Not Just Women, Geechee Girls (2019)
Daughters of the Dust (1991) is an independent film written and directed by Julie Dash. The film, set in 1902, depicts the story of multiple generations of a family of Gullah women who are planning to leave their settlement on St. Helena Island on the South Georgia coast. Their plan to travel to the northern mainland in hopes of better opportunities is met with resistance based on the principles of tradition and non-assimilation. Most films position women in powerless roles characterized by their “to-be-looked-at-ness.” What is important about the iterations of Black womanhood in Daughters of the Dust is that their social dynamics are presented as less dominated by patriarchy, if at all. Dash demonstrated exceptional handling of female identities in this film from the script down to the editing of the scenes. The agency that the female characters in Daughters of the Dust possess is groundbreaking, especially for Black women. The women in the film make executive decisions concerning their bodies and they dare to agree and disagree with each other’s points of view. The film passes the Bechdel test with flying colors; While male spectatorship of women in media is often rooted in the expectation of sensuality, these women engage in meaningful dialogue with each other about the future of their family line. They are unabashedly flawed, but are given the space and screen time both for the characters to explore this and for the audience to understand some reasons why. There’s also something to be said about Dash’s careful execution of Eula’s story. Instead of showing us Eula’s rape, as the male gaze would beg, the film only alludes to the event and avoids spectacle in favor of highlighting the emotional and social trauma that it caused. In 1965, Daniel Patrick Moynihan’s published his book The Negro Family: The Case For National Action, commonly referred to as The Moynihan Report. In the book, Moynihan blames the social position of Negroes on the disintegration of the Black nuclear family, for which he faults domineering Black women. This idea that Black women’s agency and desire to lead was a destructive happening still persists in the Black community today. Daughters of the Dust’s emphasis being on the female characters doesn’t necessarily postulate that the women are seen as more important than the men in the family. The lack of screen time that the Peazant men occupy in the film doesn’t constitute a perception of weakness on their part. However, seeing the Peazant women as the teachers, keepers of history and spiritual intermediaries in their spaces is a great subversion to the female stereotypes so pervasive in our media. Another challenge to the male gaze lies in the fact that Dash doesn’t present these women as sexual objects to be used by men. They’re complex beings, and they are represented on screen as such. There’s no overt sexualization of the women, which is a far cry from what women have had to expect from film. When Eula delivers an emotional monologue in defense of Yellow Mary toward the end of the film, she’s allowed to speak her piece. The camera focuses on the entirety of her body, not tears flowing from her eyes, the reactions of the men around her, or her protracted fingers across her own chest. (Big up Arthur Jafa.) Laura Mulvey, in theorizing the male and female gazes in cinema, describes women’s ability to not only shed their idea of proper representation on screen but also to adopt the male gaze as their own in order to enjoy films (Smelik 494). The “transvestitism” of spectatorship Mulvey speaks of may be beneficial or at least sufficient to women whose only incongruence with the gaze is based on gender. However, intersectionality is paramount when discussing the ways in which Daughters of the Dust presents a more complicated idea of spectatorship. In a chapter of bell hooks’ book Black Looks: Race and Representation (1992) entitled “The Oppositional Gaze: Black Female Spectators,” the concept of a different kind of gaze takes root: “Looking at films with an oppositional gaze, black women were able to critically assess the cinema’s construction of white womanhood as object of phallocentric gaze and choose not to identify with either the victim or the perpetrator. Black female spectators, who refused to identify with white womanhood, who would not take on the phallocentric gaze of desire and possession, created a critical space where the binary opposition Mulvey posits of “woman as image, man as bearer of the look” was continually deconstructed.” Discourse around Dash’s film continues to shape ideas about Black female representation by having thrown out the notion of the male gaze. Aesthetically and thematically, Daughters of the Dust was extremely influential on Beyoncé’s 2016 film Lemonade, which received widespread critical acclaim as a celebration of Black womanhood. Julie Dash’s Daughters of the Dust is an example of cinematic mastery that Black women don’t have to watch with the oppositional gaze. To quote hooks again, Daughters “[does] not simply offer diverse representations, [it imagines] new transgressive possibilities for the formulation of identity.” The film doesn’t seek to flip the male gaze on its head, per se, by objectifying the men instead of the women. Daughters of the Dust hypothesizes the complexity and agency that audiences might see in more Black female characters if we just paid them some attention.
The Bastardization of the Black Female Body in American Media (2017)

It’s no secret that Black women receive unfair treatment in American society. Systemically, Black women were among the last demographics to receive the right to vote, and still earn lower incomes than both their white and male counterparts. But how is Black women’s oppression legitimized through our hegemony (i.e. the language we use, values we hold, images we respond to, and the ideas we entertain)? In this paper, I’ll argue that the bodies of Black women are criticized in the media to the point where their work is overshadowed or otherwise belittled, while their White counterparts’ are not. Serena Williams, Michelle Obama and Gabourey Sidibe serve as prime examples of this double standard. Despite excelling in their respective work spaces, their physical appearances are often used to demean or take the focus off of their accomplishments. Misogynoir is a point of convergence between anti-Black racism and sexism. It is a form of oppression felt only by Black women. Historically, Black people in general have been and are continually represented as aggressive and inherently animalistic in the media. Similarly, women experience objectification in media seemingly regardless of their profession. Black women, then, are the victims of intensified scrutiny because they exist at this particular intersection of race and gender. To highlight this intersection, civil rights leader Malcolm X remarked in a 1962 speech, “The most disrespected person in America is the Black woman. The most unprotected person in America is the Black woman. The most neglected person in America is the Black woman.” Indeed, Black women are left at an extremely vulnerable state, as they stand to suffer from slanderous rhetoric from White men, White women (often in the name of feminism), and Black men (often in the name of pro-Blackness) simultaneously (hooks, 1984). Patricia Hill Collins, in her 1990 book “Black Feminist Thought, ” uses a chapter called “Mammies, Matriarchs and Other Controlling Images,” to trace the historical context of hegemonic portrayals of Black women. Two of the most prevalent tropes still ascribed to Black women in today’s media are the Matriarch and the Jezebel. Although these caricatures of African American women also detail work habits and socioeconomic status, the interpersonal attributes are most easily projected onto the majority of Black women. The Matriarch is described as “too strong.” She is hostile and emasculating. The Jezebel describes a Black woman who is cast as a sexual deviant. She is hypersexual and therefore rapeable. As a slave woman, her sexuality and physicality as a whole is in the possession of the White man. In the end, we see Black women categorized as either unattractively “manish” and animal-like or overtly sexual. In the case of tennis extraordinaire Serena Williams, these seemingly opposing archetypes are employed in conjunction with one another to paint her as a masculine, innately unattractive sexual object. In 2009, Fox Sports columnist Jason Whitlock said that Williams had “smothered” her body’s natural beauty in an “unsightly layer of thick, muscled blubber,” and referred to her behind as an “oversized backpack.” In commenting on a Black catsuit Williams wore when she won the 2002 US Women’s Singles title, a writer for Sunday Telegraph said the following: “On some women, [the catsuit] might look good...On Serena, it only serves to accentuate a superstructure that is already bordering on the digitally enhanced and a rear end that I will attempt to sum up as discretely as possible by simply referring to it as “‘formidable.”’” (Gibson, 2002) And while Serena isn’t the only female tennis player whose backside is probably watched a little too closely, hers is definitely not spoken of in the way that her peers’ are. Anna Kournikova, who Serena has bested each time they competed, has had her behind described as “photogenic” and “sensational.” Her Doubles partner Jonas Bjorkman even said that after losing Wimbledon in 2002, he took solace in having been paid to watch Kournikova’s backside. What we begin to see here is the Black female body being held as a subject of interest for its supposedly exotic lore, but rejected in any sexual capacity in favor of the White female body. Williams’ competitors also have a record of othering her physical presence on the court. After losing to Serena in the 2001 US Open, Justine Henin lamented, “[Serena] was too strong, aggressive and powerful.” Williams’ other colleagues have said that she “hits the ball too hard” (DiManno, 2002), and blamed her “raw aggression” for her victories over her “non-Amazonian” competitors (Peyser & Samuels, 1998). These comments also present a degree of transphobia, which plagues Black women who embody the qualities of the Matriarch. Even the prestige of the White House isn’t enough to protect Black women from misogynoir. During the presidency of Barack Obama, First Lady Michelle Obama led a nationwide campaign encouraging Americans to develop and increased focus on health and nutrition. Instead of doing just that, conservatives came out of the woodwork to attack her figure at each chance, most zeroing in on her arms and behind. As an advocate for home gardening and exercise, Mrs. Obama became well known for her toned biceps, which she often shows in sleeveless dresses. Because having muscle is, under the rules of patriarchy, a masculine trait, the media jumped to portray Mrs. Obama as the aggressive, emasculating Black woman. Photos of Michelle listening intently or speaking passionately about her goals for her time in the White House were used in fabricated stories about her “going ballistic.” Then came the outright labeling of Mrs. Obama as transgender. Radio host and conspiracy theorist Alex Jones, after referring to the former First Lady as “Michael,” opined: “She doesn’t look like any Black woman I’ve ever known. She’s got shoulders that are wider than a man’s, which physiologically doesn’t happen. You can put three heads on a man’s shoulders, and two heads on a woman’s shoulders – that’s known anatomy.” Although Alex Jones doesn’t have a degree in biology –or anything else for that matter– his comments represent an undervaluing of the Black female body. His rhetoric suggests that Black women have no autonomy over their bodies, leaving them open to unsolicited interpretation. Also choosing to take aim at Mrs. Obama’s body, Wisconsin congressman Ben Sensenbrenner said, “she lectures us on eating right while she has a large posterior herself.” While ignoring the potentially life- saving plans Mrs. Obama spoke of, Sensenbrenner sought to discredit and silence her by personally attacking her body. Melania Trump, the new First Lady of the United States, has not received a fraction of the scrutiny Mrs. Obama did even before Barack’s election. While Mrs. Obama’s bare arms have sparked conversations challenging not only her cisgender identity but her respect for the white House, there has essentially been universal silence about Mrs. Trump’s multiple nude photoshoots. Since when are shoulders and arms more deserving of outraged think pieces and crude comments than the existence of actual nude photos featuring a First Lady? This is just one of the ways in which White privilege will mobilize (or in this case, desensitize) to preserve the sanctity of White women, while throwing Black women to the wayside. An intersectional feminist’s approach would be to respect the bodily autonomy of both women, as opposed to simply criticizing both equally. The years of body shaming which have plagued actress Gabourey Sidibe’s career serve as a glaring case point. Since her acting debut in 2009’s “Precious,” Sidibe has been heckled and insulted over her size by celebrities and online trolls alike. She recalls being told by Joan Cusack to “quit [show] business” because of her image, and Howard Stern also felt compelled to comment on her size on SiriusXM in 2010: “There’s the most enormous fat Black chick I’ve ever seen. She is enormous. Everyone’s pretending she’s a part of show business and she’s never to going to be in another movie. She should have gotten the Best Actress award because she’s never going to have another shot. What movie is she gonna be in? [Oprah’s] telling an enormous woman the size of a planet she’s going to have a career.” Here, Stern brings up Sidibe’s race and size in an effort to negate her ability to secure future roles. This goes along with the notion that fat people are not capable of living “the good life” or being genuinely happy (Kwan & Graves, 2013). In addition, Sidibe received hateful commentary after filming a sex scene for the second season of Empire. She replied to her critics by saying “[The criticism] implies that people with bigger bodies don’t find love and aren’t worth loving.” The double standard, however, lies in the fact that “plus-sized” White actresses like Melissa McCarthy, Rebel Wilson and Amy Schumer (who, combined, have the same number of Academy Award nominations as Sidibe), don’t receive the same level of shaming that Sidibe has endured. Their respective abilities to continue working in the film industry are not questioned or denied. The media’s harsh judgement of the Black female body is not limited to celebrities. Patrice Brown, better known as #TeacherBae, is a Black fourth grade teacher in Atlanta who became the subject of criticism in September 2016. After Brown posted a picture of herself in her classroom, Twitter and Instagram users began a national debate, mainly questioning whether her attire was appropriate for a school setting. In the picture, Brown is seen smiling in a form-fitting pink dress. After comparing the same knee-length, short sleeved dress on other body types, it became apparent that the backlash wasn’t about the dress, but instead the curved Brown possesses, which were only outlined by the body contouring material. This instance of oversexualization of the Black female body didn’t remain a virtual issue. The Atlanta Public School system released a statement saying that Brown “was given guidance regarding the Atlanta Public School Employee Dress Code, the use of social media and Georgia Code of Ethics for Educators, and she has been cooperative in addressing her presence on social media.” Brown subsequently deleted all of her social media posts picturing her in the classroom. Many of the people criticizing Patrice Brown for sharing a photo of herself neglected to inquire about her teaching ability or efficiency in the workplace. They chose instead to demonize her for existing in her natural form. Many Black women with curves experience this marginalization as their bodies are made out to be provocative no matter what they wear. The negative attention being shown to these Black women’s bodies is reminiscent of that which was shown to Saartjie "Sarah" Baartman. Baartman was a South African woman born of the Khoikhoi tribe sometime in the 1770s. Around the age of 35, she traveled to Europe (some believe against her will), where she was given the name Hottentot Venus. Due to her large backside and full breasts, as well as elongated labia, Baartman was paraded through freak shows and eventually sold to an animal trainer. She was studied and used as a basis for scientific racism because her body was so different from that of the average European woman. After a lifetime of servitude and humiliation, Baartman died of an unknown inflammatory disease while in Paris. She had only lived to be about 40 years old. Following her death, European men had her dissected, mutilated, and her remains put on display in France up until 1974. Baartman’s story is a historical foreshadowing of the White gaze on Black female bodies which still persists today. As earlier stated, there are women, many of them White, who believe that all women are monolithically oppressed. There are also Black men who believe that all Black people are equally oppressed. Members of either group who believe such claims are considering things from –two albeit separate and extremely different– places of privilege. Though all women and all Black people may be negatively portrayed in media, to think that the Black woman’s experience is shared across racial/gender lines is privileged. bell hooks describes this as “a conscious mystification of social divisions” (hooks, 1984). Black women are, at times, oppressed by overt racism with sexist undertones, and, at times, overt sexism with racist undertones. This intersection, at which only Black women exist, leaves them with unique transgressions to overcome which no Black man, White woman, and certainly no White man will face. American media must strive to reshape our ideas on the Black female body and aim to see them as neither animalistic nor hypersexual, but with a right to neutrality and agency. It is imperative that we actively work to deconstruct narratives that limit what Black women can be or feel.