Can You Hear Me Now?...Why Tennis Players Should Grunt Louder

The first thing I learned in karate class was how to yell (right now you have a scary image of me in karate garb in your head, but rest assured, after reaching the purple belt, I quit). My instructor taught us that the “hee-yah” we took so much pleasure in screaming from the very depths of ourselves was just as much apart of our form as the “sparring stance” and other postures we had to master. Throughout my journey fitness classes, dance aerobics to kickboxing, the yell remained an essential part of the activity. The instructors encouraged an audible display of strength. It was an expression of all the energy bubbling over inside as our kicks got higher, our punches got stronger, and our sweat gushed out more profusely. Like a teapot that’s bursting with steam, our exuberant shouts were a release of all that we couldn’t hold onto as we put our entire selves into the workout.

My 30-50 minute courses can’t touch a 3-round tennis match with a ten foot pole in terms of intensity. When I watch a tennis match, the energy plunges right through the television screen and arrests me on my couch. Apparently for some tennis spectators (who are probably all white and mostly male) that display of energy and force has become a nuisance.

They want to do away with “the grunts.” Now I don’t watch male tennis matches often, so I’m not sure how much audio is included in these matches, but women are the dominant face of the “grunt-issue” in the current news coverage. In one case, player Victoria Azarenka’s audio was measured for decibel strength and time length. Really? People want to control the sounds that other people make when they’re engaged in an extreme level of physical performance? And yet watching an NBA game is almost the equivalent of being in a strip-club when you match the sounds.



I don’t think this is about sounds being annoying, its about powerful women annoying the hell out of the folks who cling to a patriarchal ideal of the world, and seek to position people according to that hierarchy. Men on top, women…barely there. The naughty sense of pleasure I got from screaming at the top of my lungs as a pre-teen is similar to what I felt as a junior and senior in college. Little girls, like most children, are still expected to be seen, not heard. And women, are expected to take up even less space in the world. From our physical body mass to our use of the air when exercising our very own vocal chords, women are supposed to occupy a male gaze. Anything that disrupts that gaze, any use of extra space that might distort someone else’s vision of us, is deemed unacceptable.

Some tournaments already come down harshly on what (black, female) players where. What’s next, spectators trying to control how much players can sweat because they think it looks gross?

Clearly those in places of privilege have a hard time identifying who and what they can and can’t control, the sounds that people make being one of them. But sense we’re all dishing out pet-peeves, here’s three “sounds” I could certainly live without:
1) The greedy grunt Rick Ross makes every 5 seconds

2) The whistle’s, “oo-wee’s,” and curses I typically hear from men when walking
down a street (regardless of what I’m hearing)

3) The gunshots from cops who, in the course of “just doing their jobs,” murder
black men, women, and little boys and girls.

If You Saw It on Vh1...Don't Try It at Home

What in the world is going on at Vh1? Perhaps their decision to commodify the 21st century black bitch/video vixen/glamorized Jerry Springer guest acting archetype should come as no surprise since they are the network who poisoned us with Flavor of Love, I Love New York, Charm School and other shows I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve watched. (But actually, no guilt will ever overcome the laughable insanity of watching a grown woman uhhh relieve her alleged diarrhea in an evening gown, in the middle of a crowded room, on national television. Flavor of Love 2 was friggin history!)

Since we last spoke this Black Femme has become a working girl…that’s right, I decided to do the 9-5 thing for the summer (actually 8:30-5) and so far, I’m loving it. It could be the fact that I have an office twice the size as the one I share with three other doctoral students when school is in session. Anywho, despite my meager expectations, this job has grown on me.

Adjusting to the summer gig has kept me from the tweetable moments sprinkled throughout Vh1’s current line-up. Basketball Wives (nothing valuable to say here, if you watch the show and don’t realize the blatant issues in this one, you’re probably not supposed to be reading this blog) is well, pretty much the same as it was last season, but Queen Latifah’s “Single Ladies” is making black femmes everywhere take a second look. I finally saw the season premier last night (all two hours, yikes). After getting over the mediocre acting (Was Stacey Dash always so over-the-top dramatic in Clueless? No wonder her most memorable role was on a show for tweens and teens.), the name dropping, and the cliché lifestyles of the black, rich, and famous trimmings that have come to characterize most contemporary Black TV appearances (hello people most folks, not just black folks, are not upper middle or upper class, and most of them don’t drive jags)—I was actually able to get into the story line. I saw, through the seriously exaggerated lives of the three-and-a-half (if you count Lauren London) main characters, so many black femme situations that ring true to life. When Dash’s character sleeps with her ex to prove that she’s over him or has a one-night stand in efforts to “try something new” (really? Has sex become that casual), when LisaRaye’s character plays an upgraded version of cat-and-mouse with a guy (that I not-so-quietly think is going to turn out being on the down low) who outsmarts most of her moves despite her attempts to remain emotionally detached, and when the token spoiled (white) girl whose too stupid to realize that cheating on her black husband will certainly result in extreme (I’m out of a house, a credit card, and probably a husband) consequences, even if its “just a fling”—I thought wow, we’re a hot mess.

Well, I don’t know anyone who actually banged a married political official or “mistakenly” stolen their boyfriend’s jewelry on rap video set, but the root of these behaviors are common to many of us “single” and not-so-single ladies. How many times have you convinced yourself that because your professional life was together, that moral failures didn’t matter so much? How easy is it to buy into our own lies hidden behind a pretty face, over-priced shoes, and a serious-statement bag?

The point is, despite my obvious issues with Vh1, we’ve all heard about, witnessed, or done many of these ridiculous acts ourselves. So since, if you’re like me, you’ll probably be tuning into the show from time to time this summer (or at least you’ll be talking about it), engage the stunning reflection of your worst self. Resist the urge to distance yourself from the polarized representations—and at least make a mental note of what not to do the next time you’re tempted to act without thinking. Ladies, if you saw it on Vh1—don’t try it at home.