HBO Max On The Record Presents Dear Sisters: Examining Allyship and Masculinity in the Black Community. Moderated By: Jay Connor Panelists: Ebro Darden, Jidenna & Tiq Milan
Well, hello there! Welcome back to Wakanda. When last we left you, Killmonger “knew death was better than bondage,” Okoye and W’Kabi were in dire need of marriage counseling, and King T’Challa—played by the incomparable Chadwick Boseman—was being positioned to become the next franchise cornerstone of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. But sadly, fate had other plans.
Black women have always been at the forefront of the movement. From the tireless efforts of civil rights icon Ella Baker; to the unsung contributions of Coretta Scott King, who railed against racial injustice through song, fundraising, and other means; to other heroines like Daisy Bates or the astonishing work that WNBA players continue to put in today; Black women have proven time and time and time again that when they lead, we all win.
After flambéing middle-class, white liberals in 2017’s Get Out, only to take classism and “ignoring the ramifications of privilege” to task in 2019’s Us, Jordan Peele—whose tether became the first Black writer-director to crack $100 million with his cinematic debut—has returned to torment and bewilder us all with his latest creation, Nope.
In Black Panther: Wakanda Forever, T'Challa's little sister Shuri takes center stage as she faces off against Talokan leader Namor.
Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis are kind of a big deal. In the decades since Harris’ humble beginnings as the 16-year-old secret weapon behind the Minneapolis-based funk outfit Mind & Matter, the legendary production duo has accrued over 100 platinum certifications, 16 Billboard Hot 100 number ones (and counting), five Grammys, a star on the Hollywood Walk Of Fame, countless other awards, and the unwavering respect and adulation of their peers.
Let’s get this out the way now: 'Bel-Air' is not 'The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air'; nor does it aspire to be. To reinforce that distinction, Peacock bills its audacious reboot as a “contemporary dramatic reimagining of the beloved and culture-defining 90s sitcom”—and that description couldn’t be more accurate. While the show’s original incarnation chronicled Will’s collision course with Black opulence through the lens of boundless hijinks and hilarity, Bel-Air is decidedly much darker; firmly entrenched in the conflicts and emotions of our modern world while still honoring the spirit and innovation of its predecessor. So while you won’t see Carlton Banks embarrassing our ancestors to Tom Jones, you will see him still grapple with his identity and explore what it means to be Black through the prism of white kids who “don’t see color.”
While this declaration is accompanied by the disclaimer that yes, "The Harder They Fall" is a fictionalized work of art, this prelude serves as a timely reminder that while Jeymes Samuel’s first foray into feature film is unlike anything we’ve ever experienced before—though there are not-so-subtle nods to its forefathers like 1993’s Posse and the groundbreaking Buck and the Preacher—it’s steeped in the exact type of lore that historians either conveniently whitewash or blatantly dismiss.
When we say this among ourselves, the implication is understood. But since we now live in a world rife with brand spanking new “allies,” that phrase likely requires an explanation. Racism is exhausting, which, in turn, means white people are inherently exhausting too. Every single day of our lives, we’re either exposed to racism, recovering from it or suffering from the paranoia and anxiety of waiting for it to inevitably resurface.
The star of Black Panther: Wakanda Forever talks about making the sequel without its hero.
This three-part documentary does a masterful job of contextualizing Kanye’s indelible impact on pop culture, while adding a new dimension to the uncharted layers of his enigmatic lore. However, it’s up to you to decide—in light of his increasingly disturbing behavior in recent years—if this foray into undeniable genius is too little, too late to salvage what’s left of the Grammy Award-winning artist’s legacy.
I recall being both appalled and aghast upon waking up the next morning to this horrifying news and wishing there was something—anything—I could do to alleviate the anguish and fear that threatened to unravel so many of my friends. But in my efforts to be supportive, I also realized that I was operating out of sympathy instead of empathy—much like white folks do when they feign concern for our well-being but aren’t willing to forfeit their privilege—and got called out for it.
Yet be it pride, narcissism, mental illness, or otherwise, Kanye genuinely believes he’s somehow acting in the best interest of black progress while basking in his starring role as Trump’s ventriloquist dummy.
“As we started to encroach on the 100th anniversary of the massacre, I saw the parallels of the past and the present,” Dr. Crutcher said. “The racial terror violence that my great-grandmother had to endure and flee in fear of her life is the same racial terror and state-sanctioned violence that Terence had to endure.”
My hope is that On the Record wakes our community up, but more specifically, that it inspires black men to assess our roles as active participants in the destruction of black women. To reflect on our mistakes, hold ourselves accountable and challenge each other to elevate our queens instead of constantly tearing them down or remaining indifferent to their plight. To that end, it’s equally important that we emerge from the shadows and provide the same unwavering public support that we’ve received throughout our lives as though it’s our birthright.
This panel focuses on the role that Black men and masculine folks play in supporting Black survivors, exploring ways to show up for Black women—both cis and trans—with the vigor they show up for Black men, creating an open dialogue about how we hold each other accountable and the next steps we can all take to disrupting rape culture and toxic masculinity in our communities.
Nearly every track is a master class in guile and seduction, as intricate guitar chords, casual ketamine references, and mellifluous melodies lull you into orgasmic bliss—right before they crawl into a cocoon and evolve into something entirely new by the end of each song. One of the best examples of this is “Sunshine,” a worthy frontrunner for song of the year, that starts off as a breezy ode to that complicated dynamic between exes that your therapist keeps warning you about (“Why can’t we just get along? Or, at least, let’s get it on?”) before Lacy inhales a can of Popeye’s spinach and transforms the song into what I would imagine the birth of Christ sounded like—away in a manger and all.
The coronavirus doesn’t just ravage the body of those infected; it wreaks havoc on all those in proximity to it. It plays on the minds of those who, while not suffering from the actual disease, are caring for those who are. COVID-19's alarming infection and death rates bring with it the weight of uncertainty and the fear of unpredictability and the soft whisper of, “God, please don’t let it be me.”
To be clear, "They Call Me Magic" isn’t ESPN’s instant classic "The Last Dance"—and that’s a good thing. While one has been accused of being self-congratulatory, the argument can be made that through its prism of remorse and brutal honesty, "They Call Me Magic" is actually self-deprecating.
At the second installment of "An Extraordinary Evening: For Podcasters of Color," podcasters throughout the city of Los Angeles came together for a night of food, fun, and fellowship in order to celebrate our accomplishments and lay the groundwork for equitable treatment within the podcasting industry.
