Mad Minute: Revenge of the "MANmy"

I am nowhere near expert status on discourses surrounding the mammy figure in black (popular) culture. For more info if that caliber check out research like Kimberly Wallace-Sanders' Mammy: a Century of Race, Gender, and Southern Memory (2007).

While reading Michael Rogin's Blackface, White Noise (1996) I ran across numerous still shots of  what Rogin refers to as "motion picture blackface." While Rogin's book discussed the presence of Jewish blackface actors in the beginning and middle of the 20th century, what caught my attention were two pictures of black men cradling dying white men. I was slightly taken aback when the captions described the black actors as "mammy." 

I wasn't so much taken aback by the actual scenes but by the descriptions of men of color  as "mammy." In my own academic excursions through black popular discourse I've gendered the mammy as a woman. My next train of thought, after seeing what I'd like to call a "MANmy," was if a MANmy was just another route to the Uncle Tom archetype. Docile, nurturing, and often considered a traitor to his own race, the Uncle Tom archetype is often linked back to Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin (1861). While similarities can certainly be drawn, I haven't quite sold myself on Uncle Tom and MANmy being kindred spirits.

While I work through my ideas, a few instances of a contemporary MANmy representations come to mind: Marion Hill, LL Cool J's character from the early 1990s NBC Series In the House, Geoffrey, Joseph Marcell's character on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and Bernie Mac's title character on The Bernie Mac Show. These men, hardly considered soft or a pushover,  still exude something (don't quite know what yet) that softens their masculinity so that it is accessible and consumable to a mixed audience by displaying mammy-esque characteristics that conceal their more masculine qualities.

Of course, my investigation into the MANmy is hardly clean cut. The popular drag roles of Tyler Perry, Eddie Murphy, Jamie Foxx, and Martin Lawrence trouble any understanding or implications about gender and blackness that the MANmy may represent or complicate. To further trouble this (recently) celebrated and anticipated role of black men, one must also consider the shifting racial and power dynamics posited by a 'postracial' era of American public discourse. How do these characterizations of men of color resist or re-affirm markers of African American mens' contemporary experiences? Stay tuned.

 

Mad Minute: When Keepin' It Re-Made Goes Wrong

The street committee released a report that indicated a certain young tellem cat is playing another certain dead (but not really) legend's most memorable role in a movie about oranges. Translation: How the hell Soulja Boy Tellem gon' play Bishop in Juice when that role was and still is immortalized by the dead (but not really) Tupac Shakur? This bothers me on a few levels: not just that Soulja Boy thinks he can fill Tupac's tattoos, but can the dude actually act? Is he gon' try and bring Waka Waka Waka and crew to remake the soundtrack? Replace "Shoot 'Em Up" with "Crank Dat Juice Up?"


Another thought: why are we resuscitating the hood (sub)genre and other early 1990s aesthetics? I'm pretty sure it's not out of nostalgia for days that swiftly past. Is it to introduce this generation to a set of movies that marked an era of Hip Hop's early introductions to mainstream culture and (re)production?


Soulja Boy, follow the path of your rapping forefathers and 'nem: do a cameo on Law and Order as one of Finch's long lost kids, and THEN we'll talk about you taking on a role of this magnitude.


I'm sayin: Tupac didn't dance.

Mad Minute: Wale Needs His Hands (and Rhymes) Back

Apparently Wale downgraded from Pretty Girls to Pretty Bitches that do it with no hands. C'mon, bruh bruh. What happened to lyrical integrity and all that jazz, er, rap? Oh, I know. The record label (who, in some states is the devil) made you do it. "No Hands" sounds like you summoned your inner Bernie Mac. Hey, I'm all for a "muhfucka" here and there but that may as well have been your name for your last few cuts.


I'm hesitant to say that you're a sell out because that term at this time is under negotiation. I will, however, pull a page from my Nana's book with the "I'm so disappointed in you."


So, I suggest you look in the "Mirror Mirror" and reconsider. Had high hopes like Sinatra. We'll leave it at that. 



Yeah, I went there:

Mad Minute: What's it Mean to be a Black Man in the WWE?

It's all my mom's fault that I returned to watching Raw on Monday nights. Okay, maybe it was a little bit of nostalgia for those high school days where I'd watch over the phone with the bestest friend and boo. Nevertheless, I'm in that thang at 9:00pm.


The beginning of last night's episode resulted in an "attach palm to forehead and breathe deeply" moment.  R-Truth, one of the few black wrestlers in the WWE, has (for me at least) secured his spot as this generation's Booker T. Truth's theme song "What's Up" garnered an eyebrow raise. But when dude talked, I had a moment.


The scenario went like this: R-Truth was in line to get a shot at the WWE Championship along with John Cena (who, soon enough, will get his own Mad Minute spot). He was talking to the crowd and another wrestler, John Morrison, interrupted and suckered him out of his title bout. A duped R-Truth royally whooped Morrison's ass after losing his title shot.


My question: what is the worth of blackness in professional wrestling? I don't wanna say or really believe that R-Truth is a hambone coon. But last night he was coon-ish, perpetuating nearly every stereotypical rendering of black masculinity with the exception of his hair. THAT looked like a job by Da Brat's "So Funkdafied" stylist. All black everything - jeans, wrist and arm bands...skin. Topped off with a white spray painted "What's Up?" on his ass. Classy.


On the one hand, R-Truth signifies the violent hypermasculine black body that is both commodifed and perpetuated in American (pop) culture. What becomes complicated, however, is how his particular hyperviolent and hyperaware black male body exists and is contextualized within a voyeuristic space of a few things - (homo)socialism and eroticism, violence, and whiteness. It's a murky undertaking to attempt sort out the discourse needed to properly discuss the implication of body and identity politics and blackness in a very white pro wrestling arena (pun intended).


That's what's up.

Mad Minute: If Nicki's Shittin' On Em I Moved

I had a previous post where I took a stab at trying to deconstruct Nicki Minaj. The result of THAT post was death threats. Well, 'scuse me Nicki Stans but I'm comin' for her round two with her latest single "Shitted On 'Em" or, for you radio edit enthusiasts, "Did It on 'Em."


Aside from sounding like she took a page, er, toilet paper sheet, from Weezy, "Shitted On 'Em" can be broken down a few different ways. It's an even day (4/18) and on even days I'm a feminist so I can do a reading using Kristeva's abjection theory and the song's implications about removal of the black female body, but then it wouldn't be a mad minute write. So, I'm coming at this from a "WTF" critical angle: WTF (who and what) is the bama in the background as Nicki's hype man?!


I've listened to the joint a few times and each time I find myself wanting to punch dude in the thoat (yes, thoat. No typo.) Besides being annoying as f*ck, his ad-libbing represents everything purportedly wrong with corporate Hip Hop - misogynistic dismissal of women as bitches and hoes and an abrasive and distorted hyping up the forefront (f)emcee.  I was extra done when dude has a Don Imus-esque moment: "you nappy headed stale bitches." Pause.


So here's where it gets complicated: Should it be given a pass because he was trying to, um, support Nicki and show her better than other women? Did Nicki give him the green light on that ad libbing in the back? And, for her "Barbz," how do you explain that shit? Does it run along the lines of  "aw sweetie, it's all good to be Nicki's bitch. Well, you're not a bitch. You're my son. Did you listen to the song?' Ehh. Gender bending for the good of....yeah, I got nothin'.

Mad Minute: Am I Getting Old?

There comes a time in every woman's life...where she prefers the edited version of rap. Am I getting old? *gasp and white girl horror movie scream here*


Aw naw, not me. No, not me.


Folks, I find myself preferring the radio friendly version of those Hip Hop joints whose aim is making a woman cringe. You know, those tracks that get a pass because the beat was banging and, well, you were at the club? Yeah. I'm finding myself going past those and preferring the 'watered down' version. What the hell happened? 


I'm hesitant to call it maturity, because I, like many of my southern peers, still find a bass-filled beat irresistible. And, in the event of an emergency, I still need that crunk "beat they ass!" song in my life. Many of my music choices - YoungBloodz, OutKast, Goodie Mob, Pastor Troy, etc. - weren't saints. They cursed, they balled, and they talked about fast womens (yup, womens). But now, for some reason I can't put my finger or ear on, it's different.


Bottom line? To paraphrase a certain trap rapper, "I'd rather listen to your beats than your rhymes." 

SATIRE: For Dope Boys Shufflin'

**Lately, I've been channeling my inner smart ass (pun intended on all layers). I've been writing satirical pieces on some of the foolishness going on in the world, and this character is just one such manifestation. Remember, THESE IS JOKES....sorta. Reader Discretion is advised.**

Dear Legions of Fans and Fans in the Closet,

This is your beloved T.P. Fierce. I always do things fanatically, emphatically, and fantastically, so I decided to write you a letter – not necessarily four pages like Aaliyah, mind you, because I’m not a copycat. After many years of searching for my inner diva, I feel I’ve covered the scope of the black woman experience. I’ve worn a dress and a girdle. That about sums it up.  Now it’s time to search for my inner nigga. I know he’s in there somewhere.   And I wanted to do it with some sass on the silver, er, platinum screen. My latest and perhaps greatest project – after all, I AM T.P. Fierce – is a Hip Hop love story.  So with a do-rag and a champagne flute full of a 40 on deck I began to pen For Dope Boys Shufflin’ in the Trap but Aren’t Too Menacing to Society to Talk to Jesus. I needed to summon my inner grit, so I put on some of the hardest music I know – Prince, Tiye Tribbet, and Souljah Boy. A feat of magnanimous proportions, I prayed about it and was given the green light by the HIGHEST producer, Jesus Christ and Oprah Winfrey.  Without them, I wouldn’t be nothing.

As the portal of blackness to mainstream white America, this was a natural progression for me.  I’ve always found the Hip Hop narrative surrounding black folks static and outdated. Why should we have to venture to the early 1990s to get an understanding of the richness of the hood experience? I could never see myself in those films. I wasn’t from the west coast. I went to church. And I loved Gospel. But T.P. Fierce is all about progression, so now it’s time for me to manhandle my interests so they merge with the popularity of Hip Hop Culture.