One of my most favorite female artists.  I’m inspired by dj lynnee denise’s work across all platforms. By the content, how she presents it, and what she decides is possible. Enjoy and visit her page to listen to some of her brilliant mixes.

Last week while still reeling from the controversy put into motion by Too $hort’s avuncular primer for young black boys on how to violate young black girls, people momentarily paused to consider, and by “consider,” I mean “rush to judgment,” on Rihanna’s decision to collaborate with Chris Brown, her former abuser, on a remix of her song “Birthday Cake.”

(thank me later)

This morning, while reading Kate Weigand’s 2001 book Red Feminism in preparation for a book I’m writing, I ran across a fascinating story in her chapter on Black women’s participation in the Communist Party.

In 1934, Black female communist organizers asked the Party leadership to outlaw interracial marriages in the Party ranks. Many of the Black men in the Party had married or begun dating white women, and white men were not showing comparable interest in Black women, which severely restricted Black women’s dating options.

In response, the Party asked a Black leader named Abner Berry to deal “with the problem.” Berry, himself married to a white woman, was staunchly opposed to outlawing interracial marriages on the grounds that this move would be “counterrevolutionary,” but he did institute some sessions on Black women’s triple oppression of race, class, and gender. Apparently, they also tried to teach some of the white male communists how to dance so they would be more comfortable approaching Black women at parties. Seriously. Lol.

There are a few morals in this somewhat comic story:

At least the CP had enough sense to talk about the social causes of Black women’s singleness, rather than blaming the sisters for being loud, attitudinal, too independent and unattractive. (Perhaps some preachers, comedians, and alleged scholars could get a clue; and perhaps some sisters should stop blaming themselves for a problem that began before we got here and will probably outlast us all.)

Continue reading at Crunk Feminist Collective

You get Oyin’s goodies a couple of weeks later in the mail. So, it feels like Christmas when they arrive! How am I supposed to cut my hair with fun products like these:

So…yeah. Maybe I’ll cut them six months from now. Emphasis on maybe.

Jessica Simpson

Superficially, it’s another example of a celebrity making a “gaffe” on race, (which never gets old) getting caught up in it, “apologizing” for it, melting down, having a moment of “clarity“.

But on another level, it’s a particularly vivid example of the freedom, if you will, afforded him, as young, white, heterosexual, and male, to freely espouse his sexual proclivities, debase women period, race be damned, claim identification with black people, promptly get hated on, have a breakdown, and in the end, remind us that he “just wants to play his guitar.” And in a span of 48 hours, no less.

Kerry Washington

The racism of his sexual aversion to black women, I’d argue, is coupled with the sexist entitlement abound in his retelling of the sexual details of his relationships with Jessica Simpson and Jennifer Aniston, who as blonde-haired white women, already receive a particularly stifling type of media treatment. That entitlement helps explain why he was able to candidly explain the types of black women he’s attracted to, and even debase women, like actor Kerry Washington, whom he’s never had a sexual relationship with.

Without even reading his entire Playboy interview, the widely-publicized excerpts are textbook examples of intersections of racism, sexism and male domination–comparing his penis to white supremacist David Duke, crude as it is, is simultaneously as clear as many of Mayer’s most popular songs.

Global media culture has long thrived off of narrowly defined notions of who’s racist (white men only) and who’s sexist (black men only) vis a vis characters like a Don Imus or Ludacris. So when Mayer, someone outside of those types, who has built a career and image solidly as a non-threatening and introspective artist, acts out, we take notice. For those paying any attention, it’s an important moment that should have us recognize the myriad of ways that domination can be made visible.

Part of what’s critical about Mayer’s moment is that even after speaking as he did, he will be allowed to use that image as his cover. This is where nearly all public “apologies” are rendered useless–as a comedian once remarked, “He’s just sorry he got caught.” What’s really evident is that the entitlement of racism and sexism will enable John Mayer to “breakdown”, come to “terms” with his transgressions and return to modest guitar-playing.

But will Jessica Simpson, Jennifer Aniston, and Kerry Washington be allowed a (public) breakdown? I doubt it.

The filmic cut is emblematic of a truth evident in both the form and content of Good Hair: a practice of simultaneously exploiting and promoting black women all for a bottom line—be it in the male-dominated black female hair care industry or in a mainstream film about black women that doesn’t have women of any race in principal production roles.

At the root of the colorful, fast-paced filmic spectacle that is Good Hair belies a $9 billion dollar global industry in which men, whether they are in the U.S. or Asia, control production, distribution, and ultimately are the major profiteers of black female hair products. Female workers in Asia comb through the hair, Asian female clerks in the U.S. sell it, and black women pay upwards of $1,000 for hair weave. So when black (male) business owners complain about Asian merchants impeding their “right” to control the industry, one wonders if it matters who’s in control when all scenarios leave black women as the economically exploited.

How does this relate to the production choices in Good Hair? Consider an indie film about the same topic–In Our Heads About Our Hair, a lower budget, work in progress doc from first time filmmaker Anu Prestonia. Within a few minutes of In Our Heads, black female scholar Farah Jasmine Griffin offers a succinct historical context to black women and hair care. Griffin even says the R-word: racism. (Rock has Al Sharpton and Paul Mooney offer up snappier analyses) While Rock relies on a white male scientist to explain the health impact of sodium hydroxide-laden hair perms, Anu actually finds a black woman, environmental activist Majora Carter, to discuss the impact of those compounds on the earth.

You’d need an entirely separate essay to review the misogyny inherent in the level of airtime afforded to the many men in the film (rapper Ice-T being the most prominent) who joke about the multiple costs of love and sex with women who straighten or weave in their hair. In Our Heads provides a rich example of the black female subjectivity that should rightfully be central in a film about black women and hair. And it’s not coincidental that Prestonia worked with a largely female film crew.

Any successes that Good Hair may boast must be underscored by the fact that currently, a famous black male comedian will have a decidedly easier time making a film about black women than likely any black woman will, famous or not (okay, Oprah could do it). The question is, though, can he make it funny and non exploitative? After seeing Good Hair, the answer is Not yet.

I won’t deny Rock’s comedic brilliance—you will laugh often. Nor will I disregard his motives—he starts the film as an ode of sorts to his two daughters. Perhaps Good Hair’s popularity (assumed due to a fairly rigorous promotional campaign) will open the door for films like In Our Heads. But the film remains a sobering example of how a film about black women is not actually for us.

It speaks to me, loudly, on a number of levels. Especially in this week where I (and probably many others) groaned silently when the Hofstra University student, a young black woman, recanted her widely publicized gang rape story.

It’s the kind of event that’s tailor made for people to gloss over its underlying issues. Ones that can’t be limited to being (justifiably) bothered by her lying. I wondered what made her have sex with four (or 5) guys at once. Or why she couldn’t be honest with her boyfriend about her act, for fear of being labeled a slut.

Regardless of whether or not the sex was consensual, that fear of hers is representative of the narrow spaces–be they literally on the sidewalk or figuratively in our minds–that young women, and young women of color in particular, find ourselves in.

These spaces are partially what Nuala is trying to confront with her video. Systems that underlie men casually labeling women as “bitches” are undoubtedly intertwined with the power dynamics implicit in five men having sex with one woman, with one man videotaping it.

And it’s why experimental art like Nuala’s will always be doubly important–a chance for us to use tools like video and through form and content, challenge existing systems of oppression.

Plus, it’s definitely consensual.

Welcome back Mos. Image courtesy of Hiphoparchive.org

Well, welcome back Mos. Kind of…I’ve seen the ads and trailers for the mailroom movie that I’m not sold on, but maybe I’ll catch it on USA next year. But after weeks of my sister nagging me to look at this video, I gotta give it to you. Extreme, extreme close-up, real minimalist and a vintage sound to boot.  All the things I love.

(I realized the directors, Coodie and Chike, are the ones who directed Kanye’s “Through the Wire” video. They’re on to something.)

So, it’s not Susan Boyle’s voice that’s wowing people—it’s that someone that ugly could have a voice that beautiful. Simon Cowell was stunned at the contrast; everyone was. I call her ugly to only say explicitly what is, without doubt, implied every single time someone marvels at how she’s “never been kissed” or has “never been on a date.” Sure, Ms. Boyle volunteered this information.  On continuous replay, however, it’s code for ugly and undesirable. (To men primarily, but all of us ultimately.)

But, lord help me, when she speaks, she seems so herself, so honest, kind of rueful. And in a 7-minute clip, we get a reality contest take on the ugly duckling story.

We like her and she actually is very beautiful—I hope she wins.