What de Blasio Is Learning About White Loyalty


In Virginia, 1630, a white man named Hugh Davis was convicted of “criminal” intimacy” for having sex with a black woman. He was sentenced to a public whipping for “abusing himself”, which would serve as an example to other whites who might challenge miscegenation laws.

By contrast, white laborers who upheld the new racial stratification of the colonial period were rewarded. They received schillings of corn and guns after finishing their tenures, gained racially mandated employment, were eligible for free land and property ownership, and became slave patrolmen in exchange for protecting the white elites.

Mayor Bill de Blasio may be learning similar lessons about both the incentives for white compliance, and the punishments for white betrayal.

I’ve said on Twitter that NYPD’s denouncement of de Blasio is a cautionary tale about the consequences of breaching racial loyalties on an institutional level.

Despite the mob of enraged white trolls in my mentions, I stand by what i said. And ironically, their indignancy helps solidify my point.



White supremacy largely maintains itself through obscuring racial oppression from the oppressed. Through revisionist history, victim-blaming myths, and erasure or derailment of radical anti-racist discourse.

In the remarks de Blasio made about his bi-racial son after the Eric Garner decision he violated the implicit contract of whiteness. That is, to be silent on an individual level about the ways one systematically benefits.

He did not say anything particularly radical. He just inadvertently failed to address racism in any of the neoliberal/colorblind ways that negate white accountability.

When he centered his statement around his bi-racial son (and not himself) it was an acknowledgement of racism with respect to power dynamics.

When he talked about the realities of teaching a black child to interact with police, that was an acknowledgment of privilege.

When he drew connections to the historical framework of racism and law enforcement (rather than couching it into individual anecdotes) it was an acknowledgement of white supremacy on a structural level.

It matters that de Blasio said this for the same reason it matters when anyone with power is vocal about the plight of those less powerful; because it is automatically more credible and valid.

As a white man and public official, de Blasio’s remarks can’t be as readily dismissed as uncritical racebaiting. They had to be realized, or at the very least, heard.

It was not that Patrick Lynch and others believed that de Blasio had “blood on his hands” for the deaths of Wenjian Liu and Rafael Ramos, but for the subsequent acts of black rage they believed were now authorized.

If there was ever a thing so threatening to white supremacy in a pseduo post-racial America it is the notion that black people have a legitimate reason to be angry. That this anger might breed formidable resistance to social control which law enforcement was created to maintain.

To say that state-sanctioned murder exists–to reify it as a tangible experience rather than a figment of the black imagination–is to say that black people can rightfully claim victimhood, that grievance is owed, that we may be theoretically human.

So it was crucial that de Blasio be sent a message. So crucial, that even after he caved under pressure of the police union and called for a break to protests, the NYPD still turned their backs on him.

Twice. And despite Bratton’s request.

The back turning confirmed what we already knew: the NYPD does not care about their fellow cops as much as they care about penalizing de Blasio for implicating the state as the oppressor. That Liu and Ramos were more useful as scapegoats in demonizing (black) protestors and redeeming myths of cop heroism.

I do not laud de Blasio for good “allyship” or suggest that he’s made some arduous sacrifice in centering race. In reality, his statements erased black womens’ experiences with state violence and he later regressed with pro-police rhetoric.

But he is emblematic of just how easy it is to illicit white backlash, and how effectively it coerces white silence. Just as it always has.

In Times Like These (Ferguson)


I never feel more black than in times like these.

My natural human inclination to see myself from the inside out flips in reverse and my double-consciousness becomes more tangible than ever.

I can always expect that white American tragedies will be met with a collective understanding of the oppressors and the victims, with justifiable rage, sympathy, and concern.

But not in times like these.

In the wake of the Ferguson Grand Jury decision, my interior life as a black person is highly juxtapositional with the white American consciousness.

Black people in America pour over media coverage in anguish, (names of dead kids scrolling across news tickers) which for whites is merely a “special report”, an interruption to the usual programming.

We perform activism in violent social media spaces while they upload cat pics to Instagram.

We vocalize radical outrage while White Liberals derail with colorblind indignation.

We endure the subsequent waves of white hostility at the same time they call for non-violence and respectable lawfulness.

We grapple with the cognitive dissonance of black American “citizenship”; of being forcibly complicit in a state that is allowed to kill us with impunity.

And we do this all while occupying the very same physical space as whiteness. A space of interpersonal relationships; white people as friends and colleagues and romantic partners who live and work around us and yet are hopelessly disconnected from the realities that plague us.

For too long ,blackness has been the invisible/hypervisible subset of the world, removed from anything vaguely human. Yet as multiculturalism thrives, so does the pervasiveness of anti-blackness; the more accessible racial proximity becomes, the more paradoxically isolated we feel.

It’s as if we’re always brushing past one another in opposite directions, close enough to feel the friction of skin without ever actually touching.


In times like these I never feel more like a black woman, either.

Never more ostracized from an anti-racist narrative that continues to be cis, heterosexual, and male centered. The sons and fathers and husbands who are inexplicably bound in our racialized struggles yet push us to the margins of visibility. The black men who still subject us to acts of violence, even as we stand on the front lines for their victimhood.

The way a Hoodie or hands-up /”dont shoot” now evokes the image of Trayvon Martin, Jordan Davis, or Mike Brown, and yet we have no iconography that embodies black girl pain or the cultural lexicon to even describe it.

They way we can never talk about the vilification of black male hood without undermining the ways in which our bodies are also systematic prey. That patriarchy still leads racial discourse, shapes organizational strategy, and catalyzes movements.

The more marginalized my lived experiences, the more Othered I become. And on the scale that is Ferguson–a global media platform where in blackness is seen but not tolerated (and black womanhood is invisible altogether)–where my powerlessness can be objectively realized but still subjectively interpreted–otherness is magnified by the tenfold.

I’m not suggesting an “empathy gap”, surely we can empathize with people who are not like us. And to attempt to appeal to the moral sense of the oppressor is futile when they do not believe they are acting to the contrary, when the structural and social circle of humanity is so small that anyone outside of it cannot be justifiably harmed. But I am articulating a dilemma between power and the self, and the formers’ ability to remain detached, even as you engage with it in the most intimate ways. How it is terrifyingly oblivious, even when you have its full attention.

So when black men fail to be inclusive in their politics, I am still not surprised. And when Darren Wilson says that he does not regret killing Michael Brown, I believe him. I never expected Ferguson to make black lives matter, I just forgot how lonely it would feel.

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Race, Class, and Cancer: Reflections On My Brother’s Death

(Dominik, at prom)

On May 14, 2013 at 3:46 P.M, my 22-year old brother was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The single cataclysmic moment that makes all time before it irrelevant. The kind of shit that almost makes you wish God was real.

It was something called Renal Medullary Carcinoma, (RMC) an extremely rare mastectic cancer found in young black males with the sickle cell trait.

He’d inherented a genetic mutation for the disease, most likely from someone on my grandmother’s side. The only symptom he’d complained about–back pain–turned out to be a massive tumor in his kidney that had already metastasized. The doctor gave him a prognosis: four months to live, maybe five.

Cancer would fling us into an interminable rabbit hole for the next six months. A surreal haze of highways on which we’d travel, two hours every week, to Ann Arbor and back just for treatment. A maze of hospitals with endless white corridors and sickly fluorescent light; of sleeping in waiting rooms and living out of vending machines.

We would know the nurses by name; become familiar with the sound of their shoes on linoleum floors and the perpetual smell of antiseptic and rubber gloves. We would sit in the offices of stern-faced doctors who constantly reminded us that it was “aggressive” and “incurable”, that–no, the tumors have not responded to treatment, but can I prescribe something for the symptoms? My brother was essentially a chart of diagnostic mysteries. A guinea pig in paper gowns. A host of procedures , a series of laboratory tests and vital signs and MRIs and CT scans and EKGs, and X-rays and always, always bad news.

Chemos were long. He was tired all of the time and if he wasn’t tired, he was depressed so it didn’t matter. He spent his days tethered to the living room sofa, sleeping through sadness and watching made-for-TV movies in the dark. Sometimes he’d read the bible, and other times he’d just lie there, writhing with agony, muttering “shits” and “fucks” under his breath. He always wanted to be alone.

He developed a peculiar walk; his arms would lock at the elbows, sticking out behind him and his back would hunch over like he was afraid that if he stood up straight he’d break. Like the cancer had contorted his body, twisting his limbs in ways too exhausting to unravel.

His life revolved around the medication. Pills were to be taken religiously–almost ritualistically–like clockwork in proper doses with proper specifications. Orange bottles invaded our coffee table, all lined up in neat little rows with labels we’d memorized and tablets we discerned without looking. Every pill had a side effect and every side effect had a cure for that side effect.

He got skinny. Very skinny. At about 6’0″ tall he’d whittled down to somewhere around 108 lbs, which meant that you could see the vertebraes in his back almost well enough to count them. His shorts hung around his pelvic bones where his hips used to be and his biceps were small enough to fit a hand around. Sometimes he’d stand up and my breath would catch in my throat and I’d have to advert my eyes. Sometimes his head looked too big for his body.

Even his voice changed. Something monotone and alien. I tried to talk only when he needed talking to. Eventually we’d stop talking altogether.

That summer my brother became a Sick Person. Someone who wore masks in public when mere contact with people was a threat to his health. Someone whose balding head and gaunt face prompted stares or looks of pity. Someone people stopped me —in supermarkets or post offices or bathrooms– to ask about in hushed tones. Someone you tip-toed around with awkward exchanges or Get Well Soon cards. Someone watching life vicariously from a hospital bed. Someone completely eclipsed by his disease.


My mom wasn’t the mom anymore, and I wasn’t the older sister. She was the full-time nurse, responsible for day-to-day care, and I was some kind of patient advocate, spending hours on the phone or the internet, researching medical centers that promised a “cure”.

We were both racing around frantically in Strong Black Woman mode, trying to play superheroes, exhausted and terrified, convinced we could single-handedly keep him alive.

This is why the cultural conceptualization of life with cancer is grossly misleading.

It becomes a “journey”, some stylized montage of personal growth and spiritual revelations to cross off your bucket list.

When in reality, dying of cancer is really just matter-of-fact. Made tragic only by its complete lack of melodramatic glamour. It is lonely. No one comes to visit like they should and you become very aware that the world will continue to rotate just perfectly fine without you.

Or cancer is a celebration of survivorship. Romanticized ideas of “strength” and “courage” that rely on tenets of individual triumph. Where those who live become “survivors” and those who don’t, simply did not fight hard enough.

We call it a “battle”, but once you see it up close it is clearly an act of subjugation. You are really no match for it. It’s malignancy extends beyond the body, and disseminates into the rest of your life. Your family, your friends, your romantic relationships, your wallet, your sense of self, your spirit. It’s dominance is eminent. You submit to it, it makes you it’s bitch. You’re the thing it merely toys with in its passtime, and kills once it is bored.

The last time I saw my brother wasn’t especially dramatic. I was lying in bed, watching him in the hallway as he left for chemo that morning. He was wearing an orange sweatshirt.

That afternoon my mother called to tell me the cancer had spread; his lungs had filled with fluid and his organs were shutting down by the day. She said my brother hadn’t even cried when they told him, just sat there with a strange look on his face.

That weekend his heart stopped during a routine procedure and he was sustained on life support. A week later, on November 4th, 2013, he died in the hospital.

The funeral wasn’t the funeral I would’ve pictured. It was short, and I mostly stared at my shoes, ignoring the perfunctory sermons on “God’s will” . I cried once, toward the end, when it dawned on me that his actual corpse was in that actual box and he was actually gone. and then it all sort of runs together.

The race and class realities that contoured my brother’s illness were not at all lost on me.

I find myself angry at the erasure of his experiences through media that continues to focus on white middle-class youth. Brittany Maynard, 29, dominated recent coverage and became the “face” of the Right to Life movement when she chose to end her life after being diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. Stephen Sutton, 19, (terminal bowel cancer) raised more than 1million dollars after posting his 46-item bucket list to Facebook. Talia Castellano, 14, (lukemia) became a YouTube sensation known for her beauty tutorials and daily vlogs. She garnered over 1million subscribers, appeared on the Ellen Degenerous show, was featured in Cover Girl ads, and has her own non-profit.

But when you are poor and black you are not fascinating enough to the white gaze to warrant that kind of sympathy. You won’t gain the notoriety that immortalizes your suffering. You don’t inspire social awareness or material generosity. You don’t get to be the hero. You die quietly, and no one even notices.

In terms of class, I’m forced to accept that he couldn’t travel to private facilities for (alternative) RMC treatments because our insurance didn’t cover it.

He didn’t always eat the “vegan-non processed-macrobiotic” diet recommended to boost his immune system, because we couldn’t afford to shop at Whole Foods.

His life insurance policy lapsed after my mom was laid off, and after he was diagnosed no company would touch him. We scraped together what we could to pay for his funereal, but with no insurance money, we were left with his bills. Traffic tickets or debt collectors that continued to harass us, even after we’d sent the death certificate.

Most of all, we now shared the financial responsibilities of caring for his daughter Jordynn, who was just three months old when he died.

I wish I could’ve embodied the type of debilitating sadness only middle-class white women can afford. To be Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City after Big left her at the alter; taking to the bed for days, whisking off to some exotic island just to clear my head, sipping cosmos with the girls.

Or maybe that my mom could’ve fallen apart like Mellie in Scandal,drinking at noon, forgetting to shower. Sprawled out beneath her sons grave in Uggs and an old bath robe.

But bills needed to be paid, affairs had to be put in order.

My brother thought of himself as a Real Nigga. He’d bought into the sorts of caricatures of black hyper masculinity that made death by disease less desirable. If it were up to him, I think he would’ve rather been murdered in a drive by shooting ,or killed at the hands of state sanctioned violence. To go out with swagger and street credibility.

In his last few months, he was oddly materialistic; buying cars and big screen TVs and flashing money around strangers. He was disrespectful, taking his anger out on our mother and constantly picking fights with me. It was as if, the more power he lost to cancer, he more he sought to compensate elsewhere.

He had to conceptualize his demise in a way that lacked dignity or reverence, a victimhood that seemed almost feminine, that no amount of macho posturing could change.

And I could see him, struggling to reconcile his Tupac-esque delusions of martyrdom with the tangible realities of The End. To admit his greatest threat was not, in fact, all the very real and systematic dangers a young black boy anticipates, but rather something inanimate, which had hijacked his body without warning.

(Dominik and I at ages 9 and 10)

Nowadays I still ask the proverbial Why Me questions. I’ve long stopped believing in a God but I look for answers elsewhere. In the mathematical probability of all the biological, sociological, and individual happenstance needed to produce a disease for which less than 400 people have ever had.

I contemplate chaos theory; questioning the infinitesimal factors that could’ve led to these events, and which, if any, may have produced different outcomes. If the medical research had been more progressive would we have known enough to take preventive measures? If RMC were a white disease how much more tangible would those measures be? Did his smoking habit trigger his genetic predisposition or was it inevitable? If so, would a healthy lifestyle had prolonged the onset? Would that have even been possible given our income? How many of these circumstances could’ve prevented his death? Would any?

The incessant what-ifs still plague me. The reality and hypothesis always running parallel, like a cinematic split-screen in my head.

My expert ability to compartmentalize leaves people to assume that I’m handling it all fairly well. That I’m “resilient”, the type of girl who slays her demons and walks away unscathed. And while it’s true that they have not yet killed me, I haven’t exactly survived:

I live in constant states of irrational fear. Running to the doctors for the slightest bump which I am always convinced is some fatal illness. Or pacing my house at night, checking and double checking the locks, pre-dialing my phone to 9-11 just in case. The certainty that something catastrophic is always looming. That I should be ready this time around.
My perpetual stress has stopped my menstrual periods.
I am periodically suicidal, depressed, and withdrawn.
I suffer from survivors guilt. I stress eat. I don’t leave my house enough.
I wake up often, in the middle of the night, shaken with vivid memories that offset anxiety attacks.
Sometimes I can’t sleep, sometimes I sleep too much.
There are days that I forget he’s died; instinctively turning to tell him a joke or ask a question, like my life is still on autopilot and no one bothered to turn it off.
I’m still bitter and resentful all of the fucking time.

And I am okay with that. In the expectation of Strong Black Womanhood I can unequivocally admit that I don’t have my shit together. I can revel in it. I can create some semblance of self-care that is selfishly, shamelessly mine.

I haven’t done any of the cliche things you’re supposed to do after you lose someone.

I haven’t been to his grave site because I find it morbid and not particularly helpful.

I won’t go to a therapist because I’m not yet convinced that I can find help which isn’t bundled with religious metaphysics or fix-it-yourself bootstrapism.

I don’t talk about him, (not even with my mother) because I know it is likely to ruin my day. Maybe even my week.

I did get a tattoo–his name in Scriptina font on the nape of my neck–but I was gong to get one anyway and it just seemed like the logical time.

But maybe that’s normal. The first year back from hell is really just protocol anyway. It’s about crawling out of psychological atrophy and shaking out your muscles and relearning how to be normal. It’s approaching everything with caution, inspecting the emotional damage by the square inch, because to feel it all at once might actually destroy what’s left of you.

Everyone always makes you think grief is relatively temporary. The thing for which you must stop your life and tackle head-first before the healing can begin. Though I’ve found that grief and healing are not mutually exclusive, but happen simultaneously. Two interchangeable states of transcendence that ebb and flow and intersect and overlap all of the time. I’m healing even when I am grieving, and even when I’m thinking about something else, I am thinking about him. And I don’t exactly know whether either starts or stops, and if it even matters.

Because there is a pain there. A tumor sized, flesh-eating pain which occupies my body, so tangible I sometimes wonder if it bulges through my skin.

But there are also grateful moments.

Afternoons with my beautiful and happy niece where she will every so often remind me of him–cock her head to the side just so, and smile his chubby-cheeked smile–that makes things easier. Even though I know she’s growing up without him, even though he’s missing everything.

There are conversations with my boyfriend, whose love fills me in places I can’t yet reach. A man who’s fathomed my darkest of thoughts and crouched with me in the darkest of corners.

There is my mom, my best friend, with whom I am continuously in awe. Who somehow manages to love fiercely through her greatest heartbreak. Still howls with laughter and plans for the future and inspires peoples lives with remarkable kindness.

Though there is a quiet tension between us. A strain of a family trying to hold itself up with just two legs where there had always been three. One that wobbles and tilts, threatening to fall now that one of them is missing.

There are times she still shuffles from her bedroom, fallen to pieces, wearing his sweatshirt. And I wipe her face and make her laugh, knowing it will never be enough.


Atheist Sam Harris gave a recent talk about the ways in which the fear of death and a lack of fulfillment could be soothed through a commitment to conscious experience. He said:

If you’re constantly ruminating about what you just did or what you should’ve done or what you would’ve done if only you had the chance, you’re going to miss your life..part of us always knows that we’re just a Drs visit away, a phone call away from being starkly reminded with the fact of our own mortality….[some of] you must know how uncanny it is to be thrown out of the normal course of your life just to be given the full time job of not dying, or caring for someone who is….the one thing people tend to realize in moments like this is that they wasted alot of time when life was normal,…they cared about the wrong things, they regret what they cared about…don’t you know there’s going to come a day when you’ll be sick or someone close to you will die, and you’ll look back on the kinds of things that captured your attention and you’ll [think] ‘what was I doing?’

This of course, struck me as incredibly poignant and yet so ironic that I almost laughed.

Because I am now forced to map my life into Befores and Afters. The chronological crossroads for which they diverge now marked by my brother’s death. I get nostalgic for the part Before; the former versions of myself who would’ve been a little happier, would’ve taken less for granted if they’d only known better–but I try not to dwell.

I mostly take Harris’ advice, figuring out how to be present in my life as best I can. Meditating and doing yoga and listening to good music and trying to keep things in perspective. Sometimes I struggle to find the balance between impulse and control. I am either carpe diem, overindulging in the moment, feeling everything with the rawest of nerves. Or I am a rigid perfectionist, obsessed with accomplishment, terrified that time is running out.

I do not necessarily want to move on now.

“Moving on” seems semantically flawed. Too flimsy or fickle a phrase for the worst thing that has ever happened to you. It implies an ability to somehow exist outside the context of your circumstances; which is impossible. The sum of your experiences modifies your personhood. It marks you, and you carry it always.

My brother doesn’t need to mean anything in particular.

I won’t poeticize his eulogy to make it seem more tragic, or offer his death as a “teachable moment.” Perhaps in my own futile search for “closure”, I need to contextualize his life. To that prove that he was here, and that he mattered. I only want to tell his story because I know that no one else will. And as someone who loved him, I owe him at least that.

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How America Punishes The Poor? –Oh Let Me Count The Ways…

In a recent piece called “How America Punishes People For Being Poor” Rebecca Vallas examines the rise of subprime auto loans against the backdrop of predatory economic policies that systematically burden low-income people. Various ways the poor pay disparate costs including (but not limited to): the rent-to-own industry, pay day loans, and the criminalization of homelessness. The piece also touches on smaller yet equally crucial gaps like the cost of groceries, check cashing/bill paying fees, and even the time it takes to complete daily errands relative to higher-income people.

For what it’s worth, I wanted to expand on the piece, and add a little context that helps to book-end the issue.

As always, there are structural roots and cultural by-products.

Recent studies confirm what we already knew: deregulation of the financial sector provides incentive for Wall Street to make risky investments at the expense of workers and the real economy. It rewards bankers for upping their risk-taking without having the cash to cover their bets under the premise that failed investments will be bailed out at taxpayers expense.

While bankers become richer in high-risk volatility, workers rely (and thrive) on stable market conditions. When Wall Street acts in greedy self-interest, the likelihood of economic recession increases; credit freezes up and widespread unemployment is inevitable.

But for poor people, the relationship between risk and greed have micro effects that cost them substantially more. Deregulation also meant that companies could prey on those with credit issues and low-incomes who were considered “high-risk”. Goods and services previously reserved for the middle class (homeownership, liquid assets, lines of credit) became available to the poor once companies realized they could charge them exorbitant interest rates, late fees, and deposits in exchange.

The trickle down effects coincide with the disparities mentioned in the piece.

For instance, the roughly 10 million households without access to bank accounts (now subject to third-party check cashing fees) can traced be to policy decisions of the 80s and 90s. After Congress removed bank restrictions on interest-bearing accounts (i,e, NOW/Super NOW accounts) banks supplemented the additional interest they paid to depositors by charging in other ways. Higher minimum balances were required and fees for stopped payments and check printing increased exponentially. Poor people who couldn’t afford it were forced to cash paychecks at grocery stores, pawn shops, and convenience stores (with similarly high fees) and eat the cost of money orders and other financial services (which Vallas estimates to be $1000 a year for a person making $1500/mo)

This trickled into the rise of subprime auto loans and the rent-to-own industry that promised “no credit/bad credit” financing which often resulted in repossession months into the contract. The customers would typically have made several payments, only to lose the merchandise which could then be leased to someone else.

And it was directly responsible for the infamous subprime mortgage crisis that crashed the housing market in 2007. So desperate to increase the amount of mortgages, banks began relaxing lending standards for credit and collateral; lending to poor (black) people at rates much higher than they could afford.

Even though public officials like Maxine Waters (D-California) brought awareness to subprime mortgages (long before the housing bubble burst) the government would fail to act until the crisis shifted to (white) middle-class families. The net effect of an estimated 12.5 million foreclosures was two-fold: it left poor people even more vulnerable to homelessness and dried up blue collar construction jobs more likely to leave them unemployed.

I think understanding the link between predatory capitalism and deregulation gives a framework for which to link the causes of these systematic punishments with the effects.

And then I started to think about even more ways people pay more for low socio-economic status. Things informed by my lived experiences with poverty that the article missed:

Other Little Known Ways America Punishes The Poor

1. Student loan debt. — It’s obvious that student debt punishes people for lacking the means to pay college tuition of out pocket and discourages class mobility when graduates are saddled with debt. But it’s also worth noting that the waystudent loan debt is classified on credit reports is a likely contributor. Instead of listing all loan disbursements as one collective account, each disbursement is sometimes listed as three separate ones, which is interpreted as different types of debt and is likely to drop credit scores. Then come subsequnet ripple effects: lower credit means less likelihood of finding a high-paying job (many jobs now require credit checks) which lowers the likelihood of paying down loans. Credit scores drop even further, making income-building opportunities like homeownership and entrepreneurship harder to achieve. Income plateaus or decreases proportionate to debt and the cycle continues.

2. Cell phone deposits. — (I know people who have paid upwards of $700 for a two year contract agreement that higher income people may pay $99, or attain for free)

3. Renting homes in impoverished (and racially segregated neighborhoods). — Real estate companies will charge monthly rent that outweighs the total value of the home while still requiring tenants to perform maintenance duties without the benefits of equity. And private property owners will often be slumlords who make tenants eat the cost of repairs.

4. Money Wiring Fees.– Without access to bank accounts that offer free money transfer, poor people resort to receiving (and sending) money via Western Union or Money Gram. The fees increase in proportion to the money you send which ultimately limits the amount of money one can attain when borrowing from family/friends when in financial tight-spots.

5. Prepaid card fees. — Low income people with access to bank accounts also resort to pre-paid cards to pay bills or shop online. These cards (Walmart prepaid, Green Dot, Visa gift) all have an average fee of $5 every time you need to reload money, as well as random hidden service charges.

6. Late fees and reconnection charges for bills. — (I once had to pay my cable bill two months in advance to get it re-connected which totaled approximately $250) Many companies also charge fees for people who can’t afford/don’t want auto-pay, sometimes as high as $10/mo)

7. Shopping at higher priced stores. — The article mentions low-income people paying more for groceries because they don’t have proximity to stores that sell bulk or room to store it. I would also add the yearly cost of the membership at bulk stores (Sam’s Club, Cosco) as well as the higher prices of convenience stores typical in low-income areas.

8. Subsidized housing– Poor people who benefit from subsidized housing pay rent in proportion to their income (typically 30%) but this also means that the more they make, the higher the rent will be. If they chose to work more to earn more money, they end up with less disposable income because most of it will go to rent. If they can’t (or chose not to) work more, the rent remains low but so does their total income. Either way, they can never manage to make enough money to end the cyclical rut of income in/expenses out)

9. State benefits are reduced for poor people who live together– If subsidized housing is not an option, poor people with state benefits might live together to reduce the cost of living expenses by splitting it among roommates. However, individual state benefits among people who live together are considered “household income” and may be reduced in many states.

10. Social security disability income– the application process for social security disability is a long and tedious one that requires applicants to prove a medical or mental ailment that prevents employment. But because the process takes an average of one year (and some longer if applicant is denied and appeals) the applicant has to somehow survive without a pay check while waiting for a decision. To pay for living expenses, the applicant may be forced to take a job despite his/her disability. But if they do, it will be assumed that they can hold a job and their application may be denied.

In my cultural contextualization of it all, I’m reminded of how right James Baldwin was when he said, “anyone who has else ever struggled with poverty knows how extremely expensive it is to be poor.” A paradoxical truth that speaks to the way class oppression self maintains; by forcing one to work within the constraints of capitalism to combat its negative effects.

That is, we need money to buy things that grant access to middle-class lifestyles and yet we need middle-class lifestyles to buy these things.

Coincidentally, these things are most likely to become the source of predatory loans and cyclical debt. The gatekeeping of class status markers that seems to say: we’ll let you into this world, but you’ll have to pay for it.

And for someone who has spent their life in states of economic enslavement, even the mirage of class mobility—no matter how temporary–is terribly seductive.

You eventually get tired of peering into the store front window from the outside, fantasizing about all the shiny pretty things you wish you had. You will, at some point, decide to go inside; wander around a little bit, try on something luxurious just to see how it feels against your skin, even though you know you could never afford to take it home.

Snoop vs. Iggy Azalea: Beefs, Black Women, and Interracial Relationships

On a personal level, I was mostly disinterested in the recent beef between hip-hop artists Snoop Dogg/Lion and Iggy Azalea.

On a symbolic level, however, I found it to be emblematic of the political dynamics of black men and white women in hip-hop and beyond.

More importantly, I found it to be crucially demonstrative of the ways in which black women inevitably lose in the context of these dynamics. A critique that seemed to be lost amidst bad memes and misguided analysis.

White feminists fell over themselves writing lazy think pieces about the misogyny in hip-hop that ignored the racial and cultural context of the music. Black men derailed conversations about Snoop’s sexism; turning legitimate callouts into rants which seemed to imply that if we couldn’t handle the dog-eat-dog nature of the rap game, we shouldn’t grab the mic. Black women were effectively erased in tug-of-war of gender or racial loyalties.

So business as usual.

If Snoop Lion and Iggy Azalea will represent the figurative marriage between black men and white women in America, this beef might as well be the divorce.

Even in the marital aftermath, black women had to be ones to ask the more pertinent question: where had black men in hip-hop been when we needed them? Or, as @SorahyaM said on Twitter, “show me one time anyone (other than black women) stood up for a black female rapper when she was being dragged.”

As if the epistemological history of hip-hop was lost on them, black men seemed to have forgotten that it was never been a safe space for black women. Rather, than challenge black male misogyny, it was more often an opportunity for it to become more formidable.

Virtually no one came to Nicki Minaj’s defense when rapper Gucci Mane spread sexually denigrating rumors about her on Twitter. Or Azealia Banks when T.I took to Instagram, calling her a “monstrosity of a maggot ass bitch”. Certainly not Karrine Steffans (aka “Superhead”) who was ruthlessly slut-shamed after authoring the Video Vixen series, which divulged the details of her sexual (and abusive) relationships with black men in hip-hop.

Relatively speaking, hip-hop has been a safer space for white women to enter. Even those like Miley Cyrus whose appropriation of blackness (to the point of caricature) was seemingly less offensive because it took gendered form. It was black female bodies she used as minstrel props in her 2013 VMA performance and her video for “We Can’t Stop”. It was twerking–a catchall for black female depravity–she found “risque” enough to live out her white girl sexual empowerment fantasies.

This is still the honeymoon phase of interracial matrimony, when no one is concerned about having not invited black women to the wedding.

Certainly not Iggy Azalea, whose entire capital appeal lies in her ability to commodify black female bravado, without suffering the social consequences of actually being a black woman. She earns her coins making us palatable to the white audience; a way they might encounter our style, beauty, and culture without having to accredit it. Black women then, must act as the subpar backdrop by which her whiteness can be centered and reaffirmed in black femcee spaces. And we become the wallpaper in the house in which we built.

Perhaps life as newlyweds is so blissful in the beginning because both partners have such high expectations of the relationship.

Black men seek white women for all the obvious reasons: internalized anti-blackness, fondness of Eurocentric beauty, or markers of class status. But also as a consequence of male privilege. White women provide the incentive for fulfilling white supremacist patriarchal ideals. Part of the eagerness in which black men seek non-black women is predicated on the belief of their inherent submissiveness relative to black women. Its the grand hope that they will finally crack the color code of femininity that guarantees complete control. Women who can be tamed and groomed properly, who know how to treat a man, who stay in their place, who stay in the back.

The black male role in interracial relationships is often cast (particularly in pop culture) as unbridled racial worship. But black men only really praise white womanhood to the extent that they provide patriarchal leverage.

Snoop came for Azalea because she somehow challenged black male authority in a way that made her whiteness (as it pertained to him in that moment) obsolete. When she failed to perform his idealization of white femininity she became just another bitch.

White women seek black men for other, more obvious reasons. That is–lust, awe, and respect for which their proximity to white men makes them feel entitled. It was easy to see why white feminists could be indignant about Snoop’s sexism and discern Azalea as the only one of its victims who needed to be rescued. They’d witnessed a type of voracious misogyny they never thought they’d be subjected to.

The pedestal of white womanhood is contingent on its physical and moral superiority (relative to black women) which requires patriarchal endorsement. Their attraction to black men derives from the tantalization of danger and sexual exoticism (via racialized myths) but also by their need to solidify female superiority.

Iggy Azalea was offended not only because the source of the misogyny was black and male, but also because it potentially leveled her with black women. When Snoop failed to do his part to uphold the feminine racial hierarchy he became just another nigger.

To be clear, i’m not suggesting the social and structural power of black men and white women to be equal (obviously white women access more) or that those power differences disappear in the context of interpersonal conflict. But I am suggesting a commonality in the ways by which they seek to climb these structural and social echelons on the backs of black women. Moreover, how the mutual subjugation of black women (and each other) become the litmus test for achieving it.

And its precisely the potential to finally wield white male power–more than the proverbial “forbidden fruit”–that makes the black man/white woman dynamic so inciting. The push-pull of abusive tactics and manipulation that fuels any sick love story.

Inevitably though, there comes the divorce. And like any good divorce, it is messy and public: property is divided, daggers are thrown, sides are taken.

During the beef, Snoop recognized Nicki Minaj as a successful hip-hop artist who is “sitting with other female rappers” a diss which implicated Azalea as a less reputable femcee. He did this while caricaturizing her blondeness in a meme which compared her to the film White Chicks (where black actors Shawn and Marlan Wayans disguise themselves as white bimbos).

Ironically, her Barbie image (the very thing black men fetishized) was now a justifiable reason to criticize her lack of realness and talent in the game. It was only when he needed to instigate female competition (using Nicki as the crux of offensiveness) did black women become visible at all.

Azalea’s response to Snoop was pointedly feminist. She tweeted: “women are supposed to sit back and let men shit on them,” then “If we question it, we are ’emotional’, ‘butt hurt’, or just a BITCH. nothing new tho.” A response made absurd by her history of racist/homophobic/transphobic comments in regards to women. It was only when she needed a (black) scapegoat to frame her victimhood in a misogynistic attack did she illicit Sisterhood.

Upon the demise of their political courtship, it’s as if all the things they once loved about each other become the spawn of bitterness and broken hearts. And black women, of course, must be there to pick up the pieces.

The black man will need us to be the Patient Ex-Wife who held it down when he left her for bigger and better things, so grateful to have him back she’s willing to forgive it all. They will need us–as always–to forge racial allegiance at the expense of ourselves. To help curate black male misogyny because for once we aren’t its primary target.

The white woman will expect us to be the Supportive Girlfriend who listens while she bitches over cocktails about all the ways he fucked her over; hoping to be seen, hoping to finally be let into her super secret feminist club.

Inevitably, the Snoop Lions and Iggy Aszleas of hip-hop will find themselves squaring off for a battle of dominance that neither can ever really win. Like the black men and white women who find new partners to walk down the aisle in search of bigger power, only to end up bitter and empty-handed.

Black women will continue to pose a threat to these unions, for which we must remain silent and invisible for the sake of the relationship. Until they need our help to fix it after it’s gone.

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Mark Cuban’s (Dis)Honest Conversation About Race

If we’re paying attention, white people are mostly quite frank about race. One time in high school, at a cookout, a white girl told me an earnest story about the way her grandmother still refers to black people as “colored.” Another time, a group of white kids sat about a foot from me and openly discussed the racial epithets they’d sometimes think (or say) whenever they’d been cut-off by black drivers in traffic. A few years ago, a white woman in a religious studies class raised her hand and reluctantly admitted to associating all Muslim people with terrorism. At my last job, the white manager warned employees to watch Asian women in the store to ensure they didn’t shoplift. “I’m sorry if this sounds racist” she’d said “but it’s always those tiny Asian ones who steal”

They’d all been, for what’s it worth, “well-intentioned” whitefolk. Some of them were friends, others were wide-eyed liberals on the “right side” of The Fight and eager to Learn. All of them had fashioned themselves as just having been honest.

But incidentally, none of this mattered much to me at the time. Their honesty hadn’t managed to soften the subsequent blows of their words. I hadn’t felt relieved or appreciative of their willingness to be transparent, nor did we join hands in the sudden emergence of post-racial America. Racism did what racism always does: evoked shame, humiliation, and anger; silenced me, objectified me, broke me, victimized me in an act of violence.

Mark Cuban’s honesty, we decided, was somehow different. In a interview with Inc. Magazine, Cuban discussed race on the heels of the Donald Sterling controversy, saying:

“In this day and age, this country has really come a long way putting any type of bigotry behind us, regardless of who it’s toward,” Cuban said Wednesday. “We’ve come a long way, and with that progress comes a price. We’re a lot more vigilant and we’re a lot less tolerant of different views, and it’s not necessarily easy for everybody to adapt or evolve.

I mean, we’re all prejudiced in one way or another. If I see a black kid in a hoodie and it’s late at night, I’m walking to the other side of the street. And if on that side of the street, there’s a guy that has tattoos all over his face — white guy, bald head, tattoos everywhere — I’m walking back to the other side of the street. And the list goes on of stereotypes that we all live up to and are fearful of. So in my businesses, I try not to be hypocritical. I know that I’m not perfect. I know that I live in a glass house, and it’s not appropriate for me to throw stones.

I’ll try to give them a chance to improve themselves, because I think that helping people improve their lives, helping people engage with people they may fear or may not understand, and helping people realize that while we all may have our prejudices and bigotries we have to learn that it’s an issue that we have to control, that it’s part of my responsibility as an entrepreneur to try to solve it, not just to kick the problem down the road,” Cuban said. “Because it does my company no good, it does my customers no good, it does society no good if my response to somebody and their racism and bigotry is to say, ‘It’s not right for you to be here. Go take your attitude somewhere else.'”

Reactions to his comments were peculiar but not surprising. Black and white liberals gushed about his “courage”, hailing him as being a “giant step ahead of most of America.” They’d said his comments, unlike Sterling, contained introspection that he “shouldn’t be punished for.”  That he deserved “credit” for speaking openly. And anyone who took issue with his statement was hindering the “progress” of an “honest conversation about race.”

But let’s look at the context of Cuban’s interview. He evokes the undeniable image of Trayvon Martin without  acknowledgement of system of white supremacy that conditions him to fear “a black kid in a hoodie.” Nor is the racial imagery attached to an understanding of the white privilege from which he benefits; never having experienced racial microaggressions himself. No critique of the racist mythology of black deviance that sanctions the criminalization and murder of people of color. No mention, in fact, of whiteness at all.

He contextualized blackness only within the safe backdrop of race-neutral “biases”; throwing in a tattooed white guy for good measure. The implication of racism existed in an ahistorical vacuum, floating somewhere between white guilt and colorblindness; unweighed by anything that would illicit blame or interrogation, a collective racism with no real oppressors and no real victims.

Mark Cuban’s statement was confessional, seemingly genuine and introspective. It wasn’t dripping with Sterlimg’s maliciousness, nor mentioned racial epithets or even thinly-veiled code words. It failed to evoke the familiarity of cliché racism, so we didn’t read it as such.

Part of this is due to the lack of cultural understanding of what racism actually is. “Post-racial” liberalism continuously conflates racism (the institutional oppression and racial stratification of people of color via white supremacy) with individual prejudices (preconceived notions of another group/person on a social, micro level.) The former requires the presence of power and privilege (of whiteness) to be realized; the latter amounts to hurt feelings at best.

This lack of understanding gives way to misguided conversations about race that often use “prejudice” and “bias” in lieu of words that acknowledge systematic ties to racism. Mark Cuban said “attitude” when he meant “oppression”; he said “entrepreneur” when he should’ve said “white people.”

It’s the same type of willful ignorance around the cultural idea that “everyone is a little racist”, which laughably implies that “all of us” somehow perpetuate and experience racism interchangeably. That racism is an inexplicable colorless disease from which we all suffer, rather than what it is; the social ailment of people of color to which whites are indefinitely immune.

In all the praise of Cuban’s “honesty”, we seem to forget that as obstinate to progress as ignoring racism is, equally counterproductive is white refusal to confront it in any way that requires social, economic, or political sacrifice on their part. What good is an honest conversation if not also an effective one? What’s the value of transparency if it’s the wrong window entirely?

Colorblind post-racialism is exhaustively preoccupied with the discourse around racism, and completely disinterested with racism itself. It perpetually diminishes racial oppression to interpersonal relationships so the presence of white “niceness” and associations with people of color (“my best friend is black”) makes any claims of racism seemingly ridiculous. It couches the “racist” in an inflexible identity instead of behavior; so it becomes about who “is”/is not racist. As if it something you were born, rather than something you can embody at any given time. It laboriously deciphers the delivery and tone and circumstances of racist language and determines it’s merit by arbitrary standards. And as the list of arbitrary standards grow, so does the list of dis-qualifiers for racial offense. It sets a ceaseless cultural trap wherein racism exists but virtually no one or nothing can ever be racist.

We don’t need a running inventory of every racist internal monologue from white people like Cuban. When we said we wanted to have an honest conversation about race, we meant white relinquishment as facilitators and beneficiaries of the racialized structural power that imprisons people of color on a global level and become responsible for actively destroying it. But I guess we should’ve been more specific.

And in this supposed quest for more “honest” conversations about race, why is the open disclosure concept of post-racial progress never applicable to people of color? Why aren’t we applauded whenever we are forthcoming with the ways racism informs our lived experiences, only to have them invalidated, ignored or silenced? Where is our “credit” for our centuries of honesty we have since paid for with our wallets, our freedoms, our blood?

Because white people are almost never actually concerned about racism, but only controlling the ways that people of color are allowed to combat it. They police the means by which we can discuss it (“stop playing the race card”) legitimize it (“I don’t see color”) hold it accountable (“not ALL white people”) and now acknowledge its existence (through uncritical white voices). It’s a way of recognizing racism only as an abstract concept while actively disguising its inception and obstructing the trajectory to its demise.

Mark Cuban did not have a conversation about race in any of the radical ways deserving of praise or recognition. He semantically maneuvered around the very system that allows him to profit from the performance of black bodies; even as he irrationally fears them. He screamed “progress” without abdicating the lofty throne of privilege. And there is absolutely nothing honest about that.

A Feminist Freak: What Sex and Politics Look Like

I love sex.

More specifically, I love kinky sex. I love to get my hair pulled while I’m being fucked doggy style or bent over a knee for a spanking in a Daddy/Daughter roleplay. I am turned on, at times, by submissiveness; being tied up or held down by my partner during a rough pounding. I masturbate to gangbang porn. I like to deep throat on my knees and swallow after I’ve finished. I love the satisfaction of being sore the next day.

I’m a freak. I’m also a feminist. And the two aren’t mutually exclusive.

The way that feminism and sexuality intersect divide itself into two polarizing ideologies. The first, carved out of second-wave radical feminism, is mostly characterized by anti-sex. It renders sex work, sexy clothing, sexual public display, and pornography (especially hetero/mainstream) as demeaning and objectifying. It implicitly encourages women to detach themselves from conventional ideals of patriarchal beauty and sex appeal; to inhabit a sort of asexuality to be seen for their intellect as opposed to their bodies.

But rather than freeing women, what develops is a form of feminist respectability in which women are expected to present modestly to challenge the male gaze. An ideology that erroneously blankets all female sexual expression as self-denigrative regardless of context, and performs benevolent slut-shaming of its own. It claims to “protect” women from objectification through policing sexuality but only repositions them in a space of objectivity; wherein sexuality is still validated (or invalidated) via patriarchal proximity. It continually “rescues” women from sexual choices with the assumption that those choices can never be made for their own benefit.

The oppositional ideology (embraced by younger feminists) is vehemently pro-sex. It rests on the notion that women are empowered by brazen sexuality; that through nudity, raunchy sexual expression, and masculine sexual imitation, they subvert feminine expectations of chastity and reclaim ownership of their bodies.

But this ideology, too, is ineffective. It mostly benefits cis, straight white women whose privilege allows the adaption of “slutiness” (unlike LBTQ women or women of color) without the stigma of sexual deviance. It automatically conflates sex with power which fails to acknowledge that sex in and of itself is not inherently progressive for women.

Patriarchy socializes women to see sexuality as inextricably linked to reproduction or self-worth. We don’t possess the male privilege needed to sexually operate in heteronormative masculine spaces; to have sex in the mechanical ways in which men are expected. We approach sex cautiously, for pragmatic reasons—fear of unplanned pregnancy (cis), or the threat of danger from unknown partners—but also because it’s entangled with messages of shame, respectability, and male pleasure that hinder our sexual autonomy differently. Our sexual choices don’t always empowering because they’re so often made in relation to men: I want to fuck him, but I want him to respect me or I don’t want to fuck him, but if I don’t he might cheat or he paid for dinner, so I guess I have to fuck him. LBTQ womens’ sexuality is deemed irrelevant altogether unless it can be re-imagined for a male audience. So women generally do not pursue pleasure—as men are trained to do—but negotiate pleasure with the Rules of femininity. Framing sexual liberation as role reversal only recaptures women in equally restrictive expectations of sexual rapaciousness and emotional detachment.

Pro-sex feminists also refuse to critique sex by painting it as “natural” and apolitical; a separate entity somehow untainted by social conditioning and power dynamics. But if we believe that heteronormative socialization is the site of womens’ oppression (as most feminists do) we can’t also hold that private spaces of sex, love, and relationships are somehow exempt from its effects. Sex is so irrefutably bound up in womens subjugation—rape, (social control via sexual violence) reproduction, (state sanctioned sexual control) beauty standards (social control via male pleasure)–that to render it benign and neutral, to claim it’s “just sex” underestimates its weight in dangerous ways.

I think feminist sex is somewhere in the middle. It’s that sweet spot between political prudishness and uncritical hypersexualization. Those flashes of pop cultural lusciousness— Janet Jackson moaning orgasmically in the interludes of a track, or Lil’ Kim bragging about her Head game in the “Magic Stick” or Ciara twerking in the “Ride” video—that conceptualize the potentials of sex-positivity. That crevice of unapologetic libidos and unveiled lust that women can rarely occupy.

Feminism isn’t dogmatic. It’s not reductive to any specific individual behaviors but a collective environment in which women are human and free; so our sex and our politics are able to coexist through the presence of erotic agency.

Agency is what allows me to enter to the un-feminist parts of sex. The ambivalent, politically incorrect, problematic bits of sex without cognitive dissonance. It’s how I can be fully aware of the misogynistic implications of any particular sex act or fantasy with which I engage—to interrogate it intellectually—and simultaneously admit that it turns me on at the most primitive level. I neither (guiltily) ignore my politics nor forfeit the self-care that comes from a complex and enjoyable sex life. Agency is how I make a truce between the battles  of consciousness and self-indulgence, a feminism—as Joan Morgan put it–“that’s brave enough to fuck with the grays.”

The concept of erotic agency also reminds me that submissiveness and powerlessness are not always the same thing. One can take on a submissive (or objectifying) role from a space of power if they also see it as a sexual identity unrelated to the self, to be used for the fulfillment of fantasy and pleasure. The difference between sexual empowerment and exploitation can’t be determined by a woman’s subordinate positioning at any given time, but whether or not she is limited to it, by virtue of gender. If we only ever contextualize feminism in dom/sub binaries, we essentially see domination (and masculinity, by extension) as the only source of legitimate power; that a woman’s failure to be anywhere but on Top is an affront to her politics and her self. But if women don’t have agency, even if they engage in the kind of egalitarian sexual cliches that Good Feminists are supposed to; they are still trapped, still marginalized, still powerless.

And I think feminism has done the work of articulating the many things women don’t want, but we sometimes neglect to think about what we, in fact, do want. How when we have agency in the context of pleasure, it is inherently radical because it rejects the notion that sex has some bearing on our morality, our politics, our personhood; that our bodies and the private things we chose to do with them are still up for public discussion.

When women are allowed to inhabit sexuality in the pursuit of raw pleasure or self-expression–when we can revel in it with utter selfishness without the burdens of shame, censorship, or inhibition, when we can focus on how sex feels, instead of always what it means—that is empowerment.

There’s no real paradigm from which to measure feminist sex because it is tricky and fluid and changes through context–but there are markers of it’s existence.

I know I am having feminist sex when I can unwrap my desire from all of the patriarchal ambiguity, pinpoint it, and act accordingly. When I don’t hesitate to tell my partner how to please me and when or if they’re doing it wrong. When I refuse to fake an orgasm for convenience. When I’m not preoccupied with the way the male gaze perceives my body when the lights are on. When I don’t feel like a slut or a saint or a hypocrite for doing it whenever, however I chose. When I am ultimately fucking for me, and no one else.

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“Dark Girls”: A Critique

I had the recent displeasure of watching Dark Girls, a documentary debuting on the OWN network which discussed colorism within the black community, specifically as it relates to dark-skinned women.

There are many critical pieces on why the film failed to substantially connect colorism within the structural context of white supremacist patriarchy, so I won’t go into detail about that here.

I did, however, want to add a few other things I found problematic about the film and the general reaction to it.

1.) Dark Girls talked extensively about how growing one’s self-esteem can heal the effects of colorism, but failed to see how self-esteem (self-assurance and self-confidence) are largely accessed through privilege. In the context of beauty, our society uses shame as a form of control to perpetuate feelings of inadequacy among marginalized people and maintain the status quo. Shaming certain bodies draws implicit boundaries around appropriate behavior; specifically, who is (or is not) allowed outward displays of confidence. I’ve said before that women are not generally afforded arrogance, cockiness, or self-promotion in a patriarchal femininity that demands humility and “niceness”. When that woman is also deemed “ugly” by societal standards, we use additional shaming tactics to articulate her inability to feel or appear self-confident. We also want shame to be tangible; to visibly identify one’s insecurities, to see slumped shoulders and averted eyes that ensure they know Their Place.

Many dark-skinned women do have healthy self-esteems but the documentary’s unwillingness to show that is partly evident in our comfort with marginal beauty fitting self-loathing narratives, because it is consistent with the status quo. Dark Girls preached self-acceptance and self-love but did not acknowledge how attempts at such are counteracted with shaming techniques. For instance, when fat women exude confidence by wearing clothes typically allotted for thin women and are immediately berated. Or black women who accept their kinky hair texture but are continuously encouraged by others to return to chemical straightening. Self-esteem does not exist in a vacuum; it’s a largely reflective concept that requires some form of reciprocation outside of one’s self.

The distance of black women, especially dark-skinned women, from whiteness places us at the bottom of the beauty hierarchy. It’s short-sighted to demand we feel pride in the very features that fuel our oppression without any structural resistance. Black womens self-image is  shaped by Eurocentrism (both white and male gazes) from birth, and what we will feel about ourselves has largely been determined for us. By current standards, we are supposed to feel ugly and desperately feed the capitalist beauty industry in order to fix it. When we refuse to see our bodies as inherently defective, social backlash immediately follows, trying to convince us otherwise. The film failed to critically examine how healthy self-esteem is afforded only to those society sees as “deserving”, which is contingent on their ability to inhabit beauty norms. We can’t control the distorted ways in which we see ourselves without also combating the distorted ways in which the rest of the world sees us.

2.) The limitations of the Self in the context of oppression also failed to be acknowledged in the film’s framing of black compliance within colorism. Individual exercise of oppressive behavior is usually blamed for social ills or intraracial conflicts without connection to the structural inequalities at work. But even when structure is recognized (as the film occasionally does) our supposed compliance within oppressive strictures is still primarily the problem. Even if we bracket the historical inaccuracies of the “slave narrative” typically used to explain black subservience (seeing as slaves were extremely rebellious) it still manages to oversimplify racial compliance in and of itself.

Compliance in oppressed people and those with power and privilege is inherently unequal. Black people (especially black women) don’t move through the world as autonomous beings with full rights, choices, and options. Our “choices” usually aren’t choices at all, but an avoidance of a more unfavorable consequence. We usually have two options–comply with the dominant system or suffer greater oppression at the hands of said system—and the choice is essentially made for us. Marginalized people do not perpetuate their own oppression as an exercise of free will, but out of the need to socially or systematically survive. We do what we have to do.

Compliance is also not an ahistorical concept; it is lived experiences, not inexplicable “self-hate” that encourage colorism, that teach us one’s quality of life is assessed by color-coded criteria. I don’t mean to suggest that no agency exists, or that rebellion is futile, but rather that rebellion is limited by dominant powers. Modern colorblind racism operates on the premise that black people are now “free” to do anything we want, while strategically devising social and systematic obstacles to ensure that we are not. We can’t frame black compliance as blind submissiveness without also recognizing the limited circumstances that make it possible.

3.) Dark Girls also brought up a problematic connection between black women and Eurocentric beauty. While not explicitly stated, the notion that black women—especially those with dark-skin—seek to imitate white women, was embedded in the film. While white supremacist patriarchy (may) cause black women to see Eurocentric features as more desirable, simply saying black women want to “look white” is a gross oversimplification. Black people have a complicated relationship with whiteness. It is one of both fearless resistance and necessary compliance. As much as white supremacy has dictated our lives, we remain skeptical and averse to it at the same time that we look to it for social leverage. Being “white” remains an insult within our community. Very few of us want to literally inhabit whiteness. Just as whites don’t want to be black (and forfeit racial privilege) but co-opt “exotic” elements of blackness; black women only want to borrow white features to align themselves with white supremacist patriarchal standards.

Light skin, straight hair, and keen facial features are often desired, but the curvy bodies (“thick” hips, thighs, and butt) typically lacking in white women, remain extremely important to black women. The way that gender complicates racism puts black women in a unique position: halfway between the white male gaze and the black male gaze, trying to simultaneously appease both. It requires the strategic cherry-picking of physical elements that balance both patriarchal entities, and leaving the ones that don’t. The tendency to believe that black women desire a total erasure of the black female self erroneously frames our adaption of Eurocentric beauty as inherent “envy” of white women, while ignoring the ways in which we pridefully reject white femininity.

While Dark Girls did succeed in articulating the emotional and psychological pain of colorism through the stories of black women; I just wish it hadn’t missed so much truth in between.

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Michelle Obama And Her Right to Anger

I conceptualize Michelle Obama as a metaphor for modern black womanhood. Not representative of individual black women, but rather the perpetual tightrope walk that black femininity entails. If you watch her closely, you can see her perform the acts of juggling race and gender with expectations of assimilation and respectability. The way she negotiates her identities with the duties of First Lady and the subsequent sacrifices. She embodies an exhaustive catch-22: the controlling images that trap black women with the very tactics they use to escape them.

We can examine this metaphor within the context of Tuesdays ordeal: the First Lady’s confrontation of the heckler who interrupted her speech at a fundraising event.

The heckler–Ellen Sturtz–told the Washington Post that Michelle Obama “came right down” in her face, that she was “taken aback” by her reaction. Reports of the First Lady as “monster” with “unscripted anger” from various new outlets immediately followed. And Nicholas Kristof tweeted that it was “not her finest moment.”

From the other side, supporters applauded the confrontation using equally dominating imagery: claims that Michelle Obama “handled” her heckler, “told her off”, that she “put her in her place.”

The forceful language used to describe her behavior on both sides served as a cultural reminder: black women in America do not have a right to anger.

Black women are aware of how the stereotypical representations of our bodies have made “anger” a colored and gendered term; the threat of the Angry Black Woman and her inevitable consequences. The way she seamlessly morphs us into caricatures, reinterprets our legitimate anger as irrational, negates respectability, and marks us as aggressive, “scary”, and domineering.

White women, although limited by gender, gain access to anger through white privilege, evident in their ability to inhabit it without the residue of historical connotations. Middle-class status for black women is dependent on their navigation of anger in white spaces; to tip-toe around it like a landmine we’re afraid of detonating.

The Angry Black Woman’s proximity to black femininity means that it inherently limits black womens’ ability to be emotionally nuanced.

We never assumed that Michelle Obama may have also felt vulnerable, uncomfortable, or sad the night she was heckled. Our unwillingness to assess anything but anger to her experience absolves her ability to feel anything else.

The essentialism of Angry Black Womanhood creates a restrictive space for emotional expression where anger (and its variants) are the only valid options-both in our assumption that black women don’t feel other emotions, and our inability to recognize it once they do.

So then comes the irony: we arm ourselves with notions of white femininity to eschew the Angry label and run headfirst into Strong Black Womanhood on the other side. Though born out of Womanist efforts to acknowledge our ability to overcome racist/sexist obstacles, the flipside of the Strong Black Woman can be problematic. In adhering to the expectations of strength we implicitly agree that any show of weakness, sadness, or defeat equates to collective failure.

And so black women are caught in an almost inescapable trap; to either using anger as catharsis at the expense of all other feelings, or to mute it entirely behind the calloused posturing of “strength”. Two cultural archetypes that engage us in a bizarre sort of tug-of-war wherein humanity is stolen regardless of who wins.

The personification of anger within a historical context means that it will always present itself in a black female form. To be a mark of authentic black femininity and to feel, even to us, so attached to our bodies that we mistake it for innateness.

The consequences of anger also manifests itself in the further silencing of black women. That whenever we chose to validate the pain (or pleasure) of our lived experiences, it is filtered through oppressive concepts and gets lost in translation. That whenever we exercise vocal autonomy-like Michelle Obama–only to have it mischaracterized as “angry”, it is sometimes easier to say nothing at all.

Just once, in my black female body, I’d like to move through the emotional spectrum as freely as white women often do. I want to identify with notions of strength without it encapsulating my entire being. I wish I could get angry, really fucking angry, and have it mean only that.

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A Female President, Barack Obama, and the Power of Symbolism: A Response to Amy Schiller.

In a response piece entitled The Feminist Case Against A Woman President, Amy Schiller critiques feminist Jessica Valenti for proposing that she would vote for a female president in 2016. In her piece, Why I’m Voting For Her, Valenti essentially said that she was “fed up” with the endless cycle of sexism and thought electing America’s first woman—while acknowledging that women candidates do not guarantee feminist outcome– would be a “hopeful reminder of progress made.”

Schiller’s response essentially argued three points:

1.) Electing a woman as president (for example, Hillary Clinton) would still be a simplistic solution to sexism, as well as an empty symbolic gesture.

2.) That a female president isn’t actually needed for feminist progress because its gains have mostly been realized (using the backlash around Todd Akin’s “legitimate rape” comments as evidence of said gains.)

3.) That a woman in office would do no more to combat sexism than Barack Obama’s presidency has done to combat racism, conveniently quoting Frederick C. Harris as saying:

“…Mr. Obama, in his first two years in office, talked about race less than any Democratic president had since 1961. From racial profiling to mass incarceration to affirmative action, his comments have been sparse and halting…when it comes to the Obama presidency and black America, symbols and substance have too often been assumed to be one and the same.

Okay. So many problems here.

For one, Schiller largely trivialized the importance of symbolism and visibility.

Symbolism matters. In a country with very specific controlling images and historical connotations that attach themselves to certain bodies, seeing said bodies in spaces not originally reserved for them matters. Seeing someone who looks like you grasp forbidden kinds of power and provide a schematic reference for possibility, matters. The concept of fictive kinship that creates a sense of pride when one of Us has Made It, matters.

Visibility is also an extremely powerful concept. In a culture that sees marginalized people only through peep shows of white supremacist, patriarchal perspectives–that are always obscured through bias–lack of full recognition becomes a marker of second-class citizenship.

For marginalized bodies to enter public spaces and demand visibility not filtered through oppressive gazes–to be seen in any autonomous way at all, matters.

But here’s what also matters:

Barack Obama as the President of the United States has been one of the most vivid confirmations of racism in a post-Jim Crow America.

Folks usually critique Obama for his reluctance to talk about race, and rightfully so. But we usually neglect to acknowledge that while he may avoid explicit racial discourse, it doesn’t mean that no implicit discourse has been made.

Policy-wise, he has done race work: his Affordable Healthcare Act will reduce health disparities for millions of African-Americans and raise Medicaid eligibility. Almost half of undergraduate Pell Grants under the Obama administration were received by black students—higher than any other group. He also signed the Recovery Act in law, which helped keep a disproportionate number of blacks out of poverty through tax credits, increase in food stamps, and funded re-training for the unemployed.

This is not to say that there aren’t numerous policy and social critiques to be made about Obama (there are) and that his symbolism negates those critiques (it doesn’t) but to simply to suggest that covert race work is race work nonetheless—its impacts still the same.

More than that, Schiller ignores the very overt race talk that has been had around Obama. In less than four years of his first term, Obama’s presence managed to evoke centuries of white anxiety and classic oppressive behaviors:

The perpetual Othering of his biracial/Kenyan origins, “exoticized” to the point of fetishism. The commentary on his Negro “inefficiencies” (by conservative and white liberals) while simultaneously forcing him into old stereotypes of black maleness. The assassination attempts, Birtherism, xenophobia, and inexplicable skepticism of his abilities and intelligence. The constant reference to him as “Obama” and refusal to use “president” as an authoritative title-like an eerie homage to Jim Crow, when adult black men were referred to as merely “boys.”

Not to mention the media representations of Michelle Obama that, despite her respectability, always sought to reinterpret her as the Sapphire/Mammy/Jezebel tropes of black womanhood.

Before we could only ask the question, “would a black president in America signal post-racialism?” as a hypothetical.

Obamas now give us a resounding emblematic answer: Hell. No.

And in knowing this, we were able to confront race in a “colorblind” America. It gave the black community an archetype in which to acknowledge, analyze, and vent about racial oppression in a cultural climate that had rendered race invisible.

If a woman is elected President of the United States, the same thing will inevitably happen. We can have an opportunity to confront sexism by bringing it to the surface. We’ll be able to dissect gender roles and patriarchal power dynamics. Evoke talk about the beauty myth, ageism, and the consequences of the male gaze. Analyze female sexuality, madonna-whore complexes, and rape culture. And to examine how these issues manifest differently for LGBT/poor/disabled/women of color–through a lens of instersectionality that is too often abandoned in feminist conversations.

I, like Valenti, don’t have simplistic fantasies about being rescued from oppression by public figureheads and symbolism alone. I don’t cater to the concepts of collectivity that make our individual choices bear representation on the entire group. I don’t expect anyone who shares my identities to carry the burden of social justice on my behalf. And I don’t think a marginalized body in a position of power is inherently progressive.

But I also know that diversity is a threat to the status quo, and that marginalized bodies are (not always, but more likely to) enact policy, discourse, and change that benefit the people who look like them—not because of identity “loyalty”, but because your lived experiences encourage action.

The only people who can truly make the best decisions about matters of oppression are those who actually experience it. After centuries of whites creating the policies that disproportionately affect people of color, doesn’t it account for something when at least a colored body is now making these decisions, regardless of outcome? And after centuries of male paternalism determining what is best for women, won’t it matter that these decisions are enacted by someone that can at least live out its consequences?

Schiller seems to think that minimal instances of collective push-back is sufficient progress, that we should “be happy” with the meager gains we’ve made. That Obama’s inability to eradicate centuries of social injustice within a four year period is somehow evidence of failure. A failure that will inevitably be used to justify the blocking of more black and brown people from the Oval Office in the future.

Schiller’s assertions that a female president will actually “dampen” feminism seems to suggest that a victim of oppression in spaces of power is inherently dangerous, that it only makes oppression worse. But we can also look at how this language of skepticism also warned our ancestors not to defy their own oppressive strictures—not to vote, enter segregated institutions, run for office, boycott, march, speak too loudly, speak at all. And knowing that we are forever indebted, because they did it anyway.

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