“Not stepping into that one”: Race & Silence on a Hollywood Reporter Roundtable

Silence is always an interesting indicator, signaling a number of varied emotions. After watching the “Hollywood Reporter” clip above, I’m convinced that the silence here is beset by discomfort and also apathy. When asked about the presence of minority directors in Hollywood, a panel of white directors froze up and decided not to “step into that,” as one stated. The lone black director, Steve McQueen, is then mandated to become the spokesperson for this issue by way of his skin color alone. This is a familiar, albeit disturbing experience that I’ve witnessed and have been on the receiving end of. It’s the inability to pass on a question regarding race because your very existence is synonymous with “race,” while white counterparts are relieved of the need to feel or say anything.

So, what if McQueen decided not to answer that question? What if he remained quiet and decided not to “step into that,” as the other directors? Would that be wrong?  In my own experience, and numerous instances where discussions of “race” are initiated, I find myself unable to remain quiet, partly because I care about the issue being discussed, and partly because there is a very strong expectation by others that I possess some kind of authoritative position on the subject. There is a very interesting intersection here- on one hand choosing to speak because you have something to contribute, but on the other hand being expected to have the “answer” to whatever issues of “race” are propositioned, while others choose to remain silent and outside of the discussion.

At about 00:55 in the video, we see McQueen physically unable to contain his emotion about the topic of the discussion. The screen is split and Mike Mills looks towards him, with an air of discomfort and his arms folded. There is no effort on anyone else’s part to address either McQueen’s or the moderator’s questions. One director states, “I don’t know.” That’s a perfectly reasonable response. The topic is layered and complex and when faced with that kind of question in a televised roundtable, it may be difficult to formulate an answer. My issue has less to do with their choice not to respond, and more with expectations of Mcqueen and other “minorities” to do so. Sometimes we don’t know either. Sometimes we just want to sit there, absolved and unaffected like everyone else. Sometimes we want to have the choice to not engage in a discussion about “race” even though our skin makes us predisposed to contributing to it. It’s the issue of choice, expectation, and association that make this video fascinating to me.

McQueen becomes the center of that choice- his words become exalted to some position of “knowing” because he is black. But I would argue that the other directors have some of that “knowledge” as well- They know why they don’t want to cast black actors in roles, and some may know why or have ideas about why certain blacks films aren’t funded or green-lit by studios, but they have made a choice to sit on this panel and not engage in those ways. Systems of privilege and whiteness have enabled these types of choices, and the “lack” of choice in the case of people of color. In the book White Lies, Maurice Berger states, “Whiteness implied not a color of skin, per se, but a usually unexamined state of mind…(204).” Here, it is excellently exemplified. McQueen is put into the position of “examiner,” determined by race alone. The other directors, by way of race, are not required to say anything about a situation in Hollywood and the country that not only involves them, but also, holds them at the core of it.

I’ve read some online backlash to McQueen statements, labeling him a hypocrite because he doesn’t cast many blacks in his films, and because he didn’t have a “better” and more extensive response to the question. I take offense to the sentiments for two reasons. One, McQueen’s main film Hunger was about the Irish hunger strike, so why would he cast black actors in that? McQueen is also a Black British person. People forget that his very relationship to race and issues that pervade the “American” cinematic landscape are in many ways different than a Black American filmmaker or director. To negate these differences is to not fully understand his responses. In the beginning of the clip, when asked about the “minority” question, he replies, “I must be in America. Jesus Christ.” This is not to stay that racial issues don’t exist in the UK, because they do, but his understanding and engagement with them may be different from a black American, or even white American director. All of this, coupled with the discomfort and large expectation of being the “authority” on race in film, are reasons I take no issue with his response to this question.

I take no issue with people of color not having the “perfect” answer for every race-related question posed, and it’s been a long journey in learning to do that. I still wrestle with myself when I feel I didn’t represent a certain “racial” issue right. But why is that my duty? If we are going to make any progress with race relations in this country and globally, people- white people, black people, Latino people, Asian people, etc. – must be able to have dialogues. Not discussions where one person is expected, by the default of their race, to have the answer. At 1:37 of this video, the moderator asks of McQueen, “Why is that?” in regards to blacks and other minorities not being cast in movies, and McQueen states, “I don’t know, ask them.” The camera opens to a wide shot and no one says anything.

That is the problem.

If it were my grandmother’s story, would they care? An alternative perspective on “The Help.”

The Help?

I’m back. I love updating this blog way too much to leave it unattended for long. I’ve been on the go lately, too wrapped in “real life” affairs to keep up with the latest film releases or pop culture critiques. One thing, however, that has captured my attention is the media frenzy surrounding the upcoming release of the film adaptation The Help, written by Kathryn Stockett, and directed by Tate Taylor. Since I haven’t read the book or seen the film, my thoughts will be limited to a certain trend I’ve noticed (although it’s not new), in film and television. Stories centering on, or involving black characters in the midst of pivotal, oftentimes turbulent historical periods seem to be best received, especially in a commercial/mainstream sense, when whites author them. As stated previously, this is not something new. It’s been happening since The Birth of a Nation, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and Cleopatra.

There is a glamorization that comes with the authoring of these stories. A glamorization that comes at the expense of the riveting truths that exist in their source material. I recall being on a film festival panel in San Francisco when the issue of whether to accept a short film dealing with slavery, came up. One judge was adamantly against the short film because he believed we were “past that” as African Americans and needed to “move on.” As I progressed as a filmmaker and documentarian, I came to see that “we moved past that” mostly when it came to black filmmakers wanting to make films about these events, but not when white filmmakers did.

Somehow, in this idealized present we’ve moved past that. In this present moment when an innocent black man can be shot dead and his murderer go free soon after. Or how about the present moment where a black mother is jailed for enrolling her child in a better school district? Clearly, we have not gotten past it, lest we wouldn’t enjoy and flock to see films that provide some glamorized, safe portrayal of who we are. A film and book like The Help functions perfectly in this way because it allows people to feel comfortable with systems of privilege and injustice that have plagued this country since its inception.

Both my grandmothers worked in the domestic sphere during the same time period this book and film take place. They could be considered “the help.” My maternal grandmother used to clean the house of a wealthy white family that kept black people’s severed toes and fingers in a pickle jar on their mantle. My paternal grandmother, a well-read scholar and theologian was made to care for white woman’s children and even breastfeed them, even though she had 12 of her own. My grandmothers endured the trauma of these situations, still maintaining integrity and resistance in their everyday lives. These are the women that I want to know about. These are the scenes I want to see. These are the women that I want to watch on the screen, and write into captivating screenplays that get made into films. But my lingering question here, is do other people want to see them? When our history is not made into some glamorized vehicle to lessen the impact of racism and white privilege historically and currently, will we want to see that film? Will studios want to green light that film, written and directed by a black woman, and a self-professed descendant of the very women we watch in The Help? Will my people go to the theater to see that film?

These are questions I ask as I observe the fervor around such films as The Help, Django Unchained, and even The Blindside- all films made by white directors that inevitably helped the stories get recognized and seen by masses of people. So, sadly, the answer to some of the questions I posed is no. As an independent filmmaker, I am fully aware of the avenues I must take in order to tell the stories I feel passionate about, and those avenues many times don’t intersect with mainstream, Hollywood inclusion. Recently, I watched Titanic on TV and wondered to myself, could there ever be a film as epic as this that dealt with another massive, water-based trauma- The Middle Passage? Could there be as much interest and tears flowing in the theater if a black filmmaker released a film about black people, surviving amidst insurmountable obstacles on a voyage that signaled the development of the United States as we know it? (The closest things to it would be Haile Gerima’s 1993 film Sankofa or Alex Haley’s TV-miniseries Roots). I hold no ill feelings toward Titanic or The Help, and don’t refute the argument that movies must be entertaining to draw in audiences, but I also know what’s been continually sacrificed when our stories are not afforded the same weight as others. My grandmothers were heavily affected by their time as domestic “help.” These events left indelible marks on how they’d come to see the world and how it received them as black women. While I’m sure they may have had some pleasant moments, that was not the full picture. So, the movie I would write wouldn’t be a heart-warming comedy/drama where black nannies cracked jokes and then went home. It’d be a riveting, suspenseful drama that placed them at the center of the story, as human beings. I just hope people would want to see this story, and that I would be able to make it.

I’m not sorry to say, but we haven’t moved past this.

http://www.marriedmysugardaddy.com/the-help-an-honest-no-holds-barred-film-review

What about the “dark girls” who… (another response)

promo image for "Dark Girls"

There’s been a lot of discussion lately about the release of the documentary preview, “Dark Girls,” directed by Bill Duke and Channsin Berry (which you can view below). Whether people are enraged or awakened by the material, it’s sparked a definite chord in folks across the country. I was even moved to write a poem partly inspired by some of its themes, specifically around Eurocentric beauty standards (see previous post). The preview definitely stirred my emotions and resonated with me as a black woman who has experienced, learned, and/or witnessed this type of self-hatred in my life and community. However, after an earlier phone call with my older sister, where she posed some alternative ways to frame the discussion, I’m reconsidering my initial reactions to the directors’ focus and choice of content.

Put simply, what about the “dark girls” who were raised to love their brown skin, who were confident, and never viewed their skin color as a mistake? What about the “dark girls” raised in households where their parents/ family members praised their intelligence and beauty?  What about the darker-skinned women who were ridiculed but say that it didn’t affect their total self-conception? I know some of them. They do exist, and they seem to be all but erased from this documentary preview. This lack of inclusion caused to me wonder about the concerns of documentary filmmaking- the intentional and not-so intentional slant that directors have when conceiving of ideas that they deem compelling or powerful. What would happen if alternative perspectives were included in this preview? How would that complicate this very complex narrative on skin color? How does having two black men direct a documentary about black women’s skin color affect the narrative, if it does at all? These are questions I consider regularly as  narrative and documentary filmmaker. When I think of privileging a certain perspective over another, I must consider what that will do to the story I’m trying to tell and how audiences will react to that decision.

I’m in no way lessening the gravity of this skin-color caste system within the black community, and globally. Through out my life, I’ve seen the debilitating ramifications of its existence, and I’ve always been a proponent for trying to break it down and analyze its function as a force of division, pseudo-importance, and over-enforced Eurocentricity. I cannot say that I’ve experienced what the women in this preview have, but I’ve felt the sting in my chest when my friends and family members have. I’ve experienced the incessant pressure from media, classmates, and teen crushes to have long hair, to claim that I was “half Indian,” to embrace “light skin” as if it were some kind of exalted honor.  So my intent here is never to devalue the impact of these ingrained ideologies that affect black and brown people across the world, but to question how this preview would function if the total complexity of this issue was explored.

There is a part in the documentary where interviewees talk about black men not seeking out long-term relationships with them because they’re darker skinned. In my experience, I’ve seen some black men seek out women with this as one of the main reasons they’re attracted to the woman; because she has dark skin. Both motivations can be problematic and should be examined, but this is just an alternative consideration. There’s also no discussion of how other elements of self-esteem and socialization affect the way young girls react to these beliefs. My older sister mentioned her friend, who despite having the treasured long hair and light skin, was extremely insecure and unhappy with herself. Her thoughts had less to do with her skin color and more to do with her family influence and emotional health, which can also be applied to dark skinned girls brought up in supportive, loving homes who feel good about themselves.

By leaving out the varied voices of dark-skinned women and black community members, we’re not able to feel any other way but mad, angry, enraged, saddened, and hopefully ready to change this discourse. But there are parts of this narrative that can ignite hope, relief, and maybe even some humor.  Again, it all goes back to the directors’ intentions and their “slant,” which is something I’m so fascinated with as a filmmaker. I once took a documentary filmmaking class at Howard University where we discussed the choices made by filmmakers, which renders how their act of “documenting” is interpreted. If the director’s intention was to move people to the point of dialogue and change, hopefully the piece works in that direction, but how would presenting a multifaceted perspective help to enliven, evoke or distill that dialogue?

21 years after (past shoulders) – a response

I wrote this:

 

21 years after we learned

that nappy hair didn’t make you pretty

and the boys didn’t like it either,

someone is still pulling my coarse strands

to see how long it is

 

brown girls learn to love flat irons

that kill coils

brown women behind me in the mirror

tugging at my stubborn kink

to see if it’ll flow past my shoulder

 

4 years after my best friend

bent her face in pain and said sadly,

I look like an African

she’s behind me in the mirror,

pulling pieces of my hair

to see if it flows past the shoulder

seeing if it hangs there,

but it doesn’t, just curls back and

bounces out of her fingers

wanting freedom

 

brown women in the mirror,

wishing for hair past shoulders

pulling mine to comparison

hating the African that’ll always scream through

their faces

cuz the boys didn’t want the bald headed girls

and mine gives her a mission

to get longer

 

-Nijla Mu’min

© 2011

Partly, in response to this:

 

we made a movie…

Two Bodies. coming soon.

Jess Reed as Nadia

action!

Photos by Alan Algee: http://vimeo.com/alanalgee

Biutiful

I have NO idea how Javier Bardem didn't win the Oscar for this role. He was robbed.

I saw this film tonight.

There’s a scene near the end where Uxbal, the main character played by Javier Bardem, shares a hug with his young daughter, as he succumbs to cancer. The force and strength of their hug encapsulates this entire film. In the style of Alejandro González Iñárritu’s past films Amores Perros and Babel, Biutiful relies on the layering of suffering, pain, and interpersonal dependence. Each character is beholden to another in ways that stretch and claw at human emotion. There is a closeness, a familiarity of comfort that characters seek but are unable to reach as they navigate the underside of contemporary Barcelona.  Senegalese immigrants try to make a living selling illegal goods, Chinese sweat-shop workers suffer the same exploitation they hoped to leave behind, a bipolar woman wants to reunite with her children and family but lapses back into manic episodes, and Uxbal faces the same fate as the deceased father he never met as he tries to maintain a stable life for his children.

Yes, there’s a lot going on in this film but in the way of a haunting book-length poem. Here is a Barcelona that is not often portrayed, and Innaritu has chosen to focus on the lives of people who exist on the bottom rungs; those who are often made into objects in the process of economic globalization. All of this is complemented by a visceral visual design. Innaritu brings out the grit and humanity of this world with natural light and saturated, contrasty colors dictated by the clashing tides of the society the characters exist in.

Watching this film made me want to be close to someone in the very moment after seeing it- my mother, my father, my sister, brother, or a lover. It made me want to talk to my grandfather and grandmother who died before I was born. It made me ponder the interconnectedness of human suffering on many levels, and the personal comfort and intimacy that seem all too elusive.

writerly ramblings… privilege and text

Hey folks. Long time, no post. I’ve been extremely overwhelmed this semester to say the least. This is my first semester as an MFA Writing student, as I’ve begun a dual degree/interschool program in Film Directing and Writing. It’s been hectic, but fruitful.

One of the things I’ve noticed thus far is this incessant need by some students to have writers of color point out and expose the social ills and injustices that exist within the world they are writing from. In class, Jhumpa Lahiri’s work was cited as being a “fairy tale” and presenting things safely for an American audience because it did not outwardly question the dynamics of the Indian society she was writing from. My question is what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with every writer of color not being lumped into some kind of cultural representative category? Lahiri’s work was packed with subtle details and irony, all strong in their ability to contextualize the society of the characters. So, why can’t that be enough? Why is she not allowed to write character-driven stories that aren’t overt social dissections when the same white critics who demand this, don’t do this in their own writing? I’ve yet to read a story in the class where a white writer attempts to deconstruct whiteness, privilege, and their relationship to social injustice in their fiction. Stories regularly feature themes of sexism, abuse, privilege, addiction, and class imbalance, but those elements seem to remain unquestioned when tied to white characters. However, when a writer of color pens a story where those elements are present in the text, the conversation is about these “issues” and how the writer needs to tackle them, and not about the story and characters in it.

My point is that work seems to be evaluated from a very privileged lens. I can’t stand sitting in class listening to mostly white students and faculty voice their concerns about the women in India who get burned for having sex, but fail to look at the very injustices happening RIGHT here in their own country- young girls being gang-raped and blamed for it, a black student being “auctioned” off in class by a white teacher, a Mexican child and her father brutally murdered by hateful vigilantes, as she begged for her life. Writers of color are expected to bear the brunt of social and cultural ills, while whites are the mere observers of it and not involved. If there is to be a conversation about how to confront these “issues” in writing, it cannot be one-sided. I want my writing to be read with the same character investment as another student’s, and not disregarded because I didn’t expose the ills of urban America in a way that satisfied my white classmate, who never thought or took the time to examine their role in perpetuating these very ills.

 

Can we just live?

sweet interlude!

I return to this clip for performance-based inspiration. Whether you’re a singer, dancer, poet, or filmmaker, there are cues to follow and respect.

the “black woman” script

 

can you see me? am i there?!

A recent spate of disheartening events have prompted me to write tonight. One in particular stands out. I recently had a dispute with my school’s campus safety department regarding an erroneous ticketing procedure. When I attempted to resolve the matter, I was told by a mediating third party that the individuals I interacted with expressed that I was “very aggressive, rude, and hostile” when I approached them about the issue. They were thus resistant to resolve the matter. I was then told that I should go back to those same people and attempt to “prove” to them that I’m “polite” and willing to work to resolve the issue. Now I’ve had numerous experiences with people’s racist attitudes in my life, but this is one of the most ludicrous, and also amusing.

Not only is it insane that I would walk into someone’s office yelling and being hostile, it is also beyond me that I would later be encouraged to “prove” to them that I am a polite person based on their own false image of who I am. This is not the first time I’ve been unwillingly placed into a robotic, “black woman” body and expected to be some type of caricature that approaches complete strangers by being aggressive and loud. This “black woman” script is an all too common model for folks uncomfortable with the idea of intelligent black people, or black women in this instance. To make up complete untruths and fabrications about my character would be the way they justify their own negligence and ignorance.

I’ve had people snap their fingers and wind their necks when talking to me, expecting that I would return a Maury Povich- produced black woman- response, and be okay with that. I’ve seen those same people conduct “civil” conversations with white women and others. I recently read an article by Helena Andrews on TheRoot.com called “Are Black Women Invisible?” Studies were conducted for the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology on the social invisibility of black women, and the  conversations participants had with them.  According to the article, “The study’s participants were given a list of comments spoken during the conversation and were asked to match them to their speaker. Participants either mixed up the comments made by black women (suggesting that black women are interchangeable) or attributed the comments to another race or gender entirely.”

In my case, my true character was made invisible in the scope of the interaction I had with these people. It was colored in with a stock- character stereotype that movies, reality shows, and advertisements blast into society everyday. Whatever input I had or expressed was invalidated due to their belief in the “script” they wrote for me before I even had a chance to speak. Though my situation is limited to a campus dispute, this experience is somewhat universal and echoes larger issues related to people’s inability to decipher between stereotype, ignorance and what’s there in front of them. A black woman who who responds intelligently, unflinchingly and without fear is not a “loud, rude” black woman. And even if they choose to raise their voice, stereotypes should not be attached to them.  However, everyday black women become this, not by their actions but by someone else’s cognitive limitations in seeing them as a true, breathing person with a life, and not a carbon copy robot caricature.

For further reading:

http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/the-social-thinker/201012/are-black-women-invisible

http://www.theroot.com/views/singleminded-being-invisible-woman

cinematic rendering of a poem

my mini silent film inspired by ruth forman’s poem, “stoplight politics.”

cine-poems… join the movement.