From The Veil to The Earbud:
Limits of Black Representation in Music
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From The Veil to The Earbud:
Limits of Black Representation in Music
Dear Mom,
I tried to write this letter in theory. Weaving together well-crafted strands of academic prose, I knew you would take from it what I wanted you to—the editor in you comes out in the most personal, un-academic situations. I got that from you, this appreciation and reverence for published text. When I wrote that email a couple months ago, telling you that I wanted surgery, I clouded my truths with celebrated theorists, as if backing up an argument with credible sources. You understood, to some extent—responding with the same language I had introduced.
I tried to write this letter in a linear way. I wished I had been able to map out my thoughts and feelings from the beginning of this process, over three years ago. I couldn’t do this either. And to try would be to disrespect the inherently nonlinear nature of the silence and constant freewrites that ground my thoughts lately.
From The Veil to The Earbud:
Limits of Black Representation in Music
Double-Consciousness & The Veil
In framing The Souls of Black Folk, W. E. B. Du Bois introduces the notion of double-consciousness, what he describes to be “this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity” (Du Bois 8). This phenomenon, Du Bois argues, is majorly responsible for perpetuating internalized racism and the division of races he calls the “color-line,” the greatest issue we face today.
I am on a date with my girlfriend at Mamma Maria, one of the best restaurants in the North End of Boston. We have been saving up for this date for weeks, excited to get all “dolled up” and take the train into the city. I don my blazer, my “nice” skinny jeans, and a tie, and she wears her favorite black dress.
It’s one of those restaurants that has rules, and isn’t afraid to post them because the food is so good and the atmosphere so nice that no one would think twice about following them. PLEASE AVOID CELLPHONE USE—I can spot it in three different places along the wall from where I am sitting. The waiter approaches. “Good evening. What can I get for you, ma’am?” I begin to respond, but he is talking to my girlfriend. She orders. “And for you, sir?”
The word is always spoken like a punch in the gut, like extra effort has been made to make sure I really hear it, like the speaker can make the word truer for himself if he just speaks it a little louder and with more articulation.
Questions
- How is the issue of transgender medical care handled in the prison system?
- How must transgender medical care be framed so that it is deemed acceptable and worthy of time and money in the eyes of both the prison system and the public?
- How does the issue of mental health care in prisons enter into this conversation, and how does this impact the efforts of both mental health and transgender activists?
Background
Even before I attended public high school in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I knew the statistical racial makeup of Cambridge Rindge and Latin. This, to me, is a perfect indication of the atmosphere surrounding race in my hometown. Our numbers were something to be proud of—something we had drilled into the minds of kids should they ever be quizzed on “diversity issues” by family members or friends from neighboring towns (even now, I struggle to suppress the urge to include the numbers, as if it could prove something about me, about where I come from). Caught up in White Cambridge Liberalism and committed to studying large-scale, historical examples of racism and injustice, I conveniently ignored the everyday injustices that were happening all around me. Why were the junior high kids in the “Take a Break” chair more often than not students of color? Why, despite the impressive diversity of my classrooms throughout elementary school, were all of my close friends white and middle class?