Jones, Rachel 2018 Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies Thesis

Title: Daring to Gaze Back : Using Queer Opposition to Deconstruct the Care Politic in Black Female Media Representations Advisor: María Elena Cepeda Advisor is Co-author: None of the above Second Advisor: Vivian Huang Released: release now Contains Copyrighted Material: No

Daring to Gaze Back: Using Queer Opposition to Deconstruct The Care Politic in Black Female Media Representations

By Rachel Jones

María Elena Cepeda, Advisor Vivian Huang, Advisor

A thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the Degree of Bachelor of Arts with Honors In Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies

WILLIAMS COLLEGE

Williamstown, Massachusetts

May 14, 2018

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments 2 Preface: A Note on Process 3 Introduction 4 A Note on Positionality 13 ​ Chapter 1: Who is the Fairest of the All? Subverting White Heteronormativity in The Bachelorette 15 ​ The Bachelor Franchise: A (Racist, Heteronormative, Classist) History 20 Emotional Vulnerability under Surveillance 23 ​ Agency in Representation: Opposition as Transformation 30 Concluding Thoughts: Unlearning the History 42 ​ Chapter 2: Insecure as Me: Racialized Blame and Intimacy in Black Female Friendships 49 “Insecure as Fuck”: Black Female Friendship as a Source of Love and Care 52 ​ Critiques: Consequences of the Care Politic 71 ​ Concluding Thoughts: Combating Internalized Blame 80 ​ Chapter 3: I ain’t Sorry: Radical Healing and Queer Redemption in Beyoncé's Lemonade 82 ​ Before Lemonade: Locating Beyoncé within White Desirabilities 83 ​ Continuing the Care Politic: Infidelity as Metaphor 91 ​ “Sorry”: Black Female Reclamation of Apology 97 ​ Critiques: Where Lemonade May Go Sour 106 ​ Concluding Thoughts: “All Night” and the Queering of True Love 113 ​ Conclusion 119 ​ Bibliography 125 ​

1 Acknowledgments

Thank you to everyone who supported me during the process of writing this thesis. I began and completed this work during a particularly transformative, painful, and emotional time in my life. I am amazed by the many wonderful people around me who reached out, listened to me, and never wavered in their support and care. I see you, I appreciate you, and I am eternally grateful.

First, I want to thank my advisors: María Elena Cepeda and Vivian Huang. Professor Cepeda, I am continuously humbled and stunned by your willingness to work with me, especially during your sabbatical. Your patience with and faith in me has given me tremendous strength in completing this work, and it has truly been an honor and privilege to work with you. Professor Huang, this thesis would not be what is it if you had not agreed to work on it with me. Your thoughtfulness and attention to me throughout this year has been invaluable, and your support means so much. To both of you, thank you for the incredible guidance and for always encouraging me to grow throughout this year.

Second, thank you to Rachel Lindsay for agreeing to interview with me for this project. Not only was your perspective an extraordinary addition to this work, but also speaking with you was instrumental in my own understandings and reclamations of my own personal agency.

Next, I want to thank my parents. Thank you for always allowing me to speak my mind, to be critical (especially when it is sometimes of you), for accepting every single part of who I am. Thank you for being the first people to show me what true love and care look and feel like. Thank you as well to my (little) brother, Quincy Jones. You are my whole heart.

Lastly, I want to thank my friends, my chosen family. It would be impossible to adequately mention, thank, and honor all of you in a way that expresses the love and appreciation that I feel. Please know that I would not be who I am without you, I am overwhelmed with how profoundly lucky I am to know all of you.

2 Preface: A Note on Process

On Monday April 9th, 2018, Junot Diaz1, a Pulitzer Prize winning author, came to speak on Williams’ campus. Although his books explore a cultural context to which I have only a partial connection - Diaz is Dominican American with roots in the African Diaspora - his stories of heartbreak, racial trauma, and pain resonated deeply with me from the first moment I read

Drown in middle school. Microphone in hand, sauntering around the mainstage in my college’s ​ performance center, Diaz created a space exclusively for the people of color in the room, asking questions explicitly directed at us. Several times he asked, “what is it like being a student of color on this campus?” and everytime, my heart almost skipped a beat. I felt frozen in my chair, wanting to call out in response, to scream every thought in my head, but I stayed quiet, immobile. Although being spoken to and being allowed to speak, I was still surrounded by this place, surrounded by the overwhelming Whiteness, the heteronormativity, the constant feeling of not belonging, of not being wanted. What is it like to be a student of color on this campus? What is it like to live and breath and learn in this space? What is it like to feel sad in this space? What is it like to feel nothing? To feel everything?

I think about the past eight months and the process of writing this thesis. Over this time I have been depressed, I have been heartbroken several times in several ways, I have fallen back

1 During the final editing stage of this work, several women of color accused Diaz of sexual misconduct and ​ harassment. In a public response, Diaz noted that he was taking responsibility for his past and emphasized the need to teach men about consent and boundaries. I acknowledge and in no way condone the immediate, tangible, and vicious harms that these women experienced. As my thesis centers the stories of women of color, I find this news horrifying, unsettling, and deeply disappointing, particularly as Diaz’s words touched me so deeply. His words and their meaning still remain for me; I find this news to be emblematic of the racialized structures of care that define this work, structures that consistently abuse people of color, particularly women and femmes. As a survivor himself, Diaz is part of a cycle, a fact that in no way condones, but instead contextualizes his actions. I have decided to include his words, showing thus the ways that Diaz, although speaking to and presenting care for women of color, is as well an active perpetrator in structures of harm and trauma. 3 into patterns of disordered eating, I have felt hope, and loss, and many different types of love. I think about this campus: the constant suffocation, the loneliness, and the anxiety. I think about the condition of being black and queer and female in a space like this: the constant feelings of inadequacy, the need to apologize for taking breath, the drowning, the invisibility. The process of writing this thesis was exhausting, of writing out all of my insecurities, pains, and traumas, of writing in spaces with people who have hurt me, of writing while feeling uncared for. I think about writing this thesis, and I think about all the days I didn’t write, all the days I couldn’t write. I think about trying to work and produce and excel within a space where that is not meant to happen for people like me. This thesis work is unfinished, this work will always be unfinished, this work is meant to be unfinished. I think back to Diaz’s question, and I have my response for him now: being a person of color on this campus is a continual state of erasure, of neglect, and of trauma. I hope this work, this thesis conceived of and birthed in this space, shows the messiness, the pain, and the refusal to be silenced.

Introduction

Under capitalism, modern day media attempts to appeal to mass audiences, garner support and profits, and rely on social norms and understandings in order to attract consumer-citizens. Clarifying the underlying intentions of media requires understanding the cyclical nature of production and consumption. Stuart Hall (1980) posits that production constructs messaging and that for media images and productions to continue, they must invite and attract a meaning, one that mass audiences and viewers can detect and receive. For Hall, “if

‘no meaning’ is taken, there can be no ‘consumption’,” demonstrating that viewers will only continue to consume media if there is a legible narrative that can be easily understood and

4 consumed. Hall thus offers a process through which to decode these messages, interpret these media meanings, and understand the hegemonic ideologies that dominate social norms and feed into these ideals for profit. For Hall, this process is cyclical: as the media perpetuates dominant norms, “the discourse must then be translated –transformed, again– into social practices if the circuit is to be both completed and effective” (Hall, 1980, 91), showing thus that the media not only reflects existing social norms, but perpetuates these ideas as well. Media therefore becomes a mechanism through which to understand cultural expectations, morals, and stereotypes; yet how then does the media interact with harmful, controlling, and degrading cultural assumptions?

When navigating within a society founded on a legacy of racial, gendered, and sexual injustice and violence, in what ways is the media implicated in maintaining these foundations? Following

Hall, what do media images tell us about social structures and about how we interact, view, and treat each other? With these questions in mind, this thesis interrogates the ways that media representations of black womanhood are not only emblematic of insidious historical positionings of black women, but as well serve as a mechanism through which these stereotypes are perpetuated on an interpersonal and emotional level. This thesis focuses on the notion of care, investment, and attention as they manifest within romantic relationships, mainly who by societal standards is deemed deserving and worthy of these considerations. With media representations as the main source of analysis, the driving question of this work is the following: what does care look like for those to whom it is denied?

Through understanding textual analysis and its basis in language (Brennan, 2012, 192), this thesis analyzes three media texts as case studies in order to make sense of dominant ideals of love, marriage, and desirability and how black women are excluded from this narrative. The first

5 chapter analyzes season 13 of The Bachelorette and posits this reality show as a host for ​ ​ ideological analysis, placing this show within frameworks of heteronormativity and White supremacist patriarchy, structures that historically and routinely exclude and oppress black women as subjects. Given that Rachel Lindsay, a black attorney from Dallas, Texas, was this season’s bachelorette, a major departure from the show’s legacy of exclusively White main suitors, this chapter analyzes the expectations and implications of compulsory White heteronormativity, and the ways this has been a mechanism of confinement for black female desire. Further, supported by an interview conducted between the researcher and Rachel Lindsay herself, this chapter explores the positioning of Lindsay, as both an edited and unedited black female body. In sum, this chapter explores the tension between representation and agency, noting the extent to which the privileging of specific (White) narratives over (black) others influence an expectation and acquisition of care.

Chapter two examines Issa Rae’s critically acclaimed HBO show Insecure (2016 - ​ ​ present), and its methods toward a more realistic representation of black female existence.

Examining the emotional significance and security in black female friendship, particularly as it compares to romantic relationships with men, and by highlighting specifically the platonic relationship between Issa and her best friend Molly, this chapter explores misconceptions of success and happiness as they are attached to heterosexual, love relationships. Further however, this chapter, through an analysis of Molly’s character trajectory in the first season of Insecure, ​ ​ critiques her positioning, illuminating her romantic struggles as emblematic of a racialized politic of care, as opposed to a personal, individualized failure. This chapter explores the concept

6 of blame, and how it has been routinely and painstakingly attached to black female bodies, particularly in regards to romance and investment.

The final chapter examines Beyoncé's visual album Lemonade (2016) and the avenues of ​ ​ reclamation and healing that this text reveals. Through understanding infidelity in this piece as a metaphor for racialized trauma, this chapter argues for how Lemonade illuminates the ​ ​ intergenerational, historical, and continual mistreatment and abuse of black female bodies.

Specifically though an analysis of “Sorry,” the fourth track on the album, this chapter explores methods of agency and the power that can be found in a refusal to apologize. Lastly, through a

Womanist lens, this chapter posits not only a queering of how “true love” may be conceptualized, but also its manifestation as wholly dependent on care. This final chapter pursues a recourse for healing and a landscape for the ways that care and attention can manifest for black women.

As is core to ideological analysis, each chapter examines “the political, economic, and/or ideological perspectives that shape the text,” (Brennan, 2012, 202) noting how they construct our knowledge, beliefs, and understandings regarding love and desirability. Each chapter positions its subject as a window into social practices, assumptions and representations (Brennan, 2012), linking back to Hall’s cyclical model of media texts, and analyzing how meanings within each case study influences and characterizes societal understandings of black womanhood. Although drawing from cultural and systemic judgements on race, gender, and sexuality, each chapter endeavors to examine how these impressions affect the daily and interpersonal relationships of black women.

7 Yet interpreting media becomes a matter of perspective and positionality.

Acknowledging that codes and ideologies may be so widely ingrained that they may appear naturalized, Hall offers three hypothetical positions through which media discourses can be decoded: dominant hegemonic code, negotiated code, and oppositional code. Through reading a text with dominant hegemonic code, already privileged and overarching themes and ideas are reproduced, thus reinforcing the potential stereotypes and social norms that are read within the text. With a negotiated code, the reader considers both potential sides, the hegemonic and the disruptive, yet serves as a contradiction to understanding the media messaging. And finally, the oppositional code works to subvert the hegemonic narrative, reading the agency and subjectivity of the marginalized into the representations (Hall, 1980). There is much comparison between

Hall’s ideas of opposition and bell hooks’ “oppositional gaze.” bell hooks’ work posits the power in looking, and the subsequent ways that black women have been denied the agency of this action. Falling back to slavery, when racialized power relations denoted value and personhood, slaves were denied the right to look, to gaze, and to assert their personal agency (hook, 1992).

Within these times, slaves were merely objects to be looked at, controlled, manipulated, and established as subhuman and below Whiteness. hooks explains that through punishing those slaves who met the eyes of their masters, “all attempts to repress our/black peoples’ right to gaze had produced in us an overwhelming longing to look, a rebellious desire, an oppositional gaze...even in the worse circumstances of domination, the ability to manipulate one’s gaze in the face of structures of domination that would contain it, opens up the possibility of agency”

(hooks, 1992, 116). This theory centers the agency of the oppressed, confers agency in looking back, and recognizes the ways in which looking can and does produce power. Within the

8 cinematic context, hooks theorizes the way the oppositional gaze is helpful for black female spectators as a way of deconstructing and subverting harmful media representations that work to deny black womanhood and agency. hooks’ theory thus becomes an amplification of Hall’s, one dependent on black female identity and grounded in reclamation.

As the media both exists within and reproduces the cisheteronomative, capitalist, White supremacist patriarchy, racial politics of the gaze are continuously employed. As media denies the bodies of black women in order to perpetuate White supremacy and a phallocentric spectatorship that designates the woman to be looked at and desired as White, black female spectators must develop a way of looking and consuming these texts. Within the media the gaze operates across different modes of power: there is the gaze within, the media manifestations of desire, intimacy, and love, that center White men and women as those to be gazed at, those to be the most desired; there is the gaze of the audience, the gaze that reinforces these ideas, as the unfiltered consumption of these images perpetuates hegemonic ideals and standards of beauty, desirability, and love; and then there is the oppositional gaze, the ways that viewers, those excluded from the dominant narrative, can come to find power, awareness, and agency within these images (hooks, 1992).

This thesis enforces the oppositional gaze in reading scenes from The Bachelorette, Issa ​ ​ Rae’s Insecure, and Beyoncé's Lemonade, using Black Feminist Thought as a lens through which ​ ​ ​ ​ to analyze the heteronormative, White supremacist and patriarchal agendas that exist within and around all three of these texts. With Black Feminist Thought as a process of decoding, this thesis understands how the oppression and maintenance of black female objectivity justifies racist, classist, and gendered oppression (Hill Collins, 2000), and works to challenges these ideas,

9 navigating how agency and subjectivity manifest themselves on and through the bodies and representations of black women in each case. Further, as media always exists under the standards of capitalism, the oppositional gaze in these chapters works to understand black womanhood as a historical and contemporary commodity, and further reads the space and representation of queer black womanhood into each work. It should be noted that throughout this thesis, by way of visually representing that hegemonic, institutional, and historic power of Whiteness, there has been an active choice to capitalize both the noun and adjective forms of this word. It is the hope that this choice demonstrates Whiteness as “concept” and as social position and privilege, divorcing supremacy from the individual and instead highlighting and implicating the system as a whole. What is more, “black” has been left in the lower case, in part to highlight a racialized power structure, but as well to represent blackness and black identities as relatable, raw, and intimate.

To further the critique of media representations of black womanhood, this thesis also uses autoethnography as a tool of deconstruction. As autoethnography “identifies the material, political, and transformative dimensions of representational politics” (Neumann, 1996, 191), this method will continue the basis of resistance against hegemonic ideals that is central to each chapter. According to Dr. Aisha Durham (2017), “autoethnography invites us to consider how our bodies and our lived experiences shape how we interact, interpret, and represent culture,” making this form of analysis a gateway into understanding how media perpetuates and reflects social norms, asking not who but how the self came to be. As a black, queer woman, not only are ​ ​ ​ ​ depictions of bodies like mine rarely incorporated into dominant media narratives, but I have also come to be self-reflexive about the ways in which this exclusion has impacted my lived

10 experiences. As autoethnography allows “the marginalized voice to speak for itself” (Boylorn,

2008, 414), the intention of incorporating this frame into each chapter serves to further support the method of opposition that centralizes the argument, using the self as the subject for analysis.

As the gaze was discussed previously in conversation with hooks’ work on opposition, autoethnography as well becomes a way to renegotiate a gaze that is almost always exclusively

White, male, and straight (Boylorn, 2014, 13). By introducing myself into the text, I ensure a gaze that is subversive and feminist by virtue of inclusion. As Ronald J. Pelias characterizes in his discussion of performative writing, this method of analysis, which is inclusive of autoethnography, demonstrates “how individual lives are evidence that social justice is absent”

(Pelias, 2005, 420). Inherent within feminist practice in the linkage between the personal and the political, and given that a key aspect of this thesis posits the ramifications of representation on the interpersonal realities of black women, linking these media images to experiences and relationships within my own life is a mechanism through which these arguments may be supported. I understand that I am one woman, one queer, black individual. As “autoethnography is often times serendipitous, occuring when we are going about our everyday lives” (Boylorn,

2014, 18), I want to make clear that the portions of autoethnography within this thesis are entirely dependent on my spatial position, the culmination of my lived experiences, where I have lived the last few years of my life, and the social spheres within which I wrote this work. The passages written from my voice at times are stream of consciousness in style, thus meant to illuminate my internal processes and the direct impact of these media images on my body, my relationships, and my feelings of self. For all intents and purposes, my arguments and opinions are singular, matters of my own personal experience, my positionality, my reading and

11 interpretations of the media texts. Yet through this framework, autoethnography gives voice to pain and emotions that within a racist, heteronormative society are left voiceless and erased. If anything, my choice in this method of analysis speaks to the degree to which I have felt unrepresented, unheard, and unseen, pointing thus to a societal lack of care and attention given to black, queer, and female bodies. Throughout this thesis, the autoethnographic sections will be interspersed into the analysis, designated by italics, and are meant to act not as separations from ​ ​ the overall argument, but rather continue the analysis through personal voice and experience.

Through an autoethnographic lens, it is the hope that the heteronormative, White supremacist and patriarchal structures and influences that operate within and encompass these media texts are further deconstructed and contested through the lived experience of a black, queer, and female viewer.

Finally, it is important to understand the intention with which I understand and deploy

“queer” within this work. In her acclaimed and provocative piece “Black Atlantic, Queer

Atlantic,” Omise’eke Natasha Tinsley discusses the manifestations of black queerness as inseparable from the middle passage. In her words, “Queer not in the sense of a “gay” or same-sex loving identity waiting to be excavated from the ocean floor but as a praxis of resistance. Queer in the sense of marking disruption to the violence of normative order and powerfully so: connecting in ways that commodified flesh was never supposed to, loving your own kind when your kind was supposed to cease to exist, forging interpersonal connections that counteract imperial desires for Africans’ living deaths” (Tinsley, 2008, 199). For Tinsley, black queerness becomes specific to the corruption of normative ideals, a response to the violence that has worked and succeeded in suppressing, devaluing, and degrading black bodies for centuries.

12 Within this work, although my queer identity encompasses an existence that is multi-gender loving, the queer reading that I apply to the text is founded in the disruption of social norms that champion Whiteness, heteronormativity, and patriarchy as the ultimate ideal. This reading is part and parcel of the main objective of this work, that being the deconstruction of a phenomenon that

I term the Care Politic. In keeping with Tinsley’s understandings of black queerness and the historical dehumanization of black bodies, this politic illuminates a racialized and hierarchical structure of care and attention, one that privileges White bodies as worthy of love, investment, an intimacy. It is the hope that through a queer reading of these media texts, one that seeks to love and bring attention to bodies historical devoid of these considerations, a subversion of the Care

Politic will begin to take shape. Queerness in this work is equally about sexual and romantic love as it can exist between people of the same gender as it is about a communal affection and the possible resources of care as they may manifest for and between black, queer women.

A Note on Positionality

In keeping with autoethnography as an essential method of analysis for this thesis, I find it imperative to note the privileges that I have in relating to this work. I am a light skinned, biracial African American woman, the product of a White mother and black father. I have lived the majority of my life within White spaces, only now coming to terms with the ways in which

Whiteness, although normalized for me, is a tremendous point of toxicity in my life. Yet given this, I understand the tremendous amount of privilege that my attachment to Whiteness, and therefore elitism, has given me. Although I have known a time when my family was financially struggling, I also remember the shift. I have known not only economic stability, but also

13 economic privilege, one that aided me in attending (predominantly White) private schools, and now Williams College, the top liberal arts institution in the country. I am queer, currently finding solace and comfort with the term “pansexual” as I feel this word fully encompasses how and whom I am able to love. I am cisgendered. I am able-bodied. I am still searching for a home.

In reading the autoethnographic portions of this work, and even the thesis as a whole, it is my hope that the reader understands my positions and experiences as inseparable from the claims and conclusions that I am making. In fact the texts that I have chosen are dependent on my lived experiences. I chose The Bachelorette given its stake in my relationship to my mother ​ ​ and its influence on me at a young age. I chose Insecure due to its originality in representation, ​ ​ yet further because my family is privileged enough to afford the subscription that allows me to watch it. And lastly, I chose Lemonade because given Beyoncé's, and therefore my own, stake in ​ ​ Whiteness, her pre-Lemonade work was emblematic of the type of black I thought I wanted to be ​ ​ growing up. This thesis is many things: it is my coming out story, an analysis of my relationship to queerness; it is a love letter to every black queer woman who has felt undesirable, unlovable, and uncared for; it is a thank you to all the people who care for me; it is a rejection of how black women are made to feel; it is a reclamation of agency; it is an attempt to heal.

14 Chapter 1: Who is the Fairest of the All? Subverting White Heteronormativity in The Bachelorette ​ In 2012, Christopher Johnson and Nathaniel Claybrooks filed a lawsuit against ABC for allegedly racist casting tendencies on the popular reality dating show The Bachelor ​ (2002-present). Both men had auditioned for this show and argued that as black men, the show discriminated against them and other people of color both in casting and in selecting the primary bachelor/bachelorette (Holmes, 2012). In looking through the show’s racial breakdown over the decade before the lawsuit, their allegations hold: not only did several seasons of both The ​ Bachelor and The Bachelorette have no black contestants to speak of, but those few black ​ ​ ​ contestants that did appear on the show were always eliminated within the first few weeks

(Fitzpatrick, 2016). Never before had there been a black bachelor or bachelorette.

Unfortunately for Johnson and Claybrooks, their suit was dismissed under the first amendment. ABC argued successfully that no such discrimination was taking place, and that even if it were, such decisions would be protected as creative license and expression (Holmes,

2012). The dismissal of this case works to bolster and highlight the oppressive ideologies that define the Bachelor Franchise (from now, referred to as BF) and constitute the framework for its success. By dismissing the obviously racist tendencies of the show, tendencies explicit in the fact that black participants are either excluded or dismissed throughout this process, the shows consistently affirm for their audiences that heterosexual romantic love and happiness is an ideal reserved only for White individuals. What is more, the show gets away with it. As each season, the bachelor or bachelorette is picked from the one of the previous show’s heartbroken singles, the show is able to reinstate cycles of White supremacy, as since only White bodies make it to the final few episodes, only White bodies are favored and only White bodies have the potential

15 to be the next bachelor or bachelorette. The Whiteness that is presented as ideal within the show is a Whiteness that is conventionally and rigidly heteronormative, upper class, and American.

Historically contestants are largely from the South or Midwest, exceedingly fit, straight, and classically attractive, and given that contestants are not paid to be on the show, of an economic background that permits them a three month lapse in income. In this show, love and marriage is performed as White, yet is it one that must as well fit the scripts of privilege. As argued by Stuart

Hall (1980), “different media are especially important sites for the production, reproduction and transformation of ideologies”, thus BF not only produces, but also reproduces dominant ideological assumptions and standards of love, beauty, desirability, and marriage.

In BF, these ideologies are naturalized, as race within the show is constructed to operate as silence. Black women fall into the background, always failing to fit the scripts of White femininity and never allowed to openly speak of the ways their race is operating in relation to the other contestants and main suitor. As the show is carefully edited and manipulated to fit the

White, heteronormative, patriarchal standard of love and marriage, the space of black female agency is overtly suppressed: the audience has no way of knowing if black women on the show are questioning these ideologies, talking about race and their positioning on the show, or actively combating the racialized tendencies as a whole. The show operates under the guise of “reality”, showing “real” people doing “real” things, and enforcing the idea that everything that the audience is seeing is exactly how the events of the show unfold (Dubrofsky, 2006). Yet through the process of editing, through manipulated camera shots, the exclusion of certain conversations, and an unequal distribution of airtime among the contestants, the show becomes a manipulated,

16 fictionalized account on the process of love and journey toward marriage, one that is entirely defined by the hegemonic ideals that encompass this show and have led to its success.

However, this past season of The Bachelorette marked a tremendous change. On Monday ​ ​

th February 13 ,​ 2017 Jimmy Kimmel, on his late night talk show Jimmy Kimmel Live ​ ​ (2003-present), along with reality TV host Chris Harrison, announced the identity of ABC’s next bachelorette for its 13th season. At this point with season 21 of The Bachelor (2002-present) still ​ ​ ​ ​ underway, the announcement came as a seemingly premature surprise. As is custom with the

Bachelor franchise, the next bachelors and bachelorettes are often chosen from the unlucky suitors of their respective previous season, those fan favorites who were unable to win the heart of and find love with their season’s main eligible single. Therefore, announcements are typically made after the show has finished, either a few months after the final episode, or during the live finale. However, the announcement of the bachelorette for season 13 diverted from the show’s standard routine, not only with respect to the time in which they announced, but most importantly, and historically, in whom they chose.

At the time of the announcement, season 21 of The Bachelor, starring Nick Viall, still had ​ ​ five episodes left in the season, leading fans to speculate as to whether or not the show’s newest leading lady would be a member of Viall’s cohort. Yet despite the show’s routine, in front of a live studio audience, Kimmel declared that the newest bachelorette would in fact be Rachel

Lindsay, a 31-year-old attorney from Dallas, Texas. This announcement marked huge significance: Rachel Lindsay was still on Nick’s show at the point of this announcement, revealing that she was soon to be eliminated and thus spoiling a plot within the current season.

Yet most shockingly for the franchise, Rachel is a black woman.

17 As most Bachelorette seasons, Rachel’s season came to a shocking and dramatic end: the final episode, after an emotional breakup with Wisconsinite, and fan favorite, Peter Kraus, ended with her engagement to Miami-born, Colombian-American Bryan Abasolo. This chapter, through textual analysis of season 13 of The Bachelorette, autoethnography, and an in-depth ​ ​ interview conducted by the researcher with Rachel Lindsay herself, examines the ways in which black womanhood, heterosexuality, and agency are crafted, manipulated, and excluded within the realm of reality television. Within a context that privileges White femininity and White love, this chapter explores the representations of Rachel Lindsay, both as a fictionalized character under the editing processes of ABC and as an agentic being while on live camera and in the interview. With White, capitalist, heteronormative ideals functioning as a base within the franchise, this chapter acknowledges the frameworks that have historical confined and defined black women, thus using the oppositional gaze, close reading, and autoethnography to find agency and reclamation within media portrayals of black women and romantic love. Finally this chapter, again through the lens of autoethnography, situates BF within the grander context of compulsory heteronormativity, expanding on how this platform perpetuates the White, heterosexual male as the ultimate and solely legitimate figure of desire. Through this final analysis this chapter situates White heteronormativity as a societal expectation and delves into the ways that this becomes harmful and limiting for black queer women.

The first time I ever saw The Bachelorette, it was one in the morning and I was on the ​ ​ couch with my mother. I was fourteen. As per our ritual, it was another Saturday night, another late night, and my mother and I were wide awake, passing the time away together, flipping through channels and mindlessly snacking on popcorn. I came across a rerun of The ​

18 Bachelorette when my mother was in the kitchen. I read the description, was enticed by the story ​ of romance and love and marriage, and immediately switched to the channel. When my mother came back and noticed what I was watching, she was pleased, saying she’d heard of the show and had been interested in watching it. On the screen, a beautiful, young, thin, White woman confessed to the camera that she was in love. I vividly remember watching her on a date with an equally beautiful, fit, White man. They were in the forest on some nameless, characterized-as-exotic island, swimming in a spring. I remember watching as they kissed and caressed each other, I remember the intimacy, the presence of love and affection, I remember being enthralled, I remember wanting everything on screen. Together my mother and I sank deeper into the couch, mouths full, eyes wide, watching the love story unfold.

Next to my mother on the couch, my White mother, watching The Bachelorette wasn’t a ​ ​ deviation from what I already knew. I have grown up knowing that traditional love and romance and marriage are for White women. Not seeing black women, women who look like me on this particular reality show, did it not surprise me. I didn’t think about it. It was everything I’ve always known. Growing up in a biracial household that was run entirely by my mother, the media that I consumed as a child told one story. As a young age I remember watching Disney princess movies over and over and over again, I remember wanting blond hair, I remember only drawing pictures of White people, I remember believing I wanted a Prince Charming. I remember believing in the fairytale. At that age, I didn’t question why women that looked like me weren’t the ones falling in love, the ones that were beautiful. So when I was fourteen and started watching The Bachelorette, I still wasn’t asking these questions, as I didn’t expect anything ​ ​ more.

19 The Bachelor Franchise: A (Racist, Heteronormative, Classist) History

Debuting in 2001, The Bachelor and The Bachelorette franchises, have remained a ​ ​ ​ ​ popular staple within the sphere of American reality TV as the most successful reality dating show of all time, under the continued production of Mike Fleiss, a White, heterosexual American male. Since its creation, this reality show has enjoyed a steady increase in viewership, as for example, between the 2016 and 2017 seasons, it was the only show on network television to increase viewership within the highly sought after 18-49 age demographic (Adalian, 2017).

Seemingly indestructible, this show continues to pull in impressive ratings: Nick Viall’s season finale garnered 8.4 million viewers, while Jojo Fletcher’s season of The Bachelorette attracted ​ ​ 8.1 million viewers. Although far from the days of season 2 of The Bachelor, when Aaron ​ ​ Buerge’s season finale brought is 25.9 million viewers (Berg, 2016), the steadiness and continuity of the numbers hardly mark the series as a failure, especially considering that the The ​ Bachelorette is due for season 14 and The Bachelor completed season 22 in January 2018. ​ ​ ​ Year after year, BF has remained a success through capitalizing off of traditional ideals of romance and marriage, through exploiting people’s lives and emotions, and through reinforcing dominant ideas of beauty, love, and happiness. Given its key demographic, BF entirely caters to its target audience, one that is largely White and female. Season 12 of The ​ Bachelorette brought in an audience that was 86% White (Aurthur, 2017), supporting the ​ assertion that the content of the show “promotes a version of the show that only works for White people” (Dubrofsky, 2006, 29). Given that the producers want to maintain its viewership, catering to their audiences only makes sense as an effective capitalist strategy, meaning that if the audience is predominantly White, White love will be at the forefront. At the start of every

20 season, the Bachelor and the Bachelorette are characterized as hopeful singles, looking for love and ready to settle down. With 25 young suitors to choose from, the show progresses from week to week, as potential mates are eliminated through a series of “rose ceremonies,” and those who have successfully sustained the interest of the Bachelor/ette continue on the path to marriage.

Each week the Bachelor or Bachelorette goes on a series of dates with their potential matches, one-on-one dates, group dates, and sometimes the always dramatic and contentious two-on-one.

They are whisked off to foreign countries, often falling in love and breaking hearts against the romantic backdrops of a European countryside, or an “exotic” island in the Caribbean. Per its formula, the show’s finale ends with a breakup and a proposal. Left with two choices, the

Bachelor or Bachelorette rejects one suitor and rides off into the sunset with the other. The show operates under the narrative of heteronormative romantic love and fairy tales, highlighting the desires of the bachelor or bachelorette to finally find their perfect match, and pitting the eliminated suitors as unwilling or unworthy of love. Although seemingly progressive in the apparent and obvious polyamory in the prior weeks, each season is set up to end with a proposal, each finale showing either the bachelor himself or the male suitors carefully selecting the perfect diamond ring. The journey is always framed as the path to finding “the one,” as only one contestant is left standing, only one being worthy of marriage. This thus solidifies the heteronormativity and Whiteness that define the show, allowing no room at all for a non-White queering of romantic relationships and love, and emphasizing marriage as the ultimate, and solely worthwhile, goal for young individuals within society.

Yet the standards and ideals of romantic love that are positioned and privileged within this show do not extend beyond Western beauty standards and hegemonic cultural norms,

21 beyond a love that is strictly heterosexual and White. Against this framework of the show, women of color, particularly black women, are positioned within the narrative, yet marked as irrelevant, their inclusion acting solely as an avenue through which White couples can find each other (Dubrofsky, 2006, 33). Women of color within the show function as a “special flavor, an added spice” (hooks, 1992, 157) against the background of White romance. Although Nick

Viall’s season had a surprisingly high number of black female contestants - seven in total - historically, the show averages about two black women per season, with several years that had no black women at all. Further these women are typically quite light skinned with straightened hair, thus falling within the standards of not only White beauty, but also colorist notions of beauty and desirability within the black community. As Raka Shome (2014) posits, black women are allowed legibility solely through scripts of White femininity, illuminating thus that even if black women are chosen to be contestants on BF, their beauty is still defined by a White standard. What is more, excluding Christina Giuidici, a Philipino-Italian American woman who won season seventeen of The Bachelor, 100% of The Bachelor winners and 94.7% of the ​ ​ ​ ​ winners on The Bachelorette have been White over the last ten seasons (Pomarico, 2017). Yet ​ ​ BF gets away with this: through adding black women to the contestant pool, the show implicitly implies that the Bachelor is willing to enter into an interracial relationship, thus positioning the show as “modern” and accepting of “diversity.” However, this show entirely exists within a post racial understanding of love and marriage (Dubrofsky, 2006). Post racism, or colorblind racism as termed by Eduardo Bonilla Silva (2003), is a new racial structure working to increase the covert nature of racial discourses and practices, to avoid racial terminology, and make invisible the mechanisms that reproduce racial inequality. By including black women within the show and

22 refusing to acknowledge their race, the show is able to eliminate them with ease, under the guise of natural selection, instead of as an extension of racist definitions of desirability and preference.

Over 21 seasons, black women have never advanced within the show, as Jubilee Sharpe, a black army veteran from Miami, Florida wasn’t even able to break the top ten of Ben Higgins’ season.

This racist, heteronormative, and exclusionary history of the show renders not only Rachel

Lindsay’s admittance into the Nick Viall’s final three, but also her announcement as the first black bachelorette, a historic, yet altogether surprising, sequence of events. Given the show’s history leading up to the premiere of Rachel’s season, how this show would continue to represent black woman as desirable and romantic partners was a point of hesitation and worry.

Emotional Vulnerability under Surveillance

Within the world of reality TV, where the appearance of “real” emotion and confession are in contention with the performative nature of the camera, Rachel Dubrofsky (2011) argues that Whiteness is a requirement for authenticity on The Bachelor. She contends that as Whiteness ​ ​ is privileged within the scope of romantic love and desirability, so too are the bodies that are deemed authentic. Paradoxically, authenticity functions within BF against the camera: it is the ​ ​ ability to be under constant surveillance, while creating the illusion that the camera is not always present. As Dubrofsky argues, within a framework that already privileges and authenticates

Whiteness as a natural norm, White bodies are able to be seen as authentic, while bodies of color are forced to “reveal” themselves. Yet with this lack of revelation comes emotional failure within the context of BF, the inability for women, and in this case black women, to open up emotionally and “take the risk” to find love.

23 In the tenth episode of Season 21(2017), Nick Viall eliminates Rachel Lindsay.

Eliminated at the final three, Rachel is the only black woman to have made it this far, next only to the previously mentioned Jubilee Sharpe. After a teary breakup during which Nick affirms, “I just want you to know how much I know you’re amazing,” he walks Rachel out to the car for her final on camera confessional. Brushing away her tears, Rachel states for the camera:

It’s hard to hear how great you are, and...how much love somebody has for you, but then they still don’t choose you. And I swear that’s like the story of my life, like I know like how great it could have been. Maybe I didn’t show all of that, maybe he didn’t get that from me. I want somebody to have like that undeniable, unconditional, unexplainable love for me, and I want to be able to feel it the same way for them. So it’s...back to...square one.

In following Dubrofsky’s analysis, Rachel’s demise stemmed from her inability to follow the inherent guidelines of the show, to open up emotionally, to render herself authentic and able to take a risk not only for Nick, but for the camera and for the audience. This idea is affirmed in the editing choices of her final confessional: her postfeminist explanation that she didn’t show

Nick enough reaffirms the framework of emotional vulnerability that guides this show, proving that in this world “opening up” is the ticket to love. However, as Whiteness is privileged as authentic and normalized, could Rachel’s body ever be deemed as authentic? As emotional vulnerability is a step toward love on this show, the ways in which black female emotions have been denied, stereotyped, and manipulated limit the ways that black female contestants can be

“real.” As a black woman, her very body is inherently antithetical to the maintenance of White love that this show promises. In short, her body occupies one purpose: in perpetuating ideals of

White matrimonial integrity, BF does little to subvert the legacy of racial and sexual relations as ingrained in social understanding through the history of slavery in the United States. As

Dubrofsky notes, “here again, women of color fulfill the timeworn roles of satisfying the sexual

24 desires of White men” (Dubrofsky, 2006, 50), yet not the role of a legitimate romantic partner, a role that is reserved exclusively for White women. Yet this truth is one that BF cleverly conceals.

Her confessional illuminates the post-racial undertones, or rather overtones, that characterize the show, owing her dismissal to being of her own failures, instead of her race. Yet what is essential is the way in which her response is racialized, words that to a White audience may seem universal, yet to an oppositional reader appear definable to black female bodies, and those alone.

I vividly remember watching this scene alongside a group of my White friends.

Devastated as we all were to see Rachel eliminated, as all of us were rooting for her to win

Nick’s heart and becomes ABC’s first black female winner, her words struck me in ways that they did not my White peers. For them, her dismissal meant little: two women still remained, two

White women through which they could see themselves reflected, confirming thus the prospect of another White winner, another affirmation of White female worthiness and desirability. Yet for me, Rachel’s elimination signified the continued romantic rejection of women that look like me, especially as it operates in favor of White women. What is more, her words resonated as the overlap to my own life was all too palpable. I think of the many times I have been rejected, the ways that rejection has become “the story of my life,” and how all too often those that do not want me feel the need to list out and affirm to me all the ways in which they find me amazing. I do not question Rachel’s inability or difficulty with romantic vulnerability. Although against the

White, heteronormative backdrop of BF, Rachel’s failure is in every way a marker of her authenticity, one that is defined by her romantic history as a black woman. Through relating my own experiences with love, this scene is clear to me: she was slow to open up, slow to make herself vulnerable, because her romantic history had shown her that she would not be chosen.

25 The 2017 season of The Bachelor, through casting Whiteness and White love under the ​ ​ guise of emotional vulnerability and postfeminism, was successful in eliminating a black woman under the pretense of personal failure. Yet how are the scripts of authenticity flipped when

Rachel is given the spotlight? As the bachelorette, Rachel became the default of emotional availability, significant of course by her decision to try again, to take another shot at love. The series does not fail to characterize her as such: in the very first episode, Chris Harrison steps out of Bachelor Mansion to monologue about America’s next bachelorette. He starts by saying,

“Rachel came into last season a very skeptical woman. She questioned everything about this process. But lo and behold she fell deeply in love...and while Rachel ultimately did leave broken hearted, she also left believing that she could find love again right here” (The Bachelorette, ​ 2017). These sentiments echo the affective format that defines this show: Rachel was not emotionally available during Nick’s season, but is back, now heart open and ready to show her authentic self to the men awaiting her. Yet still, she is a black woman, operating within a show that privileges and upholds Whiteness as a norm. Despite confirming that “the whole country is talking about her,” Chris Harrison fails to mention why everyone is talking about her, and not ​ ​ once mentions the major difference that makes this season historic. Rachel may have the spotlight, she may be the Bachelorette, and therefore deemed the most fit for love, yet The ​ Bachelorette still operates within a White world. ​ The fourth episode of Rachel’s season is the first time that the audience sees her become emotional in front of the camera. As is custom of the early stages of the process, the episode opens to the “cocktail party” during which Rachel has time to chat with the men before the rose ceremony and elimination. However, the evening takes a dramatic turn as two of the men, Lee

26 Garrett2, a White contestant from Nashville, Tennessee, and Kenny King, a black contestant from

Las Vegas, Nevada, enter into a verbal altercation. Upset with the fact that Lee had interrupted

Kenny’s time to talk with Rachel despite having already had the opportunity to speak with her,

Kenny pulls Lee aside to communicate the ways he feels taken advantage of. The argument is interspersed with solo confessionals and side conversations with other contestants, showing support for Kenny and condemning Lee’s behavior as dramatic and manipulative. The camera then cuts to Rachel, who is trying to have a conversation with another contestant, and overhearing the argument, immediately reacts with “This is really happening?” The subsequent scenes shift back to Lee and Kenny’s argument, a confessional with Lee during which he confesses, “I get tickled when I smile and an angry man gets angrier,” and solo shots of Rachel becoming more confused and frustrated by the situation.

In her own televised confessional Rachel remarks, “I have no idea what is going on in the house tonight. I just hear a bunch of drama, and I am ridiculously annoyed by it.” A few moments later, after a scene where Lee confesses to a fellow White contestant that he was intentionally being antagonistic, Rachel again alone, through her tears, states:

You don’t understand the pressures that are going to come with all of this...I’m going to get emotional. The pressures that I feel about being a black woman and what that is...I get pressured from so many different ways, being in this position, and...I did not want to get into all of this tonight, and I already know what people are gonna say about me and judge me for the decisions that I’m making. I’m going to be the one that has to deal with that and no one else, and that’s a lot...You have no idea what it’s like to be in this position. I’m not talking anymore.

2 In May 2017, it surfaced that Garrett had posted a series of racist, sexist, and xenophobic tweets in 2015 and 2016. ​ Considering the extensive vetting process that contestants go through in order to be on the show and further Garrett’s intense racial antagonism that defined his run, there is little evidence to support that ABC did not know about his tweets before putting him on the show. Thus, Garrett’s inclusion on the season with the first black bachelorette seems a pointed effort toward racialized antagonism and “drama”. 27 The scene ends with Chris Harrison swooping in to help, simply telling the men that she is “pretty emotional,” and moving the evening to the rose ceremony. As is central to the success of this show, this moment for Rachel is pivotal within the rules of emotional vulnerability of BF.

Through her tears she is showing herself as open, emotional, and raw, despite the camera that is in her face and the millions of viewers who are watching. Yet that is the extent to which the world of BF capitalizes off of her emotion, made clear by the lack of reflection and time spent on what she was saying, and the ways that she herself limits the amount that she divulges. This world doesn’t have the capacity to deal with the pressures of being a black woman, and as these emotions are the ones that are truly authentic, Rachel is limited in how much this show dares to show of her.

When asked to articulate the pressures that she was feeling during our interview, Rachel told a story that wasn’t, and would never be, shown to the predominately White viewing audiences of The Bachelorette: ​ ​ In that episode, Kenny and Lee were arguing in the house, and I could hear Kenny arguing... I was so disappointed because it was Kenny and I liked Kenny...and I was so disappointed because being a 35 year old guy, second oldest in the house, having a daughter, I was just so mad that he allowed someone to get under his skin like that. And I was so angry I wanted to send him home then, and they (the producers) were kinda like, “no, you know, you're just doing it out of anger. You like Kenny,” and I was like I do, but like that's a huge red flag for me. He can't control his anger…they were like, “no, we don't think it’s a good idea for you to send Kenny home”…and there must have been somebody else black that I wanted to send home that night and it was like, “you can’t,” so then I got upset because it was like, you're holding me to the exact same standards as everyone else, you're treating me a certain way because I'm a black bachelorette so I have to do things this way, and like that is how the world is, and I was so upset and I was like “I don’t like any of the black men”...so what you don't see is, “that’s your fault, that’s casting’s faults, and I really didn't like some of them,” but I was so upset…so this is when they start editing it. I said, “As a black woman I going to be judged by America and then I'm going to be judged by Black America, and there are going to be people who

28 expect me to pick a black man just because I'm black. And you didn't even give me good options to even have the choice to fairly choose a black man”...this is the stuff that I was saying to them.

Despite being the focus of this season, Rachel’s body as a black woman is not privileged and given a voice within BF’s framework of Whiteness. Whether it is through the influence of the producers, people who stopped her from eliminating Kenny, no doubt due to the desire to keep him and Lee together and create more drama, or the editing that cut out the bulk and importance of what Rachel is saying, the rules of authenticity that frame White womanhood do not extend to Rachel. As illuminated in the interview, Rachel knew of the treatment and judgement she was facing as a black woman, in addition to the double standards and the expectations America and Black America had assigned to her in her position. Her ability to be the woman that Black America wanted was always compromised, made clear by BF’s intentions in the number of White men that dominated her contestant pool, as seventeen of her starting thirty-one suitors were White. In truth, within BF where White heteronormative femininity is idealized, the show was never set up for Rachel to end up with a black man, thus both catalyzing and erasing the pressures that she revealed in the fourth episode. However, given the framework of the show, that anger and frustration on Rachel’s part is not allowed to be shown: she is allowed to be seen crying and vulnerable, as those are the bounds of authentic emotion that define a White female standard, yet the deeper emotions, the ones that stems from being black and female and constantly under surveillance, are not ones that BF deems legitimate. Therefore, even as Rachel argues and blames her producers for the position she is put in, the enthroning of heteronormative, White love that characterizes The Bachelorette trumps over the salvation of ​ ​ black female romantic agency.

29 Agency in Representation: Opposition as Transformation

As always in the world of BF, a contestant rose above as the clear fan favorite early on in

Rachel’s season. This contestant was Peter Kraus, a 31-year-old “business owner” (read personal trainer, as many Bachelorette contestants seem to be) from Madison, Wisconsin. Rachel herself, despite not having watched any of The Bachelor previous to being on her season and not having ​ ​ access to social media during her show, voiced her intuitions regarding Peter in our interview: “I knew Peter would be a fan favorite, and I actually told him that in fantasy suite, I was like

‘America is going to love you, you are the ideal’ … Midwestern, cookie cutter, it’s like the equivalent of having the blond hair, blue eyes. He is very handsome, but I was like, ‘they are going to love you.’” What Rachel is illuminating is a concept that Margaret Hunter coins “the beauty queue,” or a politics of physical appearance that dictate access, opportunity, and overall attractiveness (Hunter, 2005, 70). As beauty becomes a form of social capital for women, influencing their ability to increase education and income, as well as marry a high status husband

3, physical attributes that adhere to hegemonic ideals of Whiteness act as a form of social currency. These same ideas work as well for men; however, given hegemonic systems of patriarchy that define female worth through the lens of beauty, these realities are not as severe.

The Bachelor and The Bachelorette do not fail to subscribe to the beauty queue and ​ ​ ​ further racialized understandings of beauty. Although the queue describes the plight of womanhood and how beauty functions with femininity, the media frenzy over Peter, and

Rachel’s subsequent discussion of him, is heavily influenced by these ideals of physical attractiveness. Most important is the equivalency that Rachel designates–“the blond hair, blue

3 Although heteronormative, Hunter only discusses the ways this idea affects heterosexual couples. Yet given White ​ supremacy, it can be assumed and supported that standards of desirability based on White ideals abound in queer relationships as well. 30 eyes”–thus stipulating the frameworks of White desirability that are integral within this show, and the ways that Peter, although a man, still upholds these very standards with his appearance.

It is therefore not a surprise that Peter, with his Midwestern charm, strong facial features, and light, piercing eyes, was favored from the start. Yet given these attributes and his Whiteness, it is also unsurprising that the editing of Peter as a character within the show helped to further these ideals, positioning and further bolstering him as a fan favorite. Within the politics of editing, the audience is made to believe that the representation of Peter is “real,” without realizing that all his moments on the show were carefully crafted to support a specific story. Because of this, and the ways he embodied the formula of the show, his elimination was met with intense audience discontent and criticism, all leveled at Rachel.

As each season of this show acts as a preview and advertisement for the next season, the editing choices and decisions made on the show work to position specific suitors in a positive light, as a way of gathering audience support, and of ensuring viewership and high ratings for the upcoming season. In our interview Rachel talks about how this was made clear to her while watching her season for the first time when it aired:

There were certain things that Peter did say to me that were cold and harsh and they didn't show and I feel like...editors knew that I picked Bryan so you kind of have to prepare people for who could possibly be the next lead...Dean got a good edit, Eric got a good edit, you know because these people could possibly be the next bachelor, and that’s what they have to do because they have to keep the show going. It’s not just about the love story of the two people, because it’s like you found each other.

By “good edit”, Rachel is describing the constructed narratives that frame each of the men: narratives that defined Bryan as charming yet disingenuous, Dean as flirty but childish, and

Peter as the perfect, sweet, and sensitive prince. However, as illuminated by Rachel, these

31 narratives are fabricated by the editors of the show in order to produce a certain character and guide audience anticipations and preferences. In fact, in our interview Rachel reveals a shocking, and obviously unaired moment with Peter, where he tells her somewhat harshly that he does not love her. However, in keeping with the editing choices meant to always show Peter in a positive light, this moment was excluded from the show. Dubrofsky posits that The Bachelor, disguised ​ ​ as a love story about two people finding each other, instead tells the “tale of the treacherous journey of women who fail at love” (Dubrofsky, 2006, 3). Through drawn out rose ceremonies and intense displays of emotion, this show capitalizes off of female failure to be desirable romantic partners. In the framework of The Bachelorette, specifically on Rachel’s season, failure ​ ​ appears not on the bodies of the men who are eliminated, but rather on Rachel herself and her inability to choose the “right” man by the standards of the show and its fans. Because of the patriarchal and heteronormative ideals that frame this franchise, men on the show instead are shown as “broken-hearted” and “hurt,” therefore effectively placing blame solely on female, and further black, bodies. This section analyzes the manner in which Peter was edited and positioned in order to create audience empathy, the ways this harmed and diminished the representation of

Rachel as a black woman, and the tactics that she deployed in an attempt to subvert this narrative. Further, through autoethnography and queer opposition, this section dissects the ways that Peter’s positioning as the “correct” choice for Rachel perpetuates standards of compulsory heteronormativity, framing the White, heterosexual male as the ultimate object of desire.

From the beginning, Peter received a significant amount of screen time and attention. The first suitor out of the limo to be presented to Rachel and the audience, Peter also had the first one-on-one with the camera, during which he confesses, “She looked amazing. That dress on her

32 looks fantastic.” Peter also received the first one-on-one date, a classic bachelorette affair, during which they take a private jet out to Palm Springs. During their date, Peter remarks to the camera that he already feels connected to Rachel, immediately followed by a conversation where they discuss moving for “the right reasons.” Rachel asks Peter if he would move to Dallas, to which he responds, “If that’s what it would come to.” As always, the end of the date shows them having a romantic, candle-lit dinner. They discuss family and past relationships and Rachel remarks that,

“It is so rare that I get butterflies. And when I’m with Peter I get butterflies.” The date ends with images of the couple kissing against a backdrop of fireworks. Everything about this date exudes the classical Bachelor tropes: from the private jet, to the premature relationship conversations, to ​ ​ the fireworks, this montage entirely sets up the fantastical dreamworld of love, focusing solely on the sweet and romantic moments. What is more, the show has found its Prince Charming to complete the dream world. Already the show positions Peter in a light that promises romance, and as this date occurs in the second episode, he is solidified, through careful and exceptionally positive editing, as a favorite from the start.

Regardless of editing choices, Rachel confirmed in our interview that Bryan and Peter were her top two, making them the spotlight of the live finale that aired on August 7th, 2017.

Traditionally, the finale is a two-hour primetime event, directly followed by a live one-hour

“After The Final Rose” special, during which in front of a live studio audience, the Bachelorette not only gets to finally appear in public with her fiance, but also must speak face to face with the man she rejected. Things went a little differently this season: usually the entire finale is shown first, and then the Bachelorette come out to discuss the events during the after show special.

However this year, the producers extended the finale into a three hour affair, bringing Rachel out

33 at the beginning and having her watch the finale for the first time with and in front of the live studio audience. In our interview, Rachel expressed her intense discomfort with this set up:

I was mad, and I said it on camera, “I don't know why ya'll keep doing this to me.” Because they were like, “Oh, surprise finale,” and I literally say to Chris on stage, “I don't know why ya'll keep doing this to me. I am not amused,” and I think they wanted a reaction out of me, they wanted to trigger, whether it was anger, some type of emotion out of me...I've been engaged for three months, I have a fiance that I adore and I am representing him on this stage as well, so you can't expect me to be in tears over something I got over three months ago and be disrespectful to my relationship and my fiance.

It is critical to consider the space of containment under which the producers of The ​ Bachelorette confined Rachel, not only in the editing of her body as a black woman throughout ​ the season, but through putting her in front of a live, and predominantly White, audience for the finale. Under these conditions, Rachel, as she expressed, had to be exceedingly careful in the emotions she showed, particularly in the ways that her anger could be read and potentially stereotyped by viewers. Yet among this space of containment, comes a potential agency against the politics of editing. Through the live special, and without the producers editing her words, there is space through which Rachel is able to represent herself; by providing additional context to the actions on screen and laying bare the moments that were edited out, the realm of live TV becomes a potential site for black female agency through an oppositional reading. By bringing her personal experiences to the forefront, Rachel complicates the standards of black female representation, offering a place and point of comparison for her viewers (Boylorn, 2008, 430).

What is more, her silence, although a marker of restriction within the reality TV format, can as well be a source of agency: her decisions to speak and not speak about certain events shows what truly matters to her and where the audience should focus their attention.

34 During the televised and edited portion of the finale, the main focus was on Peter and the breakup. Throughout the finale, the scenes of Peter and Rachel, and the main conflict between them, was entirely about their prospective engagement. Earlier in the season, Peter had expressed his hesitancy with the upcoming proposal, stating that “If I am having reservations, and we are getting that far into it, I would let you know,” immediately followed by a confessional with

Rachel, where she expresses how scary it is that he may not be ready to propose to her at the end of the journey. This moment, as well as ones that followed, presented the notion that the main goal for Rachel throughout the show was a ring and a proposal, and centered the conflict around

Peter’s inability to follow through with this. Their break up, and the subsequent live reunion between Peter and Rachel, took up thirty minutes of the finale; however, as revealed by Rachel herself, her breakup with Peter lasted over four hours, highlighting the considerable editing, condensing, and manipulation that went into the process of televising this moment.

Before the final scene with Peter in the finale, Rachel confesses to the camera, “The goal tonight is to leave knowing where he stands, and for him to know where I stand,” demonstrating an agency on her part to have finality and clarity with the situation at hand. However soon into the scene, Peter confesses to Rachel that, “I am in love with you...I don’t feel that I am ready to ask you to marry me tomorrow, but I don’t want to stop being with you.” In response Rachel says:

I get so confused by you. You’re talking to me about...our future, and vacations, dogs, and where we would live and what sized bed we are gonna have. And it’s like fantasizing this future that we can have together that you want with a wife. But then when it comes to like the reality of this and where we are right now, its like you don’t want to face it, it’s like steps are skipped...I don’t want to repeat what I’ve done in every single relationship. And my fear is that, you know like, okay, you don’t propose and I agree to just date you and be committed to you. What guarantee do I have that it is ever going to leave that stage? Because my past has shown me that it won’t.

35

The scene follows showing Rachel and Peter continuing to disagree on the issue of the proposal. After proclaiming that he does want to build a relationship with her, Peter agrees to propose to her, “to prove to you that I want to pursue this relationship.” Rachel however rigidly declines the offer, knowing that this is not at all what he wants to do, followed by this tense exchange:

Rachel: I feel like you don’t know what you want to do. Peter: I don’t. R: I want somebody who knows what they want to do. P: Great, then go find someone you’ll have a mediocre life with. R: Why does that mean I have to have a mediocre life? P: Because I will give you an amazing life and an amazing relationship. R: But you don’t know what you want to do Peter. You don’t even know if you want it with me. P: Tomorrow, I don’t know what I wanna do tomorrow...I think we are both going to regret this decision. R: Maybe. P: No, I am.

Eventually, the two realize their differences will not be resolved, and after a long, tearful and emotional goodbye, complete with drawn out kisses and “I love yous,” Rachel leaves. The camera then centers on a distraught Peter. Crying, the camera zooms to his face, where almost inaudibly, we hear him say “What is wrong with me?” By giving Peter a close-up shot, particularly when he is so emotional, Peter becomes the center of the story and his emotions and pain become sources for empathy. The camera then switches to a shot of Rachel walking away in the rain, and in a voice over we hear her speculate, “Peter has me questioning - am I forcing myself to do something I don’t wanna to do? I just feel like I’m making a big mistake.” Rachel is awarded a very brief close-up but her emotion is not laid bare in the same ways that Peter’s is,

36 once again privileging his pain over hers. Through a melodic piano soundtrack that escalates with the drama, close-up and tear filled camera shots, and (probably superimposed) rumbles of thunder, the producers were successful in making this scene rare, heartbreaking, and incredibly emotional. Yet all of these feelings are centered on the failure of this relationship, the Rachel’s unwillingness to choose Peter (despite his apparent love for her) and the indisputable question of it all being a tremendous mistake. As is obvious, BF capitalizes off of drama: yet the drama at hand privileges and centers the emotional upset of Peter, pitting Rachel as unwilling, unfit, and shallow in her quest for love and marriage. As a black woman, this narrative is particularly insidious not only in what this show is saying about black female worthiness and agency, but also in the potential normalization of this narrative.

The first time I watched the finale, I felt bad for Peter. My immediate reaction was to believe that Rachel did in fact want to be with him, and although I did think that she had love for

Bryan, it felt like she wasn’t choosing who she actually wanted. It is devastating to me that this was my first reading of the events, in knowing now that this is exactly how the producers wanted the audience to perceive the storyline, in knowing that by decoding the messages in this way, I was subscribing to the very painful, White supremacist, and patriarchal ideologies that have so often confined and hurt me in my life. In watching the episode again and more so, through talking with other, and older, black women about the scene, I shifted my interpretation and instead saw myself and my experiences reflected in Rachel. Instead of seeing a woman not choosing the man she actually wanted to be with, I saw Rachel pushing back against a White person attempting to control her, to string her along, to play with her emotions, and entirely fail to acknowledge the ways that his actions had affected her. In choosing Peter, Rachel would have

37 been choosing a life where she would continuously be getting hurt, where she would continuously have to compromise what she wanted and how she was feeling in order to sustain and please him in the relationship. Rachel herself made it very clear during our interview: “If I had compromised, if I had settled, if I had made excuses, I would be with Peter.”

I think of my own personal experiences, those with White people, both men and women, and the ways their feelings, desires, and emotions have always been privileged over mine. I think of the ways I continuously catered to their needs, making concessions and harming myself in order to make them happier. I think of the ways that I have compromised, the ways I have settled, and the many excuses I have made. Through privileging the narrative of a White man, this show is demonstrating the ways in which black women are taught to privilege the narratives of the

White people around them, especially of those with whom they become romantic. In rewatching her live conversation with Peter, in watching her push against his expressions of pain, of watching her proclaim that she is in fact “living her best life,” I saw instead a way through which black women can relate to Whiteness that has been limited both in media representations of White desire for black women, and in my own life. In her words and actions, I saw opposition,

I saw agency, I saw a complication of and revolution against the submission that black women are taught to embody.

Finally, as a queer woman, despite the championing of heterosexuality that defines this show, I find agency in Rachel’s rejection of Peter as a rejection of White Heteronormativity.

True, the season concludes with a traditional heterosexual union between Rachel and Bryan, so on the surface the show is in every way still championing heterosexuality. Yet Peter entirely emcompasses what I have been told I am supposed to want my entire life, the type of person from

38 which I am supposed to seek validation. I initially felt for Peter because it is his body that this show and society as a whole deems worthy, deems attractive, and deems legitimate, notions that

I am still in the process of unlearning. For me, this is the compulsory White heterosexuality that has defined much of my life and the subsequent slowness with which I realized and began to embody my queerness. Although still choosing a man, Rachel’s rejection of Peter seems to me not only a reclamation of her own desires but also a complete denunciation of hegemonic and historically racialized and gendered ideals of who we are supposed to love. Rachel therefore is rejecting a love that society has told her she is supposed to value and desire, choosing instead the type of love she truly wants. As a queer woman, I see myself sharply in that.

Following the break up with Peter, the finale immediately cuts back to the live studio audience, and shows Rachel reacting to watching and reliving that moment again for the first time in three months. Pursing her lips, she admits to her frustration at the events that occurred, and given that she “doesn’t have a choice,” greets Peter as he enters the stage. Dodging Chris

Harrison’s invasive and pointed questions, Rachel quickly remarks:

It’s interesting for me because...watching that back it makes it seem like the whole focal point on us was the fact that you wouldn’t propose and that’s not what it was for me...there were other deep rooted issues that I started to see that began in Geneva for me that made me realize that you weren’t quite in the same place that I wanted somebody that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. And it was hard because my emotion that you see, it comes from what I had experienced in my prior relationship before...you reminded me of exactly what I had been through with my last relationship...someone who was telling me all these things and could see all of this with me, but didn’t want to take those steps to get there with me and that’s where that emotion was coming from within, like that’s what was triggering all that for me. It was hard.

By pushing back and in many ways employing her own oppositional reading, Rachel, through the space of live TV and without the threat of editing, is able to use her agency to reclaim her own representation. As illuminated by bell hooks (1992), the oppositional gaze

39 allows black women to critically assess and disengage from media constructions of White womanhood. Rachel’s reading of her own representation disassociated her body from expectations of White desirability, asserting the realities of her relationship with Peter and affirming that her desire, and by extension her gaze, did not fall within a White ideal. Through the confines of editing and the racialized privileging of certain narratives, it is important to complicate the space of live TV as not just a space for containment, but instead as a space for potential agency. Where the editing of reality TV works to manipulate and produce a certain narrative of black womanhood, one that in The Bachelorette perpetuates ideals of White ​ ​ femininity and superiority, live TV becomes a potential platform for reclamation, a way that the stereotypes and ideologies placed on black women can be deconstructed and splintered. In our interview, Rachel expressed her upset with the finale:

If I do have a complaint about editing, it was the whole, "I'm here for a proposal, I'm here for a ring".... it’s such a contradiction to the person I am, if I'm that shallow to sell myself out for a piece of jewelry so it was important for me to clarify that it wasn't just about the ring. I did go into that room knowing that I was going to send Peter home but that didn't take away from the four hour goodbye that that was, and ya'll saw 10 minutes. That didn't mean that it didn't trigger my last five year relationship, with someone who again I thought I was going to marry, and didn't mean that I didn't care about him and I didn't want to see him hurt. I didn't expect for me to come in there and for him to say that “I'm in love with you” ... But yes it was very important for me to let people know Peter did not go home because he was not going to propose... the man said, “I'll propose to you,” like did no one hear that? He said he would do it, so if I really wanted that then I would have gotten it...with Peter, I was like something's not right here, I remember and they didn't show my interview where I'm actually saying that...I kept saying there are deep rooted issues and people were like, “Oh my gosh she's just saying that,” and I'm like, no no no, he has issues. Like the man has issues, and if you could look past his beauty you could see that.”

Unfortunately however, the reading of live TV as a space of agency is one that is limited to an oppositional reading, as operating within White heteronormativity continues to perpetuate harmful and insidious associations. As specified by Rachel’s interview, her emotions, her

40 frustrations, and her choices all stem from her past experiences, ones entirely defined by her identity as a black woman, by histories and understandings that are not only erased within the world of BF, but additionally not made legible for the viewers. Rachel expressed upset in our interview over the moment when Peter told her she’d have a mediocre life if she did not choose him, specifying that for him he can say it because “he was just so hurt and he apologized.” After they address this moment on live TV, Rachel tells him that she is in fact living her best life, yet for her, as Rachel herself illuminates, “he can say anything, and it's nothing, and I can say something and it’s a problem. So I think that leads into the angry black female mode ... I'm living my best life, which I am, and now I'm aggressive.” Rachel thus is illuminating the ways that although she is able to subvert the narrative attached to her body by speaking out, the bounds and definitions of black womanhood as defined by the White supremacist, heteronormative patriarchy continually confine her. Is redemption for representations of black womanhood thus confined to the oppositional gaze? And how then can this work be done if this gaze is not employed by mass audiences?

There is no debating that The Bachelorette exists within a fantasy world. In the realm of ​ ​ this show, in a mere nine weeks, two people, one of whom has spent the entirety of the last two months dating and presumably developing strong feelings for multiple people, can get engaged and promise themselves to each other. It is no wonder that so many couples fail to stay together after the show. Yet how do the politics, ones entirely defined by Whiteness and romance, of this world change when a black woman is front and center? The short answer: they don’t. As illuminated by the editing of Rachel’s finale, the privileging of Peter’s narrative, despite the reality that he was not right for her and was not willing to commit to her, and the ways that

41 although agentic in her actions, Rachel’s body on the live finale was still consumed by stereotypes, Whiteness prevails in the narrative of romantic love that this show defines. Rachel, for all intents and purposes, becomes a Black Lady, a term coined by Patricia Hill Collins

(2000). This stereotype serves for the educated, successful, upper-middle class black woman, who given her “assertive” behavior is unfit and unable to obtain male companionship. Although not entirely reduces to this stereotype, given that Rachel obviously ends up with another man, by centering Peter as the ultimate and only choice, her blackness, her success, and her agency ​ ​ become her failing in finding (White) love. Yet for the opposition, for the black female viewer whose romantic history overlaps with Rachel’s and sees her journey as an expression of self-worth and a challenge to notions of White superiority and privilege, Rachel’s representation becomes a story of transformation. As this show so inherently exploits the narratives of black women, Rachel’s actions, particularly her refusal to settle, are emblematic of an oppositional representation, one within which black women have romantic agency against hegemonic ideals of Whiteness.

Concluding Thoughts: Unlearning the History

The day after the finale aired, The New York Times published an article entitled “A ​ ​ ‘Bachelorette’ Finale, Served With a Dash of Humiliation” (Hess and Coscarelli, 2017). Like most recap articles, the piece relayed the events of the finale interspersed with author commentary and opinion. In discussing Rachel and Peter’s breakup, the author posits that “The

Bachelorette got dumped,” and further affirms that Peter’s rejection forced her to choose Bryan.

The article asserts that Rachel’s heart truly did lay with Peter, yet that he humiliated her by

42 breaking up with her, leaving Bryan as her only option given the pressure on her to get engaged.

The author insists that this is not the ending that Rachel deserves, citing that “all the White girls got to choose for themselves,” and entirely characterizing this finale as a failure not only on

Peter’s part for being on the show, but on Rachel’s for choosing a ring over happiness. What is more, the article addresses a pivotal moment in the finale: when Rachel tells Peter on live camera during their reunion that she is “living her best life.” The article characterizes this moment as defined by overwhelming resentment, further framing the moments where Rachel insists that the problems she saw in her relationship with Peter went beyond his inability to propose as her attempts to resell the narrative, as her “lashing out.” In all, this article adheres to the narrative of

White love that guides the show: it centralizes Peter as the most desirable, erases all of Rachel’s agency in her choice, and allows no space for black female romantic fulfillment.

In our interview, Rachel expressed her discontent with how Bryan was represented in the show: “My relationship with Bryan on TV did not have depth, so like I get why people questioned it...Bryan and I had no drama, from the first time he got out of limo, we were like best friends...what did you see instead: him saying something charming and us making out. That kind of stuff was disheartening...so it was fixed in a way...there was no depth, or that I really wanted

Peter.” As a whole, Bryan on the show was defined by his charm, the intense physical intimacy that seemed to be the extent of their relationship, and Rachel’s continued affirmations that Bryan was too good to be true. He was characterized as suave and sensual, stereotyped and performative attributes given his Latinx identity. Instead Peter, and the failure of that relationship, was awarded the spotlight, and although confessing in our interview that she knew she was going to chose Bryan weeks prior to their engagement, this choice was not made clear in

43 the show. Therefore, despite working within a framework where a proposal and monogamy are the formulaic conclusions to a happy ending, black female desirability and romantic success, particular when at the expense of the White ideal, are still not allowed legibility within this show.

Throughout the season, Rachel continuously affirmed that Bryan was too good to be true.

When I asked her why this was the case, she responded:

The reason I kept thinking he was too good to be true is because I'm so used to dealing with not getting everything that I deserve in a relationship...I'm so used to the hard to get, I'm so used to the confused guy who doesn't know what he wants...the guy's everything I want but he can’t commit for some reason, that’s what I'm used to. I...immediately liked Bryan but...then I'm like something's not right here..like thats all I kept thinking, so for me it’s like I see it in you but I have to tear it apart because I've never had it before.

In episode six, after a short scene during which Bryan speaks optimistically about the future he envisions, the scene cuts to a solo confessional of Rachel stating, “Bryan accepts me for who I am, it’s like he accepts me flaws and all, and it doesn’t scare him and he just keeps reassuring me that this is what he wants and he is here and he not going anywhere...I haven’t had that before.” Both this moment in the show and Rachel’s revelations in the interview showcase the ways in which her past experiences came into her understandings of her relationship with

Bryan. It is unsurprising that BF didn’t allow space for this story - space for the success of a black woman getting what she wanted, space for a black woman being desired and making the correct choice for herself, a space for positive representations of black women and love to be highlighted. This storyline is antithetical to the intentions of the show, anathema to the continuation of White supremacist and patriarchal ideals of love. Yet in keeping with an oppositional reading, although a reality show, the representation of black female romantic agency is not lost.

44 I think about the first time someone I had feelings for told me that she felt the same way. I didn’t believe her, and for all intents and purposes I had no reason to. Like Rachel, I am not used to getting the type of love that I know that I deserve, and like Rachel, I am hesitant in navigating new relationships due to disbelief. Like Rachel I am used to people not fully committing to me, and like Rachel, although I know exactly what I want, I have struggled to find someone that wants that and with me. When I asked Rachel for any advice she would give to black women watching her show, she replied, “You have to know you are, and you have to know your worth, and you can't falter from that...I didn't compromise my morals or what it was that I wanted, and I think that’s what made it so successful for me in the end.” Regardless of whether or not Rachel and Bryan stay together, regardless of whether or not the depictions of this show are “real,” the representation of Rachel navigating a space of Whiteness, rejecting a love that she is “supposed” to choose, and refusing to settle, presents a narrative that for me, as a black queer viewer, offers the promise of solidarity but also empowerment. Yes this show practices and perpetuates vicious standards of heteronormativity, respectability, Whiteness, and patriarchy; yet hearing Rachel speak so candidly about her romantic past, refuse to settle for nothing less than what she wanted, needed, and deserved, and watching her declare confidently that she is living her best life, provides a representation and reclamation of agency that I have rarely seen depicted in the media.

On the surface, this season favorites Peter as the idealized, desirable White man, demonizes and reduces Rachel as a black woman unworthy of (White) love, and characterizes

Bryan as secondary, his Latinx raciality containing the threat of interracial intimacy (Herrera,

2015). Yet through opposition, this season becomes representational of agentic black

45 womanhood, of a dark-skinned black woman being desired and sought after within a major media outlet. The treatment of her body and the limitations of her story become representational as well, emblematic of hegemonic ideals that are perpetuated by the media and thus pervade social understandings of black women and love. Through an analysis of season 22 of The ​ Bachelorette, this chapter understands hegemonic understandings and subsequent implications of ​ a love that are performed, manipulated, and sold within a White, heteronormative context.

Starting with notions of gendered and racialized romantic expectation and compulsory White heteronormativity, this chapter begins this work through the lens of confinement. Using this show as a emblem of societal hegemonic understandings, Rachel’s actions, emotions, and desires were confined to a White, heteronormative ideal, just as mine have been confined against my ​ identities as a black, queer woman. I see myself in Rachel through the ways I have been taught who to love and subsequently the societal expectations attached to those desires. Through a ​ queer reading, this show presents avenues for reclamation, as Rachel’s rejection of Peter denotes a recourse for black female rejections of idealized expectations and desires. However, as Rachel within this text was deemed unworthy for not choosing Peter, the following chapter, this time focusing on a media text created and produced by black women, delves more deeply into racialized blame. Through analyzing Insecure, this chapter complicates how black women, ​ ​ despite making choices for themselves regarding their romantic desires, are still blamed for their romantic “failures.” However, it is the hope that in starting with a White context, the extent, toxicity, and degradation of these harms, and therefore the manifestation of the Care Politic, can be understood. On the surface, The Bachelor and The Bachelorette franchises provide little by ​ ​ ​ ​ way of radical, transformative, and intersectional understandings of love and desirability, and

46 effectively works to perpetuate insidious stereotypes and norms regarding black womanhood.

However, still there is tremendous room for legibility in opposition, and although unintentional, this season of The Bachelorette provides a counter viewpoint, therefore illuminating the ​ ​ irrepressibility of black female agency.

47 Chapter 2: Insecure as Me: Racialized Blame and Intimacy in Black Female Friendships

Issa Rae, writer and producer of HBO’s hit show Insecure (2016 - present) found her ​ ​ fame as a low level youtuber. Creator and star of The Misadventures of Awkward black Girl ​ (2011 - 2013), a mini series that follows the romantic antics, failures, and successes of J, a self-proclaimed awkward black girl, Issa Rae accomplishes a feat largely unseen in modern media: a complex and holistic media representation of black womanhood. In the first episode of the web series, which aired on YouTube on February 3rd, 2011, J introduces herself to the viewers: “I’m awkward and black. Someone once told me those were the two worst things anyone could be. That someone was right.” Through this introduction, Issa Rae effectively propels a media conversation about race, gender, and representation, complicating stereotypes of black womanhood, and critiquing standards of legibility. As a web series, Awkward black Girl ​ garnered 13 million views on YouTube (Brown, 2005), popularity founded in its honest and nuanced understandings of blackness, desirability, and love. Within the realm of this show, black woman aren’t hypersexual; they aren’t profoundly and unwaveringly strong; they aren’t comforting and conforming; they aren’t angry and aggressive. In the world of Issa Rae, black women are awkward, misunderstood, and flawed, all characteristics that offer a refreshingly dynamic representation of the complexity of black female experiences.

Through YouTube, Issa Rae was able to make a name for herself. The Stanford graduate, understanding her limitations as a black creator, relied entirely on the radical space of the internet as a mechanism through which to promote her stories. From her YouTube fame, Issa

Rae was given the opportunity to take her talents to primetime with the HBO series Insecure ​ (2016 - present), a show that like Awkward black Girl follows the romantic trials of its central ​ ​

48 character. Yet this time, due obviously to the high-budget productions of HBO, and with Issa

Rae still commanding the writing room, Insecure is able to dive more deeply into the sea of ​ ​ black female representation, offering not one, but two compelling characters. Issa Rae stars as

Issa, a recently turned 29-year-old woman who works at a non-profit and lives with her unemployed, couch-ridden boyfriend, Lawrence. Throughout the first season, Issa struggles with feelings of stagnation, both within her relationship and work life, attempting to find a truer version of herself. Yvonne Orji stars as Issa’s best friend Molly, a successful corporate attorney who constantly through the show is attempting, and subsequently failing, to find a romantic partner who reaches her standards. Although on the surface Molly seems to embody neoliberal conceptions of success, both in her romantic ideals and her career, Molly’s representation on the show demonstrates how these constructs confine black womanhood and wholly limit romantic agency and understandings of self. Although as ready for love and emotionally available as

Molly is, the show accurately portrays the ways in which merely wanting and being ready for romantic love does not necessarily translate into its acquisition for black women. However still, this show works to complicate a heteronormative understanding of the functionality of love.

Despite following the romances of both Issa and Molly, the show emphasizes the power and importance of black female friendship, as throughout the first season their relationship remains

(relatively) stable and continual. Through centering these women, this show undeniably exposes the profound intimacies of black female relationships, the losses and vulnerabilities that are attached to romance, and the potential for warmth and comfortability founded in platonic friendship.

49 I remember the first time I watched Insecure vividly. I had been searching and searching ​ ​ for a new television show to watch, yet was dismayed by the lack of shows that focused on the lives of black women. All I wanted was to watch a show with a black female, hopefully queer, character, yet even those that fit that description confined those characters to the background.

Until Insecure. Through my economic privileges, my family’s HBO subscription opened me into ​ ​ the expanding world of Issa Rae, one that I had so been yearning for, one that I knew well from

Awkward black Girl, but never imagined would be revived and upgraded. Although the first ​ episode lasts only thirty minutes, I took me at hour to make it through, due to all the stopping and rewatching of scenes, the pausing for a laugh break, the feverish texting to all my friends to alert them about this new find. The first episode made me feel like she knew it all, knew my story.

The first episode opened up and touched all of my insecurities, and while watching this show, for a few perfect moments, made them all disappear.

This chapter, through a textual analysis of the first episode of Insecure, which aired on ​ ​ October 9th, 2016, will examine the profound strength and love of Molly and Issa’s friendship, particularly as it compares to the heterosexual romantic relationships of both characters. The pilot, as it serves as an immediate introduction to the characters, effectively showcases dominate themes and frameworks as they will be explored throughout the rest of the season. Therefore, by analyzing the pilot and interpreting the nuances of representation, this chapter illuminates how

Insecure situates and positions black women in relation to men, each other, and themselves. Tied ​ together by similar lived experiences, the attention to these two women and their friendship amounts to a queering of how relationships are privileged, offering its viewers another mechanism through which to understand relationship “success.” However still, this show

50 possesses drawbacks. This chapter, by following her storyline through the entirety of season one, will also question and complicate Molly’s overall representation, citing how this show casts her as the cause of her romantic failure, instead of noting the greater systemic factors as they function through a politic of racialized care. Additionally, although queered in its emphasis on the love, although platonic, of two black women, this show as a whole lacks a viable romantic queer storyline, limiting the sexual agencies of black female representations. However still, this chapter delves into the relatability of Molly as a character and through an oppositional reading, interprets her positioning within a black queer experience.

“Insecure as Fuck”: Black Female Friendship as a Source of Love and Care

The first episode of season one of Insecure opens to the streets of Los Angeles, ​ ​ California. It is mid-morning, the camera positioned as if in a moving vehicle, taking the viewer for a ride through the city. With the 2015 song “Alright” by Kendrick Lamar playing in the background, an anthem of blackness, continuity, and survival, the images on the screen–a wig shop, a barbershop, a “Louisiana Famous Fried Chicken” joint, and a church–cement the show in a black experiential tradition, placing black livelihoods, traumas, and experiences as its centerpoint. The scene cuts to show Issa Dee, played by writer, creator, and producer Issa Rae, standing in front of a middle school classroom promoting “We Got Y’all,” the non-profit organization where she works which helps disadvantaged middle and high schoolers. The class however, which is predominately made up of black and Latinx students, pays little attention to what Issa is saying, goofing around and asking highly personal questions instead. Attempting to hide her discomfort, Issa does her best to professionally avoid the questions, the majority of

51 which center on her appearance, and by extension, her love life. “Why you talk like a White girl?” is the first question fired by a young black girl in the middle of the room, followed by

“What’s up with your hair?” and “Are you single?” Despite Issa’s continued deflections and attempts to bring the conversation back to topic, a boy in the class asks, “Why aren’t you married?” Issa, clearly frustrated, quickly responds with, “I’m just not,” as a girl in the class states, “‘My dad said ain't nobody checkin’ for bitterass black women anymore.’” After taking a breath and recentering, Issa responds with, “Tell your dad that black women aren’t bitter, they are just tired of being expected to settle for less.” The scene follows as Issa continues to try to hold the attention of the class, yet to no avail. The opening credits appear to the background noise of the classroom as they again explode with laughter at Issa’s expense.

The genius of this scene in founded in its incorporation of school children and the societal significance of their questions. By using kids, this scene is making a statement about the social representations of black women, as younger children are easily malleable regarding social ideologies and stereotypes, thus demonstrating how these insidious ideas regarding black womanhood and desirability are incorporated into our society at a very young age. What is more, as the class is predominately students of color, it is interesting and integral to note how these questions and representations are affecting the students in the room, specifically the black female students. These stereotypes thus come from both within as well as outside black communities, making their contestation a struggle that is both inter and intra racial. Although awkward and humorous, the scene effectively demonstrates how we are socialized to understand and interpret the positioning of black women within the U.S. social framework.

52 However, this scene works as well to push against these ideologies and stereotypes. As

Patricia Hill Collins (2000) writes about the ways that black women have been forced to settle when it comes to their romantic partners, Issa demonstrates her agency in rescripting the stereotypes and expectations that are attached to black womanhood. In her response to the statement that black women are bitter, Issa clearly explains this characterization, relaying that this perceived bitterness instead comes from the legacy through which black women have been denied quality care and love, and therefore expected to accept these lesser standards of affection and treatment. She therefore points to an active rebellion against these ideals and the ways that black women are not bitter, but instead have increased their expectations to a standard that they ​ ​ deserve. However her response is met with little reflection and attention, therefore demonstrating how despite the agency she holds in understanding and pushing against these comments, society as a whole still continues to be fraught with these stereotypical understandings. The opening scene of Insecure thus effectively marks the show as radical in its ​ ​ representation of black female agency, yet realistic in the ways that these underlying historical representations and traumas continue to affect and characterize the social standing of black women.

The next sequence of scenes shows Issa navigating her work space and describing the organization that she works for. “We Got Y’all,” endeavors to help underprivileged school children in impoverished areas, yet as Issa comically states, her boss didn’t actually hire anyone who has any lived experiences interacting with or living in these communities (read: black people). Therefore, this makes Issa the “token with all the answers,” demonstrating again the ways that black people are read and treated within predominantly, if not all-White, spaces. Jaded

53 and irritated by microaggressions and minizations, yet unable to effectively push back given the stereotypes of aggression that would be attached to her rightful indignation, Issa describes herself as “aggressively passive,” an obvious defense mechanism to deploy when operating within such a space.

I remember watching this scene for the first time and bursting out into laughter: as I too have deployed personal defense mechanisms in order to navigate (read: survive) in all White spaces, Issa’s tactics were humorous in their relatability. I recall vividly a time I was vacationing with a good friend of mine and her (White) family. Her brother, a mere acquaintance, spend the entirety of my stay solely asking me about the NBA and rap music. This intense tokenization and the extent to which my skin markered me as a racial spokesperson on

“black culture,” was annoying, yet comical in its obviousness. I, like Issa, deflected, messed with him even, feigned my knowledge of Migos, of Kendrick, of Drake, and watched as his mind worked swiftly, seemingly unable to comprehend how I could possibly *not* know the answers to his questions. He lost much interest in engaging me after several of these deflections; perhaps I wasn’t black enough for him, or at least the type of black he expected me to be. Or maybe even, he was dissatisfied that he couldn’t perform and validate his proximity to blackness through me.

Whatever the case, like Issa, my passivity became a mechanism through which I was able to avoid these microaggressions, and as expected, my perpetrator moved on.

Within the first few minutes of the pilot, Issa reveals her main form of coping and venting when faced with these daily difficulties. A setting that occurs often throughout the series, on her private and personal time, Issa writes raps, lyrics that she sings to herself in the mirror.

The mirror is an important aspect of these scenes: a mechanism through which Issa can see

54 herself, but also through which an inner and intimate part of herself is revealed. The first rap follows the same awkward, self-deprecation of the first scene: as it’s Issa’s birthday, her rap starts out upbeat – “Go Shawty, it’s your birthday–but trails off almost instantly–“But no one cares because I’m not having a party, because I’m feeling sorry for myself”. Looking glum, the scene switches to Issa in her room on her computer. While scrolling through Facebook, as a messages pops from a man named Daniel King. The messages reads, “Happy Birthday. I miss you.” Immediately Issa’s expression changes: she flashes a smile, bites her thumb, and after scrolling through his pictures, jauntily celebrates after seeing that his relationship status is set to single. The scene cuts back to her in the mirror, now animated and inspired, rapping along to,

“Oh look, nigga, guess you’re still single, couldn’t find another bitch to make your toes tingle.”

Back in her room, Issa ruminates over how different her life would be if she “actually went after what [she] wanted.” Yet as she goes to respond to Daniel, a man in the bed behind her, who would be revealed later to be her boyfriend Lawrence, rolls over, causing Issa to swiftly close her laptop screen and leave the room. From the beginning, this show pits Issa as stagnant in her life, whether that be with her job, her creativity, and presumably her boyfriend. Yet the answer to these ills, as demonstrated by the covert and suspicious scene, is founded in Daniel, this unknown man from her past. As a show written for and by black women, this show as a whole immediately puts itself within a conversation between black women and romantic love, and the extent to which black women are made to believe that happiness and success are founded within heterosexual love relationships.

The significance of this show extends however, as it follows not one, but two black women attempting to navigate their lives as romantic, desirable beings. The next scene

55 introduces Molly, Issa’s best friend, a woman who she describes as the “Will Smith of corporate,” in her ability to be loved by both White and black communities alike. Her opening scene shows her at work, a space that visually appearances to be a very White, very wealthy law firm. She shares on office with her Asian coworker, named Diane, and her opening scene begins with her coworker asking how she was able to get a client to settle a case. Diane, amazed by

Molly’s work ethic and tactics, is aghast, stating, “Please, please teach me your ways.” Molly’s phone buzzes, as she receives a text saying, “Hey,” from a man she has been seeing named

Hassan. After sending him a few more messages, Molly goes on to express her interest in him, and how she never thought she’d end up with someone who wasn’t black. Diane chimes in, relating that she and Jamal, her black boyfriend, have talked a lot about how despite not being each other’s types, the relationship still works. At this Molly immediately laughs, stating, “Girl,

Jamal is frontin’. Niggas love Asians and Latinas and Indians and White chicks and mixed chicks but you know if the ain't checkin for me, I ain’t checkin for them.” As Diane shuffles away, taken aback and defensive, Molly’s phone chimes again to a text from Hasan, saying that he isn’t looking for a relationship. Molly’s face immediately falls.

This scene continues to illuminate and investigate the relationship between black female happiness and romantic love, but also to further the ways that black women are rejected and looked over as romantic partners. It is no mistake that her co-worker is Asian, as Asian women are the most desirable racial group for women,4 and further, Molly’s response illuminates the

4 The author of this thesis acknowledges that this linking of desirability to Asian women has much to do with intense fetishization and racialized desire, markers that are entirely stereotypical, exploitative, and incredibly sexualized. In comparing Diane to Molly, it is important to note that the ways in which Diane is desired over Molly is much more ​ ​ complicated than a simplified argument for anti-black standards of desirability. Yet for the purposes of this work, in showcasing the ways black women are disregarded as romantic partners, the comparison between Molly and Diane is integral in illuminating black female exclusion from love and partnership. 56 ways that black women are excluded from dating, particularly when dating other black men. This reality is founded, for example, in the demographic data released by OKCupid, an online dating website. After compiling statistics from 2009-2014, data taken from 25 million accounts, the trends illuminated in Insecure are given quantitative evidence: when rated by men of all racial ​ ​ groups, black women score much lower than other women, while Asian women score positively ​ ​ in every category. Molly disseminates her decision to stop dating black men has nothing to do with a personal, conscious choice, and everything to do with the ways that black men are interested in anyone but black women. However unfortunately, her choice to try dating outside her race proves ineffective as well, as Hassan, the Arab man that she had been seeing for a few weeks, rejects her as well.

The next scene shows Issa and Molly out to Issa’s birthday dinner. Molly is complaining about her breakup, explaining to Issa how Hassan initially showed lots of interest in her, which dissipated over time and culminated in him sending her that last text. Molly brushes it off, stating, “That’s my life,” yet moments later confesses her upset to Issa. She monologues:

It doesn’t matter what I do, Issa, if I’m into them then I’m too smothering, if I take my time and try to give them space, oh I didn’t think you were into me. Fine, sex right away, lose interest, wait to have sex, lose interest. If I don’t have sex at all...motherfucker no, I am a grown-ass woman, I did not sign up for that bullshit.

Molly’s monologue in every way illuminates the host of tropes that are attached to black women in the dating world. In essence, Molly is describing the ways in which black women “can’t win,” and the host of stereotypes that confine their romantic behaviors. For example, her decisions regarding sex and the subsequent loss of interest that occurs with her partners entirely stems from sexualized stereotypes of black womanhood. As Patricia Hill Collins (2000) informs, black

57 female sexuality is seen as insatiable, uncontrollable, and deviant, a stereotype that clearly shows up in Molly’s sex life, as “sex right away” triggers her partners to lose interest, perhaps due to seeing her solely as a sex object. Conversely, her decision to wait to have sex positions her as an asexual other, a stereotype established through the creation of the Mammy, and perpetuated through more modern stereotypes such as the Black Lady. Yet in her rant, Molly is able to create a space of sexual agency for herself, reclaiming these sexual stereotypes and asserting herself as a healthy sexual being. Yet regardless, the tension and annoyances she feels are wrapped up in the conviction she holds of herself as independent in relation to how she is seen, and thus treated, by the men she dates.

The pair end up laughing off Molly’s hardships (no doubt a defense mechanism), as Issa hilariously comments that maybe Molly’s pussy is “broken.” Comical in the moment, this comment illuminates how black women turn inward and blame themselves for their romantic failures, as unable to fight against systemic and social racisms, it becomes much easier to find fault and therefore try to change the self. Yet this reaction is as well founded in experiential factors, and the culmination of a paranoid lie that black women begin to believe given these repeated apparent truths. Molly’s pussy is not broken, yet her experiences come to make her ​ ​ believe that it is, thus making the problem hers and hers alone. At the end of their dinner, in a brief conversation, Issa reveals that she is considering breaking up with Lawrence, her long-term boyfriend, due to her feelings of resentment. The next scene shows Issa coming home to

Lawrence, quite disheveled, and watching TV on their couch. Clearly annoyed, Issa asks why he isn’t dressed, as they have plans to go to a show for her birthday. Without answering her question, Lawrence confesses that he bombed (another) interview and given his mood, pleads

58 with Issa to just stay in and watch a movie. Issa agrees, grudgingly, and turning away from him, takes out her phone to respond to Daniel. She types, “Thank you. I miss you too,” and smiles softly to herself. This scene, and Issa’s relationship with Lawrence as a whole, exemplifies the expectation that black women must always stand by their men, without regard to the toll that such emotional labor exacts. At this point, Issa and Lawrence have been together for five years, four of which he has spent on the couch, unemployed and forcing Issa to not only take on the financial weight, but the emotional burden as well. Issa’s relationship with Lawrence is emblematic of the complicated and vicious realities of black female love, and the rate at which black women are forced to settle in order to maintain partnership. In its juxtaposition to the previous scene with Molly, the romantic options as depicted by this show for black women become clear: either a continued, and fruitless, search or a subpar, unfulfilling relationship. Yes,

Issa’s decision to flirtily text Daniel back raises questions about the morality and integrity of her relationship; yet, this gesture also marks a refusal to settle, a push against expectation, and a reclaiming of romantic agency and choice.

This moment of stagnancy and subsequent reclamation for Issa doesn’t end, however. In the following scene, while giving a presentation at work, Issa zones out and imagines her coworker delivering the following monologue to her:

Educated black women are highly unlikely to get married the more education they have. On the bright side, many black women are work-focused and find happiness in their careers. But then there is a small percentage of pathetic women who have neither. They are purposeless.

Although true that education and marriage have a negative correlation for black women (Raley et al. 2016), the rest of this monologue, no doubt a fragment of Issa’s psych, exhibits an internal anxiety regarding societal romantic norms. Happiness, as conceptualized within the frameworks

59 of White, cis-heteronormativity, is entirely dependent on romantic success, a clear marker of desirability and worth for women. However still, as first wave (White) feminism taught us, happiness and success can as well be founded and contained within a career, independent of partnership and companionship (Jha, 2016). Therefore, Issa, unhappy at work and unhappy with her life at home, is wrought with the anxiety of lacking this prescription of happiness. This daydream, although fleeting, triggers her to speak out at the meeting and promote herself in her work environment, her boss positively reacting to her improvised idea. The scene is a win for

Issa, as her agency over her own life appears to be legible through her assertion in the workspace. Further, as she sits down with a smile on her face, she receives a new message from

Daniel, suggesting that they hang out sometime. Juxtaposed with Issa’s spike in work ambition, the message from Daniel appears in this moment as a reclamation of her sexual, social, and romantic agency, an alleged sign that if she takes control of her life, she will reap the benefits.

The next scene follows Molly walking into work. She overhears excited voices and goes to investigate the commotion in the breakroom. Finding Diane surrounded by other workers from the office, Molly is taken aback when Diane, shrieking, brandishes a diamond ring in her face, and sprints forward for a hug. Molly, neglecting to return the embrace, appears quite dismayed, and forcibly mumbles, “I’m so happy for you.” As Diane, now crying, continues to tell her engagement story, Molly quickly dashes away, as another coworkers tells Diane that she

“deserves this.” Now in a bathroom stall Molly calls Issa at work. Issa, thoroughly surprised to hear about Diane’s engagement to her black boyfriend, responses with, “Damn, they wife others up with a quickness.” Between remarking that Diane isn’t even “that cute,” and wondering why she herself doesn’t deserve to get married, Molly blames Jesus for giving her “this broken-ass

60 pussy.” This scene, although obviously exaggerating in content–of course, in a neoliberal sense,

Molly “deserves” to get married and of course Jesus didn’t curse her “pussy”–her anxieties and assumptions are emblematic of a societal standard of beauty and desirability, factors that have not only triggered her failures in the dating world, but also catalyzed these internal feelings related to her self-worth.

Once a very good (White) friend of mine told me that she “deserved” her relationship with her (White) boyfriend. True, the love and care her current boyfriend was giving to her was something missing in her past relationships, and it was with this particularly man that she seemed to be truly happy and cared for. Yet at this moment in my life, I was single, having romantically failed with every person I had tried to pursue, still contemplating and figuring out my sexuality, still feeling unlovable and undesirable. I know that her saying that she deserves this relationship did not by extension mean that I didn’t deserve one, and I know that she was ​ ​ speaking instead from years of unhealthy and difficult past relationships and not to hurt me. Yet talking about a relationship and love as something one “deserves” immediately creates a binary where there are people who do not deserve such intimacies. When desirability and worthiness are constructed and operable within social frameworks, it’s not a question of who deserves to be ​ ​ married and loved but who gets to be. ​ ​ During her conversation with Molly, Issa, not entirely listening, scrolls through Daniel’s

Facebook page. Seeing that he is attending an open-mic event that evening, Issa excitedly suggests that she and Molly go out, and without waiting for Molly’s response, hangs up the phone. The next scene shows Issa getting ready, again in the mirror. While trying on different lipstick shades, Issa adopts multiple personas, miming different methods of interacting at a club.

61 The red shade - “Hi, I’m sexy. Let’s get out of here” - shows of a hyper flirtatious side. The pink

- “Oh my god, you’re a music producer, do you know Beck?” - personifies Whiteness, through her comments and high pitched, valley girl voice. The black - “I don’t make love. I fuck.” - exemplifies the sexually aggressive. The purple - “Well hello Daniel. No, you drive on the wrong side of the streets.” - again reads White, as she adopts a posh, British accent. However after flipping through characters, Issa shakes her head, calling her attempts and recreations “stupid” and “too aggressive.” In the end she sticks with simple transparent chapstick, and smiling softly to herself, leaves the bathroom. This scene, comical in its satirizing of Whiteness and womanhood, epitomizing the overarching theme of this pilot episode: Issa’s ever-present and internal desire to shift her life’s trajectory. Through adopting personas, and ones that are highly racialized, Issa is bringing to light her personal frustrations, ones that are entirely dependent on her identities. By “playing White” and further by noting her inability to pull off these seemingly superior ways of being, Issa illuminates the societal stereotypes that limit her as a black woman, ones that she must contend against especially when navigating her sexuality and romantic life.

After finishing up in the bathroom, Issa goes to grab her bag from the living room, where

Lawrence is sitting at the kitchen table, eating cereal and wearing sweats. After Issa tells him that she is taking Molly out, Lawrence remarks, “On a date? Should I be jealous?” and chuckles to himself under his breath. This is one of the few times throughout the season where queerness is mentioned, or at least alluded to. Lawrence’s brusqueness and swift mockery of the possibility of

Issa and Molly going on a date is in part due to his masculinity and comfortability in his relationship with Issa. Yet further, his dismissal and chuckle as well speak to the illegibility of black female sexuality. Perhaps perfectly placed, this moment, although quick and easily missed,

62 illuminates how black female queerness is defined and read: erased, laughed at, inimaginable and invisible.

The conversation continues, and as Issa explains that Molly is upset because she doesn’t think she will get married, Lawrence again laughs. “Her standards are way too high,” he remarks, causing Issa, under her breathe, to respond with, “Yeah maybe she should lower them like I did.” This dialogue again encapsulates the ways in which black women are stereotyped when it comes to dating. Lawrence is blaming Molly’s singleness on her “high standards” and her taking dating too seriously, instead of acknowledging the institutional and societal standards and stereotypes that make dating difficult for black women. Issa’s statement thus illuminates the reaction: the reality that many black women, especially educated and successful black women, must “lower their standards” in order to be in a relationship. Patricia Hill Collins (2000), through addressing the Black Lady stereotype (mentioned in the previous chapter in relation to Rachel

Lindsay), marks successful black women as asexual and unfit for marriage, given their career focus and economic threat to black men. Issa’s relationship to Lawrence however addresses many black female stereotypes: her status as a Black Lady limiting her desirability to other men and forcing her to lower her standards, and further her positioning and role as Mammy in her care and support of Lawrence. What is more, Collins illuminates how, given the historical emasculation of black men, black women are societally expected to subordinate their needs in order to help their men “regain their manhood” (Hill Collins, 2000, 157). It is in this moment in the pilot that it is revealed that Lawrence has been unemployed for four years, meaning that for all of this time, Issa has been carrying the financial, and therefore emotional weight of the relationship. Thus, Issa’s complacency and boredom within her relationship are revealed, as

63 symptoms of both the lack of romantic choices she felt she had but also the ways in which these lowered standards have affected her happiness and livelihood. Lawrence of course questions her on this statement, causing Issa to hint at her desire to break up. Yet instead of adequately finishing the conversation, Issa hastily insinuates that they should discuss the issue later, and rushes out to meet Molly.

Later in the episode, while at the club, Molly and Issa are dancing when a man, introducing himself as Jared, approaches. He is interested in Molly, made clear by his attention to Molly and obvious negligence towards Issa. This brief interactions shows Issa’s characterization as awkward, as when she attempts to shake his hand, which he dismisses, she fumbles into a dance move and looks away. Funny as it is, and more intentionally placed to demonstrate Issa’s embarrassment, it is important to note how beauty standards are operating in this scene. Issa and Molly, although both black women, differ in the adoption of Western aesthetic ideals. While Issa, slightly curvier than Molly, wears her hair natural, Molly wears her hair long and straight. Although a personal choice and not one obviously made out of a performance of Whiteness, within these systems of hegemony, Molly’s hairstyle is seen as being more acceptable, more beautiful. Therefore, Jared’s interest, and by extension his obvious disinterest in Issa, illuminates a racialized and colorist desirability as it is enacted through black hair styles. This is supported as well by Issa’s continued awkwardness in the next scene: she stands alone at the bar, with no one approaching or talking to her, a potential illustration of her illegible attractiveness within the context of the club. However, Daniel appears moments later, swiftly changing the dynamics of the scene.

64 Given my biracial identity, my curls are close and spiraling, but also significantly loose.

Straightening has never been a routine within my hair care practices, a fact that in many ways I thank my mother for as she never straightened my hair when I was a child. It is interesting that my mother, given her Whiteness, never made straightening an option for me growing up. Instead she put a lot of effort into helping me find the best ways to treat my hair, looking for the best products, and always navigating the highly racialized and White-centric spaces of the hair industry. As is to be expected I have always had to contend with comments about my hair: many people remark in admirations, although many still express “how pretty” I would be with my hair straightened. Yet I acknowledge the privileges I hold with the hair that I have. In many ways, my hair is the medium: the texture White girls aspire to have, as it is not too tight as to be deemed unprofessional, messy, or “ugly.” I am lucky to have rarely had to navigate hair politics, and although I have struggled to find products that work for me, they do exist. I have been told that I have “great hair,” sentiments that I understand are deeply racialized, fetishized, and exotified, yet ones that have never made me feel substantially lesser than for the hair on my head. I have not thought much about the ways in which my hair interacts with my desirability; I know that while my hair is deemed exotic, it is still not idealized in the ways that straight, light hair is. My hair still marks me as Other, yet I understand the privileges in its ambiguity, particularly when navigating black and multiracial spaces.

After Issa runs into Daniel, the two of them sit together at a table in the club, listening to the open mic night. In this scene it is confirmed that they have a romantic history, as Daniel makes a reference to sleeping with Issa and she supports that they were together romantically in college. After reminiscing briefly about the days when Issa used to rap, Daniel dares Issa to

65 perform at the open mic. The scene swiftly shifts to Issa back in the bathroom, staring in the marrir and emphatically saying “You got this” to herself, and instantly shifts back to her at the club, mic in hand. Molly who is still talking to Jared, looks up confused to find Issa on stage. As the music begin to play, Issa begins to rap the following:

Love Rookie, she give em all the cookies, by cookies I mean pussy, this girl is kinda loosey. Dudes take her off the shelf, and they put her on credit, 30 days later they return it and regret it. Used like a dishrag, dumped with a hashtag, I blame it on the pussy, that shit must be bad. Broken pussy, broken pussy. Maybe it’s dry as hell, maybe it really smells. Broken pussy, maybe it’s really rough maybe it’s had enough, broken pussy. Nobody wants you because you got a broken pussy.

During Issa’s performance, Molly, while still standing with Jared, taken aback and clearly hurt, mutters, “Oh my god, she is talking about me.” Jared, awkwardly edges away, as Molly is left standing by herself, pursing her lips and glaring at Issa. Back in the car after leaving the club,

Issa monologues about her stint on stage to Molly, promising that it wasn’t about her, and excitedly rambling about how empowering the moment was for her. Molly however doesn’t say anything the entire ride, clearly very angry, until finally bursting out and telling Issa to “shut the fuck up!” She proceeds to accuse Issa of only bringing her to that club so she could see Daniel, for making the whole evening about herself, and for making her heartbreak a joke. Molly then tells Issa she doesn’t think about how her actions affect others, telling her that the only reason why she listens to her is because Molly’s life makes Issa feel better about her own. However, during the scene Daniel texts Issa saying that he wants to see her and that she should come over.

Hurriedly responding, Issa stops paying attention to Molly, who upon realizing her friend’s attention is elsewhere, curses at her friend, calling her a “ dumb bitch,” and storms out of the vehicle.

66 This scene is the first of many fights that Issa and Molly have throughout the show. As the show very much centers around their relationship, it centers as well around their conflicts.

Entirely sound in her frustration at Issa, Molly’s anger expands beyond a simple annoyance at being mocked. Issa’s rap, as it entirely exploits the lived and painful romantic realities that have come to define Molly’s life, becomes a point of betrayal and ridicule. As Molly asks in the car during their fight, “Now I got to worry about dealing with a triflin’ best friend?” and points to the

“triflin’ niggas” she deals with in her daily life, her frustrations stem from the ways in which she has been treated on a personal level and the intense rejection she feels from Issa in this moment.

As Molly feels unloved, unwanted, and misunderstood, Issa’s actions tear into her more deeply than the rejections she receives from the men in her life. As her best friend, and further a fellow black woman who can fully understand the hurt that she feels, being treated and mocked as such causes a much deeper sensation of loneliness. What is more, the topic of the song “Broken

Pussy” and the accompanying lyrics seem to express that Molly’s singlehood is her fault.

Although a joke that they laughed about in the beginning of the episode, the public and deprecating display turns the comment from a simple joke to an unrelenting reality. Molly’s inability to “find love” thus is actualized, as given breathe and existence by her best friend.

Molly’s hurt, although directed rightfully at Issa, also illuminates a historical pattern of rejection and of blame on the bodies of black women, therefore legitimizing and spotlighting her loneliness.

Seemingly unphased by the fight however, Issa leaves Molly’s apartment and heads over to Daniel’s. When she arrives, Issa momentarily changes her mind and starts to turn her car back on, but not before Daniel appears at her window with a smile. Getting in her car, Daniel leans

67 forward to kiss her, one that Issa reciprocates before pulling away and, echoing Molly, states,

“I’m not a dumb bitch.” Amidst Daniel’s confusion, Issa proceeds to monologue:

I just got out of a relationship, I think, and I wanna try being this new, different person, and you seem like the perfect person to be this new different person with because you’ve always been my ‘what if’ guy, but I can’t just jump from one relationship to another because that’s crazy...

However, before she can finish, Daniel cuts her off to tell her, as Molly was told at the beginning of the episode, that he is “not looking for a relationship.” Awkwardly he gets out of the car, as

Issa purses her lips and looks away. The next scene shows Molly opening the door of her apartment. Issa is standing in the doorway, looking solemn, but holding up a bag of Cheetos and a jar of Ranch dip, says with a smile, “Bitch, you still mad?” In response, Molly says, “Bitch, you still trippin?” as she grabs the Cheetos from Issa and moves aside to let her into her apartment. Hugging her from behind, Issa begins to sing the theme song to Girlfriends ​ (2000-2008), a sitcom, notably starring Traci Ellis Ross, about the romantic lives of a friend group of black women. The episode closes with Issa making a joking comment about Molly’s hair wrap.

Despite the conflicting and dramatic heterosexual relationships that abound in the episode, whether that be Issa’s relationship to Lawrence and her pursuit of Daniel, or Molly’s

“failures” with Hassan and Jared, the episode centers and ends with a different relationship entirely. The most consistent, emotional, and raw relationship in this episode is that between Issa and Molly, therefore illuminating the existence of love and care outside of a normative relationship framework. Yet their homosocial union goes beyond that of their friendship: given that both women in this episode were told the exact same thing by the man they were pursuing,

68 they are in effect bonded by a mutual experience, by a rejection, by the understanding that love and desire can not be founded within their relationships with men. In Issa’s monologue to Daniel, during which she sites that she is hoping to explore a new part of herself with him, she illuminates the ways in which relationships with men have become the recourse for betterment and improvement. Yet, obviously, she is wrong, as made clear by Daniel’s rejection of her. This realization is what causes Issa to go back to Molly at the end of the episode, and not back to ​ ​ Lawrence, the man she has been with for the past five years of her life. Although a small step, one that Issa forgets and must relearn multiple times throughout the show, in these few moments

Insecure reminds its viewer that normative, heterosexual love and relationships do not ​ automatically lead to self-fulfillment and happiness, but instead promotes these ideas as attainable through a black woman’s love for another.

When thinking about the multitude and diversity of relationships I’ve had with other people throughout my life, the ones that were always the strongest were those with other women of color, particularly other queer individuals. I think about the people who I have loved, romantically and non-romantically, the moments when I have been broken-hearted and the moments when I felt fully seen, fully accepted. I think about one of my best friends, a fellow biracial black woman, and the ways in which with her my experiences are never questioned or interrogated. And I think about my failed relationships, most notably with White individuals, the ways in which I felt like I was taken for granted, forced to submit, denied agency and emotion. I am not saying that I will never find love and be loved by White people; in fact that is fully not the case, either within my family or with many wonderful people around me. However, many of my

69 failed relationships with White people have been a matter of love and care: who cares more, who cares less, who doesn’t know how to love (me).

The first episode of Insecure, through the daily and highly personal experiences and ​ ​ romantic trials of two black women, displays for its audiences the ways black women are loved

(or not). This pilot paints a realistic and current picture of black female experiences: whether by citing Molly’s inability to find someone to date, Issa’s boredom and frustration with her relationship, and the security and faith they feel with each other. Further it illuminates how black women are confined by these realities: through highlighting Molly’s mistaken belief that her romantic ills are a result of her “broken pussy,” and Issa’s misguided judgements that merely taking control of her life will someone pull her out of her stagnancy, this episode offers a nuanced representation of black women that is devoid of blame. Insecure shows its audiences the ​ ​ ways in which society as a whole is not taught to love black women, and how these realities show up on the most personal and intimate level. Love therefore, within the realm of this show, is founded among black women as a revision to heterosexual couplings, and for all intents and purposes, as a queering of what we are told we are “supposed” to desire.

Critiques: Consequences of the Care Politic

Refreshing in its centering and emphasis on the lives of two black women, Insecure as a ​ ​ show still tends to perpetuate harmful and reductive understandings of black female love. The framing of Molly as a character–needy, loveless, and lost–as she is crafted throughout season one, continues to locate the difficulties for black women to find love as an individualized failure, and not a result of systemic and societal upholdings of worthiness and desirability. What is more,

70 Insecure, also queered in its encouragement and attention to a relationship (although ​ non-romantic) between two black women, lacks a positive queer romantic storyline, a fact that makes it wholly reductive of important and pervasive realities of black female experiences. As a whole, Insecure does extraordinary work in locating the discomforts, hardships and gratifications ​ ​ of black female existence, and as one of the few shows that does so, it is unrealistic to expect representational perfection. Yet still, the show remains limited, both in its characterization of

Molly’s romantic misfortunes and the lack of a queer storyline.

As analyzed in the before discussion of the first episode of the Insecure, Molly as a ​ ​ character is depicted as a romantic failure due to her “broken pussy.” She has a track record of continuously striking out with men, and seems entirely unable to be what they want. Although cleverly and accurately depicting struggles of loneliness and feelings of undesirability that Molly is experiencing, the remaining episodes of season one promote an ideology of individualism and personal failure, one that is entirely devoid of a systemic and holistic interpretation of Molly’s romantic ills and insecurities. With the exception of one relationship during this season (which will be discussed within in the following pages), the men that Molly dates over the course of season one are all incredibly unkind to her, showing her minimal care and forethought. However still, by the end of season one, Molly is being framed as the sabotager of her own life, as the sole reason she is being treated this way. By painting Molly as the source of her problems, the blame is set on black women, thus erasing the ways that society valorizes and privileges certain (White) female bodies over (black) female others. This section will follow Molly’s romantic path through the rest of season one, analyzing the greater associations made about her and her choices, and arguing that Molly’s romantic failures are not due to an individual inadequacy, but a racialized ​ ​

71 Care Politic. Where the analysis becomes blurred is within the conversation of Molly’s relationship with Jared, the man from the club in the first episode and who she breaks up with twice, first because he is not “elite” enough for her and second because of a queer encounter he had in college. Although complicating the above analysis, this section will argue the ways in which this relationship became a point of exploration within the show, as opposed to a continuation of Molly’s character, and further, is wholly limiting in a representative access point into black queer identities.

At the start of the second episode, the joke that Molly’s pussy is broken continues to be a driving force of her actions. While at brunch together, Issa apologizes for saying that Molly’s pussy was broken, yet Molly cuts her off to agree, saying that it is and that she needs to start

“taking better care of her.” At the end of the episode, after having spent the day going through a series of beauty appointments, Molly goes on a date with a man, who at the start seems really wonderful, thoughtful, and fully interested in her. After some casual yet captivating conversation, Molly walks out of the restaurant with this man who while hugging her whispers,

“You tryna fuck though?” in her ear. Appalled and taken aback, Molly pushes him away, accusing him for being like all the other men she’s dated, and stating, “I spent all this time trying make sure my pussy is fixed, but it turns out you are just like every other single asshole out here.

I didn’t break my pussy. Niggas like you broke my pussy.” This is perhaps the most agentic moment we see from Molly throughout the season. Horrified by the explicitness of his statement,

Molly removes the blame from herself and her body and puts it on the men she has dated, and more accurately, the treatment she has received. Her romantic “failures” thus become a product of treatment and a privileging of care, instead of a personal individualized inability. Earlier on in

72 the date, the man had revealed that he had predominantly been dating White women before this date with Molly, an obvious red flag in understanding who he had been privileging and providing care to, and fueling Molly’s anger at his ending statement. In sum, Molly in this scene is positively able to call out this treatment and name it for what it is. However this still leaves her wanting of the care and love she is not receiving.

Episode three follows Molly as she finally gets into “The League,” an exclusive dating app with a long waiting list that is only open to professionals. This excites Molly, as she is anxious to date “guys on my level” hoping that the men she meets on this app will treat her with the care and attention she is deserving. Obviously this is problematic, given that she is assuming love based solely on a classist, elitist basis. This elitism causes her to break up with Jared, the man from the first episode, and who she started seeing after running into him in episode two. It is revealed earlier in the episode that Jared did not go to college, and given that he is not in the same economic and therefore social class as Molly (she is an attorney while he works at a car rental company), Molly ends their relationship in the hopes of finding someone of a higher class.

There is no condoning or supporting Molly’s obvious classism, and further, the decision seems odd and highly ignorant, considering how much it appears she likes Jared and how much care and attention he is showing her. However, thinking more holistically about black woman’s placement within the romantic hierarchy is important in analyzing this decision. Black women are most often expected to “marry down,” to choose a spouse or partner in a lower economic and social class than they are, considering the lack of interest and options that black women have. As is apparent in Issa’s relationship with Lawrence, where she has been shouldering the financial and emotional weight for the last four years, black women are made to be supporters of their

73 partners, and in order to find someone, are often forced to lower their standards when choosing a partner. Although highly practical to think of partnership and marriage in terms of social and economic gain, it is true that White women have more opportunities for social mobility within their romantic lives, realities that are most often devoid for black women, especially professionals. As selfish and classist as her decision may have been, it is important to acknowledge that Molly’s standards would be acceptable and understandable if she were a White woman, and the failure of these standards being met has everything to do with an inequality of choice.

These realities become apparent in episode five when Molly goes on a date with Chris, a man she meets on “The League.” They hit it off pretty immediately and it is clear that Molly really likes him. However, the episode characterizes her as being too needy and moving in too quickly: although unclear how much time has passed, Molly suggests that Chris start leaving his things at her apartment, and by his expression it is obvious that he feels this suggestion to be too soon. However still, Chris agrees to attend Diane’s engagement party with Molly and upon arriving, immediately introduces himself as her boyfriend. Later on, Molly excitedly questions him on his use of the word, yet he shrugs it off, saying that he “got the sense that...you really needed a win,” and confessing he wasn’t using the word seriously. Once again, Molly is rejected and denied love and care that she is so deeply desiring. Unfortunately however, this episode paints her as desperate and needy, as coming on too strong and pushing Chris away. Yet in understanding her situation and the history she has endured, the wrong stems instead from Chris’ mistreatment of her and his condescension. The characterization of Molly as needy unfortunately works to invalidate and negate the source of her desires, making her search for love an issue

74 within her, instead of a lack of care. The end of the episodes shows her going back to Jared, reinforcing her desperation, instead of acknowledging a deeper history of heartbreak and pain.

Episode six explicitly tackles notions of queerness, yet uses this storyline to make a larger point about racialized homophobia, instead of accurately representing and adding legibility to queer identities. Jared, who has taken Molly back after the first breakup, confesses to her during a casual conversation that he had a sexual experience with a man in his early twenties.

This confession reveals Molly’s internalized homophobia, as despite having made out with a girl herself as she told Jared, is unable to get over the fact that he has had such an experience. What is more, despite Jared’s assertions that it was purely experimental and conclusions that he is not sexually interested in men, Molly still has her speculations, causing her to ask her friends, “That totally makes him gay right?” During this conversation Issa asserts the double standard, lamenting why black men can’t freely explore their sexuality. However the moment passes and by the end of the episode, Molly has broken up with Jared because she can not move past her speculations about his sexuality.

Although important in depicting the realities of homophobia within the black community, this storyline does little to promote a representative depiction of black queerness, and as well further demonizes and delegitimizes the causes of Molly’s romantic failures. As Molly rejects the one relationship that was healthy and positive, her singleness remains her problem. True,

Molly’s reaction is representative of a systemic and social bigotry toward queerness, made clear as well through Molly’s inability to ruminate and investigate her own same-sex experience. As was revealed, Molly herself has kissed a woman, yet brushes this off as a silly and fun college encounter. What is more, given that Jared doesn’t even identify himself as queer, her discomfort

75 in the action despite it not having any change in his sexual identity reveals the depth and severity of homophobia at it functions within interpersonal relationships. Insecure thus makes queerness ​ ​ legible but only as a source of contention and a factor in a breakup, privileging heterosexuality and relationships with men as a priority within the show and the lives of its characters. Although queer in the way this show centers a non-sexual, yet intimate relationship between two black women, the basis of romance and love remain within relationships with men. As sexuality is an integral aspect of black female identity, and further as Molly and Issa continuously “fail” in their interpersonal relationships with the men in their lives, queerness as a foundational and healing reality would do much in adding to the representative nature of the show. True, the mere addition of a queer character would not fix all representational problems; yet as Insecure complicates, ​ ​ privileges, and produces a realistically flawed characterization of black women and black love, the same should be expected and achievable for black female queer identities.

By the end of the season, Molly is resolved to realizing that she has much internal work to do. After running into a old friend of hers in episode seven, who swears by the positive powers of therapy, Molly begins to think more critically about how she could benefit from talking to a professional. This friend specifically went to therapy because she wasn’t “valuing herself.”

Scoffing at the idea, Molly brings it up with Issa, who agrees that this may be something that

Molly should consider. This suggestion is the start of their climatic drama as by the end of the episode, Molly and Issa have an intense and exceptionally horrible fight. Spurred by the romantic drama within Issa’s life, Issa during their fight says to Molly, “Have you noticed Molly, the common denominator in all your ‘can’t find a man bullshit’ is you?” continuing on then to cite all of Molly’s problems with the men she has dated (too thirsty, too distant, too gay), and

76 accusing her of being “impossible to please.” The final blow, so to speak, occurs when Issa asks

Molly if she is mad because Issa can “actually keep a nigga.” Molly’s final scene of the episode shows her going back to Jared’s place. Fumbling through an apology, Molly erroneously states “I should have lowered my standards,” as Jared responds by shutting the door in her face. This interaction again illuminates and characterizes Molly’s desperation, her faults, and her inadequacies in her pursuit of romantic love and care.

Although continuing to feud though the rest of episode eight, the season ends with Molly and Issa talking through their fight and making up. However, during this conversation Molly states that Issa was right about her, calling herself a “fucking mess." Issa promises to stick by her while she figures her life out, and the two smile at each other, reconciled. Lastly, at the very end of the episode, the final scene shows Molly consoling Issa, who has just officially broken up with

Lawrence. Season one comes to a close, spotlighting their relationship and the continuity of love and care that they hold for each other.

Beautiful in its centralizing of this relationship, the show as a whole unfortunately shows

Molly as continuously unfulfilled, despite the clear love and care that she has in her life. True, therapy as suggested by Issa would do much for Molly, and there is a huge level to which the character is not valuing herself. Yet the mistaken assumption is that an increase in this sense of value, and by extension, an augmentation of self love, will bring Molly the heterosexual love relationship she is desiring. Often I have been told, when single and lonely, that I would find ​ someone when I learned to love myself more, for how could someone love me if I didn’t love myself. True, self love is a powerful and important mechanism, and I admit that I have not always found value in myself. Yet now I love myself fully and deeply, a factor that does not

77 change the societal placement of black women within sexual politics. I see so much of myself in

Molly, and in so many ways the placement of blame on her body brings me much pain. In Molly I see a desire for care, a desire for intimacy, and a sadness that stems of a social de-privileging of her body. I do not fault her and look down on her for those desires, ones that I have come to see as undeniably human. Although her being and her choices are characterized as needy and broken, to me Molly appears entirely as a product of the social devaluation of black women, and her characterization within the show illuminates the ways in which this reality is erased.

In the preface of bell hooks’ All About Love (2000), she explains how integral love is ​ ​ ​ ​ within her life, stating that “it was clear to me that life was not worth living if we did not know love.” Although potentially dramatic in its immediate interpretation, this statement elucidates a deep human need and desire for love, affection, and care. There is nothing wrong about wanting love, about wanting a fulfilling relationship, and although society and Insecure may see it as ​ ​ such, wanting these things do not mark a (black, female) person as lacking in themselves. Yet for

Molly (and for myself) when that love and care is deeply racialized and gendered, the wanting ​ ​ becomes deeper, a factor of continued rejection and dismissal. It is a shame that love and care have become political, have become a privileging of beauty and desirability, have become a stake on which black women have placed their worth, have become a way to further blame black women for hegemonic discriminations. Molly therefore serves not only as a representation of misunderstood and devalued black female identity, but further a casualty within a racialized Care

Politic and a martyr of continued criticism.

78 Concluding Thoughts: Combating Internalized Blame

Insecure is remarkable in its representation and focus on black female experiential ​ identity. Creator Issa Rae intentionally brings and centers black women within her creative sphere, as she endeavors to produce a show specifically and exclusively for black women

(Spanos, 2017). Yet lacking in her storyline is not only a vaulting of queerness and dynamic black female sexualites, but further a deeper rumination on a historical scarcity of care shown to black women and how this reality may metastasize toward feelings of self. Representative in the daily microaggressions and the difficulties of being black, female, awkward, and wholly indescribable, Insecure is missing a historical intervention and foundation through which to ​ ​ understand black female experiences. Perhaps following seasons of the show will do more to locate black pain and therefore redistribute the politics of blame; yet for now Insecure remains. ​ ​ Perhaps analyzing its platform is key: HBO, an exclusive subscription based channel (priced at about $15 per month), has historically spotlighted dynamic, thoughtful, and glamorous shows.

Although Insecure is one of the few to be written by and focus on the lives of the black ​ ​ community, specifically black women, it doesn’t fail to fall in line with White understandings of historical social mobilities, as White audience, primarily and economically are the majority of

HBO subscribers. Revolutionary in its emphasize on black excellence, the show, with the exception of background and secondary White characters, only has black actors and storylines at the forefront. The inclusion of a White main character would no doubt cause a stir within the ongoing national conversation regarding black representation; however, Whiteness remains excluded as a character in the show as a whole, and therefore so does a framework for

79 understanding the historical, traumatic, and limiting underpinnings of black female social mobility and positioning.

The show deserves much praise: it is innovative, dynamic, and produces a body of representation that has long been missing from primetime, popular television. However still in pinpointing the trials of black female existence, Insecure highlights the problems, but would do ​ ​ well to shift the blame. As argued in the previous chapter, there is much to be unlearned by way of White, heteronormativity; yet as demonstrated here, black women are still situated as the cause of their own hardships despite this systemic hegemony. What The Bachelorette shows ​ ​ black women they must unlearn, Insecure exposes the mechanisms still in place trying to limit ​ ​ and control that process. The following and final chapter, which highlights Beyoncé's Lemonade, ​ ​ presents an avenue for reclamation and healing amidst these societal structures that work to confine black womanhood. Romantic agency and reclamation of the self can do little when blame is internalized as truth, and when the individual is condemned at the expense of preserving systemic, structural inequalities.

80 Chapter 3: I ain’t Sorry: Radical Healing and Queer Redemption in Beyoncé's Lemonade ​ Since her debut as a solo artist in 2003, and subsequent rise to stardom, Beyoncé has been iconized as a major pop superstar, a revolutionary within the music industry, and the awesome embodiment of perfection and (black) excellence. Beyoncé's famedome, if recognizable through her massive capital gain (she is the second highest paid musician in the world according to

Forbes’ 2017 list), rests on a fanbase that is unrelenting, devoted, and surprisingly multiracial. ​ As a black woman, her fame is an apparent anomaly within America’s (racist) society; yet in analyzing and interpreting Beyoncé's popularity comes with critiquing her stake in the capitalist, heteronormative, and White supremacist makeup of US popular culture. That is, her stake up until the release of Lemonade. ​ On April 23rd, 2016, when Beyoncé dropped Lemonade, her sixth album, the world ​ ​ collectively stopped. The hour-long visual album showcased a side of Beyoncé that has largely missing from her past work: a side that was undoubtedly and unapologetically black. What is more, the album contends with aspects of American society, social standings, and interpersonal relationships largely devoid from media narratives. Lemonade sought to unearth centuries of ​ ​ racialized and gendered oppressions and showcase the painful and vulnerable realities that encompass black womanhood.

As a whole Lemonade is written for black women. It foregrounds black womanhood, ​ ​ creating space for realities of pain and love that define black female lives, and acts as a radical representation of black female beauty, strength, and resilience. The first chapter of this thesis on

The Bachelorette situated compulsory White heteronormativity as an expectation for black ​ women, while the second chapter on Insecure cemented a racialized Care Politic and discussed ​ ​

81 how black women are blamed for their romantic failures. The third and final chapter in this thesis, this section, in continuation with both racialized expectations and the Care Politic, investigates Lemonade as a subversive vehicle for black female representation. It further ​ ​ explores the degrees to which salvation is found among and between black women. In continuing the conversation of a Care Politic, and in keeping with the legacy of violence against black bodies, this chapter argues for the ways that Lemonade centralizes this narrative, using romantic ​ ​ infidelity as both metaphor and reality. Specifically noting Beyoncé's fourth track, “Sorry,” as a pop anthem for black female legibility, this chapter investigates how reclamation functions for and is carried out by black women. While still holding Beyoncé accountable in her perpetuation, if not active participation, within frameworks of White supremacy and capitalism, this chapter argues for the representational power of her newest work. Finally, through locating Lemonade in ​ ​ Womanist ideological practices, this chapter analyzes Lemonade as it operates within black, ​ ​ queer desirabilities. In sum, this chapter sees Lemonade as a beginning, a revision of both a ​ ​ media and societal practice of blaming, abusing, and forgetting black women, and a roadmap toward revolutionary care.

Before Lemonade: Locating Beyoncé within White Desirabilities ​ ​ On February 13, 2016, Saturday Night Live (1975 - present) aired a skit entitled “The ​ ​ Day Beyoncé Turned Black.” Parodied as a trailer for a horror movie, the skit satirizes the day before Super Bowl L when Beyoncé released her new song and accompanying video to

“Formation,” offering a comedic and clever commentary for the reaction of White audiences to

Beyoncé's newest musical contributions. The genius of the video portrays White fans of

82 Beyoncé, horrified at the realization that the singer is black, as discovered from the content and lyrics of her new song, collectively “losing their damn White minds.” The video shows White characters running through the streets of New York City in apocalyptic confusion, and even performing “mercy” killings due to the sheer horror of living in a world where Beyoncé is black.

Highly humorous and entirely satirical, this video perfectly critiques Beyoncé's performative relationship to her identity, the palatability of her previous songs that have cultivated her diverse fanbase, and lastly, the intention and singularity of message within her newest songs and videos.

Although comedic and highly satirical, skits such as these pose a lucid window onto cultural norms and behaviors, as through extremity these skits illuminate hegemonic ideologies of

Whiteness and desirability that come to define social understandings of fame, desire, and legibility.

Before analyzing this skit, it is important to note that this is not the first time SNL has ​ ​ produced a skit mocking audience reactions to Beyoncé and her music. On May 3, 2014, the late night parody show aired “The Beygency.” With the similar premise of a horror movie trailer, this skit satirizes what happens to individuals who are not fans of Beyoncé. The beginning scene shows two heterosexual, White couples casually hanging out and drinking wine, when one of the women brings up Beyoncé's newest album (at this point her newest release was her self-titled album Beyoncé). However, amidst declarations that “everything she does is perfect,” one of the ​ ​ men admits that he is not a fan of her song “Drunk in Love.” While the others in the room gasp and clutch at their hearts, the voice over states that “he turned against his country and its queen.”

The rest of the trailer follows this man as he is forced to go on the run, hilariously revealing that a government agency called the “Beygency” is hunting him down to punish him for “saying the

83 unsayable.” The last scene shows him captured and locked away, seemingly for the rest of his life, along with a woman who has been held since 2004 because she didn’t dance to “Crazy in

Love” at a wedding. The final shot shows this fellow prisoner singing along to “Who Run the

World,” before sinisterly looking into the camera to say, “she does!”

Absurd and amusing as it is, this first skit cleverly comments on the ultimate and impressive power of Beyoncé, as her fame has become an omnipresent force within both US and global popular culture. However further, this video illuminates the palatability of this singer across all audiences, and the racial mobility (Ovalle, 2011, 126) she possesses through her popularity among White and other non-black audiences. Although comedic, in the skit, all cast members (save one man in the Beygency) are White, and the sheer conviction and devotion that all the White people in the video have to Beyoncé demonstrates the ways that she, despite being a black woman, has been able to claim fame and celebration among White audiences. Yet this reality comes with Beyoncé's connection to Whiteness and her racial mobility, benefits that come from her light-skin, Western features, and the deracialized content of her pre-Lemonade artistic ​ ​ work. As Raka Shome (2014) argues, White femininity is not necessarily always located on the bodies of White women, demonstrating the extent to which Beyoncé, although a black woman, can perform and perpetuate standards and norms of White womanhood that go behind her skin tone. Under the terms of White supremacy, where national identity and purity is constructed along the body of a White, upper middle class, heterosexual woman (Shome, 2014), Beyoncé, through her light-skinned and heterosexual5 privileges, and with the additions of blonde

5 Presumably, Beyoncé is heterosexual. As a media figure, the public image she has created and fostered is one that ​ promotes her as a heterosexual woman, specifically given her marriage to Jay-Z. Yet understanding the legacy of bi-erasure, and the reality that queer woman in heterosexual relationships are often solely labeled as straight, I do not want to fully make this assumption about Beyoncé's sexuality. However still, there has never been a public reference 84 extensions and deracialized, apolitical musical content, is able to enact hegemonic scripts of

White femininity. Although a parody, this mere fact is emblematic from the beginning scene of

“The Beygency” when the voice over equates the main character’s rejection of Beyoncé to a betrayal of his country and “its queen.” Beyoncé is a black woman; yet her proximity to

Whiteness and her performance of White femininity and non-blackness at the release of this skit, allowed for a racial mobility that amassed a fan base so tenacious, devoted, and therefore multiracial, that it became a subject of satire. Under the rules of White supremacy, there is a cruel humor in this, as despite Beyoncé's astounding wealth and fame, until recently, Whiteness still consumed her.

The commentary within “the Beygency” however is entirely upended within SNL’s 2016 ​ ​ skit “The Day Beyoncé Turned Black.” Against the montage of white individuals in their homes, at work, and so on, a voice-over menacingly states, “For White people, it was just another great week. They never saw it coming. They had no warning.” The scene then cuts to news clips about the release of Beyoncé's new song and video “Formation,” calling it “unapologetically black,” noting its connections to the Black Lives Matter Movement, and highlighting how Beyoncé is

“claiming her blackness like never before.” The scene then shows a White woman in her house, looking terrified, and calling to her husband to fearfully proclaim that she thinks “Beyoncé is black.” The next scene then shows White people at work: a woman gets up from her desk taking earbuds out of her ears to say, “Guys, I don’t understand this new song,” her fellow coworker, horrified states, “Maybe the song isn’t for us,” and with shaking hands, the same woman confusedly screams, “But usually everything is!” With a voice over confirming that “It was the

to her potential queerness; therefore it can be stated assuredly that the public image of Beyoncé is that she is heterosexual. 85 day White people lost their Beyoncé,” the video continues to show White people screaming, rioting, and crying in the streets, destroying property in a manner that can only be described as a post-apocalyptic frenzy. A particularly clever part of the skit comes at the end. Again ominous music plays in the background as a White mother walks into her daughter’s room to check on her. After fearfully asking her what she is listening to, the mother is horrified when the girl turns around to see that she is black; aghast she says, “Oh God, you’re black too.” Quickly however, a black woman enters the room to say, “That is my daughter,” reminding the White mother that her daughter is on the other side of the room and that the black mother and child were invited over for a playdate. Breathing easy now, the White mother says, “Oh that’s right. Thank God,” to which the black mother, appalled, responses, “Thank God? Really?” At its heart, this skit accurately and explicitly represents the cultural understandings and implications of blackness, showing how, particularly in the mother’s fear that her child is black, Whiteness is idealized, desired, and normalized through dominant cultural understandings.

Equally as over the top and humorous as “The Begency,” this skit (perhaps unknowingly) offers important and clever commentaries on how Beyoncé has been represented as a media icon, and further, what “Formation,” and by extension Lemonade, means for some audiences. The joke ​ ​ of the skit is that Beyoncé “turned” black, an idea that is obviously untrue. Yet in highlighting this “transformation,” the skit comments on the intangibility and performance of blackness, noting that “to be black” within our society is not solely about physical appearance and skin tone, but about actions and proximity to blackness. In creating music that highlighted her black heritage, Beyoncé's palatability and relatability to White audiences was threatened, a change that was exaggerated within the skit through the sheer horror that White audiences experienced.

86 However through noting this, the skit, similarly to “The Begency,” brings to light Beyoncé's racial mobility and proximity to Whiteness, her ability to “not be black” to White audiences because of her appearance and musical content, and to therefore be marketable to the masses.

Yet the shock of her blackness comes as well through the subject of her newest song, brilliantly expressed in the skit through the White listener’s shock at “not understanding” what her lyrics mean. In the skit, the fear that the White audiences are experiencing comes not only from realizing Beyoncé is not White, but further from having her produce music that is not for them. ​ ​ SNL thus explicitly posits “Formation,” and therefore the entirety of Lemonade which came out a ​ ​ ​ few months later on April 23, 2016, as musical content and representation that is not for or about

White people.

As expressed in the skit, “Formation” is, for all intents and purposes, unapologetically black. As the single that was released before the rest of Beyoncé's album Lemonade, ​ ​ “Formation” on its own stands as an anthem for black identity that previously has not been a part of Beyoncé's work. In sum this song sets the tone, meaning that with the release of Lemonade, a ​ ​ twelve song album accompanied by an hour-long visual movie, blackness is at the forefront of this work. From racial and indigenous motifs and designs, scenes set in the Antebellum South, and an all black, majority female, cast, the dimensions, possible analyses, and messaging behind

Lemonade are exhaustive and exclusively black. This chapter, as is the focus of the entirely of ​ my thesis, focuses solely on the aspects of black womanhood, desirability, and romantic love that are integral to and pervasive throughout Lemonade. It would be wholly reductionist to talk about ​ ​ Lemonade without noting the overarching storyline that molds together the narrative: whether ​ true or not, the surface level message of Lemonade is a story of cheating, one explicitly between ​ ​

87 Beyoncé and her husband, fellow music mogul Jay-Z. It is clear from the first line of the visual album that Lemonade, superficially, is a narrative of love, heartbreak, rejection, and resolution. It ​ ​ is a story of the unlovability and undesirability of black women, characteristics placed along the body of Beyoncé herself. As satirized in the SNL skits, Beyoncé's ability to acquire fame and ​ ​ racial mobility, and thus a Westernized space of supremacy, are entirely dependent on her racialized desirability, palatability, and proximity to White femininity, all attributes awarded through hegemonic ideals of beauty. What does it mean thus, that the first of Beyoncé's work to entirely embraces her blackness and the identity markers that come with it, is set through a story of infidelity and the undesirability of a black woman?

Beyoncé has been a hugely influential figure in my life for as long as I can remember. I was seven years old when her debut solo album Dangerously in Love was released, complete ​ ​ with tracks such as “Crazy in Love,” “Naughty Girl,” and “Baby Boy,” songs I remember hearing for the first time and ones that I still listen to today. The earliest album that I can remember purchasing, and subsequently cherishing, was her 2008 release of I Am...Sasha ​ Fierce. I was twelve years old, and I can still recall trying to teach myself the “Single Ladies” ​ dance in my room, watching the music video to “If I Were A Boy” on repeat, and blasting

“Halo” in the car with my mom. As ever, her music carried messages of romantic love, heartbreak, and self-empowerment, yet these experiences were always divorced from her identity as a black woman. I remember my mom telling me that “Halo,” a powerful love ballad, reminded her of my father, illuminating thus the extent to which this song was palatable and relatable to anyone, notably my White mother. I remember feeling filled by Beyoncé's music, but those sources of fulfillment came not from feelings of empowerment as a black woman, but from

88 the singer as a source of inspiration, as she was the embodiment of all that I thought was unattainable. Although black, she was sexy, desired, and sought after, characteristics she was able to explempify through deracializing the content of her music. Even the 2013 release of her self-titled album Beyoncé, one in which she fully and absolutely embraces herself as a feminist, ​ ​ adopts a feminism that is universal, femme-centric, and wholly deracialized, entirely lacking the intersectional framework central to Black Feminist ideology. Her social-change track “Pretty

Hurts” as well, although illuminating the harmful and vicious realities of Western beauty standards and putting herself at the center of this narrative, universalizes these struggles, without complicating how black women, and therefore Beyoncé herself, have had to contend with these ideals. I remember being enthralled by the “Pretty Hurts” video, but in the back of my mind, realizing that there was little place for me within it.

As a child retaining and absorbing these iterations of pre-Lemonade Beyoncé, I ​ ​ remember being entirely consumed by the woman that she was, that she made herself to be, and the ways that she became an icon for me. Yet the role model that she was for me was always divorced from her identity as a black woman, the success pitted more wholly on her proximity to

Whiteness than the actual relation she had to me as a consumer of her music. I remember

“channeling my inner Beyoncé,” when I needed to feel more empowered, sexier, more confident, feelings that I now see were manifested in the seemingly flawless brand of Beyoncé. I was related to her as a black woman, yet she had surpassed me, seemingly transcended the lived experience of rejection, dismissal, denial, and unlovability that characterized how I saw myself. That is, until the release of Lemonade. ​ ​

89 Continuing the Care Politic: Infidelity as Metaphor

In 2014, the gossip website TMZ leaked a video taken from an elevator surveillance camera the night of the Met Gala, an annual fundraising event in New York City for the

Metropolitan Museum of Art. The video shows Solange Knowles, acclaimed musical artist and younger sister to Beyoncé Knowles-Carter, physically attacking Jay-Z, her sister’s husband.

Beyoncé herself can be seen in the corner of the elevator, motionless, only intervening at certain moments to step between her sister and husband, but otherwise watching on passively. Without audio there is no way for sure of knowing exactly what transpired, or why exactly Solange’s anger was directed at Jay-Z. As the only major media scandal the Knowles-Carter family has been involved in, it isn’t a surprise that this moment caused a stir in the public mind, specifically in speculating the cause of the apparent feud. The first and perhaps strongest of the potential rumors about the event was that Jay-Z had cheated on Beyoncé, a claim no doubt rooted in stereotypical assumptions of promiscuity and hypersexuality in black men, specifically rappers.

In keeping with this rumor, Solange’s physical attacks are thus a product of protective and sisterly fury against her brother-in-law. This of course led to much tabloid speculation that Jay-Z and Beyoncé's relationship was in turmoil, and thus the potential of a major celebrity break up.

Whatever happened, the family was incredibly silent on and dismissive of the tape, releasing a statement of love and familial ties a few weeks later that said nothing of the actual events that transpired. In their statement to the Associated Press, the trio acknowledges “the great deal of speculation about what triggered the unfortunate incident,” yet proceeds to describe what occurred as a “private matter that has played out in the public” and Jay-Z and Solange’s mutual desire to “move forward as a united family” (Petit, 2017). As is to be expected, this event was

90 keep singularly and totally private, divorcing the private persona of the Knowles-Carter family from their highly public image and commercial brand. That is, seemingly, until the release of

Lemonade in April of 2016. ​ Given not only the dismissal with which the family addressed the events in the elevator, but also the constant maintenance of public image that has come to define much of Beyoncé's celebrity, it is safe to say that any mention of her personal life would be thoroughly and carefully composed before being allowed to surface. It is safe to say that the elevator moment was an unplanned and thoroughly regretful public airing of the personal life of Beyoncé's family, and therefore, a scene that was never meant to be shared. The subsequent public acknowledgements of the event were few and far between, yet not without mention. In Beyoncé's 2013 remix with

Nicki Minaj of “Flawless,” Beyoncé raps, “Of course sometime shit go down when it’s a billion dollars on an elevator.” Yet this line seems to be an admonishment of the events, a brief signalling that it was a random argument, typical of a high stakes family. Yet no matter

Beyoncé's meaning, this mention preserved the moment in the public eye, keeping a whispering of infidelity central.

Thus it is no surprise that, with the infamous elevator moment still in the public mind and with the release of Lemonade, a visual album wracked with overt and explicit messages of ​ ​ infidelity, lost love, and loneliness, would cause a media frenzy surrounding the legitimacy of

Beyoncé's “claims.” From the moment Lemonade begins, it is riddled with a story of betrayal, ​ ​ with the apparent pain, anger, and brokenheartedness of Beyoncé made clear and crystallized within every frame. What is more, in her penultimate chapter “Redemption,” Jay-Z himself enters the video, and images of the couple, apparently reconciled fill the screen as Beyoncé sings

91 her heartbreaking, yet healing, love ballad “Sandcastles”– “Although I promised that I couldn’t stay, baby, every promise don’t work out that way.” There is no getting away from the seeming integration of Beyoncé's personal life into this work, and therefore the obvious would be to question whether this album is autobiographical in its story of cheating. However, although this story of infidelity binds the entirety of the visual album together, the question of whether or not

Jay-Z actually cheated on Beyoncé is not the overall point.

This chapter will not speculate as to whether or not Jay-Z cheated on Beyoncé; what matters is that Lemonade convinced viewers that he did, therefore setting an example and ​ ​ ​ ​ creating a metaphor for how black women are treated not only societally but as well within their interpersonal relationships. Anyone watching Lemonade, perhaps even without having the ​ ​ background and lived experiential knowledge to understand all that is happening, can note that

Lemonade is about much more than infidelity. In an opinion piece for The Guardian, Ijeoma ​ ​ ​ Oluo (2016) noted that, “Lemonade is about so much more than one relationship and its ​ ​ infidelity. Lemonade is about the love that black women have –the love that threatens to kills us, ​ ​ make us crazy and make us stronger than we should ever have to be.” Although talking solely about Lemonade as an album of the singer’s marital strife would be wholly reductionist and ​ ​ merely graze the deeper, more essential meanings of the piece, the subject of infidelity works to illuminate the ways in which a betrayal of trust, whether that be from society as a whole or a specific person, becomes a constant reality within the lives of black women. This album illuminates a reality and legacy of violence and the subsequent degrees of pain and heartbreak that plague black existence. By focusing on the mothers of Mike Brown, Trayvon Martin, and

Eric Garner, we are forced to consider the implications of living in a society of White

92 supremacy, and the ways this grief and loss of love is normalized for black women and mothers.

Later in the video, the words of Malcolm X and his proclamations that “The most disrespected person in America is the Black woman” are overlaid images of black women, smiling and looking past the camera; here we are brought back to the struggles of the Black Power

Movement, and forced to reckon with how little times have changed. By setting Lemonade in the ​ ​ South, by showing black women dressed in Southern nobility in the visual album, we are forced to draw connections to the painful and horrifying history of slavery, and how this legacy has continuously impacted and crippled the lives of black women. And by highlighting the dynamic, personal, and private nature and pain of romantic love, making it the string that ties the work together, Lemonade illustrates how this legacy so completely impacts the personhood, legibility, ​ ​ and intimacies of black women. We see how romantic love and the ability, if not the privilege, of being seen, is integrally connected to the political, social, and economic treatment of black women, realities that show up in the ways that black women are treated within their interpersonal relationships. Thus although Jay-Z cheating on Beyoncé is not the heart of Lemonade, infidelity, ​ ​ heartbreak, and feelings of unlovability are.

I remember exactly where I was, who I was with, even what I had eaten for dinner, on the night that Lemonade premiered. I have always, and will always, worship Beyoncé, and knew ​ ​ wholly heartedly that I would adore whatever she released on that evening in April, 2016. I didn’t know however, how completely my heart would break, how much I would weep, and how fully I would smile, cheer, and fall in love with not only the women who graced my laptop screen, but also myself. For the first time in my life, I was watching something in mainstream media that was conceptualized, produced, and created for me, for women who look like me. Lemonade left ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​

93 me feeling visible, spoken for, and represented. In that week post-Lemonade, when there was so ​ ​ much to unpack, so much to rewatch, so many lessons and motifs and images to scape meaning, the part of Lemonade that struck me were both the expressions and lack of care. As a black, ​ ​ ​ queer viewer, one who has spent so much time feeling unseen and unwanted, care was my central take-away: how it has been denied to black women and how we may seek to attain it.

From the first words of Lemonade, infidelity is a central characteristic of the piece. The ​ ​ video opens to a side angle shot of Beyoncé, switching quickly to landscape shots of an abandoned and over-run building. The next shot shows Beyoncé kneeling alone on a stage in front of a red curtain, as she begins to sing the lyrics of “Pray You Catch Me,” the first song on the album. This hauntingly devastating and yearning melody begins with “You can taste the dishonesty, it’s all over your breath,” immediately cementing lost love and betrayal from the first moments of the piece. The chorus, sang against images of Beyoncé again on the stage and also standing alone in a bamboo field, follows with “I pray you catch me listening/I’m prayin’ to catch you whispering/I pray you catch me.” Amidst images of black women dressed as in

Southern nobility, shown in eerie landscape settings reminiscent of a Southern plantation, the first chapter, entitled “Intuition” begins. Immediately Beyoncé's voice fills the screen reciting the poetry of Kenyan-Somali poet Warsan Shire. Shire, who was appointed the first Poet Laureate of

London in 2014, writes primarily about black womanhood, loneliness, and the African Diaspora, and adapted her work to serve as the literary backbone for Lemonade (Hess, 2017). Her work is ​ ​ truly stunning, and does not disappoint in this piece, adding and expanding off of the themes and messaging already central to the narrative. Her first poem recites as such:

I tried to make a home out of you, but doors lead to trap doors, a stairway leads to nothing. Unknown women wander the hallways at night. Where do you go when

94 you go quiet? You remind me of my father, a magician, able to exist in two places at once. In the tradition of men in my blood, you come home at 3am and lie to me. What are you hiding? The past and the future merge to meet us here. What luck. What a fucking curse.

In the first few moments of Lemonade, the viewer is entirely submerged not only in the past, but ​ ​ ​ ​ in its effects on the present. The explicit representations of the Plantation South, the intentions of reclamation, ownership, and agency as located on the bodies of black women, and the heartbreakingly painful words of Shire as recited by Beyoncé, serve to connect centuries of oppression to everyday experiences. As Patricia Hill Collins (2000, 164), asks, “exactly how do the sexual politics of Black womanhood influence interpersonal love relationships?” Lemonade ​ illuminates and exposes us to the answers to the query. As Collins argues, the societal rejection of black women is entirely based in a historical, sexual politic, as defined by the exploitation and dehumanization of black bodies and the privileging and idealizing of Whiteness. She categorizes and names the loneliness that black women experience, especially when disregarded in favor of a

White woman, yet places this loneliness within the historical legacy of the black family, the loss of children, husbands, and lovers, and the pre-emancipation normalization of defeat, separation, and yearning (Hill Collins, 2000). From the beginning, Lemonade demonstrates the gravity and ​ ​ strength of black female love and the undying legacy of heartbreak, yet more so it illuminates and lays bare the interpersonal emotional realities of a romantic rejection that is defined by this social positioning. At its heart, this work is about deconstructing the Care Politic that was upheld in the previous chapter on Insecure, one that has privileged Whiteness for centuries, dictating ​ ​ who is worthy of affection, consideration, and love. Infidelity may act as a greater metaphor, yet it is infidelity that remains a reality, and with it the pain of not being chosen, overlooked,

95 discarded, and unloved. By “praying” for her lover to catch her listening, Beyoncé is yearning for her loved one to care for her in the same ways that he cares or his (White) mistress; by noting a patriarchal lineage, Shire’s word illuminate a history of treatment, one that continues to define and redefine how black women are loved; and by solely showing black women on the screen,

Lemonade forces us to see and feel this pain. ​

“Sorry”: Black Female Reclamation of Apology

At the start of Lemonade’s third chapter, in the segment entitled “Anger”, Beyoncé ​ ​ recites another poem by Warsan Shire. Visually, this portion of the video shows scenes of a high school marching band and dancing majorettes parading down a suburban street, cutting quickly to a group of black women, dressed in white, standing in a circle in a deserted parking garage, contorting and twisting their bodies in eerie unison. Over these scenes, Beyoncé recites:

If it's what you truly want, I can wear her skin over mine. Her hair over mine. Her hands as gloves. Her teeth as confetti. Her scalp, a cap. Her sternum, my bedazzled cane. We can pose for a photograph, all three of us. Immortalized: you and your perfect girl.

Often within Lemonade, both in Shire’s poetry and the lyrics of Beyoncé's song, explicit ​ ​ references to beauty and physical desirability materialize. Although haunting and macabre in its implication, this passage from Shire’s work illuminates a standard of beauty that isolates and disadvantages women of color, particularly black women. As discussed by Margaret Hunter

(2005), and her analysis of the “beauty queue,” lighter-skinned women of color and White women are privileged under White Supremacy, allowing them greater social access and ability.

This privileging of skin tone as well defines who in society is viewed as the most beautiful, the most desirable, and therefore the most worthy of romantic love. As elucidated in the words of

96 Shire, desire and love within our society become matters of skin color, causing both Shire and

Beyoncé to ask with this poem whether wearing the (White) skin of her lover’s mistress would be enough to be loved. Although grim in its explicit meaning, this line not only brings the reality of colorism to the forefront of this work, but as well illustrates the personal and internal pain of such a realization.

The scene at the start of Chapter 4, entitled “Apathy”, shot against a music-box-esque rendition of Swan Lake, takes place inside of a bus. Black women painted in Ori, a sacred

Yoruba tradition, sit facing each other on opposite sides of the bus, swaying in unison both to the movement of the vehicle and to the recitation of yet another Shire poem. In a voice over,

Beyoncé states:

So what are you gonna say at my funeral, now that you've killed me? Here lies the body of the love of my life, whose heart I broke without a gun to my head. Here lies the mother of my children, both living and dead. Rest in peace, my true love, who I took for granted. Most bomb pussy who, because of me, sleep evaded. Her shroud is loneliness. Her God was listening. Her heaven will be a love without betrayal. Ashes to ashes, dust to side chicks.

After the end of this poem, the music for “Sorry”, the fourth song on the album, begins. Shot in a plantation style house, the beginning sequence shows the main hallway, where Serena Williams, an African-American professional tennis player and the winner of twenty-three grand slam titles, struts down the staircase in a black bodysuit. The video continues to show shots of Beyoncé lounging in a throne in the hallway, interspersed with solo shots of Williams dancing around the house or next to Beyoncé. The video also switches back to the initial scene, showing the black women in white Yoruba face paint, and Beyoncé dancing and singing in the bus. The song itself, an upbeat, yet defiant,

97 breakup anthem, addresses the anger associated with lost love and the emotional response of finally getting over someone. Even more so, it acts as song of personal empowerment.

The bridge unapologetically calls out to its listeners: “Middle fingers up, put them hands high, wave it in his face, tell him boy, bye.” As is follows, the chorus itself proclaims:

“Sorry, I ain’t sorry, I ain’t sorry, nigga, nah, I ain’t thinking ‘bout you.” The final moment in this part of Lemonade shows the distinct change in the beat of the song, as ​ ​ Beyoncé sits solo and silhouetted by a spotlight. Her attire, a simple metallic brasserie, and her headdress and earrings evoke allusions to Nefertiti, an Egyptian queen from the mid 1300s B.C. who was renowned for her beauty. Staring at the camera, Beyoncé sings the final lines of the song: “He only want me when I’m not there, he better call Becky with the Good Hair.” From the poem that begins this scene, to the images and motifs throughout, and to the lyrics of the song, “Sorry” works not only as an audacious, fiery break up anthem, but as well a window into the painful realities of colorist standards of desirability and the ways that black women can work to subvert them.

From the first moments of this scene in Lemonade, the inclusion of music from ​ ​ Swan Lake, a tragic yet eventually joyous love story, evokes ideologies of White ​ femininity. The tale of Swan Lake follows a young couple, the male counterpart of which ​ ​ is at one point tricked into loving a (darker) other, as embodied by the “Black Swan.”

Eventually they find each other and end in the bliss of true (White) love. Although basic in an analysis, inherent within Swan Lake is the pitting of the White Swan against the ​ ​ Black Swan, and the White Swan’s victory thus upholds and cements the supremacy, desirability, and centralization of heterosexual femininity, beauty and Whiteness. The

98 theme of this ballet, as its music is eerily placed over the recitation of Shire’s words, continue these ideas as a focal aspect of “Sorry”. Shire’s poem conjure the heartbreak of infidelity, and the emotional and intimate death that comes with this pain, as emphasized by the imagery of a funeral. Yet perhaps most essential in this words is the passage in which Shire addresses the infidelity as a being “taken for granted,” illustrating the ways that given a historical racialized heterosexism, black men continue to perpetuate insidious stereotypes of black womanhood, all while idealizing and placing White femininity on a pedestal (Hill Collins, 2000). These ideas are perhaps best described in the work of Franz

Fanon (1967) and his discussion on the quest of black men to lighten their race through interracial marriages. As Fanon writes, “by loving me she [a white woman] proves that I am worthy of white love...I marry white culture, white beauty, white whiteness” (Fanon,

1967, 63) These realities thus serve to explain Beyoncé's last line and the introduction of

“Becky.” Contrary to popular (White) belief, “Becky” is not a real person or a hidden clue to the identity of the woman that Jay-Z (may or may not have) cheated on Beyoncé with. As is illuminated by Fanon, and the White supremacist, albeit subconscious, intentionality of “choosing” White women as romantic partners, “Becky” thus becomes a contemporary placeholder for the silhouette of White womanhood and femininity that black women inevitability and always must compete against (and ultimately lose to).

Beyoncé's acknowledgement of “Good Hair” as well effectively draws attention to the extent of colorism and the legacy of hair politics that define black female life. As

Hunter discusses, the “good hair/bad hair” debate is cemented in understandings and idealizations of femininity, and the correlation of long, “good” hair to not only beauty,

99 but also Whiteness (Hunter, 2005). Thus this addition in the song highlights the painful realities and attempts of black women to attain “good hair” and how this luxury is a privilege of White womanhood. In highlighting the concept of “Becky,” Beyoncé is calling attention to a tangible aspect of black female existence and pain, and allowing for these emotions to be made legible. Yet her acknowledgement is not without disruption: despite recognizing the pressures that black women face to adhere to a Westernize standard of beauty, Beyoncé succeeds to not only subvert these ideas, but further to reclaim and celebrate black beauty. During this moment of the video, as Beyoncé utters the line about “Becky” she is dressed as Nefertiti, an Egyptian queen rumored to be the most beautiful woman to ever have lived, and therefore honoring and privileging African beauty (Roberts and Downs, 2016). This moment in “Sorry” therefore becomes a signal to its black female viewers to not only reject Western ideologies of beauty, but furthermore to embrace the beauty in blackness.

As a sonic piece of art, the song itself is upbeat, almost electronic in sound, using a technique of echoing Beyoncé's voice over itself. As a listener, it almost sounds as if multiple voices are singing at once: throughout the majority of the song, Beyoncé repeats

“sorry” in the background over and over, as if to symbolize many female voices and many apologies. Yet the repetition and background vocals paired with the simple dance beats that formulate this song creates a synergy between song and listener, one that encapsulates its themes of redemption and self-assurance. In singing along and dancing to the song, the listener literally reclaims the words “I’m sorry,” which for a black, queer listener is a monumental step in locating and embodying agency against oppression.

100 In its entirety, “Sorry” serves as an anthem of reclamation– of embracing one’s personhood and not being sorry for who you are– a message that for black women, existing within a White supremacist patriarchy, does not fail to leave a lasting impact.

From the start, the women on the bus are painted in Ori, imagined and manifested by

Nigerian artist Laolu Senbanjo. As this work is heavily influenced by the Yoruba African tradition, Ori meaning “essence” (Best, 2016), its inclusion within Lemonade, particularly ​ ​ within a song so intensely about self-empowerment and love, evokes the power and importance of black heritage. For Senbajo, “melanin is the paint,” making the women themselves within this video works of art, and therefore a rejection of the White standards of beauty that come to define womanhood.

However, perhaps the most important aspect of the video is the inclusion of

Serena Williams. Williams, perhaps the greatest athlete the world has ever seen, has consistently and absolutely been dominating tennis for almost two decades, a sport that is historically defined by (White) notions of grace, civility, and class. Yet despite having won twenty-three grand slam titles, Williams, as an African-American woman, has had to contend with racialized comments and criticisms about her behavior, attitude, and her body. As a curvaceous and impressively strong woman, Williams has been labeled as hyper masculine and unattractive, criticized for not falling within the categories of how

(White) tennis players should look (Rankine, 2016). For these reasons, for the ways that ​ ​ Williams and her accomplishments, although truly iconic and extraordinary, have been reduced and condemned based on racialized standards of desirability and worth, her

101 inclusion in Lemonade works to entirely reframe and explode the ways that beauty and ​ ​ sexuality are conceptualized.

Throughout her scenes in Lemonade, Williams is shown dancing, hair a wild and ​ ​ lucious fro and wearing a tight black bodysuit. At all moments, she is staring the audience down through the lens of the camera. Her style of dance brings a lot of attention to her body, as most of her moves highlight her backside or show her dancing on the floor. In an interview with The Washington Post, Williams remarks that when instructed ​ ​ by Beyoncé for this portion of the video she was told to “dance, like just be free and just ​ dance like nobody’s looking and go all out” (Boren, 2016). Aisha Durham (2012) ​ although speaking in a pre-Lemonade context, writes about the ways that this body type ​ ​ (large buttocks and breasts) have been iconicized through the idealization of Beyoncé's body. For Durham, Beyoncé's early work effectually reproduces notions of hypersexuality, by enforcing the “backwards gaze”–the representation of the buttocks as a sight for exotic beauty and primitive sexuality for black women–another form of unattainable beauty is constructed. This thus begs the question: does Serena Williams and the sexualization of her body through her dancing reinforce the “backwards gaze” and further the hypersexualization and exploitation of black women?

In conversation with Patricia Hill Collins (2000) however, in answering this question it is important to think about controlling images of black womanhood. For

Collins, “prevailing images of Black womanhood represent elite White male interests in defining Black women’s sexuality and fertility” (Hill Collins, 2000, 93). She goes further to address the insistence of black women, when faced with these oppression, to define

102 their own realities, a notion that begs the question: isn’t this what Serena Williams is doing? In Lemonade, not only has Serena choreographed all of the moves that she ​ ​ performs, her gaze back at the camera dares the audience to judge her, to call her hypermasculine and unattractive as she has been labeled in the past. Serena’s gaze, similar to Rachel Lindsay’s, thus becomes oppositional. By staring back and dictating her own movements, she separates herself from White, phallocentric desirability, asserting and affirming her own body as agentic (hooks, 1992). Given a historical legacy of sexual control that has defined black womanhood, can we see Serena and her incorporation within a video that is so entirely about personal empowerment as opposition to the harmful characteristics and stereotypes that (White) society has used to define and confine her? Taken altogether, the song “Sorry,” the host of motifs and references that signal towards black female redemption, reclamation, and excellence, and the intensely powerful images of Serena Williams, a woman so horrifyingly critiqued for being who she is, dancing in whatever way she likes, provides a message that, despite rejection, black women should never be sorry for who they are.

I remember watching “Sorry” for the first time and laughing out loud when

Beyoncé mentioned “Becky.” The white people I was watching Lemonade with didn’t ​ ​ quite understand and I quickly provided a description, yet my friend, in attendance and also black, gave me a sideways, knowing glance. We both knew what “Becky” meant - we had seen her, met her, talked to her. She was every girl we were jealous of, every girl we watched the person who had feelings for pursue, every girl we secretly wanted to be.

103 Beyoncé, through naming, forced us to confront her, yet in the same moment, gave us a victory in her confidence despite her.

I have lost count of how many times “Beckys” have been chosen over me, how many times my White female friends have had a host of admirers while I have had none, how many times I have had to admit to myself that White standards of desirability, and therefore my blackness, were the reason. Not too long ago, a (White) man who was showing lots of interest and attention in me, and who I came to believe through the intensity, consistency, and substance of our interactions, had the intention of pursuing me given the awaited chance (our flirtation was long distance, pending an anticipated reunion), had in fact been dating another woman. As luck, or perhaps the legacy of White supremacy, would have it, this woman was White, blonde, blue-eyed and quite thin. I remember finding out and being devastated, not at the loss of him per say, but for the repetition of this event. Yet again a “Becky” had been privileged and desired over me, yet again I had been taken advantage of and made secondary, my feelings and emotions, and in effect my personhood, been overlooked and disregarded. I didn’t have words to quite express this reality, this feeling of worthlessness and ugliness. I, in a state of emotional self-pity, decided to put “Sorry” on repeat, zoning out for a second, but immediately being pulled back in by the chorus. Perhaps I hadn’t been listening the first hundred times I played the song, or perhaps this recent rejection had given me some clarity, but I remember listening to the lyrics as if for the first time. In finding out about the other woman, I had confronted this man on his deceit, and as perhaps should have been expected the conversation ended with him making me feel as if I had done

104 something wrong, as if I should be sorry. As if for the first time, I remember listening to

Beyoncé through my headphones loudly proclaim, loudly dare me to not be sorry, and in those moments it felt like she was entirely and completely speaking to me, not only as a black woman, but as a black woman unseen. In that moment I pulled up the video to watch it with new eyes, and upon seeing Serena Williams, a woman who I have adored and appreciated for years, dance so freely and without abandon, I felt the strength to pull myself up. In listening to the chorus, I thought of not only this man who made me feel as if I had to be sorry, but also for the ways that White society has made me apologize for my existence. After listening to this song, heart and ego freshly wounded, I felt, and was thus carried by, the strength and representation of the women on my computer screen, black women who refused, defiantly, to be sorry.

Critiques: Where Lemonade May Go Sour ​ ​ The release of Lemonade marked a significant shift in black female mainstream ​ ​ representation, a feat largely accomplished by the sheer starpower and celebrity of Beyoncé

Knowles. In understanding her global dominance comes with examining her prior performance of hegemony and complacency in the devaluation of black womanhood. As Aisha Durham

(2012) articulates, Beyoncé's stardom is predicted upon her performance of black femininity, sexuality, and class as enacted through her “iconic body.” Beyoncé, thin and fit, yet extremely curvaceous, employs her physical attributes, especially her “booty,” in validating her sexual desirability. By adopting and embodying terms such as “bootylicious,” and making her curves a positive and highly seductive characteristic and commodity, Beyoncé is able to establish and

105 centralize herself as highly feminine and intensely sexual for her audiences. However although reinventing the modes of physical desirability and despite disrupting brands of White femininity and marking beauty and sexuality on a black female body, Durhman posits that Beyoncé's reclamation and accentuation of her body as a sight of desirable femininity works instead to create a new kind of unattainable standard of beauty. Durham’s analysis is bolstered not only through Beyoncé's performance of black femininity, but entirely through her (pre-Lemonade) ​ ​ subscription and presentation of White femininity.

As a light-skinned woman of color, Beyoncé is already privileged under the standards of the White ideal, yet her adoption of other racialized attributes, notably her blond hair, work to signify and mark her with the scripts of White femininity. As Durham understands, hair acts as a signifier of classed femininity. Beyoncé, a global superstar and a multimillionaire, through adopting a straight and blonde hairstyle, one that demands a cost-intensive daily maintenance processes, is performing a femininity that is not only White but deeply upper-class. These attributes are significant through her racial capital (Hunter, 2005), her ability to traverse a racial boundary and appear both White and hyper feminized to her viewing audiences. How then can we understand Beyoncé, or at least pre-Lemonade Beyoncé, as perpetuating a black/White ​ ​ binary? As her “booty” marked her as racially and sexually “ethnic,” her performance of

Whiteness through various other characteristics aligned her with a Western standard of beauty.

Beyoncé thus, as a icon, holds a beauty, a capital, that is unattainable, a perception of assimilation into a White ideal that is directly counter to the legibility of black womanhood.

These critiques are furthered in interpreting Beyoncé's stake in the capitalist machine, and as well her incorporation of neoliberal ideals. Meeta Rani Jha (2016) defines neoliberalism as a

106 moral concept, one that directly invokes moral panics based in gender, race and sexuality. For

Jha, under neoliberalism, we are validated if we demonstrate the capacity for hard work and success, independent of the potential identities that mitigate these two possibilities. In her earlier work, Beyoncé, represented a space of gendered and racial progress, and therefore a successful assimilation into American society. As emblematic of her declarations of feminism in her 2014 self-titled album, Beyoncé, the singer adopted a feminism that was entirely divorced of an ​ ​ intersectional narrative. She thus cultivated feminism as a national brand, falling in line with the incomplete White feminist rhetoric of “equality” and perpetuating neoliberal notions of capitalistic success. In bolstering the individual narratives of successful middle class women and painting herself as a racially hybrid, American-Dream starpower, Beyoncé and her work effectively erased the experiences of working-class black women suffering from institutional inequalities.

Yet there was a marked shift, both in the content and power of her work, after Beyoncé's release of Lemonade. Durham, a constant critic of the singer, notes Beyoncé's ability to ​ ​ “critically reimagine Black belonging” in Lemonade and in effect redirect the gaze through her ​ ​ unapologetic expressions of blackness (Durham, 2017, 201). Understanding Beyoncé's complicated history with performance and production, and the ways in which her prior work was devoid in adequate articulations of class, race, and gender, Durham celebrates Lemonade as a ​ ​ force for black female empowerment. In the world of Lemonade, Beyoncé merges the black ​ ​ female divine with explicitly political reflections, marking herself as a racialized and gendered body, and thus allowing a space for salvation.

107 However, Lemonade as a whole was not met without critique. In her scathing criticism, ​ ​ ​ bell hooks (2016) condemns the artist for her complacency with capitalism, her commodification of black female bodies, and her limited and conflicting portrayals of black female liberation. hooks, who is no stranger to criticizing Beyoncé, has in the past denounced her as a “cultural terrorist”, a woman who uses sexual socialization to assault young girls, all in the name of capitalism and supremacy (Jha, 2016). These critiques continue in her discussion of Lemonade, ​ ​ as hooks sees Beyoncé's portrayals and imaginings of black women as commodifications of black female bodies. hooks posits that, “Commodities, irrespective of their subject matter, are made, produced, and marketed to entice any and all consumers...Throughout Lemonade the black ​ ​ female body is utterly-aestheticized….However, this radical repositioning of black female images does not truly overshadow or change conventional sexist constructions of black female identity” (hooks, 2016). Perhaps as a point of challenge, Tami Winfrey Harris (2016) has written that “Madonna has been viewed as a feminist provocateur. But Beyoncé's use of her body is criticized as thoughtless and without value beyond male titillation, providing a modern example of the age-old racist juxtaposition of animalistic black sexuality versus controlled, intentional, and civilized white sexuality.” While this is definitely not the juxtaposition that hooks is suggesting, it is important to reconcile alternately the ways in which Beyoncé's sexualization of her (black) body and the images she creates are sometimes viewed as a commodity, an assault, and a reinstitution of sexist ideologies of black womanhood, as a opposed to a restructuring and reclamation of black female sexuality.

Given both the history of sexual exploitation and violence, and the ways in which sexuality has been used against and made synonymous with black womanhood, excessive care

108 and intentionality must be established to counter these realities. As Patricia Hill Collins (2000) illuminates, the construction of the jezebel stereotype, the sexually insatiable black woman, is a function of sexual aggression and deviancy. These images have bolstered by further abuses against black women, notably the exploitation of Saartjie Baartman, and the restitution of primitive, deviant sexuality as made manifest on her body (Durham, 2012). Respectability politics thus became a natural defense, yet not without the silencing of black female sexuality and in many ways the reinforcing of these stereotypes. As Stuart Hall (2001) supposes, as the

“other” is essential in normalizing what cultural ideologies, combating negative stereotypes necessitates a reconfiguring and manipulation of the stereotype itself. He posits that entirely new content–in this case, a respectability politic–runs the risk of a furthered “othering” of the body, a binary between ‘acceptable’ and ‘deviant’. As I wrote in a 2017 essay, “As physical appearance has played largely into ideas regarding representations of culture and nation, the body and its aesthetic becomes a battleground of resistance to dominant paradigms, an inherently political entity.” How then can we see Lemonade, and the sexualities of not only Beyoncé, but the other ​ ​ women involved in the work (notably Serena Williams) as an explosion of these stereotypes? As the women in this video are seen dancing for themselves, and in the case of Williams, entirely self-choreographed, the stereotype of the sexually insatiable black woman, who acts solely for the (White) male gaze, is complicated. Jointly directed by both Beyoncé and Melina Matsoukas,

Lemonade as a whole flips the scripts of the White supremacist, patriarchal gaze, causing the ​ viewer to look oppositionally at how black female sexuality has historically been viewed and commodified and inwardly at how personal sexuality can be awoken.

109 However, hooks’ critique continues further, centering on her interpretations of Beyoncé's violence, or as this work would argue, her anger. As hooks (2016) states, in analyzing the scene of “Hold Up,” one that shows Beyoncé, clad in a beautiful, albeit sexy, yellow dress reminiscent of Oshun, a Yoruba water goddess of female sensuality (Roberts and Downs, 2016), and smashing cars with a baseball bat, “violence does not create positive change.” She goes on to address the ways in which she views Lemonade as celebrating rage, further starting that this ​ ​ scene perpetuates the mistaken notion that violence is necessary to reinforce domination, particularly within male and female relationships. She condemns this scene as eroticizing violence, forming it into commody to entice and titillate viewers. Yet hooks does little to address the role of anger in this scene, or further, the ways that black women have been conditioned against displaying these emotions, through harmful and restricting stereotypes. This is similar to the discussion in the first chapter of this thesis: while Rachel Lindsay’s conviction and confidence was read as anger during the live televised special, Beyoncé's expressions of anger, although rightful, are as well read as negative and violent. Adria Goldman (2016) through her work in analyzing the role of black female anger in reality TV, emphasizes the ways in which the cultivation of the “Angry Black Woman” stereotype is founded in the naturalization of black women as perpetually angry. Anger is thus read on the bodies of black women as an innate quality, giving black female emotions, especially anger and rage, the ability to be dismissable and erasable. As Goldman follows, this characterization, particularly as she finds in analyzing reality TV, come from depictions of black women as angry without a viable justification for this anger. By erasing the root cause and reason behind the emotion, black women are thus stereotyped as uncontrollably, groundlessly, and invariably angry.

110 What hooks interprets and analyzes as violent, this works reads as anger, and more importantly justifiable anger. This part of the film, followed by the song “Don’t Hurt Yourself”, during which Beyoncé angrily screams at the camera (and apparently her lover) “Who the fuck do you think I am?” in so many ways encompases both a reclamation of personal agency and internal power, but also a cathartic representation of bottled emotions that black women have been conditioned to suppress. What is more given the directness and assertion with which

Beyoncé addresses the camera, this scene can be read as her implicating and condemning U.S. society as the source of her pain. As Ijeoma Oluo (2016) posits, “when our love and commitment ​ and struggle is met with disregard and disloyalty, we are not expected to be angry. A black woman who shows her anger is quickly scorned,” thus illuminated the ways in which black female anger is rejected and dismissed within interpersonal relationships, their communities, and society at large. This dismissal in turn cultivates the perpetuation of supremacy, as realities of oppression and White violence are obscured behind stereotypical and causeless understandings of black female emotion. As a visual representation, the image of Beyoncé, smashing windows and cars and slinking gleefully through the streets, in many ways entices a fantasy, yet one that black women aren’t even allowed to hold. What is more, hooks’ characterization of violence ignores the ways that violence systematically and historically has been used against black peoples. Can we really characterize the smashing of a car as a violent act when black men, women, and children have known rape, genocide, and torture for hundreds of years? When black men, women, and trans folk are still dying at the hands of police one hundred and fifty years after slavery? When these historical violent traumas are still showing up within our interpersonal relationships; when they still define how and who is loved and shown care? hooks is right in

111 stating that this is fantasy, that Beyoncé represents a fantastical power, as of course Lemonade’s ​ ​ on-screen depictions are nowhere close to a foreseeable reality. Yet the power in this cinematic moment is not in its realism, yet in the representational catharsis and validation of black female emotion. Oluo continues to state: “When our hearts are broken and we are crying in pain, we are told that it’s our fault...To be told that it is our duty to love with all we have and that if that love isn’t returned it is because we loved both too much and not enough, it can make you crazy. In

“Hold Up,” Beyoncé asks: ‘What’s worse, looking jealous and crazy? Or being walked all over lately? I’d rather be crazy.’” While hooks condemns this scene of its celebration of rage, it is important to note that while anger is the central driving force, it is an emotional response that is undeniably legitimate as elucidated by centuries of intergenerational, gendered and racial trauma.

Concluding Thoughts: “All Night” and the Queering of True Love

As the final song of Lemonade, “All Night”, begins to play, Beyoncé is seen striding ​ ​ through a field of tall grass as the sun sets behind her. She begins to sing the last number of her album, a melodic love ballad of redemption and forgiveness. Her first lines, “Found the truth beneath your lies, but true love never has to hide,” continue the metaphorical theme of infidelity that surrounds this work, ending with the resounding message that love will prevail. The last few moments of Lemonade, carried by the lyrics of this song, show images of Beyoncé and Jay-Z, ​ ​ never-before-seen images of their wedding and personal videos of their only child at the time,

Blue Ivy. Yet within these images are also images of other couples, embracing, kissing, and smiling at the camera. Perhaps most important in these moments is the addition of gay couples as well, showing thus that within Lemonade the meaning of true love goes beyond a ​ ​

112 heteronormative understanding of romance. In following with her critique, bell hooks (2016) finds little redemption in these images, discussing how these images “do not serve as adequate ways to reconcile and heal trauma.” She goes further to affirm the ways that she sees Lemonade ​ as perpetuating a “patriarchal romanticization of domination,” scolding this production as victimizing black women. Yet in understanding these texts and images and deploying both a

Womanist intentionality and method of representation, “All Night” and the themes of Lemonade ​ serve as a resistant, and wholly inclusive reclamation of queerness.

An undeniable characteristic of Lemonade is it absence of male-identifying individuals. ​ ​ Yes, Jay-Z makes an appearance during Beyoncé's forgiveness love ballad “Sandcastles” and men appear among the couples at the end of the video. However, Lemonade irrefutably argues ​ ​ for the power of the black matriarch, and presents a visual utopia of black womanhood. Before the final song in the chapter entitled “Redemption,” as Beyoncé reads the instructions for a lemonade recipe, black and white images of black women fill the screen. The scenes are set again on what appears to be a plantation house: young black children run out onto the open lawn, as women in dresses, again reminiscent of Southern nobility aesthetics, walk slowly behind, inviting the viewer to follow. The scene shifts to a long table set outside, with black women sitting and dining together. Beyoncé is seen sitting in a rocking chair on the porch, as through voice over she recites more of Warsan Shire’s words: “Grandmother, the alchemist, you spun gold out of this hard life, conjured beauty from the things left behind. Found healing where it did not live. Discovered the antidote in your own kit. Broke the curse with your own two hands. You passed these instructions down to your daughter who then passed it down to her daughter.” The video follows by showing video footage of Jay-Z’s grandmother’s birthday, immediately cutting

113 to Beyoncé standing majestically by the seaside as she says in a voice over, “My grandma said nothing real can be threatened. True love brought salvation back into me, with every tear came redemption, and my torturer became my remedy.”

The above described moments alone display the extent to which Lemonade is a beacon of ​ ​ matriarchal power, inherent in not only the images of a black feminist utopia, but as well the words that honor matriarchal lineage. As a whole, Lemonade is a text that can be read as simply, ​ ​ and deeply Womanist, a term famously coined by Alice Walker in 1983. Her definition reads as follows:

WOMANIST 1. From womanish. (Opp. of “girlish,” i.e. frivolous, irresponsible, not serious.) A black feminist or feminist of color. From the black folk expression of mothers to female children, “you acting womanish,” i.e., like a woman. Usually referring to outrageous, audacious, courageous or willful behavior. Wanting to know more and in greater depth than is considered “good” for one. Interested in grown up doings. Acting grown up. Being grown up. Interchangeable with another black folk expression: “You trying to be grown.” Responsible. In charge. Serious. 2. Also: A woman who loves other women, sexually and/or nonsexually. Appreciates and prefers women’s culture, women’s emotional flexibility (values tears as natural counterbalance of laughter), and women’s strength. Sometimes loves individual men, sexually and/or nonsexually. Committed to survival and wholeness of entire people, male and female. Not a separatist, except periodically, for health. Traditionally a universalist, as in: “Mama, why are we brown, pink, and yellow, and our cousins are white, beige and black?” Ans. “Well, you know the colored race is just like a flower garden, with every color flower represented.” Traditionally capable, as in: “Mama, I’m walking to Canada and I’m taking you and a bunch of other slaves with me.” Reply: “It wouldn’t be the first time.” 3. Loves music. Loves dance. Loves the moon. Loves the Spirit. Loves love and food and roundness. Loves struggle. Loves the Folk. Loves herself. Regardless. 4. Womanist is to feminist as purple is to lavender.

114 Lemonade captures every part of this definition. Earlier in the piece, over images of ​ young black girls running around the bedrooms of what appears to be the same plantation home,

Beyoncé recites, “You find the black tube inside her beauty case...you desperately want to look like her. You look nothing like your mother. You look everything like your mother.” By highlight black girlhood, by illuminating love and desire for the maternal figures in our lives as black women, this scene presents the desire to be “grown” as is encompassed within Walker’s definition. What is more, the black women within the film–Zendaya, Amandla Stenberg, Winner

Harlow, Quvenzhané Wallis, Serena Williams and so on–represent women of diverse abilities, capabilities, and successes, and therefore bolster Walker’s third definition of a womanist as a multifaceted, multi-loving black woman.

However, most important for this work is Walker’s second definition, specifically her first line, “A women who loves other women, sexually and/or nonsexually.” Through this part of the definition, Walker negotiates a space of queerness, of a deep intimate love, one that isn’t necessarily sexual. Queerness thus becomes inherent within womanist ideology, and as

Womanism is a defining characteristic of Lemonade, queerness is an integral aspect of this text. ​ ​ Although Insecure highlights nonsexual love between two black women, Lemonade takes it a ​ ​ ​ ​ step further by making black female love the centerpiece, the climax, and the ultimate source for healing.

As a queer black woman, while watching Lemonade I wanted nothing more than to join ​ ​ the black female utopia that graced my screen. Fantastical and imaginary as it may have been, the space that was created on the screen opened up a world of possibility for me as a viewer, one that gave life to the scenes I was witnessing. I watched as these black women sat together, all

115 devastatingly beautiful and seemingly invincible, immersed in the company of other black women. I felt calm, I felt entirely whole, and I felt an overpowering desire to craft a space as such for myself. As a womanist, one who loves other women both sexually and non sexually, the representation of these images and spaces allowed me to feel welcome in my identities. Most importantly, they made me feel like maybe one day, I would find myself in a similar setting, surrounded and complete, fully accepted for who I am.

Before her final song, Beyoncé recites, “My grandma said nothing real can be threatened.

True love brought salvation back into me, with every tear came redemption, and my torturer became my remedy.” Following a declaration for healing, and the starting chorus of “All Night,” this moment can be read as radical forgiveness and healing from Beyoncé's personal trauma of infidelity, the love she feels for her husband being the root cause. Yet in evoking an oppositional

(queer) reading to this text, and by way of noting the Womanist themes of the film as a whole, understanding this redemption through black female love becomes a legible framework. Through the visual power and inclusion of black women, Beyoncé's, and the trauma and pain of her viewers, is distilled and alleviated through the joint understanding and caring of black female mutual existence. Lemonade speaks of intergenerational trauma, empathy, and strength, noting ​ ​ the matriarchal lineage that fosters this stability. In conversation with a Care Politic, it as well speaks of the union and bound between black women, emphasizing a strength between and a mutuality of care, intimacy, and affection. Beyoncé's salvation, and thus the salvation of black women, thus stems from black female love, and therefore the queering of both modes of support and sources of liberation. Healing therefore stems from black female love, where care is an integral and essential component. This healing thus stems from a love and care that is

116 unapologetically black, devoid of White heteronormativity, and therefore, birthed between black women. In her critique, bell hooks defends her position by posing the extent to which Lemonade ​ does not effectively resist patriarchal domination. It is true that by the end of the film, Beyoncé's heteronormative family has been pieced back together. Yet in emphasizing, if not championing, the healing power of black female relationships, Lemonade makes legible a reality that is wholly ​ ​ and effectively queer. On the surface, Lemonade is a story of heartbreak and loss, its remedy, ​ ​ true love. Yet through a queer lens, it’s undercurrent is one of societal rejection and pain, it’s creation a world of Womanist prosperity. As Beyoncé proclaims in her final song, Lemonade ​ shows us that true love never has to hide. Yet the true love that breathes life in this visual album is one based on mutual care, affection, and love, one founded and nurtured within black female relationships.

117 Conclusion

Recently I went to the birthday party of a good (White) friend of mine on campus. I’ve always looked forward to her parties, as the spaces she creates are always exceptionally queer, the few spaces of their kind on this campus. Yet somehow I always seem to forget that although queer, the spaces are also always predominantly White, a fact that I’ve attempted in the past to ignore, but one that seemed to smack me in the face on this particular evening. I found myself hugging a corner of the room, emotionally exhausted and raw, surrounded by and excluded from a preponderance of queer White love. I sat against the wall, the space in the middle a circle of chairs, conversation, and White couples entwined in each other. I held my own body and chatted vaguely with the people around me, wanting to leave the space but unsure of where else to go, where else I would feel held and at ease. It struck me that even in a queer community this small

–Williams student body just tops 2000, making the LGBTQ community a mere fraction–Whiteness is still incredibly privileged, made clear by the three...four...five White queer couples in the room. I was shaken by how even in a room full of my friends, full of people who I know love me, in a space that was technically for me, I was still on the outskirts of a romantic ​ ​ hierarchy, still devoid of the quality of care that was overflowing the room.

I left the party and went home by myself. Opening my laptop, seemingly involuntarily, I looked for an article that I had read a few months previously. Entitled “Romantic Love is Killing

Us: Who Takes Care of Us When We Are Single” and written by Caleb Luna in 2017, this article conveyed a wanting, a lacking, and ache I have been struggling to articulate. The author, a self-proclaimed fat, brown, and femme individual, begins by detailing his depression, a product of living in a colonized, racist, homophobic society, one that has resulted in his body being

118 continually devalued and deprioritized. He goes on to discuss his perpetual singleness, the ways this state has made him feel incomplete and alone, and how this has manifested as a deficiency in both investment and care. For Luna, “When I say singled, I mean the position of being denied intimacy and care from those in my life, who reserve it for others.” Luna goes on to break down the common misconception that lovelessness, that is the state of being romantically single, is a product of a lack of self love, stating that “the point is not so much about my own self-perception, but about a history of whose bodies and being cultivated to be desired and by extension loved and by extension given care. I would be more inclined to subscribe to this philosophy if there were not countless examples of those with culturally valued bodies who receive, care and attention, care despite their own self-perception.” He expresses the condition of being the caretaker that queer and brown bodies find themselves falling into, a care that exists even outside romance, and is often lacking in reciprocity. For Luna, care is politicized: as care is attached to the racist, homophobic, and classist ideologies of worth, the bodies that society chooses to invest in is a political action, one that institutes this hierarchy. Care and love are not synonymous, as conceptions of romantic love would have us believe, making the lacking that both Luna and I feel one of a desire to be not necessarily solely loved, but instead prioritized and cared for.

Like Luna, I am tired. Tired of requesting, demanding, and lacking investment and attention, at the behest of a thinner, Whiter, more normative romantic partner. I am tired of a society that privileges certain bodies, demonizes others, and continually makes me feel unworthy of and wrong for wanting love and care. As Luna posits love and investment are political, so to is my analysis of a Care Politic. This politic structures investment within a valuation of the body,

119 meaning that within a racist, ableist, cisheteronormative society those we choose to love, those we choose to bring into our lives, and those we choose to prioritize, constitutes decisions made by virtue of this system. How can we care? How can we pay attention? How can we hold each other?

In writing this section of my thesis, I have been struggling with how exactly to conclude.

This struggle in many ways stems from the intangibility of this work, as well as how deeply personal this thesis has become. If I had written this work in a different year of my life; in a city, instead of rural Berkshire country; if I had been around different people; if I had been in a relationship; this work may have been different. On April 10th, 2018, Janelle Monáe dropped the video to her newest song “Pynk.” At its core, this song and video are a celebration of black female romantic love, a rejection of a White heteronormative basis of desire, and a normalization of black queerness. From the pants that are symbolically designed to represent the lips of a vagina6, to the lyric, “Pynk like the tongue that goes down, maybe,” to the all black, female ensemble and images of Janelle Monae and her rumored (probable) girlfriend, Tessa Thompson, holding and caressing each other, this video makes legible a reality of black female sexuality that was subtextual at best in the three case studies within this thesis. If this video had dropped a few months ago, this thesis would definitely be different. As media is constantly shifting in representation, this work is comprised of a snapshot of both a specific moment in popular culture, and as well in my own life. As stated in the preface to this thesis, this work is unfinished, just as my life is unfinished. However still it is the hope that this work provides a grounding, a

6 This video has received criticism for being transphobic in its celebration of, emphasis on, and linking between womanhood and the vagina. However Janelle Monae has expressed on Twitter that this video is for “US (no matter if you have a vagina or not).” Although not a perfect response to the criticisms, it is important to note the continued exclusion of trans and nonbinary identities within queer media representations. 120 reclamation of voice and experience that is historically devoid in academic analysis, and an examination of how history, media, and interpersonal relationships are inseparable in function.

I chose to analyze media given its stake in cultural assumption and significance, in its reflection and perpetuation in norms and ideologies, and the personal influence it has had on me throughout my life. The Bachelorette represents a normative understanding of love and desire ​ ​ that I have told my whole life, one that I thought, I hoped, I would fit into, and one I now realize

I never will. Through using reality TV and editing as a method of confinement, this chapter explored how black women are expected to follow a White heteronormative formula of desire and how when we go off script, we are penalized and stereotyped as undeserving. Through an oppositional, black, and queer lens, this chapter exposed the agency in unlearning these ideologies and refusing the settle. Insecure functions as a transition, a passage through which I ​ ​ began to understand how love and care can manifest in my life, yet a reinforcing of how these desires are continually denied to me. This chapter celebrates the necessity of and alternatives within black female relationships, and situates how empathy and experiential understanding functions as an aspect of care. Yet in analyzing Molly’s character, this chapter illuminated the insidiousness of the Care Politic, and the extent to which it blames black women for not only their romantic failures, but for their desires as well. Finally, Lemonade exposes my queerness, ​ ​ my blackness, and the foundations of care that I have been searching for. This chapter acknowledges the history of racialized and gendered trauma, promoting and assuring a path for not only reclamation, but also healing. Through a Womanist lens, this chapter posits “true love” as dependent on care, attention, and the transformative, empathetic, and mutual affection between black women.

121 In readings these texts oppositionally, I hope to have widened the scope of representation, reading my body and my sexuality as agentic, as worthy, and as desired. We are in a radical moment: if Janelle Monáe’s newest release does anything, it gives me hope that media representation, and therefore cultural norms, are shifting focus toward positive, revolutionary, and desirable positionings of black queer women. As we live in a society that devalues black queer bodies, a devaluation spurred and reinforced by White heteronormative media images, this release, and those sure to come, present an opportunity to reassign care and investment. Through the autoethnographic portions of this work, this thesis works to expose identities within media representation that have been continually overlooked, stereotyped, and dismissed, and the extent to which this reality has manipulated and influenced the individual self. Although singular in experience, the narrative woven into this work is evidence of injustice, a linking of the personal with the political, and foundational in feminist analysis. Within a media moment that excludes black queer narratives, it is the hope that this thesis can function as a mirror through which other black, queer women can see themselves reflected. It is the hope that this thesis begins to renegotiate the Care Politic, as through investing in the self, black queer identities are given voice, attention, and love.

Yet media is constantly shifting, presenting new opportunities for representation, and therefore, a potential reworking of social frameworks. While The Bachelorette perpetuates White ​ ​ supremacist ideologies of romance, emphasizing White male desirability, media texts like

Insecure, Lemonade, and now Janelle Monae’s newest video, present a recourse for reinvention. ​ ​ ​ However still, media continues to exist within a capitalistic structure always founded and aligned around the acquisition of capital, the commodification of the aesthetic body, and reforcing of a

122 norm, of a superior. I ask again: how then can we learn to live and love and care for one another?

As media is cyclical, reflecting and reinforcing stereotypes and norms, is it only when all bodies are normalized as desired and worthy that care and investment will no longer be a matter of privilege? Perhaps. Yet perhaps instead we should look to reinvest, to deconstruct how and to whom we give care, and to hold each other, both within and outside romantic relationships.

123

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