African American

Black on Earth: African American Ecoliterary Traditions

annette — Sun, 17 Apr 2011 20:00:00 +0000

African American literary contribution to the national conception of nature, in all of its symbolic ambiguity and historical twists and turns, is a subject that has been little studied. In fact, African American writers have contributed profoundly to our popular understanding of nature and to our ecological concern. Kimberly Ruffin’s book must confront the notion that modern ecological movements have been the exclusive province of privileged white people—that African American people have had little to do with the natural world as writers or advocates. To challenge this assumption, she redefines nature and ecological thought as it has applied to the experience of African American people throughout American history, as articulated by artists both well known and obscure.

This transformation in our understanding begins with a recent anecdote concerning the “Jena Six” incident in Louisiana in 2006. When high school students sought shade under what had been designated “the white tree,” they were subsequently threatened with nooses hanging from it. A tree is, indeed, a source of comfort, a sign of natural beauty with practical value. But it is also—sorry, Joyce Kilmer—emblematic of lynching and a history of terror aimed at African American people. The author points out that rather than preserving the tree as a “troubled relic,” school officials cut it down, presumably in an effort to prevent further trouble and to erase this living monument to racial injustice.

If many African Americans have felt estranged from mainstream environmentalism, Ruffin argues, it is because people themselves—“the most precious of natural resources”—seem to have been excluded from the discourse. The author cites Wangari Maathai’s Green Belt Movement as a model for a new way of thinking about environmentalism, a “human-sensitive” activism that advocates simultaneously for people and the land. She argues that people of African descent have had both the burden and the blessing of being themselves seen as natural; whereas too often people of European descent have viewed themselves as radically separate from nature, a realm to be tamed and controlled or, later, to be visited for leisure.

Another critical point that she makes is that pre-twentieth-century Americans knew nature through work. The connection to the land was forged through labor, with both the body and the landscape part of the same “bioregion.” Similarly, nature has been inextricably involved in human efforts to achieve social justice and to escape from enslavement. She demonstrates that environmental degradation has disproportionately harmed the disenfranchised, but a detailed knowledge of the environment was instrumental, for example, in helping enslaved people establish routes to freedom. African American writing also reveals the extent to which the natural world provided sources of healing—the “wild-growing medicines” that are so much a part of cultural tradition and folklore.

Ruffin revisits the contributions of George Washington Carver, whose intense scrutiny of the natural world led to a unified view of science and religion, a balance between practical knowledge of the natural world and human spirituality. This balance is displayed in the myths written into the African American ecoliterary traditions about food and medicine and many different aspects of life, and they still are made manifest in community urban gardens, for example. The ultimate aim is an environmentalism that fully incorporates social justice as its aim, a natural world that includes humanity.

Written by: Rick Taylor, April 17th 2011

Acting White: The Curious History of a Racial Slur

alicia — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 08:00:00 +0000

By Ron Christie

St Martin's Press

Before I begin reviewing Ron Christie’s Acting White: The Curious History of a Racial Slur I want to acknowledge my identity politics as they are crucial in my take on this book. First off I will never know what it’s like to be accused of acting white because I am white. Moreover, I am an anti-racist feminist who believes that institutional racism and structural inequalities exist and are held in place by those in power.

Understanding one’s subjectivity is crucial when reading Acting White, given that Christie, a Republican from an affluent family, interweaves his personal reflections into the book alongside a historical analysis of the slur. Furthermore, Christie’s impetus for writing the book stems from his own experiences as an outcast within Black communities and his need to unpack his own perceived marginalization. He opens Acting White with one such example, an anecdote involving Representative Maxine Waters, a Democrat from California who reportedly chastised Christie, then serving as a junior legislative assistant to Craig T. James, a Republican from Florida, for selling out his race and being “nothing but an Uncle Tom!”

Christie traces the implications of the slur of acting white back to Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin, arguing that a link exists between black men denigrated as Uncle Toms and the notion of acting white. He examines the ideological conflicts between Booker T. Washington and W. E. B. Du Bois as well as Martin Luther King and Malcolm X, the confirmation hearings of Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas, and the election of Barack Obama through the lens of what it means when Black men are accused of acting white or betraying their race. It’s important to note that Christie fails to discuss how being seen as acting white affects women of color and LGBTQ people of color—for what it’s worth, two groups who are also generally absent from or marginalized within the Republican Party and platform.

Overall, Christie blames Black communities for their own socioeconomic marginalization, asserting that Blacks underperform academically because they are afraid to be viewed as acting white—never mind issues of a lack of resources for teachers and/or underfunding within the public school system. In Christie’s opinion, if this racial slur could be dismantled then young working-class Black men and women would feel free to excel in school and would be able to pull themselves up out of their impoverished communities. Acting White makes it sound that simple as Christie repeatedly touts the importance of education, dressing well, and speaking well.

What hinders this goal, according to Christie, is a myriad of factors including Black leaders (he is particularly vocal about his dislike for Jesse Jackson) who point out institutional racism, which he argues sets up African Americans as victims with no agency or self empowerment. Christie also finds fault with legislation such as affirmative action arguing that these policies taint the achievements of African Americans whose hard work and dedication will be viewed with skepticism by racist whites.

Christie even goes as far as to castigate parents who give their children “black-sounding” names, as studies have shown that employers are less likely to hire applicants who do not have white mainstream names on their applications. Rather than calling for an overhaul of the racist system that ignores discrimination, Christie asks why such parents would set their children up for failure in the first place.

Ultimately, Christie preaches respectability in which Black youth (preferably those given white mainstream names) need to ditch hip-hop, dress nice, abandon slang, and hit the books without a fear of being called out for acting white. However, I cannot accept Christie’s arguments that sheer will and determination (alongside a certain dress code) separate the haves from the have-nots. As Melissa Harris Lacewell noted in her keynote address at the 2010 Facing Race Conference, referring to when Henry Louis Gates Jr. (whom Christie admires) was arrested for breaking and entering his own home, “your respectability will not save you when the issue is structural inequality.”

In the end, Acting White should be viewed more as a memoir and less as a treaty on the racial slur given that Christie’s subjectivity and politics color every word on the page—from which historical figures he discusses (why Booker T. Washington and W. E. B. Du Bois but not Ida B. Wells?) to the rugged individualism he touts as the solution.

Written by: Kristen Lambert, January 10th 2011

Stranger Here Below

tina — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Joyce Hinnefeld

Unbridled Books

Stranger Here Below tells the stories of three generations of women whose lives are connected by a single institution and a changing America.

Amazing Grace “Maze” Jansen and Mary Elizabeth “M. E.” Cox meet at Berea College in Kentucky in 1961. Maze is a poor white mountain girl and M. E. is one of just a few African American students at the college. The young women come from difficult backgrounds and both have mothers who have struggled. Hinnefeld tells the stories of the four women, mothers and daughters, and a fifth woman named Sister Georgia. Sister Georgia went to Berea College decades earlier and is now the last surviving Shaker in Pleasant Hill, a Shaker community near Berea College.

Maze and M. E. are college roommates and scholarship students, but they are not necessarily fast friends. M. E. was raised by a stern preacher father and by Sarah, a mother who retreats into a strange world where she is incapable of simple communication. Both her race and her family background make M. E. unsure of her place in the world and she seems unable to enjoy her musical talents or her friendship with Maze. Still, Maze pursues their friendship doggedly, inviting M. E. to spend time with her at her mother's home. Maze's mother Vista raised Maze on her own, her husband having abandoned her after one night of marriage. Vista is now Sister Georgia's caretaker and the two young women stay with Vista in Sister Georgia's home.

Together the girls watch Sister Georgia perform her Shaker rituals, her dancing, and her shaking and they go through a Shaker ledger from a century ago that contains herbal remedies and recipes. Sister Georgia is old, alone, and the last member of a religion of celibates. What the two young women do not know about Sister Georgia is that when she was in college she fell in love with a black man, but her father, an abolitionist, forbade her to marry him. Her life, like and Sarah’s, is one marked by loss.

Mary Elizabeth is a talented pianist who was courted by the university for her musical abilities. School officials seemed to imply that it was unusual to see such talent in an African American. M. E. is confused by their attentions and turns away from her music. But in the early 1960’s, Maze imagines a different kind of America. She dreams of a twentieth century communal living experience that would nurture people like the five women of this book.

It's a grand scheme, and this book covers a lot of territory in few pages. Hinnefeld begins in 1968, with Maze writing a letter to her missing friend Mary Elizabeth. The next chapter takes us back to 1872 and the birth of Sister Georgia. The lives of all five women unfold in a nonlinear fashion, in isolated sections, and these sections weave in and out of the book's present and deep into the past. Perhaps this weaving back and forth in time reflects the fractured nature of these women's lives. Sometimes it's hard to put the pieces together, just as it's hard for the women to keep their own lives in order. As readers we have to work for it, but in the end I think it's worth the effort. I cared about these women and the pressures they stood up to in their struggles to make themselves whole.

Written by: Natasha Bauman, November 23rd 2010

Making the Hook-up: Edgy Sex with Soul

alicia — Tue, 19 Oct 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Cole Riley

Cleis Press

What business does a White woman like me have reviewing a collection of erotica by African American authors? I figure when it comes to erotica, it's matter of whether the story turns you on or doesn’t, and I can’t see that race has much to do with that.

As you’d expect, most of the characters in this eighteen-story collection are Black, and it's wonderful to see a full range of sexual expression within them. Making the Hook-up contains threesomes, lesbians, BDSM, a spanking fetish, and anonymous (and near-anonymous) encounters in movie theaters, public restrooms, and hotel rooms. There's something for everyone, and several damn good stories.

Reginald Harris’ “Keeping Up with the Joneses” is the amusing account of long-married couple Roy and Lynn, who are inspired to rekindle their sex life when they hear the nighttime romps of their new next door neighbors, a gay couple, through the wall of their townhouse. (Notably, the overheard sexual escapades of the neighbors are the only depiction of sex between two men in the book.) “Pharaoh’s Phallic” by Deepbronze is good for chuckles and some seriously erotic images when the protagonist learns the truth about his girlfriend’s secret lover. Zaji’s “Lights on a Cave Wall” combines Caribbean spirituality and mysticism with pulsing, sensual descriptions, while “Lonnie’s Licks” by Tenille Brown and “All Day” by Asha French are probably the best bets for turning on the ladies.

Erotica is an wildly unbalanced genre; some writers think describing a sexual act is enough to qualify while others devote attention to the story. I’m happy to say this collection favors the latter, and it’s clear these storytellers have bright futures as writers. “Strangers in the Water,” by R. Gay, details a Haitian immigrant’s complicated relationship with her homeland and her husband, and Fiona Zedde’s “Velvet” recounts a college freshman’s first sexual experience with another woman. Both are particular standouts for the complexity of the characters' feelings.

Making the Hook-up provides a varied menu of sexual titillation and compelling stories, so go ahead and take a bite.

Written by: Karen Duda, October 19th 2010

African Americans Doing Feminism: Putting Theory into Everyday Practice

brittany — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 18:00:00 +0000

Edited by Aaronette M. White

SUNY Press

There are many well-meaning people in society who identify as feminists, yet do not know what they can do to put their feminist ideals into action. African Americans Doing Feminism is an excellent resource for these people. The book is collection of essays written by women and men from a broad spectrum of backgrounds, but the unifying theme among the contributors is that all of them have been impacted by feminism in some way at various stages in their lives.

In her introduction, Aaronette M. White explains that when she put out the call for contributors, she did not want to define “feminist.” As a result, “feminism,” “womanism,” and “Black feminism” are all discussed in varying degrees throughout the book. Some authors use the terms interchangeably—a fact that may not sit well with some readers—while others prefer specific terminology. What is clear, however, is that regardless of their preferred term (or lack thereof), all of the authors interpret feminism in terms of the negative effects created by patriarchy and other systems of oppression.

The book is split into five parts: Family Values; Community Building; Romantic Partnerships; Healing Practices; Career Dilemmas. Some of the most poignant essays came from people who had participated in sexist/oppressive practices in the past. Dorothy M., for example, writes about growing up at the hands of her abusive sister. Dorothy went on to become an advocate and educator on domestic abuse issues, only to find herself as the abuser in her own personal relationship.

In “‘Every Goodbye Ain’t Gone’: Why the Feminist I Loved Left Me,” William Dotson reflects on a tumultuous relationship with a woman who left an indelible effect on his life. He writes, “feminism ‘did’ more to me than I ‘did’ to or with it.” Though Dotson was considered progressive in activist circles, he could not and would not see past his sexism and patriarchal oppressiveness. He was in a relationship with a feminist woman whom he loved deeply, but his attitude cost him their relationship; it was not until years later that he began to regretfully analyze his abusive behaviors.

Other essays serve as a rallying call for change. One of my favorite essays is written by Sister Sojourner Truth, who writes that, “Being an African American feminist nun has never been a contradiction for me,” and goes on to write that she is, “comfortable with the idea that the Catholic Church might have to get rid of terms such as nun, priest, and even pope in order to be open to the creative possibility of a nonhierarchical, nonpatriarchal church.” Talk about radical! Sister Sojourner goes on to discuss the systematic abuses committed by the church; though the sexual abuse of children got worldwide coverage, she points out how other abuses are still kept silent, such as the rapes of nuns by priests. Her form of practicing feminism is to speak out at all times.

Another fascinating essay is, “Gay, Gray, and a Place to Stay: Living It Up and Out in an RV Park,” by Aaronette M. White and Vera C. Martin. The essay mostly takes place in the form of a conversation between White and Marin. It revolves around Martin’s experiences as an African American living in a predominantly white RV park for aging lesbians, and her experiences as an activist for aging lesbians.

African Americans Doing Feminism shows readers that feminist activism can be put into everyday practice through even the smallest actions. Though a lot of the contributors in this book are professional activists and educators, a lot of them are just regular people whose actions can have a large impact. They show that being a man and talking to other men about sexism and violence against women, being a mother who seeks to destigmatize breastfeeding, or simply being a person who is honest about health issues such as depression is a powerful form of feminist activism. Most importantly, the writers realize the different systems of oppression affecting women and people of color, and they have found ways to address some of these issues in their own lives.

Written by: Melissa Arjona, September 16th 2010

Creating Ourselves: African Americans and Hispanic Americans in Popular Culture and Religious Expression

admin — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Edited by Anthony B. Pinn, Benjamin Valentin

Duke University Press

The topic of cross-cultural communication has fascinated me for a number of years, partly because of my own experiences in Latin America, and partly from observing the interaction between the Latino/a and African American communities. Watching these two groups interact has taught me a great deal about differences in the ways of communication, how what may be "appropriate" in one culture may not be in the other, and the need for discussion to avoid potential misunderstandings.

Therefore, it was with great interest that I read Creating Ourselves, a study on cross-cultural communication and collaboration between religious scholars of the two largest minority groups in the United States. The timing of the publication of this book is of great importance, as both groups have, to a certain extent, been viewed as "foreign elements" that might threaten the national identity of Americans, especially in the current economic climate. Scholars from both communities engage in a dialogue, an exchange of opinions, perspectives, and hopes, as their history and identity is linked through the cultural production via representations in popular culture.

I found the structure of the work innovative and very much needed in scholarly circles. The book consists of seven sections with two essays in each of them, one from each group. Every article is followed by a response written by a corresponding essayist from the opposite group, each contributor using their own personal experiences to further engage readers.

Teresa Delgado analyses the novel América’s Dream by Esmeralda Santiago, which delves into the life of América González, a single mother who takes a job as a maid in a hotel in New York after suffering abuse by her daughter's father in Puerto Rico. Although América finds freedom in New York, she remains isolated and silent, as she has not broken the dependency of oppression. Cheryl Kirk-Duggan, in response, reflects on the "womanist theory" that calls for revolution in the ways of seeing, living, and being. The term "womanist," coined by Alice Walker, refers to women who are in charge, who champion freedom and who transform the oppressive forms affected by race, gender, and class domination. Kirk-Duggan uses hip-hop artist Lauryn Hill as an example of just one of these extraordinary women.

In "Television and Religion," Jonathan Walton analyses the dramatised faith in megachurch movements; the colossal buildings that house sanctuaries, gyms, daycare, bookstores, and more are especially attractive to African American communities, with their charismatic pastors who even hold worship through an electronic church. Another form of melodrama is found in the Latin telenovelas (soap operas) that have become extremely popular for millions around the world; Kassandra, a Venezuelan soap opera attracts people as far away as Serbia, while The Rich Also Cry is popular even in Moscow.

Overall, I enjoyed reading Creating Ourselves as the subject of creativity in all different forms, styles, colours, and shadows is part of our daily life.

Written by: Anna Hamling, April 30th 2010

Off and Running

admin — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Directed by Nicole Opper

First Run Features

Considering the number of children in need of adoption—and the number of children who are actually adopted each year—it's surprising there aren't more adoption stories being told. Aside from The Locator, we've had especially limited access to stories about adopted children reaching out to their birth parents. The delicate, vulnerable position of someone sending a letter out into the world, waiting and hoping to hear back about where they come from, is still a bit of a mystery, and more than worthwhile. In fact, I knew little about it until my own adopted mother finally reached out to her birth parents at age fifty-six.

Not only is that seminal search a matter of discovering identity for the adoptee; it is, potentially, a matter of deep-seated tension between the child and her adoptive parents. My mother actually waited until both of my grandparents had passed before seeking her own answers, to avoid the risk of hurting them.

Nicole Opper's Off and Running provides a candid, thoughtful portrait of such a situation in all its complexities. The documentary follows Avery Klein-Cloud, a charismatic star high school athlete from Brooklyn, who attempts to continue living the life she and her adoptive parents carved out for her while waiting on correspondence from her birth mother. The fact that Avery is trans-racially adopted—the African American daughter to two White Jewish mothers—makes her quest for identity that much more significant.

At the beginning of the film, Avery frankly admits her persistent discomfort in Black social spheres growing up, and later, when a counselor asks, “Do you feel Black?,” Avery says she doesn't know what that means. Her brother Rafi, also adopted but of mixed race, provides an interesting contrast; not only does he seem to have little interest in contacting his birth parents, but he seems entirely unconcerned with his origins. At the very least, he doesn't seem as dependent on where he came from for a sense of self.

Still, Avery's bravery in her search for answers is admirable, and considering how obviously torn she is about her particular situation, she is incredibly forthcoming and self-aware. We get an unexpected amount of access to her private thoughts and feelings about what she's going through, often things that she doesn't even share with her mothers. But as the tension in the Klein-Cloud household escalates, Opper seems to pull back and even gloss over certain pivotal incidents, like a falling out between Avery and her parents that results in her moving out for a period. Opper barely addresses an abortion Avery decides to get when an unwanted pregnancy threatens to impede her track career. In fact, this part of the story is so glossed over that I wasn't entirely sure that it happened.

In the end, Avery's coming of age—and to terms with the fact that she may never meet her birth mother—feels undeserved though still inspiring. Perhaps the fact that Opper has a personal relationship with the family (she was one of Avery's teachers in middle school) can account for her trepidation in handling such sensitive issues. But her reluctance does take away from the moral lesson of the film: that adopted children need to stand by those who've cared for them and showed them support every step of the way, which, in this case, is Avery's unconventional but extraordinary family.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, March 30th 2010

Post Black: How a New Generation Is Redefining African American Identity

admin — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 00:00:00 +0000

By Ytasha L. Womack

Lawrence Hill Books

Post Black reads like a young, or relatively young, African American’s manifesto. Specifically speaking, it brings home points of declaration from the Generation X and Y African American crowd. Ytasha Womack thoroughly, interestingly, and comprehensibly covers the various aspects that make up the Black population in America. Some of these aspects include African immigrants, young Black professionals, hip-hop participants, and feminists.

I appreciate what Womack is not trying to do with this book, which is establish Black leadership, crucify certain Black men and women, browbeat the generations before us, and preach. There have been many writings on how Generations X and Y see the world, but few of those, if any, do so from the lens of those who have inherited slavery, the Civil Rights Movement, and institutionalized racism. When compounded by those factors, the entrepreneurial spirit that is characteristic of Generation X often affects what type of business is started, who that business caters to, and the very success of that business. The mistrust of authority that is also said to be characteristic of this generation can offer a whole new understanding when the historical basis for this mistrust is legitimate and validated on a continual basis by a society that refuses to acknowledge the historical relevance of entire groups of people. While Post Black does not blame or dwell on this historical reality, the effects are profound in how Black identities in America are shaped and molded by this reality.

Womack details not only the cultural legacy Blacks in America have inherited, but also the struggles of breaking free from the many limitations this legacy has placed on Blacks. Being bound by expected obligations of young Blacks to uphold and preserve this legacy have forced many to abandon it altogether, while others have adapted to the political, social, and economic climate of today. Womack points out that social issues that were previously ignored, dismissed, or viewed as negligible (e.g., homosexuality, feminism, and the large immigration of Africans from the African diaspora) have expanded the perceptions of what it means to be Black in America.

Womack gives a wonderful treatise on how Black is defined according to the individual experiencing it, not solely on what she thinks it is. She includes her own experiences, but uses them to explain the points and experiences she is trying to convey to those who may not understand. I understand thoroughly, because I am the product of the African and African American cultures while falling into that infamous generation known as X. Even for the reader who does not fall into a category of color, the ability to identify with what is said in Post Black should not be lost because negotiating a path that is only a handful of generations away from slavery has affected the realities of all those who have inherited its legacy.

Written by: Olupero R. Aiyenimelo, March 29th 2010

Conversate Is Not A Word: Getting Away From Ghetto

admin — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 16:01:00 +0000

By Jam Donaldson

Lawrence Hill Books

I admit it: I bristle when my students talk about conversating. At the same time, I try to catch myself, remembering that decades back no one spoke of googling or used the word text as a verb either. Language, like social mores, constantly changes.

African American author, provocateur, blogger, and lawyer Jam Donaldson understands this, and her message is simple: Everyone, but especially people of color, needs to know the difference between slang and proper grammar, and everyone needs to take responsibility for the things they can control. For her, this means dressing age-appropriately and not parading the family jewels—whether a belly button or a pair of Joe Boxer’s—in public. Indeed, Donaldson is so miffed by “ghetto chic” that she created a website to showcase violations she considers particularly egregious.

Called Hot Ghetto Mess, the site has, since 2004, urged readers to send in outrageous photos and commentary. Dozens have been compiled, exhibiting a wide-range of missteps, from a little boy in a faux pimp costume to a woman with a tattoo proclaiming her prowess as “cock sucka.” But Donaldson is about more than style and she uses her writing to push African Americans to own personal failures.

“Sure, there’s racism,” she writes, "but those things in our lives we can control we should control. Fighting injustice and racism is not incompatible with getting a job and acting like you got some damn sense. How about we do both?”

Men who walk away from the children they sire are particularly irksome, Donaldson writes. So, too are women who neglect to use contraceptives to protect against STDs and pregnancy. While her vision of optimal two-parent childrearing is absurdly narrow—and heterosexist—her point about family planning is on the mark: “Decide if you even want children. Having children should be a conscious choice, not a default.”

Like Bill Cosby, Eric Michael Dyson, and Oprah Winfrey, Donaldson values education and sees knowledge as power. She rails at those who spend money on jewelry and designer duds, but not books, and rants that not learning computer basics is essentially acquiescing to subordination. Furthermore, Donaldson believes that a standard work ethic is essential and is aghast at those who eschew the nine-to-five. “Many young people no longer equate hard work with money. Hard work is for suckas… But that’s like all those young white girls trying to look like the air brushed models in magazines. They are chasing a dream. Idolizing a fantasy.”

Her recommendation? Find work you can tolerate, do it, save some money, be realistic about purchases, avoid excessive debt, and remember to give back to those who are less fortunate. She zooms in on churches that continually beg for cash and lambastes them for preying on people’s generosity. “Churches should be about service, not self-serving,” she quips. “Give us something we really need, like food, clothing, shelter, or a mortgage payment. You have the opportunity to be a lifeline for so many. And really, isn’t that what Jesus would do?”

While Donaldson never discusses the N-word, an odd omission in a book about Black pride, Conversate Is Not a Word is engaging and frequently amusing. Few readers will agree with her on every point, but the debate generated will make it well worth the purchase price.

Nelson Mandela once said that “to be free is not merely to cast off one’s chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.” That statement is Donaldson’s starting point. How progressives, whether white or of color, interpret this injunction remains an open question.

Written by: Eleanor J. Bader, March 16th 2010

Off and Running

admin — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 01:00:00 +0000

Directed by Nicole Opper

First Run Features

Off and Running is a very non-traditional coming-of-age story told in a way that deftly conveys one young woman’s unique situation as well as more universal themes. Filmmaker Nicole Opper was afforded intimate access to her subjects, which enabled her to invite the viewer to take a sensitive and warm perspective as the events unfold.

The film’s central subject, a high school track star named Avery Klein-Cloud, is honest and likable. Her story, though specifically about interracial and intercultural adoption, asks questions that many young adults often don’t dare ask aloud. Avery introduces us to her family of white Jewish lesbian mothers and adopted brothers from multi-racial backgrounds during the Jewish festival of Chanukah. At the start of the film, she speaks very matter-of-factly about her decision to attempt to contact her birth mother during her junior year of high school. The significance of this year will be clear to those who have attended school in the U.S.—this is the year that standardized tests and sports results can affect college choices and scholarship options— not a year to be taken lightly. Avery begins to feel the strain, yet perseveres in her quest to find out more about her biological family and reconcile this aspect of her identity with her, at first, seemingly incongruous upbringing.

Along the way, we get to know her adoptive mothers and adopted siblings who all share a similar ‘tell it like it is’ vibe when speaking about serious issues with warmth and humour. Avery meets her old friends from her Jewish elementary school in scenes that further contextualise her upbringing. Filmed chats with another adopted young woman of colour raised by Jewish parents are natural and open—inviting the viewer in and allowing us to experience something we might never have seen otherwise. We also see Avery training for and competing in track meets supported by her long-term boyfriend, and getting to know African American culture with a group of high school friends. She is truly a professional and takes her sport seriously.

What makes this story all the more poignant is that her desire for more contact with her birth mother thwarts her progress in athletics and is detrimental to her relationships within her family. Although there are unexpected developments in this story, Opper maintains a strong, real narrative that shows a complete picture of the desires and feelings on all sides in this family. Opper’s choice to conclude the story the following autumn during the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah is culturally and narratively satisfying.

I found myself empathizing with everyone, which is a testament to the director’s craft. Each of Avery’s brothers shares opinions about her quest, and though one brother is a Princeton freshman and the other is a second-grader, Opper affords them equal screen time in well-framed sequences. Avery’s mothers receive the same fair treatment, and disagreements on screen never feel voyeuristic or melodramatic. There are many television shows aiming for this level of intimacy and family drama. All pale in comparison to Off and Running. Opper has done a great service to this genre, allowing me to reinvest in it as an audience member.

The film looks good as well—kudos to director of photography Jacob Akira Okada and editor Cheree Dillon. Thankfully, there is no voice-over narration, or even excessive exposition: occasional captions show the passage of time. A sympathetic and unobtrusive soundtrack by Daniel Bernard Roumain gives the film even greater depth. Home movie footage and a few still photos provided by this very honest and dignified family round out the story visually.

Feminist? Yes. This is a true story about a young, Jewish, African-American woman who knows her own mind, stands by her decisions, and learns from her mistakes. Unusually, but very successfully, Avery Klein-Cloud co-wrote the film and has actively supported the production process. I’m sure others who see this original documentary will join me in routing for Avery’s and the film’s continued success.

Written by: Chella Quint, February 16th 2010

I’m Still Standing: From Captive U.S. Soldier to Free Citizen—My Journey Home

admin — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 20:30:00 +0000

By Shoshana Johnson

Simon & Schuster

I was working in my college dining hall when I first caught wind of Jessica Lynch’s capture back in 2003. As I scraped steam trays, I compared our situations. She is a brave soldier somewhere in the sands of Iraq. I am a pansy who spent her days in purgatorial peace in the tundra of upstate New York. I didn’t know—many people didn’t know—that five other soldiers, including Shoshana Johnson, the first African-American female prisoner of war, were also being held. I’m Still Standing, recounts the capture and twenty-two-day imprisonment of Johnson and four male co-prisoners at the dawn of Operation Iraqi Freedom.

Johnson is many things: an army cook, a survivor, a mother, and a brave woman who endured great hardship for her nation. She is not a professional writer, though, and it shows. Writing this book has undoubtedly been therapeutic for her, and it gave her a platform to tell the world her story, but as a reader I found myself desiring deeper contemplations on her experience than what she provided. We get a play-by-play, and I wanted a reflection.

This book presents several potentially riveting subjects, such as how the military portrays itself for the media, the ethics of keeping prisoners, the perception of the Iraqi people, and the experience of a female soldier. Being an American female solider serving in the Middle East seems like a particular double-whammy, since women remain a minority in the military and many countries in the Middle East traditionally treat women in a way many Westerners find unacceptable.

Johnson had many experiences during her ordeal that are unique to a female solider. When her gender was discovered by her captors, they stopped beating her while the beating of male soldiers continued. Johnson was held in a different room separate from her male co-prisoners for several days, and she hints about feeling ignored by the men. Later, after telling her captors that she was not married, some began to say that she should marry an Iraqi man, a comment she feared was not a joke. At one point a cloth was tossed over her body to conceal her exposed skin and she was told, “This is Iraq.” After her rescue, she found that many people assumed she was raped in captivity.

Many scenes are ripe with poignancy, but I feel she ran over them in an attempt to remember everything, and gave herself no room to meditate on what it meant. It seems every time a chance to explore subjects in depth was presented, the author merely skims the surface and moves on. I recall a quote from writer Lucy Grealy, who was asked how she remembered the details of her childhood that resulted in her book Autobiography of a Face. She replied, “I didn’t remember it. I wrote it.” Indeed, nonfiction writing needs to have that organic quality to it.

After Johnson’s rescue and return, the book morphs into a defense against accusations she says were piled upon her by the Army and the media. Many lines are unveiled attempts to send personal messages to people in her life, such as an old lover. That can be done in a private, rather than in a national publication.

Despite the limitations of the book, this soldier endured hardships, and I thank her for having the courage to fight for the nation and to tell her story.

Written by: Kelly Palka Gallagher, January 18th 2010

The Songs of Blind Folk: African American Musicians and the Cultures of Blindness

admin — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 01:00:00 +0000

By Terry Rowden

University of Michigan Press

Terry Rowden’s book is that rarest of gems, a work of critical theory that should appeal to a broad audience and that contributes simultaneously, in an original and exciting way, to the fields of Disability Studies, Ethnomusicology, and African American Studies. While more casual music fans might be tempted to turn immediately to chapters on Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder, the initial chapters on the cultural politics of blindness and race in the nineteenth century represent a seldom viewed perspective on the nexus of racial and physical difference—and they are no less accessible nor original in their insights than the later chapters on more recognizable figures.

Rowden focuses first on the figure of “Blind Tom Bethune” as a product of nineteenth-century American preoccupation with “freakish attraction.” Bethune was marketed—enslaved, essentially, even after Emancipation, by his managers as a kind of idiot savant, but his popularity and reappropriation by African American folk musicians and poets in the late nineteenth century helped to transform him from a freakish sentimental figure to a more affirmative expression of African American creativity.

The book then traces a lineage of blind blues musicians: those for whom race, age, obscurity, and blindness become part of a musical aesthetic. A chapter on “The Souls of Blind Folk” shows a tradition in gospel and spiritual music that, unlike much of the composition by African American musicians, openly acknowledges the artists’ blindness, which becomes emblematic of the musician’s spiritual condition.

Rowden’s work on Charles and Wonder climax his study. He examines the “Rhetoric of Genius” surrounding Charles and some of his contemporaries, the prodigiously “gifted” artist who is legitimated for mainstream American audiences first by virtue of his physical attractiveness and second by his invention of the sunglasses as an iconic representation of the sightless performer. Wonder is presented as a musician who seemed to achieve “transcendence” over his blindness. He helped dispel the folkloric notion that blindness “was somehow a punishment for some kind of original sin.” His precocious rise to fame Rowden attributes first to excellent musical education and second to his being “cute”—both “little” and “a wonder”—and so unthreatening to the public. By sharp contrast to his forebears, Wonder grew up with what Rowden memorably calls “the cyborgean prosthestics of privilege”—an unprecedented access to technology and financial and personal support. Nonetheless, his career was eclipsed by the advent of MTV and BET and the “image-oriented” musical world of the 1980s and beyond.

The Songs of Blind Folk is both sensitive and provocative, a work of historical scholarship and applied critical theory, an accessible and original addition to ongoing discourses in a variety of disciplines.

Written by: Rick Taylor, December 13th 2009

The House at Sugar Beach: In Search of a Lost African Childhood

admin — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 01:09:00 +0000

By Helene Cooper

Simon & Schuster

Helene Cooper’s memoir about growing up in Liberia and moving to the United States paints a portrait of a girl trapped between two cultures and countries worlds apart from one another. Cooper is the descendant of freed African American slaves who returned to Africa to found Liberia in the early 1800s. Her upbringing was a privileged one, as a member of the small Liberian upper class composed almost entirely of the descendants of Black American settlers. Sheltered by her family’s wealth and privilege, Cooper grows up relatively oblivious to the growing tensions and inequities in Liberian society. She doesn’t seem to understand how unequal and unfair the distribution of wealth and power was in Liberia.

The contradictions of a small and wealthy elite living within a very poor country are glaringly apparent, especially when her parents decide to “get” a sister for her after she complains of being afraid to sleep alone at night. The “sister” they obtain, Eunice, comes from the poor class of Liberians. A relatively common practice in Liberian society was for poor children to come live as sons and daughters of the upper class. Eunice’s mother sent her to live with another family, as this would give Eunice a better opportunity to succeed in life. Eunice becomes a part of the family, but is never completely embraced as a true daughter. This is particularly the case when they end up leaving her behind when a bloody coup in 1980 forced Helene’s family to flee the country and immigrate to America. Once in the U.S., Cooper avoids talking about her homeland, embarrassed of being associated with a country that the rest of the world saw on the nightly news as being riddled by uncontrolled violence and grisly civil war.

The House at Sugar Beach alternates between tender childhood memories at an idyllic beach house in Liberia to Cooper's life after the coup as she struggles to find her own identity and "make it" in the United States.

Written by: Liz Simmons, November 5th 2009

Queer in Black and White: Interraciality, Same-Sex Desire and Contemporary African-American Culture

admin — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 16:36:00 +0000

By Stefanie Dunning

Indiana University Press

Stefanie Dunning takes the scalpel of reason to the twin sores of misogyny and homophobia that sometimes stain traditional notions of a black nationalist consciousness. The result is an intellectual illustration challenging “the notion that the black queer is "not black enough" and both examines and explains “the frequent representation of the interracial as a device signifying the ideas of nation, authenticity and blackness.” Dunning effectively answers a question that I, as a young black gay man, frequently ask: is it possible to be fully black, fully gay, and satisfy normative perceptions of traditional black masculinity simultaneously? Thankfully, one can find an affirmative answer and a stringent defense of a more comprehensive and inclusive characterization of those straddling multiple communities of origin within the text of Dunning's literary cultural exploration.

The act of loving a person of another ethnicity or miscegenation is a mental act and stance rather than something “that happens between bodies.” Once one accepts this as fact, it is easier to follow the use of “miscegephors,” or the points at which inter-raciality is used to “stage questions about race, ethnicity and belonging.” Dunning reviews miscegephorical use in music, television, and literature--including Ann Allen Shockley's Loving Her_, the first novel about a black lesbian; Me'Shell NdegeOcello's hip-hop volume Plantation Lullabies_, and Eldridge Cleaver's essay “Notes on a Native Son.” The pages and lyrics of these works provide the canvas for the discourse Dunning pursues. Cleaver's essay and its characterization of the “negro homosexual” as a constituent of another group outside of the black community are challenged by such representations as the relationship (fictional albeit) of Terry and Renay in Loving Her.

This challenge was put into the most stark relief when in Shockley's Loving Her, Dunning finds a juxtaposition between the parallel images of Renay, the recently single black mother with her new white lesbian lover, Terry. We see Renay doing the “little things,” the domestic chores that Terry refuses and Dunning cites the evocation of a black women “working” for a white woman rather than loving her as it meshed “perfectly with the traditional black servant's role.” Then, we witness Renay introducing Terry to soul food, slipping into dialect―using food and language―to act as an ethnic bridge within their interracial relationship. Dunning cites Barbara Smith's review of this scene as a central challenge to the notion that being black and being gay is the assumption of a “racially de-natured” state. Renay and Terry's relationship is not constructed on color-blind terms, and the circumstances of ethnic origin that each bring to the relationship are not eroded; rather, they are amplified.

Within the creative pieces Dunning highlights and the dialogue that each seemed to further, I found the opportunity to consider my own identity and my own personal struggle to associate equally with different communities of origin. Black gay and lesbian artists, such as those that authored the works reviewed by Dunning, are not threats to biological and cultural continuity, but in reality, are at the forefront of remaking “our conceptions of blackness.”

Written by: Brandon Copeland, October 17th 2009

Baby Care Gift Set

admin — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 08:52:00 +0000

By African American Baby Care

Everyone likes good shampoo. Even though I am neither a baby nor an African American, I am delighted to use pure organic hair cleansers with a fragrant blend of rose petal, rosemary, and sage. African American Baby Care offers a full range of infant care products made from pure organics, natural botanicals, and rare herbs. Initial use indicated that the items are indeed as gentle as the labels attest, and the baby hair dress does a good job of keeping my hypercortisol frizz under control.

However, as a dedicated product tester, I must determine an item's fitness to purpose, and this obviously entailed taking care of an African American baby. With none in the immediate vicinity, I considered my options. Jacqueline is two blocks to the north and one to the east, but she and her six-month-old most likely just want to be left alone. Then there's the possibility of taking it to the streets of Chicago. I could suit up in an apron, swim mask, and cover my newly-dressed hair with a lavender bandana left over from a job costume—I have been warned that all babies are prone to leakage from any orifice without warning—and seek an African American infant.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” I'd ask, resplendent in chartreuse-lensed UVA safe goggles, wearing a terrycloth ladybug mitt, and brandishing multiple babycare bottles, “Could I wash your baby with these fine products? It's okay: I'm a feminist.” Guessing what the appropriate response would be, I went online and located the service Rent-a-Negro, but they're headquartered in Portland, Oregon, and appear to only have adults available. After some networking with Manicella, I was graciously provided access to an African American infant to wash, and showed up with the products. However, there were issues.

Nya is a delightful one-year-old child, albeit of occasionally grave demeanor. She is also of African American, European American, and Chinese ancestry. This presented a quandary. Was I to wash only one-third of the baby? And if so, which third? I was reminded of Groucho Marx's response when he was informed that he would not be allowed to go in the swimming pool at a private club because it did not admit Jews. "Well, my son is half Jewish,” Marx replied. “Can he go in up to his waist?"

Gamely, I set about my task, attempting to keep Nya at ease with an off-key rendition of "Itsy-bitsy Spider." Given her varied ethnicity, I suspected that the little girl has what would be described as "good" hair, and the use of that term makes me sad. The recent recreation of the Drs. Kenneth and Mamie Clark's doll studies indicates how far we have to go. And I hope that I can use 'we' as meaning humans. Sally Kempton said, “It is hard to fight an enemy who has outposts in your head.”

African American Baby Care products went far, sudsing liberally from moderate quantities. They include neither paraben preservatives nor pthalates. The suspicion regarding the carcinogenic or estrogenic effects of these substances has been questioned, but as long as they can be avoided, why put them on your kid? The shampoo rinsed well and the accompanying conditioner went on smoothly. The baby body butter applied evenly, and I believe it will prevent a baby from getting "ashy."

Mom took over at the hair styling stage—just as well, seeing that I don't know a box braid from a twist out—and praised the hair dress. She said she'd get back to me on the milk. Nya said, “Eeeee! Bwah!” as a parting screech of acknowledgment. Funny—the last infant I handled—white, male, blonde, blue-eyed—said almost the exact same thing.

Written by: Erika Mikkalo, September 12th 2009