Something happened as I sat down to watch The Butler last
night. I arrived early to the private screening. The majority of the
200 attendees were white, older, some recognizable from television. I
chatted with the woman next to me – her vibe, warm and friendly. She
liked my J’s (I was wearing my favorite 1’s). I liked her scarf, colorful against her pale skin. We both remarked how there weren’t enough seats for everyone.
I’d been invited as media, asked to write about the film. She had
received her invitation from the Academy of Arts & Sciences, of
which she is a member. She’d brought her pre-teen daughter for some
Saturday night bonding. We both settled into our respective agendas as
the lights dimmed.
Within the first three minutes we were shown an unrecognizable Mariah
Carey and David Banner in heart-breaking circumstance and two young
Black men embracing at the end of a pair of nooses. I pulled my phone (with the screen dimmed) from
the pocket of my hoodie at the exact moment Larry King reached for his.
We both appeared to make note of the same quote when I heard two sharp
finger snaps.
“HEY GIRL, YOU PUT THAT AWAY!”
I turned to the older white woman in the row behind me, leaning over
two strangers to get closer to me as she yelled, “You put that away
RIGHT NOW!” She snapped her fingers again and mumbled something under
her breath about ‘these people.’
“I’m working,” was all I said and turned back to the screen just in
time to see David Banner – kneeling between rows of cotton – warn his
young son that the world they live in belonged to whites and their mere
survival hinged on his ability to not make waves.
The Butler is an unapologetic look at the Black experience,
through the eyes of a man whose survivalist subjection allowed him to be
a fly on the governing walls of four US Presidents.
While I went into the theater expecting a film on race, I left having
seen a film about Blackness. Something I’ve been thinking about a lot
lately.
The Butler is filled with cultural inside jokes that the 25
or so African-American attendees (mostly press), got instantly. The
characters, rounder than we’re used to seeing, darker skinned, many far
from the silver screen standard of beauty could’ve easily been our grand
parents, aunts and uncles. Terrence Howard was everyone’s shiftless
neighbor and despite missing his front tooth, charmed Oprah into an
affair. Even Lenny Kravitz – who in real life manages to look sexy
walking down the street in last Tuesday’s clothes and a man purse – was
down played to just another handsome Black man who married a big sassy
Black woman in an obvious wig.
But as I sat there, a row in front of an offensive White woman, drunk
from her own entitlement, watching painful truths about the history of
my people in this country, I couldn’t help but wonder: What does ‘Black’
mean now? 2013 – long after we’ve twice elected a black president but
failed to convict the killer of a black teenager – what is the ethos of
this culture of mine?
I grew up Black – not just as a race but a verb. Weddings in church
basements, in households where Martin Luther and Luther Vandross were
equally revered. We attended home goings that lasted from day into
night. My aunt, the crackhead, would do anything for you – just don’t
leave your purse around her. Summers meant family reunions in matching
shirts that always alternated between yellow, purple and red. And our
grand parents raised me, along with a number of my cousins. And every
time we’d hear of a particularly heinous (or stupid) crime we’d collectively wish aloud, “I hope he’s not Black.”
What does that matter now? Questlove can write a deeply vulnerable
essay about his struggles through life as the big Black boogieman and a
feminist will reply evoking the unspoken 28th amendment, ‘don’t scare the long-suffering white women’. Harry
Belefonte – historically one of our greatest cause leaders can publicly
cannibalize two of our brightest stars, prompting one to respond with a
near repulsive arrogance. And then there’s Don Lemon who was foolish
enough to ride in on Bill O’Reilly’s bigoted coattails to deliver his
remedy for Black salvation. But while his timing was regrettable and his
O’Reilly association is reckless, were his five elementary rules
completely wrong? Somewhere, a skinny Al Sharpton is still marching.
Meanwhile George Zimmerman is riding through America in a Honda with a
gun, helping victims trapped in cars and racking up speeding tickets.
It’s a confusing time for Black messaging.
At one point during the film I pretended not to listen as the
friendly White woman next to me quietly explained to her teenage old
daughter who Jesse Jackson was. From the corner of my eye I could see
her squirm at the on screen dramatized acts of hatred and ignorance then
go silent, as the each scene was bookended with actual footage – as if
to say “we’re not making this stuff up.”
Does being Black matter to anyone but me? Is white privilege the now
oppression? Should we act better to be treated better or should we act
out until we’re equal? Black chicken meet White egg.
Oprah is a light in such a dark and heavy film. Beginning with Miss Sofia, into The Women of Brewster Placeon through Beloved,
Winfrey seems to gravitate towards burdened characters and Gloria
Gaines – an alcoholic housewife is no different. But it’s her free
moments – her comedic asides, her lackluster dancing, her drunken
rambling – that remind you that despite all of her reverence Oprah
really is a Black woman from Mississippi.
Winfrey recently said she has absolutely zero tolerance for the word
‘nigger.’ Not surprisingly, the film touches on this as well. After
describing himself as a ‘house nigger’ a young Cecil Gaines is told not
to use the word invented by Whites to demean Blacks. This comes when I
find myself wrestling with my use of the word ‘nigga.’ It’s been so
ingrained within me to be powerless, until it’s heard coming from the
lips of someone who does not see me as their equal. My justification has
been, ‘we’ve earned it.’ We survived a systematic conspiracy against
us. Why shouldn’t we have the right to limp away with the word, free to
repurpose it as we see fit?
That reasoning is making less sense to me as I get older and see
young kids of all races take liberties with it. It’s the equivalent of
being freed from prison only to keep the orange jumpsuit to accessorize
and wear later, out to the club.
The Butler raises interesting points about the constant
tight rope we still walk daily as Blacks in America. We are still
persecuted. We are still statistically unequal. We were freed from
cages, only to be leashed. And now, as we suffer from systemic division,
we routinely noose ourselves. This film – and my viewing experience
reminded me there is still nothing black and white about being Black.
As the film ended, I saw the obnoxious woman in the hallway. I
politely introduced myself. She stared at my hand before enduringly
shaking it and reluctantly telling me her name. She’s a longtime member
of the press. Midst my explanation that I was merely taking notes, she
cut me off.
“I don’t know who raised you but you don’t turn on your phone in a theater. It’s rude and of low-class.”
I reminded her that it was rude to snap your fingers and yell at
another adult. She gave me a once over making no attempts to hide the
judgment at my sneakers, oversized hoodie and backwards baseball cap. I
made no attempt to apologize for it. Her contempt became annoyance as a
couple of people stopped to ask for my picture.
“If you were offended by my actions girl, then I’m sorry, I don’t know what to tell you.”
I was her second use of ‘girl’ that stamped the incident with the
all-too-familiar seal of white privilege. Nevermind that yelling at me
was far more disruptive than my dim screen. Or that several people were
taking notes. Ironically, she’d taken one look at me and determined that
whatever she had accomplished in her life warranted her to treat me as
if I were The Butler.
I didn’t go off on this woman because she expected me to. A shouting match would’ve undoubtedly ended in us me being asked to leave. The irony of the situation was lost on her.
The Butler began by quoting MLK, “You cannot drive out darkness with darkness. Only light can do that.”
I sighed and softly laid my hand on her shoulder. She flinched. I looked her in eyes and said, “Yes, you aresorry. You are very, very sorry.”
Appalled, she asked me to repeat myself. I did so happily and as she
began with, “Now I don’t know who you think you…” I turned away and went
to say hello to someone I knew and respected.
Jasfly is a blogger based in NYC. She also appeared on
VH1′s The Gossip Game. This article was originally posted
on jasfly.tumblr.com.Source www.allhiphop.com.
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