Disney's "The Help" Does It Again

The film version of "The Help" will be released on DVD and Blu-Ray December 6. I saw "The Help" last month with my girl Janet who is White. I went in with all the preconceived notions of a race movie veteran. I knew that the White protagonist would be placed at the center of the Black woman's story. She was. I was nearly positive that this story would also castrate the issue at the root of systematic White supremacy, the basis of what we call racism. It did. I knew that Janet would be touched and I would be irritated by what was left out.

                                   

"The Help" is set in 1960's Jackson, Mississippi, which at the time was one of the most segregated cities in the country. Blacks throughout the South were institutionally made second class citizens under laws of lifestyle known as Jim Crow Laws. These laws were instituted as early as 1877 through 1964, a year prior to the 100th anniversary of the end of the Civil War and the abolition of slavery. The film takes a fictional look at Jim Crow's end days through the eyes of Black maids and the White people for whom they cooked, cleaned and took care.

Lawd, Have Mercy

As the typical middle class White family in the early '60s had a suburban tract home, a Ford or Buick in the driveway, a black-and-white console in the living room, they also had a maid. Domestic work was just about the only work a Black woman could get in the South, condemning them to lives of servitude.

The film opens on the starring maid, Abileen, played by Viola Davis. She is a long-suffering woman. It seems the only joy she experiences besides that she gets shooting the shit with her best friend Minny (Octavia Spencer) is caring for her White family's baby girl. "You is kind, you is smart, you is important," Abileen tells the cherubic child. No doubt Abilene herself benefits from the affirmation. Her White family along with many others in the community begin to build outdoor toilets for their "help" in an effort to fully carry out the 'separate but equal' tenets of Jim Crow, emphasis on the separate. This serves to undermine the dignity of the Black characters psychologically, which is the objective. Feed up with subjugation, Abileen risks her life to tell her story to the White protagonist, Skeeter (Emma Stone), whose motives for writing the book exposing the lifestyle of the South are unclear.

"Eat My Shit"

I always refuse to give too much away about a film. Suffice it to say that there is a shocking subtext to the film that deals with retribution. Part of the films begs the questions, if someone has abused their power to do all they can to put you under a bridge and block your pursuit of happiness, would you strike back with devastating force?

      
Sir Isaac Newton's Third Law of Motion states that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. When Milly does what she does to Hilly (Bryce Dallas Howard), a persistent bigot, it is her attempt to make Hilly feel, or taste, just a little bit of what she's been treating her like for far too long. Now, that I can dig as figuratively historic. There are numerous accounts in slave narratives of all the ways Black ancestors struck back in passive aggressive ways to get their owners back for brutally oppressing and subjugating them.

Sex, The Root of All Racism
The film skirts around the real reasons why Whites instituted segregation to begin with. It was the fear of miscegenation, defined by Merriam-Webster as the marriage, cohabitation or sexual intercourse between a white person and a person of another race. The widespread belief in the inferiority of Blacks was a lie propagated to hide the fact that xenophobic White males of privilege did and still fear the loss of the material power their blood lines control and the obliteration of people who look like them through race mixing. Once institutionalized racism in the country took effect a drop of "Black blood" made a person Black and anyone considered Black found virtually no protections under the law.

Whether we realize it or not the one drop principle persists to this day. Our own president is a product of this principle. Barack Obama, even though his mother is White and he was mostly raised by Whites, grew up to identify as a Black man because in this country he could never be anything else. His father's DNA prevented him from benefiting from the White skin privilege his mother's folks shared. In short, it's the fear of a Black planet, the fear of whiteness being fucked out of existence, that made many Whites cosign on institutionalized racism. However, to hide their fear the myth of Black inferiority was propagated and the lives of Black folks have been made miserable in great measure because of this once popular psychosis.

"The Help" portrays Black characters who are completely devoid of sexuality. Absent among the maids complaints is the topic of sexual harassment by the mister of the house. The topic of sex is avoided in the Disney tradition. Odd that Hilly (Bryce Dallas Howard), the hateful childhood friend of Skeeter's sports a cold sore the last quarter of the film, suggesting she has a sexual past. It's ironic as she leads the initiative for separate bathroom for household domestic on the basis that Blacks carry different diseases. In the end, it is clear that she is the one who is infected.

History Shrugged

The real life story of Black women during this time is actually phenomenal. Every day Black women who became larger than life such as Rosa Parks, Fannie Lee Hammer and Shirley Chisholm come to mind. These women were the center of their lives, the center of history. Yet, in this so-called historical tale, a young White woman is injected as the gatekeeper to the Black women's freedom on the dawn of the Civil Rights Movement. It's typical Hollywood revisionism.

Minny and Abileen's preacher delivers the moral of "The Help." On the pulpit he states, "Love compels us to put ourselves in harm's way for our fellow man. If you can love...you already have the victory." The historical accuracy of this love theme is the best thing about "The Help." It's the theme of cooperation through love that bought Janet to tears. However, I left the theater feeling like the real facts about racism and the real story of the Black woman's roles in history on screen has yet to be told.

Our Love of the N-Word

It's hardly a secret. Black people use the N-Word enough. Enough in the earshot of non-Black folks for them to notice. I've been on enough mass transit trains, buses and college campuses to be privy to the indiscriminate use of the N-Word by numerous non-Black youth to other non-Black youth. I've heard the term applied to Jerry Sandusky, the disgraced Penn State defensive coach, by a Black female friend on Facebook. Didn't seem to matter to her that Sandusky is White.

The N-Word, most popularly "nigga," has captured the imagination of youth of all colors since Hip-Hop trickled up. The word is itself a rebellion. Replacing the -er in the last syllable of the original N-Word with an -a took the violence and hate out of the word and melded it with a spirit of irreverence toward authority and anyone else who doesn't like it.

V-Nasty, of The White Girl Mob she formed with fellow Oakland rapper Kreayshawn, has caught some heat for her use of the N-Word in rhymes. It is obviously a way to fit in and drop street credit. A lot of white girls that come from the hood want to prove themselves in the hood for good reason. They often are reminded on the daily of a White skin privilege that they don't yet see residing in the ghettos. Kreayshawn and V-Nasty's White Girl Mob exists as a reaction to their alienation growing up White and disenfranchised in the hood.

I grew up in a home where the N-Word was taboo and never used. My mom's folks are from Minnesota and have a history of being proud race people. The word was always looked down on as a term used by the so-called lower class. However, black culture has become a matter of fashion. Hip-hop has made the word ubiquitous. It can no longer be looked at as simply a word used by those with a "lack of class," as today's richest Blacks use it.

The word is like sex, it's provocative. It's illicit in that it breaks the rules of etiquette.  It's language noir.

In a recent Tale Tela online poll, 42 percent of folks thought that rappers in general should stop using the N-Word. The rest were equally divided by those who said no, it has a whole new meaning and those who did not care. I wanted to plant my flag in the "It's Complicated" camp, but the option was not given in the survey.

I wonder, can the success of a race lie on the back of a word, a word branded in the minds of so many and  functions as a vocabulary staple?

I personally don't use the word more than five times a year. Because of the way I was raised the word doesn't just roll out of my mouth. Only my closest friends have ever heard me use it and probably without them being able to ever recollect it. I slipped once in front of a white friend and I just didn't feel right saying in her presence. That never happened again. I use it like everyone else, for effect. To connote just the right emotion about a person.

As a possible upside to the use of nigger and nigga, we come across another important n-word  meaning we never use at all. A word new to us but rooted in antiquity, Negus, has been making its social media rounds recently. Negus is an East African word meaning King or member of royalty. So, David Duke, former KKK Grand Wizard turned mainstream politician, put that in your pipe and smoke it.

The N-Word tests the boundaries of free speech and good taste. The righteous seem to think that if the world is lanced from the English language we will enter through the pearly gates of the post-racial society many talk about but many know does not yet exist. The thing is that language is fluid. The word is not only a part of the American lexicon, it is woven in the fabric of it's history and cannot be easily unraveled, if ever at all.

Cyber Life

Life online is a world of discovery. We are both adult and child while surfing the net as we indulge every wonder.

Let's face it. The internet is magic. It's power for good and evil is omnipotent. If T.V.'s mystique were likened to the Smurf-hating wizard Gargamel, bumbling and full of error, the internet is Potter's Dumbledore. These days, everyone is online. Social media gives us all a public persona to do with as we want. What we create is a unique cyber imprint.

What's more interesting is how cyberspace has made us all more of who we really are as opposed to who we want to be. Most active users leave a trail. It's hard to fake your vibe. Some of us manicure our profile pages as if they were a bonsai plant. Some of us don't. But we all show a bit of our true selves online.

All hail, the almighty relationship status. I have a cousin who's newly engaged every few months. I'm single and I admit that I look forward to the day "in a relationship" can be my status, simply for the likes. They're like tiny little wrapped gifts. I just love them when I get them. But I'm no Kim K. I'm not in it for show. I want the relationship to be real.

We have entered an era in which we must redefine privacy when we've all become public figures in so far as we engage in social media to share ourselves with our friends and followers. Never have we been so accessible to so many. Not since we left the village. Even then our audience was never this broad. The possibilities for both expression and connection for the individual in cyberspace are exhilarating to the spirit and has captivated billions. It's undeniable. We crave connection. We want to plug in.

We've handed in our anonymity en masse. Some of us seek fame and fortune, some search for love and others simply want to share our voice. It's all valid here. We know Big Brother and corporations monitor our moves at will but we continue to covet the net like a moth to a flame. Will this be the death of us or will it breath new life into the collective consciousness? I'm counting on it being the later.

What's funny-ironic is our human fear of the computer. Like Dr. Frankenstein, we mistrust our own creation. It's the basis of so many of our best sci-fi film thrillers, from the early cinema classic Metropolis to 2001 to The Matrix. They are cautionary tales symbolic of how The Age of Technology and our dismal world economy has displaced millions of workers, stripping them of their livelihood; a symbolic apocalypse. Our fear of computers replacing humans has been realized. We scramble for new ways to live in cooperation with our fantastic monster.

We've decided that if we can't beat them we might as well join them, especially where there are apps involved. I've heard people describe their smartphones as best friends. Cyber life is no substitute for real living. We must strike a balance least we get caught up in the magic.

Occupied

This Flatland Diva has been struggling since the bubble busted 3 years ago. Just about everyone I know is a paycheck away from financial disaster. Where is our bailout? Instead, multi-national corporations and banks have received billions upon billions to correct a market they put in risk everyday by manipulating the market to feed their own greed. The rich have gotten so much richer in the shortest amount of time in American history. The government has assisted them every step of the way and we are at a place now where there is more disparity between rich and poor than ever.

Occupy Wall Street is right on the money. It was Wall Street that initiated what has amounted to class warfare by stealing people pensions, life savings, homes and jobs. I am so proud of my fellow citizens for finally standing up to say, "No more."

My friend, who I'll call Stacey, was simply disgusted with the Occupy Movement when we texted about it the other day. "Girl, what do you think they are going to accomplish? Corporations have been greedy. Do you think they are going to stop? This world is made on greed. So [change] will never happen." She believes that voting is the best form of political action for the masses.

I could not disagree with her more. It's been shown time and time again that change comes when people defy business as usual and get in the streets to protest. The 21st century protester has a tool that is unarguably more powerful than a musket. A shot caught on film and streamed live is truly a shot heard around the world, in real time. More repressive governments have restricted access to social media and expression because they recognize what a threat it is to their governmental control.

There is little doubt in my mind that the Age of Aquarius is in full swing. The masses are thinking for themselves, in their best interest and they are acting out in the streets, in America, land of the complacent. Nothing like it has been seen coast to coast in nearly 40 years. Everyday people have had enough of being underpaid, underemployed and thrown under the bus by our representatives and financial institutions.

Occupy Oakland has taken on an important role within the Occupy movement against police misconduct. Oakland PD has shown it's ass to the world. Their modus operandi  has been exposed as Scott Olsen, a two tour Iraqi war vet fell victim to their violence on camera, hit in the head with a tear gas canister. Olsen survived an actual war zone for years but a trip to Oakland to execute his citizen's rights got him a fractured skull and nearly killed. Oakland PD is very serious about their obligation to protect two things-- the State and private property.

Oakland PD has a long standing history of exacting brutal force on it's own citizens, particularly the black and brown. The Black Panther party was formed in Oakland as a reaction to the merciless treatment of the cops to the community. Many, from Bobby Hutton to Oscar Grant, have simply been murdered by cops who get off because the State protects it's own. The disproportionate number of traffic stops of Blacks compared to Whites is astronomical to this day in Oakland.

To police brutality and the thieving financial system, I too say no more. I am a member of the 99 percent. We have strength in numbers. We cannot allow the powerful to hijack our pursuit of happiness and that of future generations. With our numbers we must demand a return to regulations that ensure our interests are being protected.  I'm hoping with many others that the Occupy Movement is too large to fail.

She Will-- Pussy Poppin' (The Dawn of Twerking)

I've been digging this Lil Wayne song called "She Will," right? However, in it he repeatedly calls on his girl to "pop that pussy." I messaged my friend and asked him what that meant. Yeah, I'm not the hippest 37 year old, granted. I only had a vague idea. He replied that I should check out some videos on YouTube. I did and what I found shocked the hell out of me. Over 2,500 YouTube video results for pussy poppin' alone.

Do men really expect their women to perform just like an erotic dancer? Hell yeah, some do. Homeboy told me that's how ALL the girls where he lives in the South get down. Savion Glover's was hot (back when he was keeping up with his grooming) but I don't expect my dude to tap. Am I expected to pussy pop now? These young girls make it hard for everyone. No middle age woman came up with these contortions. I've seen grandmas doing it and little kids too though. Surely, I could do this. I studied Afro-Haitian dance for a year in college. But the Jamaican dance hall derived moves are another animal.

Booty Poppin' 101

I decided I would take some instruction from YouTube. In one video, the women pop to a  UGK's song "Like That." The song should be called, "Bitch, You Know You Like That" as that is the phrase repeated to excess through out the video. The women exhibit moves whose sole purpose is sexual arousal. In thongs, some appearing to be made of nothing more than dental floss, the women lean forward, legs agape, to expose a rearview of their thinly-veiled vulvas. It's a mating dance that would make peacocks blush as there is no ambiguity in what is being showcased-- it's the pussy.

Now, I like to dance just as much as any other soul sistah. But I've never considered learning these stripper moves before. I think I missed my window to learn these moves. Try as I might, I just don't have the jiggle moves down. Ugh! This really frustrates me. Makes me feel dead inside. Sadly, my booty has no brains.

My overwhelming inclination is to feel contempt for the dance simply because I can't do it. However, I don't want to descend into Haterville. I want to stay positive but I can't help resenting the expectation that I be more of a sex object than I already am. It's no longer simply good enough for the booty to look good and feel good. It's got to twerk like there is no tomorrow. What gives?

What Men Want

Men are so simple sometimes. They really expect something for nothing. They blow in our ear and expect us to squirt from our vaginas. What's more, we women give them our everything for the lowest of returns. I myself have been guilty of this. A good-looking, smooth-talker offers up a few compliments and we're ready to fulfill these dude's every carnal fantasy especially when he makes us feel there is a future in it.

This goes back to our rearing as children. Girls are taught to give their one man their all while boys are taught to give as little as possible to as many as possible. Like the Lil Wayne song says, "She will"-- if she will pop for him he will let her. No matter if he thinks she's disposable afterward.

It should not be surprising that so many willingly objectify themselves for free simply to appease the male sexual appetite. I'm thinking why should I emulate the sex act and you're not making it rain? The way I see it, the only women really making out with pussy poppin' are strippers and women who actually have the ring. All the women in between are setting themselves up for plaything status.

2K Man

Sometimes a Flatland Diva lives a lonely life. A single life. Everyone may not agree but I think that being alone is the pits on Friday nights. A night for lovers drained from the work week to come together to cupcake and continue each other's delights through Sunday. I know Saturday night will come and I still may be doing nothing else new.

Dating today is not for the faint of heart. It seems to have come down to a predator versus prey situation. The eternal question posed to me by my experiences in life seems to be, simply put, "Which are you?"

I've been back on the dating scene for nearly four years. Over that course of time my heart has been chopped, diced and served back to me more than my fair share to know which category I've fallen into. Opposites attract. I've always been attracted to men who are emotionally shutdown. I can hardly be surprised cupcaking is not on their agenda.

I recently began talking to a man who lives 2,000 miles away. Normally, I would never consider a long distance relationship but this guy has me floating on the ninth cloud. We can talk about anything it seems. Recently I revealed so much about myself that I actually felt naked and exposed afterward. I was left feeling like a gazelle in the African savannah chased down and devoured while knowing that I'll only be reincarnated as some other form of food. Yet, he has not abandoned me. Instead, he has licked my wounds and I love that.

We are both wondering if the other could be The One. What my friend's German in-law calls, "The Big Love." I haven't believed in soulmates since I was old enough to date. Now, twenty years later, I am reconsidering the soulmate concept. Some ancient Greeks believed that humans originally had two heads, four arms and four legs and were split in half by Zeus to search the world all their days for their other half. We meet in high school. He was an athlete. I was a budding feminist whose life revolved around her journalism class. I avoided him then like the plague. Have you seen Sixteen Candles? Well, he was my Jake Ryan. Can you say,"Too fine?" I always considered him the prototype of the good dude. Enter Facebook 20 years later. Between in-boxing, emailing, instant messaging, telephone, text and Skype, we've got a thing going on.

Friday I'm buying my plane ticket to go see him. I'm highly thrilled and somewhat anxious. What if we don't hit it off? Can we remain friends? I'm geared to think positively though. What if we get along great? What if we fall in love? My visit is just weeks away. Then the real test-- face to face contact. I'm fitting well in my favorite Black Levi's, hence I'll be super confident, which is the cornerstone of sex appeal.

Here we are gearing up for 2012. It is the Flatland Diva's time to shine. I rule my grooming but a little professional help never hurt anyone. So begins a round of appointments-- hair, nails and wax (might just go Brazilian, y'all!). A Flatland Diva brings it and plays for keeps. She needs just one man who treats her like more than a play thing. In her eyes, her man is always a king. It's only right that she be a queen. The only thing she feels as deeply about as him are God, the people and their beautiful struggle. I plan to bring my "A" game and to stay present. It's not everyday I meet a man who is so emotionally available, even sentimental. The potential here with this man way over there is off the chain. He will not meet a gazelle. I will be a lioness whom he can make purr.

Cramps

Menstruation must be one of the trickiest processes in nature. That's my opinion anyway. Most women, come to think of it, every woman I've ever talked to about it has lamented about it. Hate is a strong word, but if there was ever anything to hate it would be a steady flow of blood the spews from the body out of our treasure chest ever three weeks. I hate it. It costs so much to be a woman. And I'm not just talking about the ridiculous cost of Kotex.

I recently agreed to a writing assignment for Rapstar Magazine that I'd consider a great opportunity to share information with the public as well it would nicely add to my clips. I met with my principle interview and his fiancee a few weeks ago at Everett & Jones Barbeque in Oakland's Jack London Square. He is the uncle of Oscar Grant, the 22 year old black man fatally shot by a BART police officer New Year's Day 2009. The uncle who has founded a foundation in Grant's honor, The Oscar Grant Foundation. His fiancee, is it's director.

The three of us had a great talk about how we'd like to proceed with the article. I wanted him to know that I would write a thoughtful piece, which in order to do I needed access to interview other principles, particularly Grant's mother and the mother of his child. He agreed to see what he could do. He and his fiancee then invited me to the Oscar Grant Foundation's reading festival for children. I agreed to attend, knowing I could adjust my schedule to make it that day to the event.

As it turned out, that gorgeous Saturday morning came with an ever unwelcomed guest, Aunt Flow. Ugh. Cramps. Motrin in the house, zero. I left Johnson a message that I was "not feeling well."  I hung the phone up just knowing I looked like a complete flake. After all it wasn't exactly flu season. Meeting his fiancee too, I didn't want to be inappropriate and reveal my cycle. It would have been tmi. My etiquette would not allow it. The chances it would have been taken for tacky or crazy would have been too great.

Riding the crimson tide is a lonesome misadventure. Which brings me to another topic. Most people just don't want to hear about your personal hell or abject misery. They just don't have time for your pain. Fact is on any given day hundreds of millions of ladies are cycling, yet the world manages to go around. We must just pull up our big girl period panties and just keep pushing forward without missing a beat.

With my cramps tearing at my womb without the meds to stop it, I had to concede defeat. Hopefully, I can work my way into better graces with Grant's uncle and his fiancee. Why I allow myself to ever run out of Motrin must be examined. Is it subconscious sabotage? Probably so. Am I being hard on myself?  Probably so. Is Motrin on the shopping list? Definitely.

Anti-Social Networking

It's amazing to me how so many people spend so much time on Facebook and Twitter to say nothing at all. Okay, maybe it's not nothing. It's certainly something to them. Their brand seems to be about being the biggest baddest, bossiest bitch. No regard is given to spelling, grammar or syntax. The feminine energy is all askew. Who takes these chicks as seriously as they take themselves?

The Flatland Diva is mindful of what a powerful platform the internet has afforded her and her people. Everyday people can indiscriminately connect to thousands of strangers from around the world and can literally bring them into their homes and into their lives. What an awesome tool social networking can be for change. We've seen this in the Arab Spring. People rising up against tyranny and exploitation with virtual force to topple arcane despots.

So, what do Egyptians have to do with Jonita, screenname @Dat_C8zy_Hoe? Where Egyptian students used Twitter to unify behind a cause, she uses the tool to alienate herself to a matter of body parts. She becomes complicit with her own degradation. Sarcasm is her BFF and after dark she is offering all types of goodies in cyberspace. I follow some of these girls and they follow me back. I hope I can be an influence. The Flatland Diva always wants to use her powers for good.

The Life of a Flatland Diva

I come from the flatlands of Oakland, California. It was different in the '70s when I was born. Prosperity was in the air. Good jobs were to be had with the port, the railways and the Naval base all in fluid operation. With a rich artist history the whole town seemed to get down to the groovy sounds of Marvin, Earth, Wind & Fire, The Commodores and the Jackson Five. From what I remember, it was mostly all love. I've carried that love with me through many rough and trying years.

There are many like me, battle torn by Reaganomics and the trickle down that never was. We love our roots yet fight against the margins.

The Flatland Diva is a woman of her people. She comes in many shades-- cocoa, caramel, vanilla (possibly swirl) and commits to being the eyes, ears and voice of her community. She has not run for the hills. Instead, she battles on the front lines, in the flatlands, the trenches; where cops, criminals and everyday people clash and collide. Her occupation varies. Her real job remains in her home and with the people that she loves. She is a mother or maybe just a fabulous aunt.

Don't get it twisted, this woman is sharp. Although not a follower, she is up on popular culture and the talk of the day. Her sense of style is all her own. Sometimes her money might be a little funny, which is to say she's broke from time to time, but you would never know it. She never speaks on what she doesn't have, only was she does have, which is the world on a string, have her tell it. Never braggadocious, always humble, she appears carefree in the midst of a burning world. Hair and nail, check. Makeup, check. Outfit, of course. On a good day she is fierce and ready for battle in the concrete jungle which tests her resolve daily.

This Flatland Diva's middle name is Nicole, which means "victory for the people." I go by Nicci (like "Nicki") for short. I've come to take the root meaning of this moniker to heart. I was raised in Oakland while the Black Panthers fed the children and kept the streets safe for the people before the party's demise. By  the time I turned 9 my family moved to an East Bay suburb where I received a top notch public school education and many lessons in diversity and tolerance.

My heart remained in Oakland with my people, people of struggle. The classrooms of the university served to confirm my world view of the people's right to love, liberty and the pursuit of happiness and enlightened me to their overwhelming denial of these basic rights through out history. I decided my contribution would be to write a way out of this epic battle. I want to take readers to a place where love, beauty and humanity reigns superior to greed, xenophobia, ignorance and marginalization. Come with me...