Michael Eric Dyson (6 page)

In the positive-versus-negative framework, questions of black identity usually attract black-and-white answers because there is often a black-and-white view of the issues at hand. In complex-versus-simple views of black identity, there is a much more complicated and multilayered view of black culture at work. Simple views of black life—whether stereotypical, archetypal or antitypical, and to be sure, there is a big difference between them—chase nuance and contradiction
to the sidelines. An identity or issue is either positive or negative, either right or wrong. The positive-versus-negative outlook obscures the way challenging concepts of identity can be dismissed as negative because they don’t accord with dominant black views. For many blacks, gays and lesbians are viewed negatively because their lifestyles challenge rigid, fundamental black theological beliefs. A book that uplifts the radical legacy of Martin Luther King, Jr., is viewed by many blacks as negative because it also honestly treats his alleged promiscuity and plagiarism.
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A focus on the positive simply can’t guarantee a full and engaging view of black life. A preference for hip-hop artists who are positive (no cursing, no self-denigrating epithets, no violent references to the ghetto) often overlooks the question of whether they have intellectual depth and the ability to flow. By contrast, rappers viewed as negative—if for no other reason than they employ the word “nigga” in their repertoire, a charge, by the way, that can be made against many rappers otherwise considered to be positive—may possess these abilities in abundance. And the same rapper who revels in a woman’s finely proportioned behind may also speak against racism and on behalf of the poor, even as he encourages them not to look at hip-hop as their salvation.
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There is a larger question at stake for the advocates of complex black identity: Does this notion of blackness honor the variability and multiplicity of black identity, and does it account for the contradictions and conflicts, and the good and bad, that characterize black life? Black folk have often avoided such complexity because destructive white stereotypes of black
identity have been so widely disseminated. We are loath to expose ugly dimensions of black life to a white public that is often hungry for confirmation of black pathology while failing to see the same problems in its own backyard. Black culture has, therefore, become fixed in defining black identity; only the positive, redeeming and virtuous will do. That’s understandable, but still shortsighted and, on occasion, needlessly defensive. Although most groups don’t have to pay the heavy identity tax that blacks do for negative information circulating in the culture, it is still a gesture of racial maturity to embrace our complexity, a move that pains those stuck on positive-versus-negative, as Cosby often has been. The only exception he has been willing to make is to “air the dirty laundry” of poor black folk, while the habits and behaviors of other black communities are spared public hashing.

The styles of black identity offer help in addressing the status of black identity, or the thorny issue of black authenticity, of what is real in black culture. The nagging worry of authenticity is whether black folk have strayed too far from the old landmarks of cultural identity. The status of black identity has become urgent with the rise of hip-hop culture and its mantra of “keep it real,” which often means honoring the ghetto roots of black identity. But a prior question of black authenticity, raised by jazz musician Gene McDaniels thirty-five years ago, still resonates, namely, “make it real compared to what?”
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Black folk engage the question of authenticity to distinguish between identities that are intrinsic and organic to the culture and those that are imported, or even imposed. This is what Cosby has in mind when he chides black youth
for wearing their “hat on backwards, pants down around the crack . . . and all kinds of needles and things” in their bodies, asking, “What part of Africa did this come from? We are not Africans.” He’s defining what is authentic to black American culture by implying that these traits don’t reflect African roots, and by arguing that black Americans are
not
Africans, offering a double dose of authenticity claims.

Authenticity anxiety is only heightened as figures and forces outside the culture play a bigger role in helping those inside it find their voices. There is heated debate, for instance, about whether hip-hop culture reflects genuine aspects of black culture or whether it is manufactured by advocates of consumer culture out to exploit black identity for the marketplace. Of course, a complex vision of black identity holds that both of these things are true. It is those who resent the marketplace’s intrusions and its corruptions of black identity—and that certainly includes archetypal advocates like Cosby as well as many fans of the art form, those most likely lumped under the antitypical rubric—who question whether “real” black youth culture really draws from emotional and intellectual roots within the culture. Some go even further and question whether the identities proclaimed in hip-hop as cutting-edge and countercultural are largely the creations of shrewd marketers out to make a buck by merchandising black pathologies. While those who fall inside the antitypical camp might hold this to be true—and those who have a complex view of black culture might agree—this position is most forcefully argued by defenders of a simple view of black culture. Marketing and merchandising are not new, even
if they bear closer scrutiny because they have rarely been as strong and seductive a force as they are now. Neither should we forget that some of the ideas and images presently circulating in hip-hop, from the black rebel and outlaw to the cultural griot, have been around for quite a while in the culture.

The question of authenticity shouldn’t be dismissed, just rendered in more complex fashion as we probe the roots of black identity. It makes sense, for example, to ask whether low-slung, beltless pants and stringless shoes, both styles of urban gear that mimic prison clothing, are authentically black. It should be obvious that such styles can claim no direct lineage in black life; but it is equally obvious that the commercial and creative use made by blacks of elements outside the culture is indeed an authentic black cultural trait. It should also be obvious that claims to authenticity do not resolve the ethical issues of identity. Whether something is authentic or not doesn’t settle whether authenticity is a good or bad thing, a productive or destructive force.

The Cosby Show
was integral to heated cultural debates about whether the images projected on the show were real, that is, representative of actual black life and the conditions we confront, or creations of commercial television that distort the facts. As Henry Louis Gates, Jr., argued in his essay, “TV’s Black World Turns—But Stays Unreal,” the black “fixation with the presence of black characters on TV has blinded us to an important fact that ‘Cosby,’ which began in 1984, and its offshoots over the years demonstrate convincingly: There is very little connection between the social status of black Americans and the fabricated images of black
people that Americans consume each day.”
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Speaking to another dimension of “real,” the relation between aesthetic creations and political status, Gates contends that “the representations of blacks on TV is a very poor index to our social advancement or political progress.” Gates also suggests that the blending of Cosby’s television image and his real-life persona, like that of other successful blacks, increases the likelihood that their individual prosperity will be seen as representative of all blacks, especially as the boundaries between fiction and fact are overcome through marketing and advertising. “Today, blacks are doing much better on TV than they are in real life,” Gates writes, “an irony underscored by the use of black public figures (Mr. Cosby, Michael Jackson, Michael Jordan, Bobby McFerrin) as spokesmen for major businesses.” Gates says that when “Mr. Cosby, deadpan, faces the camera squarely and says, ‘E. F. Hutton. Because it’s my money,’ the line blurs between Cliff Huxtable’s successful career and Mr. Cosby.”
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The question of black authenticity gathers all the intersections of black life in miniature; it portrays the relation between identity and class, culture, gender, ideology, sexual orientation, region, religion, age and the like. Some blacks think that “real” blacks don’t vote Republican, marry outside the race, adopt gay lifestyles, support abortion, bungee jump, climb mountains, attend the opera, or love country music. These views reveal the tribalism that can trump complex views of black life. Proud of their roots, some blacks worship them. But roots should nourish, not strangle, black identity. To be sure, some versions of black identity that were offered
as an alternative to simple archetypes, for instance, antitypical celebrations of the thug, gangsta or the “real nigga,” often come off as the only authentic vision of blackness going, a temptation for the exponents of all notions of blackness. I’m afraid that’s the trap into which Cosby has too often fallen in his criticisms of young people and the poor. Ultimately, “real” or “fake” has as much to do with the politics we practice, the goals we project for black life and the means we advocate to achieve freedom and self-expression as it does with the existence of an objective blackness. “Real” is the by-product of a dynamic struggle, one that is still very much alive.

The strategies of black identity promote a provisional response to the stages, styles and status of black identity. The strategies of blackness point to how black folk manage their identities on a cosmic level. These strategies have primarily to do with how we view our black identities—and how they play out—in relation to the dominant culture. If status is internal to black culture, then strategies are the outward face of black identity, how we offer the world a picture of our blackness. The first strategy is accidental blackness; we are human beings who by accident of birth
happen
to be black. The message this strategy of blackness sends to the white world is: “Our blackness is only the most obvious—but surely not the most important—element of our identities. We are human beings with the same likes, wants, needs, desires and aspirations as you.” Cosby has consistently held true to this position, and as the journalistic sources cited above prove, he has been received that way in white society. As
Newsweek
suggested, “Bill Cosby is not a Negro comic; he is a comic
who happens to be a Negro.”
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And as Cosby insisted, “The story about me is not the story of a black man, but of a man. What happens to me, happens to just a man.”
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Clarence Thomas, Condoleezza Rice and Tiger Woods (“The bottom line is that I am an American . . . and proud of it! That is who I am and what I am. Now with your cooperation, I hope I can just be a golfer and a human being”) join Cosby in this category.
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The second strategy is incidental blackness; we are proud to be black, but it is only one strand of our identity. The message this strategy of blackness presents to the white world is: “Our blackness is important, but we do not spend our days thinking about it, nor do we believe that race is nearly as important a factor in the nation as it used to be.” The strategy of incidental blackness relies upon cautiously acknowledging the historic force of race while proclaiming its erosion in contemporary affairs. Colin Powell and Barack Obama, among others, fit here. Finally, there is intentional blackness; we are human beings who are proud of our blackness and see it as a critical, though surely not the exclusive, aspect of our identity. The message this strategy of blackness sends to the white world is: “We love ourselves and our culture, and other cultures as well. We embrace the political aspect of our blackness. We don’t want to forget our blackness because it is central to our identities, but we also understand that in a culture still plagued by racism, we can’t afford to forget our identities because we know the dominant culture hasn’t either.” Martin Luther King, Jr., Jesse Jackson, Ella Baker, Malcolm X and a host of others belong here.

The strategies of blackness permit black folk to negotiate the white world while remaining sane and balanced. Black folk may pass in and out of various strategies over a lifetime. And the focus on race in these strategies surely doesn’t block the consideration of other equally compelling features of identity rooted in gender or sexual orientation or religion or class. Those with a simple view of blackness fixed on archetypal representations of identity may find comfort in strategies of accidental blackness that treat racism as if it didn’t exist. Even if blacks disagree with such a strategy, they understand the racial fatigue that can make such a prospect enticing. In turn, those with a complex view of blackness who may embrace antitypical black identities might favor an intentional strategy in making arguments for racial justice in the workplace or in higher education. These strategies of blackness are used in varying ways and degrees in different contexts at different times, so that a person who is intentional in one setting—say, on the front lines of a protest before the Supreme Court to preserve affirmative action—may be incidental at the company picnic. Circumstances, and, of course, political and ideological factors, and one’s take on the stages, struggles and status of black identity, determine what strategy one employs to survive. Cosby has favored the strategy of accidental blackness for most of his career; his departure from it to evoke intentional blackness, and thus to bolster his authority to criticize the poor, shouldn’t be overlooked.