Black Girls Get Nasty Too
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This article is more than 6 years old
This article is more than 6 years old
From Sapphire on Amos ‘n’ Andy to the gum-popping girls of reality TV, the lazy racial trope undermines legitimate grievances
Nicki Minaj at the MTV Video Music awards. She was criticised for suggesting that the music industry might be latently racist. Photograph: Matt Sayles/Invision/AP
Thu 8 Oct 2015 13.59 BST Last modified on Fri 15 Sep 2017 12.25 BST
Kylie Jenner’s cornrows and the racial politics of hair
Nicki Minaj has something serious to say about race. We should listen to her | Suzanne Moore
Original reporting and incisive analysis, direct from the Guardian every morning
© 2022 Guardian News & Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. (modern)
T his summer Amandla Stenberg, a 15-year-old actor, requested that we “end the angry black girl narrative” . Stenberg had been criticised for calling out Kylie Jenner’s culturally appropriated cornrows , but did not stay silent. “It’s just another attempt to undermine certain perspectives,” Amandla continued. “I have strong opinions. I am not angry.”
Long attributed to black women who have dared to stand up for what they believe in, the “angry black girl” archetype Stenberg refers to is one that reduces having an informed opinion to having a plain ol’ attitude problem.
I too used to buy into the angry black girl narrative. You know, the one you see on TV: the lady who’s always yelling, hand gestures everywhere, neck rolling – the bubble-gum-popping black girl who always has plenty to say, usually something nagging, loud and confrontational. You’ll see her on “reality” TV shows such as Love & Hip Hop and Bad Girls Club, or go back to the 1930s and she was Sapphire on the radio (and later TV) show Amos ‘n’ Andy.
But it wasn’t until recently that I began to see that the popular “black girl with an attitude” trope was just a way to oppress and undermine black women and our ability to engage, connect and feel. These negative traits are consistently pinned on black women, depicting us as angry even as we calmly state an opinion, or as having an attitude when we are justifiably angry. Who cares if we are understandably angry about the countless black people murdered in the past year?
The stereotype has parallels in the “strong black woman” and the “strong independent woman” (of any race): all limit our ability as women to emote, as if the only emotion we can express is anger and our only quality is strength.
These images of black femininity are constantly force-fed to us through the media, and it’s time we started questioning why. The fact that we are consistently portrayed this way says a lot about society’s treatment of black people – the lack of respect and even kindness.
When black women are not being boxed into narrow roles, they are often pitted against white women. A recent headline from the Daily Mail describing Serena Williams as a “ human volcano” while Maria Sharapova was labelled as the more favourable “ice queen”.
Or how about Nicki Minaj’s recent tweets addressing the latent racism within the music industry after her MTV VMA snub? Her comments were quickly dismissed by Miley Cyrus , which allowed the media to describe Minaj as just “going on a rant”.
The plight of black females continues: self-hate from our own, racism from others, sexism, constant critiques of our bodies, hair, skin tone, and a whole lot more. While many women of colour may relate to the issues black women face, these specific stereotypes of the angry black woman and black girls with attitude are directed specifically at us, originating from an institutionalised system that has historically demonised, criticised and mocked black women.
We have valid, complex emotions that we are entitled to feel and express. Do some of us have an attitude? Sure. But is that a problem or a valid excuse to dismiss black women’s opinions? No. I personally wear my so-called attitude with pride. I have confidence and conviction in what I believe in, and will express my opinion when I feel I need to. If that’s having an “attitude problem”, then, sweetie, you just have to deal with it.
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When I was approached about reading Loud Black Girls: 20 Black Women Writers Ask: What’s Next? , I was excited about the premise. Loud Black Girls is an anthology of essays of Black British writers curated by Yomi Adegoke and Elizabeth Uviebinene. The essays explore each writer’s experience as a Black woman in these turbulent times and how we can navigate the next chapter.
I’ve had a recent fascination with the Black diaspora. To my chagrin, until a few years ago, I’d never really thought too deeply about it. I did well in my history courses in school and I knew that the Columbian Exchange was an accelerant in the spreading of African people across the globe, and I knew logically that Black people were everywhere, but there was a cognitive dissonance about the reality of Black people really being everywhere. Of course, I knew “the Sun never set on the British Empire” (because so vast was its usurping colonizing efforts), but I never thought about Black people existing in the lands of the colonizers.
Can you really fault me though? Seldom had I seen a Black person depicted in a way that wasn’t in some form of enslavement or oppression (I’m looking at you, 20th century movie makers). I have been fortunate enough to meet other Black people with many different nationalities, and I was struck by some of the differences. I knew all Black people weren’t the same, but as I watched them practice ancestral traditions and speak their mother tongue, it really hit me. Black people are not all the same.
In reading the book, I found that I was not alone. The opening essay “Finding Myself in Britain” by Candice Braithewaite details how she was born in the UK and raised in Nigeria. Upon returning to the UK as an adult young in her career, she was surprised at the misconceptions regarding Nigeria. She thought that everyone had learned history same as her.
Braithewaite’s parents tucked away their native tongue Yoruba so as not to “taint” the English accents of their children, similar to the way my family tsk’d away my use of AAVE in mixed company. Not the same, but similar. I enjoyed the read as a look at someone who is in touch with their ancestral home. As an African-American-Descendant-of-Slaves (ADOS), I may never know of my true lineage (short of a 23 and Me test and a special favor from Henry Louis Gates).
Being a part of the diaspora, we know that we all have the same roots that track back to Africa. But just as a tree has many branches, stems, and leaves, so does the diaspora. Every fork in the tree having a different history creates a distinct subculture. Though all the branches are still a part of the same tree, they each exist independent from the other.
Being Black is often considered a monolithic all-encompassing culture. While I revel in the memes where it seems that we have all lived the same lives and had the same mother (who, by the way, is not boo-boo the fool, nor is she “one of our little friends”), I know that the Black experience is so much extensive than it is ever considered by the public at large.
I feel fortunate to exist in an era of unprecedented communication. I have had the benefit of learning the stories from those who’ve lived it and hearing it in their own voices. There are more frank discussions being held without the censorship that comes with publishers and media conglomerates of years past.
The book opens with a quote, “Black women will always be too loud for a world that never intended on listening to them.”
I have a playlist to amp me up for things when imposter syndrome sets in. The first song on that playlist? “ Ego” by Beyoncé (formerly the Ego remix with Kanye West…but nope!). If you aren’t familiar with the song, it has the lyric, “I walk like this, because I can back it up/ Ego so big you must admit I got every reason to feel like I’m that chick**.” (Will there ever be a feminist conversation in which Beyonce is not relevant? Unlikely.)
I listen to those songs to combat the messaging that little Black girls receive that they should make themselves small. Imposter syndrome is real, and I’m sure there are a million of other Black girls out there who have had to reconcile who they truly are with the strict box in which we are permitted to exist.
I’m excited that the wide-release of Loud Black Girls can make these conversations attainable by the masses.
If you are looking for a book club read, this is it. If you are looking for a book for your next book report, this is it. If someone asks you for a book recommendation because they are trying to get “woke” (insert eyeroll here), this is it.
There are so many histories, cultures, and iterations within our Blackness. Sadly, however, the most prevalent experience shared among us is our universal trauma. We experience all the microaggressions, we fight the same stereotypes, we have to reinforce ourselves against a barrage of misogynoir. Loud Black Girls explores the different ways being Black has shaped the lives of these women.
The anthology is very inclusive, but hey isn’t that the nature of Black women? There are essays written by mixed race, gay, trans, single, married Black women. Talk about intersectionality.
Please for one second, don’t believe that this book is a “woe-is-me” lamentation about the plight of being a Black woman. No, that’s not it at all. These are stories about women navigating the best they can a world that doesn’t consider them. Reading Loud Black Girls was a great learning opportunity as I found out about the experiences of Black Brits. There are these moments when we see the similarities between the branches that take us back to the root, especially in the moments relating to extended family.
Essays in the book discuss the nuances of being a Black woman. There are so many things that a Black woman could be, if we dare to exist outside of the small constructs in which we are permitted to exist.
Loud Black Girls is so named for the stereotype of Black women being “too”: too loud, too spirited, too … much . The essays are thought-provoking from topics of financial independence, racial identity, gender roles and inclusivity. If you ask, What’s next? I foresee a lot of women commanding their due respect…why, you may ask? ‘Cuz we can back it up.
BGN works to feature strong, unique content from writers who speak to our niche. If you are interested in having your work highlighted contact jamie@blackgirlnerds.com to be featured as a guest blogger on the site.
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