropriation too, right?,” with
a desire to understand how to account for his appreciation of and commit-
ment to their campus teams. Appropriation does not exhaust our under-
standing of per­for­mances that traverse sociocultural and racial bound­aries.
Again, for ­these college prac­ti­tion­ers, Africanist aesthetics are embodied,
not costumes.
While my students helped clarify my questions, Dark Marc ­really embod-
ied my strug­g le with appropriation. Dark Marc was a funky dancer whose
musicality and soulfulness ­were as unexpected as his name. When I first
saw him one Saturday after­noon at a dark New York City club in 2006, the
then twenty-­four-­year old, 5′9,″ blond-­haired Scandinavian man shimmied
and bounced his way into the circle to James Brown’s “Give It Up, Turn It
Loose.” He ignored the emcee’s double-­take when the name “Dark Marc”
was announced, and his talent got spectators on his side. He nonetheless
suspected that when ­people said that he danced well for a “white boy,” it
was a backhanded compliment. As far as his name was concerned, he chose
it ­after watching Star Wars, alluding to “the dark side,” arguing (however
naïvely) that Scandinavians did not immediately associate “dark” with skin
color.11 He intended no offense; he just thought it was cool. Yet in New
York, though white breakers are common, Dark Marc’s whiteness stood out
­because of his name.12 As a consequence, he became a nexus of discourses on
race, national difference, hip-­hop culture, and an appropriation of blackness
itself—­discourses that linger beneath the surface of the scene but do not
often take center stage.

196 Imani Kai Johnson

 Ultimately, East Coast audiences appreciated his capacity to groove in
synchronous harmony with the m ­ usic rather than to just do a bunch of
breaking moves to impress the judges without regard for the song. In an in-
terview in 2006, Dark Marc told me how his appreciation for funk, soul,
rock, and jazz m ­ usic developed out of his having grown up listening to his
­father’s rec­ord collection—­some of which has since been canonized among
breakers—­and appreciating James Brown the most.13 His ­father, a drummer,
had a vast rec­ord collection, and Dark Marc got a distinct education from it.
Embedded in his personal history are lessons that lent themselves to break-
ing. One came from learning drumming at a young age, which taught him
about polyrhythms in a black m ­ usic. A second lesson came from exposure to
musicians jamming at parties in his home, which facilitated an understand-
ing of improvisation, another central Africanist aesthetic. ­These details are
neither prescriptive nor indicative of a kind of exceptionalism, but par­tic­
u­lar to Dark Marc’s specific experiences with black aesthetics in ­music and
dance before and subsequently within breaking.
In New York, though, Dark Marc activated several points of tension that
could be analyzed just in reference to the “You dance good for a white boy”
comment. Instead I want to pay attention to his relationship to breaking.
Like other breakers around the world, Dark Marc did not just do the dance;
he lived as a b-­boy. He saved money to travel, he competed in ­battles for
international re­spect, and he pushed himself to create and express himself
within the form, while continuing to learn the dance’s history ­because it
was his history too. And that is what gave me initial pause. When I met him,
he had traveled to New York City to learn firsthand about the roots of his
­adopted culture, a shared history with African diasporic, working-­class
American communities. He went to the South Bronx and Brooklyn to
learn from first-­and second-­generation breakers and uprockers, t­ hese days
mostly older Puerto Rican men, to teach him about his ­adopted culture.14
In my interview with him, Dark Marc goes into some of t­ hose lessons, par-
ticularly around the rock dance, a b­ attle dance born in New York (some
say Brooklyn; some say the Bronx) where breaking adopts its toprock or
upright dancing style.

dm: ­People, I think, p ­ eople that know, older p

­ eople that can r­ eally see if you
know what ­you’re ­doing, or if you just do it ­because you seen someone
­else ­doing it. If you know the history b­ ehind the move and you know
the meaning of the move, you do it with much more . . . ​I ­don’t know
how to say . . . ​you do it much more, uhh, execution b­ ecause then

Black Culture without Black ­P eople 197

 y­ ou’re sure of what ­you’re ­doing. . . . ​If you know the meaning ­behind
a lot of the t­ hing then it’s easier to also create your own style. ­Because
that’s maybe one of the most impor­tant ­things, also too: to learn the
dance, the foundation, and then try to do it your way. And, I think
a lot of new b-­boys that want to try to [say], “Okay, I want to have
my own style right now.” And then they kind of skip the hard work
with the foundation stuff. Then ­they’re original but they ­don’t have
no good form, they have terrible form. Like, I think it’s ­really impor­
tant to know the history, know how the original move is. And then it’s
much more easy to make your own out of it.
ikj: So knowing the history of the moves, does it help you innovate?
dm: Yeah. It does help me a lot when I got interested in rocking. It’s, uh,
let’s say when they do the jerks for instance, it’s seen when b-­boys try
to imitate it as when they go 1-2-3-­and-4 and they go down on the 4
and hit on 2. That’s like the milder version of rocking. And then, when
I learned what the rockers described . . . ​that you grab the opponent
and then breaking them on the hips, and then they went down to drop
the remaining of the opponent. And then when I learned that I was
like, “Hmm. That was a cool ­thing.” Then it helps me to like, uh, try to
think in dif­fer­ent ways . . . ​and make it my own. . . . ​I think it’s a good
help to like open your mind.

Let me explain. Unlike breaking b­ attles, where one person enters the circle
at a time and dances in a back-­and-­forth exchange to breakbeats, uprockers
form two facing rows and dance against the person standing opposite them
to entire songs while pantomiming stories of dominating their opponent.
Not unlike playing the dozens, wherein how you insult is more impor­tant
than the fact of insulting someone, rockers dance out intricate narratives of
dismemberment, beheadings, shootings, or breaking backs. The story told
is as creative and expressive as a rocker’s imagination. So when t­ hese moves
are acquired as steps rather than individual stories, a gesture of breaking
someone at the hips just becomes a squat to the ground.
When Dark Marc talks about learning that the “go down” part is not in
fact just a part of a count—as if every­one should drop on the 4—­his self-­
assigned history lesson did more than satisfy a curiosity; it changed how
he understood his own practice. Moreover, it opened his mind to thinking
differently. This is not to absolve Dark Marc of any responsibilities that
come with adopting a culture, nor is this a fantasy of transracial pro­gress
through dance. In fact, it is r­ eally not even about him. In meeting him, it

198 Imani Kai Johnson

struck me that if I take Dark Marc’s and my students’ depth of commitment
to hip-­hop dance seriously, then the culture has claimed them. This alone
compels a shift in discourse b­ ecause ­those experiences are worthy of further
exploration.

Inappropriable Discourse

In an effort to speak to the lived experiences of my interlocutors, I looked

to work on cultural production (per­for­mance, fashion, theatre, ritual) to
offer tools for moving the discussion forward. For example, in one case study
featured in Appropriating Blackness: Per­for­mance and the Politics of Authenticity,
E. Patrick Johnson writes of an all-­white Australian gospel choir—­many of
the singers themselves atheists. In an analy­sis of the choir’s per­for­mance
at a Harlem church, he argues that in one moment they “became black,”
Johnson’s way of accounting for the sonic achievement of what gets read
as blackness in the voices of a choir. Some members w ­ ere so moved in fact
that they subsequently converted to Chris­tian­ity. Johnson provocatively
engages the language of race to speak to what a depth of performative in-
vestment can make pos­si­ble. His goal is to make the language of race and
particularly blackness more porous in order to undermine notions of au-
thenticity, an essentialist discourse that buttresses intraracial practices of
exclusion, such as homophobic and heteronormative black masculinities
that exclude queer-­identified black men. Johnson argues for “embodiment
as a way of ‘knowing’ . . . ​as a way to disrupt the notion of au­then­tic black-
ness.” Embodiment also becomes a precondition for intersubjectivity and in-
tercultural exchange. Per­for­mance allows us to see ourselves in ­Others and
“engage the O ­ thers’ po­liti­cal, social, and cultural landscape, and contextu-
ally constituted subjectivities within contested spaces.”15 Thus, between self
and Other are power­ful, dynamic, and transformative liminal spaces that
per­for­mance opens up.
While Johnson’s is an explicit engagement with African diasporic aes-
thetics rather than an implicit engagement mediated by hip hop, t­here is
something to considering what embodied practices make pos­si­ble. “Becom-
ing black” is not unlike “being hip hop,” which is an understanding in hip-­
hop circles that is all about a deep cultural investment that is lived e­ very day
and not merely put on for show or for exploitative profit. It is achievable not
in biology but in practice.
Other approaches to embodied cross-­cultural per­for­mances can be found
in dif­fer­ent areas of study. For example, Minh-­Ha T. Pham’s discussion of

Black Culture without Black ­P eople 199

appropriation discourse in the fashion industry critiques the language’s too
easy collapse into binary oppositions (e.g., good/bad, respectful/not respect-
ful, high/low culture, first/third world), which maintains existing power
structures even within efforts to critique the fashion industry’s repeated ap-
propriative transgressions. Pham makes a case for “inappropriate critique,”
or that which cannot be appropriated while “continu[ing] to maintain the
existing power structure.”16 In her primary example of a plaid design promi-
nent among certain mi­grant worker groups “poached” for Eu­ro­pean runways
as many critics argued, Pham brings attention to the design’s seventeenth-­
century history left out of the appropriation discourse, which did nothing
to undermine the implicit high/low cultural bifurcation that posited that
the style was born in slums and elevated by innovative Eu­ro­pean designers,
“obscure[ing] the a­ ctual diversity and complexity of the cultural object being
copied.”17 Inappropriate critique might instead consider how statelessness
and fashion industry wealth might intersect at vari­ous points of production,
allowing us to ask dif­fer­ent questions about who benefits and how. 18
Works by historian Ivor Miller and per­for­mance anthropologist Dorinne
Kondo also offer up new frameworks for consideration. Miller considers the
participation of white elite Cuban prac­ti­tion­ers of African-­centered Palo
Monte, expounding on the language of ritual to capture cultural identities
through initiation, producing what he calls a “spiritual ethnicity” or ritual
kinships in a tradition that requires years of study within a community to
master an understanding.19 Kondo centers cross-­racial theatrical per­for­
mances by Anna Deavere Smith and Culture Clash that interrogate the
limits of racial discourses of multiculturalism and critiques of “identity poli-
tics.” Kondo argues that “unfaithful” impersonations in each artists’ works—­
the purposeful gaps between performers and the “other” that they portray—­
“disrupts audience complacency” by drawing attention to the performative
aspects of identity and de-­essentializing them.20
Though only Johnson and Pham explic­itly unpack “appropriation,” to-
gether ­these scholars’ examinations open up alternative discourses worth
exploring. In Kondo’s examples, cross-­racial per­for­mances employ racial signi-
fiers in order to destabilize them, disrupting familiar racial scripts or ste­reo­
types by demanding audiences experience the seemingly familiar differently.
Breaking has its own moments of shaking up audience expectations, lending
itself to potentially more nuanced discussions of appropriation, which I dis-
cuss further below. The language of initiation allows Miller to consider how
deep, long-­term study of communal practices offer ways to read Dark Marc’s
cultural adoption in earnest and studied terms. By drawing attention to

200 Imani Kai Johnson

inappropriate questions, Pham implores us to reframe appropriation debates
so as to not reaffirm power structures of “white Western domination . . . ​over
every­one ­else.” This might, for example, allow us to shift our perspective from
­whether Dark Marc appropriates hip hop to hip hop’s seduction of him, call-
ing to question the capacity for commercial hip-­hop industries to supplant
embodied hip-­hop identities (and thus Africanist aesthetics) with consumer
identities. Johnson’s analy­sis makes room for ­these very engagements, ones
that acknowledge the profound impact of per­for­mance and the creation of
new subjectivities as a result.
­These strategies produce their own kind of dance, where c­ ounter dis-
courses move with, alongside, and yet away from appropriation. Per­for­mance
and dance are power­ful starting points to ask dif­fer­ent kinds of questions
and perhaps represent dif­fer­ent kinds of relationships within cross-­cultural
per­for­mances and in relation to appropriation. For example, learning how
to break necessarily involves some degree of biting: stealing or mimicking
someone ­else’s style as if one’s own. Biting alone is not okay; by definition it
is appropriation. Yet beginning breakers typically put someone ­else’s move-
ment onto their bodies as part of their learning pro­cess. Insofar as biting is
a form of learning, it is also a kind of enactment whose antithesis speaks to
how one participates. Hence the cry among breakers: “­Don’t bite!” To not
bite—to abstain from the mere consumption of another’s style—­means that
one must respectfully name one’s direct and indirect teachers, t­hose who
helped to make one’s movements pos­si­ble. As well, hip hop’s Africanist cul-
tural logic also necessitates that one must add their own flavor to the style
­adopted, making for an original style. It is a prob­lem if one fails on ­either
or both fronts. So appropriation is mitigated by cultural imperatives that
recontextualize it as learning and even innovation, all while upholding hip
hop’s history and foundation.
Read symbolically, biting is a ­couple’s dance in a rhythmic negotiation.
One partner is pre­sent, moving in and through an invisible partner’s path.
And while one can attempt to embody the style of another—­making the in-
visible pre­sent in the dancing itself—­the gap between that re-­performance
and the original is always evident ­because the originality that birthed that
style (necessarily within a par­tic­u­lar historical context) is inappropriable. It
is precisely in efforts to not bite and add one’s own style that shifts away from
discourses of “theft” and erasure to an act that conjures up and makes ever
pre­sent one who is not physically t­ here. It becomes an act of communion
and community building, adding new dimensions of style into the dance’s
expanding repertoire overall.

Black Culture without Black ­P eople 201

 Breaking also has its own ways of disrupting audience complacency. For
instance, t­here are moments in breaking when uprocking ­battles occur.
Unlike traditional rocking b­ attles structured in two facing lines, uprock
face-­offs in breaking happen in large groups enmeshed in cyphers. They are
structured by contrapuntal exchanges while moving circularly around one’s
opponent, filling the surrounding space with a pantomimed story of domi-
nating, outwitting, and out-­dancing the other without ever ­really touching.
When I first witnessed this moment at a breaking b­ attle, I became immedi-
ately alert, somewhat confused, and thoroughly sucked into the drama. At
the same time, the “go down” part that Dark Marc mentioned—­when it is
not done to a count but in the context of an individual dancer’s story—­the
“go down” part turns the seeming chaos into rhythmic waves of up and down
movement that happen at differential moments yet remain collectively in
sync, perhaps enabled by a polyrhythmic enactment of the ­music through
dance. The result is si­mul­ta­neously funny, disjointed, ordered, and frenzied.
Grasping the ­whole is impossible and watching is a potentially disorienting
act. With that said, to be in sync rhythmically is community in action, which
is evident in Gena Caponi’s discussion of polyrhythms in the introduction
to Signifyin(g), Sanctifyin’, and Slam Dunking: A Reader in African American Expres-
sive Culture: “Polyrhythmic and polymetric m ­ usic creates interdependence,
­because it forces all participants to be aware of each other—of their place in
the rhythmic field in relation to ­others and to the ­whole.”21 Simply put, it is a
communal mode of interaction, and participating in it requires deep listen-
ing and bodily awareness of the ­whole. It necessitates recognizing the central
rhythmic thread within the multiplicity, even when it is not being played.
Being in sync adds to it rather than disrupts it. As a meta­phor, polyrhythms
might represent varying depths of cultural initiation, giving us room to talk
about dif­fer­ent frequencies of participation.

Conclusion

Dance gives us insight into dif­fer­ent cultural rhythms. Someone like Iggy
Azalea can mimic the sound but this sonic costuming does not mean she
is in sync with hip hop as a culture, despite hitting all of the beats of main-
stream commercial rap ­music. Yet for a while she still had the influence to
distort the notions of cultural responsibility. Dark Marc dances to a dif­f er­ent
rhythm, one that builds on the foundation of his ­adopted culture. This is a
testament to the real­ity that how we connect to hip hop ­matters. Yet posi-
tionality complicates the ­matter.

202 Imani Kai Johnson

 In “What Is This ‘Black’ in Black Popu­lar Culture?,” cultural studies
scholar Stuart Hall clarifies why positionality is unstable ground: “We are al-
ways in negotiation, not with a single set of oppositions that place us always
in the same relation to ­others, but with a series of dif­fer­ent positionalities.
Each has for us its point of profound subjective identification. And that is
the most difficult t­ hing about this proliferation of the field of identities and
antagonisms: they are often dislocating in relation to one another.”22 Since
social identities are multiple, complicated, and always shifting, a “profound
subjective identification” with hip hop is always alongside other equally or
more profound identifications with race, nation, sexuality, gender, and class,
as each continually shift our positionality relative to o­ thers. ­There is no
stable, static, or singular positionality from which to locate ourselves that
resolves everyday and individual experiences of potentially appropriative
acts once and for all. Similarly, appropriation might locate or signal “fields of
identities and antagonisms” precisely ­because our relations to each other via
par­tic­u­lar modes of expressive cultures are too dynamic and unfixed.
Labeling appropriation on its own does not fix anything (and I mean “fix”
as both to resolve and to make stable). Per­for­mances that can alter our per-
ceptions and foster deep connections to o­ thers can shape discourses that
speak to under ­examined dimensions of lived experiences. Regardless, if
cultural exchange (rather than cultural appropriation) truly only happens
when groups of ­people are on equal footing—as dance artist and scholar
Ananya Chatterjee argued in her keynote lecture, “Of Thievings, Essences,
and Strategies,” presented at the 2016 Congress on Research and Dance, on
“Beyond Authenticity and Appropriation”—­then we have to consider the
real­ity that the terrain of exchange is always shifting and equal footing might
not be pos­si­ble or last.23 By moving away from the binary of “Is it appropria-
tion or not?,” we can consider the polyrhythmic flows of cross-­cultural per­
for­mances: What is inappropriate? What disrupts complacent expectations?
What’s achievable through sustained study of embodied practices?
It goes without saying that the po­liti­cal stakes of appropriation remain
impor­tant. So too are approaches to interpreting cross-­cultural per­for­mances
beyond appropriation. Dance allows us to engage ­these debates differently,
just as it allows prac­ti­tion­ers like Dark Marc to move differently in relation
to and in proximity with o­ thers, and to embody an identity that entails re-
sponsibilities to a larger collective. Next steps then might entail staying vigi-
lantly attuned to shifting positionalities within larger structures of power,
which opens up even more ground for expanding the discourse now couched
(and erased) in appropriation discourses. That alone might not be every­thing,

Black Culture without Black ­P eople 203

but it can potentially move us ­toward a better understanding of our relations
to each other.

Notes

1 Even in such extreme cases as Rachel Dolezal, who morphed her desire to be black
into identifying as a black ­woman, the degree of attention and debate that followed
her being “outed” as white further signals how conditioned we are to accept the
erasure of black ­people even from our own identities. Nothing is actually ours.
2 Cooper, “Iggy Azalea’s Post-­Racial Mess.” On Twitter in December 2014, the rapper
Q-­Tip from A Tribe Called Quest took Azalea to task for her lack of awareness of
hip-­hop history, leading to lengthy exchanges with her label boss and fellow rapper
T. I. See Williams, “Q-­Tip Offers.”
3 mtv’s Decoded video “7 Myths about Cultural Appropriation debunked!” and
Teen Vogue’s video “How to Avoid Cultural Appropriation at Coachella” are just two
examples that reveal countless additions to ­these debates.
4 Johnson, “B-­Boying and Battling.”
5 See Johnson, “Dark ­Matter.”
6 Cocks, “Chilling Out on Rap Flash.”
7 Bragin, “Global Street Dance.”
8 Hall, “What Is This ‘Black,’ ” 23.
9 Johnson, “Breaking Beyond Appropriation Discourses.”
10 “Collegiate hip-­hop choreo” refers to campus-­organized dance teams that perform
choreographed shows on stage, and compete with other college teams.
11 Ironically, even though Dark Marc appropriates Star Wars in his name, it is still
racialized ­because the film captures the dark side in the iconic sonic force of James
Earl Jones’s voice, and then displaces this black man’s body with that of an old
white man. Race ­matters.
12 While it is common for breakers to give themselves comedic or self-­ethnicizing
names (e.g., AsiaOne, Casper), ambiguous cross-­racial names are not common.
13 Personal interview 2006; Schloss “ ‘Like Folk Songs.’ ”
14 Uprocking is a ­battle streetdance genre from which early breakers borrowed heavi­ly
in their own upright dancing styles. Uprocking has experienced resurgence in the
b-­boying scene in the past de­cade. Joseph Schloss discusses uprocking’s relationship
to b-­boying history at length in Foundation.
15 Schloss, Foundation, 230, 213.
16 Pham, “Fashion’s Cultural-­Appropriation Debate.”
17 Pham, “Fashion’s Cultural-­Appropriation Debate.”
18 Pham, “Fashion’s Cultural-­Appropriation Debate.”
19 Miller, “The Formation.”
20 Kondo, “(Re)Visions of Race.”

204 Imani Kai Johnson

21 Caponi, “Introduction,” 10.
22 Hall, “What Is This ‘Black,’ ” 28, 30–31.
23 Chatterjea, “Of Thievings, Essences, and Strategies.”

References

Bragin, Naomi. “Global Street Dance and Libidinal Economy.” Paper and lecture,
sdhs/cord 2015 Dance Studies Conference, Athens, Greece, June 7, 2015.
Caponi, Gena Dagel. “Introduction: The Case for an African American Aesthetic.”
In Signifyin(g), Sanctifyin’, and Slam Dunking: A Reader in African American Expres-
sive Culture, edited by Gena Dagel Caponi. Amherst: University of Mas­sa­chu­
setts Press, 1999.
Chatterjea, Ananya. “Of Thievings, Essences, and Strategies: Performative Cultures
in 2016.” Keynote address. Congress on Research in Dance annual confer-
ence. Pomona College, November 2016. [Link]
=­2TgRvee2gqc.
Cocks, Jay. “Chilling Out on Rap Flash.” Time, March 21, 1983.
Cooper, Brittney. “Iggy Azalea’s Post-­Racial Mess: Amer­i­ca’s Oldest Race
Tale, Remixed,” Salon, July 16, 2014. [Link]
iggy_azaleas_post_racial_mess_americas_oldest_race_tale_remixed/.
Hall, Stuart. “What Is This ‘Black’ in Black Popu­lar Culture?” In Black Popu­lar
Culture: A Proj­ect by Michelle Wallace, edited by Gina Dent. Seattle, WA: Bay
Press, 1992.
Johnson, Imani Kai. “B-­Boying and Battling in a Global Context: The Discursive
Life of Difference in Hip Hop Dance.” Alif: Journal of Comparative Poetics 31
(2011): 173–95.
Johnson, Imani Kai. “Breaking Beyond Appropriation Discourse.” Race and Differ-
ence Colloquium Lecture Series. Emory University, October 2016. [Link]
www​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=8­ aTze​_­N​-­06k
Johnson, Imani Kai. “Dark ­Matter in B-­Boying Cyphers: Race and Global Con-
nection in Hip Hop.” PhD diss., University of Southern California, 2009.
[Link]
id/265317/rec/1.
Kondo, Dorinne. “(Re)Visions of Race: Con­temporary Race Theory and the Cul-
tural Politics of Racial Crossover in Documentary Theatre.” Theatre Journal 52,
no. 1 (March 2000): 87–107.
Miller, Ivor L. 2004. “The Formation of African Identities in the Amer­i­cas: Spiri-
tual ‘Ethnicity.’ ” Contours 2, no. 2 (Fall 2000): 193–222.
mtv Decoded. “7 Myths about Cultural Appropriation debunked!” YouTube,
November 11, 2015. [Link]
Osumare, Halifu. “Beat Streets in the Global Hood: Connective Marginalities of
the Hip Hop Globe.” Journal of American and Comparative Cultures 24, nos. 1–2
(Spring–­Summer 2001): 171–81.

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 Pham, Minh-ha T. “Fashion’s Cultural-­Appropriation Debate: Pointless.” The Atlan-
tic, May 15, 2014. [Link]
cultural-­appropriation-­in-­fashion-­stop-­talking-­about-­it/370826/.
Schloss, Joseph G. Foundation: B-­Boys, B-­Girls, and Hip Hop Culture in New York City.
New York: Oxford University Press, 2009.
Schloss, Joseph G. “Like Folk Songs Handed Down from Generation to Generation:
History, Canon, and Community in B-­Boy Culture.” Ethnomusicology 50, no. 3
(Fall 2006): 411–32.
Teen Vogue. “How to Avoid Cultural Appropriation at Coachella.” YouTube,
April 20, 2017. [Link]
­ wV3LApkKTk.
Williams, Brennan. “Q-­Tip Offers Iggy Azalea a Hip Hop History Lesson, T. I. and
Azealia Banks Respond.” Huffington Post, January 5, 2015. [Link]
[Link]/2014/12/22/q-­tip-­iggy-­azalea-­hip-­hop-­history-­lesson-­ti-­azealia-­
banks-­_n_6367046.html.

206 Imani Kai Johnson

CH.13 AT THE CORNER OF CHAOS AND DIVINE
/ BLACK RITUAL THEATER, PER­FOR­MANCE,
AND POLITICS

Nina Angela Mercer

We cannot abdicate our culture to ­those who sit outside of us. We

should guard and protect our culture viciously, and work juju on
­those who screw up. ​· ​larry neal

I enter ­here, at the corner of chaos and divine, between the sticky place
where monster consumerism strangles all art that does not conform to its
conventions and the place where that monster gets funked into submission
­under a blue light at the basement party. I enter ­here, at the corner of chaos
and divine, troubling the contradictions between corporate monopolies and
culture; between award committees and ­those street-­corner review boards,
where the p­ eople sit wide-­legged on milk crates out front the bodega—­a
head-­nod could mean you cool, but you’d have to stop often and shoot the
shit to know. I enter ­here, between monolithic metanarratives of blackness
and the truths blaring just beyond my win­dow on East 196th Street in the
Bronx, or any city any black heart beat any black trip to the ­future from
the ocean’s deep blue-­black-­rooted past of brine and bones. I enter ­here, at
the corner of chaos and divine in my womanist way, b­ ecause I ­can’t keep my
hand off my hip and all the ­mothers before me whisper blood secrets, sur-
vival stories, and ways to stand without stooping inside this room, askew, in
a ­house called ­these United States of Amer­i­ca.
I enter as a Black womanist theater practitioner who understands my writ-
ing as a sacred act of re­sis­tance that is inextricably linked to the rituals, songs,
and parables of Hoodoo, Yoruba, and Bantu cosmologies as they have evolved
through the Black diaspora’s survival of the transatlantic slave trade’s M ­ iddle
Passage. I work my practice from the inside. I write b­ ecause I am called away
from that illusion of safety made by a self-­imposed distance from other h ­ uman
lives. I must share what I see and break into new light to see again through
the lives of t­ hose who come to join me; it is a communion of souls meeting as
many and one. Together, we testify and bear witness. Together, we hold the
potential for transformation through the shared ritual in per­for­mance. It is a
subversive potential. It is urgently real. We light candles and move counter-
clockwise in the ring shout. And some of us ­don’t. We burn white sage some-
times. And some of us get cleansed at the sacred grove, the hush harbor, the
­temple and juke-­joint, even when it all happens in the theater. ­Every place is
the same space, sanctified by our soul. T ­ here are ­those of us who mark off the
four corners and draw a circle on the floor, conjuring the Kongo cosmogram.1
We may dance and call our ancestors by name. We retell the many pos­si­ble sto-
ries of the twenty-­one cowrie shells that may fall on the divining mat, always
leaving space for improvisation. And even when we d ­ on’t know that science,
our cellular memory invokes it, disturbing the critiques that claim this is cul-
tural appropriation. It is blood memory lived and practiced through recurring
experience that happens across and through history and geographic divides.
This is Black ritual per­for­mance. This is also the Black avant-­garde, and it hap-
pens wherever we demand the space and are welcomed:

I. We surrender and bear witness, striving to tell our stories with raw,
honest, and bold voices, working ­toward the space where the sacred
meets the profane, where the absolute imperfection of humanity circles
back into the divine.

We get ­free
Seeking

208 Nina Angela Mercer

 Conjure our own holiness
Touching mirrors
Soul deep
We a prismatic ­people
One
*

But how, you may ask, can Black ritual theater be considered in any dis-
cussion of African American popu­lar culture, when that popu­lar culture
has become an industry that is bound by capitalism, defined by corporate
ac­cep­tance, control, and distribution?2 We recognize Beyoncé, Jay-­Z, and
Kevin Hart as icons of African American popu­lar culture. We know that
Kendrick Lamar, Rihanna, Nicki Minaj, and Cardi B are highly relevant
hit-­makers on the American popu­lar culture scene ­because of the sales of
their artistic products and the proliferation of their images bearing viral
“likes” and “shares” throughout social media’s virtual landscape. They are
brands in a marketplace that seems to hold no allegiances, except to the
almighty dollar.
Truth be told, the roots of Black per­for­mance as an industry in the
United States are tainted. From the very first time a white owner of an en-
slaved Black person received monetary compensation for that Black person’s
artistry in m
­ usic or dance as a commodity for trade, Black l­abor’s relation-
ship to the economy of per­for­mance in a white supremacist and cap­i­tal­ist
economy has been ­shaped by a certain exploitation that emancipation only
partially diffused. But our culture has never been dependent on this para-
digm for its existence. Our ring shouts and secret dances ­under the cover
of night always happened in­de­pen­dent of the industry that sought to ben-
efit from it. And that is still true t­ oday. Though Black popu­lar culture as an
industry may be subject to trends governed by corporate interests that are
often antithetical to the cultural re­sis­tance we must summon to move our
community forward, ­there is always an “under­ground” movement to disrupt
its seeming domination.

We get ­free
Under­ground, seeking
Ritual soul deep inside
The over yonder space.

We sweat, bodies breaking

­Every rule; we pop-­lock,

At the Corner of Chaos and Divine 209

 Spin, defying
Gravity’s law.

Our sacred kisses

The profane creating freedom
Over and over
Again.

Black ritual theater exists outside of what we understand African Ameri-

can popu­lar culture to be t­ oday in the terms that have been placed upon us,
terms that we have often helped to maintain as participating artists and as
consumers with millions of dollars in buying power. Only a relatively small
number of ­people attend theater compared to t­hose who consume Holly-
wood’s alternately saccharine and garishly violent buffet of entertainment,
and it is generally accepted that theater audiences are mostly individuals
of a privileged economic class and white. Furthermore, though the United
States boasts an increasingly ethnically diverse population of p ­ eople, such
diversity has not been successfully replicated in the season line-up of the-
aters across the country, though pro­gress is undeniable.
And though t­ here are certainly more African American producers of
theater than ­there have ever been, we must constantly challenge ourselves
by questioning what role we play in the evolution of the industry. Barbara
Ann Teer, who founded the National Black Theatre (nbt) in Harlem in
1968, cautions us with this reminder:

Essentially ­there is no difference between the psyche of a white business-

man [sic] and a black one. In this country, their sole concern is to make
money. They stick to what has been tried and proven: the safe way; the
easy follow-­the-­leader way. ­These narrow concepts have apparently, ­until
now, been the code of ethics of the American businessman [sic]. So in plan-
ning [her] own businesses, the black performer must be very careful to
analyze [her] thought patterns so that [she] w
­ ill not make the same errors.3

Teer certainly dug her hands into the rich soil of Black culture and held
true to her words. ­Because of her indomitable commitment, as well as the
commitment of new leadership, nbt has produced theater for over forty-­
seven years, despite fluctuating economies, continuing to thrive largely
­because the demand for such a space for Black theater, its prac­ti­tion­ers, and
audience remains acutely necessary in the splintered landscape of American
theater. nbt is an institution where Black ritual theater prac­ti­tion­ers are
welcome.

210 Nina Angela Mercer

 Still, many African American playwrights write American realism, creat-
ing inside the most recognizable narrative form in this country. In choosing
the linear and well-­ordered form of realism, ­these undeniably talented play-
wrights are often more likely to gain the enthusiastic support of the commer-
cial theater industry as it currently exists. And yet ­those of us creating Black
ritual theater are ­doing so outside of the expectations and trends dictating
what commercially v­ iable American theater should be. We are transgressing,
choosing nonlinear narrative forms that emphasize disorder, hybridity, mys-
tery, “magic,” and the unpredictable. T ­ hese are dangerous creative choices
for an industry that rarely takes risks. This means that Black ritual theater
prac­ti­tion­ers often engage in a strug­g le for major institutional and financial
support in an industry that has been tightening its purse strings for years.
What becomes popu­lar is often what bodes well for capital investment, “the
tried and true” Teer cautioned us about. And while ­there has been more
investment, and therefore more popularity, ascribed to experimental forms
created by Black theater prac­ti­tion­ers, we must continually affirm our pres-
ence. We must continually claim space, ­because it is not guaranteed. We
must write and tend to our own ever-­evolving archive so that we are not
dependent on what any industry defines as “popu­lar” or worthy of support.4
But at its very root, the word “popu­lar” should refer not only to how much
money a cultural product generates but to that cultural product’s relation-
ship to the p­ eople, the masses, the everyday folk who make this world, not a
handful of corporate monopolies and fat-­pocket individuals ready to ­triple
investments. That means that if we are courageous, our work should be to
create populist culture that resists the status quo by protecting our transfor-
mational ritual per­for­mance in its most potent forms. Black ritual theater
and its prac­ti­tion­ers do that work, putting the controlling interest of our
culture back with the ­people. Our juju is resilient; we keep on.

II. Our per­for­mance is ritual/Our ritual is per­for­mance: We be go-go

­music and its all-­night jam sessions. Jazz, the call, the response. Car-
nival, playing Mas, getting f­ree and reborn. Block parties, praise, and
spirit cyphers. We be street festivals, the corner, the blues and bodega,
the kitchen, the porch, and the dance hall. We be the rap b­ attle and the
rhythm’s pocket. Roll call. The stoop, our shrine, our ­temple, always then
and now. We Be.

Raw and funky

Sanctified
Flash/light

At the Corner of Chaos and Divine 211

 Working the between space
The inside over yonder space
The getting over
And sacred
Kissing the profane
So divine.
*

My first experiences of Black ritual per­for­mance came to me in my youth,

growing up in Washington, DC, when it was still considered the Choco­late
City, ­because of its predominantly Black population. DC was, and remains,
home to an indigenous Black American ­music and culture known as go-go,
a heavi­ly percussive ­music with a tradition of transformative ritual. Go-go
­music was ushered onto the scene in the late 1970s by “the Godfather of Go-
go,” the bassist, blues-­man, and lead-­talker Chuck Brown, when he led his
band the Soul Searchers. Many bands would follow, creating a movement and
culture with a loyal fan base spanning generations. Growing up as a Black girl
in DC meant holding my stance at The Go-­Go, getting knocked around a bit,
and claiming a space where t­ here seemed to be none in the crowd. When I am
conceiving and writing ritual theater, I’m always coming from ­there.
Go-go connects me to the continuum of ritual per­for­mance born from
the African diaspora, that intricate web of cultures that finds kinship in fa-
miliar percussive rhythms, stylized movements, repetitions, shouts, and call-­
and-­response chants that have come with us across big ­water, now wearing
a new language but recognized as our truth all the same.5 It is our language,
our legacy, our wealth; it is our re­sis­tance to all that seeks to shut us out and
down, the evidence that we H ­ ere. It is the musicians, the lead talker, the
congas’ steady pocket, the cowbell and the snare, that go-go twang plucked
from bass strings, the horn section’s wail for glory. It is ­those of us in the
crowd, standing, and tunneling our way through many bodies to get right
in front of the stage as we reach our arms up in solidarity, jumping over the
bullshit that may have clamored for our submission before we got to the
venue. We defy gravity at The Go-­Go. We get back home and our ears ring
for hours. We get back home transformed and understanding freedom in
our cellular memory; it is a blood recognition in a funky bass line. Church.
But the go-go ­don’t just happen at The Go-­Go. We carry it with us in
how we walk, in how we say what we say and how we reason. It is how we
stand, a rebel stance that refuses to be relegated to the shadows of the U.S.
Capitol. Not even the White House is enough to satisfy us. We’ve been taxed

212 Nina Angela Mercer

without repre­sen­ta­tion for so long that we cannot possibly trust the status
quo to heal us of the weary blues. We know the time. It is now, right where
our feet are planted. It pushes back against hostile attempts of takeover or
absorption, ever transforming, and becoming new while defiantly holding
onto roots grown deep in the soil at the banks of the Potomac and Anacostia
Rivers. If go-go is a place, it is inside of us.
­There is something remarkably resilient about a culture that endures
over de­cades, despite the lukewarm attentions of the American ­music in-
dustry, its merchandising and many fans. In fact, go-go generates its own
sustainable economy through live per­for­mances that do not rely on rec­ord
sales or radio airplay. All of this is evidence of our ability to alter how cap­i­tal­
ist power constructs and confines culture. We are able to think and act in­de­
pen­dently as a communal body that understands its own worth. We have the
ability to persist and thrive, despite gentrification and po­liti­cal mandates
that attempt to silence who and how we be. It is our Black caucus without
buttons and lace, our baptism, and our power, ­whether Congress recognizes
us or not.
The call and response that is critical at The Go-­Go is embodied power
and community engagement. It is intuitive. No one has to teach us how to
be in that space, actively receiving and giving. It is both church and corner,
sacred and secular, inclusive and liberating. When the go-go band Junk-
yard performed The Word/Sardines and Pork ’n’ Beans in 1986, it was a public
acknowl­edgment of the volatile connection between federal power and our
local lives. Junkyard’s lead talker chanted, “Reagan make the bombs [sic] Rea-
gan gave the Pentagon the food stamp money.”6 The young artists beat this
truth out on plastic buckets, hubcaps, crates, and discarded kitchen pots and
pans. And we danced, shouting back in agreement, understanding we ­were
not alone in our experience of in­equality or injustice. We found recognition
in the call. We found community in our response.
This is the same call and response of our Praise House. It is the call and re-
sponse of our ring shouts in the sacred grove, and it is certainly connected to
the tradition of “breaking the fourth wall” in ritual theater so that the actors
and audience can dislocate the traditional divide between them, interacting
in intimate ways, no longer ascribing to the belief that the urgency of the
per­for­mance is separate from the audience sitting a cool and comfortable
distance away from the fray. Ritual theater prac­ti­tion­ers must push past this
con­ve­nient and familiar way of experiencing art, inviting the audience to
defy the usual par­ameters governing the theatrical experience. Amiri Baraka
makes it plain in his essay “Bopera Theory”:

At the Corner of Chaos and Divine 213

 Theatre in the United States is obstructed in its development by the same
forces that obstruct general positive development of ­human life and so-
ciety. Frequently, we are stalled by our very amazement at the rulers of
society, shrieking for years of this “superiority,” when one has only to
look around to see what a mess they have made of every­thing and what
a bizarre lie this “superiority” is. We must step outside the par­ameters
of this society’s version of just about every­thing. Often I seek to use, as
one alternative, practices found in the oldest root of per­for­mance: ritual,
but not in a frozen or atavistic way. We take the ­wholeness, the fresh-
ness, the penetrating emotionalism and spiritual revelation and renewal,
the direct connection with what the ancients meant. We want to edu-
cate but we want to do that through the transformation of the h ­ uman
consciousness.7

Baraka is calling us out to move beyond entertainment and its industry.

He is talking about “transformation” and spiritual awakening. He is asking
us to call down the ancestors by name and make a healing that is urgently
necessary for our survival and well-­being, if we are ever to be well in this
place at all.
If we take Baraka’s “Bopera Theory” as a creed for Black ritual theater
prac­ti­tion­ers, we know that we must continue working for its fulfillment.
Years ­after the seeming come-up for African American playwrights in
American theater as a result of pro­gress made during the civil rights, Black
Power, and Black Arts movements, and further evolution reached through
campaigns for diversity in regional theaters throughout the late twentieth
­century and continuing into the twenty-­first, we are still hungry for the
space and support to create Black ritual theater with a freedom and authen-
ticity that commercial American theater has yet to fully embrace. But we
need not wait for that. Teer did not wait for that. Woodie King Jr. did not
wait. He established New Federal Theatre at Henry Street Settlement in
New York. And Baraka certainly did not wait. He and his comrades in art
pooled resources to stage plays on their own terms, and Baraka continued
to demand this self-­determined approach to art-­making far into his se­nior
years. The last time I saw him speak to an audience before he transitioned to
the ancestral realm was at the Labyrinth Theater in the West Village ­after a
stage reading of his play The Dutchman in the early spring of 2013. When an
audience member asked him what younger artists could do to sustain Black
theater financially, when major funders fail to reward us with the means to
produce our work, he turned his fierce eyes in her direction and commanded

214 Nina Angela Mercer

that we just do it with what we have collectively; he was impatient with the
idea that we would wait for anything.

III. For us, theater is not just what happens in a building that holds a
traditional stage with a paying and well-­mannered audience filling the
seats. Theater is ­every day and everywhere ­there are lives touching other
lives. Audiences may shout, jump up to kiss and dance with a neighbor,
scream out of anger, or take over the “scene” with their own urgent selves
in the making.

Our tongue is tree root

And street market
The boom bap and high hat

The congas break us ­free

We soul cipher
And ­Mother Ship
Back bone dip and real cool
Block party and that bar
At the corner of Chaos and Divine
(You know that spot)
Graffiti tag ­every name
Once whispered
­Every voice
Once hushed
Now blazing hot fire
Blue black blessing

Oranges float down

The river, an offering
To beat back hurt
With love
Sweetness to ­counter
The ­bitter fruits life
Sometimes shakes
From its tree

This is grace

A riotous yellow umbrella

In the hands of a ­woman

At the Corner of Chaos and Divine 215

 Wearing deep crimson-­wine silks
She plum skinned
Call her Sunshine
And dancing down
Bourbon Street, remembering
Someone recently departed
This our sorrow and sweat
Coming undone
A cele­bration
A healing
*

In August 2002, my understanding of where I fit in relationship to my

community and the world shifted drastically. And I entered at the corner of
chaos and divine. I could no longer immerse myself in stacks of books, avoid-
ing the real-­life implications of our nation’s dependence on the cultures of
addiction and poverty. The War on Drugs was waged on my ­house­hold,
training its infrared spotlight on someone too necessary to how I under-
stood real­ity for me to ignore. This also meant that a war was waged on my
­daughters’ sense of safety and self-­worth, as they strug­g led through the fall-
out of our f­ amily’s fracture. This violent shift pushed me to reassess what it
meant to be an actively engaged member of my community as m ­ other, artist,
and cultural worker, b­ ecause I understood that work as Toni Cade Bambara
defined it.
I first encountered Bambara when I was a nineteen-­year-­old undergradu-
ate student at Howard University. I sat at her feet in the Blackburn Student
Center, hungry for the secret to a wordsmith’s brilliance. I listened to her
words with awe, though ­there was much in the meaning I could not have
understood ­because I ­hadn’t ­really lived yet. I had no idea how close to tran-
sitioning she was. I knew only that I found home in her cadence, the weaving
of her thoughts and imaginings in language, her magic, her truth. I returned
to her novel The Salt Eaters when I was a divorced m ­ other of two ­daughters
years ­later, and I was immediately struck by the way Bambara’s novel empha-
sized the vitality found at intersections of life for w ­ omen cultural workers
and artists. Through the journey of her characters, Bambara affirmed that
the healing we took on for ourselves as individuals was a healing our com-
munity would experience with us. Like Teer and Baraka and so many of our
pre­de­ces­sors, Bambara understood that we could not approach art from the
very Western and modernist organ­izing princi­ple of binaries, ­because life

216 Nina Angela Mercer

and art are not separate; neither are community and the self. Any attempt to
compartmentalize ­these ways of being and knowing could lead to dysfunc-
tion with many real lives at stake.
Bambara’s body of work as a novelist, short story writer, filmmaker, and
self-­defined cultural worker pushes ­those of us who find kinship with her
mission and work to locate our belonging within the sociopo­liti­cal and eco-
nomic life circumstances of the communities in which we exist. If our com-
munity is oppressed, we must locate our work within that community’s real­
ity. In her interview with Kay Bonetti in 1982, Bambara provides an analy­sis
of the purpose and challenges of cultural workers: “As a cultural worker who
belongs to an oppressed p ­ eople, my job is to make revolution irresistible. But
in this country [the United States] ­we’re not encouraged and equipped, at
any par­tic­u­lar time, to view ­things that way. And so the art work or the art
practice that sells cap­i­tal­ist ideology is considered art and anything that de-
viates from that is considered po­liti­cal, propagandist, polemical, or didactic,
strange, weird, subversive or ugly.”8
So I set about claiming my belonging b­ ecause the revolution was urgently
necessary to me and my community. T ­ here was no denying it. And while
Bambara laid out the challenges to opposing the cap­i­tal­ist agenda in our
artistic production, ­doing anything other than that felt like certain death. I
chose to be subversive, po­liti­cal, and weird. I chose to be strangely unpretty
and unsafe. I accepted that I lived most powerfully at the intersections of
the personal, the po­liti­cal, and the public. My healing belonged not only to
me. And even in my most vulnerable moments of seeming isolation, art was
being made that had a direct message for my community, if I chose to share.
The urgency with which my ­family experienced this shift in our well-­
being was the same urgency with which I wanted to speak to my block.
And I wanted that conversation to be live, intimate, reciprocal, and trans-
formative. I was shaken to my roots, and down t­ here in that messy excava-
tion of self and soul, I returned to what resonated most for me at my core:
my youth’s most power­ful survival tool as experienced at The Go-Go, the
ritual of live per­for­mance. And I began writing Gutta Beautiful, the first
ritual theater offering in what would become a cycle of plays, including
Racing My Girl Sally, Itagua Meji: A Road and a Prayer, Gypsy and the Bully Door,
­Mother Wit and Water-­Born, Charisma at the Crossroads, and A Compulsion for
Breathing.
But the transformation moved in more ways than through the writ-
ing. My ways of seeing, knowing, and being w ­ ere unhinged. E­ very truth
connected to the way of living that ushered forth such a painful breaking

At the Corner of Chaos and Divine 217

of my f­amily structure shattered too far into my chest, too close to neces-
sary organs, and I eventually found myself sitting across the ­table from a
Lukumi priest, being read through the twenty-­one cowrie shells known as
the Diloggún.
I ­will not give details of my reading, nor can I recount ­every ritual I have
experienced as a practitioner of the Lukumi and Ifa cultures and as Yayi Nkisi
Malongo of Palo Mayombe.9 T ­ hese are secret rites. But in exposing when and
where I enter as a Black ritual theater practitioner, I must explain how my
identity as a Black ­woman, ­mother, cultural worker, and artist merged with
my need to transform and heal. I could not transform and heal through the
most popu­lar Western cultural systems and traditions any more than our
community can expect to create progressive systemic change through our
relationship to consumerism’s pop icon worship. ­These intersections—­the
personal and po­liti­cal, the sacred and secular—­all conspired so that the rit-
ual practice required of me through my intimate involvement with the Afri-
can diaspora’s matrix of cosmologies became an offering for my community
as artist and cultural worker ­toward collective transformation.
My entry through t­ hese systems is not a definitive step in the develop-
ment of all Black ritual theater prac­ti­tion­ers. Every­one enters from where
they happen to be on the road that is life. Besides, a ritual is not necessarily
tied to any one par­tic­u­lar system. It is simply a series of actions performed
according to an order prescribed by a community of ­people who agree on
the efficacy of t­ hese repeated acts. ­These rituals shift over time. They can
be linked to specialized bodies of knowledge, or they can be as ordinary as
brushing one’s teeth in the morning or playing dominos outside on a folding
­table on the sidewalk.
Hoodoo, Bantu, and Yoruba rituals are relevant to my work as a prac-
titioner of Black ritual theater b­ ecause of the required act of making ob-
jects that serve as divine creations leading to transformation. We make
the sacred beaded necklaces that invoke the protection of forces of nature
(orisha or nkisi). We make the space for the veneration of ancestors in our
homes. We make offerings (ebo or nsara) to propitiate energies we need in
our daily life. This pro­cess of making becomes a meditation on a specific
change that one wants to experience in life to evolve or pro­gress. For me,
part of the ritual of making through ­these systems depends on the work of
creating theater.

We conjure
Ourselves mirrors,

218 Nina Angela Mercer

 Prismatic, one and many
Under­ground seeking inside
The over yonder space.

We sweat, pop, unlock that other

History’s law, spin our sacred
Knowledge, kissing the profane
Into a new vision of freedom
Over and over again.

In Mojo Workin’: The Old African American Hoodoo System, Katrina Hazzard-­
Donald provides a thorough exploration of Hoodoo as a system of knowl-
edge and cultural practice connected to the more actively studied and pub-
licly recognized systems of Ifa, Lukumi, and Palo Mayombe. The latter three
systems all became more prevalent in the United States long ­after slavery
ended as prac­ti­tion­ers migrated from the Ca­rib­bean, where religious and
cultural systems with origins in African communities ­were able to flourish,
despite slavery. ­Because the United States took such a violent stance against
African cultural retentions, Hoodoo had to mask itself over and over again
to survive. However, through careful research, Hazzard-­Donald uncovered a
system that persisted with a stubbornness that is testimony to our ancestral
­will. In par­tic­u­lar, Hazzard-­Donald notes the per­sis­tence of the sacred spo-
ken word and the ring shout as aspects of Hoodoo that crossed the bridge
from the sacred to the secular through a continuous flow between the two
realms, defying Western binary divisions: “Since the spoken word was be-
lieved to embody spiritual potency, sacred remarks in the form of incanta-
tions and prayers ­were a significant component in African traditional med-
icine and would l­ater perform a similar function in Hoodoo. Words w ­ ere
power.” And regarding the ring shout:
10

In the American mainstream, the rapid commercial secularization of

HooDoo’s sacred dance the Ring Shout would give Amer­i­ca the foun-
dation for dance ritual[s] translated into secular dance steps. But more
impor­tant, African American sacred dancing postures, gestures, and
movements would influence all American theatrical dance and would
eventually dominate American urban popu­lar dancing even more thor-
oughly than it had dominated some of the older plantation country
dance forms.11

I had my first experience of a sacred ring shout in 2004 at an egun bembe

in the Bedford Stuyvesant area of Brooklyn, where my first spiritual home

At the Corner of Chaos and Divine 219

as a Lukumi practitioner was located. An egun bembe is a ritual ceremony
honoring the ancestors through drumming, song, and dance. The ritual
that happens at the egun bembe is sacred. It is a way to celebrate ­those
who came before us, letting them break ­free through our bodies as we lean
into the rhythmic patterns of the drums, singing and moving counter-
clockwise in a circle around a center pole adorned in multicolored fabrics
and raffia to invoke the presence of the ancestors. Our bodies move inside
cellular memories as we become vessels for the presence of t­ hose whose
lives paved the way for our own journeys through this world. Still, before
the sacred, came the secular—­I had my first intimate experience with the
ring shout as a modified secular dance form through childhood games,
and ­later as a young adult in the dance cyphers formed at nightclubs
where ­house ­music played.
This merging of sacred and secular forms with origins in the African di-
aspora’s matrix of cosmologies is evident in Ntozake Shange’s choreopoem
for colored girls who have considered suicide when the rainbow is enough. Shange’s
choreopoem is a necessary and much revered Black womanist ritual theater
experience, which had its first New York City production in 1976 at Joseph
Papp’s Public Theatre. In fact, for colored girls opens with a ring shout known
to most as a c­ hildren’s game. The ­women of the choreopoem form a circle
and chant:

l­ ittle sally walker, sittin in a saucer

rise, sally, rise, wipe your weepin eyes
an put your hands on your hips
an let your back bone slip
o, shake it to the east
o, shake it to the west
shake it to the one that you like the best.12

The ­children’s ring shout is our entry point for ritual transformation
as we bear witness to the ­women’s most intimate testimonies and revela-
tions about life as Black w
­ omen in the United States through dance and
spoken word, two of the most impor­tant ele­ments of Hoodoo as a system
of knowledge and power. My understanding of Black ritual theater as a
womanist is in keeping with the tradition as it evolved through Shange’s
courageous pen, as well as through the confluence of the African diaspora’s
cultural matrix. With this understanding, I embarked upon my own inti-
mate journey of elevating my ancestors, cultivating a greater awareness of
my head and its divine power of choice, and deepening my connection to

220 Nina Angela Mercer

the earth. Gutta Beautiful sprang from the labyrinth of my mind near the
start of that journey.
Gutta Beautiful (2005) was developed through an artistic partnership with
the director Eric Ruffin and the dramaturge Sybil Roberts. The play empha-
sizes the ritual of rebirth pos­si­ble as we navigate the psychological wounds of
displacement common among many descendants of the peculiar institution
of slavery, when we are confronted by the virulent implications of Amer­i­ca’s
reliance on racist and classist paradigms used to subsume our individual
­wills beneath systemic and violent injustice for profit. This possibility for a
ritualized rebirth through the recognition of our ancestral triumphs, which
forms an unbreakable bond between the living and our ancestral freedom
fighters through the cellular memory of our dna, is one way to create holis-
tic well-­being. It is a psychological reinvention rooted in historical fact. Such
a ritualized remembering creates a counternarrative through which black-
ness holds redemptive and revolutionary power over seemingly unbearable
injustice spanning generations.13
This ritualized remembrance is made pos­si­ble in the play through a
nonlinear narrative structure that is in alignment with Yoruba and Bantu
cosmologies, collapsing any perceived bound­aries between the ­future, past,
and pre­sent time. The city block of right now becomes the dungeon inside
Elmina ­Castle in Ghana, where enslaved Africans w ­ ere imprisoned prior to
crossing the Atlantic Ocean during the ­Middle Passage and into this “New
World” consciousness; this location, in turn, becomes the Delta swamp,
our Hush Harbor, where plots for rebellion emerged alongside sanctified
prayers for spiritual sustenance, and then the location returns to the city
block again. In fact, we ­were ­there all along at the same time that we ­were in
locations of the past. It is not nostalgia that governs this collapse of bound­
aries in time but an ability to connect to historical consciousness, memory,
and meaning-­making that creates the possibility for understanding and for-
titude, despite chaotic life circumstances.

IV. We make theater for the living. Let the audience shout. Be moved to
dance in the aisles. Let it happen, ­because it already does.

We make
Room for the living,
A refuge.

In Gutta Beautiful, this ritual is shared with the audience through an in-
teractive relationship with the ensemble cast, led by the lead talker, or griot,

At the Corner of Chaos and Divine 221

so that the fourth wall is consistently broken, drawing the audience into a
participatory role that is beyond mere spectatorship. The audience’s partici-
patory relationship with the world of the play and its ensemble cast includes
call and response, but it goes beyond that as well. At key moments in the
play, cast members enter the h ­ ouse, speaking directly to individual audience
members, and t­ here are also moments when audience members are brought
into the a­ ctual per­for­mance space as active and performing participants in
the ritualized drama.
The vigor with which Gutta Beautiful involves the audience was not
­limited to the play’s per­for­mance on stage in the theater during its 2005 and
2006 productions in Washington, DC.14 ­There ­were multiple spatial and
cultural interventions born from the play. ­These interventions challenged
the routine flow of our community in public spaces, asserting a ritualized
rebirth and critique of Black lives’ relationship to the state and its normative
cultural projections on our identities.
A crew of artists came together to support the play’s multimedia com-
ponent. We descended upon Georgia Ave­nue, a major thoroughfare in DC,
where the photographer Charisse Williams stood on the yellow line in the
­middle of the street to capture footage that the mixed-­media artist Ayodele
Ngozi would ­later photoshop into a montage projected during the play, fea-
turing the performing artist Cher Jey Cuffie Samateh, who played Lola, the
lead character. In the pro­cess of creating that montage, we had to break the
law, risking arrest to tell our story and capture images, disrupting the order
enforced by the yellow line, as a police officer, using the loudspeaker in his
patrol car, commanded that we “get out of the street.” Our art was an act of
re­sis­tance to the state’s control.
In 2006, as we sought ways to promote the show on a shoestring bud­get
for the second workshop production, we brought the theater to 18th Street
in Adams Morgan and down at the Waterfront in Southwest during club
hours. The actors performed scenes from the play while walking alongside
lines of p­ eople waiting to enter the hot night spots down by the river, and
they ­stopped traffic while crossing 18th Street to stand on the steps of a local
bar called Heaven and Hell. T ­ hese disruptions ­were successful at removing
spatial limitations of the ritual per­for­mance as it exists when confined to the
theater. In a world where Black bodies are often controlled, disciplined, and
terrorized, such collective action through per­for­mance ritual proves that
we can take up space in profound ways without permission. This is impor­
tant work. We also brought meditation and art workshops to ­women served
by the DC Crime Victims’ Compensation Unit and participants of Barrios

222 Nina Angela Mercer

Unidos–­Virginia Chapter’s Youth Summit in partnership with the produc-
tion, further extending the work beyond the theater.

···
Before ­these per­for­mances and interventions ­were able to happen, though, I
stood, a bit uneasily, at the corner of chaos and divine, where culture-­making
meets the need to own the means of production. In 2004, I found myself
holding a completed script that I was hungry to share with an audience, but
I did not have a producer. I had joined an informal theater collective a year
­earlier. In that collective, we read through one other’s scripts with the inten-
tion of producing a stage reading of our work at a local theater where one
of the collective members held an executive position. But when I returned
from a trip to Ghana in late August of 2004, I discovered that the collective
had changed its shape. The original plan was no longer pos­si­ble. Though
collective members Cheles Rhynes and Gesel Mason of Mason-­Rhynes Pro-
ductions agreed to provide technical support to me at no cost, I needed a
coproducer who had a sincere belief in the proj­ect’s urgency. I must have
troubled that need for all of two days.
­After arriving at my parents’ home looking down in the mouth about
what I ­imagined was the end of my life in theater before it even got started,
my ­father looked back at me and asked, “So, are you gonna shit or get off the
pot?” It was his way of telling me to do something, or nothing. He advised
that I incorporate a nonprofit arts education organ­ization that could serve
as a producing entity. My years of witnessing the go-go community create
its own sustenance through collective action made the choice less daunting.
In a ­matter of days, I gathered the paperwork necessary for incorporating a
nonprofit organ­ization and set about choosing a name for the organ­ization
to make it all real.
Si­mul­ta­neously, my ­mother was deep inside her own ancestral history
proj­ect. She was combing through archives and calling relatives, having
photo­graphs scanned and sent from the South to the North, and recording
her own ­mother’s memories on audiotape. She discovered a story about an
ancestral foremother the elders in the ­family called Ocean Ana. My ­mother
told me that Ocean Ana was born on the ­Middle Passage; her ­mother died
shortly ­after her birth. Ocean Ana lived, though, giving birth to a line of sur-
vivors. So, when faced with the need to name the organ­ization that would
produce Gutta Beautiful, I thought about Ocean Ana, her lineage, and the
countless ­others from whom we have all descended. I thought about the

At the Corner of Chaos and Divine 223

endurance, per­sis­tence, and creativity they had to maintain to survive and
thrive on this side of their crossing over. I recalled the energy I felt in the
dungeons of Elmina and Cape Coast, Ghana, and how that energy helped to
inspire me to push forward in my life, connecting me to the continuum of
rebirth and communal uplift that has been our inheritance. And I de­cided
that I wanted the nonprofit organ­ization to bear the name and mission of
that collective legacy, its tenacity and deep-­rooted love. I knew then that
Ocean Ana Rising would help to birth many artistic proj­ects by emerging
and seasoned ­women artists. I believed we could respond to the communal
need to sustain the lives and stories of Black w­ omen in the tradition of our
ancestral ­mothers.
*
We make our own room.

Over yonder is the living

Room and ­free space.
We build circles,
Defying capitalism’s control
Over our bodies’ ­labor,
A refuge, hush harbor,
And jam session.

In late 2009, I sat in a conference room at the Brecht Forum in the

West Village of New York City. The Brecht Forum served as a safe space
for cultural workers, activists, educators, and artists. It was home to popu­
lar education workshops, panels, and cultural events from October 1975 to
May 2014. My introduction to the Brecht Forum came through my par-
ticipation in the Theatre of the Oppressed Laboratory (toplab) that held
workshops to teach Augusto Boal’s Theatre of the Oppressed technique. A
friend and former member of the same theater collective through which
Gutta Beautiful was born, Tracie Jenkins, had recommended that I travel
from DC to NYC to take t­ hese workshops during the summer of 2004; she
felt that studying Boal’s pedagogical and aesthetic approach to commu-
nity theater was a necessary alternative to what some considered the coun-
terproductive, bourgeois tendencies of mainstream commercial theater. I
hoped that my participation in ­these workshops would serve my own need
to engage my community in urgent conversations about the economic,
sociopo­liti­cal, psychological, and spiritual malaise impacting the most in-
timate aspects of our lives as a result of a toxic relationship between the
­people and the state.

224 Nina Angela Mercer

 Visiting the Brecht Forum during ­those crucial years in my develop-
ment as a ritual theater practitioner affirmed my understanding of live per­
for­mance as a ripe opportunity for a very necessary exchange, one through
which the audience could not be expected to sit passively while enjoying
entertainment from a safe emotional distance.
It was t­ here, during t­ hose toplab workshops facilitated by Claire Picher
and Kayhan Irani, that I realized the po­liti­cal power of the call and response
between performers and audience-­participants as an essential ingredient to
creating a space for transformation. It was also the place where I was able to
connect my understanding of sacred communal ritual rooted in my study
and practice of Hoodoo, Lukumi, and Bantu systems of knowledge to my
work as a theater practitioner, b­ ecause each workshop opened with a ritual
in which we created a community altar and dedicated our work to a par­tic­
u­lar individual or purpose.
By the time I sat in that meeting at the Brecht Forum in 2009, I had moved
from DC to the Bronx with a preexisting relationship with the organ­ization,
though they had moved from the ­humble loft in the Garment District to a
much larger space in the Westbeth Artist Housing Building, across from the
Hudson River, in the West Village. At that meeting, I met with Ebony Noelle
Golden, ceo and visionary of Betty’s D ­ aughter Arts Collaborative (a com­
pany honoring Ebony’s ­mother, the scholar and cultural worker Dr. Betty E.
Simms), and Kazembe Balagun, who worked as the community outreach and
programs director at the Brecht. Kazembe called the meeting ­because he un-
derstood that culture had to be at the center of any transformative movement
­toward greater justice. He understood that without a safe space to develop and
share art uninhibited by the demands of cap­i­tal­ist consumerism, au­then­tic
voices intent on freedom and truth-­telling would never be heard, witnessed,
and experienced by the ­people for whom we create. So he invited me and
Ebony to develop a cultural arts program in honor of Black History Month,
created by and featuring the artistic l­ abor of Black w
­ omen artists in par­tic­u­lar.
In this way we w ­ ere able to cultivate a space for Black womanist culture
to thrive without being ensnared by the inflexible demands and trends of
consumerism. We ­were able to recover a transformational, bold, uncut, un-
censored art with a special emphasis on the voices and lives of Black w ­ omen
who have often been relegated to positions far inferior to our worth as a
result of the misogynistic and hypermasculine trends r­ unning rampant in
the mainstream popu­lar culture machine of the United States. We called
this safe space the ­Women on Wednesdays Art and Culture Proj­ect (WoW).
It ran at the Brecht Forum for three years, and it included a month-­long

At the Corner of Chaos and Divine 225

per­for­mance series, alongside community art residencies for Black girls fa-
cilitated by ­women who performed during the per­for­mance series, and a
teach-in and healing cipher for Black ­women who serve the community as
cultural workers. Eventually some of t­ hese programs would extend beyond
the month of February.
This experience helped to further my understanding of what it means to
be an institution builder and womanist playwright practicing Black ritual
theater with a heavy lean into the avant-­garde. It is a knowing and a calling
that has come down on me over many years, each play a new lesson, a new
ritual, and a transformation meant to be shared. For us to share our culture
on our own terms, we must not wait for mainstream cultural gatekeepers to
give us permission. We must constantly push ourselves to write against inhi-
bition and censorship. We must claim our spaces, even if it means creating
outside on the city sidewalk.

···
We enter h ­ ere, at the corner of chaos and divine, between the sticky place
where monster­consumerism strangles all art that does not conform to
its conventions and the toe jam that funks that monster into submission
­under a blue light in the basement. We enter ­here, at the corner of chaos
and divine, troubling the intersections between corporate monopolies and
culture; between award committees and ­those street-­corner review boards,
where the ­people sit wide-­legged on milk crates out front the bodega. We
enter h ­ ere, between monolithic metanarratives of blackness and the wild,
­free truths blaring just beyond our win­dows on any city any black heart
beat any black trip to the f­uture from the ocean’s deep blue-­black-­rooted
past of brine and bones. We enter ­here, at the corner of chaos and divine in
our womanist ways, ­because we ­can’t keep our hands off our hips and all the
­mothers before us whisper blood secrets, survival stories, and ways to stand
without stooping inside this room, askew, in a h ­ ouse called t­ hese United
States of Amer­i­ca.

Notes

Epigraph is from Larry Neal, Juju Research Papers in Afro-­American Studies (Spring
1975), iii.

1 Hazzard-­Donald, Mojo Workin’, 35.

226 Nina Angela Mercer

 2 I want to clarify that I am using the term “African American” to emphasize the
multiple histories of geographic crossings, trade routes, and transcultural points
of contact between Africa and the Amer­i­cas. I am not specifying the countries of
­either continent ­because ­there are many. I am not using “African American” as
a container for ­those ­people or that culture that is specific to the United States
of Amer­i­ca. I am extending this term to include cultural forms and ­people from
throughout the diaspora in the Amer­i­cas. I recognize that this is not a popu­lar
usage of the term; it is not universally embraced in such a way. This is simply how
I am using the term for the purposes of this exploration. Notice that I am also
exchanging the term “African American” for “Black” when I am not emphasizing
the popu­lar culture industry. Again, this is for the purposes of organ­izing informa-
tion. Thus “African American” is a term that harnesses the l­ abor, commerce, and
geography of the Black diaspora.
3 Teer, “Needed,” 84.
4 ­Here, I want to acknowledge the scholarship of Dr. Omi Osun Jones. Her book
Theatrical Jazz: Per­for­mance, Ase, and the Power of the Pre­sent Moment illuminates a
kindred community of artists and work which “challenge the traditional western
theatre making in general, and Black U.S. theatre aesthetics in par­tic­u­lar” (5). Jones
writes that theatrical jazz artists “have been relegated to the relative obscurity of
avant-­garde or experimental status,” which means they are often “invisible in the
Black Theatre world that resists the expansive Blackness and queer realities that
characterize much of their work. In an avant-­garde context, the Black aesthetics re-
main appropriated, fetishized idiosyncrasies rather than historically rooted through
the resistive, feminist, antiracist paradigms they employ” (5). In acknowledging
my own resonance with Jones’s theatrical jazz scholarship I am also noting that
I came to Theatrical Jazz ­after writing “At the Corner of Chaos and Divine.” I first
met Dr. Jones in New York City at The Lark, where her long-­time collaborator and
partner Sharon Bridgforth was sharing her theatrical jazz installation River SEE for
Keith Joseph Adkins’s New Black Fest. I did not read Theatrical Jazz ­until a ­couple
of years ­after meeting her. I provide ­these details ­because of the deep simpatico I feel
with Dr. Jones’s work. We all arrive in our own ways. Mine is one. ­There are many.
5 Harrison, “(Re)Branding Black Theatre.”
6 Junkyard Band, The Word/Sardines and Pork ’n’ Beans (New York: Def Jam, 1986).
7 Baraka, “Bopera Theory,” 378.
8 Toni Cade Bambara, interviewed by Kay Bonetti, American Audio Prose Library,
Columbia, Mo, 1982.
9 In Palo Mayombe, which has its origins in Bantu cosmology, a Yayi Nkisi Malongo
is a female priest.
10 Hazard-­Donald, Mojo Workin’, 28.
11 Hazard-­Donald, Mojo Workin’, 86.
12 Shange, for colored girls, 20.
13 In 2004, I took a trip to Ghana led by Dr. Wade Nobles, Dr. Naim Akbar, and
Dr. Marimba Ani. On that trip, we retraced the journey taken by enslaved Africans

At the Corner of Chaos and Divine 227

 from the north of Ghana in Paga to the dungeons further south in Elmina and
Cape Coast, where the enslaved Africans w ­ ere held in bondage ­until they embarked
on ships that sailed across the Atlantic Ocean to the Amer­i­cas during the trans-
atlantic slave trade. The scholars leading this journey or­ga­nized our movements
through Ghana as a physicalized reenactment comprising a series of rituals that
could create psychological ­wholeness for descendants of the scattering of a ­people
and their cultures. This journey made a crucial impact on my identity reformation
and on my artistic practice.
14 Com­pany members during the 2005 and 2006 productions of Gutta Beautiful
included the following designers and artists: Eric Ruffin, Sybil Roberts, Cher
Jey Cuffie-­Samateh, Jalila Smith, Isaiah Johnson, Robin Marcus, Vanya Michelle
Robinson, Sofale Ellis, Marcel Taylor, Robert “Bobby” Hogans, Tosha Grantham,
Shi-­Queeta Lee, Reggie Ray, Luqman Salim, Charisse Williams, Ayodele Ngozi,
Kamau Donadelle/The Original dj Silver, Karma Mayet Johnson, Roxi Victorian,
Chaela Phillips, Anna B. Christa Severo, Mathew Miller, Jali D, Candice Adkins,
Kiyanna Cox, Kyle Jones, Cynthia Brown. Each of t­ hese individuals was invaluable
to the development of the play and its per­for­mance life as it moved on to New York
City, where it was produced by Woodie King Jr.’s New Federal Theatre at Abrons
Arts Center (2007), and then to Woodbrook, Trinidad, where it was produced by
Isoke Edwards’s Griot Productions at the ­Little Carib Theatre in 2011.

References

Bambara, Toni Cade. Interview by Kay Bonetti. American Audio Prose Library,
­Columbia, MO, 1982.
Baraka, Amiri. “Bopera Theory.” In Black Theatre: Ritual Per­for­mance in the African
Diaspora, edited by Paul Car­ter Harrison. Philadelphia: ­Temple University
Press, 2002.
Harrison, Paul Car­ter. “(Re)Branding Black Theatre.” Black Re­nais­sance Noire 13, 2/3
(Fall 2013) 70.
Hazzard-­Donald, Katrina. Mojo Workin’: The Old African American HooDoo System.
Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2013.
Jones, Omi Osun Joni L. Theatrical Jazz: Per­for­mance, Ase, and the Power of the Pre­sent
Moment. Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2015.
Neal, Larry. Juju Research Papers in Afro-­American Studies (Spring 1975): iii.
Shange, Ntozake. for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf.
New York: Scribner, 2010.
Teer, Barbara Ann. “Needed: A New Image.” In sos—­Calling All Black ­People: A Black
Arts Movement Reader, edited by John H. Bracey Jr., Sonia Sanchez, and James
Smethurst. Amherst: University of Mas­sa­chu­setts Press, 2014.

228 Nina Angela Mercer

CH.14 AN INTERVIEW WITH MARK
ANTHONY NEAL / JANUARY 9, 2016

What is the state of Black pop culture in the public sphere and as an
intellectual field of inquiry in the twenty-­first ­century?

­ here is a certain kind of richness to this stuff that is being produced now,
T
particularly in the mainstream. And now with all t­ hese dif­fer­ent platforms,
­there is so much more stuff that is being produced that we get to see, that
we get to hear. I worry with you [Lisa B. Thompson] particularly about the
public realm and the quality of the criticism that we see. ­There are schol-
ars now who are writing about popu­lar culture and get to write about it in
public spaces. What Brittney [Brittney Cooper] has been ­doing with Salon is
a good example of that, but ­there are too many folks who are writing, rep-
ping their journal, magazine, website, writing about popu­lar culture, and
­there is just no historical context. Can you write about a Spike Lee film and
talk about how odd the filmmaking is if you have never actually watched
other Spike Lee films? So that you would know that that is his style. That
is what he does, right? T­ here is nothing crazy about it. It is the reason why
he calls it a Spike Lee joint. Too often folks, b­ ecause they are trying to hit
deadlines and their magazine wants a piece up tomorrow, they ­will review
­albums and ­things like that and not actually have listened to the previous
work of the artist. I think ­there is a lot of that that goes on, and it becomes
very troubling—­whereas, when as scholars, obviously, but even ­those of us
who have been writing for public realms, ­we’re not putting too much work
out ­there that is not in conversation with a broader archive, right? That—­
that is how we work. I’m not sure writers are feeling that they have the time
or necessarily even the tools to be able to do that kind of work in this par­tic­
u­lar environment.

How do you see Stuart Hall’s theorization of the “black” in Black

popu­lar culture influencing your intellectual engagement with Black
cultural productions?

I always loved that par­tic­u­lar piece of his, particularly ­because midway

through the essay, he talks about thinking about blackness in dif­fer­ent
realms. And particularly when he talks about style. When he talks about
folks who think that is just a mere covering, a mere husk, but some of the
real richness of blackness is occurring around ­these ele­ments of style. I think
in terms of theorizing about popu­lar culture, Black popu­lar culture, twenty-­
five to thirty years ago that was ­really a game-­changer, b­ ecause it gets us into
this conversation about form versus content. We all think we know what
blackness looks like in terms of the content of Black popu­lar culture, but
what does that look like in terms of form? How do we talk about folks who
are working in the abstract? How do you talk about folks who are ­doing
more experimental work, Spike Lee being one example of that? How that
experimentation is actually something that is actually black in the context
of trying to push the contours of what blackness is. I think about some of the
work Margo Crawford is working on now—so much of the work I think we
do on Black popu­lar culture now is framed by some of the demands of the
Black Arts Movement. And very often we read about the Black Arts Move-
ment thinking that blackness was a known entity—­like the end game was to
know this ­thing that was black, as opposed to thinking about blackness as
something that was ever-­changing, that was something that was more fluid.
And what the Black Arts Movement was, was to create a space to have the
freedom to deal with that fluidness as opposed to the freedom to say “­We’re
Black” and “Black is this” and then police that space of what we think of as
blackness. I think that’s part of what Hall is pushing at, in a very dif­fer­ent
context. . . .

230 Mark Anthony Neal
 Do you feel the digital age affects the production, reception, and dis-
semination of Black pop culture in ways that compel us to continue
revisiting Hall’s piece but to also build upon it? If yes, how do you see
con­temporary theorists and critics building upon Hall’s work given
the changes the digital age has produced? If no, why do you feel the
digital age does not compel scholars to revisit Hall and build upon
his work?

In some ways I think about, how do we think about Hall within this context,
right? T ­ here is a way in which the Stuart Hall that circulates as cutting-­edge
Stuart Hall in this moment is not r­ eally talking about popu­lar culture, and
in some ways not ­really talking about race. It is like Stuart Hall has been
embraced by folks who do not have interest in Black studies and popu­lar
culture. The fact that he is included in that early reader [edited by Michele
Wallace and Gina Dent] was a way in which Black intellectuals ­were embrac-
ing Stuart Hall before some of the other folks w ­ ere, so I think about it in
that context. I won­der who is teaching Stuart Hall on race and popu­lar cul-
ture now. We know ­there are grad students who are coming through ­doing
work on cultural studies who do not know that Stuart Hall essay. I’m just
being honest. So that is one piece of it. I think the digital turn is impor­tant,
­because what it has done is it has made the archive more explicit and more
expansive. T ­ here is material now that we can go recover that we could not
have recovered twenty years ago. What it allows is for us to make theoretical
interventions from the con­temporary into the past, b­ ecause now we know
­there is material in the past where we can make ­those interventions that
could not have been made before. Think about all the work being done on
late nineteenth-­century and early twentieth-­century Black queer identity
that could not have been done without access to ­these digital archives. If you
think about a piece like Treva Lindsey and Jessica Marie Johnson do on the
sexuality of someone like Harriet Tubman, ­because ­there is now more of an
archive, both digital and other­wise to think about ­those kinds of questions. I
think it changes the nature of the work, and I think that is one of the reasons
why Hall still remains very relevant within that context. . . .

I think it is safe to say that one of the reasons you founded the Center
for Arts, Digital Culture and Entrepreneurship at Duke Univer-
sity was ­because you believe social media plays a critical role in the
con­temporary academic study of Black lives. Popu­lar culture has
occupied a thorny space in the acad­emy ­because, for some academics

Interview 231
 (and taxpayers), popu­lar culture is not a legitimate field of academic
inquiry. Do you see (Black) social media playing a role in expand-
ing the academic legitimacy of popu­lar culture studies since Ray
Browne’s inauguration of the field in 1973, when he founded the one
and only department of popu­lar culture?

So, you know, a ­couple of ­things. I think the value of social media to Black
studies is that it builds connections between scholars working in the field
and a­ ctual ­people. I think it breaks down some walls that are impor­tant. I
always describe social media—­Black Twitter in particular—as a space that
is hungry for information. And in the absence of good information, folks
­will take what­ever information they can get, so I think it is actually very
impor­tant for Black scholars to be in that space to provide that kind of
access to information. The value of it in the long run is that you get to see
clearer the way that the work that we are producing in the acad­emy can
actually impact ­people in everyday places. All the syllabi that came out of
the aftermath of Charleston and Ferguson was a way—­and then suddenly
all this work that was getting produced in the acad­emy was suddenly ac-
cessible to p ­ eople who just do not have access to the acad­emy in the same
way. I often get into conversations with the media folks at Duke News and
Communications b­ ecause they ­will often describe ­things that I do as Black
popu­lar culture. And I always issue a corrective that pop culture, Black or
other­wise, is sort of ephemera. It is “Kanye and Kim went to Whole Foods,”
and someone ­will write a piece about that and it ­will get 100,000 views,
whereas popu­lar culture or Black popu­lar culture is an ­actual field of study.
And we have to be very clear to make ­those kinds of distinctions, ­because
what you hear—­very often the scholars who do public work around Black
popu­lar culture—is that t­ hey’re thinking too much about it. That t­ hey’re
taking it too seriously. And that is an issue, ­because their model for it is
this other stuff that kind of just passes it on. So I think we always have to
be clear about drawing ­those clear lines about work being generated from
a field of study and a field of inquiry that is very dif­fer­ent than what essen-
tially comes down to Black celebrity reporting. When you look at some of
­these major online sites—­Black ones—­whether it’s Ebony or The Root, they
are all trying to find a balance. A balance that justifies what they do, that
produces certain kinds of pieces that get a ­whole lot of eyeballs, but then
also creating a space where you can have a ­little bit more of a critical view
of some t­ hings. Ironically, I think Ebony does that balance more successfully
than The Root does.

232 Mark Anthony Neal
 For ­those who register popu­lar culture as the culture of the
­people and a site where democracy is interrogated, the art of “brand-
ing” occupies an impor­tant space in how scholars theorize the rela-
tionship between race, citizenship, and neoliberal consumption. Can
you discuss the vicissitudes of branding in Black popu­lar culture—­
what are its benefits and pitfalls in the twenty-­first ­century?

I always want to be careful to make a distinction between thinking about

popu­lar culture and thinking about corporatized youth culture. So we have
­these conversations all the time about what hip hop is. What you hear on the
radio is a very small percentage of what is being produced in the name of hip
hop. The vast majority of it you never hear. What you do hear is very care-
fully curated by very successful commercial entities for the purpose of con-
suming it. Call that what it is. It is corporatized, commercial culture. The
seven or eight rappers that you see all the time are very lucratively rewarded
for their work, but they do not make up the totality of what is being pro-
duced. So I think we need to make ­those very clear distinctions. Popu­lar cul-
ture is something that is popu­lar; it resides with the ­people. Very often it is
not ­going to be something sanctioned and branded by corporations, b­ ecause
that is d­ oing a dif­fer­ent kind of work. So how do we find a way in which we
do critical interventions that take on corporatization but also build com-
munity for the work outside of the mainstream, much more on the margins?
I think the best scholars are able to go in and out of t­ hose conversations. To
understand the interventions like, why work on Jay-­Z as opposed to Tef Poe?
­Because Jay-­Z is recognizable to a broader population of folks, so if you bring
a critical lens to that it does a certain kind of work, but that also means you
try to bring that critical lens to someone who is not on the landscape. It is a
both/and dynamic.

Do you foresee any additional critical shifts in Black pop culture, as it

relates to social media in the next twenty years, or do we even have a
language to discuss the ­future changes in technology and their effect
on Black popu­lar culture?

It’s so fast. The ­thing that has changed so powerfully, at least in this mo-
ment of social media and technology, is the platforms on which p ­ eople can
produce. Folks can make very quick interventions that demand our atten-
tion in ways that ­were not the case when folks would make interventions
twenty-­five years ago; we would not find out about ­those for five years. It is

Interview 233
very dif­fer­ent now, so I think, given who has access to the technology and
what they are bringing to the ­table, ­there are so many dif­f er­ent interventions
that can be made now. I think it is hard to predict what the culture is g­ oing
to look like. I imagine if you w
­ ere to go to some cultural workers—­Black cul-
tural workers—­thirty years ago, as they ­were thirty years ago and presented
them some of the interventions that have been made in the con­temporary
moment, it would be foreign to them. B ­ ecause interventions have been
made that they could not even conceptualize. They would not have been
able to conceptualize a Black trans presence in mainstream culture thirty
years ago. It just would not make any sense to them. When Lisa [Thompson]
talks about the proliferation of a Black stage presence on Broadway in terms
of playwrights, for ­those folks who ­were producing The Wiz forty years ago,
they cannot even conceptualize that. And so I think it is hard even for us
now not knowing what kind of new technology is g­ oing to emerge, what
kind of new platforms are ­going to emerge—to ­really even imagine what that
is. It is difficult enough now hanging on. I was just g­ oing to add, in terms of
my own practices as a scholar and someone trying to theorize about the cul-
ture, I recognize, for instance, that I do not have a grasp of all the language
to talk about how a younger generation of theorists are talking about gender.
When I hear references to cisgender and transgender, this is not—­for lack of
a better way to describe it—it is not my native language. So I find myself even
in that regard trying to learn the new theoretical languages around thinking
about Black identity. At the same time, I am trying to keep up on what seems
to be a hyperreduction of texts both in the literal sense but also in terms of
cultural texts that we have to respond to.

234 Mark Anthony Neal
 IV. LOVING
BLACKNESS
This page intentionally left blank
CH.15 THE BOOTY ­DON’T LIE / PLEA­SURE,
AGENCY, AND RE­SIS­TANCE IN BLACK
POPU­L AR DANCE

Takiyah Nur Amin

And the booty ­will always tell the truth of a given situation. You
can always tell what a community or a person truly believes by studying the
actions of their booties at any given time. They can claim to love this
other person or culture or believe in this peaceful god, or ­really
want freedom but do their actions prove it? Their actions, what
their booties do, or ­don’t do, that tells you the truth. ​· ​janelle
monáe (Emphasis added)

­People are known by the rec­ords they keep. If it’s not in the rec­
ords, it ­will be said that it did not happen. That’s what history is, a
keeping of rec­ords. ​· ​alice walker
Black Dance: Beyond Taxonomy, Beyond Pathology

Black dance—­both concert and vernacular, sacred and secular—­has been ex-
plored in a variety of ways in con­temporary scholarship. Citing Black dances
in the diaspora as a repository of African aesthetics, Kariamu Welsh, Brenda
Dixon-­Gottschild, and ­others intervened in dance studies by situating the
movement vocabularies of Black dancing bodies at the center of scholarly
inquiry to expose African retentions and characteristics, both subtle and
overt.1 Susan Manning, John Perpener, and Thomas DeFrantz have engaged
Black dance—­particularly as it relates to the landscape of twentieth-­century
American concert dance—as a crucial site for historical research and the de-
velopment of new considerations in per­for­mance theory.2 Notably, as Black
choreographers began to create for the concert stage, many celebrated art-
ists imported, restaged, and made use of Black vernacular or popu­lar dance
forms in their work. Katherine Dunham’s Barrel­house Blues (1938) made use
of popu­lar dances of the period and is centered around the “Slow-­Drag,”
a pelvis-­to-­pelvis ­couple’s dance made popu­lar in jook joints at that time.
Alvin Ailey’s Blues Suite, his first evening-­length work, premiered in 1958
and showcased stylized versions of Black popu­lar dances derived from his
youth in rural Rogers, Texas. The staging and repurposing of Black popu­lar
dance informs much of the backbone of con­temporary Black concert dance
­today, with the work of Camille A. Brown, Rennie Harris, Ronald K. Brown,
and ­others as testimony. Similarly, familiar movement traditions that are
­today celebrated as theatrical dance forms, including tap and jazz dance,
are rooted very specifically in the social dances that emanated from newly
emancipated Black communities in the United States, as seen in the work
of Jacqui Malone and Katrina Hazzard-­Donald.3 Hip-­hop dances have had
a similar migratory path, from the urban Black and Latino communities of
their origin to the concert stage, ­music video, film, and tele­vi­sion.
Despite the pervasive presence and generative impact of Black popu­
lar dance, it is often cited as confirmation or evidence of Black deviance
and the unsuitability of Black ­people for the proj­ect of citizenship. The
ongoing push to criminalize Black youth for breakdancing in subway cars,
for example, is justified by highlighting the dance as the domain of va-
grants who endanger passengers with their antics.4 Similarly, the suspen-
sion and punishment of students from a San Diego high school for creating
and posting a video of students twerking suggests the heightened anxiety
that Black popu­lar dance can bring to t­ hose in mainstream positions of
authority: surely, dancing that way is evidence of the students’ aberrant

238 Takiyah Nur Amin

and hypersexual be­hav­ior.5 Even the National Football League has taken
a stand on the m ­ atter, updating their 1984 rule to decry “choreographed
cele­brations” or “excessive cele­bration” on the field when a player has had
a successful outcome or touchdown, suggesting that the presence of popu­
lar dance is read as unsportsmanlike be­hav­ior. Players have been punished
with fines and other penalties for ignoring this rule.6 ­These readings of
popu­lar dances that emanate from Black communities affirm the notion
that Black bodies, in which ­these dances have their genesis, are best under-
stood as the site and source for ­every negative ­human be­hav­ior; ­these read-
ings suggest that bad habits or be­hav­ior somehow reach their zenith in the
very personhood and physicality of Black ­people. Undoubtedly, racism and
white supremacy hinge on the notion that it is not structural or po­liti­cal
barriers that impinge on Black life but the very culture and habits—­dance
included—­that reside within Black bodies that are, in fact, the prob­lem.
To that end, Black bodies are always already wrong—­troubled, tainted, un-
worthy, dispossessed. By extension, Black dancing bodies are an even larger
prob­lem as both the dances and the bodies in which they find their origin
are deemed pathology in motion. The terror and indignities of kidnapping,
chattel slavery, lynching, stop and frisk, mass incarceration, and misogy-
noir are all forms of vio­lence levied against the very being and material-
ity of Black flesh as a way to tame, discipline, and/or punish Black bodies
for being purveyors of deviant culture; they are convicted by their speech,
dress, hair, skin color, and dance. Perhaps the lack of sustained critical en-
gagement with Black popu­lar dance in both public and academic scholar-
ship is rooted in the collective trauma of the shaming, exploitation, and
abuse of Black bodies. Why, ­after all, would anyone want to study something that
emanates from a body so worthy of ridicule and disdain? When this perspective
is considered in light of the Western notion that dance is a “feminized” act
and therefore inherently less valuable as a site of knowledge production,
it is not a surprise that discussions of Black popu­lar dance very seldom
find themselves at the center of rigorous public scholarship or thoughtful
public discourse.7
I contend that t­here is another way. Building on the existing work
of dance scholars noted above, I posit that we might understand Black
popu­lar dances and the possibility they embody by moving beyond taxon-
omy, beyond pathology. Writing about Black popu­lar dance for the sake
of cata­loguing its characteristics is perhaps too ­simple; the act of merely
looking at the body to truncate and disassemble it can rob us of the dance
and leave our understanding in tatters. This act of classification and

The Booty ­D on’t Lie 239

dismemberment (i.e., What is the head ­doing? What are the hips ­doing?)
distills Black dances into easily consumable parts that belie the complexity
of the ­whole and obscure any sense of the ideas that are residing within
the movement. Engaging Black popu­lar dance demands re­sis­tance to the
tendency to boil the dances down to a laundry list of cultural character-
istics. ­These aesthetic markers are points of departure for sure, but what
needs tending is the ways in which Black popu­lar dances embody ideas,
concepts, and memory. What are the ideas that are implicated and alluded
to when we “pop, lock, and drop it”? What ideologies are implicated in a
body roll? Beyond any negative readings that have been projected onto
­these movement vocabularies and the bodies from which they emanate, it
is pos­si­ble to read Black popu­lar dances as more than confirmations of cul-
tural deviance. I propose that ­these dances are sites for bodily enactments
of plea­sure, agency, and re­sis­tance, and consider that moving one’s body
in the manner of one’s choosing is perhaps as revolutionary an act as many
­others. Black popu­lar dances are resistive precisely ­because they push back
against that idea that Black bodies are best when used to ser­vice the needs
of a system that has ­little regard for their existence. ­These dances are a har-
vest, a bounty of meanings that require thinking beyond thick movement
description or the mere capture of dance on film or video. Engaging and
perpetuating the value of Black vernacular dance requires a consideration
of the ideas and meanings therein and an intimacy with the nuances that
the dances themselves represent.

Black Popu­lar Dance as Possibility

I define “Black dance” as the multiple movement idioms that arise in Black
African culture and ­those that emerge as they are filtered through the expe-
riences of Black ­people as a result of assimilating vari­ous cultural influences.
I understand social and popu­lar dances to be ­those that are generally recog-
nizable, easily accessed, and widely acceptable, even if that last descriptor is
up for some debate when considering Black popu­lar dance.8 When I think
of my own experiences ­doing Black popu­lar dances, ­those movements are
tethered inextricably to memories—­places, sensations, experiences whose
meanings ultimately become a part of the “stuff ” of the dance itself. As the
sociologist Paul Connerton writes, “the past, as it ­were, [is] sedimented” in the
body.9 Gesture, movement, and dance are ways to get at, to reengage, to re-
member; dancing is an act of putting the body back together, from a truncated
analy­sis into a complex, integrated w ­ hole, composed of an ever-­changing

240 Takiyah Nur Amin

flurry of ideas that are at once deeply personal and informed by the contexts
from which they emanate. The anthropologist Janet Goodridge explains
that “kinesthetic memories . . . ​may range from snapshot impressions to
short or longer sequences of movement” and that “kinesthetic memory of
movement be­hav­ior [can arise] from what is learned in social and ritual con-
texts.”10 This suggests that ­there are other ways of knowing and of accessing
knowledge that resides in the body, a notion that highlights Brenda Far-
nell’s idea that “memory [or the past] remains with us not only in words but
also in our neuromuscular patterning and kinesthetic memory.”11 Without
a consideration of the ideas and knowledge that reside in the dancing body,
understandings of Black popu­lar dance are rendered incomplete. Beneath
imposed readings of Black bodily enactment lie memories and experiences
that exist within t­ hose movements. Critical engagement with Black popu­lar
dance becomes a way to challenge prevailing assumptions, reshaping collec-
tive narratives and equipping one to get in between, up ­under, around, and
through the readings of Black popu­lar dance that are meant to devalue and
oversimplify. In this sense, the rec­ord or history of both individual Black and
collective experiences, memories, and knowledge resides within the body
and is manifest, in part, through Black popu­lar dance. The dances become
a way to give voice to Black dancing bodies as repositories of trauma and
plea­sure, abuse and agency. Popu­lar dances function as a means by which to
connect across history and diaspora through the recognition of diverse cul-
tural experiences. Dance challenges the contours of what we know, of what
is knowable, of how we know. As ­human beings shape and inform cultural
systems and pro­cesses through their practices, Black popu­lar dances must be
considered as formative, not just as reactive or as unchanging archives. The
question becomes: How do Black popu­lar dances shape, inform, and rec­ord
experiences and speak ideas? What new possibilities are presented as move-
ment vocabularies continue to emerge?

Plea­sure, Agency, and Re­sis­tance

Given that Black dance has and continues to be a source for mainstream
conceptions of the popu­lar, it is all the more impor­tant not to diminish it in
its vernacular form as a pop fad that can be reduced to a singular narrative
or experience. T ­ here is no one single authoritative reading of any par­tic­u­lar
dance, and contested meanings might reside within the same embodied en-
actment, juxtaposing hot and cool, plea­sure and pain, and conflicting repre­
sen­ta­tions of the self. No single story is sufficient for the understanding of

The Booty ­D on’t Lie 241

Black popu­lar dances, and the presence of tensions and dichotomies ­needn’t
be reconciled; all can arise in time and space to occupy the dance. No single
narrative encompasses the lived experiences of Black ­people, and as such, no
single story is our dancing. As a scholarly proj­ect, engagement with Black
popu­lar dance must be expansive, challenging the false bound­aries of na-
tion, geography, and academic discipline. By rethinking disciplinary and na-
tional bound­aries we have the potential to engage with Black popu­lar dance
as “vital acts of transfer, transmitting social knowledge, memory and a sense
of identity through reiteration.” If we accept that performance—­the repeti-
tion of acts that constitute our citizenship, gender, ethnicity, sexual identity,
and so on—­functions as epistemology, then dance specifically offers a way of
meaning-­making.12 Dance can communicate concepts, deliver pronounce-
ments and indictments of social structures, embody memories, and carry
within it the possibility of shaping and reconsidering notions of the self. The
Black popu­lar dances twerking, the Harlem Shake, and J-­Setting embody
­these possibilities.
While twerking only recently entered mainstream consciousness, its
roots stretch back to at least the early 1990s in Black communities in New
Orleans. It was 1993 when dj Jubilee first made use of the term in the New
Orleans bounce anthem “Do the Jubilee All,” directing partiers to “twerk
baby, twerk baby, twerk, twerk, twerk” in response to his ­music. ­Later pop­u­
lar­ized by queer artists Katey Red and Big Freedia, twerking as an accompa-
nying dance to the Big Easy’s indigenous bounce ­music was familiar to many
well before Miley Cyrus’s attempt to perform the dance on mtv’s 2013 Video
­Music Awards. Pop­u­lar­ized a de­cade ­earlier by Atlanta rap duo the Ying
Yang Twins in their debut single, “Whistle While You Twerk” and by other
hip-­hop artists, including Cheeky Blakk, Bubba Sparxxx, and Timbaland,
mainstream pop artists such as Justin Timberlake and Beyoncé referenced
twerking in their song lyr­ics as well.13
While variations on the dance abound, the execution of twerking requires
bent knees and the relaxed but per­sis­tent and jubilant shaking of one’s back-
side; alternatively, one’s buttocks may be alternated and isolated in twerk-
ing. Twerking can be executed in standing, squatting, or bent-­over positions
and in some instances is carried out standing on one’s head. The dance’s
iconic movement demonstrates kinship with West African movement aes-
thetics and shows a strong resemblance to Mapouka. Known in Côte d’Ivoire
as “la dance fussier” or the dance of the ­behind, Mapouka is executed in both
traditional and ceremonial contexts and more recently as a popu­lar dance
among Ivoirian youth. Of Mapouka, Maureen Monahan writes:

242 Takiyah Nur Amin

 The more modern version—­and the one most closely related to twerk-
ing—is considered obscene and suggestive by some, and its traditional
roots ­haven’t immunized it against controversy. In fact, the public per­for­
mance of modern Mapouka by groups such as Les Tueuses (The Killers),
was outlawed in the 1980s; the Ivoirian government cited lewdness as the
reason for the ban. ­After that government was toppled by a military coup
around 2000, Mapouka per­for­mances ­were rendered ­legal once again.
However, despite (or possibly due to) its prohibition, the infectious dance
style had already spread throughout coastal West Africa and even taken
up roots in the U.S.14

Similar indictments of twerking have not been enacted in the United States,
though “twerking” was added to the Oxford En­glish Dictionary in 2013.
Beyond the booty shaking that is central to twerking, it is a dance that,
due to its concentration in the lower regions of the body, upsets traditional
Black respectability politics that privilege chastity. Hampton University
went so far as to use a Power­Point slide during a student orientation stating
that “ladies do not twerk” and that “Hampton men do not take twerkers
home to their ­mothers.”15 In a blog post on the Crunk Feminist Collective
on August 29, 2013, the feminist scholar Brittney Cooper (Professor Crunk)
writes, “­There is [a] time and place for sexy gyration with wild abandon, and
Black folks should never concede that this i­ sn’t a part of our inheritance. We
recognize as we participate that ratchet is a part of who we are, but not the
­whole picture. And it is a part of our experience that made the blues and jazz
and hip hop necessary, not just for entertainment but for survival.”
Cooper’s words animate some of the ideas and possibilities within twerk-
ing. The per­sis­tent presence of this kind of movement evidences an under-
stated truth: this dance feels good. The relaxed posture of the lower body needed
to execute twerking liberates the body from being tightly held at the base of
the spine. Twerking expresses a connection to the diaspora through move-
ment with its emphasis on polycentrism in the body (movement emanating
from multiple centers), polyrhythm, and the use of a bent or soft knee posture
to execute the dance. Black dance scholars have written at length about the
ways in which t­ hese markers of African-­derived movement vocabularies find
themselves remixed and recycled within the context of Black social dance and
movement practice.16 It is plausible that the currents that suggest a connec-
tion between Mapouka and twerking in terms of their execution are not neces-
sarily a result of immigration or U.S. residents traveling to the continent per
se, but are more likely the result of the per­sis­tence of West African movement

The Booty ­D on’t Lie 243

aesthetics surfacing and resurfacing in social dances in the United States, as
with the movements that made up jazz dance at the turn of the twentieth
­century. Moreover, this insistence in twerking on “freeing up” the parts of
the body—­the release of the spine and freedom of the hip girdle and pelvis—­
needed for reproduction and regeneration of a community hints at a kind of
re­sis­tance to per­sis­tent puritanical ideals about sex that suggest the body as
the site for deviance: twerking often literally turns this notion upside-­down
by privileging the unfettered movement of the body below the navel. Given
the ways in which Black reproduction has been controlled, exploited, and
commodified through enslavement, forced sterilization, and other means of
violent control, it is perhaps no won­der that ­these same communities would
develop—as a resistive technology—­movement vocabularies that celebrate
their ability to reproduce themselves, even within the context of state vio­
lence and inhumane treatment. In the twerk ­there is a possibility for plea­
sure, for cultural connection, and for freedom of movement that pushes
back against social domination. While such meanings may not be articu-
lated by all of its prac­ti­tion­ers, the dance itself suggests a complexity that is
about much more than the shaking of one’s backside.
Similar to the mainstream fascination with twerking, the Harlem Shake
is a dance form that has recently captured imaginations, albeit as a result
of gross misrepre­sen­ta­tion. In 2013, short videos w ­ ere posted to YouTube of
riotous, often costumed partiers shaking and bouncing their torsos to the
song “Harlem Shake” by Baauer, an electronic musician from the United
States. As ­these viral videos caught the attention of news stations and col-
lege campuses across the country, residents of Harlem and ­others familiar
with the dance’s origins and iterations began to speak out on YouTube and
in interviews about the history of what was being touted as a “new” dance
form.17
The Harlem Shake was initiated by Albert Leopold Boyce, a resident of
the northern city, on basketball courts some three de­cades before its recent
resurgence. Boyce would perform the dance as a part of half-­time entertain-
ment at basketball tournaments at the world-­famous Rucker Park. In a rare
interview, Boyce noted, “It’s a drunken shake, it’s an alcoholic shake, but its
fantastic, every­body loves it and every­body appreciates it. And it’s glowing
with glory. . . . ​It was a drunken dance, you know, from the mummies, in the
tombs. That’s what mummies used to do. They was all wrapped up and taped
up. So they ­couldn’t ­really move, all they could do was shake.”18
Boyce, who died of heart failure in 2006, suggests that while the dance
began with him as a drunken reverie it also hinted at the way mummies

244 Takiyah Nur Amin

would move if awakened from death, trying to remove their ban­dages. The
dance includes popping-­style movements in the upper body, with emphasis
on the shoulder and side-­to-­side locking movements. Prac­ti­tion­ers may in-
fuse other movements on top of the basic Harlem Shake structure, including
splits and isolations of the head and neck. First known in the community as
the “Al. B.,” the Harlem Shake first garnered broader recognition in G. Dep’s
­music videos for “Special Delivery” and especially “Let’s Get It.” Both videos
featured Harlem native, m ­ usic mogul, and G. Dep’s former producer Sean
“P. Diddy” Combs executing the dance. The Harlem Shake has also been
referenced in ­music lyr­ics by hip-­hop artists Missy Elliott and Nelly.19
The per­sis­tence of Harlem community residents in decrying the meme-­
style iteration of the Harlem Shake first pop­u­lar­ized in 2013 suggests that the
dance itself is about more than Boyce as an individual; that it is a dance that
represents community identity. Taken together with other dances emanat-
ing from Harlem in the past three de­cades, including the Chicken Noodle
Soup, the Harlem Shake functions as a text for what it means to be from
that par­tic­u­lar community. While the dance is surely executed by persons
from other locales, its origins ­were critical enough for community members
to declare it as their own and dismiss the meme as “inauthentic.” This dance
is intimately tied to “place”; it “belongs” to a community that in the past
thirty years has seen the worst of urban blight and gentrification. Extending
Boyce’s drunken-­mummy-­shake meta­phor the dance embodies a desire to
shake loose what is holding one in, to throw off one’s constrictive ban­dages
and receive new life. The Harlem Shake suggests an act of claiming one’s
beloved origins while embodying a desire for self-­determination and a break-
ing of bound­aries, self-­imposed or other­wise. This embodied push to combat
being held back or held down points to an embodied agency in the dance;
the Harlem Shake becomes emblematic of the capacity of a par­tic­u­lar com-
munity to act in­de­pen­dently and make their own choices.
Originating in the 1970s, J-­Setting is another increasingly popu­lar Black
dance form. The name is derived from the majorettes at Jackson State Uni-
versity, known as the Prancing J-­Settes. Originally known as the Prancing
Jaycettes, the group was first developed u ­ nder the leadership of Shirley
Middleton, who sponsored and advised the group from 1970 to 1975. Middle-
ton, a former majorette and ballet dancer, approached the university’s sixth
president, Dr. John A. P ­ eoples, to ask that the majorettes be allowed to “put
the baton down,” removing the centrality of twirling from their routines to
focus on developing and executing more intricate dance routines. Referred
to as “the thrill of a thousand eyes,” the Prancing J-­Settes have performed

The Booty ­D on’t Lie 245

on national tele­vi­sion, and their dance style has spawned t­ oday’s J-­Setting
dance phenomenon.20
J-­Setting has a call-­and-­response structure, whereby the leader of the
group initiates dance steps first and is then joined or followed by the o­ thers.
The dance per­for­mance includes intricate formations, similar to t­ hose used
by a collegiate marching band; the group ­will also march in rows or­ga­nized
by height. One critical aspect of J-­Setting is marching with high knee lifts or
“high stepping”: in this style of march, alternating legs lift with a bent knee
but the foot must be brought up to the height of the opposite knee before
returning to the ground. J-­Setting also makes use of what the Philadelphia-­
based choreographer Jumatatu Poe calls “sharp explosive movements cho-
reographed in tightly executed routines.”21
While J-­Setting has found its way into the mainstream, being deployed
in ­music videos by Beyoncé (“Single Ladies”) and on the Lifetime Channel’s
popu­lar show Bring It!, the dance has become popu­lar as a kind of competi-
tive dance among men in the gay African American club scene. During the
late 1970s, male students observed the practice sessions and per­for­mances of
the Prancing J-­Settes, bringing the dance movement back to their own local
communities. ­Today groups like the Prancing Elites compete in J-­Setting
dance-­offs with groups at vari­ous gay cultural events across the country.
What to make of the J-­Setting phenomenon, which finds its genesis on an
hbcu campus and moves into Black queer club culture? When Middleton
took over sponsorship and advising of the Prancing J-­Settes in 1971, she es-
tablished requirements for the team such as academic standards, attire, and
deportment; no member of the all-­female auxiliary was allowed to “display
any mannerism and stature of anything less than a model citizen.”22 This
remains a core value of the Prancing J-­Settes ­today. By promoting perfec-
tion and precision in both the dance routines and public demeanor of the
auxiliary members, Middleton inculcated within J-­Setting culture an em-
phasis on crisp, high-­quality execution of steps, good-­natured competition,
and a focus on self-­presentation as art. The existence, predominantly in
the South, of Black, all–­male J-­Setting groups alongside the presence of the
original Prancing J-­Settes and other female teams of varying ages suggests
that the dance creates a space for the queering of gendered identities. Male
J-­Setting teams wear costumes that are very similar to the ones worn by the
­women’s group, including knee-­high white boots, capes, and leotards. The
dance opens a space to resist socially acceptable and ste­reo­typical notions of
gendered identities: Black gay men who J-­Sett can push back against social
scripts about what is appropriate or suitable for men to engage in. Similarly,

246 Takiyah Nur Amin

the hyperstylized, hyperfeminine deportment of Black w ­ omen who J-­Sett
(as evidenced by the emphasis on long, flowing hair and movements de-
signed to highlight the curvature of the hips, buttocks, and breasts) creates a
space where they can access markers of beauty and femininity that are often
reserved for non-­Black ­women.
While the presence of predominantly Black, gay male J-­Setting groups
has grown to include the widely known Prancing Elites as well as the Mem-
phis Elite, J-­Phi (Atlanta, Georgia), X-­Men (Grambling, Louisiana), and
Detroit Danz Zone, their presence h ­ asn’t eclipsed Black w­ omen who are
proficient in the form. The Prancing J-­Settes at Jackson State University
have maintained their visibility for over thirty years and have performed not
only at football games with the jsu marching band but also in ­music vid-
eos and at the naacp Awards. Similar groups abound at other historically
black colleges including Howard University’s Ooh La La! Dance Line, which
performs movements similar to the classic interpretation of the Prancing
J-­Settes. The popu­lar tele­vi­sion show Bring It! showcases the work of the en-
trepreneur, teacher, and choreographer Dianna Williams and features the
Dancing Dolls and other predominantly Black girl dance teams in the U.S.
South competing in hip-­hop, J-­Setting, and other dance vocabularies.
The J-­Setting done by the all-­male Prancing Elites and similar groups
­shouldn’t be read as merely an appropriation and reembodiment of Black
female per­for­mance. It is impor­tant to remember that at its origin, the con-
text out of which J-­Setting emerges privileges the space as single-­gender and
homosocial. Moreover, the aspects of J-­Setting that privilege hyperstylized
deportment is perhaps better understood when taken on by gay men as a
desire to embody and express this aspect of southern football culture. As
­J-­Setting becomes a site where dancers are celebrated and accepted by viewers
willing to be entertained and inspired by the form, it is telling that gay men
who may be perceived as deviant take up the dance to challenge the bound­
aries of social ac­cep­tance. Read in this way, the existence of the Alabama
State University Honey Beez, a group of plus-­size Black ­women dancers who
perform with the school’s marching band, suggests that J-­Setting can func-
tion as a site whereby ­those considered outside of or beyond the confines of
narrow readings of beauty can challenge t­ hose dominant social assumptions.
Taken collectively t­ hese readings of specific Black popu­lar dances, though
not exhaustive, demonstrate an interest in the meanings and ideas embodied
in the movement of t­ hese vernacular dances. More than “steps,” Black popu­
lar dances can function as a site for multiple repre­sen­ta­tions of plea­sure,
agency, and re­sis­tance.

The Booty ­D on’t Lie 247

Conclusion

Black dances are more than a repository of aesthetics or cultural characteris-

tics. They are ideas and meaning in motion. Sustained, critical engagement
with Black vernacular dances is an opportunity to consider t­ hose ideas more
thoroughly and access the collective meanings they embody, not in an ef-
fort to reassert some ­grand narrative to which all Black ­people ascribe but
as a means by which we might uncover voices and experiences that have
been understudied or undertheorized. Whose voices and experiences have
been left out of the dominant narrative? Dance is an act of remembrance, a
chance to incorporate ideas from the fringes of our consciousness into our
understanding of Black life, past and pre­sent, without sacrificing the com-
plexity of our own lived experience. In endeavoring to write about Black
popu­lar dance, we have a ripe possibility to reassemble ideas and ways of
knowing that are articulated beyond language. In writing about Black ver-
nacular dances in particular—­street dances, bad dances, nasty dances—­
there is an opportunity to consider not only the ideas embodied therein but
what aspects of ourselves we might have overlooked, ignored, or disavowed.
Who might we disinherit by not including ­these dances in the ­grand proj­
ect of thinking seriously about Black history in general and Black popu­lar
culture in par­tic­u­lar? Our embodied ideas, memories, and experiences act
as a counternarrative to oversimplified, derisive, watered-­down, and inac-
curate tellings of Black ­people’s story. We should take seriously what the au-
thor Jonathan Holloway, writing on the work of choreographer Alvin Ailey,
called “embodied retellings of collective memory,” not as a confirmation of
the sameness of all Black ­people but as a means by which to question that
which is s­ilent in the usual retelling of our history. In this way, sustained
engagement with Black popu­lar dance functions as a way to push the bound­
aries of community to be more inclusive and to wrestle with complex ideas.
By approaching Black vernacular dance as a site for ideas, experiences, and
memories, one can pull in from the edges of one’s awareness t­ hose persons,
places, ­things that one might rather turn away from ­because the complexity
therein trou­bles notions of identity and the self. Sustained engagement with
Black popu­lar dance is a subversive act ­because it offers up other ways for
thinking about bodily enactment, with all of its complexity and tension, as
sources of new ways of conceiving of ourselves, of reconstituting the Black
(dancing) body, of rescuing the embodied archive from pernicious attacks
on its existence. In this sense, we might proceed by dancing, writing, and
documenting ourselves into the ­future.

248 Takiyah Nur Amin

 Notes

Epigraphs are from “About Janelle Monáe” and “A Keeping of Rec­ords.”

1 Welsh-­Asante, “Commonalities in African Dance,” 71–82; Dixon-­Gottschild,

­Digging the Africanist Presence.
2 Manning, Modern Dance; Perpener, African-­American Concert Dance; DeFrantz, Danc-
ing Many Drums.
3 Malone, Steppin’ on the Blues; Hazzard-­Gordon, Jookin’.
4 Smith, “Yes.”
5 Garcia, “Twerking YouTube.”
6 Jones, “So You Think You Can Dance?”
7 Burt, The Male Dancer, 22.
8 Vissicaro, Studying Dance Cultures.
9 Connerton, How Socie­ties Remember, 72.
10 Goodridge, “The Body,” 121.
11 Farnell, “ Moving Bodies,” 353.
12 Taylor, The Archive, 2, 3.
13 Lynch, “A Brief History.”
14 Monahan, “What Is the Origin.”
15 Jacobs, “Hampton University.”
16 See Dixon-­Gottschild, Digging; Hazzard-­Gordon, Jookin’; Malone, Steppin’ on the Blues.
17 Schlepp Films, “Harlem Reacts.”
18 “Inventor of Harlem Shake Interview.”
19 Gregory, “It’s a Worldwide Dance Craze.”
20 “Origins and Development.”
21 Quoted in Alvarez, “How J-­Setting Is Changing Pop Culture.”
22 “Origins and Development.”

References

“A Keeping of Rec­ords: The Art and Life of Alice Walker.” Accessed May 15, 2014.
[Link]
“About Janelle Monáe.” Accessed May 15, 2014. [Link]
/­artists​/­3679​/­janelle​-­monae.
Alvarez, Alex. “How J-­Setting Is Changing Pop Culture.” abc News, April 26, 2013.
[Link]
-­loved​-­knowing​/­story​?­id​=1­ 9041546.
Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater. “Ailey Repertory: Blues Suite.” Ac-
cessed May 24, 2014. [Link]
alvin-­ailey-­american-­dance-­theater/repertory/blues-­suite.

The Booty ­D on’t Lie 249

 Burt, Ramsay. The Male Dancer: Bodies, Spectacle and Sexuality. New York: Routledge,
1995.
Connerton, Paul. How Socie­ties Remember. New York: Cambridge University Press,
1989.
DeFrantz, Thomas F. Dancing Many Drums: Excavations in African-­American Dance.
Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2002.
Dixon-­Gottschild, Brenda. Digging the Africanist Presence in American Per­for­mance:
Dance and Other Contexts. Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger, 1998.
Dunham, Katherine. “Barrel­house Blues.” In Dancing in the Light: Six Compositions by
African-­American Choreographers. dvd. 1938; Red Bank, NJ: Kultur, 2007.
Farnell, Brenda. “Moving Bodies, Acting Selves.” Annual Review of Anthropology
(1999): 341–73.
Garcia, Saudi. “Twerking YouTube: San Diego High School Students Suspended
for Twerking Video.” [Link], May 2, 2013. [Link]
twerking-­youtube-­san-­diego-­high-­school-­students-­suspended-­for-­twerking-­
video.
Goodridge, Janet. “The Body as Living Archive of Dance/Movement: Autobio-
graphical Reflections.” In Fields in Motion: Ethnography in the Worlds of Dance,
edited by Dena Davida. Waterloo, Ontario: Wilfrid Laurier University Press,
2011.
Gregory, Kia. “It’s a Worldwide Dance Craze, but It’s Not the Real Harlem Shake.”
New York Times, February 28, 2013. [Link]
nyregion/behind-­harlem-­shake-­craze-­a-­dance-­thats-­over-­a-­decade-­old.
html?pagewanted=all&_r=1&.
Hazzard-­Gordon, Katrina. Jookin’: The Rise of Social Dance Formations in African-­
American Dance. Philadelphia: ­Temple University Press, 1990.
“Inventor of Harlem Shake Interview.” Inside Hoops, August 13, 2003. [Link]
[Link]/harlem-­[Link].
Jacobs, Peter. “Hampton University Allegedly Lectured New Students About the
‘Dangers’ of Twerking.” Business Insider India, August 29, 2013. [Link]
.­businessinsider​.­in​/­Hampton​-­University​-­Allegedly​-­Lectured​-­New​-­Students​
-­About​-­The​-­Dangers​-­Of​-­Twerking​/­articleshow​/­22148733​.­cms.
Jones, Jonathan. “So You Think You Can Dance? nfl Coming Down Harder Than
Ever on td Cele­brations.” Sports Illustrated, September 23, 2016. [Link]
.­com​/­nfl​/­2016​/­09​/­23​/­nfl​-­excessive​-­celebration​-­penalties​-­antonio​-­brown.
Lynch, Joe. “A Brief History of Twerking.” Fuse, August 28, 2013. [Link]
tv/2013/08/brief-­history-­of-­twerking.
Malone, Jacqui. Steppin’ on the Blues: The Vis­i­ble Rhythms of African American Dance.
Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 1996.
Manning, Susan. Modern Dance, Negro Dance, Race in Motion. Minneapolis: University
of Minnesota Press, 2006.
Monahan, Maureen. “What Is the Origin of Twerking?” ­Mental Floss, July 27, 2013.
[Link]
“Origins and Development of the Prancing J-­Settes.” Sonic Boom of the South. Ac-
cessed July 15, 2014. [Link]

250 Takiyah Nur Amin

Perpener, John O., III. African American Concert Dance: The Harlem Re­nais­sance and
Beyond. Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 2005.
Schlepp Films. “Harlem Reacts to the Harlem Shake. Do the Harlem Shake.
Harlem Shake Dance Original (v1).” YouTube, February 18, 2013. [Link]
.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=­IGH2HEgWppc.
Smith, Mychal Denzel. “Yes, Arresting Subway Dancers Is Still a Way of Crimi-
nalizing Black Youth.” The Nation, July 8, 2014. [Link]
blog/180569/yes-­arresting-­subway-­dancers-­still-­way-­criminalizing-­black-­youth#.
Taylor, Diana. The Archive and the Repertoire: Performing Cultural Memory in the Amer­i­
cas. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003.
Vissicaro, Pegge. Studying Dance Cultures around the World: An Introduction to Multicul-
tural Dance Education. Dubuque, IA: Kendall Hunt, 2004.
Welsh-­Asante, Kariamu. “Commonalities in African Dance: An Aesthetic Founda-
tion.” In African Culture: The Rhythms of Unity, edited by Kariamu Welsh-­
Asante. Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press, 1989.

The Booty ­D on’t Lie 251

CH.16 HE SAID NOTHING / SONIC SPACE AND
THE PRODUCTION OF QUIETUDE IN BARRY
JENKINS’S MOONLIGHT

Simone C. Drake

Well ­after a year since the release of Barry Jenkins’s Moonlight

(2016), a film adaptation of Tarell Alvin McCraney’s play In Moonlight Black
Boys Look Blue, Black cultural and Black queer studies scholars remain en-
amored with a film that made a host of critical interventions in how Black
cultural productions influence how society imagines, represents, sees, and
empathizes with Black boys. One of t­hose interventions is its break from
protest rooted in macho, heteronormative repre­sen­ta­tions of Black mascu-
linity. This is not to propose that heretofore ­there have never been breaks;
rather, the point is that Black masculine sensibilities of disruptiveness and
protest have largely been understood as inherently physical and vocal acts.
This phenomenon has held true even when critical attention is paid to sexual
identity, when vocality around lgbt rights politics has also demanded vocal
disruptiveness, particularly in the context of lesbian and gay aids activists
in the late 1980s articulating that Silence = Death.1 This understanding can
make it difficult to see Black boys as ­children—as innocent and worthy of
protection—­and as not yet possessing a sexual identity, therefore associat-
ing Black boys with a Black manhood that is always already vocal, reactive,
and heteronormative.2 Such an understanding can also limit discourse on
re­sis­tance and Black boyhood. Moonlight, then, is situated within and also
intervenes in a genealogy of disruptive Black cultural productions through
a protagonist who says ­little and, with the exception of one reactive act of
vio­lence, also does ­little throughout the film.
Few con­temporary visual culture productions have i­magined a boyhood
or “coming of age” for Black boys that is situated outside of the 1990s urban,
hip-­hop-­themed cinema that offered familiar yet static images of Black mas-
culinity.3 Attention to the urban, or the city, in Black cinematic productions
prompted the film scholar Paula Massood to identify within such narratives
“conflicted attitudes ­toward the city as ­either promised land or dystopian
hell.” The city therefore functions as a pivotal site of repre­sen­ta­tion and iden-
tity formation in African American cultural productions that, as Massood
notes, “explore[s] themes of hope, mobility, and escape.”4 Within the con-
text of the intersection of race with gender and sexuality in con­temporary
Black cultural productions, the city is symbolic of a space where Black boys
become a par­tic­u­lar type of Black men against a backdrop in which vio­lence
is foregrounded and encapsulated by sound—­sounds of hip hop, sounds of
the city, and dialogue.5 Moonlight stands in contrast to this popu­lar trope
by troubling narratives that cast Black boys as already men, rethinking the
heteromasculinist coming-­of-­age narrative and privileging quiet.
In a po­liti­cal climate framed by vio­lence, marginalization, and incivil-
ity, it is striking that an image of Black boyhood and masculinity steeped
in quietude would interrupt, if ever so briefly, what have become everyday
instances of terror in the United States since the 2016 presidential election.
As a screen adaptation of McCraney’s play In Moonlight Black Boys Look Blue,
Jenkins’s Moonlight set the film world abuzz. In spite of an unimaginable
blunder at the 2017 Acad­emy Awards ceremony, the film won three Acad­emy
Awards, for Best Picture, Best Supporting Actor, and Best Adapted Screen-
play.6 Moonlight is the coming-­of-­age narrative of a poor, gay, Black boy grow-
ing up in the Liberty City neighborhood of Miami during the Reagan era.
Set against the backdrop of crack-­cocaine indiscriminately ravaging the lives
of Black Americans, Chiron, a timid, neglected child, desperately attempts
to navigate his m ­ other’s substance abuse prob­lems, vio­lence inflicted by
other ­children, and a social life stifled by his precarious queer positionality.

He Said Nothing 253

This is not a Hollywood story of happy endings—it is, rather, a story that
begins and ends mired in the complexities of growing up Black and queer
in a society with ­limited ways of seeing, or registering legibility in Black boys
and Black men.
Each stage of Chiron’s life—­childhood, adolescence, and young adult-
hood—is framed by how the cultural studies scholar Kevin Quashie defines
quiet in the context of the lived Black experience.7 Chiron says ­little and
­little is said to him. Although his life being marked by vulnerability is unde-
niable, vulnerability and quiet converge to reveal a Black queer interiority
that locates some degree of agency and self-­fashioning within the depths of
verbally saying ­little. In this essay, I juxtapose sonic space with quietude and
the Black queer interiority that is produced within l­ittle dialogue. What is
to be gained by the absence of saying anything? I also emphasize the distinc-
tion Quashie makes between silence and quiet, especially as so many reviews
of the film use the language of silence. According to Quashie, “The notion
of quiet . . . ​is neither motionless nor without sounds. Quiet, instead, is a
meta­phor for the full range of one’s inner life—­one’s desires, ambitions, hun-
gers, vulnerabilities, and fears.” He extends this explanation further, insist-
ing, “Silence often denotes something that is suppressed or repressed, and
is an interiority that is about withholding, absence, and stillness. Quiet, on
the other hand, is presence . . . ​and can encompass fantastic motion.”8 Thus
even when Chiron does not speak, I would argue, the interiority revealed
through his quietude is indeed full of desires, ambitions, hungers, vulner-
abilities, and fears that make him fully ­human in ways that public per­for­
mances of re­sis­tance cannot render fully.
The idea of Chiron saying nothing that is posited in the title of this essay
is inspired by Gayl Jones’s novel Corregidora (1975), a narrative of intergen-
erational vio­lence. The ­mother of Ursa, the protagonist, offers the refrain “I
said nothing” as a space between narrative and interiority. When recounting
her own story of physical trauma framed within her ­mother’s and grand­
mother’s stories of sexual trauma, both Ursa’s ­mother and Ursa herself take
turns saying nothing, not only creating moments in which the narrative is
suspended but also creating moments when the gravity of the situation is
emphasized by quiet—­not silence, ­because ­there is a phenomenal presence
in ­those moments of quiet, particularly in a novel framed by the blues. In a
film focusing on so many social and ethical wrongs—­the drug trade indus-
try, economic disparities, bullying, and homophobia—it is logical to expect
a trope of re­sis­tance in Moonlight. The audience, no doubt, hopes and wishes
Chiron, or even someone functioning as an advocate, ­will resist or be loud

254 Simone C. Drake
about the wrongs. Instead, Chiron’s penetrating gazes and assessment of
situations is almost always performed through shrouds of quiet. Within that
space of quiet, of saying nothing, of inaudibility, the musical score stands in
for dialogue, for rage, and for disruptiveness as a sonic space that takes view-
ers deep into the interior life of a queer Black boy coming of age in Reagan-­
era Miami.
Named Chiron (the name I ­will use throughout) at birth but also called
­Little (Alex R. Hibbert) and Black (Trevante Rhodes), Chiron (Ashton
Sanders) lives in low-­income housing with his ­mother, Paula (Naomie Har-
ris), who quickly escalates from being employed and invested in her son’s
well-­being to becoming ravaged by drug addiction. In the second scene of
the film, the camera follows the blurred image of a group of kids ­running.
One yells, “Get his gay ass!” Chiron, who is being chased, takes refuge in an
abandoned housing tenement with boarded win­dows and drug parapherna-
lia littering the floor. Juan (Mahershala Ali), a neighborhood midlevel drug
pusher, rescues Chiron from the crack ­house and takes him to the home he
shares with his girlfriend, Teresa (Janelle Monáe), where they feed him and
attempt to get him to tell them where he lives. The film focuses on Chiron’s
developing relationship with Juan u ­ ntil Juan’s abrupt and unexplained
death; his volatile relationship with his ­mother; his friendship and budding
sexual interest in a schoolmate, Kevin (Jaden Piner/Jharrel Jerome/Andre
Holland); and his often unsuccessful attempts at avoiding homophobic bul-
lies. ­After being placed in a juvenile detention center for attacking the bully
ringleader, Terrel (Patrick Decile), Paula and Chiron move to Atlanta, where
the grown-up Chiron emerges as “Black,” Kevin’s nickname for him during
adolescence. Black is dieseled, “traps,” and lives in both solitude and a sonic
space reflective of his contradictory metamorphosis.
Although Moonlight opens to the lyr­ics of Boris Gardiner’s old-­school
“­Every Nigger Is a Star” (1973) as entrée for Juan, who rolls up on one of his
street corners in a blue Chevy to check in with one of his dope boys, the
sound track and sonic space ­after that point in the film is wholly invested in
Chiron. Chiron, however, does not speak u ­ ntil over nine minutes into the
film. ­After much cajoling, he tells his unconventional caretakers, Teresa and
Juan, “My name is Chiron, but ­people call me ­Little.” He ­will not speak again
­until five minutes ­later, when he encounters Kevin at a makeshift football
game, where the laughter and sounds of ­running are accompanied by Nich-
olas Britell’s arrangement of Mozart’s Vesperae Solennes De Confessore in c
Major, k 339—­“Laudate Dominum” (Psalm 116). The majority of Chiron’s ex-
pressiveness from childhood through adulthood is articulated through nods

He Said Nothing 255

and penetrating gazes—­gazes reminiscent of Kehinde Wiley’s portraiture of
young queer Black men who stare out from the canvas, refusing to avert
their gaze. It would seem difficult to develop a plot with l­ittle dialogue, but
Jenkins already demonstrated his acumen with such tasks in his first film,
Medicine for Melancholy (2008), which also incorporates sound simultaneous
to being entrenched in frequent moments of quiet. The sonic space Jenkins
has created aligns with Elizabeth Alexander’s definition of art: “Art is where
and how we speak to each other in tongues audible when ‘official’ language
fails. It is not where we escape the world’s ills but rather one place where
we go to make sense of them.”9 The narrative and language racing through
Chiron’s mind is made audible through the vibration and oscillations that
produce sound through instruments rather than voice in much of Moonlight.
Chiron strug­g les to make sense of his life through observation, vigilance,
and quiet. ­Music is the art form that allows him to speak “in tongues audi-
ble.” Just as L
­ ittle becomes Black, producing consternation for his childhood
love interest, Kevin, who does not attempt to hide his shock and disdain
when the adult Chiron reveals he’s “trappin’,” Britell’s frequent orchestral
interludes offer a narrative in the absence of dialogue. The string orchestra
is initially heard when Chiron spends the night with Juan and Teresa for the
first time. The violin solo frames what I call an “aesthetic of care.” In spite of
Juan’s troubling occupation, his home functions as a safe space for Chiron,
where he is fed, provided a clean bed, and often given money. Accordingly,
the violins abruptly stop when Chiron’s ­mother enters the scene, when, ­after
their initial encounter, Juan returns Chiron to her apartment.
In what is arguably one of the most notable and power­ful scenes in the
film, the string orchestra again conveys an aesthetic of care during the swim-
ming lesson in the ocean. Although Juan’s Cuban ancestry comes across as
rather random, if not forced, his articulation of Black heterogeneity through
his lesson on blackness and diaspora operates as a counterdiscourse to the
public and domestic ridicule directed at Chiron by his peers and his own
­mother. As Chiron enters the ocean, violin arpeggios—­short, fast strokes of
the bow—­emit rich, muted sounds of long strokes across the strings of a
cello, and the soft splashes of ­water produce a textured sound that at once
captures Chiron’s apprehension and resoluteness. The orchestra plays as
Juan cradles Chiron’s head in his hand, encouraging him, “Let your head
rest in my hand. Relax. I got you. I promise you, I’m not gonna let you go.”
The swimming lesson solidifies one of the most unlikely of relationships,
in spite of the fact that the only words uttered from Chiron’s mouth dur-
ing the entire scene are “So, your name Blue?” During this scene, however,

256 Simone C. Drake
FIG.16.1 ​Swim lesson. Moonlight. Dir. Barry Jenkins. 2016.

sound is multimodal. It is the sound of the waves, the sound of Juan’s voice,
instructing and affirming, and it is the sound of the string orchestra inter-
lude that begins as they enter the ­water and plays ­until they exit the ­water.
Paul Gilroy has noted the lack of critical study of how the body physically
transforms when it encounters musical sound. Played against the backdrop
of the string orchestra, Chiron transforms into a boy who is f­ ree, with arms
and legs flailing with the rhythm of the ocean waves. This scene in par­tic­
u­lar gives meaning to Gilroy’s insistence that sound is more complex than
simply what we hear and how we interpret it. For Gilroy, “remembering the
physical inscription of sound in ­matter provides a useful warning against
the over-­aestheticization of m ­ usic.”10 Thus the cellular structure of the flesh
itself is inscribed with the literal sound of waves in the ­water as ­those sounds
are juxtaposed to the sound waves produced by the vibration of bow against
strings and strings compressed by fin­gers. During and in spite of Chiron’s
quiet, then, sound is produced through the vibration and oscillation of both
the waves and the orchestra. It is, in fact, his quietness that allows viewers to
hear ­these ­things, but also, importantly, allows Chiron to receive instruction
as we—­Chiron and the viewers—­learn how to listen in the break.
The orchestra also captures the challenges of caring for ­others when you
yourself are broken and searching for self, as is the case with both Kevin and
Paula. When Juan pulls Paula out of a car where she is free-­basing crack co-
caine, she confronts him about his own hy­poc­risy as her dealer. The strings

He Said Nothing 257

begin playing as Juan dejectedly returns to his business practices, and they
play through Paula’s returning home and, assumedly, at some point call-
ing Chiron “faggot” due to his inquiries about the term in the scene that
followed at Juan and Teresa’s home. The fact that it is easy to accept that
“faggot” is indeed what Paula mouths speaks to the power of silence, or sus-
pended dialogue, in the film as it forces the audience into a space in which
the emotive is relegated to gestures and what is heard (or not) through the
quiet. Unlike the orchestral arrangement during the swimming lessons,
the tempo of the violins in this scene is faster and slightly frenetic, u ­ ntil the
moment when Paula, framed by a doorway, squarely f­ aces Chiron at the end
of the hallway and leaning forward silently mouths “­Don’t look at me!” It
would seem that Paula, who is high and already feeling the guilt imposed by
Juan ­earlier that eve­ning, registers Chiron’s quiet, penetrating gaze as con-
demning her as a ­mother. At that point, only the lower tones of the cello
are heard as Paula is literally muted. H ­ ere the strings express many forms
of pain: the pain and rejection felt by Chiron when his m ­ other fails to care
for him; the pain produced from Paula’s loving her son and wanting to care for
him but being unable to stave off addiction; and the complexity of Juan’s
relationship with Chiron, given Juan clearly has no interest in terminating
his business yet cares deeply for a child that no one e­ lse (other than Teresa)
seems capable of loving.
The string orchestra also features prominently when Chiron, as Black,
reconnects with Kevin, which ­will be analyzed shortly. But that moment
of reconnection is the culmination of what began as an aesthetic of care on
a football field, when viewers learn that although the speech is somewhat
clipped, Chiron does indeed talk to Kevin. Kevin’s own challenges with both
loyalty in friendship and ac­cep­tance of his own queer identity, however, betray
Chiron in their youth in spite of another notable and power­ful scene offer-
ing hope for a dif­fer­ent direction in their friendship. Another beach scene
involves Chiron and Kevin. The familial intimacy of Juan functioning as
surrogate parent is replaced by sexual intimacy between Chiron and Kevin.
That intimacy, however, is not restricted to the sexual, and it is the longest
point of sustained dialogue Chiron has with anyone. In this moment, both
boys delve into their interior lives that society fails to register, discussing the
“lot of ­things” Chiron wants to do “that ­don’t make sense.” In the midst of
near constant conversation, though, t­ here is quiet too, as it becomes central
to their conversation. While noting the breeze on the beach, Kevin says the
same breeze runs through their neighborhood: “It comes through the hood,
and it’s like every­thing stops for a second, ’cause every­one just wanna feel it.

258 Simone C. Drake
FIG.16.2 ​Paula. Moonlight. Dir. Barry Jenkins. 2016.

Every­thing just gets quiet, you know?” (emphasis mine). Chiron responds,
“And it’s like all you can hear is your own heartbeat. Right?” Kevin con-
cludes, “Shit make you wanna cry, feels so good,” which prompts Chiron to
ask Kevin if he cries. Kevin says he does not, but the quiet makes him want
to cry. Chiron freely shares that he cries so much he feels like he is ­going
to turn into drops, then becomes quiet and shakes his head. Listening to
Chiron in the quiet of that space, Kevin deduces that Chiron wants to “roll
out into the w ­ ater like all t­ hese other motherfuckers around h­ ere trying to
drown they sorrows.” Although Chiron did not say that, Kevin explains that
it “sounds like something you want to do.” Quiet, then, is not always without
dialogue or vocality. What is communicated through the breaks in Chiron’s
speech, the breeze, and the motion of the w ­ ater allows both boys to access
and assess “the full range of one’s inner life—­one’s desires, ambitions, hun-
gers, vulnerabilities, and fears.”11
It is significant that string rather than brass orchestra is employed. Soni-
cally, ­there is quite a difference in the acoustics produced by both style and
aesthetic. The strings, and particularly Britell’s arrangements, embody qui-
etness and intimacy that speak to interiority in a way that brass instruments
would not. Moreover, a musical form mostly associated with Eu­ro­pean cul-
ture is a curious inclusion in a film set in an urban context during the public
rise of hip hop. Perhaps the strings orchestra was necessary. Hip hop, ­after

He Said Nothing 259

all, has operated as a public, resistant blackness. But, as Quashie asserts, “all
living is political—­every ­human action means something—­but all living is
not in protest; to assume such is to disregard the richness of life.”12 Michael
Gillespie argues about Black film that it “must be understood as art, not pre-
scription,” as he e­ tches an argument that calls for “a more expansive under-
standing of blackness and cinema,” posing questions such as “What if black
film could be something other than embodied?”13 Rather than encapsulat-
ing Chiron’s coming of age in the sounds of hip hop, Moonlight quiets what
might be understood as a logical soundtrack for Black urban life in the 1980s
and 1990s and, instead, fills in what is inaudible with sounds that through
Chiron’s quiet speak “to a meta­phor for the full range of one’s inner life—­
one’s desires, ambitions, hungers, vulnerabilities, and fears.”14 Beethoven and
Mozart, conducted through the vibrations and oscillations of a “physical in-
scription of sound in m ­ atter,” become just as much a meta­phor for Chiron’s
inner life as ­will Jidenna and Goodie Mob. The “quieting” of hip hop in the
first two-­thirds of the film is not easily polarized, however, which is evident
when Britell composes vari­ous “chopped and screwed” tracks—an impor­
tant one being during the swimming lesson (“The ­Middle of the World”)
and another being a second version of Chiron’s theme in the chopped and
screwed style.15 Thus Chiron’s becoming Black in the third sequence of the
film embodies a syncretic quality captured through the soundtrack, making
the transition a logical progression rather than bifurcated.
Chiron reaches a breaking point with the bullying. ­After being physically
assaulted by Kevin at the command of the homophobic school bully, Terrel,
Chiron returns to school, storms into his classroom, drops his backpack at
his desk, picks up a wooden chair, and slams it across the back of Terrel
and then once more over his unresponsive body as Terrel lies on the floor.
Chiron says nothing prior to or during the attack. ­There is no soundtrack.
Only once he is pulled away from Terrel does he say anything, repeatedly
directing ­those who intervened, “Get the fuck off me, niggas!” The string
orchestra resumes when Chiron is being escorted in handcuffs out of the
building and past Kevin, who stares as the police cruiser takes Chiron away.
A frenetic orchestra plays as the scene cuts to a nightmarish dream in which
Chiron revisits the painful eve in which his m ­ other screams at him not to
look at her and perhaps, off-­screen, calls him a faggot.16 As Paula screams,
“­Don’t look at me!,” the strings abruptly stop and a grown Chiron, with gold
fronts, diamond stud earring, and a black doo rag bolts up in bed, breathing
fast and hard. He gets out of bed and dunks his head in a bath of ice cubes,
symbolizing a new birth and a new sound.

260 Simone C. Drake
FIG.16.3 ​Déjà vu. Moonlight. Dir. Barry Jenkins. 2016.

FIG.16.4 ​Chevy. Moonlight. Dir. Barry Jenkins. 2016.

As he finishes the ice-­cube bath, Goodie Mob’s “Cell Therapy” begins to

play and the scene cuts to Chiron driving; as the camera pans out, a small
gold crown is seen adorning his dashboard, just as in Juan’s Chevy in the
opening scene of the film. It is in fact a scene of déjà vu, as Chiron, a trap
king, checks in with one of his runners. And within the hip-­hop anthem both
sonic and spoken by Chiron, blackness h ­ ere becomes expressive and even
dramatic as, coincidentally, part 3 of the film introduces viewers to Black.
As Black, Chiron not only speaks; he even has a sense of humor. ­After ac-
cusing Travis (Stephon Bron), one of his runners, of being short, Chiron jokes,
“Nah, I’m just fuckin’ with you.” Like Juan, Chiron gives business lessons to his
runners. But the hip-­hop soundtrack is displaced whenever Chiron is drawn
back into the quietude of his interior life—­the life that connects directly to
his childhood. A voicemail from his m­ other reignites the orchestra. Similarly,

He Said Nothing 261

when Kevin calls out of the blue, the soft sounds of r&b on a jukebox play in
the background on Kevin’s end as Chiron searches for words.
The new audible tones and vibrations of Chiron’s adult life expand the
musical genre of his interiority. Just as in his youth the string instruments
evoke the tenderness and intimacy of Juan’s care for Chiron, the scared l­ ittle
boy, grown-up Chiron’s willful and tender embrace of his repentant m ­ other
is accompanied by Caetano Velosa’s rendition of “Cucurrucucu Paloma.”
The song continues as Chiron drives the long stretches of green, tree-­lined
highway and as the frame fades to Black c­ hildren playing in the ocean dur-
ing his journey from Atlanta to Miami for an impromptu rendezvous with
Kevin. The song title references the cooing sound of a dove and the lyr­ics ad-
dress lovesickness, making this Mexican folk song (Huapango) appropriate
for expressing Chiron’s quiet and the potential for rekindling the relation-
ship that never developed beyond the beach makeout years ­earlier (a mo-
ment notably without instrumental sound and instead filled with dialogue
and the ocean waves as background sound).
The song lyr­ics could, however, be multilayered, speaking also to Chi-
ron’s conflicted love for his ­mother. ­After repeated unanswered calls on his
end, Chiron gives in and stops to see his m ­ other before leaving town. At
this point, Paula has completed a drug rehabilitation program and is clearly
in a continued state of recovery. In fact, when Chiron asks her when she
plans to leave the fa­cil­i­ty and “go home,” she articulates it as a safe space,
reflecting, “Home? This is home. I mean they allowing me to stay and work
as long as I like. I figure might as well help other folks. Keep myself out of
trou­ble.” During this conversation, Paula scolds Chiron for “still being in
them streets,” and he is irritated by her seeming hy­poc­risy and rises to leave.
Upon her pleading, he sits back down and listens to her acknowledge how
she messed up both of their lives, telling Chiron, “But yo’ heart ­ain’t gotta be
black like mine, baby. . . . ​I love you, Chiron. I do. I love you, baby. But you
­ain’t gotta love me. Lord knows I did not have love for you when you needed
it, I know that. So you ­ain’t gotta love me, but you gonna know that I love
you.” A­ fter her repentant speech, she asks him twice if he heard her, as a tear
runs down his face. And then, in a scene equally as tender as Juan’s swim-
ming lesson and making out with Kevin on the beach, Chiron takes a ciga-
rette and lighter out of his ­mother’s shaking hands, lights the cigarette, and
wipes a tear from his ­mother’s eye, prompting her to say, “I’m sorry, baby. I’m
so sorry.” It is an utterance that brings Chiron quickly to his feet and reach-
ing across the ­table to embrace his ­mother as “Cucurrucucu Paloma” begins
to play. Chiron says ­little during this exchange—­Paula does almost all of the

262 Simone C. Drake
talking—­but it hearkens back to another time, many years ­earlier, when he
sat at Juan and Teresa’s dining ­table and blurted out, “I hate her [Paula]!”
Juan responded by saying he also felt that way about his m ­ other when he
was Chiron’s age, but he now sure does miss her. Thus, in the quiet of the
exchange, the embrace, and the thoughts of reconnecting with Kevin, ­there
would also seem to be a lovesickness for his original love—­for his ­mother, the
sole person he seems with certainty to want to love and be loved by through-
out all three vignettes of his life.
Upon arriving in Miami, viewers see the complex interiority of Chiron’s
quiet when the softness of Velosa’s folk song fades and, ever so briefly, just
before entering the diner where Kevin works, a chopped and screwed ver-
sion of the refrain of Jidenna’s “Classic Man” plays, defining Chiron within
a theme song that he performs more than he speaks. “Even if she go away,
even if she go away/Even if she go away, even if she go away/I’m a classic
man/You could be mean when you look this clean.” Chiron has become—no
more coming of age. And his becoming is just as complex as Juan’s aesthetics
of care and as complicated as Stanford-­educated Jidenna’s explanation of
his classic sartorial style situated within the hip-­hop genre. By adopting
“Classic Man,” and this version in par­tic­u­lar, as his theme song, similar to
Juan’s “­Every Nigger Is a Star,” Chiron remains illegible. Mark Anthony
Neal refers to the challenges encountered when society provides only one
legible means of reading Black men—as criminals, thugs, and general prob­
lems—­whereas queerness, for example, renders Black men illegible.17 To
push Neal’s point further, Chiron complicates both the legibility and illeg-
ibility ­factor, as he straddles the heteronormative, hypermasculine realm
of hip hop and urbanity at the same time that his sexual identity expels
him from such spaces.
As quickly as “Classic Man” begins to play, it stops, and Chiron enters the
diner with Aretha Franklin’s “One Step Ahead” (1965) filtering through the
doorway. A relatively unknown song from Franklin’s chart-­topping oeuvre,
this throwback speaks through the quiet of the scenario of both Chiron’s
and Kevin’s pasts and the precarious space each lives in as Black men trying
to stay not just one step ahead of their economic and social circumstances
but also one step ahead of keeping quiet their same-­sex desires. Kevin em-
phasizes the real­ity of Chiron’s quiet when he good-­heartedly concludes,
“You ­ain’t changed one damn bit. You still c­ an’t say more than three words
at a time, huh?” Chiron replies that Kevin had said he would cook for him,
that he knows how to say that, alluding to his first meal with Juan and Teresa
and Juan’s conclusion that even if Chiron says nothing, he sure can eat.

He Said Nothing 263

FIG.16.5 ​Diner. Moonlight. Dir. Barry Jenkins. 2016.

Following that brief exchange, Kevin cares for Chiron through his culinary
skills, and amid the quiet between the two men, the orchestra plays, creating
an unanticipated montage of soul ­music and classical strings.
Again the soundtrack goes to the archives of soul, pulling out “Our Love”
by The Edge of Daybreak, a song recorded in 1979 in Powhatan Correctional
Center in State Farm, V ­ irginia. It functions as background sound to a­ ctual
dialogue between Kevin and Chiron, although Kevin, as always, directs the
conversation. Noted as a dance groove, “Our Love” speaks to the lost love
of what could have been between Chiron and Kevin and it also hearkens
back to a primary school scene in which Chiron was at school having a ball
dancing to The Performers’ “Mini Skirt.” Digging even deeper into the ar-
chives, Kevin plays the song he says reminded him of Chiron and prompted
his phone call ­after ten years of separation. Barbara Lewis’s “Hello Stranger”
(1963) offers lyr­ics of intimacy when Chiron says nothing beyond his pointed
inquiry about why Kevin called him. Letting lyr­ics and doo-­wop backup by
the Dells reverberate through the diner, the stereophonic sound fills in for
Kevin’s unspoken acknowl­edgment of the wrongs he knows he did. The two
men stare into one another’s eyes as Lewis’s rich vocals speak for them: “It
seems like a mighty long time . . . ​I’m so glad you s­ topped by to say ‘hello’ to
me/Remember that’s the way it used to be.”
When they leave the diner, Kevin is forced once again to come to terms
with the Chiron he once knew and the Chiron who traps, wears gold fronts,

264 Simone C. Drake
and drives a late-­model Chevy Impala. As they approach the car, Kevin in-
quires with a tone si­mul­ta­neously dubious and impressed, “This you?” Chi-
ron, as expected, says nothing, but he smiles both bashfully and proudly.
Kevin enters the car, concluding, “You ­wasn’t playin’ ’bout dem traps, huh?”
As the engine revs to a start, the lyr­ics “You look this clean/I’m a Classic
Man” b­ elt out as Chiron smiles shyly and Kevin grins, acknowledging, “Ridin’
dirty, huh?” Chiron quickly and quietly replies, “Somethin’ like that,” as the
soundtrack continues: “Calling on me like a young og/I’m a classic man/
Your needs get met by the street elegant old-­fashioned man.” Yet Chiron’s
con­temporary theme song and Juan’s throwback theme song, “­Every Nigger
Is a Star,” speak to the hyper-­heteromasculinity that both Juan and Chiron
find nearly impossible to speak about. When Chiron pointedly asks Juan if
he sells drugs, it is a moment when, aside from his affirmative response, Juan
falls quiet, unable to say anything. Juan represents the epitome of “hard,” yet
he does not hesitate to care for a young boy who is gay, answering another
one of Chiron’s pointed questions, “What’s a faggot?,” by assuring him he
does not have to try to classify his sexual identity at this stage of his life.
Juan’s relationship with Chiron seems to embody the bridge of his own mu-
sical theme song: “They got a right place in the sun/where t­ here’s love for
every­one.” This bridge signifies further on the old school/new school aspect
of the relationship between Juan and Chiron when considering that Kend-
rick Lamar samples “­Every Nigga Is a Star” in the intro of the first track on To
Pimp a Butterfly titled “Wesley’s Theory.” The lyr­ics of Lamar’s song employ
the actor Wesley Snipes as a stand-in for the way Black p ­ eople, and Black
men in par­tic­u­lar given the gendered language employed, get “pimped” by
the entertainment industry and the government when they have financial
success by legitimate means rather than the under­ground economies Juan
and Chiron partake in.
During Reagan’s extension of Nixon’s war on drugs, drug dealers are eas-
ily seen as scourges of society. Ironically, during that era, gay men and gay
sexual activity are not thought of that differently from drug dealers and drug
usage. News and popu­lar media during the 1980s and 1990s widely impli-
cated gay men as criminals, as one of the primary parties guilty of producing
the hiv/aids epidemic. It is within this precarious space that a Black drug
dealer decides to be a guardian of sorts to a stigmatized gay Black boy. Jen-
kins constructs a sonic space of redemption around two flawed figures and
renders them h ­ uman, even as they do ­things that suggest an utter disregard
for humanity. In the sonic space of quietude, an orchestral score, r&b, and
hip hop converge to trou­ble the heteromasculinist attitudes that make quiet

He Said Nothing 265

a safe space for Chiron to sort through who he is—­for claiming an interiority
that society is unwilling to imagine for him.

Notes

This essay began as a conference paper for a Moonlight panel at the 2017 American
Studies Association annual conference. I am grateful to Maurice Tracy for inviting
me to participate and to Jeffrey Q. McCune for feedback as respondent. Terrance
Dean, Valerie Lee, and Terrance Wooten provided thoughtful feedback on the
expanded essay, for which I am also grateful.

1 McCraney wrote the original play following his ­mother’s death from aids-­related
complications.
2 Numerous social scientific studies have found that Black ­children are often regis-
tered as being older than they are. For more detail, see Goff et al., “The Essence of
Innocence.”
3 Two films that stood out for breaking from the urban, hip-­hop-­themed trope of
Black boyhood during the 1990s are Matty Rich’s The Inkwell (1994) and Kasi Lem-
mons’s Eve’s Bayou (1997).
4 Massood, Black City Cinema, 8, 2.
5 For more on how northern migration created spaces of possibility for Black men’s
agency, see Griffin’s “Who Set You Flowin’?”
6 Reading the wrong card, Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty mistakenly announced
La La Land as winner in the Best Picture category for 2017.
7 I am not the only scholar to recognize Barry Jenkins’s penchant for employing
­limited dialogue in his scriptwriting. In his chapter on Jenkins’s Medicine for Mel-
ancholy (2008) in Film Blackness Gillespie also turns to Kevin Quashie’s distinction
between silence and quiet when analyzing Medicine for Melancholy.
8 Quashie, The Sovereignty of Quiet, 6, 22.
9 Alexander, The Black Interior, ix.
10 Gilroy, “Between the Blues,” 298.
11 Quashie, The Sovereignty of Quiet, 6.
12 Quashie, The Sovereignty of Quiet, 8–9.
13 Gillespie, Film Blackness, 2, 5.
14 Quashie, The Sovereignty of Quiet, 6. It was common during the 1980s and 1990s for
films focused on urban Black life to be accompanied by hip-­hop soundtracks. Films
such as Boyz N the Hood (1991), Juice (1992), and Menace II Society (1993) are well-­
known examples.
15 “Chopped and screwed” is a technique developed during the 1990s in the Houston
hip-­hop scene by dj Screw. When applying this technique, djs change the texture
of the ­music by slowing down the tempo and warping pitch. The remix effect is said

266 Simone C. Drake
 to enable listeners to not only hear the lyr­ics fully but to also allow a relaxed rather
than hyped experience with the ­music. In this regard, then, ­there is a certain bril-
liance on the part of Britell and Jenkins in wedding classical ­music and the chopped
and screwed technique.
16 Interestingly, in spite of the contempt Chiron might have for his ­mother, he keeps
a photo­graph on his nightstand of her holding him when he was a baby.
17 Neal, Looking for Leroy, 4, 8.

References

Alexander, Elizabeth. The Black Interior: Essays. Saint Paul, MN: Graywolf, 2004.
Gillespie, Michael Boyce. Film Blackness: American Cinema and the Idea of Black Film.
Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2016.
Gilroy, Paul. “Between the Blues and the Blues Dance: Some Soundscapes of the
Black Atlantic.” In Media Studies: A Reader, edited by Sue Thornham et al.
3rd ed. New York: New York University Press, 2009.
Goff, P. A., et al. “The Essence of Innocence: Consequences of Dehumanizing Black
­Children.” Journal of Personality and Social Psy­chol­ogy 106, no. 4 (2014): 526–45.
Griffin, Farah Jasmine. “Who Set You Flowin’?” African-­American Migration Narrative.
New York: Oxford University Press, 1995.
Massood, Paula. Black City Cinema: African American Urban Experiences in Film. Phila-
delphia: ­Temple University Press, 2003.
Neal, Mark Anthony. Looking for Leroy: Illegible Black Masculinities. New York: New
York University Press, 2013.
Quashie, Kevin. The Sovereignty of Quiet: Beyond Re­sis­tance in Black Culture. New
Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2012.

He Said Nothing 267

CH.17 BLACK ­WOMEN READERS AND
THE USES OF URBAN FICTION

Kinohi Nishikawa

Teri Woods, Vickie Stringer, Nikki Turner: their names ­won’t

be familiar to academics, and you ­won’t find them featured on Oprah’s Book
Club. But t­ hese ­women invigorated the African American reading public at
a time when critics ­were fretting over the demise of the book in the digital
age. Noting a dearth of leisure reading for black w ­ omen, Woods, Stringer,
and Turner began writing their own works of fiction in the 1990s. To get
into print, Woods and Stringer first tried submitting their manuscripts to
major publishing ­houses. They ­were rejected by ­every one, with some edi-
tors practically scoffing at the idea that black w
­ omen’s popu­lar fiction could
be profitable. Despite this setback, Woods and Stringer stood by their work
and devised an alternative. Using print-­on-­demand technology, they pub-
lished their books in cheap paperback editions, which they then sold in their
communities, relying on face-­to-­face interactions and word-­of-­mouth hype.
Bypassing the publishing industry allowed them to tap into the market they
knew had been t­ here all along. Soon Woods’s True to the Game (copyrighted
1994, published 1998) and Stringer’s Let That Be the Reason (copyrighted 1999,
published 2001) became under­ground sensations. The success of their busi-
ness model encouraged them to publish other writers, as Stringer did for
Turner by bringing out A Hustler’s Wife in 2003. That year the publishing
industry recognized the extraordinary popularity of t­ hese books by giving
them a new genre designation: “urban fiction.”1
Colloquially, urban fiction went by names like “street lit” and “hip-­
hop fiction.” The references w ­ ere fitting insofar as urban fiction circulated
within the broader media culture of hip hop, specifically gangsta rap, a genre
known for its hardcore aesthetic. Characters referenced chart-­topping hits
by title, and storylines resembled the narratives of inner-­city life that gang-
sta rap had pop­u­lar­ized. The novels’ packaging also took its inspiration from
hip hop. Most notably, publishers created eye-­catching front covers that re-
sembled ­album cover art (minus the parental advisory label) or ­music video
images, as figure 17.1 demonstrates.
Yet, though they ­were complementary in many ways, street lit was unlike
gangsta rap in one impor­tant re­spect: its stories ­were told from the point of
view of girls and young w ­ omen, and the obstacles highlighted therein w ­ ere
distinctly gendered. From date rape and domestic vio­lence to ­family care
and teenage pregnancy, street lit tackled issues that hip hop ­wasn’t likely
to address. Thus, if gangsta rap’s misogyny and masculinism ­were core in-
fluences on black popu­lar culture in the 1990s, urban fiction gave girls and
young ­women a means to shape black popu­lar culture in their own image in
the twenty-­first ­century.2
In the early 2000s, the original “queens” of street lit signed book deals
with the very publishers that had once rejected them. As part of ­those deals,
they ­were given the opportunity to develop series in new imprints dedicated
to the genre. For their part, publishers facilitated the genre’s mainstream-
ing with mass-­market distribution. No longer confined to beauty shops and
fold-­out ­tables in black neighborhoods, titles could be found in retail outlets
across the country, including chain bookstores in predominantly white sub-
urbs. But with increased visibility came heightened scrutiny from critics.
In a continuation of criticism leveled against hip hop during the previous
de­cade, writers took urban fiction to task for perpetuating ste­reo­types that
African Americans ­were oversexed and prone to vio­lence. Often point-
ing to the books’ salacious covers, they ­were quick to call the lot “trash,”
an indulgence of readers’ worst impulses. Urban fiction weathered the
criticism and, over the next de­cade, became a multimillion-­dollar niche

Black ­Women Readers 269

FIG.17.1 ​
Wahida Clark, Thugs
and the ­Women Who
Love Them, front
cover, 2002.

in the literary marketplace. Some would argue it’s stronger t­ oday than it’s
ever been.3 Still, despite being a genuine black entrepreneurial success story,
the genre remains dogged by accusations that it’s deleterious to “the race,” a
failure of literary standards that redounds to the group as a ­whole.
This essay moves beyond the aesthetic elitism and ideological moralism
of such standards. I propose instead an examination of urban fiction on its
own terms, that is, according to its own norms of reception.4 To conduct my
analy­sis, I bracket what critics have said about the genre and attend to how
readers themselves have described engaging with ­these books. My analy­sis
is not a qualitative ethnography of readers’ experiences, nor is it a statistical

270 Kinohi Nishikawa
mea­sure of their responses. The data set is small, and it exists solely in an on-
line social network. This essay is not the place where I solve the prob­lem at
the heart of Robert Darnton’s oft-­cited claim, “Reading remains the most dif-
ficult stage to study in the cir­cuit followed by books.”5 Still, my sense is that
the intertwining of popu­lar culture and social media in con­temporary black
life makes it pos­si­ble to outline something like urban fiction’s grassroots
reception. If social media has afforded young African Americans unpre­ce­
dented access to the public sphere, it has also documented the tremendous
complexity of their reading practices, including their reflexive engagements
with genre.6 In this essay, I track online reviews of a popu­lar novel to show
how urban fiction’s readers make use of the genre in far more complicated
ways than the protocols of professional criticism would allow.

···
The question of why black w ­ omen read urban fiction has been addressed
with a mixture of incredulity and despair in popu­lar media. In 2009, for ex-
ample, the journalist Juan Williams took to the pages of the Wall Street Journal
to complain, “Much as rap ­music—­also fascinated with predatory sex, anger
and vio­lence—­has displaced jazz or soul singers on the black m ­ usic charts,
gangster lit now overshadows the common late 20th-­century theme of black
middle-­class striving.” Acknowledging that “middle-­class black ­women”
­were the primary audience for ­these books, Williams nonetheless worried
that the genre promoted “the worst of black life” rather than qualities that
are readily associated with racial uplift.7 What­ever had driven them to read
urban fiction, he implied, was not in keeping with their class status. Wil-
liams’s conservative opinion was not confined to the corporate elite. A year
­earlier, in the naacp’s Crisis magazine, the lit­er­a­ture scholar Eisa Nefertari
Ulen warned that urban fiction reinforced the racist ste­reo­type that “Black
­people are hypersexual, are pathological; they feel but ­don’t think.” More per-
nicious was how “we,” African Americans, w ­ ere “actually starting to believe
­these ste­reo­types about ourselves.” Ulen concluded, “­We’re literally buying
into the my­thol­ogy.”8 From this a­ ngle, urban fiction was not only a prob­lem
of content—of, say, unsavory characters and outlaw exploits. It was a prob­
lem in itself—an indication that self-­denigration could be sold as escapist
fodder to the masses.
The false consciousness attributed by Williams and Ulen to black w ­ omen
readers found its most disparaging expression in Nick Chiles’s 2006 New York
Times op-ed piece, “Their Eyes W ­ ere Reading Smut.” The title’s cheeky pun

Black ­Women Readers 271

(on Zora Neale Hurston’s 1937 novel Their Eyes ­Were Watching God) turned a
reflection on spiritual meaning into a fixation on pornography, a fall from
the sacred to the profane. In the piece itself, Chiles recounted entering a
Lithonia, Georgia, Borders bookstore, where, to his chagrin, he had stumbled
upon an “African-­American Lit­er­a­ture” section overrun by street lit. “I felt
as if I was walking into a pornography shop,” he wrote, “except in this case
the smut [was] being produced by and for my ­people, and it is called ‘lit­er­a­
ture.’ ” Chiles had seen how his books, along with novels by Terry McMillan,
Toni Morrison, and Edward P. Jones, ­were forced to share shelf space with
Legit Baller (2005) and Choco­late Flava (2004). Prior to this visit, he had wit-
nessed urban fiction take over book-­buying outlets in black neighborhoods.
Now, though, it was obvious the genre had also invaded (white) suburbia
by way of his beloved Borders—­“as if,” he posited, “­these nasty books w ­ ere
pairing off back in the stockrooms like ­little paperback rabbits and churn-
ing out even more graphic offspring that make Ralph Ellison books cringe
into a dusty corner.”9 Chiles’s choice of meta­phor was not incidental to the
argument. Imagining urban fiction’s rise as (animalistic) sexual reproduction
gone amok was his way of casting aspersions on black ­women readers. Their
unruly desires, he implied, threatened to cancel out what cultural re­spect
“the race” has earned through an award-­winning novelist like Ellison.
Not every­one agreed with Chiles, of course. In fact, urban fiction has had
its share of defenders over the years, many of whom are professional critics
themselves. In a 2009 article, for example, the respected literary and cul-
tural historian Gerald Early ventured, “Urban lit­er­a­ture has demo­cratized
and broadened the reach and content of African-­American lit­er­a­ture.” By
rejecting the dictates of the lettered class, street lit, according to Early, dem-
onstrated “the maturity, not the decline, of African-­American lit­er­a­ture.”10
The editor and journalist Danyel Smith went one better, suggesting that the
very comingling of the respectable and the lowdown that Chiles had decried
­ought to be celebrated:

Black literary fiction and street lit should embrace in a rowdy, passion-
ate, illicit love affair—­very Romeo and Juliet minus the star-­crossed ­thing.
The two genres should hole up for a long weekend of wet, buck-­naked
lovemaking, and then part as the rare kind of lovers who remain acquain-
tances, but re­spect the other’s skill and heat. In a perfect world, the two
genres, each gangsta in its own way, would get together often for fun and
plea­sure, and, truly, for some respite from ­those who would try to erase
them.11

272 Kinohi Nishikawa
Smith countered Chiles’s nightmare of unbridled reproduction with a
steamy scenario of casual sex. In her extended meta­phor, “serious” fiction
and street lit should hook up and stay in touch, with neither side evincing
jealousy or passing judgment (“the rare kind of lovers who remain acquain-
tances”). ­Under this arrangement, the genres would see each other as equals
(“re­spect”) but would not have to commit to the other’s way of being in
the world.
In tone and figuration, Smith’s scenario seemed to offer a genuine al-
ternative to Chiles’s critique. Where he saw only an invasion, she located
the possibility of a tryst. Yet Smith rounded out her fantasy in a way that
showed she agreed with Chiles on at least one key point. The scenario con-
tinued: “From such a hot hookup (imagine the gymnastic lust, the hair pull-
ing, the scratching, kissing, and conversations), t­ here might evolve love.” If
that should happen, Smith gushed, “­there’d be many, many ­children—­each
freaky and bold and wonderful in his or her own blessedly ensured way.”12
The meta­phor of sexual reproduction thus came back into the picture, only
this time it sealed the bond between literary art and urban fiction. Granted,
the offspring Smith dreamed up was distinct from the infestation that Chiles
had ­imagined. However, the fact that, even in a sympathetic account, black
­women’s reading practices ­were meta­phorized as a sexually reproductive
act is, I think, the prob­lem with the w
­ hole debate about urban fiction. To
the question What do black readers want?, defenders and detractors alike
seemed able to think only in terms of good and bad ­mothers.
This point of overlap suggests that, despite their evident differences,
Chiles and Smith viewed urban fiction in a surprisingly similar way: namely,
by its relationship to the canon of African American lit­er­a­ture. Chiles
argued that the genre had occluded the canon and, with it, values that
constitute symbolic, antiracist capital. Smith, on the other hand, contended
that urban fiction and canonical works can mutually inform one another,
and in so d ­ oing diversify the canon even further. But a question for both
is this: Why must the canon of African American lit­er­a­ture be the yard-
stick by which we mea­sure the value of urban fiction? Each side committed
a category error by ­either judging the genre unfavorably (Chiles) or com-
paring the genre favorably (Smith) to a body of lit­er­a­ture to which it sim-
ply ­doesn’t belong—­and has never pretended to be part of. (This point
also underscores the absurdity of Early’s claim that street lit signaled the
“maturity” of the African American literary tradition—­Ellison, Morrison,
and Whitehead be damned.) By assuming and/or conceding the ground of
legitimation to the kind of institutionalized reading practices that value

Black ­Women Readers 273

canonicity, Chiles and Smith embedded urban fiction in a framework that,
by definition, cannot recognize it.

···
A major prob­lem with the aforementioned accounts is that they keep urban
fiction at arm’s length, forgoing an accurate description of its formulas, even
when they claim to appreciate it. By not engaging the genre’s particulari-
ties, the accounts maintain a level of discursive abstraction that ends up
revaluing institutionalized reading practices. I take the opposite approach
­here, detailing the reception norms for a representative book of the genre.
That book is Wahida Clark’s 2002 debut novel, Thugs and the ­Women Who
Love Them. Clark’s narrative follows the misadventures of three young black
­women—­Angel, Kyra, and Jaz—­who approach men as they do consumer
goods: when they like what they see, they do what­ever it takes to get it.
Angel commits serial check fraud to secure the latest designer brands; she
falls for the flash and dazzle of Snake, a local pimp. Fourteen-­year-­old Kyra
is lured away from her boyfriend by a twenty-­two-­year-­old dealer named
Marvin; he seduces her with Foot Locker gear that matches his own. Com-
pleting the trio is Jaz, a student who starts a meth-­cooking operation for
ostensibly noble reasons: “She was able to stash twenty-­four ­grand a week,
hoping to use some of the money to retire her parents to a nice, big h ­ ouse
down South some day.” But as Jaz rises to the top of the drug trade, the
13

Armani-­clad, Escalade-­driving entrepreneur sheds her ideals for the plea-

sures of the fast life.
Thugs is set in central New Jersey, between hardscrabble Trenton (Clark’s
hometown) and tony Prince­ton. Refuting the assumption that urban fic-
tion is always about lower-­class ­people in the inner city, Clark’s narrative
shows how black ­women from dif­fer­ent walks of life get caught up in bad
situations—no ­matter their class status, ­family background, or educational
history. As Snake’s girlfriend, Angel gives up on her dreams of success and ra-
tionalizes the abuse he visits upon ­women, including herself. It’s only when
one of his prostitutes says enough is enough and poisons him that she es-
capes his influence. Kyra, meanwhile, becomes addicted to Marvin’s heroin.
Her old beau, Tyler, saves her from an overdose ­after he thinks he has killed
Marvin in a sneak attack. Kyra and Tyler’s romance is rekindled for a time—­
until, that is, she welcomes Marvin back into her life (he survived the attack,
­after all) and turns the other cheek when he exacts revenge on Tyler. As for
high-­flying Jaz, her white business partner, Brett, turns state’s evidence,

274 Kinohi Nishikawa
exposing the secret drug business to the authorities. Jaz’s boyfriend, Faheem,
thinks he’s come to her rescue by successfully coordinating Brett’s murder.
But their hope is short-­lived: even without Brett’s testimony, Jaz is found
“guilty on all counts” and receives a seventeen-­year sentence.14 She is five
months pregnant.
Clark wrote Thugs on yellow note­pad paper while serving nine and a half
years in a w ­ omen’s federal prison. In the acknowl­edgments section, she rec-
ognizes inmates as her first readers, friends on the outside as her typists, and
“c.o.’s,” or corrections officers, as her copyists “when the raggedy ass inmate
copy machine was broken (which was all of the time).”15 Clark was incarcer-
ated a­ fter being convicted of money laundering, wire fraud, and mail fraud
in Georgia, where her husband had been serving time in an Atlanta prison.
She began writing ­because she needed the money and had heard about an-
other inmate’s experience ­doing the same. Clark was already a fan of Donald
Goines and Iceberg Slim, pulp writers from the late 1960s and early 1970s
who had adapted aspects of their criminal pasts into the stuff of popu­lar lit­
er­a­ture.16 Realizing she had enough material from her own past to cook up a
page-­turner, Clark set to work on her first book.
Clark sent the manuscript of Thugs to the romance writer Carl Weber.
His Brooklyn-­based Black Print Publishing offered an alternative path to
publication for little-­known authors. Her manuscript was accepted, and the
book followed shortly thereafter.17 Sales ­were phenomenal, not least ­because
of the cover art. A sequel, ­Every Thug Needs a Lady, appeared in 2003. By the
time Clark was released from prison in 2007, she had a successful brand and
two popu­lar book series to her name. At that point, she de­cided to make
good on a business plan she had shared with another inmate at the ­women’s
prison camp in Alderson, West ­Virginia. With Martha Stewart’s blessing, she
started Wahida Clark Pre­sents Publishing in the late 2000s. Like Woods and
Stringer before her, Clark had gone from street-­lit author to street-­lit pub-
lisher, bringing in more readers and talent along the way. Full incorporation
into hip-­hop media culture followed in 2012, when she signed a book deal
with Cash Money Content, a Simon and Schuster imprint associated with
Cash Money Rec­ords, the label for hip-­hop acts such as Drake, Lil Wayne,
and Nicki Minaj.18
Thugs exemplifies what has made urban fiction a popu­lar yet controver-
sial genre. Narratively, it puts black girls and young w­ omen at the center of
the reading experience. For many, this is the most valuable t­ hing the genre
provides: a mirror held up to lives that are overlooked or occluded in male-­
dominated popu­lar culture. Relatedly, ­because Clark drew heavi­ly from

Black ­Women Readers 275

personal experience to write Thugs, the assumption is that girls and young
­women can more readily identify with her writing. The book becomes more
real, in other words, when readers understand that she lived it. Yet Thugs is
ultimately a work of fiction and, as such, reflects choices Clark made in script-
ing her characters’ lives. To that point, it’s hard to deny that Angel, Kyra,
and Jaz are recklessly dependent on male lovers or that they are enthralled
by the temptations of criminality and commercialism. With that in mind,
it’s reasonable to ask w­ hether Clark is playing to what already sells in hip-­
hop media culture. That is, instead of conveying the truth of her experience,
she may be peddling the most commodified images of blackness in American
popu­lar culture.19
­These position-­takings are familiar. They reflect the debate over urban
fiction that’s been ­going on since the early 2000s. But what happens when
we listen to Thugs’s “non-­critical,” everyday readers? Do they confirm the
views of one side or another? In fact, we get far more complicated responses
like Corinne’s: “ok if this book ­didn’t have drama, i ­don’t know what drama
is, this book was the bomb. I would love a thug but only in my dreams. big
ups to ms clark.”20 Corinne’s candid appreciation of “drama” belies the no-
tion that readers approach Thugs as if it w ­ ere documentary truth. On the
contrary, she proves that she is well aware of the fictionality at the heart
of Clark’s enterprise. Yet it’s also the case that she tacitly acknowledges
the truth ­behind that enterprise when she says “big ups” to Wahida Clark.
Corinne recognizes that Clark’s life story informs her writing and the com-
pliment intends to give credit where it’s due, even if the book itself is a mass-­
market product. But the assertion that confounds any prejudgment is, of
course, Corinne’s admitting she would “love a thug . . . ​only in [her] dreams.”
Deftly toeing the line between hard-­nosed real­ity (“thug”) and whimsical
fantasy (“dreams”), she playfully confesses to finding plea­sure in suspending
the distinction between the two.
Corinne is a user on Goodreads, the world’s largest website devoted to
reading and reviewing books. A cata­loguing application, Goodreads allows
users to create virtual bookshelves, complete with personalized annotations,
ratings, and reviews. It also allows every­one—­users and nonusers alike—to
browse ­these data and share information within and outside of the plat-
form. Indeed, many users access the website via the world’s largest social
media website, Facebook. Thus, even as a massive online book cata­logue,
Goodreads functions as a social media network that brings readers together
to talk about books and anything to do with reading (or wanting to read) them.
As of this writing, the website has 40 million user members worldwide, though

276 Kinohi Nishikawa
that number does not include someone like me, who “uses” Goodreads (by
accessing and looking at its data) without having signed up as a member.
The online cata­logue includes 1.3 billion titles, and users have published 47
million reviews since the com­pany’s launch in January 2007.21
To be clear, I do not think that Goodreads provides unmediated access
to reader response or to the reception of any book or literary genre. The
website’s goal always has been to collect user-­generated data and turn them
into a revenue stream—by way of targeted advertising, for example. So I take
to heart the new media theorist Lisa Nakamura’s warning that the hidden
cost of Goodreads’s open-­access policy has been “loss of privacy, friction-­free
broadcasting of our personal information, the placing of user content in the
ser­vice of commerce, and the operationalization and commodification of
reading as an algocratic practice.”22 All of which helps explain why Amazon,
the largest retailer—­online or other­wise—in the world, acquired the com­
pany in March 2013.23 The algorithmic formulas in place at Goodreads ­were
attractive to Amazon’s awesome and ever-­growing capacity to commoditize
user-­generated content. Thus one should have no illusions about Goodreads:
it’s ­there to sell us ­things.
Even so, I do not believe the website’s commercial interests ruin the
qualitative validity of all the data on the website. While we may not trust
Goodreads’s data in the aggregate, I think the website, on a smaller scale,
does serve as a forum for readers to share their reflections on what ­they’ve
read and why. At any rate, it’s not as though the choices we make in read-
ing are ever entirely ­free from commoditization or from the innumerable
ways the market invisibly steers us t­oward one ­thing rather than another.
Mediation is a constitutive part of the way we live now. Rather than bemoan
that fact, I identify what this social network affords: a win­dow onto experi-
ences, like Corinne’s, that have largely gone unnoticed in previous work on
reception.
Taking a closer look at the Goodreads data, we can see that Corinne’s
response is hardly unique. As of this writing, Thugs and the W ­ omen Who Love
Them has an average rating of 4.59 out of 5 stars, based on 3,878 ratings.
Seventy-­three ­percent of users, or 2,835 members, gave the book 5 stars, while
only 1 ­percent, or 55 members, gave it 1 star. Under­neath the title of the book,
­there’s a hyperlink: “(Thug #1).” This takes you to a webpage that brings
together all the titles in Clark’s thug love series. The second installment,
­Every Thug Needs a Lady, has the highest average rating of the group (4.69/5),
but all of the books have high scores, including the sixth and most recent
title, Honor Thy Thug (2013), which has an average rating of 4.51 out of 5 stars.

Black ­Women Readers 277

A brief glance at other pages on the website shows that Clark is not just one
of the highest-­rated street lit authors on Goodreads; she outperforms even
the most broadly popu­lar authors in the United States. That is the case, for
example, with the young-­adult novelist Suzanne Collins (The Hunger Games;
4.37/5), the fantasy writer George R. R. Martin (A Game of Thrones; 4.44/5),
and perennial favorite Harper Lee (To Kill a Mockingbird; 4.24/5). Fi­nally, it
prob­ably goes without saying that Clark’s ratings easily surpass t­ hose of any
so-­called canonical figure, from Aeschylus to Yeats. While it’s undoubtedly
true that Goodreads encourages niche segmenting among readers, such that
any rating is relative to scale and is in no way absolute, this sorting-­out pro­
cess does make room for nonmainstream readers to have their opinions ap-
preciated by ­others online, via social media. In this sense, while comparing
Clark to Conrad on Goodreads would be like comparing apples to oranges,
what one can find within Clark’s pages on the website should tell us a lot
about her books’ reception norms.

···
What do online reviewers have to say about Thugs and the W ­ omen Who Love
Them? Praise like this is typical: “­These ladies are off the chain and in love
with some ruff riders. Angel, Jaz, and Kyra go hard and love even harder.
The action is fast and the storyline has numerous twists and turns. This is
a classic urban lit tale. I’m off now to find the sequel” (Monique). The first
­thing that makes this review representative is its equal treatment of charac-
ters. Readers consistently identify the trio’s romantic lives as their primary
investment in the novel. Even more, they usually name the characters as a
definable set—­“Angel, Jaz, and Kyra”—­before ­going on to address individu-
ating traits. This suggests that Clark’s thug love series is constructed to ap-
peal broadly to black girls and young ­women as a demographic. The author
spreads attention across three characters to mime the social dynamics of
sisterhood that defines black female friendship and intragender relation-
ships. Unsurprisingly, then, the vast majority of Goodreads users who have
rated or reviewed the novel appear to be or identify explic­itly as black girls
and young w­ omen. In this sense, Thugs’s braided plotline mirrors the real-­life
social network to which it appeals.
At the end of her comments, Monique mentions her eagerness to pick
up the sequel. Seriality is the second structuring ­factor in black ­women’s
demand for urban fiction. Her point is echoed by another user, Cheri
Cromartie, who bemoans, “Barnes & Noble is closed and I’m on the edge

278 Kinohi Nishikawa
with Jaz being sentenced to seventeen years!!” By leaving the reader with
a cliffhanger—­What ­will happen to Jaz as she finds herself on the thresh-
old of prison and motherhood?—­the author not only creates anticipation
for the narrative’s continuation but encourages a practice of serial reading
among her fans. ­There are, of course, a handful of users who complain that
the novel does not have a clear-­cut ending. But most of them pick up on the
idea that the entire point of the first book is to read on. D0LL puts this point
nicely when she claims, “The only prob­lem I had with this book is that it was
too short. I literally read this book in one day.” This “prob­lem,” uttered with
tongue in cheek, is a welcome one insofar as she recognizes that Thugs “has
just the right amount [of] drama to keep you wanting more.” Rather than see
the book’s brevity as a deficiency, this user lauds it as Clark’s way of extend-
ing, or indeed drawing out, readerly plea­sure. In her account, serial reading
is interwoven with black female desire, and “wanting more” is valued in its
own right.
Readers operating within street lit’s genre par­ameters of sisterhood and
seriality find much that’s usefully illuminating in Thugs. Take ­these highly
positive assessments:

Throughout the book the girls express how they want to get out of the
hood. I applied that to me. (Dominique)

They ­were all focused on not letting the hood define them and making
something of themselves. (Kitani)

They are not g­ oing to let the ghetto turn them out as in make them
change the way they game and turn into girls with no class. (Leanna
Armstrong)

Somewhat counterintuitively, ­these users talk about Angel, Kyra, and

Jaz in inspirational terms. That reading goes against the critical tendency to
frame urban fiction’s characters in apol­o­getic (at best) or pathological (at
worst) terms ­because of their involvement in criminal activity. Readers ­don’t
approach the novel with such a moralizing lens. They would rather acknowl-
edge the motivation ­behind such activity: a desire to escape the environs
into which they ­were born. Seen from this ­angle, it makes sense that charac-
ters’ actions would be flawed or compromised. When the point is to get out
by any means necessary, one’s hands are bound to get dirty. The question for
­these readers, then, ­isn’t “Are ­these ­women ­doing something illegal?” but
“Can ­these ­women escape difficult circumstances using the tools available
to them?”

Black ­Women Readers 279

 From that basis of understanding, Goodreads users are then able to craft
nuanced responses about the role of men in the narrative. For many of them,
black ­women’s desire for social mobility exists in tension with their desire
for the proverbial “bad boy.” As they make clear, this i­ sn’t a conflict between
love and money, nor is it a conflict between go-­getters and triflers. (All of
Clark’s male characters are go-­getters in their own way.) It’s a conflict, r­ eally,
within the ­women themselves, and it’s based on the following interior as-
sessment: ­Will this man help or hinder my goal of reaching a better life?
Goodreads reviewer Lisa Moulton posits that question in this way: “Very
motivated ladies getting ahead in life while yet trying to be in a relationship
with their thug boyfriends . . . ​[But] my question is how ­will they break ­free
from the thug life if they love a bad boy too much to walk away?” The nar-
rative of Thugs is defined by what Moulton calls the “while yet” of loving
someone who threatens to stymie your dreams. For her, Clark offers the goal
of si­mul­ta­neously loving someone and dreaming of a better life, but she also
shows how ­these ­things are constantly at risk of becoming incompatible.
Mirrlees states the ­matter bluntly: “Angel in love with a pimp but attend-
ing school to be an atty, what’s wrong with that picture. huh????” Between
them, and characteristic of a lot of the reviews on Goodreads, Moulton and
Mirrlees identify the conflict at the heart of Clark’s narrative.
The par­tic­u­lar uses to which w
­ omen put this act of reading—of working
through narrative conflict—­are as varied as one might expect from a critical
reading of any text. Several reviewers attest to how the novel sheds light on
real-­life experiences, especially when it comes to relationships. Dominique,
for example, confesses, “I would relate [to] the character’s attitudes, and also
the settings of each book. This book affected me as to how I look at any
male.” By placing herself in the fictionalized circle of friends, this user de-
vises strategies for how to view men in her own life. Other reviewers are
more explicit about what t­ hose strategies entail. Telivia Talley, for example,
writes, “I can relate to Jaz just a ­little, recently my ­sister broke up with her
boyfriend that shes been with for years just to be with someone that was just
fun for the moment. now shes some ­were stuck wanting her old life back
just like how Jazz was when her an her man broke it off.” And Aneyah, in
reflecting on Angel’s relationship to Snake, says, “This connects to the world
­because domestic vio­lence happens e­ very day. Some w ­ omen ­don’t fight back
like the character in the book and die in ­these situations.” Crucial to point
out ­here is how t­ hese readers relate not to specific characters as ego ideals
but to specific situations that they or somebody ­else or black ­women in gen-
eral have experienced. Far from idolizing criminal activity, urban fiction’s

280 Kinohi Nishikawa
relatability is about making sense of a world in which black femininity is
routinely victimized.
That Thugs elicits situational understanding from readers helps explain
why many of them are drawn to the narrative’s romantic plotline. The point
is not to demonize black men but to underscore the fact that they too need
love. Again, this reading goes against the critical tendency to describe street
lit’s readers as falling prey to a kind of animal lust. In fact, Goodreads users
demonstrate that they are quite ­adept at teasing out the affective nuances
in ­these fictional relationships. Kitani, for example, states, “So much drama
was occurring and no ­matter what each thug was involved in, it ­didn’t stop
the ­women from loving them. . . . ​Thugs and the ­women who love them
proved ­things ­will never be easy but with the right one by your side you
can withstand anything.” Shaybb elaborates, “wahida brings da thugs and
their w­ oman to ­whole new dif­fer­ent level becuz thugs need a ­woman to love
them.” And, not least, Dcakes101 clearly emphasizes, “this book ­really
justifies that ­every man needs that 1 wom[a]n in his life to be
with him till death [do] you part.” At no point do t­hese reviewers
excuse men’s criminal activity or domestic vio­lence. They are clear about
the fact that male love interests do Angel, Kyra, and Jaz wrong. However,
neither do they cast criminal activity or domestic vio­lence as inherent quali-
ties of black masculinity. If the female characters strug­g le to reconcile loving
and dreaming, the decisive question for the male characters is ­whether they
can reform and become the embodiment of that sought-­after reconciliation.
This is par for the course in the good girl–­bad boy love story, and it’s a mean-
ing to which everyday readers of urban fiction are clearly attuned.
Of course, situational understanding need not always be “positive.” In
fact, some readers view the book as a cautionary tale, wherein the female
characters realize “their choices in men d ­ idn’t reflect the change they w­ ere
seeking” and that “crime ­doesn’t pay” (Destiny). In one case, a reviewer
plaintively observes, “I found myself relating [to] the characters . . . ​unfor-
tunately, not in good ways” (Imani Phillips). Yet even this cautionary use of
the novel does not preclude enjoyment on the part of the reader. Time and
again reviewers stress how much they like the book while articulating a harsh
judgment against some of its characters’ actions. “This was an awesome book,”
writes Tasha, even though it “gives you an ugly look at how raunchy and gut-
ter the streets can be.” Rakia is blunter: “Despite the stupidity of the characters
this book is addicting.” And April Sherman sums up the contradictory feel-
ings with a very personal take on the novel: “Off the chain . . . ​Brought back
memories . . . (sigh) may my boo Rest In Peace.” What I find most fascinating

Black ­Women Readers 281

about ­these responses is exactly how caution is expressed. Some, like
­Sherman’s, are tinged with loss and regret or “relating . . . ​not in good ways.”
­Others, like Rakia’s, evince a clear sense of what the reader would never do
or not relating with the characters at all. Taken together, t­ hese cautionary
responses do not establish a consensus about readerly identification. Instead,
they reveal how Thugs opens up fictive space for black w ­ omen to find their
own voice within or outside of the narrative, and as such, to make up their
own minds about what they like about the book. This structured optionality
is, I believe, what readers find most pleas­ur­able about reading urban fiction.
My analy­sis of the Goodreads data follows Kenneth Burke’s influential
call to conceive “lit­er­a­ture as equipment for living.” In the essay titled ­after
that phrase, Burke proposes to view literary expression as “strategies for deal-
ing with situations. Insofar as situations are typical and recurrent in a given
social structure, ­people develop names for them and strategies for h ­ andling
them.” By reframing literary expression in this pragmatic vein, Burke hopes
to determine not what lit­er­a­ture is (a task that he thinks is fruitless) but
what lit­er­a­ture does. In place of the question of literary quality or value, he
would like to examine the question of literary activity. In this sense, Burke
is interested in restoring the dynamism of reading to the study of lit­er­a­ture.
Such is the object of what he calls “so­cio­log­i­cal criticism,” a proj­ect that
“would seek to codify the vari­ous strategies which artists have developed
with relation to the naming of situations.”24 Crucially, that criticism would
not reduce lit­er­a­ture to sociology. Rather, it would ­free up the uses to which
readers put any given work, regardless of content or quality.
Burke admits that his so­cio­log­i­cal criticism would “violate current pieties,
break down current categories, and thereby ‘outrage good taste.’ ” “But,” he
continues, “ ‘good taste’ has become inert. The classifications I am proposing
would be active.”25 ­Here Burke outlines the necessity of focusing on everyday
use. Limiting our understanding of lit­er­a­ture to critical legitimation has the
effect of turning lit­er­a­ture into a dead letter. The appeal to taste, Burke sug-
gests, ensures that lit­er­a­ture can exist only in a hermetic, highly exclusive
realm. By contrast, the study of lit­er­a­ture’s usefulness expands not only the
range of what can be deemed “literary” but the potential for lit­er­a­ture to act
in the world. Far from being a domain of disinterested reflection, the liter-
ary imagination, for Burke, is something to put into practice, whose value
resides in its utility for living.
It’s telling, I think, that the handful of one-­star reviews of Thugs and the
­Women Who Love Them come from t­ hose who concede they have no use for
urban fiction. Sarah, in fact, admits this right off the bat: “I write this review

282 Kinohi Nishikawa
with the caveat that I am not the target population for this type of novel. I
read this for a class.” That she goes on to offer a dismal view of the novel is
unnecessary, of course. She has already assured us that her whiteness and the
fact that this was required reading for her make this book anathema to her
interests. Far from being an outlier, the rhe­toric of Sarah’s first sentence is
echoed in other one-­star assessments:

I ­didn’t give it much more than a cursory pass-­through ­because ­there was
too much meaningless sex, language, and it r­eally ­didn’t go anywhere.
(Alicia)
I’m not wasting my time reading this. (Laura)
Definitely not the target demographic—­shocked at how fast I read it
though. (Marian Buck)

Consider that t­ hese are the reviews’ first lines (or the only line, in Buck’s
case). Again, t­ here’s no need to read further since ­these readers start off by
disavowing any real use for the book. The fact that the reviewers h ­ ere are
white ­women is not coincidental. The low ratings bespeak their refusal to
see, or even consider, the usefulness of street lit to readers who are not like
them.

···
It’s impor­tant that we not mime the logic of t­ hese responses in our own
critical approaches to the genre. Urban fiction does not need to appeal to
bourgeois tastes or to rhyme with canonical black writing in order to be
taken seriously. As I have tried to show in this essay, black ­women readers
already take the genre seriously—­and that, on its own, should suffice to
command our attention. In this light, one way of reframing the urban fic-
tion debate is to retire the depth-­model, vaguely psychoanalytic question,
“What do black readers want?,” and replace it with the site-­specific, prop-
erly Burkean question, “What do black readers make of their books?” The
latter opens up the critical imagination to uses of lit­er­a­ture it could hardly
conceive. Even more, it supposes that readers do not need to be told why
they value what they read; Burke might say they enact or “do” it as a m ­ atter
of course. Examining the Goodreads data on Thugs and the W ­ omen Who Love
Them is my imperfect effort to model this kind of inquiry. However persua-
sive it may be judged, I’m confident its premise—­that Wahida Clark’s novel
is useful to readers who are not like me—is a methodological necessity for
­future work in the field.

Black ­Women Readers 283

 Notes

1 Patrick, “Urban Fiction.”

2 On the specifically gendered appeal of gangsta rap in the 1990s, see Cheney,
­Brothers Gonna Work It Out.
3 Rosen, “Ashley and JaQuavis Coleman.”
4 See Jacqueline Bobo, Black ­Women as Cultural Readers. This objective owes much
to Bobo’s critical example. Though we focus on dif­fer­ent readerly investments,
and though much has changed in the quarter-­century since her book came out,
Bobo’s effort to assess black ­women’s complex engagements with popu­lar culture
is an inspiration for my work ­here.
5 Darnton, “What Is the History of Books?,” 74.
6 Allen and Light, From Voice to Influence.
7 Williams, “ ‘Precious’ ­Little of Value.”
8 Ulen, “The Naked Truth,” 18.
9 Chiles, “Their Eyes ­Were Reading Smut.”
10 Early, “What Is African-­American Lit­er­a­ture?,” 20.
11 Smith, “Black Talk,” 196.
12 Smith, “Black Talk,” 196.
13 Clark, Thugs, 154.
14 Clark, Thugs, 209.
15 Clark, Thugs, vii–­viii.
16 Cutler, “q&a with Wahida Clark.”
17 Sands, “Holler.”
18 xxl Staff, “Cash Money Books Author”; Campbell, “Wahida Clark.”
19 See Bragg and Ikard, “Feminism and the Streets”.
20 In the analy­sis that follows, I have de­cided to cite online reviews without correcting
spelling or punctuation, and without using the notation sic. In the spirit of taking
­these comments on their own terms, I want to refrain from imposing my sense of
style onto their modes of expression.
21 “About Goodreads.”
22 Nakamura, “ ‘Words with Friends,’ ” 242.
23 Herther, “Goodreads.”
24 Burke, “Lit­er­a­ture,” 296–97, 301.
25 Burke, “Lit­er­a­ture,” 303.

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284 Kinohi Nishikawa
Allen, Danielle, and Jennifer S. Light, eds. From Voice to Influence: Understanding
Citizenship in a Digital Age. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015.
Aneyah. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida Clark.
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show/449465775.
Armstrong, Leanna. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida
Clark. Goodreads, February 6, 2009. [Link]
show/45567084.
Bobo, Jacqueline. Black ­Women as Cultural Readers. New York: Columbia University
Press, 1995.
Bragg, Beauty, and David Ikard. “Feminism and the Streets: Urban Fiction and
the Quest for Female In­de­pen­dence in the Era of Transactional Sexuality.”
Palimpsest 1, no. 2 (2012): 237–55.
Buck, Marian. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida
Clark. Goodreads, February 10, 2016. [Link]
show/1142019591.
Burke, Kenneth. “Lit­er­a­ture as Equipment for Living.” In The Philosophy of Literary
Form: Studies in Symbolic Action. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press,
1941.
Campbell, Rhonda. “Wahida Clark: The Story ­behind Her Successful Urban
Publishing Business.” Madame Noir, May 24, 2012. [Link]
com/180241/wahida-­clark-­how-­she-­launched-­her-­publishing-­business-­from-­
behind-­prison-­walls/.
Cheney, Charise L. ­Brothers Gonna Work It Out: Sexual Politics in the Golden Age of Rap
Nationalism. New York: New York University Press, 2005.
Chiles, Nick. “Their Eyes ­Were Reading Smut.” New York Times, January 4, 2006.
[Link]
Clark, Wahida. Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them. Brooklyn, NY: Black Print,
2002.
Corinne. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida Clark.
Goodreads, February 28, 2009. [Link]
show/47837678
Cromartie, Cheri. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida
Clark. Goodreads, December 11, 2015. [Link]
show/1462911629.
Cutler, Jacqueline. “q&a with Wahida Clark: ‘I Started Visualizing My Name on
the Spines.’ ” Newark (NJ) Star-­Ledger, June 2, 2013. [Link]
tainment/arts/[Link]/2013/06/qa_with_wahida_clark_i_started.html.
D0LL. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida Clark.
Goodreads, May 16, 2015. [Link]
Darnton, Robert. “What Is the History of Books?” Daedalus 111, no. 3 (1982): 65–83.
Dcakes101. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida
Clark. Goodreads, January 20, 2011. [Link]
show/142290806.

Black ­Women Readers 285

 Destiny. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida Clark.
Goodreads, December 16, 2013. [Link]
show/739181880.
Dominique. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida Clark.
Goodreads, January 11, 2009. [Link]
/39149036.
Early, Gerald. “What Is African-­American Lit­er­a­ture?” eJournal USA 14, no. 2 (2009):
17–20.
Herther, Nancy K. “Goodreads: Social Media Meets Readers Advisory.” Online
Searcher, July–­August 2013: 38–41.
Kitani. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida Clark.
Goodreads, May 31, 2015. [Link]
Laura. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida Clark. Goodreads,
June 8, 2015. [Link]
Mirrlees. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida Clark.
Goodreads, April 6, 2013. [Link]
Monique. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida Clark.
Goodreads, December 4, 2011. [Link]
show/227916431.
Moulton, Lisa. Review of Thugs and the W ­ omen Who Love Them, by Wahida Clark.
Goodreads, July 18, 2013. [Link]
Nakamura, Lisa. “ ‘Words with Friends’: Socially Networked Reading on Goodreads.”
pmla 128, no. 1 (2013): 238–43.
Patrick, Diane. “Urban Fiction.” Publishers Weekly, May 19, 2003: 31.
Phillips, Imani. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida
Clark. Goodreads, October 31, 2013. [Link]
show/722894345.
Rakia. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida Clark. Goodreads,
July 17, 2011. [Link]
Rosen, Jody. “Ashley and JaQuavis Coleman: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang,” t Maga-
zine, May 3, 2015. [Link]
ashley-­jaquavis-­coleman-­profile/.
Sands, Darren. “Holler If Ya Read Me: African-­American Writers—­and Readers—­
Fret over the ­Future of Thug Lit.” New York Observer, May 13, 2013. [Link]
[Link]/2013/05/holler-­if-­ya-­read-­me-­african-­american-­writers-­and-­
writers-­fret-­over-­the-­future-­of-­thug-­lit/.
Sarah. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida Clark. Goodreads,
October 5, 2012. [Link]
Shaybb. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida Clark.
Goodreads, August 20, 2009. [Link]
show/68163769.
Sherman, April. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida
Clark. Goodreads, November 12, 2012. [Link]
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286 Kinohi Nishikawa
Smith, Danyel. “Black Talk and Hot Sex: Why ‘Street Lit’ Is Lit­er­a­ture.” In Total
Chaos: The Art and Aesthetics of Hip-­Hop, edited by Jeff Chang. New York: Basic-
Civitas, 2006.
Talley, Telivia. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida
Clark. Goodreads, October 30, 2013. [Link]
show/738407469.
Tasha. Review of Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them, by Wahida Clark. Goodreads,
October 16, 2009. [Link]
Ulen, Eisa Nefertari. “The Naked Truth.” Crisis (Winter 2008): 18–21.
Williams, Juan. “ ‘Precious’ ­Little of Value in Ghetto Lit.” Wall Street Journal, No-
vember 5, 2009. [Link]
04574514260044271666.
xxl Staff. “Cash Money Books Author Wahida Clark Talks Prison, Inspiration, and
­Future Proj­ects.” xxl, May 2, 2012. [Link]
cash-­money-­books-­author-­wahida-­clark-­talks-­prison-­inspiration-­and-­future-­
projects/.

Black ­Women Readers 287

CH.18 AN INTERVIEW WITH PATRICIA
HILL COLLINS / APRIL 9, 2017

What is the state of Black pop culture in the public sphere and as an
intellectual field of inquiry in the twenty-­first ­century?

Black artists and intellectuals who use popu­lar culture as the primary venue
for their creative production, differ from critics and theorists in the acad­emy
who task themselves with discussing and analyzing this work. Often ­these
are the same ­people, making it difficult to tell which hat a given thinker is
wearing. But conflating the two endeavors masks the dif­f er­ent contributions
and limitations of creative production and of cultural criticism.
Black popu­lar culture in the public sphere ­houses creative expression that
is heterogeneous, richly textured, and contradictory. Gone are the histori-
cal straitjackets of searching for heroic positive images to stave off negative
Black ste­reo­types. A plethora of repre­sen­ta­tions of blackness, many of them
crafted by African Americans and other ­people of African descent, coexist
with many intractable historical ste­reo­types. Whenever I can, I watch and/
or listen to a wide array of film, ­music, art, drama, best-­sellers, and videos
that engage social and po­liti­cal issues of anti-­Black racism and that offer an
array of repre­sen­ta­tions of blackness. In­de­pen­dent films, real­ity tele­vi­sion,
and YouTube videos provide rich and contradictory depictions of African
Americans among ­others as well as conceptions of blackness.
Yet Black popu­lar culture is about far more than the content of repre­
sen­ta­tions. Evaluating repre­sen­ta­tions of blackness in popu­lar culture re-
quires clarifying all aspects of the po­liti­cal economy of production, from
the inception of ideas, which ideas become cultural proj­ects and which do
not, patterns of audience consumption, and the intended and unexpected
effects on audiences. What makes Black popu­lar culture “Black”? Is it seeing
­people who seemingly “look like us” in tele­vi­sion shows, films, ­music videos,
and graphic novels? Is it knowing that ­people of African descent wrote, pro-
duced, and/or directed ­these products? Individual African American artists
have made tremendous strides in trying to bring quality experiences to the
broader proj­ect of Black popu­lar culture. Yet they do not work in a vacuum.
What makes Black popu­lar culture “popu­lar”? Success within popu­lar
culture requires popularity with an ostensibly general audience that far too
often means white, male, and young American consumers. Repre­sen­ta­tions
of African Americans among ­others must be recognizable and palatable to
this general public, or a specific film, video, or hip-­hop superstar cannot be
popu­lar. Moreover, the speed with which images travel means that repre­
sen­ta­tions of blackness within popu­lar culture also aim to speak to global
audiences who bring their own distinctive sensibilities to American race
relations.
When it comes to Black popu­lar culture as an intellectual field of inquiry,
especially in the acad­emy, I value the new work in cultural studies, media
studies, Africana studies, ­women’s studies, and other places that currently
­house this far-­reaching field of study. Yet popularity comes with caveats. In-
stant experts routinely show up in new fields that seem to be hot, and fields
that appear to be popu­lar ­because their material is familiar to the public run
the risk of attracting opportunists. The field of education has long faced this
prob­lem—­because most ­people have attended school or know someone who
has, they see themselves as instant experts on what’s wrong with schooling
and what can be done to fix it. Cultural critics of Black popu­lar culture face
similar boundary issues, but with a twist. Producing and criticizing art in
an era of consumer capitalism that markets unneeded products and ser­vices
raises new questions about the integrity of our work. Is Black popu­lar cul-
ture popu­lar ­because it is good, or ­because it can be sold? Does Black popu­lar
culture as an intellectual field of inquiry exist as an extension of Black popu­
lar culture itself or as a savvy marketing tool where every­body gets paid?

Interview 289
 If anyone can become an instant cultural critic of blackness, then what
use is a field? What can and should fields do to protect the integrity of their
core? My sense is that a book like Are You Entertained? reflects ­these kinds
of questions. The field of Black cultural criticism, especially as or­ga­nized
within academic venues, might consider asking itself some hard-­hitting
questions: In what ways is the thoughtful, substantive analy­sis that charac-
terizes much of this field, especially late twentieth-­century scholarship, ob-
scured by the mediocrity of ­others? How many more academic papers does
the field need on movies, parts of movies, tele­vi­sion shows, and characters
on tele­vi­sion shows, not to mention the intense scrutiny granted song lyr­ics?
Stuart Hall and the other authors in the 1992 volume Black Popu­lar Culture
confronted the paucity of repre­sen­ta­tions of ­people of African descent and
blackness, not our current era of overload, and certainly not the excesses of
consumer capitalism. ­Because they ­were at the front end of the explosion
of repre­sen­ta­tions of blackness in Black popu­lar culture, they asked hard-­
hitting questions. The current challenge to the field seems to be analyzing
the effects of the exponential growth of Black cultural products themselves
on all consumers, but especially African American consumers and ­people of
African descent in dif­fer­ent national settings.

How do you see Stuart Hall’s theorization of the “Black” in Black

popu­lar culture influencing your intellectual engagement with Black
cultural productions?

This question initially stumped me, ­because I honestly ­couldn’t remember

enough of Hall’s arguments in that specific essay to trace the effects on my
own work. Rereading Hall’s essay did jar some memories about my initial
reactions to this par­tic­u­lar piece. When I first read the essay, I recall liking
it in the abstract but felt that it spoke more to the concerns of Black intel-
lectuals in New York who w ­ ere developing a theoretical framework for the
Black public sphere than it did to front-­line actors like myself within Afri-
can American studies who ­were defending programs and departments that
­were ­under assault. Hall wrote within a British context of anti-­Black racism.
The United Kingdom’s pre–­World War II Afro-­Caribbean British citizens,
more recent mi­grants from the Ca­rib­bean and continental Africa, and South
Asian mi­grants aimed to forge a British identity around a shared po­liti­cal
blackness. This socially constructed po­liti­cal blackness made intellectual
and po­liti­cal sense in the British context of decolonization and migration. In
this context, Hall’s critical synthesis of poststructuralism and Marxist social

290 Patricia Hill Collins

theory in shaping British cultural studies spoke to many African American
scholars who ­were interrogating the meaning of blackness.
That ­wasn’t me. At that time, I remained skeptical that Hall’s analy­
sis was relevant within a U.S. context that was still struggling with the ef-
fects of official public policies of racial segregation. In the 1990s, African
Americans faced serious social prob­lems and also confronted a sustained
backlash against the gains of the civil rights, Black Power, and similar mid-­
twentieth-­century social justice movements. ­Because I was working in an
African American studies department, I was preoccupied with more bread-­
and-­butter issues than the meaning of Black culture. Mass incarceration,
calls to dismantle social welfare policies, the fallout from the crack cocaine
epidemic, the defunding of public education as well as sustained efforts to
dismantle the very field in which I worked took all my time.
When it came to Black culture, ­those of us in Africana studies ­were
fighting for the right to define ourselves as Black ­people. Much as the early
twentieth ­century strug­g le to capitalize the word negro pivoted on capital-
izing the term Negro, we capitalized the term Black in the phrase Black ­people
as a gesture of self-­definition. Capitalizing the word Black when describing
vari­ous subgroups of Black ­people, for example, Black ­women or Black men,
highlights the significance of Black ­people as a historically recognized popu-
lation group. But during this time, strug­g les ­were more than semantic. In
the United States, we also confronted the legacy of interpretations of Black
culture as the cause of African American poverty and the rationale for Afri-
can American disenfranchisement. From strug­g les to get the term “Black”
capitalized in our publications to strug­g les to challenge the arguments about
culture and Black p ­ eople, Black culture was a site of po­liti­cal contestation,
not a space of creative retreat.
Black cultural critics and I during the 1990s seemed to be ­running in
very dif­fer­ent circles. Despite the fact that I had a tenured job with bene-
fits, I was underpaid, overworked, and associated with a disrespected field.
Given ­these po­liti­cal, social, and intellectual assaults, the 1990s ­were a
time of closing ranks for reasons of safety and protection. My concern
lay less with investigating the meaning of blackness via abstract issues
of identity and culture and more with the social prob­lems confronting
African Americans, Black ­people, and ­others who faced a similar anti-­
Black racism. Moreover, the uptake of Hall’s work within certain Black
intellectual circles left me wondering why some African American aca-
demics found this question of investigating Black popu­lar culture so
compelling. ­Were ­these ­people front-­line actors in trying to build Black

Interview 291
studies departments and programs, or was their involvement in blackness
a sideline business?
Rereading Hall highlights what has changed in my thinking and what
­hasn’t. By ­today’s academic standards, my former perspective may sound
harsh, yet the outcome and aftermath of the 2016 U.S. presidential campaign
highlights how issues of Black popu­lar culture remain deeply intertwined
with bread-­and-­butter issues of anti-­Black racism and po­liti­cal disempower-
ment. Closing ranks in the face of a threat to Black ­people as a collectivity,
and arguing for the shared humanity of ­people of African descent in the
United States, Canada, Brazil, the Ca­rib­bean, the many countries of conti-
nental Africa, as well as Eu­rope, was essential then and remains so now. Yet
developing solidarity in response to a global anti-­Black racism also means
crafting a more heterogeneous and inclusive conception of blackness within
Black politics. In this regard, Hall pointed us in the right direction. His work
foreshadowed the steady move ­toward intersectional analyses of race, class,
and nation, as well as the centrality of intersectional frameworks for ana-
lyzing and responding to anti-­Black racism. The Black Lives ­Matter move-
ment, for example, embraces an expansive understanding of blackness that
was virtually unthinkable when Hall issued his call to rethink Black culture.
I remain open to any social theory that can connect the dots from the so-
cial issues that most concern African Americans and o­ thers who experience
variations of anti-­Black racism to po­liti­cal agendas and action strategies for
empowerment. Yet b­ ecause I remain angered by the deeply entrenched na-
ture of anti-­Black racism in the United States, I value the insights of front-­
line actors who do the dirty work of keeping African American communities
­going, as much as if not more than elegant abstractions about the meaning
of blackness, including my own.

Do you feel the digital age affects the production, reception, and
dissemination of Black pop culture in ways that compel us to both
continue revisiting Hall’s piece but to also build upon it? If yes, how
do you see con­temporary theorists and critics building upon Hall’s
work given the changes the digital age has produced? If no, why do
you feel the digital age does not compel scholars to revisit Hall and
build upon his work?

Hall’s work is extremely impor­tant in ways that go beyond his critical essay
on blackness. I’m much more likely to engage the corpus of Hall’s work in

292 Patricia Hill Collins

relation to intersectionality, namely, Hall’s attention to race (­here discussed
through the lens of Black culture), but also to class, nation, and ethnicity.
Given the suppression of class analy­sis in the United States, Hall remains on
a short list of intellectuals who analyze social class by engaging the core ideas
of Marxist social thought in relation to racism, nationalism, and colonialism.
Hall’s thesis of articulation foreshadows con­temporary understandings of
intersectionality as a form of critical inquiry and praxis. Moreover, Hall not
only did top-­notch cultural criticism, but he was also a major partner in
shaping the Birmingham School of Cultural Studies. Hall was not just an
armchair cultural critic—he helped institutionalize the field that made the
work of his ju­nior colleagues pos­si­ble.
I neither feel obligated to revisit Hall’s work on the meaning of blackness,
nor do I think that the digital age necessarily compels scholars to do so. I
do think that scholars in Black popu­lar culture as a field of critical inquiry
might place greater emphasis on two themes. First, we need a broader un-
derstanding of the corpus of Hall’s work as well as how diverse intellectu-
als have used and appropriated vari­ous aspects of Hall’s work. We ­can’t
cherry-­pick one essay, in this case his essay on Black popu­lar culture, ig-
noring the rest of his work. Reading beyond this one essay, it is apparent
that Hall remained attentive to the structural shifts within capitalism, to
British state policies regarding racism and immigration, and to how Black
popu­lar culture in the United Kingdom participated in ­those relation-
ships. Black intellectuals in the United States must be mindful of Hall’s
expansive synthetic theorizing of anti-­Black racism that contextualizes
analyses of Black popu­lar culture.
Second, building a field is hard work, especially in a digital era that raises
entirely new possibilities concerning the politics of intellectual production
and dissemination. Without sustained self-­reflection that connects our
work to the con­temporary economic and po­liti­cal landscape, Black popu­
lar culture as a field of intellectual inquiry may fade away. The Birmingham
School of Cultural Studies was dismantled in 2002. Yet Hall’s ideas and ­those
of ­others who w ­ ere associated with that institutional location persist. Fif-
teen years from now, w ­ ill the same be said of con­temporary Black popu­lar
culture as a field of inquiry?

Your concern in Black Feminist Thought about the intersections of

race, gender, and class in relationship to Black ­women’s ­labor and the
resulting suppression of their ideas or knowledge production remains

Interview 293
 a relevant concern ­today, unfortunately. In what ways do you see
Black ­women utilizing popu­lar culture as a site of re­sis­tance?

To me, popu­lar culture is inherently contradictory. Depending on how cul-

tural repre­sen­ta­tions are used, they all contain potentially conciliatory and
resistant dimensions. For Black popu­lar culture, narrow understandings of
re­sis­tance that assume that a given work or artist ­either collaborates with or
resists the status quo miss the mark. The re­sis­tance lies neither in the intent of
the artist—if we can in fact ever accurately ascertain an artist’s intentionality—­
nor in audience reactions to m ­ usic, film, fiction, and poetry. Rather, re­sis­tance
occurs in the space of co-­creation among artists, the cultural products they
create, and how multiple audiences engage cultural productions. Re­sis­tance is
something that is dynamic and always u ­ nder construction.
One obvious site of re­sis­tance redresses Black ­women’s historical exclu-
sion from popu­lar culture by enhancing our vis­i­ble inclusion. Relying on the
racial integration framework for mea­sur­ing African American pro­gress, we
celebrate the hypervisible victories of African American ­women who seem-
ingly desegregate Black popu­lar culture. Black actresses who you ­wouldn’t
have seen several de­cades ago are increasingly vis­i­ble in popu­lar culture. We
see so many Black w ­ omen in popu­lar culture that we forget that this vis-
ibility has been de­cades in the making. Julie Dash’s 1982 in­de­pen­dent film
Illusions captures this issue of how talented African American w ­ omen could
not appear in front of the camera. In Dash’s film, a white w ­ oman heroine
appropriated the dubbed voice of a talented African American singer. The
film invoked blackness without actually seeing Black p ­ eople. ­Those days are
over. Shonda Rhimes has had at least three successful shows on network tele­
vi­sion; director Ava DuVernay has entered the world of mainstream films
and has made an Oscar-­nominated documentary; comedian Wanda Sykes
has expanded public space for intersections of sexuality, blackness, and gen-
der; actress Viola Davis is fi­nally receiving accolades; and arguments about
­whether Beyoncé’s work contains Black feminist subtexts may continue for
some time. This visibility can be read as re­sis­tance.
Yet t­ here are dangers in interpreting ­simple inclusion as re­sis­tance. Popu­
lar culture is ever-­evolving and any re­sis­tance associated with it changes in
tandem. Bill Cosby’s fall from grace should make us cautious about prema-
turely assessing the ­career, film, or corpus of any figure within popu­lar cul-
ture as “re­sis­tance.” Understanding how re­sis­tance may be working within
ambiguous cultural products may be more impor­tant than a ­simple tally of
vis­i­ble repre­sen­ta­tion. For example, how refreshing it is to see casting that

294 Patricia Hill Collins

rejects prevailing notions of racial, gender, and sexual order. The 2015 surreal
film The Fits focuses on an eleven-­year-­old African American girl who excels
as a boxer in an all-­male environment. Yet when she aspires to join an all-­girl
dance team, her actions unsettle prevailing conventions concerning gender,
sexuality, and appropriate transitions to womanhood. Initially, the direc-
tor aimed to cast white girls in the film, yet ultimately used an all–­African
American cast and set the film in an inner-­city Cincinnati, Ohio, neighbor-
hood. ­These decisions changed the meaning of the film without making it
a film about race. Similarly, work where repre­sen­ta­tions of blackness seem
to uphold prevailing ste­reo­types yet si­mul­ta­neously undermine them point
­toward ele­ments of re­sis­tance. Again, casting ­matters, but not due to inclu-
sion. In countless tele­vi­sion dramas, when police round up prostitutes for
questioning or arrest, an African American w ­ oman is typically part of the
group. If she w ­ ere missing, her absence would constitute an anomaly that
challenges the meaning of the category of prostitute. How might white audi-
ences read the new casting? How would working-­class or middle-­class audi-
ences? Or African American ­women, for that ­matter?
Black audiences who are differently situated within relations of race,
class, gender, and sexuality bring cultural codes and patterns of interpreta-
tion that may be less vis­i­ble if not completely misunderstood by non-­Black
groups. Black ­people often use cultural products t­ oward resistant ends. All
viewers can enjoy Netflix’s 2016–18 s­ eries Luke Cage as a fun story of a Har-
lem superhero. Yet African American audiences can also enjoy the layers
of subtext concerning repre­sen­ta­tions of blackness regarding ­music, urban
politics, masculinity, a revalorization of the meaning of the hoodie, and re-
freshing depictions of ­women who are not simply ancillary to the actions
of men. Subversive readings of popu­lar culture’s subtexts can be as subver-
sive as, if not more subversive than, simply celebrating images of inclusion
precisely ­because vis­i­ble repre­sen­ta­tions of blackness can lead audiences to
assume that equality has been achieved.

And what continuities or discontinuities do you see emerging between

the public “talking back,” or the Black social media “clapback,” of
con­temporary Black ­women popu­lar culture producers and the Black
­women scholars and writers who ­shaped the field of Black ­women’s
studies during the 1970s and 1980s?

It all depends on how you conceptualize “clapback.” Clapback as a digital

update of playing the dozens may be entertaining, but to what end? I won­der

Interview 295
how well that term actually travels in describing the experiences of African
American w ­ omen, Afro Brazilian ­women, Black ­women in South Africa,
Black British w ­ omen and the like. How does this par­tic­u­lar cultural practice
work among such a heterogeneous population? I also won­der how much that
term reflects the experiences of a par­tic­u­lar generation of African American
­women in the acad­emy and in the United States who discover Black Femi-
nism in a digital age.
Serious debates that aim to strengthen the intergenerational ties that
have sustained Black Feminism are one ­thing. Clapback that invokes the
wit and wisdom of playing the dozens certainly livens up staid academic dis-
course. They say, “I check you b­ ecause I love you and know that you can do
better.” Yet disagreements that deteriorate into friction, conflict, and finger-­
pointing are another. Sadly, one common set of practices within academia
lies in rewarding opportunistic p ­ eople who try to build their c­ areers in the
here-­and-­now by trashing what was done in the past. This kind of cultural
criticism panders to neoliberalism, the fallacy of thinking that you as an in-
dividual did it all, all by yourself, and that you can build a c­ areer criticizing
every­one ­else with no regard for consequences. What sense does it make to
take one of the worst features of the white male acad­emy and uncritically
incorporate it into Black Feminism? It is disrespectful—­and I do mean to
invoke the term re­spect h ­ ere in Aretha Franklin’s sense—to negate, ignore,
and criticize the accomplishments of previous generations that made one’s
current accomplishments pos­si­ble.
When it comes to conversations among African American ­women, as
well as Black w ­ omen throughout the African Diaspora, opportunistic cul-
tural criticism is bad for Black Feminism. To reduce Black Feminism writ
large to an internecine b­ attle of “talking back” or “clapback” among our-
selves is counterproductive. Fortunately, that’s not what I see happening.
Black Feminism is far from finished, and t­ here is plenty of work to go around
to keep it ­going. In the United States, African Americans and any other so-
cial group that consistently finds its members relegated to the bottom of
hierarchies of race, class, gender, sexuality, age, ethnicity, and disability face
precarious ­futures. The institutionalized vio­lence that lies at the heart of
anti-­Black racism continues to normalize vio­lence against ­people of African
descent in the United States and in a global context. This vio­lence takes aim
at African American ­women, forces us to witness the vio­lence experienced
by our s­ isters, our m
­ others, our b­ rothers, our f­ athers, and our c­ hildren, and
expects us to clean up the damage done in the aftermath. T ­ here is much joy
in Black life, and I am not defending a humorless, pessimistic view of the

296 Patricia Hill Collins

world. From signifying to clapback, Black culture has an arsenal of tools to
use for cultural critique. This is not the time to relax and pretend that rac-
ism, sexism, class exploitation, and homophobia are far enough in the past
that we can mimic the adolescent rebellions of privileged white youth in
relation to their power­ful white parents. ­There’s too much at stake.

Sirma Bilge, one of your collaborators, has argued that academic dis-
course on intersectionality and antiracism in the twenty-­first ­century
has become depoliticized and deliberately neutralized through
neoliberal regimes. Similarly, debate about what constitutes Black
Feminism in the con­temporary moment has spilled into popu­lar cul-
ture from the academic realm. Ultimately, in the twenty-­first ­century,
Black ­women producing popu­lar culture are beginning to vocally and
explic­itly engage what it means to embody multiple identities and
champion the social and po­liti­cal rights of ­women. In what ways do
you see con­temporary Black artists working to politicize intersection-
ality and antiracism activism? How do you see ideologies and theories
of Black feminism manifesting in the popu­lar realm?

I think that popu­lar culture may be eclipsing the acad­emy as the site of Black
Feminism. Once I began looking for Black Feminism beyond the acad­emy,
I found exciting expressions of it within social media, the blogosphere, and
within Black popu­lar culture. Given African American w ­ omen’s history
with the ideas of feminism (as opposed to specific communities of ­women
who laid claim to t­ hose ideas as their property), the public and unapologetic
reclamation of Black Feminism is refreshing. Black ­women are definitely
more open and explicit about claiming Black feminism in popu­lar culture
than in the acad­emy.
Beyoncé’s 2016 work provides one provocative case. Beyoncé’s ­career can
be seen as a savvy set of choices about how to work a hegemonic popu­lar cul-
ture that is trying to work you. I’ve been following Beyoncé for some time.
I opened Black Sexual Politics (2004) with a brief discussion of the song “Boo-
tylicious” by Destiny’s Child. I situated the song both within and against a
historical fascination with African American ­women’s buttocks. What in-
trigued me about the song was how it encouraged multiple interpretations
from dif­fer­ent audiences. Their song “I’m a Survivor” was far more popu­
lar than “Bootylicious,” primarily ­because many African American ­women
claimed it as an anthem that described their survival despite exploitation
and abuse. In the context of the image of the “strong Black ­woman” lauded

Interview 297
in “I’m a Survivor,” “Bootylicious” seemed more frivolous ­because it seem-
ingly undercut repre­sen­ta­tions of respectability. Instead, “Bootylicious”
issued a clarion call concerning owning one’s own self, enjoying the fruits
of one’s own l­abor, and celebrating the part of Black w ­ omen’s bodies that
invoked blackness. To me, “Bootylicious,” “Formation,” and “Lemonade”
constitute points along a trajectory of one artist’s work in bringing Black
­women’s body politics into view. Beyoncé’s work on Black w ­ omen’s body
politics is especially impor­tant ­because her body has been so prominently
on display. Claiming her body in public, especially control over its sexual-
ized parts as well as economic value within commodity capitalism, resonates
with themes within Black Popu­lar Culture (1992).
Beyoncé is a successful African American ­woman artist, but some ask, is
she a “Black feminist”? For me, that’s the wrong question. I want to know
what contributions any artist makes to Black Feminism specifically and so-
cial justice proj­ects in general. Critical commentary that begins with a pre-
conceived notion of Black Feminism and then proceeds to evaluate how well
a given Black w­ oman artist mea­sures up simply misses the mark. If we keep
that kind of evaluation up long enough, we ­won’t recognize true art when
we encounter it.

You have noted your per­sis­tent effort to place your academic work
in ser­vice to social justice. Part of that work seems to be to push for
analytical debates rather than prescriptive routes to follow. Prescrip-
tive routes, such as the boom in African American self-­help books you
discuss in Black Sexual Politics, seem to be thought of as reparative
for a ­people who continue to fight for full incorporation into the
nation. Where do you see such analytical debates occurring in Black
popu­lar culture? And do you see any specific ways in which the ana-
lytical offers the repair so desperately sought?

I ­don’t think that popu­lar culture intentionally spends much time devoted
to healing—­the title of this volume, Are You Entertained?, speaks to the core
mission of popu­lar culture. ­People may use popu­lar culture as such, but
that’s not what it’s designed to do. The trope of the despondent individual
who was one step away from suicide who de­cided against it when hearing a
popu­lar song grants far too much power to discreet repre­sen­ta­tions to in-
tervene in any real healing. ­These kinds of cultural productions may drive
ratings and sales, but how effectively can they heal?

298 Patricia Hill Collins

 In this context, healing that engages Black culture can make a contribu-
tion. M­ usic, dance, poetry, fiction, religion, and other aspects of Black culture
have long served as venues for healing the damage done by anti-­Black rac-
ism. Did the blues tradition heal, or did it enable Black ­people to retain our
humanity in order to survive? Is hip hop a prob­lem for Black p ­ eople, or is it
a release for Black ­people from the anger and frustration with bad schools,
no jobs, sexual assault, and police misconduct? The Sunday morning gospel
choir can be therapeutic, but can one ever ­really “heal” from ­these kinds
of assaults of anti-­Black racism, sexism, ultranationalism, and homophobia?
Healing can actually become the subject ­matter of entertainment, per-
formed in popu­lar culture quite admirably without much a­ ctual healing oc-
curring. For example, the confessional talk shows—­and of course The Oprah
Winfrey Show was quite central to this popu­lar culture trend—­enhanced the
visibility of domestic vio­lence, incest, and other impor­tant social prob­lems.
Oprah is a savvy businesswoman who, I suspect, has never defined herself as
an ­actual mammy but instead recognized the power of the controlling image
of the mammy for her audience. Guests on talk shows such as Winfrey’s
confess all sorts of horrible prob­lems to ostensibly warm, caring hosts. Yet
the superficial solutions offered up by confessional talk shows often do not
match the visibility granted impor­tant social issues, many of them raised by
figures such as Oprah. Guests who cannot heal themselves by simply try-
ing harder are advised to get professional help. Pep talks that counsel indi-
vidual viewers that they are not alone ­because millions of viewers are root-
ing for them find themselves alone when they turn off the tele­vi­sion and
their ­imagined support group dis­appears. Individual viewers watching ­these
televised morality plays are left to fall back upon their own devices. Social
media often fills the void created by confessional talk shows. T ­ here every­one
is encouraged to share and confess, looking away from tele­vi­sion screens and
­toward computer and cell phone screens for compassion and understand-
ing. The result of this drumbeat of shows on downtrodden ­women or the
pervasive sharing with ­people who one is unlikely to meet in everyday life
can be a collective numbness, one that can make healing from trauma even
more difficult.
Individual trauma emerges from collective trauma, and American cul-
ture’s predilection to look away from the damage done to individuals by
racism, sexism, class exploitation, statelessness, homophobia, and religious
intolerance contributes to the perpetuation of harm. That said, I remain
heartened by the growing willingness of artists to engage questions of harm

Interview 299
in ways that humanize the suffering of African Americans rather than turn-
ing that suffering into comedy or highlighting it for some broader po­liti­cal
agenda. Black popu­lar culture can make interventions in the status quo from
unlikely places. For example, in the pre-2016 era when the picture-­perfect
Obama ­family served as a template for evaluating African American m ­ ental
health and respectability, some shows explored the challenges of African
American middle-­class families. For example, a clip from Black-­ish showed
the difficulties that confronted middle-­class African American parents who
felt they had to talk with their kids about how to deal with the police to
avoid individual harm. This episode on “the talk” was familiar to many Af-
rican American families but came as a surprise to white families where no
such talk was required. This segment inserted a power­ful small moment of
re­sis­tance into a standard sitcom. Mara Brock Akil’s show Being Mary Jane
tackled the theme of suicide, not exclusively through the trauma of the
individual but through the structural web of what may have contributed
to it and how ­those left ­behind experienced this loss. Akil’s characters are
clearly in the upper echelons of American wealth. Yet they are depicted as
real ­people with real prob­lems that mandate healing. Black suffering and
healing need not be exploitative.
Focusing on the humanity of ­people of African descent, taking responsi-
bility for the ways in which we harm one another, understand each other’s
strug­g les, and the support we can give one another in grappling with the
collective trauma of anti-­Black racism is vital to individual and collective
healing. In this regard, the growing corpus of films that work within this
frame of the realities of Black p­ eople’s lives provide a series of texts for un-
derstanding anti-­Black racism and healing from it. We’ve come a long way
from the groundbreaking film Nothing But a Man (1964) to Moonlight, the 2016
Oscar winner for best picture. The films that explore the humanity among
Black ­people with an eye t­oward healing come with increasing frequency,
Pariah (2011), ­Middle of Nowhere (2012), and Twelve Years a Slave (2013) come
to mind. Films such as t­ hese come from dif­fer­ent eras, but the ethos is the
same. When we care for ourselves and ­others, we heal ourselves and ­others.
Popu­lar culture can provide texts for healing, yet p ­ eople need to look to
one another for healing to occur. African Americans and our allies need to
build community capacity that supports this endeavor. ­There are simply
some t­ hings that cannot happen in cyberspace nor solely in our own heads.
Popu­lar culture is good for raising awareness but is no substitute for looking
each other in the eye within families, communities, schools, and workplaces,
recognizing each other for who we are in the context of what we confront.

300 Patricia Hill Collins

 CONTRIBUTORS

TAKIYAH NUR AMIN is a dance scholar, educator, and con­sul­

tant. Her research focuses on twentieth-­century American concert dance,
African diaspora dance per­ for­
mance/aesthetics, and pedagogical issues
in Dance studies. Her research has appeared in several academic journals
including the Black Scholar, Dance Chronicle, Dance Research Journal, Western
Journal of Black Studies, and Journal of Pan-­African Studies.

PATRICIA HILL COLLINS is Distinguished University Professor

of Sociology Emerita at the University of Mary­land, College Park, Charles
Phelps Taft Professor Emerita of African American Studies at the Univer-
sity of Cincinnati, and former president of the American So­cio­log­i­cal As-
sociation. She is the author of numerous award-­winning books, including
Fighting Words: Black ­Women and the Search for Justice (1998); Black Feminist
Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment (1990, 2000);
Black Sexual Politics: African Americans, Gender, and the New Racism (2004); From
Black Power to Hip Hop: Racism, Nationalism, and Feminism (2005); Another Kind
of Public Education: Race, Schools, the Media, and Demo­cratic Possibilities (2009);
The Handbook of Race and Ethnic Studies (edited with John Solomos, 2010); On
Intellectual Activism (2013); and Intersectionality (coauthored with Sirma Bilge,
2016). Her anthology Race, Class, and Gender: Intersections and Inequalities,
10th ed. (edited with Margaret Andersen, 2020) has been widely used in col-
leges and universities for thirty years. Her most recent book, Intersectionality
as Critical Social Theory, was published by Duke University Press in 2019.

SIMONE C. DRAKE is the Hazel C. Youngberg Trustees Dis-

tinguished Professor of African American and African studies at The Ohio
State University, where she also serves as department chair. She is the author
of When We Imagine Grace: Black Men and Subject Making (2016); Critical Appro-
priations: African American ­Women and the Construction of Transnational Identity
(2014); and book chapters and articles on African diaspora lit­er­a­ture, Black
popu­lar culture, and visual and performing arts.

KELLY JO FULKERSON-­DIKUUA is visiting assistant professor of

En­glish at Denison University, where she also teaches in the Black studies
and ­Women’s and Gender studies programs. Her scholarship focuses broadly
on questions on race, gender, medicine, and lit­er­a­ture. She is currently work-
ing on a book manuscript, tentatively titled “Racing and Erasing Consent:
Reproductive Autonomy and Harm in (Post)Apartheid States.”

DWAN K. HENDERSON is a writer, teacher, mentor, and scholar

serving as a member of the En­glish and American studies faculties at the
Lovett School in Atlanta, Georgia. Her research is focused on the intersec-
tions and rhe­toric of race, gender, and national identity in lit­er­a­ture and
popu­lar culture. Her work has appeared in Diverse: Issues in Higher Education
(formerly Black Issues in Higher Education) and the edited volume, James Bald-
win: Challenging Authors.

IMANI KAI JOHNSON is assistant professor of Critical Dance

studies at the University of California, Riverside, where she is currently
completing her manuscript tentatively titled,” Dark ­Matter in Breaking Cy-
phers: Africanist Aesthetics in Global Hip Hop,” and coediting the Oxford
Handbook for Hip Hop Dance Studies. Dr. Johnson is also the founder and chair
of the Show & Prove Hip Hop Studies Conference Series. She has published
in Dance Research Journal, ­Women and Per­for­mance, and the Cambridge Compan-
ion to Hip Hop.

RALINA L. JOSEPH is a scholar, teacher, and facilitator of race

and communication. She is professor of communication and the founding
director of the Center for Communication, Difference, and Equity at the

302 Contributors
University of Washington. She is the author of Postracial Re­sis­tance: Black
­Women, Media, and the Uses of Strategic Ambiguity (2018) and Transcending Black-
ness: From the New Millennium Mulatta to the Exceptional Multiracial (2013).

DAVID J. LEONARD is a writer, teacher, and scholar. He is the

author of several books, including Playing While White: Privilege and Power on
and off the Field (2017) and ­After Artest: The nba and the Assault on Blackness
(2012). He is coeditor of Woke Gaming: Digital Challenges to Oppression and So-
cial Injustice (with Kishonna Gray) and several other books. His work has ap-
peared in Black Camera; Journal of Sport and Social Issues; Cultural Studies: Criti-
cal Methodologies; Game and Culture; Simile; as well as several anthologies.

EMILY J. LORDI is a writer, professor, and cultural critic whose

focus is African American lit­er­a­ture and Black popu­lar ­music. She is associ-
ate professor of En­glish at Vanderbilt University and the author of three
books: Black Resonance (2013); Donny Hathaway Live (2016); and, forthcoming
in 2020, “The Meaning of Soul.” In addition to publishing scholarly articles
on topics ranging from literary modernism to Beyoncé, she contributes free-
lance essays to such venues as New Yorker​.­com, the Atlantic, Billboard, npr,
and the Los Angeles Review of Books.

NINA ANGELA MERCER is a PhD candidate of Theatre and Per­

for­mance at The Gradu­ate Center, cuny. She is an interdisciplinary artist,
professor, and dramaturg, whose plays include Gutta Beautiful; Itagua Meji:
A Road and a Prayer; Gypsy and the Bully Door; and A Compulsion for Breathing.
Her writing has been published in the Killens Review of Arts & Letters; Black Re­
nais­sance Noire; Continuum: The Journal of African Diaspora Drama, Theatre, and
Per­for­mance; and Black Girl Magic (2018), among other publications.

MARK ANTHONY NEAL is the James B. Duke Professor of Af-

rican and African American studies at Duke University. Neal is the author
of several books including What the ­Music Said: Black Popu­lar ­Music and Public
Culture; Soul Babies: Black Popu­lar Culture and the Post-­Soul Aesthetic; and Look-
ing for Leroy: Illegible Black Masculinities, and coeditor, with Murray Forman, of
That’s the Joint!: The Hip-­Hop Studies Reader, now in its second edition.

KINOHI NISHIKAWA is an assistant professor of En­glish and Af-

rican American studies at Prince­ton University. He is the author of Street
Players: Black Pulp Fiction and the Making of a Literary Under­ground (2018) and is

Contributors 303
currently at work on “Black Paratext,” a study of modern African American
lit­er­a­ture and book design.

H. IKE OKAFOR-­ NEWSUM (HORACE NEWSUM) is an in­de­pen­

dent artist-­scholar working out of his studio in Delaware, Ohio. He is the
author of SoulStirrers: Black Art and the Neo-­Ancestral Impulse (2016). He is also
an Emeritus Professor at The Ohio State University.

ERIC DARNELL PRITCHARD is associate professor of En­glish at

the University at Buffalo, State University of New York. He is the author
of Fashioning Lives: Black Queers and the Politics of Literacy (2016), winner of
three book awards, and editor of “Sartorial Politics, Intersectionality, and
Queer Worldmaking,” a special issue of QED: A Journal in GLBTQ Worldmak-
ing (2017). His articles and essays on literacy, rhe­toric, fashion, beauty, and
Black queer life and culture have been published in multiple scholarly and
popu­lar venues including the International Journal of Fashion Studies; Harvard
Educational Review; Palimpsest; Visual Anthropology; Public Books; Ebony​.­com,
and artforum.

RICHARD SCHUR is professor of En­glish and director of the

Honors Program at Drury University. He is the author of Parodies of Owner­
ship: Hip-­Hop Aesthetics and Intellectual Property Law (2009) and coeditor of
African American Culture and L ­ egal Discourse (2009). His research focuses on
the intersection of African American culture, popu­lar culture, critical race
theory, and law.

TRACY D. SHARPLEY-­WHITING is the Gertrude Conaway Vander-

bilt Distinguished Professor of African American and Diaspora studies and
French at Vanderbilt University where she also chairs the Department of Af-
rican American and Diaspora studies and directs the Callie House Research
Center for Global Black Cultures and Politics.

VINCENT L. STEPHENS is director of the Popel Shaw Center for

Race and Ethnicity and a contributing faculty member in the Department
of ­Music at Dickinson College. He is author of Rocking the Closet: How ­Little
Richard, Johnnie Ray, Liberace, and Johnny Mathis Queered Pop M ­ usic (2019) and
coeditor of Postracial Amer­i­ca? An Interdisciplinary Study (2017) with Anthony
Stewart. He has published essays and chapters on popu­lar culture in vari­ous
peer-­reviewed journals and edited collections.

304 Contributors
 LISA B. THOMPSON is professor of African and African Dias-
pora studies at the University of Texas at Austin. She is the author of Beyond
­ iddle Class (2009) and
the Black Lady: Sexuality and the New African American M
the play Single Black Female (2012). Thompson’s other plays include Under­
ground (2017), Monroe (2018), and The Mamalogues (2019).

SHENEESE THOMPSON is an assistant professor of Language,

Lit­er­a­ture and Cultural studies at Bowie State University. Her research fo-
cuses on Afro-­Atlantic Religious Iconographies, particularly ­those related to
Lucumí, Santería, and Candomblé in Black popu­lar cultures.

Contributors 305
This page intentionally left blank
 INDEX

Abrahams, Roger D., 172n24 299–300; “trademarkization” of, 182.

Acad­emy Awards: blackness, absence of, See also blackness
8–9; #OscarsSoWhite campaign, 8–9; African American Policy Forum, 79
whiteness of, 9–10 African American ­women, 294, 297;
Acham, Christine, 121 vio­lence against, 296
Adele, 9 Africana studies, 289, 291
Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi, 95, 156 African diaspora, 14, 296; aesthetic sensi-
Adjaye, Joseph K., 78–79, 83 bilities of, 192–94; and breaking, 192–93;
Affirmations (film), 119 diasporic aesthetics, 199; diasporic
Africa, 7, 157, 290, 292; African diaspora, cultural identity, 6; go-go, 212; sacred
78, 155; African nativism, 105 and secular forms, merging of, 220.
African Americans, 155, 165, 181, 183–87, See also Black diaspora
288–91, 295; as au­then­tic and cool, 176; Africanist aesthetics, 192–93, 196–97, 201,
Black cool, 184–85; Black Twitter, use 238. See also Black aesthetics
of, 162, 171; breaking, 194; Cadillac cars, Afro-­American (newspaper), 107
popu­lar with, 179; communication “Afro Blue” (song), 48–49, 55n11
writing, humor in, 167; cultural move- Afrocentrism, 15–16
ments and social movements, coincid- Aguilera, Christina, 9
ing with, 14; foodways, 153–54; hip hop, “Ah Yeah” (song), 55n11
175–76; identity, decentered notion of, Ailey, Alvin, 98, 238, 248
72; public sphere, access to, 271; respect- Akbar, Naim, 227–28n13
ability, notions of, 146–47; suffering of, Akil, Mara Brock, 300
Akon, 95 Baldwin, James, 70, 97
Alabama State University, 247 Baltimore (Mary­land), 168; West Balti-
Aladdin (film), 105 more neighborhood, 171
Alexander, Elizabeth, 256 Baltimore Uprising, 162–63, 168–70
Ali, Mahershala, 255 Bambara, Toni Cade, 216–17
Ali, Muhammad, 12 Bantu rituals, 218, 221, 225, 227n9
All Lives ­Matter, 5, 166 Baraka, Amiri, 2, 17, 69–71, 213–16. See also
“Alright” (song), 5 Jones, Leroi
Altman, Dennis, 60 Barksdale, Corey, 78
Anderson, Donnell, 184 Barlow, William, 45, 165
Anderson, Tanisha, 80 Barnes, Mae, 58, 61
Andre 3000, 66 Barneys, 4, 22–23n6
Andrews, Adrianne R., 78–79 Barrios Unidos-­Virginia Chapter’s Youth
Ani, Marimba, 227–28n13 Summit, 222–23
Anthem (documentary), 119 Barris, ­Kenya, 96
Anthony, Sean, 128–29 Basquiat, Jean-­Michel, 77
anti-­Black racism, 104–5, 111, 288–90, Batman (tele­vi­sion series), 64
292–93, 299–300; institutionalized vio­ Battan, Carrie, 52
lence, 296; and intersectionality, 297. Beatty, Warren, 266n6
See also racism b-­boying, 191–92, 197–98; appropriation of,
appropriation. See cultural appropriation 195; and uprocking, 204n14
ArchAndroid, The (Monáe), 52 Beam, Joseph, 118–20
Are You Entertained? fabric art (Drake), 87 Bearden, Romare, 79
Armand de Brignac champagne, 180 Beast Mode, 186–87
Armstrong Louis, 105 Beatles, 183
Arnold, Emily, 123 Beat poets, 183
Artest, Ron, 141 Beats, 186
Asian Americans, 178, 195–96 Beat Street (film), 195
AsiaOne, 204n12 Beener, Angelika, 55n24
Atlanta (tele­vi­sion show), 1 Being Mary Jane (tele­vi­sion show), 96, 300
Atlantic Rec­ords, 61 Belafonte, Harry, 22–23n6, 97
Axis Bold as Love (Hendrix), 47 Beloved (Morrison), 3
authenticity, 148, 176, 199; inauthenticity Benzant, Leonardo, 79, 87
in Black culture, chasm between, 69; Bergman, David, 59, 63
hip hop, 182; racial politics of, 60 Betty’s ­Daughter Arts Collaborative
Azalea, Iggy, 191, 202, 204n2 (bdac), 225
Bey, Yasiin, 46–47, 49. See also Mos Def
Baauer, 244 Beyoncé, 5–7, 9, 97, 156, 178, 209, 242, 246,
Badu, Erykah, 47–49, 53 294, 297–98
Bailey, Marlon, 122–23 BEYONCÉ (Beyoncé), 53
Bailey, Pearl, 58, 61, 67–68, 71; “­mother Big Freedia, 242
wit” of, 65 Biggers, John, 78
Baker, Anita, 47 Big Tyme, 179
Balagun, Kazembe, 225 Bilal, 49, 55n15

308 Index
Bilge, Sirma, 297 Black dandyism, 143, 145–46; black mascu-
“Billie Jean” (song), 2 linity, 139–40; politics of respectability,
Birmingham School of Cultural Studies, 140
293 Black diaspora, 208, 227n2, 241, 256. See
Birth of the Cool (Davis), 182 also African diaspora
biting: as appropriation, 201 “Blacker the Berry, The” (Lamar), 5
Black Aesthetic, The (Gayle), 17 Blackface, 4
Black aesthetics, 8, 10, 16–17, 19, 58–59, 64, Black Feminism, 296–98
66, 135, 138, 143, 197; anti-­essentialist cri- Black Feminist Thought, 293
tiques, 18. See also Africanist aesthetics Black films, 91, 260. See also hip-­hop films
Black art, 89 Black folk culture, 16
Black Arts Movement, 14, 16, 19, 77, 79, Black identity, 2–4, 234; and branding,
177, 214, 230 176–77; trademark law, 176–77
Black athletes, 11–13; in corporate sphere, 2 Black intelligent­sia, 78
Black avant-­garde, 208 Black Is, Black ­Ain’t (documentary), 119
Blackbird (film), 120 Black-­ish (tele­vi­sion show), 96, 300
Black bodies, 88; absence of, 194; Black Black Lives ­Matter, 80, 97, 102, 162, 166,
dance, 239–41; clothing, significance 171, 187, 195, 292
of, and racialization, 139; demonization Black masculinity, 12–13, 184, 199, 252–53;
and racialization of, 136; nerd chic, as of boys, 253; and dandyism, 139–40;
racial essentialism, 147; per­for­mance embodiment, as way of knowing, 199;
ritual, collective action through, 222; multiple inscriptions of, 136; nega-
postraciality, 144–45; as troubled, 239; tive images of, 139–40; “phobogenic
within white imagination, 149; and objects,” 102; sartorial choices, 135–36;
white supremacy, 140; ­women’s bodies, and whiteness, 138–39
298 Black nationalism, 68–70
Black Broadway (revue), 71 blackness, 2, 22–23n6, 59, 66, 87, 97, 109,
Black cool, 93, 176, 182; branding of, 184, 193, 208, 230, 256, 261, 276, 294, 298;
186–87; and breaking, 194; commodifi- appropriation of, 196; authenticity,
cation of, 179, 187; hip hop, 187; loss of, notions of, 32, 67–70, 148, 199; in Black
185–86; marketing embrace of, 183–84; popu­lar culture, 157; Black superheroes,
trademarking of, 187; white appropria- 104; Black Twitter, 163–65, 171; as blue,
tion of, 183–84; white supremacy, chal- 9; and branding, 176–77; breaking, 194;
lenging of, 184 and camp, 71–72; changing nature of, 6;
Black cultural criticism, 290 and cinema, 260; clothing, as racial sig-
Black cultural studies, 78 nifier, 144; clothing choices, 135, 138, 140,
Black dance, 247; Black bodies, 239–41; 143, 145–47, 149; complex subjectivities
Black deviance, evidence of, 238; col- of, 7–8; concepts of, 19; criminalization
lective memory, 248; concert dance, of, 149, 165–66; cultural productions of,
238; cultural characteristics, 240; 21; defending of, 171; definitions of, 6,
defining of, 240; diaspora, and African 18, 143–44; and diasporic, 20; disruptive
aesthetics, 238; as expansive, 242; and trope of, 5–6; embracing of, 16; “excep-
meaning-­making, 242; memories, teth- tions” to, 147; and gender, 154;
ered to, 240–41; as subversive act, 248 global nature of, 154–55; hegemonic

Index 309
blackness (cont.) sphere, 153, 229, 288; and repre­sen­ta­
understanding of, 136, 142; in hip-­hop tion, 13; and re­sis­tance, 89; sartorial
culture, 259–60, 276; as lived experi- choices, 135; self-­definition, 291; social
ence, 19; meaning of, 290–93, 295; media, 233–34, 271; transnational in, 156;
metanarratives of, 208, 226; mixed-­race, under­ground movement, as disrupter
19–20, 30–38, 40–41; narrow concep- to, 209; urban fiction, 269
tions of, 67–68, 135, 176–77; and nba, Black popu­lar ­music, 20; camp ele­ments
142; nerd movement, as cross-­dressing, in, 66–67
145; as pansexual, 10; pathology, syn- Black Power Movement, 12, 16, 77, 214, 291
onymous with, 11; as performed, 191; Black print culture, 8
policing of, 67; politicizing of, 20; in Black Print Publishing, 275
popu­lar culture, 289; as postmodern, Black protest movement, 83
19; in public sphere, 91–92; queerness, Black queer lives, 21, 71; Black single
intersection of, 60, 119, 121; as racial- ­mother, 128; the gaze, 255–56; as illeg-
ized, 194; region and class, linked to, ible, 263; and interiority, 254; kinship
93; repre­sen­ta­tions of, 3, 288–89, 295; as models, 123, 126, 128–31; in media,
resistant, 5–6, 259–60; signifying prac- 118–20; and normativity, 122–23; queer
tice of, 139, 141, 164–65, 195; as socially identity, 231; on web series, 121–23, 131,
constructed, 290; social media, 163–65; 132n13. See also queerness
in soul era, 69; in sports, 10; ste­reo­types Black queer studies, 252
of, 140, 165, 288; and thuggery, 135–36, Black queer worldmaking, 121–22, 126–28;
145, 263; traditional tropes of, 72; and queer kinship in, 129–31
transnationalism, 156–57; as unapolo- Black radio, 8, 20, 44, 46, 49, 54; in African
getic, 6; white gaze, 138, 149; whiteness, American public sphere, 45, 51–52;
trappings of, 144–46. See also African “talking drums,” 45. See also radio
Americans, Black popu­lar culture Black radio ­albums, 46, 48; black eco-
Black Panther (film), 7, 11, 23–24n21 nomic nationalism, as model of, 54;
Black Panther Party, 5, 68–69, 77 concept ­album, revival of, 47; as source
Black per­for­mance: roots of, as tainted, of collective promotion, 54
209 Black Radio (Robert Glasper Experiment),
Black Popu­lar Culture (Wallace and Dent), 44–47
2, 22, 78–79, 290, 298 Black Radio 2 (Robert Glasper Experiment),
Black popu­lar culture, 1, 18, 20–21, 78, 87, 45, 49, 55n23
91, 98, 155, 157, 209, 210, 232, 293, 294; Black Radio Society (Spalding), 54n3
“Black” in, 10, 19, 22, 95, 154, 230–31, Black reproduction, 244
290–91, 289, 290; branding in, 233; Black ritual per­for­mance, 212; bearing wit-
“changing same” of white corporate ness, 208; blood memory, 208
owner­ship, 4; cultural memory, Black ritual theater, 21, 209–10, 213–15,
historical gulf in, 68–69; and cyber- 217–18, 220–21, 226; space, claiming of,
space, 88–89; digital access to, 95; in 211; strug­g le of, 211. See also Black theater
digital age, 292; gangsta rap, 269; in Black social media, 232. See also Black
mainstream popu­lar culture, 2; po­liti­cal Twitter
disempowerment, 292; as popu­lar, 289; Black social movements: po­liti­cal art of,
as profitable commodity, 3; in public 77–78

310 Index
Black studies, 231–32 corporate, 3; of hip-­hop culture, 175–77,
Black theater, 95; aesthetics of, 227n4; 180–82, 184, 186; and trademarking, 185,
ignoring of, 94; theater of protest, 97. 187; trademark law, 176–79
See also Black ritual theater Brandy, 46
Black Twitter, 9, 21, 91, 169, 172n31, 232; Brandyn, David, 128
activism of, 170; and blackness, 163–65, Braxton, Toni, 66
171; “blacktags,” 163–64, 170; and “clap- Brazil, 157, 292
back,” 8; cultural per­for­mance, as site Breakin’ (film), 195
of, 163; as defined, 163; as multifaceted, Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo (film), 195
168; requirements of, 164; signifying breaking, 191, 197–98, 200; Africanist
on, 162, 166–68, 170; as sounding board, aesthetics of, 192–93; and biting, 201;
170; and trolls, 164 blackness, aura of, 194; in hip-­hop cul-
Black womanhood, 103; Black ­women’s ture, 194; uprocking ­battles, 202.
bodies, 298; Black ­women’s ­labor, 83; See also b-­boying, breakdancing
and fashion, 113–14; female spectator- breakdancing, 21, 204n12; criminalization
ship, and white gaze, 102–3; racial of, 238. See also b-­boying, breaking
equality, 102 Brecht Forum, 224–26
Black womanist culture, 225 bric, 157. See also Brazil, China, India,
Black ­women fiction, 268–69 Rus­sia
Black ­women’s studies, 22, 295 Bridgforth, Sharon, 227n4
Blake, Eubie, 71 Bring It! (tele­vi­sion show), 246–47
Bland, Sandra, 79, 89n2; as inspirational Britell, Nicholas, 255–56, 259–60,
figure, 80 266–67n15
blerd ballers, 20 British Invasion, 183
Blessett, Algebra, 49 Broadway: musicals, 62–63; Black stage
Blitzer, Wolf, 168 presence on, 234
Blue Angel, 62 Bron, Stephon, 261
Blue Lives ­Matter, 5 Brookes, The (ship), 83
blues, 243, 299 Brown, Antonio, 239
Boal, Augusto, 224 Brown v. Board of Education, 112
Bobo, Jacqueline, 284n4 Brown, Camille A., 238
Body Rock (film), 195 Brown, Chuck, 212
Bonetti, Kay, 217 Browne, Ray, 232
Bonilla-­Silva, Eduardo, 38–39 Browne, Rembert, 1
Bon Soir (nightclub), 61, 63, 69 Brown, H. Rap, 172n24
Bono, 23n15 Brown, James, 196–97
Booker, Cory, 144 Brown, Larry, 140–41
“Bootylicious” (song), 297–98 Brown, Michael, 4, 144
Boston (Mas­sa­chu­setts), 61 Brown, Oscar, Jr., 48
Bowie, David, 49 Brown, Ronald K., 238
Boyce, Albert Leopold, 244–45 Bryant, Kobe, 136, 141
Boyz N the Hood (film), 266n14 Bubba Sparxxx, 242
branding, 135, 143, 183; Black cool in, 184, Buck, Marian, 283
186–87; in Black popu­lar culture, 233; Bugatti, 182

Index 311
Burke, Kenneth, 282 Car Wash (film), 64
Burnside, Dyllon, 120 Cash Money Content, 275
Burton, LeVar, 6 Cash Money Rec­ords, 275
Bush, George H. W., 10 Cashmore, Ellis, 3
Butler, Jimmy, 136 Casper, 204n12
Castile, Philando, 102
cabaret, 19–20; African American singers, Catanese, Brandi, 34–35
heyday of, 62; black performers of, “Cell Therapy” (song), 261
60–65, 72–73; black performers, ab- Center for Arts, Digital Culture and
sence of, 58–59; Broadway musicals, 63; Entrepreneurship, 231
camp, influence in, 62–66; decline of, Chamberlain, Wilt, 148
61; as elite, perception of, 67, 69; female Chapelle, Dave, 23n15
performers, dominated by, 60–61; gay Charnas, Dan, 175, 180–81, 184
men, appeal to, 62–64; heyday of, 60; Charleston (South Carolina), 232
and homophobia, 68–69; origins of, 60; Charlottesville (­Virginia), 4
queer culture, 59, 67; and soul, 67; as Chatterjee, Ananya, 203
U.S. phenomenon, 61 Cheeky Blakk, 242
Cadillac: American culture, tanning of, “Cherish the Day” (song), 47, 53
179; branding of, 179 Chicago (Illinois), 61, 77–78, 107
Café Carlyle, 61, 64 Chicago Defender (newspaper), 103, 106–7
Café Society Downtown, 62 Chicken Noodle Soup (dance), 245
camp: aspects of, 59–60; and black cul- Childish Gambino, 7–8. See also Glover,
ture, 61–67; Broadway musicals, 63; and Donald
cabaret, 62–66; camp heterosexuality, Chiles, Nick, 271–74
as term, 66; cross-­cultural gay mode v. China, 157
white gay mode, 70; dozens, linking of, Chinen, Nate, 49
70–71; elite, perception of, 67, 69; and choreo, 204n10; appropriation of, 195–96
gay men, 60; and homophobia, 68–69; Christian, Aymar Jean, 121
marginality, as response to, 71; as “open Chris­tian­ity, 83, 199
secret,” 64; urbanity, association Chuck D, 46, 176, 185
with, 63 civil rights movement, 45, 97, 102, 179, 291;
Canada, 292 trademark law, 176
Cannibal Capers (film), 105 clapback, 295–97
cannibalism, 105 Clark, Meredith, 163–65
“­Can’t Help It” (song), 55n11 Clark, Wahida, 274–76, 278–80, 283
Caponi, Gena, 202 “Classic Man” (song), 263, 265
Captain EO (Jackson), 53 Clear Channel, 45
Cardi B, 10, 209 Clum, John, 63
Carey, Mariah, 54 Coates, Ta-­Nehisi, 169
Ca­rib­bean, 290, 292 Cohen, Cathy, 128
Carlos, John, 12 Cohen, Richard, 39
Carrington, Terri Lyne, 49 Coldplay, 5
Car­ter, Greg, 33 Cold War, 106, 111
Car­ter, Shawn. See Jay-­Z Cole, J., 97

312 Index
Cole, Teju, 95 cultural borrowing, 193
Collins, Patricia Hill, 22, 146–47, 154, cultural exchange, 193
288–300 cultural mulatto, 18
Collins, Suzanne, 278 Culture Clash, 200
colonialism, 293 Curry, Stephen, 24n24, 134, 138, 149
Color Purple, The (musical), 94 cyberization, 18–19
Coltrane, John, 48 cyberspace, 88–89
Combs, Sean “P. Diddy,” 185, 245 cyphers, 202; call and response, 193
comedians, 35–36, 40 Cyrus, Miley, 4, 242
Comedy Central, 35, 37
comics, 103, 107–8, 112; po­liti­cally savvy Dagbovie-­Mullins, Sika, 33
Black adolescent, trope of in, 113; Daily Show with Jon Stewart, The (tele­vi­sion
segregated history of, 105; as sequential show), 37–39
art, 104; ste­reo­types, trafficking in, damn (Lamar), 7
106; white cartoon artists, and Black “Dance Apocalyptic” (song), 52
characters, 105–6 Dancing Dolls, 247
Commodores, 54 dandyism, 136; and black ballers, 137. See
Communist Party USA (cpusa), 107, 113 also Black dandyism
Congo: Nkondi power figures of, 83, 87 Dandy Lion: Articulating Black Masculine
Connerton, Paul, 240 Identity (exhibition), 139
Connolly, Robert, 60 Daniels, Jimmie, 58, 61, 69–71
Connor, Chris, 61 Dark Marc, 198–203, 204n11; as b-­boy, 197;
Coogler, Ryan, 7 whiteness of, 196
cool, 137, 182–83. See also Black cool Darnton, Robert, 271
Coombe, Rosemary, 177, 185 Dash, Julie, 294
Cooper, Brittney, 229, 243 Dates, Jannette L., 165
Corregidora (Jones), 254 Davis, Angela, 3
Cosby, Bill, 294 Davis, Miles, 95, 182–83
Cosby Show (tele­vi­sion show), 2–3 Davis, Sammy, Jr., 97
Côte d’Ivoire, 242–43 Davis, Viola, 294
Cotton Club, 73–74n15 Day, Faithe, 121
country ­music, 59 de Blasio, Bill, 4, 39
Crawford, Margo, 230 Decille, Patrick, 255
Crime Victims Compensation Unit, 222–23 decolonization, 290
Crisis (magazine), 271 Dee, Ruby, 97
critical race theory, 21 DeFrantz, Thomas, 238
Cromartie, Cheri, 278–79 de Haas, Darius, 72
Crosshairs (Wallace), 83 DeJohnette, Jack, 49
Crunk Feminist Collective, 243 Delivery Boys (film), 195
“Cucurrucucu Paloma” (song), 262 Dells, 264
cultural appropriation, 21, 191, 195–96; Dent, Gina, 2, 78, 231
and biting, 201; as colonialism, 192; of Destiny’s Child, 297
dance forms, 192; in fashion industry, Detroit (Michigan), 61
199–200; po­liti­cal stakes of, 203 Diallo, Rokhaya, 156

Index 313
DiAngelo, Robin, 34 Elliott, Missy, 245
Diawara, Manthia, 156 Ellison, Ralph, 272–73
Diesel, Vin, 35 Ellis, Trey, 18, 93
Dif­fer­ent World, A (tele­vi­sion show), 3 Elzie, Johnetta, 97
Dinerstein, Joel, 183 Empire (tele­vi­sion show), 91, 181
Disney, 105 Encinia, Brian, 80, 89n2
Divas (Evans), 54 Enlightenment, 13
Dixon-­Gottschild, Brenda, 238 Eromosele, Diana Ozemebhoya, 167–68
Dixon, Travis L., 165–66 Erteguns New York, The (boxed sets), 61
“dj Crash Course” (song), 53 Eu­rope, 155, 292
“Do the Jubilee All” (song), 242 Evans, Faith, 54
Dolezal, Rachel, 167, 191, 204n1 Every­body Hates Chris (tele­vi­sion show), 93
Do the Right ­Thing (film), 51 “­Every Nigger Is a Star” (song), 255, 263,
“Dorothy Dandridge Eyes” (song), 53 265
Douglas, Aaron, 15, 78 ­Every Thug Needs a Lady (Clark), 275, 277
Drake, 95, 275 Eve’s Bayou (film), 266n3
Drake, Simone, 79, 87, 102, 120
Drama Queenz (web series), 122–30, 132n13 Fab Five, 148
Dr. Dre, 48, 52, 181, 185 Fanon, Frantz, 156
Dream Logic (Sunami), 83 Fargas, Antonio, 64
Dreher, Kwatkiutl, 67 Farnell, Brenda, 241
Dr. J., 137, 148 fashion industry: appropriation in, 199–200;
Du Bois, W. E. B., 16–17, 95–96 plaid design, prominence of, 200
Dunaway, Faye, 266n6 Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), 107
Duncan, Tim, 136 Felder, Rachel, 143
Dunham, Katherine, 67, 238 Fences (film), 9
Duplechan, Larry, 120 Ferguson (Missouri), 232
Durant, Kevin, 12, 24n25, 134–36, 139, 50 Cent, 181
143–45, 149 “Fight the Power” (song), 51
DuRight, Donny, 128 First Amendment, 178, 186
Dutchman, The (Baraka), 214 First Born Second (Bilal), 55n15
DuVernay, Ava, 95, 294 Fisher, Abigail, 167
Dyson, Michael Eric, 55n23 Fits, The (film), 295
Flashdance (film), 194–95
Early, Gerald, 272–73 Flash Forward (film), 195
Eartha Kitt—­Greatest Hits: Purr-­Fect (Kitt), 65 “Flawless” (song), 156
Eclipsed (Gurira), 94 Fleetwood, Nicole, 148
Edge, The, 23n15 Florini, Sarah, 163–64
Edge of Daybreak, 264 for colored girls who have considered suicide
Edwards, Isoke, 228n14 when the rainbow is enough (Shange), 220
Eisner, ­Will, 104 Ford, Tanisha C., 113, 139
Elam, Michele, 33 “Formation” (song), 5, 298
Electric Lady (Monáe), 45, 52–53 Formation World Tour, 5
Ellington, Duke, 71 “For Saundra” (Giovanni), 17

314 Index
France, 156 Goodie Mob, 260–61
Franklin, Aretha, 263, 296 Goodreads, 276–78, 280–83
Frank, Thomas, 183 Goodridge, Janet, 241
Frazier, Clyde, 137–38, 140–41 Goodwin, Andrew, 48
Freedom Summer, 139 Gordon, Dexter B., 167, 172n24
Freestyle (exhibition), 18 Gordy, Berry, 2
French Tennis Federation, 11 Gore, Tipper, 183
Fuller, Hoyt, 17 Gourse, Leslie, 65
funk, 48, 81 Grammys, 9
Gray, Freddie, 161–63, 166, 169–71
Gaga, Lady, 145 Gray, Herman, 138–39
Gamson, 74n29 ­Great Depression, 113
gangsta rap, 269 Greene, K. J., 186
Gantt, Harvey, 12 Gregory, Sean, 143–44
Gardiner, Boris, 255 Griffith, Kristen-­Alexzander, 123
Gates, Henry Louis, 162, 166; signifying, Griner, Brittney, 144
172n24, 172n31; trickster figures, 116n18 Grossberg, Lawrence, 79
Gatewood, Frances, 104, 106 Guerlain, Jean-­Paul, 156
Gavin, James, 58, 63–64 Guidicelli, Bernard, 11
Gaye, Marvin, 54 Gurira, Danai, 94
Gayle, Addison, Jr., 17 Gutta Beautiful (Mercer), 217, 221–24;
G. Dep, 245 com­pany members, 228n14
genderplay, 64
George, Nelson, 18, 46, 72 Haddish, Tiffany, 10
Get Down, The (tele­vi­sion show), 181 Hall, Adelaide, 71
Ghana, 157, 221, 223–24, 227–28n13 Hall, Stuart, 1–3, 6–7, 19–20, 22, 40, 79, 92,
Gillespie, Michael, 260, 266n7 95–96; anti-­Black racism, 293; “Black”
Gilroy, Paul, 59, 257 in Black culture, theorization of, 154,
Ginsberg, Allen, 70 230–31, 290–91; and intersectional-
Giovanni, Nikki, 17, 24n33 ity, 292–93; marginality, emphasis on,
Giudicelli, Bernard, 23–24n21 93; positionality, as unstable, 203;
“Give ’Em What They Love” (song), 53 poststructuralism and Marxist social
“Give It Up, Turn It Loose” (song), 196 theory, synthesis of, 290–91
Glasper, Robert, 44–52, 54, 55n11, 55n15, 55n24 Hamilton (musical), 5–6
Glover, Donald, 1, 7, 92–93. See also Childish Hamilton, Alexander, 5–6
Gambino Hamilton, Jack, 59
Golden, Ebony Noelle, 225 Hampton University, 243
go-go, 212–13 Hanes, 183
Go-­Go, The, 212–13, 217 Harden, James, 134–36, 149
Goines, Donald, 97, 275 Harlem, 14, 61, 69, 83
Goldberg, Whoopie, 65 Harlem Re­nais­sance, 14, 59, 79
Golden, Thelma, 18 Harlem Shake (dance form), 242, 244;
Goldstein, Nancy, 104, 106, 112, 114–15 community identity, representing of,
Gong, Louie, 33 245

Index 315
“Harlem Shake” (song), 244 “Holy Grail” (Jay-­Z and Timberlake), 4
Harleston, Edwin, 107 Holtzclaw, Daniel, 102
Harris, Daniel, 74n28 homophobias, 68–69, 297, 299
Harris, Naomie, 255 Honey Beez, 247
Harris, Rennie, 238 Honor Thy Thug (Clark), 277
Hart, Kevin, 209 Hoodoo rituals, 218, 225; ring shouts,
Hartman, Saidiya, 6 219–20
Hathaway, Lalah, 47, 53 hooks, bell, 102, 154, 184, 186
Hazzard-­Donald, Katrina, 219, 238 Horne, Lena, 114
Heads Up International, 49 Howard University, 247
healing, 299–300 Hughes, Justin, 187n1
Hello Dolly (musical), 71 Hughes, Langston, 15, 18, 95–96, 271, 272;
“Hello Stranger” (song), 264 “race shame,” 16; racial assimilation,
Helms, Jesse, 12 repudiation of, 16
Hemphill, Essex, 119 Huie, Lehna, 79
Hendrix, Jimi, 47 Hurricane Katrina, 5
Henry Ford Hospital series (Kahlo), 83 Hurston, Zora Neale, 15, 95–96
Henry Street Settlement: New Federal Husayn, Shafiq, 48
Theatre at, 214, 228n14 Hustler’s Wife, A (Turner), 269
Hibbert, Alex R., 255 Hyde, Dave, 144
Hidden Figures (film), 9
Hill, Sharday, 80 Ice Cube, 185, 188n18
Himes, Chester, 97 Iceberg Slim, 275
hip hop, 11–12, 66, 154, 199, 202, 243, 247, identity politics, 200
253, 275, 299; appropriation of, 191–93, Ifa culture, 218–19
195–96, 201; authenticity, undermining Ikard, David, 34
of, 182; Black cool, 187; and black- I’ll Be Glad When ­You’re Dead You Rascal You
ness, 276; branding of, 175–76, 180–82, (film), 105
184, 186; breaking, 194; chopped and Illusions (film), 294
screwed, technique of, 266–67n15; cool, “I’m a Survivor” (song), 297–98
loss of, 182; cultural investment in, 199; India, 157
high fashion, embracing of, 145; and Indiana Pacers, 141
owner­ship, 21; on radio, 233; as resistant Information Age, 2
blackness, 259–60; urban fiction, 269; Ingraham, Laura, 13
and urbanity, 263 Inkwell, The (film), 266n3
hip-­hop dances, 198–99, 238. See also In Living Color (tele­vi­sion show), 119
b-­boying; breaking; uprocking In Moonlight Black Boys Look Blue (Mc-
hip-­hop films: blackness, narrow notions Craney), 9, 252–53
of, 194–95. See also Black films intellectual property, 185–86
hip-­hop studies, 21 intersectionality, 154, 292–93; anti-­Black
historically black colleges and universities racism, 297
(hbcus), 7, 155, 246 Irani, Kayhan, 225
Holland, Andre, 255 Iverson, Allen, 12, 24n23, 137–38, 140–41,
Holloway, Jonathan, 248 144, 148

316 Index
Jackson, Delores, 114 Jubilee (dj), 242
Jackson, Dominique, 120 Juice (film), 266n14
Jackson, Michael, 2, 53, 55n11, 98, 183 Junkyard, 213
Jackson, Millie, 66
Jackson State University, 245, 247 Kaepernick, Colin, 5, 23n8
Jackson, William, 106 Kahlo, Frida, 83
Jacoby, Herbert, 69 Kang, Jay Caspian, 171n7
James, Lebron, 12–13, 24n24, 24n26, 134, Kardashian, Kim, 232
136, 138–40, 143, 145, 149 Kart, Larry, 61
Jamila, Shani, 79–81 Katyal, Sonia, 177
Japan, 113 Kelley, Robin D. G., 146
Jay-­Z, 4–5, 22–23n6, 78, 97, 180–81, 185, Key, Keegan-­Michael: as mixed race, 32,
209, 233 35–41
jazz, 49–50, 62, 71, 243 Key & Peele (tele­vi­sion show), 35, 37
jazz dance, 238, 243–44 Kid ’n Play, 180
Jean-­Louis, Soraya, 79, 81, 83 kinesthetic memories, 241
Jefferson, Thomas, 13–14 king (group), 49
Jenkins, Barry, 9–10, 252–53, 256, 265, King, Martin Luther, Jr., 163, 168–69
266n7, 266–67n15 King, Shaun, 97
Jenkins, Tracie, 224 King, Woodie, Jr., 214, 228n14
Jenner, Kylie, 4 “Kissed & Crowned” (song), 53
Jennings, John, 104, 106 Kitt, Eartha, 58, 61, 68, 71, 97; as aloof,
Jerome, Jharrel, 255 perceptions of, 67; camp persona of,
“Jesus ­Children of Amer­i­ca” (song), 48 64–65
Jidenna, 260, 263 Kochman, Thomas, 172n24
Jim Crow, 111, 176, 179 Kondo, Dorinne, 200
Johnson, E. Patrick, 199, 201 Kuti, Fela, 95
Johnson, Gaye Theresa, 51 Kuzma, Kyle, 135, 148
Johnson, Jessica Marie, 231
Johnson, Lady Bird, 67 Labyrinth Theater, 214
Jones, Edward P., 272 La La Land (film), 9, 266n6
Jones, Gayl, 254 Lamar, Kendrick, 4–5, 8, 23n15, 91, 97, 209,
Jones, James Earl, 204n11 265
Jones, Jason, 37–39 Laredo, Joseph R., 65
Jones, Leroi, 2, 69–70. See also Baraka, Le Boeuf Sur le Toi (nightclub), 69
Amiri Ledisi, 46, 49
Jones, Omi Osun, 227n4 Lee, Harper, 278
Jones, Quincy, 97 Lee, James E., 126
Jordan, Michael, 2–3, 12, 137–38, 140, 148, 183 Lee, Spike, 2, 51, 92, 94–95, 229–30
Joseph, Dane, 123 Legend, John, 97
Joy of Painting, The (tele­vi­sion show), 78 Lemmons, Kasi, 266n3
J-­Phi, 247 Lemonade (Beyoncé), 5–6, 9, 298
J-­Setting, 242, 245; call-­and-­response Les Indivisibles, 156
structure of, 246; high-­setting, 246 Les Teueuses (The Killers), 243

Index 317
“Let’s Get It” (­music video), 245 Marshall, Wayne, 53
“Letter to Hermione” (song), 49 Marsh, Steve, 137
Let That Be the Reason (Stringer), 269 Martin, George R. R., 278
Lewis, Barbara, 264 Martin, Trayvon, 4, 144, 149
Lewis, Norm, 72 Marvel, 106
Lewis, Shantrelle P., 139 Mason, Charlotte Osgood, 15
lgbt rights, 252–53 Mason, Gesel, 223
Lichtenstein, Roy, 77 Mason-­Rhynes Productions, 223
“Lift Off ” (song), 47–48 mass incarceration, 239, 291
Ligon, Glenn, 18 Massood, Paula, 253
Lil Wayne, 143–44, 275 Matal v. Tam, 178–79, 186
Lincoln, Abbey, 101–2, 113 Maybach, 182
Lindsey, Treva, 231 McCarthyism, 111
Lion King, The (film), 105 McCraney, Tarell Alvin, 9–10, 252, 266n1
Lit (Jamila), 81 McDonald, Audra, 72
Live at the Café Carlyle (Short), 66 McDonalds, 186
Livingston, Jenny, 130 McGruder, Aaron, 113
Locke, Alain LeRoy, 14–16, 78 McKenna, Natasha, 80
London (­England), 62 McKesson, DeRay, 97, 162, 168
Lorde, Audre, 154 McMillan, Terry, 272
Louis, Joe, 108 McRae, Carmen, 61
“Love Drought” (song), 6 Medea films, 10
Loving (film), 9 Medicine for Melancholy (film), 9–10, 256,
Ludacris, 179 266n7
Luke Cage (tele­vi­sion series), 295 Me. I Am Mariah . . . ​The Elusive Chanteuse
Lukumi culture, 218–20, 225 (Carey), 54
Lyles, Charleena, 80 Memphis Elite, 247
lynching, 239 Menace II Society (film), 266n14
Lynch, Marshawn, 186–87 Mercer, Kobena, 146–47
Lynton, Letty, 114 Mercer, Mabel, 58, 71; as “definitive café
singer,” 61; diction of, 65–66; fan base
Mabley, “Moms,” 65 of, 63–64; singing style of, 65–66
Macklemore and Ryan Lewis, 4 Mercer, Nina Angela, 217
madtv (tele­vi­sion show), 35 Merges, Robert, 187n1
Makeba, Miriam, 95 Mexico, 78
Mali, 156 Michele, Chrisette, 49
Malone, Jacqui, 238 ­Middle of Nowhere (film), 300
Mandvi, Asif, 37, 39 ­Middle Passage, 7, 208, 221, 223
Manifest Destiny, 180 Middleton, Shirley, 245–46
Manjoo, Farhad, 167–68 Miguel, 52
Manning, Susan, 238 Miller, Frank, 104
Mapouka, 242–44 Miller, Ivor, 200
marginality, 71, 93 Miller, Monica L., 139
Mars, Bruno, 54 Minaj, Nicki, 95, 144–45, 209, 275

318 Index
“Mini Skirt” (song), 264 Musiq Soulchild, 46
minstrelsy, 4, 21 Mutu, Wangechi, 95
Miranda, Lin-­Manuel, 5–6
“Mister and Missus Fitch” (song), 66 Nakamura, Lisa, 277
Mitchell-­Kerman, Claudia, 172n24 Nama, Adilifu, 104
Mock, Janet, 120 National Association for the Advance-
Modern ­Family (tele­vi­sion show), 123 ment of Colored ­People (naacp), 16,
modernism, 15, 19 72, 107, 113, 247, 271
Molanphy, Chris, 46 National Basketball Association (nba),
Monáe, Janelle, 10, 45–47, 54, 97, 237, 20; blackness, controlling of, 140–42;
255; chamber ­music standard of, 52; and dandyism, 139, 147; dress code of,
cinematic themes of, 52, 53; diverse col- 135–37, 139, 141–43, 147–48; dress code,
laborations of, 52; futurism of, 52 and Black ste­reo­types, 136; hip-­hop
Monahan, Maureen, 242–43 culture, 136, 138, 141–43; individual
Moonlight (film), 9–10, 21, 252, 300; branding, 138–39; nerd chic, 135–36, 138,
aesthetic of care, 256, 258; Black boys 142, 144–47; “new Black aesthetic,” 147;
coming of age, depiction of, 253–55; nonprescription glasses, popularity
blackness in, 261; chopped and screwed of, 144; “Palace Brawl,” 135, 141; player
tracks in, 260; hip hop, quieting of, agency, 148; player re­sis­tance, 138–39;
260–61; interiority in, 259, 261–63, players, sartorial choices, 134–39;
265–66; ­music, use of in, 255–65; quiet, postgame clothing choices, 134–35;
privileging of, 253–54, 256–59, 265–66; racial profiling, 149; sartorial choices,
silence, power of, 258; sonic space and politics of adornment, 139, 149;
in, 254–56, 265; swimming lesson in, style wars, 148–49; urban black culture,
256–57, 260, 262 connection between, 137; white fans,
Monte, Palo, 200 appealing to, 140–41; white gaze, 141
Moore, Indya, 120 National Black Theatre (nbt), 210
Moralde, Oscar, 143 National Football League (nfl), 187;
Mordden, Ethan, 63 excessive cele­bration, decrying of,
Morisseau, Dominique, 98 238–39
Morricone, Ennio, 52 National Gallery, 88
Morrison, Toni, 3, 13, 95, 103, 272–73 nationalism, 293
Morris, Wesley, 143–45 National Public Radio (npr), 44, 49–50
Mos Def, 46. See also Bey, Yasiin Native Americans, 178
Moten, Fred, 6 nativism, 105
Mothership Connection (Parliament), 47 Naughty but Nice (Bailey), 65
Motown, 2 Ndegeocello, Meshell, 49, 54
Moulton, Lisa, 280 Neal, Larry, 207
Movement for Black Lives, 5 Neal, Mark Anthony, 18, 21, 45–46, 62,
Moynihan Report, 128 68, 72, 92, 94–95, 97, 229–34, 263; soul,
mtv, 2 defining of, 59
multiculturalism, 69, 194, 200 Negus, Keith, 59
Muñoz, José Esteban, 121 Nelly, 245
mural art, 77–78 neoliberalism, 296

Index 319
nerd chic: as cross-­dressing, 145; as ironic, “One Million Bottlebags” (song), 185
145; racial essentialism, credence to, “One Step Ahead” (song), 263
147; and whiteness, 142, 145 Ooh La La! Dance Line, 247
“Never Give Anything Away” (song), 65 Oprah’s Book Club, 268
Newkirk, Vann, 164, 167 Oprah Winfrey Show, The (tele­vi­sion show),
New Negro, The (Locke), 14–15 299
New Negro Movement, 14, 19 Ormes, Earl Clark, 107
New Orleans (Louisiana), 242 Ormes, Jackie, 20, 101–2; American
Newton, Esther, 69 education system, critique of, 112;
Newton, Huey P., 68–69 Black womanhood, and fashion, 113–14;
New York, 60, 62, 71, 196, 197; Ball culture Black womanhood, imagining of, 115;
in, 130; as epicenter of cabaret world, characters of, 103–4, 107–15; characters,
61; integrated nightlife in, 69–70 po­liti­cal and social mobility of, 108–9,
New York Amsterdam (newspaper), 107 115; comic canon of, 103; gender and
Nigeria, 157 racial norms, breaking of, 106–7; white
Nike, 183 male space, appropriating of, 104–5
Nirvana, 49 Ostberg, Daniel Mallory, 66
Nishime, LeiLani, 34 “Our Favorite Fugitive” (song), 53
Nixon, Richard M., 265 “Our Love” (song), 264
Nkisi: Head Hair (Okafor-­Newsum), 83, 87 OutKast, 66
Noah’s Arc (tele­vi­sion show), 120 owner­ship, 20–21
Noah’s Arc: Jumping the Broom (film), 120
Nobles, Wade, 227–28n13 Palo Mayombe, 218–19
No Shade (web series), 122–23, 128–31 Parents ­Music Resource Center, 183
“Notes on Camp” (Sontag), 63 Pariah (film), 300
Notes on the State of ­Virginia (Jefferson), 13 Paris (France), 60, 62, 193
Nothing But a Man (film), 300 Paris Is Burning (documentary), 130
Nottage, Lynn, 94 Parks, Suzan-­Lori, 94
Nugent, Ted, 32 Parlato, Gretchen, 49
Nussbaum, Emily, 36 Parliament (band), 46–47
Passing Strange (Stew), 94
Obama, Barack, 29, 42n18, 144, 181, 300; as Paul, Chris, 135
celebrity, 88; mixed race of, 19–20, 30, Peele, Jordan: as mixed race, 32, 35–41
33–35, 39–40; as “mutt,” 30–34, 36–37, 41; Pence, Mike, 6
sense of humor, 29 Pendergrass, Teddy, 46–47
Obama, Malia, 30 ­Peoples, John A., 245
Obama, Michelle, 42n18, 88, 144, 300 Pepsi, 183
O’Hara, Frank, 70 Performers, 264
Okafor-­Newsum, H. Ike, 79, 83, 87 Perpener, John, 238
Old Negro, 14–15 Perry, Tyler, 10, 95; as controversial
Olympic basketball team (204), 140–41 figure, 11
Omi, Michael, 40 Pham, Minh-­Ha T., 199–201
O’Neill, Ann, 169–70 Philadelphia (Pennsylvania), 193
O’Neill, Shaquille, 148 Phillips, Imani, 281

320 Index
Piano Lesson, The (Wilson), 3 Q-­Tip, 49, 204n2
Picher, Claire, 225 Queen Sugar (tele­vi­sion show), 120
Piner, Jaden, 255 queerness, 70, 263; Black, 20, 119, 121–22,
Pittsburgh Courier (newspaper), 101, 103, 131; blackness, intersection of, 60. See
106–7, 114 also Black queer lives
Playing in the Dark (Morrison), 13 Questlove, 182, 184
Poe, Jumatatu, 246
Poitier, Sidney, 97 race, 199, 295; and masculinity, 20; racial
police brutality, 4, 79–80, 102, 162, 168, 171 assimilation, 15–16; racial injustice, 81,
Polk, Patrik-­Ian, 120 83; trademark law, 186
polyrhythms, 202–3 Race +ip conference, 187
polycentrism: and twerking, 243 racial profiling, 4, 147; and clothing, 149
pop art, 77 racial uplift, 111; urban fiction, 271. See also
popu­lar culture, 297–98; Black protest social uplift
within, 4–5; and healing, 300; mammy racism, 102, 105, 109, 111, 135–36, 139, 146–47,
trope in, 110; and re­sis­tance, 294 149, 155, 162–63, 171, 183, 239, 293, 297,
Porter, Billy, 120 299; colorblind, 38–39; ­legal, 177;
Porter, Cole, 66 Obama’s “mutt” joke, 41; structural, 34,
Pose (tele­vi­sion show), 120, 130 112, 138; subtle, 163. See also anti-­Black
positionality, 203 racism
Post-­Black Movement, 19, 79 radio, 51, 87; ideological limitations of, 52;
postmodern blackness, 19 as male dominated public space, 53;
Post-­Soul Aesthetic, 14, 18–19 new ­music, 49; surprise, as source of,
post-­soul era, 45; “soul” politics, 72 49. See also Black radio
poststructuralism, 290–91 Radio ­Music Society (Spalding), 45–46, 49,
Pour une Âme Souveraine (For a Sovereign 51, 55n25
Soul) (Ndegeocello), 54 Radio One, 45
Prancing Elites, 246–47 “Radio Song” (song), 50–51
Prancing J-­Settes, 245; deportment of, Rae, Issa, 10, 92–93, 96
246–47 Ramsey, Donovan X., 163–64
“Prime Time” (song), 52–53 Randall, Alice, 153–54
primitivism, 15, 105 rap, 11, 176
Prince, 47 rationalism, 83
protest art, 20, 80 Razaf, Andy, 71
Public ­Enemy, 51, 176 r&b, 52, 66, 71
public sphere, 271, 290; black nerd Reagan, Ronald, 10, 213, 253, 255, 265
aesthetic (blerd aesthetic), 93; in Black Red, Katey, 242
popu­lar culture, 153, 229, 288; and religious iconography, 77
blackness, 91–92 repre­sen­ta­tion, 11, 146–47, 294; Black cul-
Pulp Fiction (film), 52 ture, 13; Black queer life, 120, 122, 130
punk, 59, 73 Rethinking Blackness (course), 92
“Revolution ­Will Not Be Televised, The”
Quashie, Kevin, 254, 260, 266n7 (Scott-­Heron), 17
“Q.U.E.E.N.” (song), 47, 52–53 Rhimes, Shonda, 294

Index 321
Rhodes, Trevante, 255 Schuyler, George, 15–16, 96
Rhymes, Busta, 66 Schmeling, Max, 108
Rhynes, Cheles, 223 Scott-­Heron, Gil, 17
Rice, Tamir, 102 Scott, Jill, 97
Rich, Matty, 266n3 Screw (dj), 266–67n15
Riggs, Marlon, 119 See Them Now (Jean-­Louis), 81, 83
Rihanna, 209 segregation, 113, 291
Rivera, Geraldo, 149 Senegal, 157
River see (Jones and Bridgforth), 227n4 sexual colonialism, 157
Robbins, Trina, 104 Shange, Ntozake, 220
Robert Glasper Entertainment, 44–45, 47 Sharma, Sanjay, 163, 167, 170
Robertson, Pamela, 60 Sharpley-­Whiting, Tracy, 153–57
Roberts, Sybil, 221 Shawn Car­ter Foundation, 22–23n6
Robeson, Paul, 107 Sherald, Amy, 88
Rocawear, 186 Sherman, April, 281–82
rock, 61, 73 She’s Gotta Have It (film), 2
Rock, Chris, 93 Short, Bobby, 58, 64–67, 69, 71, 73n14,
rock dance, 197 73–74n15; Black consciousness rhe­toric,
Rock Steady Crew 194–95 response to, 68; as iconic male cabaret
Rodriguez, MJ, 120 singer, 61
Rolling Stones, 183 Shuffle Along (Wolfe), 94
Romney, Mitt, 40 signifying practices, 21, 172n24, 172n31,
Roots (band), 182 297; on Black Twitter, 162, 166–68, 170;
Roots (Kahlo), 83 comedic role of, 167; definition of, 166
Roots (tele­vi­sion series), 6 Simmons, LaKisha, 111
Rose, Tricia, 92 Simmons, Ron, 119
Ross, Angelica, 120 Simms, Betty E., 225
Ross, Bob, 78 Simone, Nina, 54, 97
Ross, Diana, 64 “Single Ladies” (song), 246
Rossman, Gabriel, 49 Skeleton Crew (Morisseau), 98
Ross, Marlon, 69–70 Skinny, The (film), 120
Rucker, Troy Valjean, 123 Slants (rock band), 178, 188n10
Ruffin, Eric, 221 slavery, 3, 20–21, 83, 219, 239
Rus­sia, 157 Slick Watt, 148
Slow Drag (dance), 238
Sade, 47 Smalls, Biggie, 188n18
Sahar, Haile, 120 “Smells Like Teen Spirit” (song), 49
Samateh, Cher Jey Cuffie, 222 Smith, Anna Deavere, 200
“Sandcastles” (song), 6 Smith, Danyel, 272–74
Sanders, Ashton, 255 Smitherman, Geneva, 172n24
San Francisco (California), 61 Smith, J. R., 136
Santamaria, Mongo, 48 Smith, Tommie, 12
Say Her Name (Huie), 79–80 Smollett, Jussie, 120
Schloss, Joseph, 204n14 Snipes, Wesley, 265

322 Index
Snoop Dogg, 185 Stringer, Vickie, 268–69, 275
social media, 88, 233–34; activism and Strömberg, Fredrik, 104–6
re­sis­tance, as platform for, 8; and Black Stoudemire, Amar’e, 149
culture, 8 Studio Museum, 2, 18
so­cio­log­i­cal criticism, 282 Sunami, April, 79, 83
social uplift, 14–15. See also racial uplift Swain, Ryan Jamaal, 120
sonic space, 254–56, 265 Sweat (Nottage), 94
sonic transnationality, 156 Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss (film), 72
Sontag, Susan, 63 Sykes, Wanda, 32, 294
soul, 58–59, 61; au­then­tic blackness, 69; Sylvester, 74n29
Black culture, 60; and cabaret, 67;
concept of, 62; marginality, as response Talley, Telivia, 280
to, 71; nationalist infusions, 68 Tannenbaum, Rob, 2
Soul Babies: Black Popu­lar Culture and the tap, 238
Post-­Soul Aesthetic (Neal), 18 Tarantino, Quentin, 52
Soul Food: African American Foodways Tate, Greg, 153
(course), 153, 154 Tea Party, 39
Soul Food Love (Randall), 153, 154 Teer, Barbara Ann, 210–11, 214, 216–17
soul ­music, 2 Tef Poe, 233
“soul” politics, 72 Telecommunications Act, 44–45, 47
Soul Searchers, 212 tele­vi­sion, 87
South Africa, 193, 296; apartheid in, 71 Tell Me More (radio program), 44
Southern, Eileen, 58 Theatre of the Oppressed Laboratory
Spalding, Esperanza, 45–46, 49–54, 54n3, (toplab), 224–25
55n11, 55n25, 56n27 Their Eyes ­Were Watching God (Hurston),
Spears, Britney, 9 271–72
“Special Delivery” (­music video), 245 Thicke, Robin, 3, 4
spiritual ethnicity, 200 “This Is Amer­i­ca” (song), 7
Spotlight (nightclub), 63 Thomas, Dexter, 167–68, 172n24
Squires, Catherine, 33 Thompson, Lisa B., 20, 91–98, 229, 234
Stabile, Carol A., 176 Thug Kitchen (Thug Kitchen), 153
Star Wars (film), 53, 196, 204n11 Thugs and the ­Women Who Love Them
Steamboat Willie (film), 105 (Clark), 274–79, 283; as cautionary tale,
Step Up franchise (film), 195 281–82
Sterling, Alton, 102 Thurmond, Strom, 112
Stern, David, 141–42, 148 T.I., 10, 204n2
Stew, 94 Tiffany Room, 69
Stewart, Jon, 37, 39 Till, Emmett, 101–2
Stewart, Martha, 275 Till, Mamie, 102
St. Ides Malt Liquor, 185 Timbaland, 242
Stonewall Riots, 63 Timberlake, Justin, 3–4, 9, 242
stop and frisk, 239 Tongues Untied (documentary), 119
Stoute, Steve, 175, 179–82, 184, 186 To Pimp a Butterfly (Lamar), 265
street lit. See urban fiction Tormé, Mel, 61

Index 323
Toro, Terry, 128 debate over, 276; defenders of, 272; as
Touré, 144–45 deleterious, 270; female perspective of,
trademark law, 21, 185; of Black Cool, 187; 269; gangsta rap, dif­fer­ent from, 269; as
Black identity, 176–77; and branding, genre, 269; as inspirational, 279; norms
176–79; civil rights movement, 176; and of reception, 270–71, 274; packaging
race, 186; racial ste­reo­types, trafficking of, and hip hop, 269; primary audience
in, 176–78, 181–82, 186–87 of, 271; racial uplift, 271; relatability
trademarks, 184–85 of, 280–81; self-­denigration, 271; and
Trammell, Matthew, 7 seriality, 278–79; sexual reproduc-
transnationalism: and blackness, 157 tion, as meta­phor, 272–73; ste­reo­types,
Tribe Called Quest, A, 204n2 perpetuating of, 269, 271; structured
Troutt, David Dante, 185–86 optionality of, 282
True to the Game (Woods), 269 Urban Justice Center, 81
Trump, Donald, 5–6, 12–13 urban radio. See Black radio
Tubman, Harriet, 231 U.S. Patent and Trademark Office
Turner, Nikki, 268–69 (uspto), 177–78, 186
Twelve Years a Slave (film), 300 U2, 23n15
twerking, 4, 238–39; diaspora, connection
to, 243; polycentrism, in body, 243; Van Peebles, Melvin, 72
roots of, 242; West African kinship Vats, Anjali, 186–87
with, 242–43 Velosa, Caetano, 262
video blogs, 20
Uganda, 193 Vietnam War, 12
Ulen, Eisa Nefertari, 271 visual art, 20
“Unbreak My Heart” (song), 66 Vozick-­Levinson, 55n25
United Kingdom, 290, 293
United States, 7–8, 12, 29, 55n11, 83, 102, Wade, Dwayne, 134–36, 139, 145, 149
107, 156–57, 209, 210, 214, 219–20, 225, Wahida Clark Pre­sents Publishing, 275
227n2, 238, 243–44, 291–93, 296; Black Walker, Alice, 237
masculinity in, 138–40; cabaret in, Walker, Archie, 64
60–61; hip hop, transforming of, 180; Wallace, Jason, 79, 83
whiteness in, 109 Wallace, Michele, 2, 78–79, 231
University of Michigan, 137–38 Wall of Re­spect (mural), 77–78
University of Nevada at Las Vegas, 137–38 Warhol, Andy, 77
Unorthodox Jukebox (Mars), 54 Warner Bros., 106
uprocking, 197, 202; playing dozens, 198 Washington, DC, 222; as Choco­late City,
urban Black communities: queer men, 212
integral to, 70 Washington Redskins, 178
urban fiction, 283; African American Wayans, Damon, 178
lit­er­a­ture canon, relationship to, Weber, Carl, 275
273; African American ­women in, 22; web series, 20; Black queer lives on, 121–22,
characters, as ego ideals, 280; char- 131. See also individual shows
acters, equal treatment of, 278; as Weheliye, Alexander, 51–52
controversial, 275; criticism of, 269–70; Welsh, Kariamu, 238

324 Index
We Real Cool (hooks), 184 Williams, Pharrell, 144
“Wesley’s Theory” (song), 265 Williams, Serena, 11–12, 23–24n21
West Africa, 243–44 Williams, Tamara M., 128
Westbeth Artists Housing, 225 Williams, Venus, 11
Westbrook, Russell, 134–36, 138–39, 145, 148 Wilson, August, 3, 98; “Pittsburgh
Wesley, Rutina, 120 Cycle,” 3
West, Cornel, 146 Wilson, Cassandra, 95
West, Kanye, 91, 144, 146, 232 Wilson, Jackie, 54
Weston, Kath, 125 Wilson, Judith, 78–79
West, Paula, 72 Winant, Howard, 40
We ­Won’t Budge: An African Exile in the World Winfrey, Oprah, 299
(Diawara), 156 Wiz, The (musical), 234
“What Is This ‘Black’ in Black Popu­lar Wolfe, George, 94
Culture?” (Hall), 1, 22, 96, 203 ­Women on Wednesdays Art and Culture
“What an Experience” (song), 53 Proj­ect (WoW), 225–26
Wild Style (film), 194 ­women’s studies, 289
“Whistle While You Twerk” (song), 242 Wondaland Arts Society, 52
white gaze, 13, 102–3, 138; nba players, 141 Won­der, Stevie, 48
Whitehead, Colson, 273 Woodruff, Hale, 78
whiteness, 109, 141, 147, 283; black mascu- Woodson, Car­ter G., 16
linity, 138–39; and blackness, 144–46; Woods, Teri, 268–69, 275
and civilization, 136; clothing choices, Word/Sardines and Pork ‘n’ Beans, The (Junk-
143; nerd chic, 142, 145; and nerddom, yard Band), 213
135; white vio­lence, 4 World War I, 108
white supremacy, 13–14, 79, 105, 135, 137, World War II, 103, 107, 110–13, 179, 184
144–47, 179, 209, 239; black bodies, 140;
Black cool, 184 X-­Men, 247
white vio­lence, 4
Who, The, 183 Ying Yang Twins, 242
Wiley, Kehinde, 88, 255–56 Yo! mtv Raps, 2
Willetts, Kheli, 105 Young, Lester, 183
Williams, Charisse, 222 Young, Nick, 135
Williams, Dianna, 247 Yoruba rituals, 218, 221
Williams, Jessica, 37, 39
Williams, Juan, 271 Zimmerman, George, 149
Williams, Justin, 48 Zirin, Dave, 147

Index 325
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