tag:theconversation.com,2011:/us/topics/black-american-99582/articlesBlack American – The Conversation2023-12-14T15:54:12Ztag:theconversation.com,2011:article/2197042023-12-14T15:54:12Z2023-12-14T15:54:12Z‘American Fiction’ asks who gets to decide Blackness<iframe style="width: 100%; height: 100px; border: none; position: relative; z-index: 1;" allowtransparency="" allow="clipboard-read; clipboard-write" src="https://narrations.ad-auris.com/widget/the-conversation-canada/american-fiction-asks-who-gets-to-decide-blackness" width="100%" height="400"></iframe>
<p>The much-anticipated <em>American Fiction</em> comes to theatres this month. As a long-time scholar of Percival Everett, the author whose 2001 novel, <a href="https://www.ctpublic.org/2023-12-12/advice-from-a-critic-read-erasure-before-seeing-american-fiction"><em>Erasure</em></a>, was adapted for this critically praised film I am curious how the main themes of the book will be explored.</p>
<p>Directed by Cord Jefferson and starring Jeffrey Wright, the film presents an opportunity to talk about race, power and white supremacy within intellectual and cultural spaces, including higher education. Specifically, what version of Blackness is acceptable or saleable within American culture? </p>
<p>Thelonious “Monk” Ellison, the protagonist of <em>American Fiction</em>, is a novelist and an English professor. He struggles with the power that determines which versions of Blackness “count” and who makes these determinations. </p>
<p>In <em>Erasure</em>, Monk is constantly told that his work is not “Black enough.” But the determination of his Blackness is most often decided by people who are not themselves racialized within American society. </p>
<p>He finally gets so fed-up by the lack of sales for his literary novels, that he decides to write a satirical novel as a joke. </p>
<p>To his complete surprise, his ghetto novel, <em>My Pafology</em>, becomes a bestselling, award-winning novel. The film rights eventually sell for millions. But Monk’s ambivalence is unavoidable, since his work’s “success” is based entirely on terms set by other people. </p>
<p>And now, a novel satirizing how stereotypical versions of Blackness are often preferred by and sold to American culture has been made into <em>American Fiction</em>, a major motion picture, with wide cinematic release. It’s difficult not to feel ambivalent.</p>
<p>As a scholar who has written two books and given numerous interviews and talks on Black identity and race in Canada and as a longtime university English professor and now a university administrator, I am not Monk. But I get Monk. Like him, I have been frustrated and confused by the disjunctions between theory and practice so characteristic of life in the academy, especially in those moments when race — and particularly Blackness — is being discussed. </p>
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Read more:
<a href="https://theconversation.com/american-fiction-is-a-scathing-satire-that-challenges-pop-culture-stereotypes-of-blackness-217988">'American Fiction' is a scathing satire that challenges pop-culture stereotypes of Blackness</a>
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<h2>Questions of power</h2>
<p>In my own setting, as a Black man born in Canada, working and teaching at an American college, I too am asking which versions of diversity matter and who decides how and when it matters.</p>
<p>Everett’s novel highlights racist mechanisms within society, many of which appear so natural that we no longer think of them as mechanisms at all.</p>
<p>In her 2019 book, <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2019/jan/20/shoshana-zuboff-age-of-surveillance-capitalism-google-facebook"><em>The Age of Surveillance Capitalism</em></a>, American philosopher and scholar Shoshana Zuboff analyzes power through the role that giant tech companies play in our lives, often without our noticing them. Her book asks a question crucial to the understanding of how power works: “Who knows? Who decides? Who decides who decides?” </p>
<p>I find Zuboff’s questions useful in thinking about how power in relation to race works in colleges and universities, especially as institutions emphasize their commitment to “diversity,” on the one hand, while maintaining a glacial pace of change, on the other. </p>
<h2>Diversity needs a wholesale renovation</h2>
<p>Recently, someone at the Council of Colleges of Arts and Sciences <a href="https://www.ccas.net/i4a/pages/index.cfm?pageid=3940&pageid=1">(CCAS)</a> conference said the most effective way to diversify university faculties is through hiring. But the idea of hiring for diversity has led to a backlash in some quarters. </p>
<p>Recent attacks against <a href="https://www.weforum.org/agenda/2022/10/the-diversity-backlash-here-s-how-to-resist-it/">“diversity, equity and inclusion” policies</a> and <a href="https://www.reuters.com/legal/government/what-critical-race-theory-means-why-its-igniting-debate-2021-09-21/">misunderstandings of critical race theory</a> have pitted historical holders of power against those usually only spoken about. Controversies like these do not promise speedy progress where race is concerned.</p>
<p>I’m often equally perplexed by those who purport to be on my side. </p>
<p>Like Monk, the sources of much misunderstanding among my academic peers are people who say they want to help members of underrepresented groups on their campuses. </p>
<p>The expression “underrepresented groups” is another of these natural-looking expressions, now quite prominent in diversity policies. It actually obscures the important questions about the mechanisms and decisions that have resulted in these particular groups becoming underrepresented in universities in the first place. </p>
<p>The way that progress within a culture looks depends on who is doing the looking. At the CCAS conference, sociologist Nicole Stokes, interim vice-chancellor of student affairs at Pennsylvania State University (Abington), put all of this very well. She said a lot of the diversity work she sees looks a lot like surface remodelling, like putting new doors on old kitchen cabinets for example. But diversity work needs to be a wholesale renovation: when you take your kitchen down to the studs and start again.</p>
<p>In a way similar to who decides what is a saleable artifact from a minority culture, those deciding whether to remodel or to renovate are usually not those most directly affected by the history that has brought the need for such policies into being.</p>
<p>I’ve been a college professor for 28 years, and I’m currently an associate dean. If I feel this way, then how do you suppose junior colleagues of colour, or, more importantly, students of colour might feel? </p>
<p>For diversity policies to be taken seriously, we need to come clean on who has always decided their direction and value, and then work from there.</p>
<p>In the end, power dynamics don’t change in <em>American Fiction</em>, but at least Monk gets a bestseller and a movie deal.</p>
<iframe height="200px" width="100%" frameborder="no" scrolling="no" seamless="" src="https://player.simplecast.com/edde9889-d430-40cb-b879-4b21d58d2936?dark=true"></iframe><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/219704/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
<p class="fine-print"><em><span>Anthony Stewart does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.</span></em></p>The release of ‘American Fiction’ presents an opportunity to talk about race, power and white supremacy: What version of Blackness is acceptable or saleable within American culture?Anthony Stewart, Associate Dean (Arts and Humanities), Bucknell UniversityLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.tag:theconversation.com,2011:article/1967182022-12-18T13:16:44Z2022-12-18T13:16:44ZStephen ‘tWitch’ Boss’s death should spark real conversations about the cost of Black celebrity<figure><img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/501412/original/file-20221215-11363-xdwxlj.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&rect=0%2C0%2C3300%2C2183&q=45&auto=format&w=496&fit=clip" /><figcaption><span class="caption">There has been a public outpouring of love for the dancer and producer Stephen 'tWitch' Boss who died this week at the age of 40. </span> <span class="attribution"><span class="source">(Donald Traill/JetBlue's Soar with Reading Program via AP Images)</span></span></figcaption></figure><p>Last week, dancer and DJ <a href="https://people.com/tag/stephen-twitch-boss/">Stephen ‘tWitch’ Boss</a> died from suicide at age 40. Like many, I was incredibly shocked and saddened by the news. </p>
<p>As a scholar of Black entertainment history, I also reflected on the longer history of Black male entertainers dancing or telling jokes to their deaths despite cultivating a public image as “<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CmKDwRNJYrV/">pure love and light</a>,” which is how tWitch’s former co-producer, Ellen DeGeneres described him on her Instagram upon hearing of his death.</p>
<p>There have been so many tragic and unexpected deaths of young Black men in the entertainment industry that websites, such as <a href="http://www.bestofdate.com/">BestOfDate</a>, and <a href="https://www.ranker.com/list/rappers-who-passed-young/celebrity-lists">Ranker</a> have formed to document them. </p>
<p>While these sites are primarily documenting the deaths of rappers, they are also creating a narrative around Black men that values their personas more than the lives they actually lived. </p>
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<a href="https://images.theconversation.com/files/501625/original/file-20221216-11243-ityp8l.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=1000&fit=clip"><img alt="man smiles for the camera" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/501625/original/file-20221216-11243-ityp8l.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/501625/original/file-20221216-11243-ityp8l.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=429&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501625/original/file-20221216-11243-ityp8l.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=429&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501625/original/file-20221216-11243-ityp8l.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=429&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501625/original/file-20221216-11243-ityp8l.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=539&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501625/original/file-20221216-11243-ityp8l.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=539&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501625/original/file-20221216-11243-ityp8l.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=539&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px"></a>
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<span class="caption">Actor Chadwick Boseman, star of the film ‘Black Panther,’ in Los Angeles, 2018.</span>
<span class="attribution"><span class="source">(AP Photo/Chris Pizzello)</span></span>
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<p>If there is a common thread running through the seemingly unexpected deaths of Black male celebrities, it’s that few around them were made aware of their struggles. When singer-songwriter Prince died in 2016 at 57 from an accidental overdose of fentanyl, even his <a href="https://www.chicagotribune.com/columns/dahleen-glanton/ct-met-prince-friends-dahleen-glanton-20180420-story.html">closest friends</a> did little to address his drug addiction. Similarly when Chadwick Boseman, actor and star of <em>Black Panther</em> died of Stage 4 colon cancer in 2020 at age 43, <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2020/08/28/movies/chadwick-boseman-dead.html">no one in the industry knew</a> that he had been battling the disease. While these deaths were given a medical cause, I believe the larger issue of Black male celebrities not talking about their struggles plays an undeniable role.</p>
<p>When a celebrity’s image matters more to the public than their real-life challenges, it is often referred to as the <a href="https://www.findapsychologist.org/parasocial-relationships-the-nature-of-celebrity-fascinations/#:%7E:text=Parasocial%20relationships%20are%20one%2Dsided,sports%20teams">parasocial relationship</a>.</p>
<h2>How parasocial relationships have changed</h2>
<p>First coined in 1956 by sociologists Donald Horton and R. Richard Wohl, the “<a href="https://doi.org/10.1080/00332747.1956.11023049">para-social interaction</a>,” was a kind of psychological relationship experienced by how television audiences related to performers. Today, parasocial interactions apply to social media platforms. As audiences are repeatedly exposed to media personas, we develop illusions of intimacy, friendship and identification. </p>
<p>They’re at our fingertips and in front of our eyes every second of every day. Clinical psychologist <a href="https://doctorbethanycook.com/">Bethany Cook</a> told <a href="https://stylecaster.com/parasocial-relationships-meaning/">Stylecaster</a> that “social media allows the untouchable to become touchable.” </p>
<p>And the lines between reality and fiction are increasingly more blurred than when Horton and Wohl conducted their study. </p>
<p>In reality, the networks of intimacy that we develop with celebrities are based on impersonal forms of communication. </p>
<p>For example, two days before tWitch died, he posted a dance video to <a href="https://www.instagram.com/sir_twitch_alot/">his Instagram</a> with his wife, Allison. While dancing Instagram posts come off as pure fun, they are mostly a <a href="https://www.morethandancers.com/posts/how-to-grow-your-dance-instagram">marketing strategy</a> to increase brand awareness, not an innocent glimpse into a dancer’s “off-time.” </p>
<p><div data-react-class="InstagramEmbed" data-react-props="{"url":"https://www.instagram.com/p/CmNVqhwKPv0","accessToken":"127105130696839|b4b75090c9688d81dfd245afe6052f20"}"></div></p>
<p>Today’s celebrity and performer are involved in the curation of webs of intimacy and presumed friendships which makes it difficult to see reality. For example, when a celebrity we follow is struggling with a mental health issue. </p>
<p>Significantly, there is a long history of Black male performers burying mental health issues until they tragically and unexpectedly die.</p>
<h2>Black men have been dying on-and-off stages for centuries</h2>
<p><a href="https://masterjuba.com/">William Henry Lane</a> (1825–1852), also known as Master Juba, was the first Black dancer to reach international acclaim on both sides of the Atlantic. Born in Providence, R.I., he is remembered not only as the originator of African American tap dance but has been hailed as <a href="https://www.routledge.com/Blackface-Minstrelsy-in-Britain/Pickering/p/book/9781138265363">“the Jackie Robinson of the American stage.”</a> </p>
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<img alt="an engraving of a man dancing with onlookers" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/501565/original/file-20221216-27-ojy8uy.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/501565/original/file-20221216-27-ojy8uy.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=423&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501565/original/file-20221216-27-ojy8uy.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=423&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501565/original/file-20221216-27-ojy8uy.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=423&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501565/original/file-20221216-27-ojy8uy.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=531&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501565/original/file-20221216-27-ojy8uy.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=531&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501565/original/file-20221216-27-ojy8uy.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=531&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
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<span class="caption">William Henry Lane (‘Master Juba’) dances in New York’s Five Points District as Charles Dickens and a companion watch in the background.</span>
<span class="attribution"><a class="source" href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Master_Juba_from_American_Notes.jpg">(Engraving from American Notes by Charles Dickens, 1842: The Penumbral Frontier: Landscape, Modernity, and the Subterranean Imagination in New York City Literature and Culture)</a>, <a class="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/">CC BY</a></span>
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<p>By the 1840s, Lane was billed as one of the greatest dancers of his time, no small feat if you consider that throughout the 19th century (and most of the 20th), Black performers did not get regular work unless they fit themselves into the mold cast for them by white casting directors. </p>
<p>However, because it was the 19th century, Lane was often forced to wear the burnt-cork mask of blackface minstrelsy, as he danced. As the sole Black performer on white stages, Lane worked day and night for 11 years in Britain until he died at only 27 years old. </p>
<p>As cultural sociologist Michael Pickering observes in <em>Blackface Minstrelsy in Britain</em>, by most accounts, Lane “had quite literally danced himself to death.” </p>
<p>tWitch was one of the first Black dancers on <em>So You Think You Can Dance</em> to catapult into the mainstream. His unique combination of personality and hip hop moves made him one of the most memorable and beloved members of the show. </p>
<p>While the reasons tWitch took his life are still unknown, the legacy of Lane’s death, which was the result of physical and mental exhaustion lingers eerily in his passing.</p>
<h2>It’s time to listen to the whisper</h2>
<p>At the end of my book, <a href="https://chbooks.com/Books/U/Uncle"><em>Uncle: Race, Nostalgia, and the Politics of Loyalty</em></a>, I write that “Uncle Tom is our collective whisper.” Meaning that when Black men are always smiling, happy, loyal and constantly performing, that state of “on-ness” comes at a cost. </p>
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<img alt="A portrait of Redd Foxx" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/501567/original/file-20221216-11243-ou8soy.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/501567/original/file-20221216-11243-ou8soy.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=827&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501567/original/file-20221216-11243-ou8soy.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=827&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501567/original/file-20221216-11243-ou8soy.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=827&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501567/original/file-20221216-11243-ou8soy.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=1039&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501567/original/file-20221216-11243-ou8soy.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=1039&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501567/original/file-20221216-11243-ou8soy.jpeg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=1039&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
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<span class="caption">Redd Foxx in 1966.</span>
<span class="attribution"><span class="source">(John E. Reed/Coast Artist Management0</span></span>
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<p>In centuries past, working oneself to death meant that performers died suddenly like Lane or the legendary comedian <a href="https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1991-10-12-me-105-story.html">Redd Foxx</a>, who suffered a heart attack on set in 1991 after working in the industry for 56 years. The trailblazing dancer, actor and choreographer <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2003/08/11/arts/gregory-hines-versatile-dancer-and-actor-dies-at-57.html">Gregory Hines</a>, who revitalized tap dance in the 1980s, also died young at age 57 after a short battle with cancer. </p>
<p>Today, it is more likely that Black celebrities — especially those who make a career of entertaining primarily white audiences — suffer in silence until they die suddenly, take their own lives and/or have violent public outbursts. </p>
<p>The “<a href="https://theconversation.com/will-smiths-oscar-slap-reveals-fault-lines-as-he-defends-jada-pinkett-smith-against-chris-rock-podcast-180280">slap heard around the world</a>,” for instance, at the 2022 Oscars was not just about two Black male entertainers having an inappropriate altercation; it was a glimpse into Black mental health where the cost of <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2022/apr/19/whats-the-real-reason-why-black-celebs-are-still-so-angry-with-will-smith">playing the “nice guy,”</a> as Tayo Bero argued in a piece for the <em>Guardian</em>, takes an often-invisible toll.</p>
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Read more:
<a href="https://theconversation.com/will-smiths-oscar-slap-reveals-fault-lines-as-he-defends-jada-pinkett-smith-against-chris-rock-podcast-180280">Will Smith's Oscar slap reveals fault lines as he defends Jada Pinkett Smith against Chris Rock: Podcast</a>
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<img alt="TWitch dances with Hillary Clinton in a blue suit." src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/501621/original/file-20221216-19-c5mhv7.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/501621/original/file-20221216-19-c5mhv7.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=900&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501621/original/file-20221216-19-c5mhv7.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=900&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501621/original/file-20221216-19-c5mhv7.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=900&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501621/original/file-20221216-19-c5mhv7.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=1131&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501621/original/file-20221216-19-c5mhv7.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=1131&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/501621/original/file-20221216-19-c5mhv7.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=1131&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
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<span class="caption">Democratic presidential candidate Hillary Rodham Clinton, right, practices her dance moves with DJ Stephen ‘tWitch’ Boss during a break in the taping of ‘The Ellen DeGeneres Show’ in 2015.</span>
<span class="attribution"><span class="source">AP Photo/Mary Altaffer)</span></span>
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<p>A 2015 report by the U.S. <a href="https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/26079520/">National Center for Health Statistics</a> found that only 26.4 per cent of Black and Hispanic men ages 18 to 44 who experienced daily feelings of anxiety or depression were likely to have used mental health services, compared with 45.4 per cent of non-Hispanic white men with the same feelings. </p>
<p>The <a href="https://www.mentalhealthcommission.ca/wp-content/uploads/drupal/2021-02/covid_19_tip_sheet%20_health_in_black_communities_eng.pdf">Mental Health Commission of Canada</a> reports similar disparities noting that between 2001 and 2014, 38.3 per cent of Black Canadians with “poor or fair self-reported” mental health used mental health services compared with 50.8 per cent of white Canadians.</p>
<p>Black male celebrities who are chasing white approval are self-destructing in front of our very eyes. The whispers have become non-stop noise. It’s time for celebrities with power to do more than post condolences on social media. They need to be part of the process to create sustainable structures and supports for Black men in the industry. When that happens, the parasocial relationship might be key to changing lived realities.</p>
<p>My hope is that Stephen ‘tWitch’ Boss’s death does not overshadow the life he lived. And that the entertainment industry finally breaks down the wall of shame that keeps too many in the closet about their mental health struggles.</p>
<p><em>If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts or mental health matters, you can get help here: Talk Suicide Canada: 1-833-456-4566 (phone) | 45645 (text between 4 p.m. and midnight ET)</em></p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/196718/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
<p class="fine-print"><em><span>Cheryl Thompson receives funding from the Ontario Early Researcher Award program. </span></em></p>A scholar of Black entertainment history reflects on the death of producer Stephen ‘tWitch’ Boss and reflects on the history of Black male entertainers dancing or telling jokes to their deaths.Cheryl Thompson, Assistant Professor, Performance, Toronto Metropolitan UniversityLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.tag:theconversation.com,2011:article/1659332021-10-06T12:30:45Z2021-10-06T12:30:45ZHow stories about alternate worlds can help us imagine a better future: Don’t Call Me Resilient EP 7<figure><img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/423639/original/file-20210928-22-1fo8ban.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&rect=24%2C4%2C943%2C402&q=45&auto=format&w=496&fit=clip" /><figcaption><span class="caption">The work of imagining alternate futures is also about re-casting alternative pasts, as is done in the award-winning novel, 'Washington Black' by Esi Edugyan and adapted for the screen by podcast guest Selwyn Seyfu Hinds. </span> <span class="attribution"><span class="source">Washington Black/Random House</span></span></figcaption></figure><iframe height="200px" width="100%" frameborder="no" scrolling="no" seamless="" src="https://player.simplecast.com/add6ca9a-00ee-4443-b95b-e20204f36a6f?dark=true"></iframe>
<p><iframe id="tc-infographic-572" class="tc-infographic" height="100" src="https://cdn.theconversation.com/infographics/572/661898416fdc21fc4fdef6a5379efd7cac19d9d5/site/index.html" width="100%" style="border: none" frameborder="0"></iframe></p>
<p>Stories are a powerful tool to resist oppressive situations. They give writers from marginalized communities a way to imagine alternate realities — and to critique the one we live in. </p>
<p><a href="https://dont-call-me-resilient.simplecast.com/episodes/ep-7-how-stories-about-alternate-worlds-can-help-us-imagine-a-better-future">In this episode of <em>Don’t Call Me Resilient</em></a>, two storytellers who offer up wondrous “otherworlds” for Indigenous and Black people speak about the crucial role storytelling has played in their lives. </p>
<p>Daniel Heath Justice is a Colorado-born member of the Cherokee Nation and Canada Research Chair and professor in Indigenous literature and expressive culture at the University of British Columbia. He is the author of <em>Why Indigenous Literatures Matter</em>, as well as the epic trilogy, <em>The Way of Thorn and Thunder: The Kynship Chronicles</em>. </p>
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<img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/425011/original/file-20211006-21-dct5j.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/425011/original/file-20211006-21-dct5j.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=897&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/425011/original/file-20211006-21-dct5j.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=897&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/425011/original/file-20211006-21-dct5j.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=897&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/425011/original/file-20211006-21-dct5j.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=1127&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/425011/original/file-20211006-21-dct5j.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=1127&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/425011/original/file-20211006-21-dct5j.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=1127&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
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<span class="caption">Cover of Esi Eduygan’s award-winning novel, Washington Black, Canadian edition.</span>
<span class="attribution"><span class="source">Harper Collins</span></span>
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<p>Also joining the conversation is Selwyn Seyfu Hinds, an L.A.-based screenwriter and producer. He has been writing comic books and screenplays for a decade, including episodes for Jordan Peele’s <em>The Twilight Zone</em>. Hinds is currently adapting the award-winning fantasy novel <em>Washington Black</em> by Esi Edugyan, which won the Scotiabank Giller Prize in 2018. </p>
<p>A full transcript of the episode is available <a href="https://theconversation.com/how-stories-about-alternate-worlds-can-help-us-imagine-a-better-future-dont-call-me-resilient-ep-7-transcript-167520">here</a>.</p>
<p>Each week we highlight articles related to the topics we discuss in the episode. This week, Lina Nasr El Hag Ali from OCAD University writes about <a href="https://theconversation.com/afrofuturism-and-its-possibility-of-elsewhere-the-power-of-political-imagination-166002">Afrofuturism and the power of political imagination</a>.</p>
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<img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/381818/original/file-20210201-13-1g0n3ld.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/381818/original/file-20210201-13-1g0n3ld.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=600&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/381818/original/file-20210201-13-1g0n3ld.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=600&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/381818/original/file-20210201-13-1g0n3ld.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=600&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/381818/original/file-20210201-13-1g0n3ld.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=754&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/381818/original/file-20210201-13-1g0n3ld.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=754&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/381818/original/file-20210201-13-1g0n3ld.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=754&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
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<span class="attribution"><a class="source" href="https://theconversation.com/ca/podcasts">Click here to listen to Don’t Call Me Resilient</a></span>
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<p>You can listen or subscribe on <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/ca/podcast/dont-call-me-resilient/id1549798876">Apple Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5zaW1wbGVjYXN0LmNvbS9qZFg0Ql9DOA">Google Podcasts</a>, <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/37tK4zmjWvq2Sh6jLIpzp7">Spotify</a> or <a href="https://dont-call-me-resilient.simplecast.com/">wherever you listen to your favourite podcasts</a>. <a href="mailto:theculturedesk@theconversation.com">We’d love to hear from you</a>, including any ideas for future episodes. Join The Conversation on <a href="https://twitter.com/ConversationCA">Twitter</a>, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/TheConversationCanada">Facebook</a> and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/theconversationdotcom/">Instagram</a> and use #DontCallMeResilient.</p>
<p><em>Don’t Call Me Resilient is a production of The Conversation Canada. This podcast was produced with a grant for Journalism Innovation from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. The series is produced and hosted by Vinita Srivastava. Our producer is Susana Ferreira. Our associate producer is Ibrahim Daair. Reza Dahya is our sound producer. Our consulting producer is Jennifer Moroz. Lisa Varano is our audience development editor and Scott White is the CEO of The Conversation Canada. Zaki Ibrahim wrote and performed the music we use on the pod. The track is called Something in the Water.</em></p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/165933/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
Stories about alternative worlds can be a powerful way of critiquing the problems of our own world.Vinita Srivastava, Host + Producer, Don't Call Me ResilientLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.tag:theconversation.com,2011:article/1545412021-02-03T16:35:54Z2021-02-03T16:35:54ZWhat’s in a word? How to confront 150 years of racial stereotypes: Don’t Call Me Resilient EP 1 transcript<figure><img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/382320/original/file-20210203-23-ke35e9.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&rect=34%2C13%2C423%2C278&q=45&auto=format&w=496&fit=clip" /><figcaption><span class="caption">This illustration of Little Eva and Uncle Tom by Hammatt Billings appears in the first edition of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.' </span> <span class="attribution"><a class="source" href="http://utc.iath.virginia.edu/credits.html">(Uncle Tom's Cabin & American Culture: A Multi-Media Archive)</a></span></figcaption></figure><iframe height="200px" width="100%" frameborder="no" scrolling="no" seamless="" src="https://player.simplecast.com/3f580851-e21f-449b-8550-45f7b407bcea?dark=true"></iframe>
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<p><a href="https://theconversation.com/whats-in-a-word-how-to-confront-150-years-of-racial-stereotypes-podcast-episode-1-show-notes-153790">Episode 1: What’s in a word? How to confront 150 years of racial stereotypes</a>.</p>
<p><em>NOTE: Transcripts may contain errors. Please check the corresponding audio before quoting in print.</em></p>
<p><strong>Vinita Srivastava:</strong> From <em>The Conversation</em>, this is <em>Don’t Call Me Resilient</em>, I’m Vinita Srivastava. </p>
<p><strong>Cheryl Thompson:</strong> It’s troublesome, and it’s complicated. It doesn’t matter if it’s coming from Black men or white men, that word is a traumatic word, period. So either you are celebrating trauma or you’re enacting trauma, but it’s still trauma for me. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> I’ll be honest, as I started to work on this episode, I really struggled. It was the fall and there was this really irritating story that was circulating in the news. It was about a group of 34 university professors who wrote a letter in support of the use of the n-word in classrooms. Every single one of the letter writers was white, OK? Every single one. A big part of me was thinking, why is this conversation still happening? Why do white and non-Black people insist on uttering that word, the n-word? And when asked not to use it, why are they fighting for control of it? I mean, clearly, we don’t get enough Black history in schools. But it’s not just about learning about Black history. It’s about unlearning the myths and stereotypes that have been carried forward generation to generation, and with our unlearning, finding a new way forward. That’s the conversation I realized I wanted to have out of all of this. And there is no better person to join me for that than Cheryl Thompson. She’s an assistant professor at Ryerson University in the School of Creative Industries. Cheryl’s book called <em>Uncle</em>, shows how North American society has created racist stereotypes for more than 150 years. And she helps to explain why the production of those stereotypes matters so urgently today. </p>
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Read more:
<a href="https://theconversation.com/how-uncle-tom-still-impacts-racial-politics-152201">How 'Uncle Tom' still impacts racial politics</a>
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<p><strong>VS:</strong> Cheryl, it’s so great to have you here. Thanks for joining us. </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> Yes. Thank you for having me. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> When you hear these high profile stories of white and non-Black people using the n-word, how surprised are you? </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> I’m not surprised. I mean, I am Black, I went to university in Canada, I have my own experiences from being an undergrad 20 plus years ago and just knowing academics as I do, it’s not it’s not really shocking to me. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> You know, when I think about those 34 profs, I mean, 20 years later, you’re talking about 20 years ago. Do you think that the conversation should have changed now 20 years later? </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> No, because there’s a lot of academics who live what I would call insular lives. So they’re not really commingling with people who are different to them, are going to challenge them, who don’t have the same cultural background, don’t have the same cultural capital. They’re just not mingling with those people. They might have them as students. But in their mind, diversity is about the surface of the skin. So the classroom looks browner, but they don’t really attach anything to that. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> What is the history of this word? Why is it so utterly offensive? </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> So, in transatlantic slavery, when people of African descent were held in bondage in the Americas, they were often called n-word like that was actually their name. And so that’s the name that they were, that the master, the planter class would refer to Black people. And then, through the emancipation and now we’re quote unquote free, it then took on basically a racial slur. So instead of getting to know your name or instead of getting to know who you were, you were just n-word and then compounded on that through the performance of blackface, which is why I study blackface, to understand race. You know, often there were Black characters in the minstrel show itself who were referred to as n-words. So they were actually caricatures, so that now people could really see, quote unquote, what an n-word was really like. And typically those would have been the characters who were in blackface, who were located on the plantation, who were eating watermelon — all the stereotypes that we still have with us today, eating the watermelon, lusting after chicken, being very promiscuous, all the negative stuff, they were in the minstrel show referred to as n-words. And so then that just rolled into, you know, there were legal decisions in the 19th century, really even through half the 20th century where the judge in writing their decision would actually refer to the Black people as n-word. So even in the legal history, we are being referred to as n-words in a very negative way. And then, you know, where it gets complicated, they always say, oh, hip-hop culture brought the word back because then it wasn’t n-word with an E R, it was n-word with a double-G and A, right? Whatever. The reality is, is that it was actually in the 1970s, again, where there was this kind of emergence of a soul culture. And then with Richard Pryor too coming up, that Black people started to reclaim this word as a kind of cultural slang, like a way to relate to people and and to essentially call other Black people n-word. So it was kind of like an in-group thing. And then through the medium of television and film, it just got reified into something like, oh, Black people call each other that and then hip-hop culture, every song it was n-word, this and that. And then next thing you know, there’s this duality happening where there’s two different ways that word gets used. It either gets used as a word of hate and it’s an anti-Black way or it gets used in terms of in-group culture as as a term of endearment, as like kind of in a joking manner. And so what it basically means is that it’s troublesome and it’s complicated. But at the root of all that is still trauma for me. It doesn’t matter if it’s coming from Black men or white men. That word is a traumatic word, period. </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> So either you are celebrating trauma or you’re enacting trauma, but it’s still trauma for me. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> This is … it’s really time to, you know, have a funeral for it. </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> Oh, absolutely. But at the same time, you know, I watched <em>Saturday Night Live</em> with Dave Chappelle hosting. I was really shocked how he was throwing the word around and the actual word. He wasn’t saying n-word, right? </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> No, no, no. Not Dave Chappelle. He used that word five times. I actually counted. </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> You don’t understand how that man irritates me because 90 per cent of his audience is white. And so when I hear him say it, it feels just as a violence, as when I hear a white professor say it. And I know people say like, oh, he’s coming from his lived experience and this, and this, and this. Come on, man. When anyone uses that word, the actual word in a public forum to an audience that is majority white, we can’t turn them into a victim. OK, it’s very purposeful. It’s very intentional. That’s where I have an issue as well with the professors because it’s intentional. It’s not like they can claim ignorance. It’s not an ignorant thing. They’re literally saying they’re taking a stand, is what I’m saying. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> They’re taking a stand that says what? Like what’s the stand? </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> They cling to those arguments of freedom of speech and freedom of thought in the classroom and that you can’t control what I say in the classroom. But don’t they understand how it makes Black students feel? </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> Can we not just say don’t use hate speech? Not just in classrooms, but on TV, in editorial newsrooms and sorority houses? Can we not just say, stop using this hate speech? </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> Right. And the first thing they’re going to say is, but hip hop artists use use the n-word all the time. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> So what about that idea of, well, this is my right to use this word. It’s empowering for me or I’ve reclaimed this word. </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> Yeah, I mean, I do hear that, but, you know. I still think anyone in this day and age, it doesn’t matter what you are, anyone in this day and age who still clings to using the actual n-word, I think is coming from a place of ignorance about their own subjugation and the subjugation of other people. That’s just my own opinion. You know, you rarely … and if you think about the times, that it’s really high profile African American men in particular who have been caught kind of slipping into the n-word, it’s always been in some private setting, in some casual conversation where it just came out. It would be very unusual in a classroom setting for a Black professor to just suddenly start using that word willy nilly. And why is that? It’s because they know that the word is a violence. They know the history. They know the roots. And I think when Dave Chappelle does it or comedians do it, they also know that the word is a violence. They’re just being provocateurs. And so that’s why comedians almost like hip-hop artists — it’s a little bit different because there is an element of provocation in their performance. Why in the world would you, as an academic, compare yourself to a hip-hop artist or a comedian when your your whole impetus is not to be a provocateur? You’re there to educate and to uplift people. It’s actually two very different things. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> How is this taken up in other places? How is it travelling? </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> The meaning doesn’t change the only differences in those other places around the world. There isn’t a Black voice, right? Like there isn’t a counterculture, there isn’t an oppositional culture. And I think in the North American context, we especially in the African American context, you know, if you were to go back to people at the end of the Civil War and the reconstruction era, a lot of white people might have said there’s no racism in America anymore. Slaves were free. Meanwhile, know did you go and check in with some African Americans to see what their life was actually like? And the answer is no. You know, in the book, <em>Uncle</em>, I was trying to really tease out how nostalgia works. And in a way, I think that nostalgia is one of the reasons I believe that we can’t have real conversations about race because you’re always going to have a majority group that is nostalgic for some moment in the past where they felt like things were were great, everybody was happy. What they don’t realize is that greatness was created because all of these, quote unquote, racial and ethnic others had no voice. We were literally silenced into our communities and into just our private homes to deal with the trauma that we would have been experiencing almost every time we left our house. While you were enjoying the good old days, we were actually living in days that were filled with a lot of violence toward us. And so I think that’s what the dominant culture really, maybe some people are starting to wake up to, but a lot of people are still asleep as it relates to the reality of that past and present, like how the past connects to the present. And it’s really difficult to alert somebody to the fact that what they think is true was actually a lie. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> Oh, that’s a good one. What they think is true is actually a lie. So let me back up a little bit, because I just want to explain that your book pulls its name from Harriet Beecher Stowe’s novel, <em>Uncle Tom’s Cabin</em>. What are you trying to do with this book when you’re going back to refer to this very iconic book? </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> You know, pose the question, why can’t Black people be individuals? Like, why can’t we just be ourselves? Why do we always have to toe the group line? I’m really writing that book to address this sentiment, to get at the fact that the reality of the North American context is that no racial other, Black, South Asian, Asian can truly ever think for ourselves. We are always going to be connected to our group. And so my question is, why would you want to disconnect from your community? And so <em>Uncle Tom’s Cabin</em>, like Harriet Beecher Stowe’s <em>Uncle Tom’s Cabin</em>, created this archetype of a Black male who was like ridiculously loyal to white oppressors to the extent that they would even rat on other Black people who tried to seek their freedom. So these people who are so loyal to these systems and structures that are actually harming Black communities. And if you’re a Black person and your life, is not going well, it’s basically your fault. You’re not working hard enough within the system and structure that has been created, as we know, with ideologies of white supremacy. And so I think that’s why, you know, where we are in the 21st century. It’s really kind of a dangerous time in many ways because you have the hyper-rise of neoliberalism and this hyper-individualism that really attempts to disconnect us from our communities. And so what you’ll see is that these people often then get called an Uncle Tom. And that’s where Uncle Tom gets invoked, and so the Uncle Tom of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s novel, who then mutated in many forms from the theatre to film after that novel, gets invoked because there’s a sense that these Black individuals are disloyal to the community. And so the question that I try to grapple with in the book is. I answer the question, do they owe the community loyalty? And I basically say, yes, they do. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> So I want to go back then for a minute back to Dave Chappelle, because the <em>Saturday Night Live</em> monologue, he opens it up with his grandfather or his great grandfather. And in some ways what he’s trying, what it seems like he’s trying to do, is connect himself to his community and, you know, for him. I don’t know, but for him, when he uses that word, it seems like he’s drawing a line between him and his grandfather. </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> Yeah, I mean, I really do get it because there is a sense of, you know, this is how we talk to each other. This is how we talk to each other, and this is how we’ve always talked to each other. But again, what I’d like to remind people is that, again, hurt people, hurt people. So you’re going to use the same language of your grandfather. Think about the era that your grandfather would have grown up in dealing with extreme trauma probably every single day, never healing it, never doing any of that work. And now here you are in the 21st century, essentially carrying out the same narrative as your grandfather did. To me, I find that a really sad story because you’re not breaking the pattern. You’re not breaking the law. To use the language of Iyanla Vanzant, you’re not breaking the pathology that’s in your bloodline as it relates to how you see yourself and just well-beingness, you know, like that’s why I have an issue. It is not a coincidence that Black women — you don’t hear a lot of Black women who have a public profile using that word. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> Yeah, it seems like when you look at it and we look at the comedy and we look at it like a lot of men, it’s not women. I mean, in comedy, but also personal life as well, right? </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> It’s not, and I think, again, part of this is about self-work, self-reflection, and then ask yourself the question. I believe that language can uplift, but it can also be violent. I get humour. I understand the use of sarcasm and humour. For me, it’s always to kind of push the limit of people. Just kind of push … it’s like, you know, and they say, oh, you’re pushing my buttons, in many ways like the comedian is here to push the cultural buttons. Things in our culture that maybe nobody’s addressing or we’re not really dealing with. I used to love Chris Rock because he’s basically talking about how racist people are, but he would do it in, a really funny way of like something that is — but when you really strip the joke down, it’s a traumatic story that he’s telling. And so for me and I’m not the only one saying this, there’s a lot of people right now talking about Black trauma and the ways in which — especially through George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, all those people over the summer months — the ways in which the media just kept showing the clips of their death like that is so traumatic for a community, and I think while we deal with the anti-Black racism, we never deal with the trauma. And that’s what has me. I think maybe that’s why Chappelle’s set just kind of hit me a little bit differently, because I’m like, you know, to me, he looks like a man who’s still dealing with his own trauma. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> Yes, he does. Yes, he does. He’s saying that, basically he is saying that, he’s owning that part. </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> How do we as the audience not only interpret that, but how do we carry that? And I think that’s the question of the comedian in the 21st century. If we go back to the Richard Pryor days. You know, Richard Pryor, he, too, lived through a lot of trauma, but his set was funny. And his set made you feel like life, even though you were talking about really traumatic things … there was just a different tone. And it’s not just him. You can go back to many Black comedians of the day, like Redd Foxx, Moms Mabley, like you could go through the list of, like the old time comedians from like the ‘60s and '70s, even though they too had lived and were living a trauma, their jokes were just … the tone was just lighter. I just find in the last couple of years, if you really listen to comedians, their tone is just a little dark. And I don’t know if it’s because of our time, the culture. It’s just a different tone in the ways that they talk about race that almost don’t even feel like jokes. It’s just like, it’s like turning. It’s almost like they’re just putting us all through an X-ray. And it’s really painful and revealing because you’re just like seeing everything and you’re thinking, you know, for me, I think what now? Is there a call to action in this set, like, should we be doing something? You know, maybe we’re tired of laughing over the same racial situations. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> That’s what I’m wondering, too, when you talk about Richard Pryor and you know of Redd Foxx, but Pryor especially, I mean, that his traumas, his deep traumas became known much later. But he’s a legend in many ways and an icon for so many people and set the tone. And maybe what you’re saying is things haven’t changed enough since then. </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> Yeah. And yet we’re still being kind of fed jokes that are kind of about the same thing. So that’s why I struggle today with Black comedians, African American comedians who are still doing who are still, I would say, in the lineage of of Richard Pryor. So we’re talking about Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle now and and even even Eddie — I mean, look at Eddie Murphy. Eddie Murphy doesn’t even do stand-up anymore. And to me, I feel like he probably doesn’t do it because he probably has healed, you know, doesn’t have any more trauma to share with us because he’s done his healing work. And I think even Chris Rock recently did — he was in an interview where he talked about his trauma, like he actually started to open up about his trauma and the things that he’s lived through. And that speaks to why even his stand-up and his movie roles have changed. So I think part of this is always asking the question, to what extent are people just sharing their pain with you and to what extent are you as an audience able to understand that and not interpret that pain as just humour? Because I watch … I’m telling you that Dave Chappelle set, that was not just jokes. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> Oh, no, no, no. That was very clear. You told me a story about Richard Pryor’s writer. Do you remember that? </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> Oh, yeah. Paul Mooney. Oh, I love Paul Mooney. Like Paul Mooney will change your life because — Paul Mooney — and Paul Mooney talks about race. His whole set is about race. And even Paul Mooney buried the n-word, like 10 years ago now, and his whole set used to be n-word this, this, this and this. He finally had his moment where he’s like, you know what, I can’t with this anymore. And I think what got him is that I think it was a combination of things. But I think he remembers saying that he made a joke, he made some joke that was riddled with the n-word. And he looked out at that audience and he just saw white people laughing a little too hard. And it was just like, I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> Time to stop. Time to stop, basically.</p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> And because the truth is, it is not 1975. Richard Pryor’s era is over and so do we need to start reconceptualizing what we say in public and how we show up as Black people? You know, you have to always put things into context. At that time in the '70s — I mean, the 1970s was really the moment where Black people really became present in the media culture, whether it was TV sitcoms or Black-centred films. There was a lot of cultural production in the 1970s, but that was the first time. It really never existed before. Why is it in the 21st century, the 2020s, we’re still doing the same thing as if the culture is the same? Well, the culture is not the same. I just think that has to start with the way that you show up and the way you treat yourself. It’s both. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> Can you to say that one more time? The idea about how to end this is partly about how you show up yourself. </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> So, it’s not just about the dominant culture changing, growing and seeing you for who you are. It’s also about how you as an individual in the 21st century show up in your world. And how you present yourself. And let me be clear. I’m not talking about the politics of respectability where you have to speak a certain way and dress a certain way to please white, your white employer — I’m not talking about any of those things that would, in my opinion, fall under Uncle Tom-ism or Mammyism, where you’re doing things to please the white. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying when you’ve done your work and so you’ve addressed the traumas that you’ve dealt with in life, you’ve addressed the way that you’ve treated people in your personal life, that means when you’re in the room and something racist does happen in that in that space, the way it’s going to affect you, it’s just going to be very different than if you haven’t done the work and the way in which you can now use that moment to actually create a safer space for you and other Black people that come behind you. Again, that’s going to depend on the work that you’ve done on yourself. That’s what I’m saying to you, it’s very easy for Black people to become victims to the racist world that we live in. And so everything they do is from a place of victimhood or look what they’re doing. Look how they’re treating us. And X, Y and Z. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> I’m thinking about what you said right now, because I’m thinking also about, you know, young students in the classroom, for example, who just may be in a very vulnerable stage in their lives and then hearing racial slurs from people they may look up to, from their profs, and how that might impact them. Are we expecting too much from them to say, well, come to the classroom with all this trauma worked out? I’m just thinking out loud with you, Cheryl. </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> I think what I’m talking about is a process, and that process is not going to be complete when you’re 19. I’m very attuned to that. What I really mean is, you know, I think today’s university in Canada, there will probably be at least one —there will be Black faculty. There’s not going to be a lot of us, but there will be Black faculty. And unfortunately, some of those Black faculty have not done their work and they’re walking around toxic as hell, OK. And what that means is they’re making life more challenging for young Black students who are behind them, because just as your examples say, you’re a Black student in your class and you’re experiencing something in the class, like a microaggression or even overt racism from your professor who is white, you want to know that maybe you’re in a university or a school where you can approach Black faculty who are going to be there to help you. You don’t want to feel like, well, I can’t, I’m not going to say anything to that faculty member because they’re actually going to be worse than the white person. So, that’s what I mean. Who has to do the work? It’s not the young. It’s the elders who are in positions of authority at the university, at the business, at the school. It’s that echelon. It’s the Dave Chappelle generation who need to do our work. And the reality is that many of us are not. And what we’re doing is that we’re just leaving a toxic path behind us that is just making it even more challenging for young Black students and young Black people who are coming up behind us. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> So this is a huge question, but what are some of the active steps that we can take to try and end this centuries-long racist, racial dynamic? </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> Well, you know what, it’s funny, we’re talking about ending this dynamic. In a way, we always have to go back to the past. For me and I go back to W.E.B. Dubois, writing at the turn of the 20th century, whose whole impetus was to — him and Frederick Douglass, and there were many others. But Dubois was really trying to get people to understand that you can create your own excellence. And as you create that excellence, you have to look back to your community who is struggling. So if you’re becoming excellent, you can’t now say, oh, I made it. And then you close your doors. You close your shutters and you’re like, I don’t need to deal with anyone else who’s not made it. No. What we do is, once you make it, you have to then pay it forward and and look back and try to bring up everyone. To me, my focus in life is always about empowerment, not just self-empowerment, but community empowerment. I think it’s just a more powerful place to work from than to cure the dominant culture of anti-Black racism. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> Yeah, and then, I guess, related to that, what does allyship look like to you? </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> Well, for me, allyship looks like not trying to see situations from your eyes, but actually trying to see it from my eyes. So that means you have to suspend what I would call … the dominant culture tends to valorize the rational mind. So that means whenever something happens, a situation of racism, typically, sometimes the white response will be, well, that can’t be the case. Oh, you must you must have misinterpreted. They’re trying to rationalize something that is irrational, whereas often the Black person is saying, no, I saw what happened. I felt it. So we’re on a level of affect, they’re on a level of rationality. Allyship means you have to get on that level of affect and actually feel what what I’m saying. To me, I think about the white allies that I do have, they feel what I’m saying. So I don’t have to explain feelings to them so that they can understand it in a rational-mind sense. And I think, to me, allyship is also interpersonal because the truth is, in order to be an ally, you kind of have to know, you kind of have to know the person.</p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> Well, listen, Ryerson University is very lucky to have you. And that community of students is very lucky to have you. </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> Yes, that’s facts. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> Thank you so much. I know that you have to run, but I really appreciate the time that you took today. </p>
<p><strong>CT:</strong> Yeah, you’re welcome. This was a good conversation. </p>
<p><strong>VS:</strong> That’s it for this episode of <em>Don’t Call Me Resilient</em>. Lots to take away from that conversation. Let us know what you’re thinking. We’re on Twitter. Just tag me <a href="https://twitter.com/writevinita">@WriteVinita</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/ConversationCA">@ConversationCA</a> and use the hashtag #DontCallMeResilient. </p>
<p><em>'Don’t Call Me Resilient’ is a production of ‘The Conversation Canada’. This podcast was produced with a grant for journalism innovation from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. The series is produced and hosted by me, Vinita Srivastava. Our producers are Nahid Buie, Nehal El-Hadi and Vicky Mochama with additional editorial help from our intern Ibrahim Daair. Reza Dahya is our technical producer and sound guru. Anowa Quarcoo is in charge of marketing and production design. Lisa Varano is our audience development editor and Scott White is the CEO of The Conversation Canada. Special thanks also to Jennifer Moroz for her indispensable help on this project. And if you’re wondering who wrote and performed the music we use on the pod, that’s the amazing Zaki Ibrahim. The track is called ‘Something in the Water’</em>. </p>
<p>Thanks for listening, everyone, and hope you join us again. Until next time. I am Vinita, and please, don’t call me resilient.</p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/154541/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
This is the full transcript for Don’t Call Me Resilient, episode 1: What’s in a word? How to confront 150 years of racial stereotypes and language.Vinita Srivastava, Host + Producer, Don't Call Me ResilientIbrahim Daair, Culture + Society EditorLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.