The other reason why most of performative allyship is ineffective is that folks move in extremes and go from zero to one hundred as an antiracist. One day, they were unaware how pervasive racism is, and the next, they’re flooding their social media with information, showing up at marches and protests, screaming about supporting Black businesses. WHERE DID ALL THESE WHITE PEOPLE COME FROM?! I’m serious. You ever throw what you thought was going to be an intimate get-together and it turns into a full-fledged house party, and a bitch who was not invited, but showed up with napkins and red Solo cups, now acts like they call the shots and pay your property taxes? That’s how this aggressiveness in being antiracist comes across sometimes. And while I’m sure a decent amount of it is well-intentioned, intent doesn’t matter when it’s causing more harm, and from what I can see, as the number of non-POC participants in antiracism increases, so does the “May I speak to your manager?” energy. The revolution cannot and should not be Karenized. That vibe wants fast results, placation, and constant positive reinforcement, and recontextualizes easy wins as major victories, so that when the wins don’t happen quickly, or happen at all for the weightier and messier issues, disappointment and frustration settle in, threatening to dissuade future efforts.
To me, lacking patience and expecting results immediately for both the micro and macro issues that plague America shows a complete lack of understanding of how pervasive and fundamental racism is to the foundation of our society. Truth be told, systemic racism will most likely not be dismantled in our lifetime. While I would like things to change so that all my Black brothers and sisters and I can live in a better world, I know that’s not the ultimate goal. The ultimate goal is that those who come after me will not have to experience even a tenth of what I have. Achieving that goal requires a level of acceptance in the face of glacial progress, and that is, in part, what prevents burnout and allows one to stay the course.
Too often what we’re seeing is people blowing off steam at the first sign of adversity and then not rolling up their sleeves and jumping back into the fray. And that combination of impatience and losing interest because massive change has not happened since they decided to get active, when there have been people on the front lines for years and decades doing the exhaustive work to dismantle racism, is the opposite of staying the course. It’s participating in a trend, in a moment. This is not a trend. I repeat: This is not a trend. We have to undo every single institution—both big and small—in our country. And if the expectation is permanent change, then we must understand that the system cannot change unless the people in it, particularly the ones who benefit from it in myriad tangible and intangible ways, change as well.
A key part of that change is people putting ego aside and thoroughly examining themselves. They must acknowledge and reckon with their participation, both passive and active, in systemic racism instead of presenting themselves as having been on the right side of history. That preoccupation with their own vanity is nothing but participating in the Woke Olympics. That is of no use to Black people and not what we need. We deserve folks digging deep and committing to changing their mindset and their behavior, or else history will repeat itself. We need folks willing to do the work even if they may never see the fruits of their labor. We need folks to stay the course. So even though it’s been over a year since the global social uprisings and the police have not been defunded, stay the course. If after a couple of tough conversations with a loved one, that person has not changed their beliefs on racism, Black Lives Matter, and more, stay the course. When minor wins happen, celebrate if you want to but remember: Stay. The. Course. This country and the people in it will not be easily resolved or fixed. This will be one of the great fights of our lives, as it has been for generations. So stay the course. Do the work.
By the way, “work” is more than dismantling government institutions. Work includes, but isn’t limited to: looking at your team/employees and hiring people of color in more than underpaid, subordinate positions. Speaking up at your schools when the course curriculum doesn’t include queer and POC history. Same goes for who is doing the teaching. If it’s all just cis white teachers, that’s detrimental to every child’s education and understanding of the world. If they never see Black people or other POC in positions of authority, how can they ever see themselves as leaders? Then there’s housing. Moving out of communities that have Black people in them OR moving into predominantly Black communities, gentrifying them, and displacing Black people makes it mighty hard to say we’re all family. How about patronizing Black-owned businesses other than Rihanna’s and Beyoncé’s?
While doing this work, remember the work affects Black people. What happens out in the world, both the good and the bad, reverberates throughout our lives. Please don’t turn antiracism or Black people into a pet project. We are human beings. So when one looks at the life of a Black person, what movie do they watch? Is it 12 Years a Slave? Why not Akeelah and the Bee, Brown Sugar, or Dave Chappelle’s Block Party? When wanting to understand the “Black experience,” are the books being read starting and stopping at antiracism or are they expanding beyond narratives centered on racism, such as Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams (friendship and dating), American Spy by Lauren Wilkinson (espionage), and You Should See Me in a Crown by Leah Johnson (YA novel)? Falling in love, being a spy, and being a teenager are also a part of the Black experience. News stories about Black death and murder populate the news, but the stories about LeBron James opening a public school in his hometown of Akron, Ohio, quickly fade away because they do not fit the limiting narrative of what Blackness is. And if you really want a taste of what Blackness has to offer, look around you. Check out the Black kids playing in the street during summertime. Smile when you see a mother/daughter duo shopping at the mall. Feel secondhand joy when you see a Black family having a good-ass time together. Listen to Black people in the workplace when they have really good ideas. Don’t save us. See us.
Bish, What? That’s English?!: A Tale of an American Dating a Brit
One of my favorite things about dating a white person from the UK* is that I get to introduce him to so many things in Black culture that helped form who I am. Exposing him to blassics aka Black classics in music led to mixed results: “Confessions Part II” by Usher (“too ignorant”), “How Many Licks?” by Lil’ Kim (a lot of “oh mys” and “oh, dears!”), and “Breakdown” by Mariah Carey featuring Krayzie Bone and Wish Bone (“love the slow, thrusting beat” #Eww). Thankfully, my TV show selections garnered universal reactions: He loves black-ish and Living Single. And then there’s seasoning. Like the saying goes: Bring a Brit seasoning and he’ll go, “What’s this? I prefer my food to taste like sadness.” But teach a Brit how to season and his taste buds will rejoice like Whoopi Goldberg’s choir singing “Joyful, Joyful” at the end of Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit. Look, I could go on listing all the things he has received an education on thanks to me, but I want to focus on one particular night when I asked Bae if he’d ever seen Waiting to Exhale. “What’s that?” he asked.
Shocked, I immediately sat up in bed and said, “Oh, we’re watching the movie. Like right now.” I searched for the film in my iTunes library while trying to make sense of his cluelessness. “You know what? You’ve probably seen it, but just don’t remember it by name. Like the scene where Gloria flirts with her new neighbor, Marvin?” This was met with a blank stare. “ ’Kay, but the soundtrack! It’s full of bops!” All I got back was a shrug of the shoulders. “Fine. At least we can agree that the cast is unbeatable. Whitney Houston, Angela Bassett—”
“I have no idea who that is.”
And with that sentence, I was so mad that I saw red, green, yellow, and all the other colors that make up kente cloth. I know Bae is from the UK, but how can he not know the Angela Evelyn Bassett? The icon who trained at the Yale School of Drama. The legend who has seemingly portrayed every important Black woman in history—Tina Turner, Betty Shabazz, Katherine Jackson,
Coretta Scott King, and Rosa Parks—and still has never won an Academy Award. #TheDisrespect. The superstar who, in her nearly forty-year career, has never been the subject of torrid gossip or disgraceful controversies. And while we’re at it, let’s get shallow because she is one of the most stunning women of all time. Screw Helen of Troy and her face that launched a thousand ships, because Bassett’s melanated beauty made thousands of Black women and girls appreciate their own beauty, and her arms were most likely responsible for dumbbell sales for the whole of the nineties.
Clearly, I worship at the altar of Angela Bassett, and I needed Bae to understand how pitiful his life has been for never having seen her act in anything. So I queued up the movie, fully prepared for him to bask in the glory of all things Bassett and . . . um, yeah. We need to talk, y’all. I mean, yes, she is incredible in the movie and it goes without saying that this film is iconic. I still remember when Oprah had the cast—Bassett, Houston, Loretta Devine, and Lela Rochon—on her talk show to discuss the movie and how it was a celebratory moment of four Black powerhouses. But, if I can be honest, Exhale is wild AF.
Dear reader, if you haven’t seen the movie yet either, all you need to know right now is the plot: It’s a romantic drama about four women navigating their families, careers, and love lives, which are mostly littered with terrible men. But here’s the thing. All the women in the movie talk about how men are no good, but these ladies are either boning married men or making #TrifeLife choices when it comes to men. Looking at it now, that feels like trash attracting trash, but that’s not how I remembered it as I was building up the movie to British Baekoff, and it’s also not how the movie presents itself either. Let’s look at Whitney Houston’s character, Savannah.
She’s an ambassador for Side Piece Nation, as she’s been smashing the very married Kenneth (Dennis Haysbert) in the hopes that he will eventually leave his wife. Then one day over lunch, she ends the affair because he utters this white lie: “You’re the most important thing in my life.” Right. I mean, he’s been lying this whole time to his wife and daughter, but this lie to Savannah is what’s unacceptable. I repeat: This lie, not adultery, is proof he’s a bad dude and would cheat on her if they ended up together. This, of course, is supposed to be a triumphant moment for Savannah. How do we know? Because she punctuates this kiss-off by dumping his gin and tonic on his pants, and he’s all like, “Whoa! Hey! C’mon! Savannah! Hey!” Kenneth, calm down. It’s a G&T. Gin is clear and tonic water can be used to treat stains. Basically, Savannah pretreated your clothes before you throw them in the wash. You owe her. ANYWAY! The point is I remember watching this movie at sixteen, slightly confused about who was the “good guy” in this scenario, but still going, “Yes, Savannah! You tell him! If he isn’t honest about the little things, then it’s best you end it.” LOL. Fast-forward to me being in my midthirties with this rule of thumb: If you consider cheaters a red flag, then as soon as a married heaux enters your life and offers to play a round of Pass the Peen, you tell them your name is not Milton Bradley so you ain’t into games, then go home to watch The Voice. But Savannah’s not the only character making suspect choices.
After a few meals of ham hocks and collards with her hot neighbor Marvin (Gregory Hines) and him fixing her leaky faucet (not a metaphor), Gloria (Devine) wants him to play stepdad to her college-bound son. I know grown folks can move fast in relationships, but it’s only been a few months! You can’t expect your new boyfriend to contribute to your son’s college meal plan so he can have waffle fries on the regs. Hell, my parents were with me my whole life and didn’t really wanna pay for my meal plan in college. They were like, “Sure you don’t wanna get a RadioShack credit card and rack up debt with Odwalla juices and Rold Gold pretzels purchases like the rest of America?” I kid, I kid. But for real, Glo: PumpYourBrakes.DMV.NY.gov.
Then we have Lela Rochon’s Robin. Her journey begins with her being a married man’s mistress and then she decides to get serious about love . . . by smashing Michael, a coworker who just got promoted to her team. Despite a very mediocre dicking, they go on Zillow and look at three-bed, two-bath fixer-uppers when, at the most, they should be sharing a sad soup and tragic sal from Panera. Instead, they keep fooling around until, at work, Michael actually does his job and points out an important discrepancy in a report for a million-dollar account. This pisses her off, so she ends things with him. Robin, unless you and Michael got your MBAs at Risking It All for Some Strange University, you cannot expect your coworkers to endanger their livelihoods so your ego can remain intact. Anyway, Robin’s not done making trash decisions because after dumping Michael, she then dates a cokehead before going back to boning still-married Russell and getting pregnant by him. Yes, this is messier than a truck stop restroom, but I saved the best mess for last: Bassett’s Bernadine.
Her husband leaves her for his side piece, who’s also a coworker, so Bernadine sets his clothes and car on fire (I’m here for it), rolls up to his job and WWE’s his jumpoff’s face into a West Elm desk (definitely reckless behavior, but I’m still here for it), and then she meets Wesley Snipes’s fine ass and DOES NOT SLEEP WITH HIM (this is when a bitch decides to be pragmatic???). Yes, I know it’s because he has a dying wife—yikes—but if this movie gonna be, in part, about thot life yet it won’t have Wesley Snipes shirtless, I’m like, “Well, then why did Rosa Parks sit at the front of the bus if not so that generations later, we can ogle hot nineties Black dude sex symbols?” I mean, can a sis get a peek at one of his clavicles? A glimpse at half a bi and tri (that’s bicep and tricep if ya didn’t know)? A passing look at a quarter of a moisturized ankle? I mean, give me something! Sadly, the movie doesn’t. All we get is Bassett and Snipes sleeping next to each other comfortably while fully clothed, which is how I know these folks are in really good shape. Seriously, who’s out here rocking non-elastic clothing and can sleep for eight hours straight? Like Bernadine is wearing control-top hosiery in peaceful slumber. What kind of sorcery is this?! I do not know, but Bassett acted the hell out of this scene, all the scenes that came before it, and especially the one after it, when she gets a letter from Snipes, who writes that in the short time they spent together—two Moscow mules and some conversaysh—he has grown to love her! As she’s reading this, she merely sighs sensually before moving on with her life. Talk about self-control! If I got a note like that, I would’ve been on the phone, trying to use my Capital One reward miles to purchase a flight out to see homeboy. I do not know how to play it cool. Anyway, as I’m harrumphing and talking at the TV over this missed opportunity for a steamy love scene, I noticed Baekoff wasn’t chiming in. Turns out he was fast asleep. How could he???
Sure, it’s not a perfect film, but the story lines are deliciously telenovela-esque, the 1990s fashion is still aspirational twenty-six years later, and Bassett’s acting range is a thing to admire. Okay, maybe I’m biased because I first saw Waiting to Exhale in my teens, which, for most people, are formative years when things in pop culture can more easily work their way into your DNA. As a result, the movie will forever have a special place in my heart in a way that, even if British Baekoff did like the film, it just wouldn’t in his. He’s not a teenager watching this film for the first time, but a thirty-one-year-old man. The specific type of Black American woman experience shown in Exhale is something that he did not witness or grow up with on the south coast of England. This is a two-way street, by the way. There are things he cherishes that don’t resonate with me. Take Paul McCartney and Wings, for example.
A year and a half into dating, he referenced one of their songs in conversation, expecting a moment of shared recognition. Unfortunately, for him, I missed the whole Paul McCartney and Wings train. “But I love Wings,” he said, as if my not listening to them was a planned attack against him.
“First name ‘Always,’ middle name ‘with’?”
“Ha ha,” he said, mockingly. “The band. With Paul McCartney. Everyone loves Wings!”
“You are literally the first person who has ever mentioned them to me, and I’ve been alive for so many years.”
“But it’s Wings. They were huge, babe! Massive!”
He then uttered the word “Wings” about five thousand more times, rattling off song titles, none of which registered with me, before I said, “Hate to break it to ya, but I think they are more of a UK thing. Not that they weren’t big here, but I think they’re probably more beloved across the pond.” He seemed to accept this before letting me know how much I’ve been missing out, which would be fine, except this impassioned defense of this band didn’t track. I mean, this man claims to love Wings so much that we had a twenty-minute convo about them, but dude has yet to play any songs from their catalog in all the time we’ve been dating. Not a “Live and Let Die,” a “Band on the Run,” or a “Maybe I’m Amazed.” But you know who has played some Wings? This bitch, because I accidentally hearted a Boz Scaggs song that Spotify put on one of my Daily Mixes, so then Spotify started slipping in all these other songs from the “financially comfortable white men who’ve never been denied a bank loan” genre and Wings’ “Arrow Through Me” played and now I fucks with that song hard. Moving on.
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