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.

Popeye's New Aunt Jemima

Dear BFDiary,

Most of my days are filled with reading, but I can't lie. I'm not yet willing to give up shows like Law & Order SVU and Real Housewives of New Jersey, Atlanta, DC... So I guess that makes me a a doctoral student silly enough to make time for TV (at least for now). Since I'm switching back and forth between critical theory and cat fights, Patricia Hill Collins and Andy Cohen (by the way, the Housewives of New Jersey Reunion was bananas!), feminist ideology and Food Network challenges, the lines in my head tend to blur a little. Since, I'm actually studying the media, this works well for me (not so much for someone studying say clinical psychology).

Just the other day I was reading a book by a woman who is a journalist and decided to write a particular piece with a somewhat "scholarly" feel. She discussed the traditional role of the black woman as Mammy as personified through, you guessed it, America's favorite woman to have at the breakfast table, Aunt Jemima. If you know anything about the history of black images in media then you probably realize that Aunt Jemima had a big makeover not too many years ago. She dropped that stubborn 100 pounds that was weighing her down, invested in some Ambi skin "lightening" cream, and ditched the head rag to show off her new perfectly coiffed curls. I guess this is supposed to make even black people feel comfortable eating her breakfast. The writer I'm referring to, however, said that Aunt Jemima's presence had nothing to do with the rag. Ummm, whose she fooling? The rag, complete the ensemble, kept us from seeing the part of her that we call her crown, her glory. Just like the weight kept us from seeing her beauty and sensuality and the wide smile kept us from seeing her pain, her discontent, and her quiet resistance of her position as the go-to woman in someone else's house.

Fast forward to 2010 and I'm watching Popeyes reclaim their place as the only "bonafide" fast food fried chicken joint of America through a woman named Anne. Sure, she has a more modern hairdo (sometimes), but she's also in an apron. She's calling it her fried chicken, which couldn't be further from the truth. Popeyes came to fruition from a white guy named Al Copeland in 1972, mind you he was probably using a recipe some black woman that had worked for his family at some point may have influenced, but the point is, she'll never see a check.

The point of this post isn't to hate or get you to stop supporting these brands (your personal consumption is on you), rather, I want to draw your attention to the black femme body as a marketing tool for comfort foods. Are the women who put on "mammy" acts at Aunt Jemima cooking demonstrations around the nation, and, is Anne chosen because their great actors? I don't think so. It's all about the look. It's all about America's comfort with the image of black women. Within our national memory, the black woman has been (re)presented as a jezebel, as sapphire, and of course, as mammy. Relishing in our resistance to buck tradition and taint the status quo we reproduce these images, even after we've been clued in to how destructive they can be. So that in 2010, Aunt Jemima resurfaces on my chicken box.

I just can't be down with that. What recent representations have you seen that you want to publicly denounce? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Less is More, life without the fake fix

Dear BFDiary,

I’m a young woman whose starved herself through struggles between slim and sexy. You pick up enough Seventeen and Cosmo Girl magazines as a preteen and you find yourself ingesting all kinds of crap. When I got to college and realized that some people thought I was small and it wasn’t a good thing, as in it wasn’t the sexy thing to be for a black girl, my self-image brow-beating started all over again. In a college town 10 minutes away from the middle of nowhere with no dependable black stylists in sight, a chick had to depend on her curves to do what her budget wouldn’t allow in the way of fabulous clothes, routine mani/pedis, and awesome tresses fried, dyed, and blow-dried into perfection.

Now if you know me or if you’ve read more than a couple blog posts, you know that I’m not totally absorbed in my looks (I have a brain, I use it, I’m proud of it). You also know that I’m real, and a girly-girl. I’m also a sista, and looking good no matter what the cost (yikes, it hurts but its so true) is pretty much inscribed in our DNA. So, take these words for the greater meaning at hand, which I’m getting to soon.

I’ve done yo-yo dieting, one major “lifestyle change” at 16 that I still don’t think my parents realize did more harm than good (no 125 lb. girl should have to calorie-count between third and fourth period), and spiritual fasts like lent that truly brought me closer to God (on my 5^th consecutive day without chocolate and magazines I had no choice but to pray if I wanted to make it to day 6 with my sanity). All these experiences were active moments of self-denial, miserable means to achieve a greater, longer-lasting end. If I wanted to drop 10 pounds, I needed to drop the snickers. If I wanted to hear from God more clearly, I needed to stop listening to the Weezy and R. Kelly that somehow got on my iPod.

My fasting and even my crazy diets taught me an important lesson about the power in resistance. Every second of our lives someone or some ad is telling us one more thing we need to be happy, to be whole, to be better. No ad talks about being better, by having less. Being better, by not consuming. Being better, by resisting.

A recent incident that my bestie brought to my attention got me thinking about how us strong black femmes can be tricked into thinking that we’re weak. How women who are astronauts and mothers and CEOs and executive directors and teachers and department chairs and presidents and scholars and students all while managing to look as good as we do and be so many things to so many people can be tricked into thinking that in spite of all that, we just won’t be right without that fix. A fix could be the new bag and booties we can’t afford (guilty), the momentary pleasure of letting someone get too close too soon (guilty), or the 5th, 6^th, and 7^th chips ahoy cookie (guilty, guilty, and guilty).

Can you imagine conning and tempting Oprah with $100? It’d never work. Can you imagine tempting a strong woman of God with a man not worth the ground he walks on? Works all the time.

If I can survive cramps through an 8-hr work day and manage not to give everybody attitude, if I can put up dry wall and insulation in heels, if I can burp the baby with one hand and prepare dinner with the other, if I can be on the Dean’s List and be the head of two student orgs, if I can party in Paris and chill at the church picnic, if I can dazzle my boss and my colleagues, if I can do all this and still wake up the next morning to do it all again, I am phenomenal.

When we put it like that, ladies, we realize no short-term guilty pleasure can begin to really satisfy us. Our contentment comes from within

Chocolate City Housewives...not so chocolate-friendly

Dear BFDiary,

How real can the Real Housewives of D.C. actually be when only one of the housewives hailing from "chocolate city" is actually, well, chocolate. I'm officially unimpressed. Knowing what we know about our nation's capitol, not even the new wave of black and brown faces in the White House could land us fair representation in this supposed reflection of life in one of the most powerful cities in the world. And of course, since most of the housewives are white, most of their friends, are also white. At this point I'm wondering if Stacie (the token black woman) would've been better left outside this tea party.

For one thing, her most of her cast members have no idea how to interact with her, and probably wouldn't make it through a dinner with any black folks. At housewife Mary's birthday dinner the hostess "diplomatically" seats Stacie next to the other black guy at the dinner (who happens to be a celebrity hair stylist). All Mary can talk about is how much she thought they'd get along (because black people can't make it through nice dinners without moral support from our race brethren). Then, the chick, a grown woman, gets tipsy and starts talking about how we need to integrate hair salons. Ummmm what you talkin' bout Mary?

Oops, almost forgot, there was another black man at the party. Given his flawless blue-black complexion and his height and the fact that all anyone can ever talk about is how big he is, you can imagine why I almost left him out. Lynda, the cast member who totes the much younger "darkie" round on her arm (he's supposed to be her boyfriend) even describes this man based on how big he is. It's that classic king kong caricature come to life.

But back to our girl Stacie. As if this white girls party couldn't get anymore uncomfortable she invites the housewives over for a cooking demonstration with Janet Jackson's chef. And all Catherine (the new girl in town from England) can talk about is how much she thinks Bush is a better man than Obama (her husband is currently employed by his administration) and proceeds to do a finger-snapping neck rolling impression of Tyra Banks, who she also hates. I've never seen Tyra do either one of those things on her show. As a matter of fact, I've seen her bring new light to subjects that young people aren't really discussing otherwise.

Stacie, after this first episode I'm not sure how you made it through an entire season. I admire you for being the beautiful unapologetically black and successful woman that you are.

Bravo, do better!

Do You Have Enough Green to Go Green?

Dear BFDiary,

A couple years ago I took a very general Global Issues course where I learned all of the bad things going on in the world that scholars were actually talking about (of course this left out a lot that black and brown people deal with on the day-to-day). The hot topic by the end of the course wasn’t how Wal-Mart was putting whole goods manufacturers out of business and creating a new major retail model strangled the middle man and kept their truck drivers from doing natural things like going to the bathroom when they (I know, that’s what’d you’d want to talk about too right?!). Rather we spent a couple days on the gorgeous green grass outside the ivory towers (I HATED when professors chose to hold class outside on the ground, I mean what is it with some people and nature?) discussing how everyday people in the U.S. could minimize their carbon footprint.

When we started to talk about solutions to problems like severe consumerism and deadly chemicals that have so conveniently been worked in to the maintenance of our everyday lives. Then all these ideas about rules, like requiring everyone to shop organic, get rid of their vehicles and drive Prius’. The first thing I thought was how wasteful it would be for people to go green in the way that some of my peers were suggesting. I mean, they’d be tossing functional goods, to buy more goods, that would have to be produced using methods that we’re trying to get away from. Then I started thinking dollars and cents.

I thought about my grandmother whose paralyzed on one side of her body and buys things for practical functionality, how much would it cost her to buy all organic goods, and how much time would it take her to find a store in Saginaw (a town where I’m pretty much related to everyone) that actually sold said goods. Then I thought about the people who drove minivans because they needed the space and wouldn’t be able to afford a Prius. And what about the people who already have to pass 20 McDonald’s with 20 items under two bucks to find a decent grocery store with fresh over-priced produce. How were they supposed to care about this mysterious ozone layer when they’re block is a target for environmental racism. I’m just saying…we all don’t have enough green to go green. And for some of “us” a few things fall a bit higher on the list than global warming.

Broken Promises

Dear BFDiary,

One of my best friends in the entire world is someone I met when I was about three or four. For the first half of our lives we did everything together, we watched the same movies (anything with the Olsen twins), shopped at the same store (Limited Too), and went to camp together (she’ll kill me for saying it, but I rode the horses, while she pretended to be sick). We even developed crushes on guys that were friends.

Living on different sides of town and attending different schools, though, made sustaining the friendship difficult. After elementary school, I begged my parents to switch me to her private school, but they shrugged it off and mentioned that we could try for high school. Ironically, once ninth grade rolled around, I sprung for a private school in Farmington Hills and along with nearly everyone I’d known and befriended in middle school, she went to the best public high school Detroit has to offer. We decided that college was the only time we’d get to decide our own fate, and promised to room together at Spelman. Well, that promise was broken, but, considering our friendship has lasted more than a lot of marriages, I’d say our promise to be true blues for life was one we really meant.

All relationships are ready-made with some type of promise. We promise to obey our parents (for the most part) and they promise to invest in our livelihood (food, shelter, clothing, a last name). Hell, even my relationship with my manicurist involves a pact. I promise to tip her well and she promises to give me a student discount and premier service every time. Every now and again, like my old hair stylist who always swore to get me in and out in 3 hours, you make a promise you can’t keep. But the worst promises you break, are the ones you make to yourself.

I’m not talking a new years resolution where you vow to lose 15 pounds but never keep your promise to jog and stop eating French fries. I’m talking about the promises to love yourself—to keep yourself spiritually, mentally, physically, financially, and emotionally well. The promise you make when you decide to get up in the morning and face the day with fierceness and dust yourself off from yesterday’s disappointments. And the promise to never learn any lesson more than once.

The promise I made to myself when I got over my last heartbreak was that I’d be wiser, more cautious, and less trusting. Love, as it tends to do, pulled a fast one on me. And now I find myself wondering which promise I broke and when. How did I end up right here with(out) you….

The worst part of it all is that I can’t remember the last promise I broke that I made to someone else, anyone else. So my beautiful and faithful BFD readers, I’ll make a promise to you. I promise to put myself in position to be a better writer, one that doesn’t just write about problems you can relate to, but can offer real solutions that have worked in my life.

Because I promise you, not keeping this promise, won’t bring anything good.