The New Broom Sweeps Clean, But The Old Broom Knows The Corners
Portrayals of inter-generational dialogue should be more prevalent
Please don’t take this the wrong way.
Let me state at the outset that I am a fan of Michaela Coel so please don’t come for me the way you (or people adjacent to you) come for others, like, Beyonce’ critics. I’m on your team!
I loved Michaela Coel’s “I May Destroy You” on HBO. I found its presentation to be fresh, exciting, almost other-worldly. I was transfixed every episode. I joined with the chorus of those who exalted Coel, and I was happy for her winning the 2021 Emmy for Outstanding Writing for a Limited or Anthology Series or Movie.
But …
Something has disturbed me ever since I watched the series — something in addition to sexual assault — and, well, I feel that now is as good a time as any to get it off my chest.
It’s not Coel’s writing that I have a problem with. It’s not the characters or their arcs. It’s not the subject matter. It’s the portrayal on screen of the lives of the characters that disturbs me. I should also state here that Insecure with another Black woman protagonist, Issa Rae, has a similar trigger for me. Let me explain as best I can.
When I was growing up there was a family of five that lived down the block from me. The oldest child was a girl; actually, Lynne* was a young woman with an ex-husband and a child, and she was good friends with Jacqui*, another young woman who lived directly across the street from me. The story goes that one night, Lynne and Jacqui went to a party together and Lynne left the party with a man she had met there. Much later, Lynne’s body was found in an alley somewhere in Los Angeles. Because I was too young to be friends with Lynne her death didn’t really traumatize me. But I have remembered her and that story all these years.
As a young woman growing up, Lynne’s death was not the only cautionary tale in my catechism into Black womanhood. I had a mother, an older sister and at least one aunt who would tell me the do’s and don’ts of dating men, many of which would be repeated once my first niece was born. The first rule, if not one of the first, was that if you go somewhere together with your friend(s) you leave together with your friend(s). You do not split up. Imagine how shocked I was to find out that all young Black women did not know that, and that all young Black women did not have the benefit of wise counsel from older women.
In Coel’s “I May Destroy You,” the protagonist Arabella (portrayed by Coel) goes to a bar with her friend Simon (Aml Ameen) and others where her drink is spiked and she is sexually assaulted. As the story unfolds we find that she had been left behind at the bar; in fact her friend Simon, who wants to leave with his “undercover lover,” calls Arabella’s best friend Terry (Weruche Opia) to ask what to do because he feels conflicted about leaving Arabella. It is Terry who gives him the “go ahead” to leave her at the bar. Arabella eventually learns the truth of what happened that night and, in one of the most touching scenes I’ve ever witnessed, forgives Terry for her role in this tragedy.
We follow Arabella as she grapples with attempting to remember her rape as well as what comes with such a violation. While most of Arabella’s life revolves around her friends and her writing career, in one episode, we see her at a family dinner where, during a break, she tells her mother (Michelle Greenidge) what happened to her. And herein lies my issue. We are shown that Arabella’s mother is a loving figure whose happiness is having her children near her, as evidenced by her dialogue. In the following scene we can tell that Arabella’s mother was devastated to learn that her child had been the victim of such a horrendous attack. We can see her doing all she can to keep it together at the dinner table. Watching her struggle was almost as devastating as the event she was reacting to.
Am I to believe that Arabella’s mother never spoke with her about partying dos and don’ts when she was coming up? I doubt it.
But I didn’t see it.
Why are the portrayals of young Black people in film and TV, specifically women, interacting with elders for counsel and guidance seemingly non-existent?
In an episode of Insecure Molly (Yvonne Orji), the best friend of series protagonist Issa Rae, attends the vow renewal of her parents where she finds out that her father (Gregg Daniel) cheated on her mother (L. Scott Caldwell) many moons ago. The news is overwhelming to Molly who now has a different opinion of her father. Yet, this occurs at the exact same time that Molly herself is engaged in a relationship with a married man (Sarunas Jackson). Silly hypocrisy aside, Molly has two living parents, who are still married to one another, in an obviously loving relationship they have chosen to celebrate by renewing their marital vows to one another. How are these two — Molly’s parents — not the default go-to for dating and relationship advice? How?
Here in the United States, Black parents have “The Talk” with their male children — and increasingly their female children — about ways to safely interact with law enforcement. The concept of “The Talk” and its contents have been widely documented: don’t run, keep your hands where they can see them, don’t talk back or get smart, be polite. Less discussed or widely known is “The Talk” that many Black women have with their daughters on ways to safely interact with men: don’t get in cars with strangers (men), stay away from dark or secluded areas, don’t leave your drink unattended. And as mentioned earlier, if you go somewhere together with your friend(s), you leave together with your friend(s). You do not split up.
“The Talk” for Black girls/young women is not as well documented in popular culture, but it does exist.
It is not my intention to victim-blame survivors of sexual assault, and I sincerely hope it’s also not my impact. My concern is the seeming lack of communication between the young and elders, specifically women, when it comes to advice, counsel, guidance. I know this is fiction that I am watching; whether based on real life/true stories is actually not relevant. What is relevant is the power of our imagination to create the reality we want, the reality that we need. The reality that we should and must see.
Relationships between Black women and their daughters can be complicated. Very. Complicated. It is absolutely, positively, entirely possible that Arabella’s mom never, ever sat her down to have “The Talk” with her. And it’s also possible that Molly felt any advice her mother had to give was worthless. Would seeing how those interactions occurred have taken away from their stories? That is my question. That is my concern.
I am greatly appreciative of the advice given to me by my womenfolk as I was growing up. I also understand that no one person’s upbringing or experiences should be the template for us all. The wisdom gained from a variety of Black women’s lived experiences is more than deserving of a prominent place in the narratives of Black creatives. It’s as necessary as the air we breathe.
And I’d love to see it.
*Not their real names.
