#Black9

I really love how “Black Twitter” is truly a community. Whether it be television or tragedy, we have found a way to share our experiences through social media. In the wake of the Charleston, South Carolina shooting the hashtag “Black 9” was started—people tweet the names of nine people who inspire them. Participation is contagious. So, to honor those who lost their lives at Emanuel AME church and those who inspire me to do something about it, in no particular order, here is my Fade To Black #Black9 list:

Ava DuVernay

I think that I became an Ava DuVernay fan even before I saw Selma for the first time. While watching interviews and reading about her I became enamored. I find her drive to be contagious. She makes me want to tell stories. Ms. DuVernay reminded me that it is still possible to a Black woman and participate in the liberation struggle through the screen. After seeing Selma twice, I felt like I had to validate my undying fandom. So, I spent four fantastic hours watching her two other films, I Will Follow and Middle Of Nowhere. I loved them just as much as I loved Selma. Although these films are different, like Selma, they both succeed in putting Black women at the forefront and reiterating the humanity of blackness that often seems to get lost in clouds of self-doubt and White supremacy. Ms. DuVernay’s blockbuster hits are just as combustible as her indie gems. To put it simply: she’s fierce. 

Oprah Winfrey

Cliché, I know, right. But it’s only a cliché because we all know that she is a force to be reckoned with. Oprah inspires me because she has done it all--news casting, acting, producing, talk-show-hosting, writing, running a network, you name it. It seems that with Ms. Winfrey, it’s less about a specific job or niche, and more about what she brings to the table as a person. She is Black woman who runs things. Not only does she run things, but she also runs them with the purpose of bringing truth to light. I think that should be a goal of anyone in the industry, especially those who come from a lineage of oppression. I also appreciate Oprah because, in her rise to the top, she has brought people along with her. That’s community building. When I make it big (Philippians 4:13 on ‘em), helping others to pursue their dreams will be a priority. I have faith that someone will help me along the way, so I plan to continue the cycle. Thank you Oprah for teaching me this lesson. 

Tyler Perry

Before you start on your elitist, pseudo-intellectual, Black Nationalist rant, let me just say that I understand and in some ways agree. But hear me out, okay? There’s a reason that he made this list. Mr. Perry complicates stereotypes. I think that we are made uncomfortable by this complication because it forces us to confront racially rooted clichés. The issue with this confrontation is that Black people aren’t the only ones watching his films. I always say that it’s not his films themselves that bother me as much as the thought of White people watching them. But, if everyone weren’t watching his films, then he probably wouldn’t have made this list. He tried, failed, and then rose to the top. 1 part struggle and 2 parts dream equals a success story that inspires. Say what you will, but this man writes, directs, produces, has is own studio and acts in his own films, not to mention stage plays and television shows. He runs the whole process, something Black leaders have been urging us to do economically for years. If nothing else, he gives us laughter, something our community is desperately in need of. 

Lupita Nyong’o

It means a lot to me to see a face that looks like mine, not only on the screen, but also holding an Oscar. It may seem simple, but I like that a dark girl is an “it girl”. Her existence and celebrity rejects the hackneyed idea that Black is not synonymous with beauty, talent, poise, and intelligence. If her Oscar acceptance speech were a person, it absolutely would have made this list. I’m hoping that her moment in the sun is not ephemeral and will not be chalked up to tokenism. She is our jewel and I pray that she doesn’t fade away, like so many other Black actresses. In closing, please allow this quick rant: Let’s all learn how to pronounce her name. Just “Lupita” doesn’t cut it for me. We should give one of our brightest stars the respect of honoring her entire name. She spent three years at Yale perfecting her craft; the least we could do is take two minutes to learn how to pronounce her name. Carry on.

Mara Brock Akil

In the late 90’s and early 2000’s Brock Akil dominated the world of Black sit-coms. I am inspired by her because she has mastered the art of making portrayals of blackness simultaneously real and funny. She has furthered her exploration of Black womanhood through her BET hit Being Mary Jane (which I desperately need to catch up on). The idea that even the simplest of Black stories are worth telling is so important. I also really love that she and her husband, Salim Akil, are in the same business, often working on the same projects. Who doesn’t love a power couple? She keeps it raw and classy. I like that. 

Justin Simien

In the days leading up to 2014’s Academy Awards, I watched a special on Black cinema (shocker). Right before commercial break they briefly mentioned this indie film that may or may not make it to theaters, Dear White People. Naturally, the title sparked my interest and I later went on a two-hour YouTube binge (the first of many), watching any and everything I could find on the film. His “The More You Know About Black People” videos are genius. Satire is extremely difficult to write because it forces writers to mold ugly truths into digestible (or in Simien’s case comically forceful) pills. He does this artfully. I was euphoric when I saw Dear White People…On my birthday… With a group of other conscious Black students… After eating hole-in-the-wall soul food… Yas. I sat there thinking “I want to do this” then later, “I can do this.” Siemen inspires me because he’s young, witty, and conscious. He makes me want to be a part of this generation of Black filmmakers.

Shonda Rhimes

#TGIT. Need I say more? Yeah, I probably should, huh? With every cliffhanger, we are reminded that so many people feel like they know her on a first-name basis. That says a lot. How many screenwriters, let alone Black female ones, can be considered household names? She is responsible for three of the most popular shows on television: Grey’s Anatomy, Scandal, and How To Get Away With Murder. Her stories have penetrated our homes and given communities something fun to rally around (probably the 3rd thing I did when I got to college was search for fellow #Gladiators). Indiscretions aside, she has also put powerful Black characters on primetime television. That’s huge, culturally and psychologically. I also realized that she’s responsible for keeping Genovia alive by writing the Princess Diaries 2. This calls for an elevation to bae-status.

Cicely Tyson

What I like most about Ms. Tyson is that she is a fighter. For years she has held the banner of Black pride high. Admittedly, I know more about her from specials and documentaries and her recent work than I do from her earlier pieces. However, I think that says a lot about who she is and her legacy. She inspires me to be legendary. I am still learning what all that entails, but I think leaving a mark that shifts the way we think is a part of it. By only accepting roles gilded in truth, she had an impact on the way Black people see themselves and the way the world views Black people. Our value extends far beyond stereotypes. She continues to execute her craft with grace and skill. So many of us want to be like her. I understand why. 

Angela Basset

Angela, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. As an actress, she has a unique transformative ability. I never her view on screen as versions of herself, but instead as the embodiment of full immersion, hard work, and reality with each role she plays. From a young Tina Turner to the newly grooving Stella, she always has and continues to remain fabulous. I admire her most because she is someone in the entertainment industry who got her education first. I attribute some of her characters’ depth to her Yale African-American Studies degree. She reminds me that there is more than one path to greatness in this industry. Education and art do not have to be mutually exclusive. She is someone that I can remember in times of doubt. Thank you, Ms. Basset. May your Black never crack. 

Syncopated Love (Love Jones, 1997)

I confess this was my first time seeing 1997's Love Jones, staring Larenz Tate and Nia Long. But, hey, better late than never, right? (I wish my professors shared that sentiment). And the verdict is… I really liked it. This movie was made in the hay-day of the Black romance movie, which I like to think of as the late nineties and early two thousands. This era includes hits like The Best Man and Brown Sugar, and stars like Taye Diggs and Sanaa Lathan, whose marriage I will patiently await until the day I die. So, in my defense, these films were a part of the “Micah, close your eyes… No, actually go upstairs and watch Disney”-era. I think I will finally feel like an adult when I finally watch another Nia Long favorite, Soul Food.

80’s romantic comedies are something that I have seen, though. The scene between Darius and Nina in the record store reminded me of John Hughes’ Pretty In Pink (my not-so-guilty pleasure). I don’t know if that was intentional, but I liked how it harkened back to something classic and familiar, then turned it on its head. It took something I recognized and expanded on it, giving new perspective. Love Jones does that a lot.

Although this film is centered around a love story that pulls on heartstrings, it’s not “cute”. Cute is what you’d use for 27 Dresses. Love Jones is much deeper than that—it’s rhythmic. It felt like a good song. This story was artfully projected without being corny. Well, aside from Darius’ name and his first few pick-up lines. I mean “Lovehall"? Really!? 

Love Jones’ power was in the tempo of the words and in the melody of the plot’s movement. The poetry of this movie, like “Brother To The Night (A Blues For Nina),” mirrors the film itself—rhythm-drenched words paired with rich blues and jazz. Darius’ friend Eddie describes poetry as “the possibility of words” and Darius says that, “Romance is about the possibility of the thing.” Possibility. That’s the point here. Darius goes on to say that he’s “the blues in [her] left thigh, trying to become the funk in [her] right.” **snaps** I think that trying is the important word here. Because Darius and Nina never really achieve romantic or relational perfection, the film is more of a continuous journey than a hear-warming success story. See, the film makes Black love a reality instead of an unachievable fantasy. It shows the hardships of relationships. And even though this love story is beautiful, it’s beauty is derived from gritty truth not from a perfect Eurocentric fairytale mold. I can’t say that I’ve ever been in love, but I would believe Love Jones before I believe in Cinderella. Perfection is a subjective standard that leaves us empty. Possibility is an idea that possesses hope and honesty. 

Despite never having a lot of the experiences portrayed in this movie, I found myself connecting to it. I think that has to do with the intersection of Black art portrayed here. Poetry, music, and photography are all present in this film. There was a clear jazz undertone, both literally and figuratively. This harkens back to another time when art was overflowing, changing, and melding—The Harlem Renaissance, and even The Black Arts Movement. There is a unifying, intangible, and practically inexplicable aesthetic that exists in Black art. When watching Love Jones I often found myself caught up in the music or wanting to snap in agreement with the poetry. These art forms intertwined in such a way that focusing on one did not take away from the other, but instead supported it. For example, during the many moments in the story that would give me a parental death sentence, I would be so pleasantly mesmerized by the color and rhythm that I could find something in that scene that resonated with me. I believe that there are different Black experiences. However, I think that the best Black art strikes a cultural chord that can be understood universally. This Theodore Witcher classic does that. 

That said, maybe my fondness of this film just boils down to the fact that I could spend all day listening to poetry and talking about art, or that I dig Darius’ vinyls (I proudly named my record player Bertha-Symone.) Maybe it’s that Nia Long’s hair was perpetually laid, but she was symbolically willing to sacrifice aesthetic beauty for her heart. Any way you slice it, Love Jones affirmed my belief in Black love. We need more movies like that. 

I Cried Dark Tears. (Fruitvale Station, 2013)

I don’t usually cry in movies. I just don’t. I just put on a tough face and try to think artistically (probably overly so). And that’s what I did today. I grabbed some pasta for lunch, turned on Netflix, and started watching Fruitvale Station. Now, I know I’m a little behind. This movie came out a few years ago. I didn’t really want to go see it in theaters because I don’t do violence very well. I just sit there like a six-year old with my eyes squinted waiting for the brutal moments to end. I didn’t even go to see Michael B. Jordan, who I would now like to take a moment to officially swoon over.  But today, his physique and swagger were irrelevant. 

Today, I cried all of the way through the credits. Not like a little misty eye, but actual this-isn’t-cute-at-all tears. The tears came because this film felt real. They continued because it is real. Fruitvale Station was pleasantly simple. It wasn’t overly dramatic or contrived. I like that. It highlighted moments of humanity, fear, compassion, love, and normality in a way that didn’t seem pushy. The cinematography was also a contributing factor to this. A lot of the film had an unsteady look and was likely shot with a single handheld camera at moments. As the frame followed Oscar, I felt like I, too, was walking behind him, making me feel closer to him and his loved ones. As a result, this movie really hit home. 

The film ended with little Tatiana Grant asking where her dad is; and with that strike to black, I became heartbreakingly aware that the thump of my heart and the falling drops on my wet face were in sync. As the names rolled down I just kept thinking about the loss of another one of our men and replayed the horror over and over again. 

I wasn’t crying because I saw blood--there was blood, but not enough to cause tears under normal circumstances. I don’t even think I was crying because someone died—I hate to say it, but A Walk To Remember didn’t even get me. I cried partially for Oscar’s daughter Tatiana—her final words made the reality of loss sink in even more. But mostly I cried because of the questions I had during the film.

The movie starts with actual footage from a cell phone of Oscar Grant’s murder. So, from the beginning, everyone knows what’s going to happen. It’s no secret that he gets shot. Because I knew that, I kept searching for the moments in the movie where Oscar transitioned from a person to a corps. Yeah, sure, biologically that’s when he dies. But what is it that a Black man does that strips him of his personhood before God strips him of his breath? Is there an alarm that goes off labeled “you are no longer valuable to us?” (“Us” is a totally different and necessary conversation). Was Tatiana, like so many little Black girls, born into tragedy? Is there a moment when we no longer matter? I sat waiting, watching, and wondering for eighty-five minutes and never found that moment. Those moments don’t exist. 

I’m glad that I waited to watch this film. A year ago, when I was in high school, I think that I would have felt bad and probably would have been outraged—outraged because I saw another one of my brothers dying. After a year in college, planning to major in African-American Studies, I am more informed and therefore look at this movie differently than I would have a year ago. Today, I am sad. I’m sad because I am more aware of the systems that exist in this country (and in the world for that matter) that even made it possible for this movie to be based on a true story—a story that’s far too familiar. We can talk about why Oscar was in prison. To be fair, I believe in personal responsibility and choices. I also believe that people are forced to make those choices for a reason. Why is it that Pete (I believe his name was), the White man with the pregnant wife could steal a wedding ring and then go on to start his own business? Meanwhile, Oscar, who also committed a crime, is struggling to make ends meet, let alone buy jewelry for his longtime girlfriend. Call me a White supremacy theorist, but…actually, yeah, you can call me that. It’s not a theory.  But this is about movies, right? So let me refer you to The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander. Like this film, it’s enlightening.

This post wasn’t necessarily meant to be about politics. But, as Amiri Baraka would argue, Black art is and must be inherently political. It needs to serve a purpose. It needs to expose so that we can deal with the issues and move forward. Fruitvale Station did that. I was reminded of how much work there is to be done and given the opportunity to cry for my brothers and sisters. The work screenwriter and director Ryan Coogler (who will be the subject of my internet stalking for the next couple of days) is proof that film is an effective and necessary tool in our community. Kudos to all of those filmmakers, especially the Black ones, who create art with a purpose. We need you. I hope to be one of you. Together, we will fight on, because Fruitvale Station doesn’t need a sequel.