imprint

I saw Belle on Thursday night and thought I would write a long review here on the blog, but then yesterday I went to another woman-centered event that left me at a loss for words. I changed my teaching schedule this semester so that I have class Thursday morning, Friday night, and Saturday morning. So far my students are *wonderful*—very sweet and candid about how much they’re enjoying the assigned texts and conversations. After class on Thursday I spent the afternoon in my office; lunch was leftover Indian food from the previous day when I met three women colleagues for our monthly debrief. No students came to office hours and so I lingered awhile to look at our department intern’s wedding photos and then I walked from Chambers St. to Loehmann’s at 7th Ave. and 18th. Rosa met me there, we went next door to have dinner at Cafeteria, and then we caught a cab up to Barnard for the opening night of the Athena Film Festival. The room was packed—mostly white women, mostly middle-aged (I think), but there were plenty of students in the room and some very striking Black women. Rosa pointed out one such woman in an elegant black gown and, of course, it was the director, Amma Asante. She was called up on stage to say a few words about the film and then it began. In my film class, students aren’t allowed to talk during a screening. I’m so accustomed to watching films in silence that it’s hard for me to sit in a public theater and that night was no exception. Who knew feminists could be so animated during a movie! Lots of laughter and cheering, which I suppose must have been gratifying to the director. She took questions at the end and then Rosa and I stepped outside and agreed to give feedback to another black woman filmmaker who set up a camera in the lobby. I had so much to say then but now…I don’t know. My students will be required to write a review of the film when it’s released nationwide on May 2. And I encourage everyone to go—I often say I’m over the tragic mulatta narrative, but this one offers something new. The cast is fantastic (especially Penelope Wilton as Aunt Mary) and the costumes are impressive (though Amma shared the torturous process by which the actors were folded into those gowns). I liked that Dido (played by Gugu Mbatha-Raw) was a snob, wore very little makeup, AND didn’t know how to comb her hair—the film was realistic in some ways and less so in others (smooching with your beloved on a public street? I don’t think so). Amma Asante talked about her discovery of Jane Austen’s novels as an adult and her fascination with women’s interior lives and marriage prospects. Dido has her own money in the film, so she doesn’t have to marry—she does so for love, and though I’m not a big romantic, that particular love story was intelligent enough to hold my attention. The Zong case is actually central to the film, and that means I can finally teach Marlene NourbeSe Philip’s book of experimental poetry. I left Barnard that night feeling very satisfied with my life. I like to think I’m always aware of my privilege and in class on Saturday we took turns sharing the ways we experience advantage and disadvantage in society. I talked about what it means to be light-skinned in a white supremacist society and the moments I’ve tried to use my unearned privilege to help others. Then class ended and I got some groceries at Whole Foods before heading back to Brooklyn. I had a quick bite and then walked up to the Brooklyn Museum for a 2pm performance, “Mother Tongue Monologues.” It didn’t start for another hour and I fought to keep my eyes from closing; Barbara Smith was there, seated next to the First Lady of NYC, Chirlane McCray, and the auditorium was full of stylish, attractive black women. I bought a ticket because the event was organized by the Black Women’s Blueprint, and I’d just shared Tony Porter’s TED Talk in my morning class so I hoped to hear him in conversation with other Black male pro-feminists. But I didn’t last that long. A procession began and the stage filled with Black women of various ages—they embraced one another and then stood side by side as a poet and drummer took center stage. Then, one by one, women stepped to the mic and shared their harrowing tales of incest and rape. Within five minutes I was in tears but I knew I didn’t have the right to leave. Bearing witness is important—I tell my students that all the time—so I wiped my eyes and stayed in my seat. Yet by the ninth speaker I couldn’t take any more. I left during the story of the 1944 gang rape of Recy Taylor. When I got home, I found the address for Black Women’s Blueprint. Making a donation and sending copies of my books doesn’t make up for my early departure. And I don’t know if my work will make it into the hands of the young woman who stood at the mic with her friend and described a lifetime of abuse—she looked like she was no more than 17. When I left the museum I thought about Barbara Smith and Chirlane McCray and what it might feel like as a Second Wave feminist to sit and listen to so much suffering. We have far better resources for abused women today thanks to them, but we haven’t actually stopped the abuse. We need films like Belle; we need to see Black women in gorgeous gowns who are independently wealthy and politically engaged. She was a real woman and her story needs to be told. But the harsh, ongoing reality of rape culture can’t be avoided. There is an assault in the film, and I’m sure Dido faced numerous insults that we’ll never know about. But most Black women in British colonies had no protection, no wealth, and no status in society. And though the condition of Black women has improved since then—my privileged life is proof of that—the abuse persists. Those stories need to be told, too. Told—and heard.