by Mandy Harris-Williams

Last Monday, The Bachelorette premiered to 5.7 million viewers. This time, the bachelorette is Rachel Lindsey, a 31-year-old attorney from Dallas. She is the first black person in the role, and this change in tone interested around a million fewer viewers than the previous two season premieres.

Beyond the obvious elevation per grace and likability that Lindsey brings to the role of Bachelorette, many have hailed the casting as a necessary and important change in a show that has been too white and sometimes difficult for black viewers to stomach. But a Black Bachelorette is limited progress and the spoils go to white America.

I have always watched The Bachelor/ette with the same pro-Black competitive hope as I watch the Olympics. A mix of sociological, psychological, and personal curiosity. I want to see how many of us qualified, how we play the game, how we interact, and, ultimately, how we fare in the competition.

It must be mentioned that although the cast is far more diverse than every other season of the show, only 11 out of the 31 suitors in the first episode are Black. There’s a bit more representation from South Asian and East Asian men, but overall, only 14 out of those 31 suitors were discernibly ethnic, while two others looked like white guys, but spoke a different language at some point during the premiere.

The first night, Rachel sent 10% of white guys home, 0% of those who looked white, but spoke another language home, and 29% of the men of color home. Black and brown contestants are still dismissed with relative ease.

A Black Bachelorette is a victory for representation, but what good is representation itself in this scenario? In a Post-Obama era, having seen blacks ascend to the highest offices in the world, the highest platforms of representation possible, we should predict that Bachelorette uplift will be ineffective.
It may inspire some to see themselves as more deserving of fairy tale (read: fake) romance, and this might engender a sort of self esteem in some, I’d imagine, but it doesn’t do anything to combat white antagonism -- rather, it seems to do the opposite.

Representation stokes racist fires, but fails to push back the tide of material white privilege. Representation allows white people and white television networks to disburden themselves, to believe that their deeply embedded racism is absolved. And the representatives?  To presently observe the Obama’s shedding some of their previously obligatory conservativeness makes it apparent: the responsibility to represent can dull the shine of the individuals expected to carry the burden. Maybe that’s why Rachel tends to act a bit too polite at cloying, inappropriate code switches and attempts to appeal to her blackness. (One contestant told her he was “ready to go Black and never go back,” and she told him she liked it. Yuck!)

It will be a sick thrill, the type I expect from this show, as I watch who tries it and how Rachel responds. These shows are nasty in premise, and it makes for addicting entertainment. Much for the same reason I was thrilled to the point of shrieks at “Get Out,” The Bachelor/ette is socially horrifying.  Regular viewers of the show tend to take cast members with a dose of “would they do that if there weren’t all those cameras around?”  This season, the racial element has me questioning, “would they have done that if she weren’t black?” Like the seemingly caring elderly white ladies in the garden who admonish her: “don’t sleep with all of them.” Like the guy who tickles her within a minute of meeting. Like the freestyling outtakes. (Re-cringing at the thought!) Shallow representation brings these coarse attempts at managing difference to light, but it doesn’t offer outcomes that sustain uplift.

It is notable still that the show and it’s contestants struggle to establish strong interracial relationships. No Black person has been chosen as a winner on the show. And if that trend ends this year, it will, at best, prove (to whites who were previously unsure) that Black women are relatable, attractive and charming, and that they are able to identify a mate when provided a national team of casting directors, a multi-million dollar budget to spark romance, and the time and freedom to do so without other obligations. Most Black women don’t have access to these resources. This is the ultimate shortcoming of this particular representation: it’s unrealistic.  It is yet another confusing point in the constellation of messages that suggest how we should love black women.

Most fascinating is how the Black Bachelorette shows us that attraction is socially, politically and structurally determined. Put any one of the contestants in a room with Rachel among other (shades of) options and they might not even look her way. Place her as the central love interest and watch vanity and ego take over. Lest we forget, The Bachelor/ette is a competition as much as it is a matchmaking show. The contestants are there to find love, but this love is bungled up in spectacle, ego and temporary fame, in television’s patina of desire.

Rachel Lindsey, first black bachelorette represents progress for white people. They'll feel a bit more connected to blackness, and console themselves that like these representative good white people on the show, they too could date a black woman... one like Rachel at least. But this representation doesn't do much for black women. Black women, especially dark black women have a racialized un-desirability problem, not a romantic analysis problem. It's not that we're unable to select in a fantasy world where everybody sees us as attractive, worthy, marriage material and there's no competition for mates. It's that our race too frequently puts us at a disadvantage when there is. A truer indicator of race blind love will be when a person of color is chosen from a diverse pool of contestants, by a person who is not of that same race. But this consolation has its practical limitations as well. Anyways, it's unlikely that we’ll see it anytime soon --  I’ll hold my breath for the 43rd season.

Header photo courtesy of ABC

Mandy Harris-Williams is a writer, educator and artist living in LA. She writes at mandythinks.com.

by Deonna Anderson

In 2014, writer-activist-producer Agunda Okeyo dreamed up Sisters of Comedy, a monthly showcase that features Black women comedians at Caroline’s on Broadway. Okeyo started producing the show, which was originally held at Gotham Comedy Club, because she’d been working in comedy clubs and wanted to have a bigger impact in the industry.

by Ashleigh Shackelford

Earlier this month, Amandla Stenberg took over Teen Vogue to share her power and vulnerability in navigating a world that fails to represent the fullness of Black women. In Amandla’s powerful and necessary message about media and representation on the magazine’s Snapchat, she revealed for the first time to the world that she identifies as a Black bisexual woman.

Amandla wrapped up her powerful announcement with some inspiring words for a Black feminist future by saying, “This is just the beginning.”

Amandla is #BlackGirlMagic and her voice is an important one in the discourse around the representation of Black women and the representation of intersectional feminism. I do not contest that Amandla is a game changer. But I do have concerns about who we are lifting up as trailblazers of intersectional feminism during the era of #BlackGirlMagic.


In the sea of praise Amandla received for coming out as a Black bisexual woman, I started thinking about other pioneers in the movement for better and more diverse Black Girl representation. When we look at Lianne La Havas, Solange Knowles, Ava DuVernay, Zendaya Coleman, Willow Smith, FKA Twigs, and Zoe Kravitz, we are looking at artistic, carefree Black women who are redefining the limitations of Black womanhood. But as thin, light-skinned Black women, they also reaffirm a certain type of respectability and palatability.

Hood femmes, ratchets, and thotties are not represented by these women. Darker skin and bigger bodies are not represented within these women. It seems as though being woke, thin, and having lighter skin affords you a platform to speak on the issues important to Black women today—and praise for doing so.

But what about the rest of us?

While I celebrate Amandla’s powerful coming out and the acclaim she has received on multiple media outlets, I wonder about the Black women and femmes who will never get the same kind of space or praise of their queerness. I think about the many queer Black women and femmes who are conscious and understanding of their oppression enough to name it, but will never be put in the limelight of mainstream media. I think about all the queer Black femmes who must navigate the intersections of their identities with no platform to speak on the violence and experiences they live through. I also think about how speech—specifically African American Vernacular English—is a barrier to accessibility and respectability for the spectrum of representation that we are so desperately lacking.

In analyzing examples of ratchet feminism and hood politicking, the women of the Love & Hip Hop franchise come to mind. Especially those who have explicitly stated they’re attracted to and/or engage in relationships with other women—their queer identity is often erased. Love & Hip Hop: Atlanta’s Joseline Hernandez openly stated that she is bisexual. But there was barely any media coverage around her vulnerability and strength in living her truth because her platform was limited through the gaze of black femme ratchetry and hypersexualization. Joseline is not only seen through the limitation of hoe-ness, but her body type (bigger breasts, bigger butt, but still socially acceptable thick) does not read as an alternative Black girl to the gaze of white supremacy because of the oversexualization of her body. Her light skin and beauty allows for her to have the limited platform she has now, but if she was darker or had different features, her trajectory would be very different.

Another example is Sassy on Black Ink Crew, who is an out brown-skin Black lesbian, yet she is not seen as a role model within the current representation of #BlackGirlMagic, though she has stated in interviews that she wants to be a role model for other queer Black femmes/women.

The reason why Amandla and Black women/femmes like her are able to maintain this status as a radical alternative Black girl (or in Solange’s words, the “non-comforming Black girl”), is because they are seen as being palatable to white supremacy. However, being palatable to white supremacist gaze is a violent reality. Media studies and popular culture studies through a Black feminist lens show us that often white media platforms determine who to anoint as a leader or who to give the spotlight to. When these white media platforms determine this, their decision simultaneously feeds into the capitalistic motives of white supremacy and into the viewer’s ideas of white supremacy’s hierarchy of worthiness. If we’re consistently seeing light skin, thin “alternative” Black girls being thrusted into the spotlight as the primary revolutionaries in creating change in an anti-Black, misogynistic world, then we’re receiving the message that only by being closer to white in presentation and performance is how we can see “change” happen.


Much like the often ignored limitations within the Carefree Black Girl Movement, there are major shortcomings when it comes to the representation and visibility of magical Black girls and femmes.

What about the bisexual trap queens, the queer hood femmes, or the sexually fluid thotties?

Hoodness, poorness, fatness, and nigga-ness are not represented in our mainstream #BlackGirlMagic movements. This is expanded through other forms of oppression as well, such as colorism, respectability politics, beauty politics, sizism, ability, and transphobia. It’s time we lift the limitation around our ideas of Black girl representation and Black girl magic in our aims to challenge the stigmas of being a Black woman or femme. In claiming our identity as a source of confidence and empowerment, we have to recognize that what/who we praise as radical and ground-breaking is politicized too. We have to understand that light skin, white gaze palatability, and thinness are privileges in representation. We can praise Amandla for her #BlackGirlMagic and still question where the rest of the Black femme representation is at.

Photo: Ben Toms / Teen Vogue

Ashleigh Shackelford is a radical queer Black fat femme based in Richmond, VA. Ashleigh is a cultural producer, body positivity advocate, pop culture enthusiast, and a run-on sentence repeat offender. They are a community organizer at Black Action Now and the director of Free Figure Revolution. Find more posts at: BlackFatFemme.com.

Every year, when the Academy Awards nominations are announced, it happens: We ask the question, “Why aren’t more actors of color nominated for Academy Awards or represented in the films that are nominated?”

The Carefree Black Girl movement has taken the world by storm over the last two years. We’ve seen selfie tags, gifs, and memes go viral of Black girls dancing, Black girls laughing, Black girls rocking pastel colored hair, Black girls as mermaids and unicorns, Black girls with flowers in or around their hair, and Black girls squad deep carefree-ing. It’s safe to say that the definition of a Carefree Black Girl is the freedom and enthusiasm of existing lightheartedly as a Black girl in a world constantly seeking to destroy you. It is the cherishing of the ethereal and simplistic moments that often go underrepresented for Black girls.

by Naadeyah Haseeb

I'm a grown(ish) woman who loves media made for teenagers. It can provide, as entertainment is so often meant to, a bit of escape from pressures of the adult “real world” I've found myself thrust into only semi-prepared. It takes me back to the time when the problems of life tended toward the frivolous and easily solved, though they felt just as intense. And although young adult literature, which is my favorite form of teen media, can and does tackle more serious issues, I tend to gravitate towards more lighthearted stories.

by Inda Lauryn

When Nicki Minaj went on Twitter to express her dissatisfaction with the VH1 Music Awards' snub of her video for "Anaconda" for a Video of the Year nod, she spoke of a criticism many Black artists have had with mainstream recognition of their work. Her criticism more specifically addressed Black women's struggle to be accepted on their artistic merit and their contributions to pop culture. The criticism, aimed directly at MTV, explained that if she were a different kind of artist, "Anaconda" would have been nominated for VOTY as well as best choreography and stated that videos that celebrate women with very thin bodies get VOTY nominations.

by Erika Nicole Kendall for The Guardian

Serena Williams has often been called an “ape” and “gorilla” across the dark caverns of social media; her body has been described in language not unlike the kind you’d find in old timey slave auction advertisements or Old English freak show exhibits; her deep brown skin, her cheekbones, her muscular physique – the physique of someone who takes their sport seriously, with the trophy case to prove it – are all used as grounds to question the sex she was born at birth or whether she came by her athleticism naturally.

by Morgan Jenkins for Racked

Last year, Kane's Dawn Richards uploaded a selfie on Instagram that lead to plenty of backlash from her fans. Aside from the apparent plastic surgery, many suspected that she had bleached her skin. In response, Richards tweeted "Filter is the new bleach."

by Enongo Lumumba-Kasongo

Note: I will use the term n-words, when referring to “nigga” and “nigger” collectively.

Since the moment Jay-Z launched the music-streaming service Tidal at the end of March, the rapper-turned-mogul has been on the defensive. I will not rehash all of the criticisms being leveled at Tidal, as they are well articulated here and here for starters; suffice it to say that if the company survives, Jay-Z will likely be doing damage control for a long time. I, on the other hand, am pretty excited about Tidal. While I haven’t actually purchased the app, the reception of its launch has provided me with plenty of food for thought as it relates to the business of music, the diminishing power of celebrities in society, and the politics of being black in corporate America. Tidal’s launch has even indirectly provided me with the angle I needed in order to finally finish this think-piece about rap and the n-words I have been struggling to write since last summer. Let me explain.

by Ariel C. Williams

The New York Film Academy released a powerful infographic that captures race inequality in film and media in 2014. As we’ve already known, it reinforced the fact Black people are less likely to have strong speaking roles and instead are often restricted to domestic, violent, or promiscuous roles. This visual breakdown of Black producers and directors, box office tickets, and spending power within our communities is dynamic, but raises a very important question: Where are all the media spaces for alternative Black girls and women?

by Kimberly Denise Williams

We all believe that no children’s television program will ever be as good as whatever we watched as a child. But anyone growing up in the 1990s or before can probably count on one hand the number of cartoon characters of color featured on the various networks of the time. Save for the occasional children’s cartoon that explicitly featured characters of color—like Fat Albert, WayneHead, or my personal favorite C Bear and Jamal—cartoons have largely been a place for mainstream white images to dominate, much like the rest of American media.

by Bee Quammie


If you Google the phrase, “Not just a Black movie,” the results are intriguing. In media coverage for films like Repentance to the patriotic Red Tails, or films like Think Like A Man and Dear White People, someone (whether it be an actor, filmmaker, or review writer) ensures that we, the audience, know this isn’t “just a Black film.”

 by Aisha N. Davis

by Kimberly Denise Williams

Hollywood’s issue with diversity is well documented—from its employment practices to the final images we see on screen. Even more, when we see black images taking center stage, they are often pre-Civil Rights Movement roles showcasing us as slaves or servants. There seems to be two strains of thought on why this is the case, and they are not mutually exclusive. For one, few people will argue against the blatant racism that existed then in comparison to the more complicated portrayals that could be included in a movie portraying the struggles Black people face today. Thus, it is easier to show racial tensions prior to the 1960s. Additionally, it is also easier for mainstream audiences to see Black people in subservient roles. This imbalance in portrayals has caused many to argue for more films focusing on contemporary representation of Black lives, and to dismiss the onslaught of movies—often greatly written, directed and acted—that focus on slaves and servants.

by Inda Lauryn


Any pop culture enthusiast or critic who pays attention has noticed that the 2014-2015 television season brought more black and brown faces to the small screen. While many of us celebrated television’s acknowledgment that this diversity brings in viewers, white women seem to have gone into a tizzy. In March, Deadline op-ed writer Nellie Andreeva published the article “Pilots 2015: The Year of Ethnic Castings -- About Time or Too Much of a Good Thing?” in which she muses that “the pendulum might have swung a bit too far in the opposite direction” from television’s mostly white presence. (The article has since been retitled “Pilots 2015: The Year Of Ethnic Castings,” as the previous title “did not correctly reflect the context of the article.”)

by Malaika Jabali

Newspaper stories identified the race of the accused, assumed without question that the accused [Black] person was guilty, used a number of dehumanizing terms to label the Black victim—e.g., ‘wretch,’ ‘fiend,’ and ‘desperado’—[and] assumed the Black person's race predisposed him to commit violent crimes.

The aforementioned quote by Professor Richard Perloff was not written to describe a scene in 2015. When discussing black people accused of crimes and subsequently killed by vigilante racists, Perloff is referring to a period in American news media in the early 1900s, a period when 78% of the country’s lynching victims were black. In the midst of reporting on blacks being victimized by white brutality, news media shifted the narrative to enforce the supposed immutable violence of black people. A century later in 2015, almost nothing has changed.

by Kimberly Denise Williams


The fierce afro. The defiant gaze. The black power fist raised. The feminine silhouette. Angela Davis’ image is one of the most enduring from the Black Power Movement. Even looking at footage of her today strikes a note of reverence and conjures a sense of righteousness for the viewer. Her anger is apparent.

by Anna Gibson


With last week's official announcement that she'll be running in the 2016 Presidential Election, Hillary Clinton left very few shocked, but still ruffled quite a few feathers across the political landscape. People have long compared her possible entrance to the White House with her husbands’ presidency, cast doubt upon her campaign based on age, and even compared past legislative decisions to possible future actions.

by Felice León


By now you’ve heard of the fight involving seven teenage Black girls (six suspects and one victim) that took place in a Brooklyn McDonald’s. The video was uploaded online and went viral, making national headlines—not only for the fight itself, but the media’s frenzied obsession with the teen girls involved.