On Red Tails: It's Not That Deep

There are some fine dudes in Red Tails, but I'll wait for the DVD (or bootleg).

I haven’t given any real thought to whether I will see Red Tails in theaters, but it is not likely that I will. Action films are too slick and too loud for my tastes, and I rarely get excited enough about Hollywood’s creations to trek to the theater and shell out money, anyway. If it’s a smart, young comedy or drama, I might give it a chance. If Idris is in it, I’ll see it six times in a row. I’ll be content to see everything else when it comes out on Redbox or pops up online because it's just not that deep for me.

So it's probably not a surprise that I really don’t get the hysteria around Red Tails. George Lucas is probably telling the truth about not being able to make this movie because Hollywood doesn’t want to bankroll so-called “black films.” Even so, I’m not understanding how – as Lucas hinted and many other black folks tell it – as a black consumer, I have become charged with the responsibility of spending my hard-earned trickin’ money on big-budget films with black leads for the sake of smushing pie in the face of studio naysayers.

Time and again, we repeat the same tired narrative: support this film and show (white) Hollywood black people want to see black actors and stories on the big screen. And support, we do. We have money and we have proven we will spend it: on goods (Jordans), services (manis, pedis, weaves), and even the shittiest of entertainment options. Black church folks made Tyler Perry king by paying to see his chitlin’-quality work, and in record numbers. Somebody keeps going to see the Fast and the Furious movies. We laughed when Ice's Cube all but melted in Are We There Yet?, but he turned a cute black family film into a hugely successful franchise.

So, why, come blockbuster time, are we preaching to each other about parting with movie ticket money when we aren't the problem?

Why are we begging each other to go put money in Mars. Universal Studios’ pocket instead of worrying about how we can help move black filmmakers and producers into positions at major studios where they can change things?

Why aren’t we supporting independent media – created by burgeoning young artists in our actual neighborhoods or digital backyards – that tells the full and complex range of our stories?

And why, after all these years, are we so amped when finally Hollywood, which only stops ignoring us long enough to exploit, throws us the half-eaten bone of a drumette?

Having not seen the movie, I can’t speak on any of the casting, the writing, or make any definitive comments about whether it was good (I have my suspicions). But if this fictional account of the story of these young black heroes is as terrible as its worst review, none of us should be celebrating it, and even if it is as good as its best review, still, none of us are obligated to see it.

The story of the Tuskegee Airmen is history that must be honored and retold, but this valiant story is true and important with or without Red Tails. The future of black humanity is not wrapped up in how well this movie does. It is not our responsibility to teach Hollywood how not to be bigoted, and be clear: our most enthusiastic support of this single movie isn't going to shift Tinseltown's axis.

It’s a movie, not a movement. See it, or don’t. The sun'll rise tomorrow, same as today.

Sailing Through That To This

Wise words, my brown feet, my friends' white feet, and a coffee cup, on a Philly sidewalk.

The sum of the days, weeks, months of 2011 is positive. I could not say the same at the close of the last year, or the one before. It is because I could not say the same then that I know now this year has been different. Or, to paraphrase the song that explains everything, I realize those days were necessary so I could appreciate these good times. I am grateful beyond the words I write here for that truth.



Sometimes, I think too much. Sometimes, I think too hard. In the aftermath of 2010's awfulness, I realized that I could think, analyze, plan, examine, scrutinize and weigh every possibility in my mind ad infinitum, and in the end, shit could still turn out horribly. Left to my own devices, I could think myself into a life I hated.

They say that if you want different results, you have to try something different, so I vowed to concentrate on letting feeling lead in 2011. Not without regard for the rational, but certainly not in fear of it, either. This year, my goal was to learn how and when to yield to the current.

So, I let go, a little. I got tired of writing, so I stopped. I moved because I decided it was time. When I wanted to travel, I did. I walked away from worthless relationships, worked on fixing the ones that were worth the effort, started new ones because my heart wanted them. I said no – to invitations I didn't want to accept, to unsolicited advice, to working out when I really just wanted to go to Chipotle, to going back to school when I wasn't ready, to company I didn't want to keep – because there's no honor in sacrificing my happiness for someone else's. Mostly, yielding wasn't hard for me. The toughest part was getting used to the understanding that I didn't have to prove or explain a blessed thing to anybody.

There is freedom in letting the present moment have its own way. When the destination is unknown, there is nothing to focus on but the journey. As I reflect on and take in the landscape of this last year, I recognize the shapes of blessings: family, sisterhood, singlehood (amen), companionship (amen), health, creativity, opportunity, and straight, pure love. I can also make out the valleys – grief, self-doubt, the nagging ache of transition, and yes, moments of anxiety about what I cannot see ahead.

But if nothing else, 2011 has taught me that I am right where I need to be, now. I'm sure of it, and I will remember it.

For Naturals Who Considered Buying a Perm Kit For That Other Chick When You No Longer Gave a Fuck

$7.99 ain't worth your soul, but it's a good price for your sanity.

This post is difficult to write, yet long overdue. It will be lengthy. It might be less than elegant. But hell, this shit gotta be said.

It’s been six years since I last chemically straightened my hair. In that time, I’ve made plenty of questionable hair-related decisions, but the easiest was deciding at the outset to never relax my hair again. Perhaps that’s because my last relaxer singed my scalp and took a chunk of my hair with it, but the point is, once I made that decision, there was never any thought of turning back. Growing my hair out wasn’t easy, but with a bit of research and plenty of experimentation, I made it happen. 

Maybe that’s why I don’t have much patience left for women who express to me their desires to wear natural hair and even begin the process, but refuse to do any of the heavy lifting necessary to get to the desired result. When asked, I’ve freely offered hair advice to frustrated friends and total strangers. I’ve never fronted like it’s simple. I’ve always been frank and I’ve always been supportive. Some have listened, but many others have responded with whining, excuses, indignation and willful ignorance. On many occasions, I’ve had the same conversation, sometimes with the same women. It typically plays out something like this:

Other Chick: I want my hair to look like yours when I grow mine out. Might don’t make it, though.
 

Me: Um, well, it probably won’t look like mine, but you can do it. Why don’t you just cut it?

Other Chick: Hell naw. I ain’t wearing short hair! Did you cut yours?

Me: No, but I should have. What’s wrong with short hair?

Other Chick: I wouldn’t look right. I’ll look like a boy. Or a lesbian.

Me: Wayment. What?

Other Chick: This natural hair thing is just so hard! I don’t know what products to use! I don’t know how to style it! I can’t comb it and it naps up when I straighten it! Plus, I can’t walk around here in this ugly stage! 

Me: Uhhhh, well, I never really thought of it as an ugly stage, but you could wear hats and headbands if you’re not comfortable yet. Plus, there’s tons of info online.

Other Chick: Girl, I don’t have time for all that research. What do you do to yours to make it look like that?

Me: Not a lot, actually —

Other Chick: Do you use that [trendy expensive natural hair care product]? Somebody told me that’s good for natural hair and it’ll make your curls pop.

Me: Um, well, no, but not everything works for everybody because not everybody has the same kind of hair. I never really had curls that pop, and you might not either.

Other Chick: *blank stare* Sooooo, then, what am I supposed to do?

After hearing variations on this tired theme time and again, I'm fully prepared to say what I thought I'd never say: just perm that shit.

Listen, honey/friend/coworker/cuzzo/stranger bitch, I love you, but it takes you five hours to wash and detangle that bird’s nest on your head. Because your straight hair would rather commit hara-kari than wait one more day for you to make up your damn mind, a trail of broken-off strands follows you everywhere you go. Your natural styles look ridiculous because your texture is schizo, and there is no CHI hot enough to press out the kink. You reject my advice to rock your hair covered, and even though you’d have enough hair for a fly TWA, short coils or even a tiny puff, you’d rather look a hot mess than work a short ‘do for fear of looking less feminine. With thinking so skewed, I know you aren’t ready for this life. So just perm that shit. 

This is not your hair texture, and it's okay.

Had you browsed any of the links on the list of natural hair websites I sent you, you’d know that healthy natural hair is work. To go from scab hair to a kinky twistout or even cascading ringlets requires time, care, trial and error and gobs of patience. I told you: to transition successfully requires that you divorce yourself from everything you think you know about “your hair.” But since you didn’t listen, you assumed your hair would grow out to be thick and curly like Rachel True’s, and here you are pissed because you look more like Janelle Monae. I’m tired of wasting my breath, so this will be my last piece of advice to you: perm that shit, b.
 
In the time you’ve spent asking for and ignoring my guidance, complaining about how hard it is to comb your half-straight/half-nappy strands, coating your hybrid hair with every product on the market, and handwringing about what your tresses will look like, you could’ve been done did it by now. But since you haven’t – and it seems you never will – I implore you to do me, yourself and your traumatized hair the ultimate gotdamn favor and PERM IT. Do not pass go. Do not pay Makeda $200 for one more set of micros. Perm that shit i-fuckin-mmejiately.

This is your hair texture.
And it's okay.

You insist on treating your hair like it’s straight when it’s not. Even if you survive the initial transition, you’ll never be satisfied, and trying to get your hair to do something it can’t will lead you right back to the Mizani kit. You clearly fail to see the beauty in the range of possibilities of this hair and it’d probably be best if you kept your wack attitude on Team Permie anyway. 

After six years on this beautiful journey, I know it is worth every ounce of frustration to wake up rocking the hair my creator designed for me. I used to beg you not to give in to the temptation, not to torture your irreversibly damaged hair with another hit of sodium hydroxide, but after umpteen conversations and too much handholding, I realize now that I couldn’t give two shits whether you sink or swim in this nappy pond - heffa, you grown!  


Please, perm that shit now and just call it a day.

5 Things: Shady Post-Thanksgiving Thoughts

Please. No jive turkey shenanigans here.

The end-of-the-year holiday season is my least favorite time of year. I love that I get to spend time with my family, but I hate the hype (read: stress) of big holiday meals, gift-giving and interacting with motherfuckers from my gene pool that I hardly know (or can't stand). It helps me if I focus on the blessings of the past year (and they are plentiful) and doing something to help others in need, but sadly, my arc of holiday cheer bends toward grinch.

That said, while I tried to project peace and gratitude on Thanksgiving Day, my internal commentary was off and running toward complete ignorance before the turkey was basted. Five of my ungrateful-ass thoughts:

1. Yo [number redacted], I'm happy you have so many things to be thankful for this year, and I'mma let you waste one of my allotted texts for this month, but nigga, your phone number isn't in my address book and I refuse to waste another text to find out who you are. FOH and lose my contact info before Christmas.
2. Cousin, we see you twice a year. Each time you show up, you bring a child who is, not to my knowledge, related to anyone else in the room. We need explanations. Or at least a proper introduction. (Isn't anybody going to say something?!)
3. Love you, Aunty, but if you ask me one more time which dish I prepared for the meal, I'm liable to write "NOT A GOTDAMB THING" on a placard and set it next to my plate just so there's no confusion. I know you're approaching the age of OLD AS HELL and your memory is a little slow, but I'm starting to believe this senility shit is an act and you're trying to put my culinary limitations on blast in front of company. I don't appreciate it.
4. Dad, what I do and do not eat is not up for debate at the dinner table. My decision to abstain from red meat, pork or anything else is my business, and mine alone. Your sermon on the gastronomic delights that are chitlins and pig feet is not only unnecessary, it's absolutely disgusting. Miss me with that hog love, please and thanks. (Also, I overheard you getting siddity when you were calling around looking for "fresh chit-ter-lings." Too bad nobody knew what you were talking about. No need for the code switch.)
5. Everybody that doesn't live here: go home. Dinner and dessert have been served. Quality time has been spent. Football games have been watched. Please pack your to-go containers with expedience and hit your dougie out to the driveway so I can empty my colon, take off my bra, put on my headwrap and watch fuck shit on TV. The party done.

Whew. I feel better. Thanks for listening.

Studiohype: Dawn Okoro

"Untitled 7" (8X8 inches) and "Untitled 8" (8x8 inches), both from Dawn Okoro's Selfsploitation series.

Discovering and experiencing visual art is one of my favorite non-writing/shopping things to do (I'm high-class like that). I grew up visiting art museums and exhibits regularly and still enjoy learning about artists, how they approach their craft and what their work means. From time to time, I'll namecheck some of the creatives I'm watching in a Studiohype post. First up: Dawn Okoro!

I was thrilled to discover Dawn Okoro's work through Twitter. In her drawings and paintings, she combines elements of fashion photography and pop culture to reflect create gorgeous images of women moving through life. The result is a stunning array of vivid, colorful images that look like they could be be me or any number of my friends. Even in its technical accuracy, the accessibility of her work is one of my favorite things about her work. It's nice to be able to experience art that you literally see yourself in.

Selfsploitation, her latest series, speaks to both my media-loving and gender-conscious sensibilities as she explores the way women disseminate sexualized photographs of themselves via electronic communication. While Rihanna and Cassie and other boldfaced names may leak compromising photos online to boost album sales or publicity, the average young woman gains far less from publishing these kinds of images of her self. And even though (as Okoro points out) some women choose to post nude photos online as a means of empowering the self, none can control who uses their image or how it will be used. Yet those lofty consequences are hardly a part of the discourse surrounding this kind of expression. 

Okoro's photographic style lends itself perfectly to this project, for which she is using poses that mimic photos pulled from the web. I love how the negative space in these images suggests smallness and vulnerability.

 

 "Robyn" (8x8 inches) and "Untitled 8" (8x8 inches), both from Dawn Okoro's Selfsploitation series.

If you visit Okoro's site, you can read the essay that accompanies Selfsploitation, see more from the series, and check out her other works. I've been coveting her limited edition prints for some time (I am in love with "Prop" and "Breathe Easy") as those images are just begging to be displayed in my living space.

After you visit Okoro's site, shoot me an e-mail (hello@bumblingbrownsugar.com) before Friday 8/27 at noon and tell me what you think of her work. Then, I'll pick one of you to receive her "Study For Frame" photo, which she's been giving away all month to celebrate her new website. Seriously, go check her out her stuff and be inspired.