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Jervae
Labels: beauty, fashion, fatness, youtube uttered by a black girl at 10:10 PM. | 4 comments
But the shit is soooo damn catchy. And here comes the age old Black feminist dilemma of inclusion, investment in hip hop culture but also a fundamental opposition to ideologies which seek to do women harm. So I began to think about how the dance and the song intersect at a moment in which Black women's embodiments are a source of release, agency, yet also shame. (And reinforced with m shame in enjoying it as a feminist.) How the dance itself is agency, how it is expression, but how ultimately is a source and location of shaming within black women's bodies. The problem of the jovial: This all lies within the dialect. The ways in which we can hear without listening because language can be rendered meaningless coming from particular bodies especially as we tie certain bodies to geographic areas which are culturally shamed. I'm talking about the u.s. south. The ways in which--within the context of U.S. American history the south has been a site of shame and shaming. This shame and shaming involves the ways in which the South has been a symbol of active and violent racism via slavery and jim crow, of evangelical religiousness via the southern baptist church, and overall backwardness via the poverty of the Black Belt South and Appalachia. This shame/shaming has been characterized by racist ideologies that have been able to hold true in the south. The south has become a site of pathological spectacle wherein the racist, morally corrupt and violent psyches of a more industrious north can find release and a simultaneous sense of scientific and moral erudition. All of this is caught up in the ways in which vernaculars, certain ways of speaking can be rendered meaningless via the ways in which U.S. America looks to the south for sites of poverty, backwardness, and illiteracy. We can listen to Souljah Boy and not hear what he says--not because we all don't understand it (Because many of us do.) but because it comes from his Mississippi Delta drawl. Catchy hooks render his words even more meaningless. As meaningless as a jingle, but just as powerful as both are marketing tools for capitalist goods and dominant ideology. Souljah Boy, at 17 is a caricature. One who has been made familiar to us by representations of Black men in the south via 'Lil John, Three Six Mafia, and the minstrel characters of the early 20th century. The psychic slack jaw of his drawl is the ironic aspect of what is thought to be understood of him that there is nothing heavy in his mouth but his bottom lip. Its such a dubious lie. Especially for Black women. There is something powerful coming from this 17 year old's mouth about Black women and shame--particularly around Black women's embodiment and their sexuality. Crank That/ The head nod vs. The boogie I think we can break down the dance itself to talk about the ways in which it offers a particular kind of agency, a different kind of Black masculinity. Which is where I will start. Thugs don't dance--they rock, they lean back, the mad dog, mean mug, they lean against a wall so they can survey a crowd or have a woman break a sweat in front of him. The "cool pose" and Black masculinity have been linked for a very long time now. Dancing is far too expressive, music and dance is a kind of chaos which may lead to loosing control. And control is masculinities #2 thing (the domination of women being #1). The surge of music in the south that encourages dancing and even offers steps, reveals the ways in which Black masculinities in the south have formed differently. These masculinities had to do to particular realities of racialized violence in the south. Now I haven't quite formulated to myself how this exactly happens, but I think a trip to a hip hop club in the south versus one in the north will reveal that this actually happens. The shame around particular embodiments of Black men in the South makes it impossible for Black men to perform masculinity in a "southern" way. If Black men in the shameful and shamed south allow themselves certain embodied releases through gestures, postures, and even dance, Black men in the north must embody and perform an evolved sense of being something aggressively masculine, controlled, and cool. But masculinity is as masculinity does and this is heavily revealed through Souljah Boy's performance. "Superman that Hoe": Affirming Masculinity and Transferring Shame The issue of shame and Black (and white, although differently represented) bodies in the south mirrors itself to the ways in which gender and sexuality play themselves out in southern rap. For the southern rapper, masculinity must be affirmed in the face of the ultra cool stoic of the northern Black male. The most accessible and historically consistent way of doing this? Dominate Black women. And what a more poignant way of doing with it than within Black women's very embodiment. We who know the catchy tune Souljah Boy are incredibly familiar with the part of the lyrics, and the dance that are as follows: "Watch me crank that souljah boy and superman that hoe." Ok, for those who didn't know... (because I didn't until very recently) to "superman that hoe" can be described as the following: *if you aren't sitting down, please do so now.* The action of ejaculating on a woman's back during intercourse and leaving a towel or sheet on her back so that in the morning the dried semen will have made the towel or sheet stick to her resulting in her waking up with something that will resemble a cape. *breathe* Other definitions here, and here, and here. The moment I've described is imbued with shame as it is dependent upon the woman being caught unawares, of having bodily fluids spewed and left on her body to dry, and then, literally carrying evidence of that moment on her back. The moment is ultimately summed up in an ironic cartooning of her complete lack of power over her body (via dried cum where she can't see it) to the fictional symbol of superhuman strength and power--Superman. The very moment of sexual intercourse is then reduced to a childish prank that reveals power, and misuse of trust. Within the embodied moment described in the lyrics and then again the embodied moment in the dance which is reduced for popular consumption to imitating the fictional superhero in flight there is again a moment of shaming wherein a woman must either ignore the implication of the term, embrace the term and/or replace it onto a woman who she would consider a "hoe," or remain ignorant of its meaning and consider it a cute homage to the late Christopher Reeves. All but the last are in recognition of the embodied shame that is doubled by the dance itself and the sexual act it describes (the last simply hopes to remain ignorant of the shame). What results is a way in which a dance which includes multiple steps, that requires whole body movements reinforces masculinity available for consumption by Black males nationwide. Even Queens native, Nas is feeling it. Could the song have been successful without this particular reference? Possibly but not probably. The moment of dancing (i.e. cranking that souljah boy) must be followed up with this misogynist and heterosexual act: "Watch me crank that souljah boy then superman that hoe." But the song would have not been possible without the rhythmic and catchy repetition of the word "hoe." (In cleaner versions it is heard as Oh!) And the rapper would have not successfully presented himself as masculine and heterosexual without that reference. After all the song is just about a black boy who likes to dance. Right? The little boys in the beginning are precious. YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!! Labels: feminism, hip hop, misogyny, music, pop culture, sex, sexism uttered by a black girl at 5:18 PM. | 1 comments
 All I had ever wanted... a skinny jean for the big girls... and I still don't have a decent winter coat...  oh the morality... uttered by a black girl at 5:29 PM. | 1 comments
Labels: gay, music, pop culture, videos uttered by a black girl at 7:13 PM. | 0 comments
 uttered by a black girl at 6:19 PM. | 1 comments
*sniffle* Bettina Labels: life uttered by a black girl at 7:04 PM. | 1 comments
And yes, cream crack does cause cancer. Ok it might not, but that many chemicals in Black women's scalp has got to have a health effect. Right on Sister Jessica. Sugar is cocaine. From NBC4.com This would be a great teaching moment as a parent. We instill in children constantly harmful things about themselves and society. This sister had personal beleifs outside of dominant ideology--some that were helpful and at least mostly true (i.e. the horrible substances in fast food) and some myths and personal ideology. The fact is, children are taught these things daily in media and in school--all of which has information that is questionable or at least should be questioned. I thought about this... if I had a child this would be a very interesting, difficult, but important conversation to have. Yes, your teachers are there to teach you something--but a more important thing to learn is an initiative of the autodidact. There are truths teachers tell us, and there are some dominant ideologies that are harmful that we learn as well. My parents often told me to "look it up." Knowledge was something I had to seek. I could not and should not expect to be told truths. My mother was radical enough to tell me why certain truths were hidden from me by my teachers... but I think the "look it up" way of teaching definately helped me form my consciousness... as someone who had to take control of her education. As an example, in the 9th grade I was in this "honors" program called international baccalaureate. First years were expected to take world history. Well march came around and there was no discussion of Africa beyond Egypt. We studied Egypt along with Greece as if they were one in the same. I had questions about this, was swiftly silenced, and for the next few days brought one of my mother's textbooks from college (she was an African Studies major) to class and read from it in conjunction with what we were reading by that time, about Asia. I would have never known of any Kingdom of Benin or the history of Ethiopia without that moment of autodidact initiative. As a parent, and as a student activist my mother knew that certain knowledges would not be given to me, and that certain myths would be fed to me constantly. Thus, she thrusted books outside of my reading from school. Initiated the "look it up" rule, and quickly I became both an inquisitive and slightly obnoxious student (particularly to white or white identified teachers). I mean really, this moment in Houston hinges on the debates we've been having for years about where the responsibility of children's learning lies. Labels: children, education, politics, teaching uttered by a black girl at 11:11 PM. | 1 comments
I have a theory: If we can't unite, these emails or at least the sentiment behind them, have something to do with it. This past week in anticipation of the National Blackout, I was horribly frustrated by the ways in which Black people talked about my people. It was entirely Black people talking about why the boycott wont work, how disunited Black people are anyway, how Black people are lazy, etc. It was like being at a Klan rally with nothing but Black folks. These conversations always come with some kind of superior air about being so disunited: "I would involve myself if I knew that Black people were united, but we aren't. If a brother has an opportunity to buy some rims, he will." It always comes with the speaker as a "good" Black person, down with the people, fiscally sound, educated... but those other Black people... they need to get it together. Just shut up. I wonder sometimes with these emails and others about Black people not doing enough XY or Z how the morale of Blackness is? Does scaring black people by berating us on what we think we aren't doing work? How does how we perceive ourselves as Black people affect how we organize? Who is mediating this? Where are these assumptions coming from? Why do we so quickly beleive them? Who does it Ultimately serve? I thought the Literary renaissance of the 1970s and 80s proved to publishers that Black people read. What has suddenly happened that we assume we don't? There is an industry targeted at us as readers--now we can discuss or dispute the "value" of what is being read but it is an insult to writers, scholars, students, and readers who are Black that there is this blanket assumption even amongst ourselves that we don't read. New mantra for Black people: Black people love Black people, Black people want to support Black people, and Black people read. So now I'm off to buy 3 dozen books of stamps of Hattie McDaniel and to purchase a few books published by Third World Press from Karibu Books. In Love and Blackness, Bettina Labels: black folk, emails, internet, race, racism uttered by a black girl at 11:20 PM. | 1 comments
I'm always skeptical of makeover shows, especially when Black women get makeovers. The usual formula is to straighten and lengthen hair and brighten dark tones. So looking at Oprah's recent show on the All American Haircut today, I was hurt to see that every sista with a natural had it permed, straightened, or weaved up. For example:  Oprah... OpRAH... OPRAH!!! Are we seeing the same shit here? And to top it all off the commentary about her "haircut" was that she looked younger. (I think that's the makeup honey.) The interesting element here is the naming of the show "The All Americanhair Cut." What kind of standards of beauty here are "All American?" In terms of the terminology one would think that the all american hair cut has something to do with actually cutting hair. For Black women contestants, most had extensions PUT ON. All American standards of beauty are of course to have long flowing hair and for Black women in the new millennium long flowing honey blonde.  (No offense to Sharlini, the sister on the cover of this box.) uttered by a black girl at 8:29 PM. | 1 comments
uttered by a black girl at 8:08 PM. | 2 comments
I am but one Black girl ...who does not pretend to "represent" Black girls as a whole in any particular context, and so it is to my pleasure that I realized that there is yet another black girl who is "that black girl." Mad props to her blog which seems to be very popular in its reading and promptly pulls down when googling "black girl" (something for which I am overwhelmingly jealous as I am not so quickly googled). And so I read her blog a great deal and posted a couple of comments one affirming and one not-so-affirming. I began to reach into my little Black girl authenticity bag as I ran through comments about what is racist, what is not... issues to rally around... issues not to rally around. I began to think about how I'm writing about being a black girl. Because there are variations in Black girlhood in general. A recent blast from the past with an elementary school friend on facebook comes to mind. Her Black girlhood, although met up with mine at the same private all-black Christian school in South Central L.A. was drastically different from mine. Is there a general black girl? Is there a generic black girl? What does she look like? What music does she listen to? Is she light skinned? Is she poor? Is she gay? The authentic black girl is of course missing... postmoderns will tell us she never existed. But there is something, however missing from this analysis. When sisters in the U.S. come around to rally around our black girl and woman selves (Did you wear red yesterday?) we are addressing the one Black girl that is envisioned in U.S. society. One whose body is not her own, one who is hypersexual, and who is ultimately a drain on society. Any exception is an illusion. She's not authentic by any means. In fact, my question about authenticity leans on the opposite. There is something real for the unreal. No, there is not one black girl experience. But when I say I remember the moment I realized I what it meant to be a black girl in my relationship to the rest of the world around me as a moment when I was faced with the ways in which violence can be perpetrated on black girls without any recourse I am saying something that is real--and carries with it a history of this imagining of Black girlhood, and a knowing of it--if not entirely experienced. My experience as a Black girl is particular. Everyone's experience is particular. But a black girl is a black girl. uttered by a black girl at 12:59 AM. | 1 comments
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