by today's Urban Chameleon contributor Kevin Powell via The Guardian
I am Trayvon Martin.
So are you. And so is any human being who has ever felt cornered, in a dark and desolate alley, between life and death. Add the grim reality of skin color in America, and you have the disastrous spectacle of 250lb George Zimmerman, 28, pursuing 140lb Trayvon, 17, until that man-child is screaming "Help!" – and then gasping for air after a bullet from Zimmerman's 9mm handgun had punctured his chest. A majority-white, gated community became, on 26 February, the makeshift mortuary for a black boy who will not get a chance to live, to go to college with his exceptional high school grades, to make something of his life. Trayvon's fatal act: a mundane walk to the nearby convenience store to buy a can of iced tea and a bag of Skittles.
This is what racism, the American version of it, means to black boys like Trayvon, to black men like me. That we often don't stand a chance when it has been determined, oftentimes by a single individual acting as judge and jury, that we are criminals to be pursued, confronted, tackled, and, yes, subdued. To be shocked and awed into submission.
The police authorities in Sanford, Florida, where the shooting occurred, are apparently so mired in racial prejudice and denial that George Zimmerman, at this writing, still has not been arrested nearly a month after Trayvon was killed – in spite of Zimmerman being told, on 911 police dispatch audio, not to follow Trayvon Martin.
In spite of Zimmerman being charged in 2005 with resisting arrest with violence and battery on a police officer...
by today's Urban Chameleon contributor Kevin Powell via The Guardian
Slow suicide is the term I've used for years to describe those individuals who are incredibly unhappy in their own lives, in their own skin, and do things to destroy that life, to destroy that skin. Whatever the race or culture of that person is immaterial; it doesn't matter if they are famous and wealthy, or unknown and poor. What matters is the source of their pain, and the ways they've chosen to deal with that pain. Or not.
I have often wondered if Whitney Houston was ever happy – as a world-class singer, as a daughter, as a wife, as a mother. She is gone now, her death a sad and jolting concluding scene to a long-running drama that we witnessed – at times, with tremendous pride and at times, with alarming discomfort – because she was by far the most gifted and the most visible singer of her generation, of the past 25 years. And because she battled various forms of drug addiction on an Olympian stage, and was in a wild and notoriously dysfunctional and abusive marriage with R&B singer Bobby Brown for 15 years.
My heart aches for Whitney Houston, even if many of us, through the years, could see such a moment coming. There was too much photographic evidence of her fluctuating weight, of her caramel-brown face drenched in sweat when not performing. But when you die in a Beverly Hills hotel room, at age 48, alone, on the eve of the Grammy Awards, discovered by your bodyguard, after 170m records sold, too-many-to-count Grammy, Billboard, and Emmy awards, and the biggest US single of all time ("I Will Always Love You"), we have to wonder, if we are sincere with ourselves: did we collectively participate in the slow and catastrophic plunge of Whitney Houston?
For sure, the social media networks are abuzz with genuine tributes to her, from celebrities, from those who actually knew her, from profoundly heart-broken fans. But I also think about how Whitney Houston had declined from American musical royalty to the oft-ridiculed and washed-up singer and drug fiend. There were interventions by her mother, the gospel singer Cissy Houston, and others. But there were also shameful, high-voltage spotlights, like her awkward interview with Diane Sawyer where she declared, when asked about her alleged drug use, "crack is wack." We also cannot forget Bobby Brown's car crash of a TV show, "Being Bobby Brown", which felt like we were watching a buffoonish caricature of love and marriage.
Yet, we absorbed these moments anyhow, because in this age of reality television, celebrity confessionals, YouTube and TMZ, the tribulations of mega-stars like Whitney Houston not only provide raw amusement for us, but allow us to mask in cowardly fashion our own sins and failings while mocking these clearly flawed human beings. That, indeed, is the great conundrum of the entertainment industry. On the one hand, it affords opportunities to be whatever we want to be, and more. On the flip side, the industry is a space where far too many individuals never fully grow up or evolve, never fully find out who they really are beneath the hype and hysteria.
For example, Houston was dogged for years by rumors of lesbianism because of her extremely close relationship with then-best friend Robyn Crawford (after Houston's marriage to Brown, Crawford mysteriously faded from view, and I do wonder what she has to say about Whitney's death), and even of an alleged affair with Tom Cruise's "Top Gun" co-star Kelly McGillis. Who knows what is legit and what is fairy tale, but what if part of Houston's drug dependency and acting out had to do with her living a make-believe existence crafted by others, simply to protect her image and superstardom? What if some of those nearest to her participated in a kind of collusion because they knew that homophobia in America would derail their breadwinner named Whitney Houston? Or because they were homophobic themselves?
A few weeks into my gig at a famous vodka company that shall remain nameless, I was finally beginning to learn the language. I had learned that it was good to use the words "luxury," "authenticity," and "aspirational," especially when describing your own work. It was bad to use the words "Jello shot," "cheap," and "drunk." You weren’t drunk from doing too many cheap Jello shots, you were savoring the value-priced edible cocktails.
Whenever the topic of “urban” marketing came up, everyone seemed suddenly uncomfortable. Voices shifted upwards in pitch and speech became more deliberate. I had no idea why everyone was so nervous about selling vodka in cities.
One day, in a Power Point presentation, it all became clear. With our “urban marketing approach,” we were still supposed to “align ourselves with luxury brands” to make our famous vodka seem more expensive and exclusive. Therefore putting the bottle next to a $5,000 strand of Mikimoto earrings would create that illusion despite the fact that our vodka was available at any liquor store for $35.
The next slide showed a Blair Underwood lookalike in an expensive suit, drinking a martini in his loft apartment. Again I could hear in my boss’s voice that same tentative, apologetic quality that came up whenever we discussed “the urban market.” The kind of voice people use to talk about something unpleasant that you’d rather not bring up, like gay bashing or slavery.
“Let’s make this very clear,” he said. “We market to the elite urban consumer, not just any urban consumer.”
Everyone nodded in approval. The next slide showed several light-skinned Black women in a restaurant, drinking cosmos over brunch.
Holy shit! Urban meant Black! Or people of color anyway; one of the women on the brunch slide looked kind of Dominican. I was in a room of all white people, and my boss was saying that we didn’t want just any Black people to drink our vodka. It had to be the right kind of Black people. The kind that seemed not to be a threat.
The next slide showed P Diddy in front of a Ciroc step and repeat.
“Just look at Puff Daddy and Ciroc,” said my boss. “That is so unluxury.”
A murmur of derision went around the room as my colleagues expressed their disdain towards Diddy.
As a white woman, I was more than uncomfortable with this setting. It was a world I tried my hardest to be a chameleon but eventually became exhausted by the limited exposure these people had the nerve to be marketing to in addition to my mandatory weekly hair and makeup appointments trying to get me to fit in. I finally quit after a consultation with their stylist who said to me, “I see you wear big earrings, they bring attention up here.” She waved her hand around my face, insinuating there was something wrong with it. Continuing she said, “But what I’d like you to do is start wearing larger necklaces to bring the focus to your best feature.” She then gestured to my bosom.
I am so
sick and tired of going to see a Black film out of charity. Every time a Black
film is released the word “support” is not far behind, and George Lucas’s
latest project featuring an all Black cast, Red Tails is no exception. Black
people everywhere were dumb founded that Mr. Star Wars himself could not get
Hollywood on board to make his $(93) ninety-three million dollar film; a
story about the Tuskegee Airmen. Thus the campaign tagline for Red Tails was
solidified, “Support This Black Film!”
The media
roll out plan was perfect; as the exposed plight of Lucas’ fired people up to
get their “activism” on by posting articles, Facebook Status Updates and Tweets
reiterating the importance of “supporting” this Black film.
The results lead to a successful $(20) twenty-million dollar opening weekend. It
almost felt like there was more patriotism displayed for Lucas than there
was for Troy Davis. Regardless, we did it! We showed Hollywood, and therefore
can expect more films about the Black experience coming soon to a theater near
you. Right? Wrong!
Do you
know how many Black films have done “surprisingly” well over the last twenty
years at less than a fraction of the cost of Red Tails? Are we not still
having the same damn conversations about Hollywood not making Black films? Let alone ones that are diverse? (See
article: All We Do is Eat, Fight, F*ck, Dance and Pray.) Is Hollywood all of a sudden
going to start churning out $(100) one-hundred million dollar Black pictures?
I don’t
think so.
Spike Lee
can’t even get 40 acres and a mule. Hate to burst the bubble, but Hollywood is
predominately ran by white men who don’t understand Black people; even though
they swear they do. In pitch meetings, Hollywood executives are quick to state
why a Black film won’t do well (welcome to the pity party Lucas) and include
statistics about the ones that have failed. Even though these statistics are
smaller than a pubic hair compared to the number of white films that fail year
after year. The reality is, “Black” cannot possibly represent a universal
experience and Hollywood won’t invest. Instead of continuing to knock on the same door that doesn't want to let you in, build a new house. With all the technology at our finger tips why not start investing in new distribution models and tell Hollywood to kiss your Black ass!
So why
did I end up seeing Red Tails if it wasn’t to send a message to Hollywood? One
word, GUILT. All the Facebook updates had me feeling like I was a
sell out, Anti-Black, if I didn’t see it opening weekend and support an
important story about Black History. There was just one problem...Red
Tails has no story, at least not the one that their PR team is pimping. I
walked away with no real understanding of who the Tuskegee Airmen were and what
made them exceptional. It’s not enough to show scenes where a white man either
calls or treats the Black man like a nigger to validate storytelling. In fact,
there was more of an emphasis on the Tuskegee Airmen blowing up the enemy than
there was on a fight for equality.
At the end
of the day, I knew from the moment I first saw the trailer that this wasn’t a
film I wanted to see. Regardless if you agree or not, shouldn't I
have that freedom of choice?
Have your Urban Chameleon story featured by e-mailing tickles@tickles.tv
by Funnel Cake Flowers the Urban Chameleon news reporter
Sh*t White Girls Say to Black Girlsis one of the latest videos to take the Internet by storm, having been viewed by over 4 million in less than a week. The creator, Franchesca Ramsey, a young, dark skin, Black woman with locs throws on a blond wig and goes IN, reenacting remarks made by “white girls”. At first I was bewildered by the sensation of this video.
This isn’t news. Is it? My friends of color and I were used to these same ignorant or shall I say ign’t comments made about our race (including African America, Asian, Latino, Indian, etc)…from another race. But then I realized that our kitchen table conversations are rarely up for discussion on a platform with global reach, so this was news for many.
Despite the familiarity of the subject, most of my Black girl friends find the video hysterical... truth that resonates tends to do that. Meanwhile, a lot of non-Black girls aren’t laughing. (Not all, as some have openly admitted that they act like the girl in the video) but one person even went off on a rant after being insulted by the line about Jews. (Now ya know you cannot talk about Jews!)
Oftentimes things go viral but the message gets missed. If you’ve read Franchesca Ramsey’s interview in the Huffington Post it reveals that the video is based on TRUTH! Come on people (who were insulted), ya kinda can't deny someone's truth no matter how insulted you are and quite frankly this is a truth that needs addressing. Unfortunately, if you’re not familiar with how many of us “Black girls” REALLY CAN RELATE to Shit White Girls Say to Black Girls in our own interracial relationships you think the actor, Franchesca Ramsey is the one that started this fight.
If anything, Shit White Girls Say to Black Girls is a testament to the lack of perspective with in the media regarding people of color. Both parties maybe to blame for this. White friends of mine have told me that white people don’t like talking about race and especially NOT slavery. And lawd knows Black people are conscious of what white people think so don't always say what they really want to say. But if we don’t start talking about it we’re only continuing this cycle of everyone either being misunderstood or insulted. So what now?
Regardless of your race, if someone says some ignorant sh*t, CALL THEM OUT (without getting physical or stank...cause that's just ign't.) As Urban Chameleons we sometimes tend to fear the consequences and chameleon into silence. But part of being an Urban Chameleon is helping someone else to become one…by exposing them to your truth so that the next time they encounter someone like you they won't say some ignorant shit and real conversation can begin.
Funnel Cake Flowers, The Urban Chameleon news reporter comments on the latest attempts to compare Herman Cain with Martin Luther King. Are they more similar than we realize?
contributing Urban Chameleon writer: Lauren Brown
Not since Edward Brooke have Black Republicans done well as political office holders. The hit-it and quit-it ouster of Michael Steele reveals that the Black man has an even shorter life expectancy in the GOP than the time in between the use of the “N” word in a Quentin Tarantino film. Statistics like these beg the question of how well Republican’s newest Negro, Herman Cain, will continue to perform on the national stage. Many have said that Cain could be our nations first REAL Black president suggesting that he certainly seems to share more attributes with our beloved civil rights leader, Dr. Martin Luther King, with of course the exception of not participating in the civil rights.
Like Dr. King, Herman Cain attended Morehouse College. Both King and Cain have started influential movements. For Dr. King, Civil Rights, for Herman Cain, the Intelligent Thinkers movement. But the most damning and glaring commonality these two share? Both Republicans??? According to the National Black Republicans Association hey are claiming King as one of their own.
One might now wonder if Dr. King would have supported Cain’s controversial 9-9-9 plan? To date, Dr. King is the only citizen to be prosecuted under the Georgia income tax perjury statute. Which means 9-9-9, would have saved him a world of legal bills. But here is where it gets interesting; Dr. King was also born in 1929, it was 9 years, between the time he was asked to lead the Montgomery Bus Boycott and when he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Moreover, Herman Cain and Martin King each have 10 letters in their first and last names and what is 10-1? 9!
999!!!
But is being Morehouse graduates and using complicated math involving the number 9 enough to say that these two Black men are similar? Or has the Republican Party put a DJ Funk Master Flex remix on this beat?
Yes both men stress the importance of dreaming but to Cain I say, dream on brotha. I know one thing is for sure, it’s complicated. I’m Funnel Cake Flowers, your Urban Chameleon news reporter from Tickles.TV
E-mail Funnel Cake Flowers a news story at funnelcakeflowers@tickles.tv
It’s one thing to transition into corporate America—from its private grade school classrooms, ivy league universities, corporate boardrooms and social climbing ladders—back out into our bilingual/patois/urban slang speaking, hip winding, kinky hair handling and curry spice eating America. (See How the Urban Chameleon Came to be…) But it’s another layer to be a woman juggling another set of balls (pun intended) in a male dominated world. Dr. Beverly Guy-Sheftall, an iconic voice and activist in the feminist movement so eloquently talked with our Urban Chameleon news reporter, Funnel Cake Flowers, about why men think the “Penis is powerful.” Twenty years ago Anita Hill challenged that “penis power” by filing sexual harassment charges on Supreme Court nominee, Clarence Thomas. Although the court ruled in favor of Thomas, the case opened the floodgates for women from different backgrounds to unveil their own experiences with navigating sexual harassment – exposing an international crisis and modern day awareness.
A Thank-You Note to AnitaHill
Letty Cottin Pogrebin • October 5, 2011
AnitaHill, I want to personally thank you for what you did for us twenty years ago. Thank you for speaking up and speaking out. Thank you for your quiet dignity, your eloquence and elegance, your grace under pressure. Thank you for illuminating the complexities of female powerlessness and for explaining why you didn’t complain when the offense first occurred, and for describing how cowed and coerced a woman can feel when she’s hit upon by a man who controls her economic destiny.
Twenty years ago you had the courage to tell the truth and do what women rarely did: make a scene. Fifty years ago I didn’t. In the 1960s, when I was a book publishing executive, single and self-supporting, I once was trapped in an elevator with an important and powerful male journalist whose good offices I depended on to give favorable coverage to my company’s books. With absolutely no warning, the man suddenly pinned me against the elevator wall, groped my breasts and shoved a hand under my skirt. Did I press the emergency button?
Of course not; it would have caused a scene. A scene would have imperiled my career. A scene would have marked me as a prude, a troublemaker and that grimmest of all characters, A Girl With No Sense of Humor. A scene would have infuriated and embarrassed the man. A scene might have made the papers, exposing his crude and thuggish behavior to his wife. In the end, the person who would pay a price for his humiliation would be me. He would bad-mouth me in the industry. He would give my company bad press, which in turn would reflect negatively on my work and put my job at risk.
That’s why, instead of screaming, I giggled while I fought him off. I spewed wisecracks as I twisted out of his grasp. I tried to keep smiling while frantically stabbing the L button. Finally, the elevator doors opened, and I made a run for the street. It wasn’t the first or the last time that I escaped an unwanted sexual advance and ended up feeling sullied, scared, cowardly and somehow at fault. Far worse happened to friends of mine and to hundreds of thousands of other working women.
But thanks to you, Anita, we and our daughters and our granddaughters now feel empowered to press the emergency button and report offensive behavior. Thanks to your brave, frank testimony and your stately comportment in the face of hostile interrogation and vilification, we no longer laugh off unwanted sexual advances; we file charges. We no longer protect our attackers from humiliation; we name names. We demand that our employers be accountable to their policies against harassment and that the offender be punished. We may still be risking our jobs, but more and more of us are telling the truth.
It all started with you, Anita. And today we remember and honor what you did. We thank you for making a scene—for doing it fearlessly before the eyes of a riveted nation and inspiring millions of women to defend their dignity as you did yours.
Letty Cottin Pogrebin, a founding editor of Ms. magazine and a past president of the Authors Guild and Americans for Peace Now, is the author of nine books, including Deborah, Golda, and Me: Being Female and Jewish in America (Anchor), and Three Daughters, her first novel (Penguin).
, the American version of it, means to black boys like Trayvon, to black men like me. That we often don't stand a chance when it has been determined, oftentimes by a single individual acting as judge and jury, that we are criminals to be pursued, confronted, tackled, and, yes, subdued. To be shocked and awed into submission.
