by Renée Watson
“Whoa, okay, good, good. That’s definitely a start!” Ms. Lucas says. I lean back in my seat, realizing that I am getting way too hyped and talking way too much.
“Besides the blog, what else do you want the club to do? Any thoughts from you, Jasmine?” Ms. Lucas asks.
“Besides the blog,” Jasmine says, “I was thinking we can put on events and performances. I learned a little bit about guerilla art at my theater camp, and I think we could do some of the actions like street performances and placing art and quotes in unpredictable places. I mean, we wouldn’t go on the street, but we could do an impromptu performance or chant or something during lunch in the cafeteria,” Jasmine says. “I haven’t really thought it all out.”
Then I say, “Maybe we can also highlight women activists and artists that people may not know.”
Jasmine gets excited about this idea. “Yeah. I didn’t see any black or Latino playwrights on our syllabus at that summer camp. And only one woman,” she tells us. “I can work on that.”
Ms. Lucas smiles. “I have to say, it usually takes a while to get a new club up and running, but you two are off to a great start.”
“What should our first post be about?” I ask.
“I have the perfect idea,” Jasmine says, and I know she’s thinking about writing something about the ensemble.
“I am excited to see what you both come up with.” Ms. Lucas looks at her watch. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I have to get home and to start dinner.”
“See, Ms. Lucas, there you go, falling into gender stereotypes. Why is it that you have to be the one to cook dinner for your husband? You have to rage against that kind of stuff,” I say, joking, but also kind of serious.
“Chelsea, I love to cook, so that’s why I make dinner. And as for a husband, I’m married to a woman, so that’s not an issue for me.” She smiles at both of us. “I think you still have some things to learn about women’s rights, huh?”
“Oh, uh, sorry about that. And yes, you’re definitely right. We will explore all of that in our club. For sure. And we can meet here in your class for clubs, right? And we’re official?” I ask.
“Yes. Chelsea and Jasmine, Write Like a Girl is official.”
WRITE LIKE A GIRL BLOG
Posted by Jasmine Gray
Acting Like a (Black) Girl
I am a girl, plus.
Which is to say I have to deal with all the sexist expectations, stereotypes, and assumptions that all girls face plus all the racist expectations, stereotypes, and assumptions about my blackness.
There is an invisible but ever-present checklist to measure if I am acting like a girl or not. Boxes built to keep me in my place. These boxes show up in every area of my life, even in a theater class where the whole point is to play a role, to become something imagined. But the more I attend theater camps and auditions, I am reminded that society has a hard time imagining women outside of roles that keep us in the box of being some kind of caregiver, sex object, or victim (who can only be saved by a man, of course). And then there’s the unrealistic beauty standards that we have to measure up to.
And so there is a way to act like a girl: be needy, be emotional, be loving (unconditionally), be superficial, be soft spoken, be beautiful and sexy—which also means be skinny—and also means be white (if you are not white, be a lighter shade of brown).
And there is a way to act like a black girl: be loud, be bossy, be emotionally strong (so strong you never cry or complain because whatever comes your way, you can handle it), be aggressive, be oversexualized, be wise, always having advice and answers (usually for white characters who are playing more important roles than you).
I wish I was making this up. I wish that when I googled “stereotypical roles for black women” nothing came up. But instead, there are several articles and documentaries on the history of representation for black women.
I would hope that at a school like Amsterdam Heights, these roles would be studied and exposed, that we’d create scripts that dismantle these caricatures. I would hope that at a school like Amsterdam Heights, a teacher would never, ever say to a black girl, “It will be great to develop something where you can really go full-out ‘Girl with an Attitude.’ We don’t really have anyone in the ensemble who can do that as well as you just displayed.”
But sometimes (dare I say most times), hope is not enough. So along with my hope for a better school, let me make this real clear. If I am going to be cast in any plays, one-acts, improv scenes, or staged readings, if I have to play any of the following, I will not “act like a black girl.”
1. The Jezebel: The Jezebel is a promiscuous female with an uncontrollable sexual appetite. The Jezebel image also declares that young black women are unlovable and cannot be taken seriously. During times of slavery the bodies of African American women were sexualized in order to demean them. When illustrated, their features were exaggerated to comical lengths in order to make them seem worthless. We have the Jezebel stereotype to thank for every scene that portrays black women only as objectified sexual beings for the pleasure of men. I will never be cast as a Jezebel type. I am too dark and too wide (see “Mammy” to get a better understanding of how this all works).
2. The Sapphire: Evil, angry, and stubborn (especially toward African American men). This is the loud-mouthed, finger-snapping, black female character who often brings the comedic relief. The caricature of the Sapphire has been said to act as a warning or punishment for going against society’s norm that women should be passive, nonthreatening, and unseen. (Can I also say that given the hurtful stereotypes that exist, there are actual reasons that might make a black woman angry? I am not saying we should never show the emotion of anger in a scene but to paint us as angry beings—just because? Do better.)
3. The Mammy: This is the overweight, deeply religious, maternal woman (most of the time dressed in unattractive/plain clothes and usually a good cook). People generally love the Mammy character. She actually has some authority, but she still knows her place. You can find her being a maid for a white family or the sidekick best friend who has all kinds of advice to give (she even has advice on love, even though she has never had a successful relationship).
Let me repeat: I will not “act like a black girl.” Not unless she is nuanced. Not unless she is imagined to be more than tired tropes and predictable clichés.
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terryann liked this
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bluesky reblogged this from tonyavwells
bluesky commented: I can totally relate.
hannahbee commented: This also applies to books & movies. I am Puerto Rican and so tired of seeing us portrayed as maids or oversexed vixens.
artandstuff commented: Awesome post!
artandstuff reblogged this
girlsandghosts commented: That theater teacher sucks! Hope he/she reads this.
girlsandghosts liked this
rodneyharvey commented: Wow. Had no idea there were actual names for this. Thanks for sharing.
rodneyharvey liked this
tonyavwells reblogged this
tonyavwells commented: yaaaassss!
harlemchick commented: OMG. This needs to be reblogged a million times!
harlemchick reblogged this
brownpoet commented: something similar happened at my school. Except it came from a “friend” not a teacher. I thought maybe I was being too sensitive, but this proves that I was not. Thank you.
rollerderbygirl reblogged this from girlsonly
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websteravenue liked this
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herheights commented: YES!
mixedbag reblogged this
blackdreamer212 liked this
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girlsonly commented: I am sorry this happened to you. I wish this was the first time I heard something like this but unfortunately I’ve exper
ienced it and so have other black actors I know. We have to do something.
gweber liked this
gweber commented: This IS doing something.
sunshineandrain commented: So tired of stereotypes in books, film, and theater about ALL people from marginalized groups!! Thank you for speaking up.
gweber commented: I hate the term “marginalized” but I feel you sunshineandrain!
firegirl reblogged this
writelikeagirl commented: Thanks for your feedback. Keep checking back! More posts coming soon.
Whoa,” I say, opening my computer and pulling up our blog site. “Do you understand what a big deal this is, Jasmine? I mean, you posted this last night, and we each posted about it on social media—but . . . we’ve had more than a hundred visits to our blog site.” We are at school early, waiting for Ms. Lucas to arrive and open her classroom so we can work on the blog and create a schedule of posts.
“Chels, can we focus? What are you saying?” Jasmine says, sitting down next to me and eyeing our metrics page.
“What I’m saying is that you posted this at 9:07 p.m. and this morning when I checked the stats, just because I was curious to see if anyone even noticed we had a new club and blog, our site had been visited more than a hundred times, and look—every time I refresh, the number goes up.” I refresh again, and the number bumps up to 153. “People are reading it as we speak, which means people are talking about it and visiting, and reposting, and the day has just started! Write Like a Girl is a hit!”
I pause and look at Jasmine. “I’m so glad you wrote it all down. I’m sorry it happened, but I love that you put it all out there. I wish we had named names. I’d love to call out Mr. Morrison and Meg—who does she think she is, anyway?”
“I know,” Jasmine says. “She’s the worst. I can’t believe James is going out with her.”
“What!? No! No, no, no. That’s not even possible.” Of course I know it’s totally possible. Meg sings like a freaking angel and is one of the strongest actors in the school. Not to mention she’s definitely one of the most beautiful girls at school (I guess I should have started with that one). But she acts like the whole school rotates around her, and according to a handful of her close friends, it does. I can’t believe James is into that. So pathetic. But I guess I really have no idea what kind of person he’d be into. I just wish he’d be into me.
“I’m sorry,” Jasmine says. She gives me a hug.
“I don’t even know why I’m upset. It’s not like we’re even a thing. I just, I kind of wish we were,” I add, feeling like an idiot for liking someone who clearly has no feelings for me.
“I know. I get it.” But then Jasmine’s eyes fill with tears, and Jasmine never cries.
“What’s wrong?”
“My dad’s still in the hospital. I feel like nothing even matters because all I want is my dad to be better,” Jasmine says. “I just want to feel like myself again.”
I put my arm around her, and we sit together, watching the whole school start to file in and wake up.
“Hello, girls,” Ms. Lucas starts. “You two are here early. Did we have a plan to meet this morning?” she asks, looking confused.
“No, but we figured if you were here early, we could work in your classroom and plan some things for our club. Is that okay?”
“Of course, yes. Come in.” She looks at us again and can see Jasmine wiping away tears on her shirtsleeve. Ms. Lucas walks to her desk to grab a box of tissues. “You still have about fifteen or so minutes until the first bell rings. Stay as long as you want. But can I ask you two what’s wrong?”
“My dad’s in the hospital,” Jasmine says. “He has cancer. Stage four.”
“I’m so sorry, Jasmine. I had no idea you were dealing with that. What can we do? How can we help?”
Jasmine shrugs. “There’s nothing anyone can do right now.” We are quiet, and I really want to think of something to say. Jasmine beats me to it. “On a positive note, the blog is blowing up,” she says, and we all start to laugh.
“It is?” Ms. Lucas asks. “After just one post? What did you write? I didn’t even read it before you posted it,” she says, sounding concerned.
“Oh, it’s just your average takedown of Hollywood’s extremely superficial and stereotypical roles black women are assigned in the movie industrial complex that is basically ruining our lives,” I explain. “She also called out the August Wilson Acting Ensemble, which was named after a prominent social justice playwright, who is black, I might add.”
“We know that, Chelsea,” Jasmine says.
“Yeah, I know we know that. I’m just saying it out loud, okay, because it seems like most of the people in the acting ensemble . . . I’m sorry, the August Wilson Acting Ensemble, don’t seem to understand that.”
“Yeah,” Jasmine cuts in. She tells Ms. Lucas everything that happened. “That’s the story we didn’t get into yesterday when we told you we wanted to start our own club. He basically wants me to act the stereotype, which is just . . . it’s just wrong,” she says.
Ms. Lucas and I both look up.
“I’m done. I’m totally and completely done,” Jasmine says. “I’m tired of being invisible to people who only want to make me visible for specific roles. I’m not playing anyone’s parts or ideas of me anymore. And I’m going to say what I need, and I’m gonna start saying what I want too. I gotta get ready for class. Let’s talk more later?” Jasmine asks.
“Sure,” I say. “So you’re gonna see James this morning?” I ask, a little too casually, mad at myself for even bringing his name up again.
“Of course I’m going to see James, Chelsea. I’m gonna see him every morning in the same class that we’re gonna have together all year—every day.”
“I know, I know, I was just confirming that you’ll be seeing him,” I respond. “Maybe you should remind him that Meg sucks, and that your awesome friend Chelsea is unique and kind of quirky . . . and hot . . . say I’m hot too. And remind him that Meg sucks,” I add again, stumbling over my words.
“Yeah, maybe I will. I’m going to tell him he needs to get his act together and drop Meg and her punk ways,” Jasmine says. “I’m going to tell him exactly how I feel. I think I might even tell him how you feel,” she says, standing up and packing her bags.
This is a new Jasmine.
“I’m going to start telling people the way it is.” She gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, waves to Ms. Lucas who has been staring at us wide-mouthed for the last few minutes, and walks out.
I don’t even have time to say, “Hey, maybe don’t tell James I’m into him because I’m trying to play it cool,” and then I think, I’ve never played it cool, so whatever.
By lunchtime, the school is humming. I rush through the cheeseburger line, which is the fastest line because it’s also referred to as the barf line (though I’ve never actually barfed from the burger). I go to our normal table and pull out my phone. I’ve been dying to refresh all morning long, and I see that the number is 452. Four hundred and fifty-two people have read the blog, or at least they’ve clicked on long enough to see Jasmine’s perfect title, and if they saw that, I know they had to read on.
“Hey, I saw the new Write Like a Girl blog. That piece Jasmine wrote was soooo good,” Isaac says, crashing into me with his tray. He has opted for the taco boat, piled so high the cheese is tumbling into his applesauce, which, I have to say, looks a lot more appetizing than my meal.
“Uh, yeah, your girl raised the bar about a trillion degrees,” I say, stealing a sliver of cheddar from his tray.
“That doesn’t even make sense, degrees, trillion . . . anyway, she’s not my girl,” Isaac says.
“Well, I don’t know about that. I heard about the scene, you know . . . the love scene.” I bust out laughing.
“What do you mean? What did you hear?”
“Ah, you’re curious, huh? I mean, I heard you went full-on relationship in the scene. You, too, raised the bar about
a gazillion levels.”
He starts to laugh with me this time. “I did, I totally did.” He high-fives me, which tells me he’s as proud of himself as I am of him. I’ve always seen Isaac as my brother. How amazing would it be if Isaac and Jasmine actually started dating?
“A lot of good it did, since Jasmine quit the ensemble. I feel like I have you to thank for that,” Isaac says.
“Uh, I think you have Mr. Morrison to thank for that. He’s the one that lost his mind in class, which in retrospect was perfect, because now we have our own club. Ha!” I say.
“Well, if that first post is any indication of what’s to come, I think y’all have some good ideas, and a whole bunch of people are talking about it.”
I hear a voice say, “Congrats on your new club.” I swivel around in my seat. It’s James. He’s standing behind me with his tray in one hand and a basketball tucked inside his other arm. It’s such a cliché, and I’m falling right into it. “Hey, man,” James says to Isaac. They both nod.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” I say, smiling a little too wide. “How did you . . . how did you hear about it?”
“Jasmine told me all about it this morning,” James says, looking right at me. I have no idea what Jasmine said to James, and now I am wondering if she went full out. “She showed me the post, and in my second class, pretty much everybody was talking about it, and when half the basketball team’s talking about a blog post from some new club, then you know it’s making its rounds,” he says.
“Half the basketball team? Really?” I ask, and look around the lunchroom. It’s not as if everyone is looking at their phones, but there’s something about the intimate conversations and the huddles in small groups that makes me think this post has some staying power, or at least has pushed the conversation in some intriguing ways.
