Month: July 2013

07•25•13

Grand theft autonomy.

“I loved gaming when I was younger, but as I got older I learned pretty quickly that it wasn’t a world that loved me back.”

Laura Beck

I can’t find fault with Laura Beck’s statement. In fact, it is a statement I have made myself in regards to other mediums where race is concerned. But I feel that Beck’s exasperation with the three male leads in Grand Theft Auto V is misplaced. Michael, Franklin, and Trevor exist, not because Rockstar is fearful of a female lead, but because Rockstar Games is determined to retell the cherished stories of GTA’s past. Grand Theft Auto V is not about innovation, but renovation—replicating the very same characters and situations that brought the company its previous success. Michael is Tommy Vercetti, Franklin is Carl Johnson, and Trevor is Phil Cassidy. Niko of course, is a modern-day Claude Speed, which is why he was chosen as a stand-alone character to launch Grand Theft Auto IV in the same manner that Claude, and Claude alone, championed the new sandbox version of the Grand Theft Auto franchise we have all come to love with Grand Theft Auto III.

I’ve discussed this at length before, but a quick summary is in order: Claude and Niko represent the poor white immigrant’s journey through New York City’s underworld; Michael and Tommy are symbols of established and firmly entrenched organized crime; C. J. and Franklin represent wayward but hopeful youth trapped in inner-city black communities decimated by the emergence of crack cocaine. The comparisons between lead characters can be taken even further, playing upon the similarities between Victor and Luis, young Latino men with family obligations thrust into a world of debauchery and excess, and Johnny Klebitz and Toni Cipriani, low men on the totem pole in criminal organizations chock full of duplicity and double-crossing.

Rockstar brings nothing new to the table, but what is brought is so comforting and satisfying that the complaints are few. That said, there are clear issues regarding gender within the GTA franchise. I hope, just as the time between Grand Theft Auto III and Grand Theft Auto IV allowed Rockstar to fix the glaring racial stereotypes found within the franchise, so will the time between Grand Theft Auto IV and Grand Theft Auto V allow Rockstar to rectify its skewed depiction of women. However, clues to Rockstar’s enlightenment will not be found in Grand Theft Auto V‘s lead characters, but in its NPCs. Specifically? Its sex workers.

The obvious omission of male prostitutes from Grand Theft Auto IV proved that Rockstar’s desire for an element of realism was not to be had at the expense of alienating sexist players who could not handle seeing men placed in a sexually submissive role. Male hustlers are an obvious fact of life in New York City—and in Los Angeles. Should their presence be lacking in Grand Theft Auto V, kowtowing to bigoted players will likely be to blame. And I will certainly not be sticking around for the next installment of the series.

But unlike Beck, I feel that Rockstar is laying the groundwork for a new female lead character. After all, they have almost run out of characters to recycle! I believe that in a year or two we will all be lining up to purchase Grand Theft Auto: The Legend of Packie McReary, featuring Patrick, a Korean protagonist clearly reminiscent of Huang Lee, and a female drug runner and madam of Mexican descent. After all, to have a story set in a city suggestive of Los Angeles that does not feature Latino and Asian communities is criminally stupid—just as it is to have a story focused on crime that does not involve women. Women are notorious for being drug mules and participating in illegal sex work, and have been a part of Los Angeles’ street gangs for decades. Plus, the addition of female thieves to be used in heists in Grand Theft Auto V is likely Rockstar’s attempt to ease bigoted fans into a more progressive and inclusive stance regarding female protagonists.

But the question is not whether fans will purchase a game starring a female lead. We know they will. Lara Croft is a testament to that. The question is whether the boys’ club at Rockstar Games can provide a female lead that is well-rounded, well-written, and fun to play. A female lead will need to focus more on stealth, speed, and firepower instead of street-brawling skills demanding of upper-body strength. Will Rockstar make the adjustments necessary to accommodate this? Plus, given the mockery of trans women (the deep voices of the prostitutes Niko frequented were inserted for amusement) and the flat, stereotypical depiction of women in Grand Theft Auto IV, I’m not confident a female lead would be given the fleshed-out personality provided to male leads. The Grand Theft Auto franchise is populated with shrill harpies and dim-witted party girls. We really haven’t come that far from Catalina and Maria, and the blame can be laid squarely on Rockstar’s writers for that.

It can also be laid on the writers that inspire Rockstar’s writers. After all, the Grand Theft Auto series borrows heavily from America’s most beloved crime dramas, dated dramas that focus on the lives of men. If Rockstar wishes to venture into the uncharted waters of a female GTA protagonist, it will need new source material. Celebrity, technology, and changing social mores have revolutionized the roles of women in criminal enterprises. Twitter, Instagram, and reality television allow high-end call girls to discretely advertise to wealthy clientele—and contraband can easily be shipped right along with the woman a lovelorn musician, CEO, or athlete has unwittingly paid to transit. Finally, all one needs is a pretty girl and an iPhone to obtain the layout of a mansion for a later armed robbery. Three crimes for the price of one—and one hell of a fun GTA side mission!

Unlike Beck, I will be purchasing Grand Theft Auto V—and I will be closely examining how the game lays the groundwork for the next GTA installment—an installment that hopefully makes Beck and her peers finally feel welcome.

07•23•13

One blood.

“You’ve never heard about West Indians being cheap?”

The question had been leveled at me by my mother’s longtime friend, who was clearly amused and surprised by my ignorance. Her tone, teasing and with a musical lilt, was devoid of an iota of maliciousness.

“No! I’ve never heard that before!” I was now fascinated, as if I had come across an old family secret that I’d now been deemed mature enough to handle.

My mother’s friend called out to her, eager to acquire an additional testimonial. “You ever hear about West Indians being cheap?”

My mother didn’t even bother to look up from the laundry she sorted to field such a simple question. “Oh, yeah! The cheapest, honey!”

The matter was settled. “You know your husband is of West Indian descent, right?” I pointed to my father, whose family had come from St. Vincent and Haiti to find a better life here in America. I feigned disdain, but my motives were clear. My father is notoriously and hilariously cheap.

“Well…” My mother’s voice trailed off. A pregnant pause held in the air for a brief moment, and then, like rainfall after a snap of lightning, the jokes flowed like water—torrential, ceaseless.

For so many who see black people as a monolith, who cannot even comprehend the possibility of multiple black cultures, the above anecdote likely comes as a surprise. Yet in my mother’s house that day, filled solely with black people, there was a wealth of diversity borne from countless unique cultures, and a gentle familiar ribbing that is allowed due to shared racial experiences. I am American; African and Caribbean blacks are my cousins—sometimes literally. I tease my family and my family teases me, but I will love and stand with them. Always.

Had a non-black person been in my mother’s house that day and dared comment on West Indian penny-pinching, or African arrogance, or American idleness, he would have been verbally eviscerated for not knowing his place as an outsider who has happened to be made privy to “family” in-jokes—jokes that none of us truly believe or take seriously. I have been in the midst of a group of Filipino, Korean, and Chinese individuals teasing each other regarding which Asian ethnicity is the most racist and possesses the worst accent. I have been made privy to intentionally silly conversations regarding whether Puerto Rican or Dominican men are better lovers. And I’m sure somewhere an Irishman, an Englishman, and a Scot are jovially arguing about some trait that—as a black person and an American—is not for me to comment upon, no matter how many Europeans I call friends. I may be a beloved visitor, but I am not family. Oh, you want my opinion? Nah, I’m good. I’m simply honored that you feel relaxed enough in my company to speak freely and will enjoy the camaraderie. I have enough common sense and respect for those present to refrain from commenting, no matter who is willing to “cosign” for me.

“So, how come white people can’t say nigger and black people say it all the time?”

All the time? All of them? I won’t even address that part. But the answer is for the reasons stated above. The phrase often removed from the query is “without being considered a racist.” Please note that if you have typed some version of this question your disrespect and ignorance is completely exhausting and you are a blight upon every message board in existence. You cannot be jailed for saying nigger. You cannot be killed for saying it—not without rightfully severe legal repercussions for your murderer. You may lose a friend, a job, or a romantic partner—but you don’t have a right to those things. It’s “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” buddy. You can’t complain simply because you don’t have the common sense to pursue it efficiently. Perhaps next time you should try not being a bigot.

I don’t use the word nigger. I find it distasteful. But should I have a change of heart tomorrow and make the slur every fourth word I utter, I would not be considered a racist. I am black. My status is not one of an outsider. Due to shared racial experiences, I am “family.”

The problem is that many non-blacks, including all who have asked the question in question, refuse to accept an outsider status. The idea of being an outsider, even in a role that is respected and cherished (for example, Eminem or Teena Marie), makes them irate. How dare black people—these lesser people—deny us anything? How dare they have something to which we are not provided access? These people feel that not one shred of respect or privacy should be afforded to black people. Non-blacks who demand use of the word nigger sans negative social consequence feel that black Americans should be stripped of all elements of their culture for the consumption of others. For them, to be black is to be a constant performer—a jester for amusement. Black cultures are merely products to try on. Twerk team! S’up, nigga? Shade! Every ounce of every black culture should be splayed open to sample. They demand black people acquiesce dominion over any portion of any black culture should a person who is not black desire it.

And therein lies the issue. For in this age of globalization, it is a wonderful thing to share one’s culture with others. How fabulous is it that I can hear hip-hop from Romania, eat pad thai, and wear chancletas? S’great. But I know that when I immerse myself in a culture that is not my own, I act as a visitor or an ambassador. I do not get to assume ownership of that culture, and if the denizens of that region feel there are cultural rites I should not have access to? That’s fine. Would I love to dance in an Indian headdress? Omigaaawd, who wouldn’t? But this would offend many Native people. And so it is not appropriate for me to do so. I accept that. And for the record, I have Native ancestors and I still know there are lines I should not cross. Though I am “blood,” I am not “family.”

In other words, your black friends are not a valid excuse for your use of the word nigger. You are making them look corny, spineless, and anxious for approval. Stop embarrassing them. Stahp.

Unlike a weeaboo or an Anglophile, who comes across as desperate yet deferential, non-blacks who use the word nigger (or nigga) assume a disrespectful and dismissive position of dominance over black American culture. It is akin to walking unannounced into a stranger’s living room and putting your muddy feet upon their coffee table. “Well, they have their feet on the coffee table,” you cry. “Why can’t I do the same?” The answer is simple.

You aren’t family and it’s not your house.