Grounded in the Stars

Emotionally, the week leading up to Mother's Day was fine...until the night before when I found myself gnarled up in an emotional heap over asshole comments on the internet. Triggered, bothered, agitated by online reactions I read to the installation of this statue, Grounded in the Stars, by artist Thomas J Price in New York City's Times Square.

I like it. I wish that I could get to New York to see it up close and in person before the exhibition ends in June, but the way life has been lately, that might not be in the stars...

As for reading the comments, I know better. I've been on Al Gore's internet since the beginning, and I know that people shitpost and troll and get away with being awful because that is the nature of unmoderated free expression. People are going to post their innermost asinine unfiltered thoughts because there are no other places in polite society where one can go around and say whatever nonsense pops into one's head about other people unless they are Donald Trump holding a rally for his cult of deplorables. Not unless they want to get beat down...

So trust, I didn't go looking for negativity. It was dumped onto my timeline by the geniuses who manage the Meta algorithm. Apparently, they get bored once a week and decide to flood the zone with crap that I would never interact with from all kinds of random pages. Or they throw out red herrings since I did happen to like a post that highlighted this very statue; perhaps they thought that meant I would appreciate seeing some alternative viewpoints.

Hell to the naw!

Which brings us to this unprecedented Busy Black content move: I erased a post I had previously shared to my Facebook page. When I saw some of those nasty comments, I was compelled to write on impulse, and even after I allowed my thoughts to marinate overnight before posting, I ultimately changed my mind. I was uneasy about what had triggered my anger though I remain steadfast in my admiration of the work itself. However, once I sat with my discomfort and deconstructed it, I figured I would write about my change of heart.

My initial reaction to the piece was to shrug and think, huh, as in is this a newsworthy distraction given everything else that is going on in the world? In the same week that we got an American Pope from the Southside of Chicago by way of the 7th Ward in New Orleans with Haitian Creole ancestry, does a 12-foot statue of a Black woman dropped in the middle of Times Square really need all of this attention? Of course, I shared Grounded to the FB page as it had become clear that the reactions appeared to be divided between the like and laugh FB emojis. Hardly scientific, but random enough to take notice that while some pages celebrated the installation, others deemed it "woke"--the new buzz word to indicate that something is unnecessarily polarizing. Nevertheless, I posted a quick looky here and moved on...until a post in one of my groups directed my attention to the comments section. Curiouser and curiouser the farther I fell down that rabbit hole...

There I saw numerous cruel and mean-spirited memes attacking the work and Black women, including this re-imagining of the Statue of Liberty as a heavy-set Black woman checking her phone (inspired by this other Price exhibition in Florence, Italy perhaps). Accompanying their laugh and hate emoji reactions were images depicting morbidly obese Black women scantily dressed with exaggerated breasts, protruding stomachs, and thick hips. One meme depicted a woman pushing a shopping cart from the "EBT" store; another picture juxtaposed the image of a woman "mocking" the statue by posting a picture of herself striking the same pose. The most offensive meme contrasted this statue to a "preferred" mock-up to immortalize the recent racist encounter on the playground with the woman from Minnesota. 

Having made a trip to see the iconic Lady Liberty colossus in person just last year for the first time since high school, I decided to share this meme since I deemed it the least problematic. My visit to Liberty Island had been so uplifting and empowering, especially as I learned that this beloved American symbol had been a gift from France in celebration of the abolition of slavery. Over the years, her symbolism evolved to serve as a welcoming beacon to immigrants from abroad (and despite what anyone else says, those dual purposes are not in conflict).

My knee-jerk reaction to this and those other aforementioned memes? An emotional fuck y'all. Fuck y'all racist, sexist, homophobic, fat-shaming, Trump-voting fascist asses! This was the day before Mother's Day, so fuck your Momma (since she raised you to be this special kind of asshole); fuck your Daddy next month when Father's Day rolls around; and whomever else agrees with your fucked up worldview! But instead of all those f-bombs, this is the more thoughtful reaction I initially posted: 

Moment of emotional transparency: I really effing hate how *free speech* on social media has turned this country into a nation of rude assholes.

Really. If I could cuss people out and be convinced that it would matter for them to know that I see their racism, sexism, homophobia, etc. And while it may just be words that aren't supposed to permeate or hurt, the truth is that taken individually, no, you don't hurt me. But the accumulated impact of your cruelty and meanness, yes...it's like pouring lemon juice on a thousand paper cuts. Salted wounds.

I've been writing about the small indignities and micro-aggressions endured by Black women on this page (and other platforms) for YEARS. I know only a handful of people care or are moved. I write anyway because I think that maybe, one day, someone's heart will be pricked, pained by seeing the impact of the hurt that is so easily heaped on others. But I know better. No one who knowingly and casually inflicts pain recognizes or cares about how exhausting it is to wake up EVERYDAY as the object of their insatiable cruelty.

I know who and what I am, as well as what I am NOT. I am NOT the ugly, stupid, classless, undesirable, useless, (fill in the blank with whatever adjectives/insults you've been taught that are supposed to describe Black women and girls)... I am not a mule, nor a beast. I am a woman of flesh and blood, who knows better, even as I foolishly and vainly hope otherwise.

We are taught to let them...Laugh. Joke. Think the worst. Believe the lies of their superiority and our inherent inferiority. Prove their weaknesses and insecurities by highlighting our ability to endure, survive, and sometimes thrive in spite of their best efforts to destroy us. 

I should mention that I did not (will not) post any of those memes but chose this one that spoke directly to how I feel. I also did not wish to attract the wrong kind of attention to engage with my page (I have better ways to waste my time than to argue with morons). A few hours later, my anger wasn't as raw or as intense, but much like seeing a taunt from this DEPOTUS posted on his official social media account, it had numbed. Stings at first, then I get used to the pain of the daily indignities and humiliations because he can, so he does...and the futility of accepting that there is nothing I will ever say in retaliation that can penetrate or appeal to any semblance of decency. 

As far as I am concerned, everyone who sees this Grounded statue as an object of mockery or scorn, that is how they see me, my nieces, my daughter, my sorors, my aunties...my late mother. My dilemma is whether to accept their judgment or to subvert it. I will admit that it isn't always easy to ignore the noise. The attacks began to feel personal upon seeing the fourth, then the fifth, and later the subsequent posts that took aim at this composite of a random, non-famous Black woman. The comments assumed that she's on welfare, that she speaks in her outside voice, that she barges her way into exclusive spaces where she doesn't fit in or was not invited. That she has multiple children by different men. That she doesn't work a full-time job. That she expresses herself in vernacular colloquialisms. That she twerks when her favorite songs play. That she eats at McDonald's and so do her children. That she complains about injustice.

That she exists.

All she did was stop for a moment to survey the sights in Times Square, just like everybody else visiting for the first or even the 50th time, because you try navigating an amusement park without a map to indicate where things are? Doesn't everyone need to take a moment to get oriented to the utter chaos and confusion that is New York's Time Square?

So let's do just that--take a moment to fully establish what Times Square is and what is surely ain't. Like it ain't the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Not the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) nor the Whitney Museum, where I took the Kid on a special trip to see an exhibition on Alvin Ailey last December. It also ain't the Guggenheim. So the idea that any kind of art installation in Times Square is supposed to evoke fantasies of taking a leisurely stroll through some tranquil sculpture garden is insanity.

The most accurate way of describing Times Square to someone who has never been there is to compare it to a large open air, overpriced food court located in the middle of the most crowded and loudest set of city blocks in America. I've never been to the Mall of America, but I imagine that is the same kind of chaos. Thousands of tourists; folks trying to sell you same-day show tickets; the stench of burnt hot dogs and roasted peanut wafting from the carts on every corner; Sirijul and Mujibur; bootleg merchants; overpriced chain restaurants; and ginormous neon billboards with blinking lights. There is a Naked Cowboy and his wife. There are also people walking around dressed as cartoon characters, so if you've ever wanted your picture taken with a Disney character but cannot afford a trip to the other most expensive amusement trap on Earth, then Times Square is a viable alternative. That is, if no one will notice that the Times Square Mickey Mouse always looks like he just lost a bar fight in the alley with Elmo (also on hand in case you get lost on your way to finding Sesame Street, which as it turns out, is within 2 miles, not that far away).

The only reason to make an effort to go to Times Square is to see a Broadway play. I was there a year ago to see The Wiz. The only other reason to be there is to kill time on your way out of town by bus at the Port Authority or by train at Grand Central Station. Otherwise, you're only there to get robbed--by spending too much money at one of the multi-level concept stores (like we did on M&Ms), or by one of those shady looking dudes posing as the Mario Brothers.

As the resident of another city that is full of statues and monuments, I appreciate when something new comes along to break up the monotony of generals, presidents, and historical figures as decorative sculpture. Nothing wrong with a little whimsy here and there, such as past public art installations that featured painted pandas, donkeys and elephants, and now all kinds of vibrant murals. There have been varying responses to these kinds of works. They can be polarizing. They stoke derision. There is no such thing as a universally beloved piece of art that appeals to everybody, so it isn't surprising that some works are more controversial than others. However, as long as people understand that not all pieces are intended to appeal to everyone, then the easiest thing to do is move along until there is something that does appeal to you.

For example, a local favorite piece of public art here in DC wasn't initially an art installation but an advertisement for a furniture store. The Big Chair of Anacostia was erected in 1959 and is located in a strip mall in Southeast DC, across the Anacostia River--a world away from most of the city's other more famous monuments. For years, it was known primarily to those of us who grew up in the neighborhood, but as our population has grown and changed, the chair has become a more recognizable city landmark. It is still mostly significant to those of us who live in the SE quadrant; I doubt that anyone who doesn't have a reason to drive into Anacostia would go out of their way to see an oversized piece of furniture. Nor do people who have only become residents of the city in the last 20 years know that this isn't even the original chair.

In response to Grounded, I had no visceral reaction other than curiosity for why a 12-foot tall figure? Assuming the same question was asked when it was an installation of 10-foot tall Balloon Dogs or the 8-foot tall LOVE sculptures, then part of that answer becomes why not? If public art is meant to be seen, discussed, engaged, debated, then it has to make some kind of bold statement. Perhaps the next logical question is why now, given these tumultuous times we've entered with the return of Donald Trump. Because once the default complaint that this statue was "woke", that became a bat signal for MAGA to come out swinging. To which, my retort: if not now, then when?

For such a time as this, why not celebrate an unassuming Black woman standing in her own skin? Why not look upon that Mama Liberty meme as an affirmation of our power, instead of the insult to our appearance as was intended? Black women worked hard to preserve American democracy and its ideals in the 2024 election. One of us was handed the baton at the 11th hour and still got 75 million votes. No need to cringe as Mama Liberty holds that torch aloft while also busy organizing and handling her business!

To be clear, one can dislike Price's statue and not be a racist. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. My problem is that people were intentional and comfortable in bashing the work through the lenses of racism, sexism, classism, and body-shaming. We've already acknowledged how the term woke functions as a dog whistle; others sought to express their anti-Blackness in more subtle forms. For example, conservative provocateur Matt Walsh penned this pseudo-intellectual opinion piece to proclaim his disdain for Price's oeuvre of public art. Then there is the use of the historically loaded term Mammy which somehow becomes the default description of any full-figured Black woman...

Mind you, Grounded could just as easily have been someone's impression of me during the pandemic. Me, or any one of my friends whose struggles with menopause, stress, and the weight of the world have manifested on our bodies, settled into our curves. Once upon a time, full-bodied women were symbols of fertility and abundance. Isn't there a proposal floating around about paying women to have more children? When did our society become so repulsed by the sight of fleshy, Rubenesque women? Especially since many of our mothers, grandmothers, and your Trump-loving aunties have that same body type...when did we become so intolerant and shallow?

Instead of being distracted by superficial concerns, we ought to be more offended that our society has become immune to the ways that racism and sexism compound to harm the psyche of Black, Latino, Asian, and Indigenous women. Or that we're too proud to admit that the daily drip-drip of undeserved mean-spiritedness, insults to our intelligence and competence, and the outright hostility and disrespect exact a heavy physical, emotional, and psychological toll? Women of color disproportionately suffer from higher incidences of infant and maternal mortality, more diagnoses of autoimmune disorders, and greater tendencies to develop aggressive and debilitating chronic diseases. 

Why is it so triggering that a temporary art installation in the most garish public plaza in the most crowded city in America happens to be statue of a Black woman? If you aren't in Times Square right now, nor will be at any point before June 17, then why do you care? Everything you see in her is a reflection of you: your assumptions, your insinuations, your discomfort, your anxieties, your prejudices and biases, your insecurities. It is incredible to see how much fear and loathing she's inspired just by standing there, taking up space without saying or doing anything remarkable!

Stand tall among the stars and stay grounded.

Daddy's Home

The DNC definitely feels like a lifetime ago in dog years, and this is one of those times when I wish I hadn't let myself get so caught up in my head. This piece was supposed to have been a homage to all of that Good Dad energy we saw back in August and as a September birthday tribute to my Dad. Welp...

Yesterday I saw a snippet of a Sunday news roundtable and one of the participants, Rep. Byron 'not Brian' Donalds exclaimed "Daddy's home" as part of his comments on the return of Trump. In addition to losing my appetite, his statement prompted me to revisit and post this piece. I will post the bulk of what I initially wrote with minimal edits, then provide my updated commentary after the jump. --ADH

I watched Second Gentleman Doug Emhoff's address to the Democratic National Convention and came away with all of the warm and fuzzies. I like him, a lot. I have had something of a soft spot for him ever since I saw a clip of a campaign event back in 2019 where someone tried to rush the stage at then-Sen.  Kamala Harris. And with the speed of Clark Kent changing into Superman, Emhoff was up on that stage and standing in between his wife and her would-be assailant in the kind of 'oh snap' moment that could only endear him to women everywhere as that dude.

A few weeks ago, right before Madam VP Harris announced her choice of running mate, I happened to see an interview with a burly white-haired guy who referred to the former DESPOTUS and his newly appointed running mate, James David Vance as weird. And I liked him, a lot. Because there was something about the way he tagged these men as uncool, in spite of their delusions, that definitely made sense. Later when the Hub and I discussed potential running mates, our mutual favorite was that same burly guy from Minnesota, so I was absolutely ecstatic he was her choice.

The week prior to the Convention, I received an email that invited me to attend a town hall with President Biden (and Madam VP), and I jumped at the chance. I tried to convince my Dad to attend with me because I thought, how many times does he get to go to political events? He initially agreed to tag along, then declined in order to attend Mass...and until the moment when I realized I would be close enough to take a picture of the President, Vice President, and the Governor of Maryland in a crowd where there were only four to six people between us, I figured Dad had made the right call. My insistence on staying at this event was pure obstinance; I imagine my Dad, who is a tolerant man, still would not have wagered on that kind of patience paying off. But I like Biden, a lot. And this was my way of counteracting the FOMO I felt by not being able to go to Chicago for the convention.

I waited up late to hear former President Barack Obama even though we've all heard him speak a thousand times (but we still miss him). I was in the car and happened upon former President Bill Clinton's speech, fully remembering that he has a tendency to just talk and talk (and talk). I still need to go back to listed to the entirety of President Biden's convention speech because that started and went on way past my bedtime. I really appreciate that Governor Tim Walz, the burly football Coach chosen to be her running mate, understood the assignment to give us the perfect win-one-for-the-Gipper keynote/pep talk in 15 minutes or less.

I don't know about you, but I liked LOVED all of the positive Dad energy that was being spread by these Democratic men. It's all very soothing, in a retro yet very modern kind of way. On the one hand, it seems contradictory to feel so reassured by their presence in a year when we are looking to elect a woman to be the Leader of the Free World; yet on the other hand, also radical to feel so elated that they are happily standing in-formation beside some formidable, badass women!

And they LOVE it too!

For half a second, I was ready to offer a similar complimentary nod to James David for his full-throated, you don't want none of this smoke response in defense of his wife, Usha. Almost...but, I can't because of every other toxic attack he has made against childless women or against the military service of the Coach in the past couple of weeks. The vibe I get from him is that of a guy who talks really big and tough, until forced into a corner. Thus, even in defense of his wife, if he had to actually stand up for her, I think he would make up some distraction to give him cover to cut and run. It's giving Ted Cruz blaming his wife for booking a vacation to Cancun during an ice storm. Or that clip of Josh Hawley running to hide under his desk that never gets old.

I am just learning about these new Greek-letter categories of men--alphas, betas, sigmas, etc., so I'm not quite clear on the distinctions but to be honest, I don't care. I know that the so-called alphas are on top of the food chain, but that's if your diet consists of Cheetos, protein bars, and energy drinks. Their patron saint is the former DESPOTUS, which is kinda yikes if we're supposed to look at him as some exemplar of virile masculinity and strength...

But that's not where I'm going with this. Because they're the ones who poke fun of those other men who are different, sensitive, married to women they actually like. They are the guys who enforce the high school caste system of jocks, nerds, goths, stoners, etc., and can't readjust to redefine themselves beyond adolescence. They are forever frozen in a world where Hulk Hogan is the still WWF Champion...

All of that positive Dad energy emanating from Emhoff, Walz, Obama, Clinton, and Biden contrasts with the retro projections of Father Knows Best the other side has been promoting for decades. For years they have attempted to paint the Democrats as the Mommy party of feelings and participation trophies while presenting themselves as the Daddy party of hunting and golfing. And for the life of me, I don't get why we're supposed to believe that a bunch of Dads dressed in company logo shirts and Dockers have a better handle on things than a bunch of Dads driving minivans to carpool their kids to soccer games. Because hello, the Moms were the ones holding it ALL down anyway. Who made sure Dad didn't forget the snacks and water? Who did his laundry because the last time he forgot to sort everything came out pink? 

(Before anybody hits back with a whatabout single Dads, don't worry, I am not forgetting about nor short-changing them.)

Consider the ways the Alphabots have attempted to define the manhood of their opponents in feminine terms: Tampon Tim (too attentive) and Sleepy Old Joe (too old and feeble), for example. Their attempts to make Obama look like a menacing urban thug never took hold, (and they didn't see the endless potential in calling him Urkel) so they attack his wife to imply that he's gay. And because the only thing worse than being happily married to a Black woman is being a gay man, they poke fun of Pete Buttigieg for taking paternity leave after the birth of his twins. 

Take a second to really think about that: they ridiculed a man for being the kind of Dad who wants to do more than just empty the diaper genie when he gets home from work. Imagine being so rigid in your idea of gender roles as to be intimidated by the sight of a baby's poop.

Their disdain for what they perceive as weakness in men is really a hard-wired hatred for women they cannot control. We've been telling you that for decades, but some of you remain unconvinced that the man who goes on the attack against every woman who stands up to him is a thin-skinned unrepentant misogynist. His current running mate, James David the Toady...let's just say that I have my theories, or that he's been doing all of this non-stop campaigning so that he doesn't have to keep sleeping on the couch in his Senate office.

Those man-babies saw all of that joy and fun at the DNC and responded with full tilt mantrums. They can't fathom a world where a man would take to the stage and speak glowingly about a woman he admires for qualities other than her looks. They can't believe that half this country looks upon Madam VP as a beacon of hope and light, and that her supporters aren't just a bunch of childless cat ladies, but also a bunch of happy warrior Dads in flannel shirts who aren't afraid of strong, independent women.

These people hate that our Dads love us for exactly who we are. Our Dads love our tattoos, un-plucked eyebrows, and general weirdness because we're their daughters. Our Dads don't try to shame our brothers when they get overcome with emotion because they have taught them that it's okay for real men to cry if they have to. Our Dads aren't ashamed to say that they love us and that they are proud of who we are. 

Mind you, all of this gushing over the Democratic Dads doesn't assume that these qualities are ideological. Because Real Dads come in every political flavor. Good fathers are the kind of men who teach values to their children. They teach their sons how to look a person straight in the eye, give a firm handshake, and reassure their daughters that their ambitions can be infinite and unlimited. Good fathers sometimes have to work multiple jobs in order to keep the lights on and the food on the table, but they do it because they see it as their responsibility. Good fathers don't make manhood a thing they put on display for Christmas greeting cards, but in daily acts of setting positive examples in their homes. Real Dads respect and honor the women they have children with, even if they aren't married to them. They don't get on social media to complain about child support ruining their credit rating or wealth building because they recognize that the money spent on raising their children is an investment.

For all of the talk about how feminists hate men, I bet some of y'all are surprised to read all of this praise from me...but you shouldn't be. Instead of finding fault with a movement that seeks to give women the same rights of self-determination and choice, you should find fault with a hierarchal mindset that teaches men that gender equality is an existential threat. Freedom for women doesn't displace men, it liberates us all. 

As I gush on about these other men, I can't help but to look at the men in my family. My Hub is totally that guy when it comes to our daughter. He's going to be that Dad in the feminine hygiene aisle asking some random woman if she can help him figure out wings and absorbencies because I'm going to be off Busy Black Womaning somewhere and our Niece won't be answering her phone. I can totally see my Brother K as the carpool Dad, easily alternating between sports and dance recitals. Brother O is the girl Dad MVP around here, so you already know that man is battle-tested and ain't scared.

My Dad, well...he's the reason why I'm not the kind of feminist who hates men. He has been and continues to be the best example of all the traits I admire and applaud--compassionate, considerate, respectful, responsible, and unapologetic in his love for his family. Not that I didn't see all of this in him throughout my life, but especially since my Mom's transition, I see my Dad with more clarity. He's the same age as Trump, so they were raised in the same era and witnessed the evolution of women's rights. 

Hate On Me Hater

In just a few hours (depending on when you read this), Scar and his hyenas will take over the country again. As you might imagine, I am one of many people for whom this will be a most dreadful state of affairs. No need to elaborate on just how unpleasant since we will have four more years to watch it all unravel...

As a native and resident of DC, having grown up literally just a few miles away from where this hostile takeover will occur, I have witnessed the much hallowed "peaceful" transfer of power quite a few times, with both anticipation and dread. The first time was 44 years ago when President Ronald Reagan was inaugurated. I distinctly recall being excited because there was to be a parade that we could walk to from my Grandmother's Capitol Hill home. My parents and most of the other adults in my orbit were decidedly unenthusiastic, but in my childish naiveté, I was undeterred and cheered along with the rest of the adoring crowd.

Fast forward to 1997 when the Hub and I were dating and were given tickets to attend one of the second Clinton Inaugural Balls. The excitement I felt then was genuine and informed since not only had I voted for him, but I had flown in from New Orleans to take part in the festivities. It wouldn't be much of a stretch to guess how I felt at each subsequent Inauguration, including eight years ago. Suffice it to say, it was only out of a morbid sense of curiosity (and because I let my travel anxiety get the best of me), that we happened to still be at home to watch the preliminary formalities. Instead of packing the car or driving to New York, I just had to get one last glimpse of the Obamas as the historic outgoing First Family. Then I saw Michelle Obama's WTF-how-long-do-I-have-to-sit-here-and-not-vomit face...

So, it comes as NO surprise to anybody who knows better when former First Lady Michelle Obama announced that she wouldn't be attending Abomination 2.0. She really didn't need to tell us, but perhaps she felt that she owed us some advance warning since she passed on sitting next to Trump for the 90 minutes it took to formally eulogize President Jimmy Carter at the National Cathedral last week. She must have determined that it was better to get ahead of the news cycle, lest any outlets spend too much time speculating on her whereabouts. 

There should be nothing controversial about her decision, except that the people who make it their business to talk shit about Black women have made it their business to opine for several days on the appropriateness and etiquette of declining an invitation. Petty and classless, they have deemed it, because it breaks with "tradition" that an able-bodied former First Lady would decide that she would rather stay home in her pajamas binging Bridgerton on Netflix than to sit out in the snow on a dais to witness the inauguration of a man whose racist and xenophobic rhetoric endangered the lives of her family.  

I'm mad that y'all expected her to forgive all of that.

But let's not even dignify their imitation clutched pearls and offended pretense of decorum because more than half the population of this city has decided not to attend or tune in to watch the Trumpocalypse. Folks are fleeing this city like it's the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Anybody who doesn't have to be here for work or who didn't pay the million-dollar access fee will be rearranging their sock drawers or otherwise preoccupied. Second, Mrs. Obama attended the Inauguration when she passed the keys to the gilded walk-in cage closet to her successor. That was her last official act as First Lady, a role that is undefined. It's not even a job in the traditional sense, just a title. Much like the First Lady at most of our churches, the most important thing she does is not wear the same outfit twice in a month, so why are we even discussing what the former former FLOTUS does or doesn't do in the grand scheme of things? Isn't the focus supposed to be on the incoming DESPOTUS? Y'all should be more concerned if Melania or her decoy will be there...

Truth be told, we really need to channel all of our good vibes and positive energy towards Madame Vice President Kamala Harris, the only Black woman who has to be there in order to perform an actual constitutional duty. We need to pray for her poker face at that crucial moment when her historic role comes to an end, and she has to act like she's not pissed and ready to blow the roof off the joint. We all know that she would rather be sitting next to Michelle Obama in matching pajamas drowning her sorrows with a box of wine. I suspect that as soon as James David finishes his oath and doesn't immediately combust into flames, Madame VP and 2G Doug E. will quietly exit the scene stage left. (Where they go from there is anyone's guess, but let's hope that it won't be the last we'll see of them.)

Since we're on the subject of Kamala Harris and the optics of decorum, let me say it loud and clear for anyone who needs to hear this: I ain't mad at all that she hasn't offered to give the Vances a tour of the official residence before they move in. It's a big ass house, but they are smart people who went to Yale, so there is no need to point out where the bathrooms are located. I get that there was a tradition there as well, but naw, that man called her trash, and it wasn't just meaningless campaign rhetoric. She doesn't owe him or his wife anything more than the keys.

In the weeks since it became clear that we are doing this again (and stuck in a Groundhog Day nightmare), I have been paying attention and contemplating the state of things. I've been reading the tea leaves and slowly becoming more accepting of the things I cannot change. Malcolm X once said that the most disrespected, unprotected, and neglected person in America is the Black woman, and I have come to the conclusion that he was 100% correct in that assessment. 

I could pull out a CVS length receipt of names and situations as proof...I have done so in the past, but it won't matter. I could mention how folks are blaming Los Angeles Mayor Karen Bass for wildfires she didn't start; how Rep. Jasmine Crockett gets criticized for keeping it too real even though she's 100% right; how some of you have been way too silent and accepting of how Atty. Fani Willis was effectively stripped of power; how some of you will downplay every example I cite just because. I bet most of you haven't listened to Chrisette Michelle in a couple of forevers--not since she performed at the first Trump Inauguration, but you won't rid your playlists of Snoop Dog, Nelly, or Rick Ross after this one.

Therefore, once I realized that I too am just another disrespected, unprotected, and neglected Busy Black Woman, it dawned on me that I need to stop worrying so much about what I say and how I am perceived. Damned if I do and damned if I don't, right? Y'all are going to find fault, pick me apart, and toss my bones out to be picked clean by Scar's hyenas, the vultures, and other scavengers. So it don't matter (yeah, I'm intentionally using AAVE), because what does it matter? I can be Mary freaking Poppins, practically perfect in every way, but if I fail to pronounce the -ing with the appropriate inflection or slip into a regional accent that reveals my hood adjacency, I'm just another Eliza Doolittle at the races. Another DEI Sheniqua that y'all would dismiss as unworthy of being allowed in civilized company without an apron and duster...

Ask me how I know. 

The irony for me is the expectation that Black women ought to be grateful that the insults hurled at us and the roadblocks intended to stop us today aren't as bad as what was said and done to the generations of women who preceded us. Once upon a time, when our great grandmothers and great aunties had to take on domestic work that kept them from raising their own children while caring for the children of others, they were mistreated, called lazy and incompetent, and were blamed for the destruction of the "traditional" Black family because they were the primary breadwinners. The difference in these modern times? Apparently not as much as we were led to believe. In spite of our higher rates of education and expanded access to opportunity, we were hoodwinked into believing that all we had to do was work twice as hard to become half as successful. We didn't factor in how deeply entrenched misogynoir always sets us up for failure in the end.

Take the very accomplished, poised, and fabulous former FLOTUS Michelle Obama as the prime example. If anyone embodies the narrative of the great American meritocracy, surely it would be the Black woman whose path took her from the Southside of Chicago to Princeton University and ultimately to the White House. Instead of finding inspiration by such an improbable trajectory, MAGA was appalled and offended. They called her everything but a child of God for the unforgiveable sin of being proud of her country for seemingly moving past its racism!

When she became First Lady, she rarely stumbled or misspoke. She never had a bad hair day nor committed any fashion faux pas. She took up the worthy crusade of encouraging children to become more active. She installed an environmentally conscious kitchen and butterfly garden on the White House grounds. She raised her daughters out of the glare of the public and they are now college-educated young women. Since leaving the White House, Mrs. Obama has written a couple of books, produced a few movies, lent her name to worthy causes, and generally stood by her man. 

But haters gonna hate no matter what. Because if performing for the Abomination is the highlight of Kid Rock's birthday weekend, then what makes Michelle Obama so special as to refuse to cancel her plans for brunch? 

I can't speak for all Black women, but I can aver on behalf of the 92% of us who swallowed the bitter pill of defeat on November 5 that we are simply following through on our promise that we are done! No more Mammying America. No more missionary work to convert people who don't want salvation. Y'all booked this trip on the Titanic II, so go on and enjoy every doomed minute of the voyage. Maybe there will be enough lifeboats and jackets this time...if not, thoughts and prayers.

You can't force us, bully us, shame us, nor blame us for anything that happens from now on. We didn't choose this, so we're not acquiescing to any demands that we smile and grin for the cameras. We're going to lean into the disappointment we feel, and more than anyone Michelle Obama deserves space to rest and recalibrate. She did her part. Weeks after losing her beloved mother, she channeled her grief into a pitch perfect motivational speech that included her recollection of the painful impact of Donald and Melania Trump's birther conspiracies on her family. Y'all weren't the least bit offended by what her daughters had to endure as children hearing and seeing those racist descriptions of their parents for years. Now there are lofty principles and ideals to uphold? Really???

If that were true, then the Black woman who dedicated her career to upholding and defending so-called American principles and ideals would be taking the Oath at noon on Monday. So miss me, Michelle Obama, and every other Black woman you know with ANY and ALL that bullshit! 

We not coming.

Still Not Aspiring to Be Humble

Last week, I went mean girl on someone, and instead of over-thinking whether I should have been more demure and mindful with my words, I leaned in. And in the most-Audrerific way (my new word for when I'm channeling my Mom), I essentially told him to cry harder. Not today, not tomorrow, and not ever again Satan!

If you light a match, you better be ready for this smoke! Now that I am a woman of a certain age, I am no longer measuring my words nor apologizing for being who and what I am, especially not when like Toyota, you asked for it.

Obviously, there is a backstory, and it starts with a Facebook post in a group. This is a mixed, intergenerational group of HBCU alumni, so there are posts that run the gamut from super serious to seriously stupid. And most folks know that, thus depending on the mood a post that is seriously stupid might be exactly what is needed to lighten the mood, while on other days it might cause someone to get their feelings hurt. The same is true for super serious posts--we may or may not be willing to engage in intellectual debates about why a grown man not getting his plate fixed at a family gathering is the reason why the Black family is in decline...so you gotta roll the dice and see what happens.

For whatever reason, there had been a series of sexist posts, including quite a few that IRL would result in somebody sleeping in his car or on his boy's couch. These seriously stupid posts started popping up right before Homecoming, which is usually when folks engage in all manner of tomfoolishness, and also why it didn't get called out and shut down sooner. Nevertheless, by late-November, weeks past Homecoming and with most of our group recuperating from the Election, the mood was definitely super serious.

The post at issue was a classic rate this woman, the same sort of foolywang that allegedly launched The Facebook in a Harvard dorm room (according to Aaron Sorkin's movie) or that was premise of Hot or Not--the grandfather of sexism on the Al Gore's internet. Some dude had the chutzpah to pose such a query, then logged off for the rest of the day--which only made the backlash in response to his post that more intense. His departure from the scene for hours led folks to question why this had slipped past our moderators and whether our group had been infiltrated. At some point, I happened upon his post, and as per the rules of engagement since the election have been that I am NOT in the mood for any fuckery, I pounced. I posted one sentence about how this post would have been more appropriate for a private group chat and then added this Audrerific: but you must not have any friends...and Lawd, it went viral!

Now, I know what I said was unkind. And I am not going to deny that I got a certain measure of satisfaction in seeing all of the likes and favorable comments from men and women alike. As a writer, I often hope that half of what I put into the universe has some impact on my readers. So yeah, my head got a little big.

Fast forward to the private message that the original poster sent me that evening, after he had ignored every other comment. Can you believe that man had the audacity to suggest that while his sexist bullshit post was bad, my response was worse!? And do you want to know what I did...

I rolled over and went to sleep.

The next morning, his message popped up on my computer, but it wouldn't load properly, so then I wondered if I had dreamt seeing his PM from the previous evening. Then I assumed that he had blocked me (like someone else did after a similar run-in last year), but after a quick reload, his message reappeared, and I decided that it warranted a reply. To ensure that I had accurately called him out for his cheekiness, I sought to refer back to the original post. Zounds, it had been deleted by the group moderators! Sadly, that means that there is no "official" record that I ever went viral other than my retelling of the events here.

Next time, I will be sure to get a screen shot! No worries though, since the point of this piece isn't to brag about landing an insult. Instead, I wanted to use that experience to proffer a few thoughts why dudes like him hate going toe-to-toe with out-spoken women like me. Furthermore, that is one of the reasons why I believe Kamala Harris isn't measuring the drapes in the Oval Office right now--because some of these mofos just can't stand a confident, undaunted, smart-ass woman!

Now before I open an entirely new can of worms, I will try to limit my post-election analysis to a few stray sentences here and there. I plan to fully unload in a separate piece. As you can imagine, I've got a LOT to say...

In response to the election results, I lashed out at a quite a few people, primarily folks like Brother Misogynoir because that is what happens when you can't meaningfully strike back at those who really got you twisted. I already posted a smart-ass mea culpa on my personal FB page after my initial round of friendly fire, but I guess I should have added a warning that I'm not done shooting from the hip. Therefore, I do NOT apologize for my annoyance at the assholery enabled by the very people who should have our backs; because in lieu of affirming and uplifting the spirits of the Black women in our shared, private space, that dude opted to engage in the same kind of SUPERFICIAL SEXISM that has made breaking the glass ceiling so elusive. Then he had the nerve to try to guilt ME into feeling some kind of way because no one co-signed on his nonsense? No sir!

As for the group moderators who chose to remove his post, in essence giving him a get out of jail free card, why the H-E-double hockey sticks did they let him off the hook? Why not mount his severed head on a wall as a caution to every future ashy mofo who might be inclined to forget that this ain't the boys' locker room at a private club or someone's wood-paneled mancave? If this reads like I'm taking it hard that my brilliant Audrerific clapback won't be preserved in cyber-posterity for future generations, trust I'm way more pissed that the decision to delete the entire thread only proves that some so-called safe spaces function to protect the wrong people.

I mentioned the fact that this wasn't the first time I've encountered a Cowardly Lion in that group or elsewhere on social media. Before the recent mass X-odus, I was down for a bird fight or two with friends and strangers. I had a friend on Facebook who was the kind of person whom I imagine would describe his interactions with people as part Michael Eric Dyson intellectual provocateur, part Chris Rock stand-up comic. Because I had known him in real life as well as online, I knew the best response to his pot-stirring was to add a grain of salt. So when he tagged me on a post to engage in a "debate" on a seriously stupid topic, I played along. That I happened to be sitting next to my Mom in the hospital was, at the time, part of the reason why I was willing to entertain this nonsense. I needed the distraction.

Then he made it personal, and I guess he resented that I didn't go high when he went low. After he pulled the mean girl card on me, he deleted the thread, then he took it up a few notches by blocking and de-friending me!

I kept a screenshot of the private message I attempted to send him, which had included an apology until shortly after my Mom passed. Call it a what would Audrey do impulse, but the fact that I ever acknowledged his hurt feelings or allowed him to take up any space in my life after what he did to me still pisses me off. He picked a fight, did a lot of trash-talking, got in the ring, danced around, then called the fight as soon as I landed a punch. He put me on blast, then tried to shame me because the tone of my response to his provocation was "mean". And in a moment of weakness, I actually thought that maybe I had gone too far.

Until I rewound the sequence of events as outlined above. He had engineered that entire fracas from start to finish, and as far as I know, he didn't stutter or think twice about anything he said that might have been insulting or hurtful to me. For me to even contemplate his feelings in the midst of what I was dealing with at my Mom's bedside is how I realized I was being played. It doesn't matter what he knew about my situation because he knew he was wrong. Why else would he delete the thread? 

We use the delete button to correct mistakes, to erase the things we don't want people to see or find. 

Which is why I did take a screen shot the private message Brother Misogynoir sent me last week, and I will save it for the next time he decides to forget he's in mixed company. I keeps receipts and I ain't scared of what these dudes think of me--I'm sure I've been called a bitch as much as any other woman. I said what I said, in true Audrerific fashion, without remorse. I won't be humble, ingratiating, soul-searching, or swallowing my pride. In the words of a few Chicks who know a little something about being gaslit by cruel intentions, carnival barkers, sociopaths, overcooked hams, and other people who engage in bad faith, I'm Not Ready to Make Nice.

Therefore, on this day when the good Lord saw fit to bring forth a daughter in Audrey's image, I hereby declare not today, nor ever again! I know who and what I am. Happy Birthday!

When the Words Don't Come

This is one of the pieces I started but never got even halfway through because life kept on lifing (and yes, I have adopted that as my default reason for everything). The main reason why I am returning to publish now is because it captures a unique turning point in my grief journey from this summer--right before the world turned inside out. After the page break, I am writing in real time again, so hopefully that will make this come together. --ADH

It has been a LONG time since I posted anything to this blog. I am still here, trying to sort everything out, but it is taking me longer than expected. I have so many unfinished drafts, so many stray thoughts, so much chaos and crazy going on inside my head. I don't know where to begin.

This is not an excuse. I am just not sure if I can focus long enough to complete anything right now. I am distracted, I am grieving, I am overwhelmed...I am lost. And I don't know how else to express any of what I am feeling, so I will just freestyle and hit publish even if this is the worst, most vulnerable piece of crap I've ever written. Here goes...

I am not as okay as I think I am on most days. I don't know if that makes much sense, but in essence, I put on my big girl panties every day to face the world, and then night comes, and I can't tell you if I seized it or if I squandered it. I haven't begun to deal with all of the final stuff I am supposed to handle with respect to my Mom. I haven't sent off half the Thank You notes. I didn't send half of the Father's Day cards with Thank You Notes because I got caught up in trying to make it to the end of the school year. I still have unsold Girl Scout cookies. I haven't gone back to my house for more than a few hours because I don't have the mental energy to combat unnecessary chaos. 

I cannot believe this is the first day of summer. 

I did do laundry. I did label most of the Kid's stuff for her first sleepaway camp starting in ten days. I did order the Hub a nice Father's Day gift that he seemed to appreciate. I do manage to take a shower every day.

On Sunday, I was in the kitchen chopping veggies and prepping for an impromptu family gathering, and it dawned on me that I am now the de facto matriarch of this band of feral cats. And in this most thankless role, it means that I need to think about everyone in this family, while they get to decide whether to completely ignore me. I mean that in the most complimentary way because the one person who does notice is my Dad. And he is part of the reason why I haven't completely given up.

Auntie Ray, Go Get Your Gun!

I had been waiting in breathless anticipation for the debut of Olympic Breaking. Okay, not really--anxious curiosity might have been a better way to describe it. Ever since it was announced that break-dancing would be included for the first time as an Olympic event, coupled with the ubiquitous presence of Snoop Dogg as an "ambassador" for the Games, I knew I had to see it to believe it.

With no expectations or assumptions, I tuned in to watch at the appointed hour. There were to be two days of competition consisting of a round-robin elimination tournament of dancers from various countries. The first day was for the women, known as B-Girls, so cool, I thought, let the ladies go first. Unfortunately, it was not the best roll out...

Since I watched from beginning to end, I'm not just reacting to viral clips or memes. In my humble opinion, the early rounds were cringe, but as the day wore on, the cream rose to the top and it definitely got better. I got my Dad to watch with me, and by the end of the day, we were invested to see whether our favorite, B-Girl India would win a medal. (Spoiler, she didn't.) The next day, I couldn't watch much of the competition because we were in a hotel where the channels only featured the main Olympic events. I only got to see a 10-minute replay clip of the B-Boys, and thankfully, their competition began with much stronger performances; therefore, I can only speak to what I saw from the women.

Opening question: does breaking need to be in the Olympics? I can't say. Having more familiarity with the traditional Olympic events like the team sports, swimming, gymnastics, and of course, track & field, it feels rather snobbish to question the inclusion of newer events such as skateboarding, beach volleyball, and rock-climbing. Yet, there is the argument that just because I can't get into it, that doesn't mean that others have the same issues. For example, while it is my humble opinion that golf and tennis are already popular tournament events with sufficient international appeal so there is no practical need to include them in the Olympics--that isn't my call.

I don't want to get bogged down by arguing the legitimacy of inclusion/exclusion because that undermines other important considerations, namely, that part of the Olympic ideal is to bring competitors from around the world together through a diverse variety of sport. Much of what we see every four years are the sports that don't get televised airtime but are no less interesting to watch such as wrestling, judo, fencing, and archery. A sport that I might disparage like table tennis (ping pong) looks a lot different on the Olympic level than it does in someone's basement. 

However, as a former dancer, I do have some concerns about the inclusion of dance as a competitive sport as opposed to encouraging more admiration of it as a multifaceted artform. Most of us agree that dancers are athletes, and that seeing dance performed in a variety of different formats might expand its appeal. Several Olympic sports, namely gymnastics and ice skating, rely on dance fundamentals to convey artistry. An ongoing concern for me as a Busy Black Dance Mom is that an emphasis on competition decreases both artistry and tolerance for any work that doesn't involve explosive tricks or stunts. Audiences become trained to expect theatrics, and performers become more prone to career-threatening injuries. There has been a movement to get dance onto the Olympic stage for years, so this was supposed to be an experiment. 

My curiosity was piqued by wanting to see if Olympic Breaking could become a thing. Because unlike other forms of dance that have a more ancient history and lineage, I'm old enough to remember some of the earliest days of break-dancing. Given that we just celebrated the 50th Anniversary of Hip Hop (and now the 51st year as of August 11), it was almost divine alignment that one of the art forms that had been integral to the global outreach of the genre would make its debut as an Olympic sport. In the words of Biggie Smalls (and I happened to be in the Bronx on Saturday to take this very picture outside of the Hip Hop Museum), we never thought hip hop would come this far...only to be undone by an Australian soccer mom dressed like a middle school gym teacher mimicking a wallaby that had been dinged by a boomerang!

However, let's come back to properly roast Rachael Gunn (B-Girl RayGun) after a few more paragraphs. Before I turn my ire on her, I need to give a shout out to a few cultural icons who deserve to be acknowledged for their role as originators. In the interest of paying proper respect to whom it is due, I will defer to the dance historians for the scholarly bits and focus on my recollections from the purely anecdotal perspective of a kid growing up in the late 70s and 80s. The first time I remember seeing the origins of what would become break-dancing was on the sitcom What's Happening (1976-1979), in syndication. It was called pop locking then, and while it chronologically overlapped with the nascent phases of hip hop, this was a popular dance performance style tailor-made for the disco era. 

Most people remember the late Fred 'ReRun' Berry from that show, and that part of his character's schtick was his dancing, as seen here. Anyone who has read this blog knows how much I loved Soul Train (1971-2006) while growing up, and that I alluded to one of Berry's earliest televised appearances on that show in this 50th Anniversary tribute. In it, I also made reference to the late Adolfo 'Shabba Doo' Quiñones, another iconic dancer who appeared with Berry on Soul Train (1976) and also on What's Happening (1976). Even if you don't recognize him from those earlier appearances, you do know Shabba Doo from Breakin' (1984). I finally learned the name of the man who brought these two together--the late Don 'Campbellock' Campbell, a visionary who founded the iconic dance group The Lockers, with ReRun, Shabba Doo, and Toni Basil (yep) as notable members. Though his name is not as recognizable, he clearly was the Godfather of Breaking.

I'm pretty sure that my first recollection of seeing break-dancing was on the Soul Train line. I also remember that around the same time, some kid at a school talent show did a spin on his back and ended in a pose, so whichever came first. Although I cannot pinpoint an exact grade or year, I can say that we engaged in dance battles as kids before anyone saw this scene in Flashdance (1983). Even if disco was dead, dancing was not, and we hit the floor to face off to songs like Dance to the Drummer's Beat (1978), Rapper's Delight (1979), Double Dutch Bus (1981), and DC's own Trouble Funk's party jam Pump Me Up (1982). I distinctly remember Afrika Bambaataa's Planet Rock (1982) being thee ultimate breakdance song, with Herbie Hancock's Rockit (1983) being the alternative choice. 

Somehow, without much fanfare, we went from pop-locking to breaking in an organic evolution, which was eventually reflected in popular culture. Of course, by the time mainstream popular culture caught up via the aforementioned Flashdance (with Jennifer Beales' grand finale audition for the Pittsburgh Ballet); this dance sequence from the TV show Fame in 1983, very reminiscent of MJ's Beat It video; Beat Street (1984) and a pair of Breakin' (1984) movies; and then finally the crossover success of Footloose (1984)...we moved on.

As per usual, once a cultural movement went mainstream, it lost its edge...breaking immediately became uncool the moment Cleo McDowell exclaimed he felt like break-dancing in Coming to America (1988). It was fun while it lasted! However, the truth was that breaking didn't fade inasmuch as we just invented new moves and other dance styles. Did you see all of our energetic and fancy footwork throughout the 90s? Shoot, by the end of that decade, we were older, tired, and our knees were bad! And while there was always someone at the party ready to dazzle us with some retro moves, most of us were content to stand back and watch, which brings us to the present moment.

Assuming that most of these modern performers, especially Professor Kiwi, knew some of this history then no one should have been surprised that the harshest critics of Olympic Breaking were going to be GenXers. We were checking in to see if these children we raised had any of our skills; what improvements or innovations they made; and if they were going to demonstrate the proper respect for what we created. No way were we going to respond well to that kangaroo hopping and her whack modern dance earthworm impression. Furthermore, we were bound to be salty at being overlooked yet AGAIN for our contributions to the culture and were left wondering why come y'all waited 45 years, searched the world over, and she was allegedly the best a country as big and diverse as Australia had to offer?! (And I know, ReRun, Shabba Doo, and Campbellock were all Boomers, so it's not just us the living who were pissed, but also the ancestors whom she displeased by this epic foolishness!)

I read this and this (and a bunch of other articles), and I don't care that we're supposed to believe that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. What she did out there was a mockery. It was not an overreaction to object to the inclusion of someone who wasn't even remotely on the same level as the talent that rose to the top and ultimately placed in the latter rounds. It wasn't creative; it was embarrassing. And the fact that she, her family, and the Australian officials were out here trying to gaslight and shame us for clowning her was peak privileged behavior. No wonder the Olympic organizers for Los Angeles wasted no time in axing this event, lest there be more of that BS on our home turf. (BTW, I know that decision had already been made prior to these Games, but trust, nobody would even think of reconsidering at this point.)

For what it's worth, we're not surprised by her disingenuous defensiveness nor her trolling, since that is in line with the times. This was her chance of a lifetime, and hers alone--the rest of the performers who actually worked and put their heart and soul into the competition be damned. Yeah, I saw that she has a PhD in cultural studies and wrote her dissertation on breaking, but degrees and scholarly papers didn't make her any more likeable or talented. Like WTF, I took ballet for years but my ankles never got strong enough for me to dance on pointe, so guess what I never effing did in spite of all my knowledge of the mechanics? Bish, write a book and give a TED Talk like every other academic--don't go to the Olympics and make a Tasmanian devil of yourself!

But what am I saying, because Gunn made a much more impactful statement for women than say Manizha Talash, the Afghan refugee who was disqualified for wearing a political message on her outfit. God forbid an athlete from a country where women are suppressed would forfeit her opportunity to compete for a medal by reminding the world that she escaped an oppressive regime...but let's reward Professor Kiwi with a participation trophy!

And if we dared to question her right to be at the Olympics on the Australian government's dime (or perhaps thanks to the largesse of some generous billionaire benefactor who made his fortune raising emus), then we're wrong? Sexist, ageist, or racist? Sexist, at these Games where gender parity was achieved and where the women's events were definitely just as, if not more, exciting than the men's events? Ageist, when 15 Olympians were competing at age 40 and older? Racist, because we're not rushing to bring the lady a handkerchief to dab her crocodile tears? Because we witnessed enough of the destructive power wielded by white women crying at these Games per the treatment of Imane Khelif, Jordan Chiles, and now all of the women who had to compete against this bandicoot?

Yeah, I said what I said. Calling Professor Kiwi out for being a terrible break dancer declares to the world that what we saw was simultaneously hilarious, ridiculous, galling, mediocre, worthless, atrocious, appalling, cringy, sophomoric, selfish...

As I put my thesaurus away, note that I did not accuse Gunn of cultural appropriation. In these Parisian 2024 Olympic Games, we just celebrated this inspiring and unprecedented visual of three Black women on the podium claiming medals in a sport that was lily white on the international scene until the 1990s. When I tell you that this was unfathomable to me when I was growing up, not because Black women weren't allowed to compete (as far as I know), but because I vividly remember that the primary competitors of gymnastics in my youth were white women with eating disorders. It took seeing Dominique Dawes compete and win on the international stage to inspire this current generation of champions. So, we don't need to challenge the right of others to participate, enjoy, and even excel in various athletic pursuits.

After these Olympic Games, Black women don't need to prove anything. We showed up and showed out to win medals in every other sport imaginable, so it was a turn of good luck that we sat this event out to give those other B-Girls a shot at some hardware. Black women in hip hop have gold and platinum RECORDS, so our contributions to the genre speak for themselves. We know our place in the origin story of break-dancing: singing on those disco tracks, keeping up with our male partners on the dance floor, and cheering on their agility from the sidelines. Speaking of cheerleaders, again I remind you that Toni Basil, yes her, was an original Locker, so that's partly why the cultural appropriation label doesn't stick. And at age 79, I bet if she had been up on that stage, she would have taught a master class!

Rachael Gunn deserves all the smoke for single-handedly ruining what should have been a marquee Olympic event. She thought so little of her competitors as to insert herself into a narrative that should have centered them as pioneers in a new Olympic venture, instead of all of the ink being spilled to justify and/or criticize her 15 minutes of infamy. It isn't cultural appropriation inasmuch as it is good old-fashioned Columbusing--typical colonizer behavior to insist that her studies of dance qualified her for a spot on this world stage. Great that she admires and emulates the culture, but she could have done that as a spectator. Her antics overshadowed the talent and hard work of the sincere competitors and medalists because every other article written on Olympic Breaking features her in a meme or captured in some Elaine Benes-like contortion. 

All of the reasons why I was ambivalent about dance being treated like a sport as opposed to an art form--Rachael Gunn is/was the embodiment of those concerns. No skill, no talent, just a gimmicky performance that humored an international audience as opposed to uplifting actual artistry. Meanwhile, some of the same people who were clutching their pearls during the Opening Ceremonies were cheering Professor Kiwi and the exclusion of breaking in future Games...

(Update: While I was editing this piece, I learned that there may be more to the story of how Rachael Gunn scammed her way to Paris...but if I devote any more energy assessing her shenanigans, this piece might never end. Depending upon when you read this, we will have learned that she did plan this massive farce with schemes to cash in on her notoriety while some other more deserving B-Girl from Down Under is waiting tables and donating blood to make ends meet. I'm not saying any of that is true, just pointing out how privilege is still the most addictive drug on the planet. Australia did not have to compete in this event. And watching an entire country go on the defensive is just as cringe as being tortured by watching her performance.)