Culture & Politics – Page 3 – Cheryl Lynn Eaton

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 “co sign” 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.

05•30•13

Rebelle.

I will make this short, but sweet. Should Rihanna ever allow a surgeon to carve into her face, to raise the slope of her nose and narrow the bridge between her wide, sparkling eyes, she would cease to be unique. For unlike the many pop princesses who have preceded her, women who have unfortunately thinned their features to secure public acceptance, Rihanna’s beauty is subversive. Cloaked in the light skin that is erroneously heralded as superior in many cultures, Rihanna’s decidedly wide African features are allowed to project boldly from the covers of fashion magazines, to be emblazoned upon billboards, to slip across our television screens, to be uniformly heralded as what they are and would sadly not be considered should they be found upon a woman of a darker hue—beautiful.

Like water eroding stone, each appearance, each reinforcement of her desirability is a slow and steady wearing away of the narrow and racist standards of beauty that have maintained a chokehold upon North and South America for centuries. Like a bombshell girl of the forties, Rihanna is a symbol of warfare, though cultural rather than conventional. Undoubtedly beautiful and black, she is unapologetic and joyful regarding both.

04•25•13

A word from our sponsors.

I’ve discussed the topic of sponsors so often with friends that I had to do a search to be certain I hadn’t addressed the topic on this site. I hadn’t—until today.

The word sponsor is having a renaissance. Sadly, the current connotations are far from positive. In certain circles the word is used to define an individual who provides financially for a woman or man in return for companionship and sexual favors. Moving from the bedroom to the boardroom, the word also conjures up images of corporate meddling, a profitable company usurping the core of an organization that is under financial duress in order to broaden its brand and increase public awareness.

I would like to see a resurgence of true sponsorship. In America, we often romanticize the starving artist; a creative individual must suffer—endure poverty—for his craft. That view is, quite frankly, ridiculous. The musician must feed her children. The painter requires a bed to sleep in at night. The writer needs a roof above his head. Should one’s creations appeal to the public, one should be compensated for them.

The work and research of Harlem Renaissance writer Zora Neale Hurston was subsidized by the philanthropist Charlotte Osgood Mason. Mason’s wealth allowed Hurston to produce folklore classics such as Mules and Men. However, in today’s competitive climate there are too few philanthropists with an interest in the arts, and far too many artists who cannot make ends meet. The patronage of the past is not sustainable. There is also the danger of an artist compromising his vision to appeal to his patron.

Sponsorship would allow for one organization to financially cover the project of another while receiving benefits that are not monetary in nature. It is imperative that both organizations have brands and mission statements that are similar in nature to avoid either organization altering one’s core values for another. It is also important that the companies do not produce the same product to diminish the possibility of one company placing a financial stranglehold on another to eliminate competition.

Perhaps a sneaker company such as Adidas could sponsor a creative troop featuring creators such as Ronald Wimberly, LeSean Thomas, and Khary Randolph. Adidas would sponsor printing costs for graphic novels, and provide funding for launch parties and signings. In return, artists could design limited-edition sneakers, or create a short strip advertising Adidas sneakers that could appear in magazines such as Vibe or Esquire. Honestly, the marketing possibilities are endless as long as there is at least a small overlap in clientele—the lack of which destroyed the partnership between femme-friendly Reebok and the notoriously sexist public persona of Rick Ross.

So, here’s to true sponsorship! And hey, if you’re a company seeking a creator for collaboration? I’m certainly available.

01•16•13

‘Em an’ N.

Can we have a moratorium on the n-word? No, I am not referring to the word nigger. I am actually referring to the phrase the n-word. I despise it. If one finds the word nigger distasteful—and honestly, I loathe using the word—one can simply use the plainest phrase available to identify exactly what word you are referring to: a racial slur used to denigrate black people.

If one considers oneself a journalist, a writer, an adult, one should not infantilize words, especially words as loaded and cruel as ethnic and racial slurs. There is a history in our selected speech that should be confronted and addressed. In addition, in selecting only a racial slur regarding black people to tiptoe around with a wink, a nod, and a childish phrase—there is no w-word, k-word, c-word, s-word—it is clear that the user feels as though black people are simply too childish, too sensitive, too volatile to hear the word nigger in any context. Trust me. That is not the case. We have laid the foundation of this country beneath the word nigger. We have raised black children and white beneath the word nigger. We have heard it used repeatedly in stores, in back alleys, in police stations, and in boardrooms; in e-mails, in music, and from the mouths of every ethnic group that has ventured to America and wished to assert its status in this country via the disrespect of the descendants of its first laborers. We’ve endured.

The phrase the n-word is not used to spare the feelings of black people; it is used to mock. Were it not, the simple phrase racial slur would be used—just as it is when addressing slurs that denigrate countless other groups. Yet the world is incensed that black people would dare rise above our station and question the language of others. The juvenile phrase the n-word is used to put us back in our place. It is akin to spelling out terms in front of children to avoid conversation. Grown folks are talkin’, boy.

But my people are nothing if not inventive, so we cobble together phrases to mock what is used to mock us. And continue to boldly question your language while doing it.

As I said, we endure.

01•05•13

Labels.

“Cheryl Lynn, you will have your first and last dollar.” My mother says it with a blend of mirth, surprise, and exasperation—as if she cannot believe she produced a child who behaves in such a practical manner, a child who would dare complain that she had to spend twenty-four dollars on a purse due to the old one falling apart at the seams. My mother possesses a walk-in closet full of purses. Not one could be purchased for twenty-four dollars. The glint of a gold circle surrounding a bold M and K—the lack of one separating my leather satchel from her assortment—costs a great deal more.

Yet, my mother is a child of poverty; I am a child of the working-class struggle. She needs her talismans, her high-end upmarket logos, to make her feel as if she is of worth. I was taught to fear them, to believe that obtaining them would bring about financial ruin. I’ve jokingly told many friends that I’m glad I grew up working class instead of rich, middle class, or poor because it has made me so paranoid about money that I’ll never purchase designer labels. Black working-class kids are raised to believe that one wrong move will have you back in the ghetto where your parents came from. Working-class kids are raised on fear.

I have friends who grew up (and are still) wealthy. Michael Kors bag? “Oh, I’ll take this.” They do not even remain engaged during commercial transactions. Their attention drifts elsewhere as items are rung up. They do not look at price tags. In contrast, those who are middle class always look at the tag, but yet price does not seem to be a deterrent. There is an initial flinch, but the purchase is still made. “It’s a lot, but we’ll find a way.” Middle-class kids are taught to hope for the best. Rich kids are taught to expect it.

For poor kids there is no hope. Yet, purchases are still made. What’s the point of saving? You can’t fall any further and you’ll never have that deluxe apartment in the sky, so might as well cop those sneakers, right? And so children of the ghetto will stand in line for an exclusive—and expensive—pair of Nikes. Women will gather every last dime for a pair of Louboutins—and yet may not even possess the knowledge to properly pronounce Christian’s last name. I have had to correct my mother multiple times on the correct pronunciation of Movado. She owns one of their signature watches; I do not. For those marked by poverty, logos and labels are masks. They are an attempt to pass as a member of the “elite,” to appear “respectable.” But for those who are black and brown, the respect, though deserved, does not come. Red bottoms are not glass slippers.

“I like nice things. And I’ve worked hard!” My mother has indeed worked hard. And everyone likes nice things. But when I asked my mother if she would still purchase luxury items if no one else knew she owned them, she appeared shocked for a moment and then laughed. “No! What’s the point in that?”

There is no point in either the purchase or the announcement of it. Her purchases are tickets to an arena where she will never be accepted because of her race. We are told time and time again how blackness “devalues” a brand, of executives who blanched when informed that their product had become popular amongst racial and ethnic minorities. We are to be felt (i.e., provide money and labor), but not seen. Black and brown children of poverty are told that they are nothing without a proper label. Once they have sacrificed everything to obtain said label? They are told the label is worthless due to too many of them having it. To add insult to injury, what black and brown children of poverty do produce for themselves on a massively limited budget is then co-opted by the artistic elite to provide to rich whites seeking something novel. Flesh is co-opted. A Native headdress for a music video; blackamoor earrings for an art gallery opening—brown bodies become white accessories.

There is a need—for all of us—to closely examine the purchases we make and why we make them, to examine what—or who—is allowed to become a commodity, and to reflect on how the logos we wear intersect with the culture that labels us. Not one of us is immune. Even as I boast about my practicality, I can still admit to feeling subpar when shopping with friends. Just last weekend, a date to go shopping for vintage items went horribly wrong when I discovered that rich people go boutiques, not thrift stores. And as I looked at used designer bags that were beyond my budget, I felt less than those around me—not enough to give up my dream of home ownership for a collection of Birkin bags, but small nonetheless. And I have no solution as to how to stop it. But perhaps in coming together to discuss the intersection of fashion, class, and race we can—literally—loosen the ties that bind us through the recognition of them.

07•07•12

Troubled waters.

Frank Ocean publicly addressed his sexuality recently, with the same deftness, eloquence, and gentleness that is evident in the manner he approaches his music. I was elated at his announcement and at the warm reception he received. I was glad to see that another young man had the strength of character and the purity of spirit to share his true self with the world and to show that queer men of color have been a part of our community and have contributed immensely to our culture. However, I was also pleased for more selfish reasons. I had hoped that if the straight and straight-identified men of hip-hop could openly love and embrace the black men who resided in their hearts and their minds and their beds, that perhaps they could embrace the black women who inhabited those same regions as well. My hopes have been dashed, for I realize that the hatred of black women is so profitable and pervasive and has such a tenacious hold on mainstream hip-hop that the men of power and/or influence in hip-hop would likely extinguish the culture entirely before relinquishing it.

And yet, strangely, due it its current ubiquitousness, hatred of black women is not a tenet of hip-hop, is not necessary for hip-hop to thrive, nor was it present at its birth. Though the arena was dominated by men, women were given a clear voice in the genre via ladies such as Roxanne Shanté. Hip-hop in its earliest days was an even field where men and women of color could have an open dialogue—one that was teasing and playful. The words of black women were considered and sought for inclusion. Black women were not depicted as a monolith and had multiple roles available to them—sister, wife, and lover; trophy, thief, and soldier; adversary and confidant. No, not all of these roles were beneficial. However, there was diversity and choice. That choice is long gone, quietly usurped during the late nineties and aughts with the onset of the commercialization of gangsta rap and its permeation of hip-hop.

The misogyny directed towards black women in gangsta rap was a curious thing rooted directly in America’s racist history. There are black men everywhere, in numerous countries, counties, and cities. And in all you could find black men who struggle against deprivation and violence. And yet it is in America where the hatred, debasement, and ridicule of black women in particular were originally forged in song for relief and release. And America, which has culture as its chief export, packages this hatred and ships it, spreading the cancer that is our unique brand of racism to all regions of Gaia’s womb—from Compton to Krakow to Conakry.

Vast, multinational empires have been built, powered by the engine of a small number of young black boys coming of age sans the guidance, education, and environment required to become men. Lacking a father, uncle, grandfather, guardian, or mentor of worth to define what masculinity is, it is easy to fall prey to the binary doctrine of what is male being classified as that which is decidedly not “female”—not nurturing, not dependable, not emotional, not loving. To secure one’s masculinity one must reject these ideals; one must degrade them and the source from which they are purported to originate—black women.

A handful of young black teens, cobbling together their masculinity in the absence of positive male figures, wandering like nomads through an environment utterly saturated with virulent anti-black racism, gave birth to gangsta rap. What else could have manifest? The music was angry, composed by men who had every right to be furious regarding their treatment by society. And the music depicted black women as worthless receptacles, (1) due to the erroneous binary doctrines discussed earlier that required the rejection of intimacy, (2) due to centuries of American-cultivated propaganda depicting black women as hypersexualized beasts of burden, and (3) due to America’s careful instruction that to be of worth, one must stand over another—preferably the descendants of slaves. These men—stripped of political, social, and economic power—had only one group left to subjugate: the women who shared their status.

The music, callous as the lyrics could be, was embraced for many reasons: the messages rode on beats and melodies many African Americans enjoyed during childhood; the music provided a coping mechanism for black and Latino youth experiencing economic devastation and/or enduring social indignities that stemmed from racism; and it provided white teens of the middle and upper classes with an outlet to defy authority.

It was the final example to which music executives took notice. White children brought money. Money bolstered the longevity of gangsta rap and allowed the subgenre to dominate and warp all others. (Amusingly, it mimics the dominance of the superhero in comics. Perhaps that is why the two blend so effortlessly.) The elements of gangsta rap that mainstream white audiences found so titillating—the violence, the sexual exploitation of women, the criminal activity, the illusion of invincibility—was shoehorned into countless acts, whether the genuine result of the artist’s history or not.

As a black woman, it is disturbing to watch white men and women be given agency in the world we gave birth to with black men, to see these black men develop camaraderie—jovial basking in racist misogyny—with them while we are pigeonholed in the role of a subservient clown or whore. We’ve been reduced to less than three-fifths of a human—merely an ass and six bags of someone else’s hair—our faces not even deemed worthy of a camera’s lens or a “featured” role in a video. And when we speak up, when we dare to criticize the treatment we receive? We are ostracized as traitors, labeled “haters,” and demonized for attempting to diminish a rapper’s success, success often driven by our tears and our humiliation. The bodies of black women have been used as fuel. And no maudlin, mediocre sixteen bars about mothers and daughters each decade will mollify that. You need more people.

The commonality shared by black women and queer men of color is that hip-hop has demanded our silence during our disrespect. It is almost Athenian in its outlook. So when Frank Ocean broke that silence and was not punished for it, I was intrigued. And then I realized the key difference in the role of queer men and straight black women in hip-hop. Negative depictions of queer men do not move units. Queer men are erroneously believed not to be able to move units at all. They are forced to be invisible as well as silent. Black women are to be seen—preferably stripped—and not heard.

Mustering only a minor fraction of the courage shown by Frank Ocean, I’m speaking up and speaking out. I’m seeking better music for my rotation. I’m demanding respect from those who demand my money. Will it improve hip-hop? Probably not.

But it will improve me.

02•08•12

BHM: What can brown do for you?

I’ll make this one short and sweet. Originality is not achieved through color. Applying a pallet swap to someone else’s story does not qualify as a “new spin.” It’s a cheap trick, a shortcut to reach a previously untapped resource—minority audiences.

It’s not uncommon to want to pay homage to the stories that precede us, to revisit the myths that we will hand down to our children and grandchildren. An alien falls to earth. A vigilante haunts the streets. A patriot fights for justice. We repeat these stories like ballads in old watering holes, each incarnation shifting slightly to fit our culture and our desires.

But how that slight shift matters! And that shift must be more than just a variation in shade. Point blank? If you make the decision to create a black character pastiche, you best make that decision mean something. It should alter the nature of the work. We don’t need a black Superman. We have Superman. To make audiences sit up and take notice, to truly examine the theme of the alien beneath the lens of race?

You establish an Icon.

02•06•12

BHM: God bless the child.

As much as I love Idie, she isn’t ours. Luke isn’t ours. David isn’t ours. T’challa isn’t ours. Miles. Isn’t. Ours. Yes, they look like the men, women, and children in our lives, at our tables, and on our minds—and that is important—but they do not carry our voice. There are no black writers working on mainstream comics at DC. There are no black writers at Marvel at all. In the DC universe and in the Marvel universe, black people are voiceless. It is what it is.

I wish I could say I was concerned. At one point, I was very concerned. However, over time that apprehension has dwindled like the sales of books from the companies in question. Black people are voiceless at two companies that struggle to sell a hundred thousand copies of a single comic to a potential audience of billions. Black people are voiceless at two companies currently being admonished in the press for stifling their creative staff, submitting production and editorial to poor working conditions, and utilizing underhanded practices to swindle individuals out of their creations and avoid providing them proper compensation. DC and Marvel are no longer happy, hale, and hearty IP farms where a man could spend a lifetime spinning stories about established characters while earning a check that could provide for his family and benefits to keep that same family healthy and whole. Those days are over—and were only enjoyed by a select few to begin with. When white voices are being silenced, can we truly expect black voices to be heard? When white writers are losing exclusive contracts that once provided them with much needed safety nets, can we really expect those same contracts to be offered to black peers?

The pie is gone. It has been gone since the late ‘90s, continually consumed and regurgitated by the same small handful, and there is nothing left to get a piece of. You are not going to George Jefferson off Stan, Jerry, Joe, and Jack, my friends, hence the title of this blog post.

Hannibal Tabu referred to Image as a black writer’s last refuge. I’d alter that statement to include Kickstarter, other self-publishing methods, and independent publishers in general. However, the gist of the message is the same—“Have one’s own.”

I certainly don’t advise turning down paid work from DC or Marvel, but one cannot put faith in either company. When they call concerning that rare miniseries featuring a tepidly-received black character, get in, do one’s work, and get out. And don’t expect them to call again soon, no matter having provided them with one’s best work. A black writer is a rare necessity at DC and Marvel—especially now that established white writers are only too happy to take on projects featuring black characters. Green is an important color that can make a third-tier black sidekick seem quite interesting to those who once looked for whiter pastures.

The entertainment industry is an exceptional industry where one is able to own the company where one produces. Man is the farm and factory. The assembly line is composed of a writer’s fingers; his products, miniaturized worlds, are shipped to all four corners of the globe to be quickly devoured by eager audiences.

A writer can work on decorating delicacies from someone else’s assembly line—i.e., contract work—and there’s no need to feel an ounce of shame in doing so. It’s an honest (and fun) job. But without steady work and benefits—and black writers are not being provided these things—what is the point? To finally tell that Luke Cage story? Oh, sugar. I love Luke, but I’d rather be in for a World of Hurt if that’s all Marvel has to offer.

Aside from looking over one’s shoulder to peer down at the foundation of Kirby Inc., there’s nothing being presented at Marvel and DC that is unique to either organization. And the man who laid the foundation? I think he would have preferred to see a few more crates from one-man farms.

Isaiah is ours. Aya is ours. Miranda is ours—from the root to the fruit. These characters bear our features, carry our voices, entertain us, and—most importantly—provide for our welfare spiritually and financially. And I can think of nothing more delicious than that.

02•03•12

BHM: Hairs to you.

Straight, curly, relaxed, or natural—it really shouldn’t matter how you wear your hair. And yet it does. Simply put, when one particular type of hair (kinky, or tightly coiled) is repeatedly demonized in the media, those who alter their appearance to mask that type are going to be scrutinized. Does she hate herself? Is she trying to pass as something that she is not?

For those happy and well-adjusted black women who have long since come to terms with negative media portrayals and still choose to wear relaxers or press their hair, these questions are infuriating. Can’t one simply desire a different look? After all, it is rare to encounter a white woman who has lightened her hair subsequently accused of despising her ethnic background. It’s just hair. I still press my hair occasionally, and any poor soul who had the audacity to question me about it would need at least a full day of mental recuperation from the verbal assault that would ensue.

Over in Marvel’s Wolverine and the X-Men, resident ingénue Idie Okonkwo has changed her hairstyle from a large, black afro to an equally cute straight, brown pixie cut. Normally, for a well-adjusted black teen who loved herself, such a change would not draw any attention. Nor should it. However, Idie is not normal. She is broken and emotionally scarred. She has been shown to loathe her mutancy, an aspect of herself that is demonized in the media and in the parochial area where she grew up. If she has been shown to listen wholeheartedly when the world tells her she is a “monster,” would she not listen to the world telling her she is “ugly” as well? It is not farfetched that she would internalize negative comments regarding kinky hair. In addition, her change in appearance occurred on the heels of her receiving her first doll from Wolverine, who quite heartbreakingly and unknowingly merely reinforced traditional notions of what is “normal” and emphasized how “different” Idie is physically. It would have made for a fabulous scene—had it been later touched upon by Wolverine or other characters within the franchise.

It hasn’t been—and it is extremely frustrating to me to see a writer leave what could be such meaty content on the table. That no other character is willing to address what is a glaring problem with this child in regards to her mutancy and her appearance is difficult to accept. These are missing scenes from Idie’s life, and Marvel has chosen to dance around these lost stories in the gutters, while I want nothing more than to read them.

I hope these avenues are being ignored simply because the writer wants to tackle different topics and not because the writer is wary of handling themes involving race and gender. No subject should be off-limits to a writer simply because of the circumstances of his or her birth. And race and gender? Those are human topics that involve us all.

How interesting would it be if Quire took it upon himself to “fix” Idie—only to encounter an Idie as militant and arrogant as he? And should he be reprimanded by Wolverine? Well, at least someone cared enough about Idie to do something. It would make for a powerful, and humorous, set of scenes. And it would also allow for Idie’s mental growth, acceptance, and adoration of herself, from her straight pixie cut to the strands of her X gene.

Here’s to black love for 2012’s Black Future Month—not just for each other, but also for ourselves.

02•01•12

BHM: Before Watchmen, post-racial.

In a stellar move that has stunned the comics community and has quieted critics who have claimed that DC isn’t making proper strides in regards to ethnic and racial diversity, DC has released information concerning the final prequel project in the powerful Before Watchmen arsenal. Newsstand Boy by creators Eric Wallace and Scott McDaniel was announced this morning by DC’s co-publisher Dan DiDio.

“We are absolutely elated to be moving forward with this project featuring Dave and Alan’s most popular African-American character. I think it is important, especially on the cusp of Black History Month, to show that DC is willing to stand behind its creators and characters of all colors and creeds—from white to black, and even blue! Hey, even Superman was blue! All shades here at DC, man. All shades.”

Eric Wallace was equally as excited regarding the project. “Honestly, it’s just an honor to be considered. When DiDio contacted me this morning and asked me to sign on, I couldn’t believe it.” However, when pressed for details, the writer became coy. “Well, I don’t want to give away too much, but Scott has brought some amazing things to the table and I can’t wait to dig in!” The amicable creator seemed unconcerned about scheduling issues given that he was brought on at such a late stage in the project. “We’ve actually pulled ahead of all the other creative teams. Scott has already completed all four issues, so now I just need to put my finishing touch on the product—bring to the table what only a black man can. Like sprinkles on the ice cream.”

And what of the ice cream? McDaniel was quick to elaborate. “The stuff that Harvey and I have come up with is phenomenal. It’s going to knock your socks off. I finally sat down to read Watchmen last night and I’m certain that Harvey and I have created a work that honors what Dave and Alan have produced.”

Dave Gibbons, co-creator of the original Watchmen series, agrees. “The fact that DC feels so strongly about what Alan and I concluded so long ago that they wish to move forward with new stories is astounding. And that DC will be compensating Alan and I for our creations with a portion of the proceeds from the sale of these new works is a testament to the fact that DC truly cares about its creators.”

Alan Moore did not wish to issue a statement.

Usually tight-lipped about successful launches from its “distinguished competition,” Marvel executive editor Tom Brevoort was surprisingly quick to comment. “Marvel wishes DC all the success in the world with Newsstand Boy. Any project like this, no matter the publisher, helps to get fans in the stores and more eyes in front of Marvel comics. And with our upcoming release of Teenage Negro Ninja Thrashers, a lost creation from the late Dwayne McDuffie, we believe we’re producing the kind of comics that will make fans take notice. Fraction and Bagley have something really special with this one, something Dwayne would have wanted.”

Will Teenage Negro Ninja Thrashers be able to best Newsstand Boy in the eyes of retailers and fans? Only time will tell. But Bob Harras believes he has the answer already. “We’re not about looking over our shoulder to see what Marvel rushes to create in our wake,” the editor-in-chief explained.

“We’re DC. We keep moving forward.”