“I don’t mean to sound racist but Black…” Lindsay says to Sarah before I tune her out. I’m forced to tune them out weekly. Daily, even. Their ramblings from the other side of the room are filled with nothing but comment after comment dripping with idiotic subtle racism and classist diatribes. These comments are loud enough for everyone in our office to hear. Sometimes, these rants are overt and vulgar. Those perplex me the most as they are loud enough for Human Resources—who do nothing to curb this situation—to hear.
I wish that they would whisper.
I wish that they would whisper their racism.
I wish that they would use their inside voices.
I wish that they would make eye contact with me or with Patrick, the only other Black person in our office. Eye contact would surely, hopefully, make them feel badly. Eye contact would surely, hopefully, at least make them reconsider.
Sometimes, when their comments are particularly outrageous, Patrick and I make eye contact. It’s all that’s needed. A look. The look.
Once, when Lindsay complained about, “Those Chinese girls. You know the ones? The rich ones? I wonder what their parents do for work? I know they don’t work. I bet they have Jewish husbands. They all do. I can say it. I’m Jewish,” Patrick texted me “yt people.” All lower case. Spelled like the funny activists on Twitter. Or the trolls. I never know the difference.
Usually, we just make eye contact. No texts required. Sometimes he just shakes his head and sucks his teeth. But most of the time, he pretends not to pay attention. This is a tool most Black people in America have perfected: pretending not to hear those itchy comments about “those people.” Knowing you are “those people” and not one of “the good ones” is disorienting and foreboding. This type of pretend ignorance is the best way to conduct yourself in these types of situations. The situation of being Black in American life, in corporate spaces, or otherwise. Patrick keeps his eyes deep in his computer screen and his headphones turned up loud. While this type of disconnection fields gossip about “unfriendly Black coworkers,” it is a survival tool to fend off annoying questions about Black hair or fried chicken. You can simply touch the bend of your brow near your headphones and mouth “Sorry.” You may get a face of disgust or an allusion to your “rudeness,” but at least you don’t have to hear about how Lindsay, “Feels so terribly for those kids in The South Side.”
Patrick has perfected this skill, listening to music so loudly that I can hear whatever the song of the day is, even with my own headphones on. Patrick always listens to new rap. The stuff you’d hear when out at a trendy club, the stuff made by mumble rappers and people with huge chains from Atlanta. People like The Migos or something equally fun. Some would call this music mindless, but I wouldn’t.
I wonder if the rampant homophobia in rap bothers Patrick. He once went on a rant about how Rick Ross is the most despicable human being because of his lyrics on “What’s Free,” a great song featuring Jay Z, Meek Mill, and the usage of the f word. Not that one. The other one. The one that burns my throat when I think about it. The one that reminds me of blood and immediate danger. Of homophobia in my own family. Of Mercedes Williamson. Of fear. Of people like Patrick. And D, who went through conversion camp. Who is still gay, and brings his partner to family functions. Who my family “prays for” each time they see him.
“He just got away on the skin of his teeth,” Patrick said, “After that disgusting shit a couple of years ago.” He was talking about Ross’ infamous “U.O.E.N.O” line: “Put molly all in her champagne / She ain’t even know it / I took her home and I enjoyed that / She ain’t even know it.”
The horrific lyrics depicted the rapper placing ecstasy in an unknowing women’s drink and then presumably having sex with her unconscious, unknowing body. I shouldn’t call it sex, since sex implies consent. But I can’t bring myself to say the other word out loud. The word that implies force. The word that implies criminality. Once you place that word, the r one, on Black men, the historical issues come in. There is the deafening sound of Black cis men crying about “lynch mobs” that are equally as historically true, as they are presently false. There is the whisper of “yes and,” nuance that difficult situations lack. There is the loud roar of the Black gender divide that silences Black women.
The lyrics were not only egregious because of their content, but also tone. The tone was a joyful one: laughter connected to an assault. A catchy beat connected to something one out of three women face in this country. These inclusions were just as dangerous as the lines themselves. They continued a legacy of normalizing this behavior. The outrage was slow with the lyrics, but it was there. People, mostly Black women, recognized the Rape Culture depicted in that language and called for condemnation. A Change.com petition was created to have Ross and several other rappers, “held accountable for their lyrics (Cubarria,1).” Ross eventually apologized on Twitter, saying that, “Before I am an artist, I am a father, a son, and a brother to some of the most cherished women in the world (Cubarria, 2).”
I love when oppressors begin apologies by posturing the people closest to them who live in the group they’re oppressing. They evoke their Black mom, their Chinese girlfriend, their Puerto Rican bestie before the words, “I’m sorry,” ever touches their lips. Or, “I was an idiot for saying that.” Nothing happened to Ross, legally or status wise. He was free to make songs about all the women he sleeps with, and his distaste for gay men.
It is not the problem of cis straight Black men alone. I listen to rap. The misogyny bothers me sometimes. But sometimes I don’t even hear it. Other times, I sing along with it. Maybe that’s what Patrick does with the blatant homophobia.
Once, after a difficult workday, Patrick invited me out to Boxers, in Washington Heights: The gay club chain known for good music, overpriced drinks, fun Drag nights, and scantily clad dressed bottle boys, colloquially referred to as “trade,” as Patrick educated me on. Trade is a term meaning a hyper-masculine looking Black or Brown gay man who could often “pass” for straight.
When we arrived at Boxers, we glided in with ease. Patrick knew a guy who knew a guy who knew the bartender who knew the door guy. As we made our way through the crowd, loud house music and smoke circled my lunges. I felt appropriately invisible as an observer, happy to be welcomed into the space. I noticed how Boxers was filled with white patrons. Although we were in Washington Heights, it was as if we were in Chelsea, or Bushwick, or any other gentrified white neighborhood. This contrasted interestingly with the bottle boys, the trade. They were all overwhelmingly men of color: dark, glistening beacons, half-dressed, and impressively toned masculine men among a sea of whiteness. Their faces were always plastered with smiles that forced an air of effortlessness; the type of confidence that only someone who knows they’re desired has. They reminded me a lot of Patrick in appearance and demeanor.
We met up with Patrick’s friends. They were mostly white gay men with a few people of color sprinkled in the group, but not many. There were a few Black partners and hook-ups of the night, clinging onto Patrick’s white friends.
“Uh no, Pat. You did not bring fish here,” his friend, Mark, lovingly cooed. Mark was a cute white guy wearing a sequin blazer and no shirt underneath. He had an accent that could’ve been Southern, with a charming, breezy, twang. He was everything. I was fish. Patrick looked mildly amused.
“I only hang with the best fish, Mark,” he said as he scooped me up into his arms, wrapping his arms around my waist, fueling solidarity. He held me close all the way to the dancefloor and his friends quickly followed. The energy Patrick had cultivated made our shared experiences more apparent, and I felt more at ease in their space. He didn’t have to do that, but I thanked him for it.
We danced wildly to enthusiastic house mixes until 2 a.m., when the DJs changed. I watched everyone glide in and out of their respective moods as a more contemporary music choice started. The shift in the air was heavy for something as innocuous as playing hip-hop at a nightclub. Some patrons were audibly excited to hear limericks by Drake and Future. Others were mildly unimpressed. Mark was the latter.
“Let’s get a drink,” he said, buckling his arm in between mine and Patrick’s, guiding us in tandem.
We headed through a crowd of sweaty, sparkly bodies to the bar, which was surprisingly empty for the hour. It seemed that most of those posted up bar-side were just waiting for the moment that they could shake to something Hot 97 would play.
“I hate rap,” Mark yelled over the music. “It’s so fucking degrading.” A little vicious sting penetrated my heart as me and Patrick shared a look. The look. As if our shared skin shared a brain, and we could communicate underneath the green flashing lights. Just like with Lindsay, the small fire that burns inside when a non-Black person criticizes Black culture, especially Black art, was lit. We may be able to say it, but you can’t. And you shouldn’t.
“C’mon, girl,” Patrick raised his eyebrow. “It’s only entertainment.”
We danced that night to all sorts of “degrading” music that could be considered homophobic, sexist, and classist. And I had fun. That’s the thing, even Mark, with his remark about how he hated degrading rap didn’t leave. Nor did we leave when “Promiscuous Girl” came on, or “Toxic,” or “Blurred Lines,” or any other pop song. Was it all only entertainment? Was it all simply in good fun? Or is that the insidious part? Degradation disguised as entertainment can seep into our brains and force us to believe the constant reflection. Why does it hurt so much when it’s reflected by the men who we are in community with, who we march for, who we want to march for us?
Back at work, while Patrick and I both listened to our favorite rap music, I started to get angry at myself, at Patrick, at the rappers. Then I felt guilt. Rap music and Black culture in general, reflects the greater white supremacist patriarchal society. You can find sexism and homophobia in all genres of music. For instance, several studies have discussed the sexism in country music, which is often caused by the fledgling job market and the need to reformulate white male dominance through sexist conservative language. Noting that, country hits have, “increasingly depicted women as sexual objects instead of employed equals (Leap, 3).” Rap music functions in the same inspirational way for Black men, as rappers depict a lifestyle America has deemed worthy of success. One filled with lavish lifestyles that American Black life can be so devoid of. The music industry placates and regurgitates these isms because they are American values, not just Black ones. America values money, sexism, and power through aggressive images.
Why do I expect more of Black male rappers than of white pop stars or country music bros? Have I been brainwashed by racist media that regards misogyny and homophobia perpetrated by Black men as the most dangerous, threatening forms of these oppressive tactics?
How do you criticize a community you’re a part of, without demonizing their oppressive transgressions to a greater height than the white supremacy that we are both crumbling under? How can Patrick, a gay Black man, and myself, a queer Black woman, love the rap music that throws us both away? Or violently opposes our existence?
“So, it’s not messed up to say that,” I hear Lindsay say. “I mean, that’s just how those people are.” When I think about these comments, I wonder if Lindsay knows who “those people” are. “Those people” are Patrick. And Mark. And the rappers. And Lindsay. And me. “Those people” are complicated, and probably, most definitely, all tragically lost. I don’t know what to do about these ethical moral dilemmas. I don’t know how to decide if my anger should be placed deeper on the Black men I share skin with, or the white women I share gender with, or even the white gays I share queerness with. Or anyone in between with oppression commonalities.
I wish someone would whisper the correct thing to do.
I wish someone would use their inside voices.
Or maybe that’s too easy.
Maybe we need to shout it over some degrading music.
Maybe we need to call out all bigotry and oppression when we see it, especially when we are doing these things to each other.
Maybe we need to listen to the most marginalized people among us for the ideas on what they need, what we all need.
Maybe we all need to make our inside voices, outside voices.
Epilogue
I wrote this piece in the Fall of 2019 without any knowledge that it would become as culturally poignant. Although all my Black and Brown friends who work in corporate spaces, including Patrick, have talked in secret about these issues, none of us would ever think our stories would become newsworthy stories. We never thought anyone would care or listen.
In June of 2020, during our Civil Rights Uprising after the murders of George Flood, Breonna Taylor, Ahmed Aubrey, and countless other Black folks, another phenomenon took hold: people of color were exposing their workplaces to systematic racism. From Bon Appetit, to Everlane, to Refinery29, to Milk, these neoliberal creative spaces had a slew of Black and Brown former employees speaking about their struggles there. Editors-in-Chief were forced to resign, weak apologies were released, money was donated, and changes were promised. A NYTIMES article even detailed several corporate responses to last summer’s events. However, many Black employees still feel as though these actions are not enough and many people, myself included, are skeptical. It is my opinion that without meaningful change in these capitalist, racist, elitist structures, little will be improved. The racism many of us have experienced continues to plague our personal lives and professional careers. How are these companies accounting for that? How have they and others stolen the language of the revolution without really working towards an equitable future?
On June 2nd, 2020, Jamila Thomas, an Atlantic Records executive, and Brianna Agyemang, Platoon Records Senior Artist Campaign Manager, called for a music industry wide blackout called #TheShowMustbePaused. However, the movement was quickly co-opted and became “Blackout Tuesday”—a viral performative movement in which several companies, white influencers, and white folks silenced the #blacklivesmatter hashtags by posting black squares. While it may not have been those folks’ intentions, it speaks to the lack of understanding and listening white and non-Black POC perform when Black people are asking for help. The backlash was swift. Thomas and Agyemang’s original points were muddled. However, they were still able to get their message out there and start some real conversations within the music industry.
The music industry, as all other industries, is systematically racist. Even though several creative contributions are made by Black people, we do not have ownership. Black women in particular suffer within these spaces as we are discriminated against for both our gender and our race, and are often pulled into our individual intersections for support while support is rarely reciprocated. Black trans women even more so, as they are marginalized within many different communities. This piece is a reflection of that. On December 10, 2020, both Thomas and Agyemang were honored as Billboard’s executives of the year. They inspired me to submit this piece. Both women have vowed to continue to work to end racial discrimination in the music industry. We need more of this.
In the year since #Blackouttuesday, several media outlets have discussed what actually has changed since the events of last summer. Notably, on June 6th 2021, in a Code Switch episode entitled “The Racial Reckoning that Wasn’t,” the hosts Gene Demby and Shereen Marisol Meraji note how little has changed since last summer and how many of the promises made by corporations and individuals didn’t pan out. By the end of the summer, PEW Research found that support for BLM remained strong from People of Color, particularly Black and Asian folks, while support from White people went from 60% to 45% in a matter of three months. The LA Times also recently chronicled what had changed and what hadn’t since the reckoning. Several companies who pledged money to BLM still have issues with systematic racial treatment and pay equity. For instance, Amazon, which pledged 10 million to racial justice efforts, has been in the spotlight all year for their mistreatment of their mostly Black and Brown workforce.
The racial inequality claims range from retaliating against employees who wear BLM merch, to low-unequal pay, to lack of promotions, to union-busting, to unfair treatment from higher ups. These issues at Amazon have yet to be resolved and there are several racial discrimination lawsutis currently pending. This isn’t an anomaly at Amazon, but instead a trend at most companies. The LA Times reported that a February 2021 McKinsey report on race in the workplace describes Black employees as, “being 41% less likely to believe promotions are fair and 39% less likely to believe their company’s diversity, equity and inclusion programs are effective than white employees in the same company.” With all of these reports and reflections, it is difficult not to feel discouraged by the performative or lack of action the events of last summer really had. Change is slow and it is frustrating.
However, it is my belief that change will happen if everyone, and I mean everyone, is willing. Despite what news outlets, government officials, and corporate entities may indicate, an equitable future is not a performance. It is not buying White Fragility or posting black squares, or making Juneteenth a federal holiday. Especially when these actions do not counteract the rapid banning of critical race theory across the nation, the constant and rising police brutality against Black folks, and the continuous discrimantion Black employees face at companies that pledge racial equity. I don’t know all the answers, but I do know money helps. Actually donating helps. Listening to folks from marginalized communities you are not a part of helps—and that doesn’t mean contacting random Black people you went to 7th grade with. Talking to your inner-circle is probably the most important thing you can do actively. Shut down grandma at the dinner table. Don’t laugh at your boss’s racist jokes.
Above all, educate yourself. Marginalized folks should not have to continue to educate people on our oppression. Whatever privilege you have: race, sexuality, gender, size, class, funds, it is your responsibility to unpack the oppressions you contribute too. It isn’t an easy task, but if you believe in an equitable future for everyone, it is a necessary step. Lastly, due to the nature of this piece, I felt like it was my responsibility to include some resources for non-Black people to read, donate to, and learn about. (Please, leave your Black friends alone and come back to this list.) Education is beyond literature and donating is beyond big-name organizations, so I’ve included multimedia and links to help you get involved locally wherever you are.
21 Important Resources and Reports for Change and Understanding with Emphasis on Black Voices:
- “How To Fix Racism in the Music Industry, By People in the Music Industry” by The Vice Staff
- “The opportunity to advance racial equity” by Mckinsey & Company
- “Being Black in Corporate America” by The Grapevine
- “Adam Rapport’s assistant of nearly 3 years gives an up-close view of the fallen editor in chief – and how Bon Appetit failed its staffers of color” by Rachel Premack
- “Why We Fight: Understanding Systemic Racism” by Reelblack
- Exterminate All The Brutes by Raoul Peck is streaming on HBO. (I would suggest this interview with Raoul from Democracy Now! on the film after.)
- James Baldwin clip on the Dick Cavett show.
- “Just How White is the Book Industry” by By Richard Jean So and Gus Wezerek
- A PayScale Report from 2021, which shows how gender and race is still a major pay-gap issue.
- “A comprehensive report looking at the legacy of the 19th Amendment and the oppressed people it left out” by Teen Vogue
- “A Poem for Oluwatoyin Salau and Black Women Everywhere” by Poet Aja Monet
- “America’s War on Black Trans Women” by The Harvard Civil Liberties Review
- “Disability, Poverty and Race” by National Disability
- “The emotional cost of being a black woman in America” by Monica Johnson on TEDxBloomington
- “‘Not Racist’ Is Not Enough: Putting In The Work To Be Anti-Racist” by Eric Deggings on NPR
- “White Support For BLM Falls, And A Key Police Reform Effort Is Coming Up Short” on NPR
- “Why Now White People?” by Code Switch
- “The White Elephants In The Room” by Code Switch
- For Harriet video “Throw the Whole System Away with Kimberly Latrice Jones”
- “A lot has changed since George Floyd’s death, but not near enough” OPINION by LZ Granderson
- “An updated list of places to Donate in Support of Communities of color” by New York Mag
A Very Small Nonfiction Reading List:
(Please consider buying from a Black-Owned Bookstore)
- Sister Outsider by Audre Lorde
- How We Get Free: Black Feminism by the Combahee River Collective
- Are Prisons Obsolete by Angela Davis
- Why I’m no longer talking to White People about Race by Reni Eddo-Lodge
- Caste The Origins of Our Discontents by Isabel Wilkerson
- This Will Be My Undoing: Living at the Intersection of Black, Female, and Feminist in (White) America by Morgan Jerkins
- The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin
- Hood Feminism: Notes from the Women That a Movement Forgot by Mikki Kendell
- Stamped From the Beginning: The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America by Ibram X. Kendi
- When They Call You A Terrorist: A Black Lives Matter Memoir by Patrisse Khan-
Cullors, asha bandele; foreword by Angela Davis - Black Futures edited by Kimberly Drew and Jenna Wortham
Works Cited:
Leap, B. (2020), A New Type of (White) Provider: Shifting Masculinities in Mainstream
10.1111/ruso.12276
Cubarrubia, RJ. “Rick Ross Issues Official Apology for ‘Rape’ Lyrics.” Rolling Stone, 25
June 2018, www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/rick-ross-issues-official-apology- for-rape-lyrics-191724/.
Country Music from the 1980s to the 2010s. Rural Sociology. doi: