Equality for HER

Representation in Media

Created by Clarkisha Kent

Designed by Equality for HER

The Representation In Media toolkit was developed by Clarkisha Kent and includes the following: an introductory overview, a list of key terms and definitions, a list of experts on the subject, links to additional resources on the topic, an accompanying presentation, and activity worksheets.

Click below to browse the lesson plan:

Visual Guide

Overview

Terms & Definitions

People

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Equality for HER is your go-to place for free educational content and curriculum on a variety of issues.

On behalf of the entire team at Equality for HER: Thank you for making 2017 an amazing year. From achieving new goals to reaching new heights -- 2017 was a historic year for our mission and our brand. There's a lot that we are leaving in 2017, but we are taking a few key messages with us into the new year.

You don't need to be a voice for the voiceless. Just pass the mic.

— Su'ad Abdul Khabeer (@DrSuad) February 12, 2017

#2018Mantras -Don't take a meeting with someone just because they asked you to -Remember to give credit, signal boost, and celebrate the work of others -Be mindful of what I ask from others in terms of emotional labor and time -Honor my bodymind and embrace my current state

— Alice Wong (@SFdirewolf) December 22, 2017

Black Women: We swallow the racism and bear the burdens of the world. Let’s let 2018 be the year we operate with self-care, time, space and support. If no one will do it for us, let’s commit to doing it for ourselves. This can’t ever happen again. I’m begging us.

— Brittany Packnett (@MsPackyetti) December 30, 2017

Before asking why I focused narrowly on Black single moms, ask yourself how many times you see anyone else prioritize them Then shut up

— ♈️☀️Chief Blocka🌙♌️ (@FeministaJones) May 9, 2017

In the car, Ng’endo’s niece talks about a boy in her class. Everytime she brings him up, he is described as ‘Half-American’. The reason for being the popular kid in school was because he was half white. Mukii realized that the topic she wanted to research for her graduate dissertation had infiltrated her homestead, serving as the microcosm for a Kenyan, and eventual global, experience with skin bleaching.

The voices of three generations of women find their way in the award-winning documentary animation Yellow Fever. After researching the topic of skin lightening, Ng’endo Mukii chose to indulge emotional reason in lieu of statistics. Mukii takes a softer stance, preferring to challenge those who create and sustain these beauty ideals. Instead of attacking the victims of these unachievable standards of beauty, it is time to address the lack of celebration of women of all appearances.

Mukii’s latest film Nairobi Berries, which has won the #ImmersiveEncounters #GrandPrix at the Encounters Short Film Festival, provides immersive experiences in a surrealist dreamscape that operates in a fourth dimension of spatial storytelling. The viewer is hauled into a divergent, atypical actuality. Using Virtual Reality as a mode of storytelling, Mukii notes, “Virtual reality allows you to explore space that you don’t explore on a flat film. There is almost a freedom or a conversion of the element of time that you don’t have in a 2D or 3D film.”

Virtual reality is a not-long-past medium for storytelling. Unlike other communication mediums like literature and comics that subsist in a two-dimensional space, Nairobi Berries is set in a four-dimensional space that retains the appeal and power to evoke the imagination and connect it to a familiar reality. Mukii wields a poetic composition, submerging the audience in the pigment of water, light and narrative of her relationship with Nairobi in the depth of an juxtaposed dreamscape.

Ng’endo Mukii’s films and artworks are intricate pieces of mixed-media where hand-drawn animation is combined with computer animation, pixilation and live action. Born in Kenya, she studied at the Rhode Island School of Design in the US, and Royal College of Art in London, UK. Now spending her time between Nairobi and Tsavo, Mukii works internationally as a mixed-media filmmaker, animator and editor.

Wacera: Your film shows a connection between societal pressures that license skin lightening, the constant media messages that white is pure, and the apt criminalisation of lightening products in the market. What did you learn from the conversations that emerged after sharing Yellow Fever?

Ng’endo: A few years ago after releasing Yellow Fever, I received Facebook messages from one woman from a Middle Eastern country. She wanted to do rhinoplasty because she felt her appearance was unattractive. She said that she was really glad that she came across my film. I don’t know if eventually she decided to do it. Everytime she was looking on TV and all the social pointers she was receiving in her life, they were telling her that she was unattractive because of this one feature that she has.           

When you talk about white people in Swahili, mzungu, there is no relation to their skin color. We haven’t identified ourselves as being black people, until quite recently. Like, someone is mweusi (black in Swahili). It’s not innate in the language. We were identifying along ethnic information, which is more subtle than someone has brown skin or white skin, which I find very superficial.

My perspective is that as soon as you are using certain languages to describe certain groups of people as white and black, it’s already a racist statement. White already has a subtext to purity, being close to God, there’s an ideology around the use of white. Even when women are getting married, the use of white is very specific. [Society wants] women to be virgins, even if they are not - to have the presentation of being virgins and having purity. So even those still getting married and aren’t virgins are expected to wear white. It’s like an offence not to wear white.

 I believe the use of black on a group of people to describe them is racist because there is already a history of evil, dark, almost demonic connotations of being black. Even Africa was called the dark continent for a very specific reason. [and] its inhabitants were called black also for a very specific reason.

I was debating with someone online about how, in Germany, if you are riding the train and you haven’t paid, you are called Schwarzfahrer which means a black passenger. They were debating whether it is racist or not. Someone said well it cannot be racist because you know there are all these things that already have connotations with the word black. The Black Plague, now this black passenger, the black of night, the black market… the word black has all these connotations.

I agree that the word black already has several connotations of illegality, doom, darkness and disease on it. [But] the fact that this word was applied to an entire group of people is racist in itself, because you are choosing the word for a reason. So I can’t be on the train without being a black passenger, whether I have paid or not. So I’m always a black passenger and in Germany that means I’m always avoiding fares, even if I have paid. The more that I’ve looked at how this idea of race has divided people into different categories, it’s very immature. Somehow scientists were able to convince the entire planet that we have categories called race, and put people in one called black.

Wacera: You titled Yellow Fever after Fela Kuti’s song with the same title. Your work is a deliberate inquisition of why black women bleach, and Kuti criticised women who bleach. With different passionate ideas coming through from conception to execution, how do you get rid of bias and stay devoted to the work’s purpose?

Ng’endo: When you are dealing with your family in your film, it becomes personal. I’m not pointing at women who are bleaching their skin who I met on the street, or somewhere else through someone. These are people who I care about. I don’t think I’ll be talking about them the way Fela Kuti was. The reason I use the title is to reflect back on that song for the people who know it. He wrote it decades ago, and the topic is still as relevant today. I don’t want to have his perspective of pointing fingers and making accusations. I feel that’s also a masculine reaction to something that is seen as a woman’s problem.

I wanted to have a more humanistic approach to “What is the problem of the society?”. It is not a woman’s problem. The society is telling women something specific. Women are bleaching their skin because they know it’s going to make a difference in their lives. They are going to have better partners, job promotions.

If you are wearing a weave, wearing an afro or dreadlocks, it can affect your career path depending on what line of work you are in, and how provincial minded the people who are employing you are. Obviously if you are making these changes and everyone is just pointing at you saying how fake you are, but at the same time you are getting promotions and being celebrated for being attractive, you are sending very conflicting messages to women in society. So this is not a women’s problem, this is a societal problem. That’s the reason I use the title to Fela Kuti’s song; to try to get people to look at it differently.

Wacera: Nairobi Berries is a dreamscape where you use space to engage and sustain surrealism using VR, in the African context. What does Nairobi mean to you?

Ng’endo: The title of the film is pointing to the term Nairobbery. We are all doing whatever we are doing in the city because we think we are going to rip fruit from Nairobi; the Nairobi berries. We are all participating in this patriarchy within a hierarchy of finance willing to do Nairobbery, practice corruption, willing to do whatever. That’s why all these characters are running around, aggressively chasing each other and fighting each other. I do play with space in the scope of VR, but I’m looking at the space of the city in social terms.

At first when I was trying to make the film, I had not yet written the poem. I talked with my producers and told them that I wanted to show different parts of the city. [and] as soon as you’re making a film about Nairobi, people almost feel like it’s not authentic if you’re not including Kibera. [but] Kibera is not my life. There are times that I have gone into Kibera to do quite specific stuff. I don’t hang out in Kibera. I wanted to feature Ng’ong Hills, but I go to Ng’ong Hills once or twice a year. So it’s not my life.  

Once I wrote the poem and started to address the visuals from that perspective, that meant that I was able to make my own vision of Nairobi that was completely free of this social construct of what people understand Nairobi to be, and it can be my own personal space. The water represents how I feel in the space.

Initially, I did debate calling my film Nairoberry. I wrote the poem and then created the imagery to reflect on the poetry, and also for the film to be independently standing free from the poetry. There are really beautiful parts in the poem that really feed me, that make me really happy to be part of the city. [and] then there are the other parts that are really difficult, the darkness that exists in our city that is always on the edge.

No matter where you live, even if you live in a really economically advanced neighbourhood, you are most likely living near a slum. Lavington suburbs neighbour Kawangware slum, Kileleshwa suburbs neighbour Kariokor slums, Karen suburbs neighbour parts of Dagoretti. We are always living side-by-side because we depend on each other.

I didn’t want to call the film Nairoberry because the reason we have Nairoberry is because we believe we are going to get something. [and] when you do get the fruits of the city, they are extremely beautiful. The fact that there is still space in the city to bask and relax, and it is beautiful. You can’t do that in many European cities, because it’s difficult to access open spaces, and you have to be extremely wealthy and such related factors. However, we get that access in expense of other people.

Wacera: A thing that I really admire about your films is how poetic allegory plays such a major role in your reel. Is it important for you to hold your own voice within the work?

Ng’endo: I enjoy writing poetry. A lot of what I write comes from a personal space, so it feels quite natural for me to be the one that reads it. The memories in Yellow Fever are my own. The poetry in Yellow Fever are the conclusions I’m coming to from the process of making the film. They are my own thoughts and that’s why they are in my voice. In Nairobi Berries, my experience with Nairobi is written from my own perspective. I use my voice in the poem because this is my experience. I understand that it is not everyone’s experience - I do not want to paint it as if it is.

My sister and I have had the same upbringing. It doesn’t mean she sees Nairobi in the same exact way that I do. There is one line I wrote, “I love you most, at midday, as I drink masala and do not hear the screams of women I cannot help thrashing in the darkness”. That is based on my experience last year. Twice, I heard women screaming in the middle of the night. This year, I heard gunshots and someone screaming after. I called the police because I thought to myself it’s too much. They take the information down, but I have no idea whether they respond. Of course I’m not getting out of my house to go and get shot as well. The screams were near my house - for me to go out there is to do what?

So you are stuck in this place. [and] then in the morning you wake up and continue with your daily tasks. The afternoon comes, I enjoy drinking masala tea, basking by the grass, enjoying myself and the freedom that I have in this space separated from other people. So I’m enjoying Nairobi for a very specific reason. [Because] I’m not dealing with traffic, I’m not dealing with the discomfort of how our bodies are compressed with each other in a matatu (a 14-seater public service vehicle). The seat is for three people and a fourth passenger is asking why you are not making space for them. I’m not dealing with that compression, at that particular moment.

One of the things about my films is that you can tell someone that I’ve made a film about skin bleaching. [but] when they watch Yellow Fever, that is not what they are expecting. If you told people my film is about skin bleaching, they expect a really serious documentary with numbers and information. There are no numbers in my film! I’m not giving you any statistics on how people use bleaching products or how big the industry is, as it’s not what I’m looking at. I’m looking at the emotional reason we bleach. Same thing with Nairobi Berries. I’m not telling you how many people are murdered or police brutality statistics. I am still telling you that I wake up in the night and hear women screaming. [and] that for me, it doesn’t matter how many numbers you throw at me. The feeling I had that night, I can’t put a number to that feeling.

Wacera: In your photo series Untitled Labour Series, you present your black skin as your canvas. Is it for reclamation?

Ng’endo: I don’t feel like I’m reclaiming black skin in that particular series. I’m the one posing in the photos. I wanted the subject to be someone local, because the series was about raising awareness about human trafficking. I was interested in focusing in the ways in which the body is distorted with the daily tasks people have to do. The images show people carrying kuni (firewood in Swahili), carrying mitungis (heavy flasks in Swahili) of water.

These are things people do, not even once a day, several times a day, because there is no infrastructure to support them so that they don’t have to be doing this. It happens all over… like, outside of my house, there are always children carrying water back to their houses because they are not connected to the water system. Carrying kuni. I was exploring the topic and it had to do with the body. I was focusing more on the compression of the body under this daily acts that we don’t consider them to be abusive. They are very normalised.

 Contracted body,

twisted,

bent

and metamorphosed

into

a creature inhuman.

A crushed soul.

….

It rolls back,

Inverting the body into itself.

Spasms of muscle,

heaves of lung,

crackle of joints.

Disappear along sinews

of a wordless tongue.

 References:

Yellow Fever on Vimeo

Nairobi Berries trailer on Vimeo

by Anna Gragert

There is art that makes you stop and stare, hypnotizing you as it draws you into a world built within the human imagination. There is art that wrinkles your brow, posing questions without answers (or, conversely, too many answers all at once). Then, there is art like Robin Eisenberg’s — art that has you take a good look at your reflection, reminding you that certain answers can only be found by looking right into your own eyes.

Robin’s work transports viewers to lands inhabited by women (and some men) who make you feel a certain way about yourself. Maybe it’s because they are badass, empowered babes who represent the freedom we all aim to attain. Or, it could be because these women represent a certain ferocity that’s already within us. Either way, these reasonings speak to the fact that we are living in a society that seeks to quell women — and that art such as Robin’s allows us to escape.

From her desk, Robin builds fantastical worlds that live and breathe and dance. Yes, she creates GIFs that actually come to life, but her static images maintain this same energy. In the creative’s universe, women of all shapes and sizes and colors are free to be. They are the masters of their own lives, and tell their own stories. Though she is their creator, Robin gives her characters room to narrate.

To find out more about the woman behind so many women, Robin kindly agreed to answer our (many) questions.

I’ve noticed that a majority of the characters you create are women. Is there a reason for this?

Being a woman is awesome, and I love celebrating women in all of their strength, weirdness, beauty, and complication. I tend to be much more drawn to art and stories that revolve around women, and I have always been more excited to draw women. I do draw men occasionally for projects, and although I don’t mind drawing them, it’s never as much fun for me!

With that being said, these women tend to give off an aura of empowerment and seem comfortable with their sexuality. Can you talk more about this theme?

Yes, totally! Well, I have had so many moments in my life where music or art or literature has really helped me to feel stronger or more comfortable with myself — whether by feeling understood/seen, or by feeling empowered by the traits of a character. I would love it if other women saw my work and felt that same way! Treating yourself with love is so important, and by drawing women who are at ease with themselves, it helps me to remember to try and be the same way.

I also love that the women you craft display an inclusive amount of diversity. Why is this important to you?

Inclusion and intersectionality are both so important in every area. I really want my art to feel like home to as many different women and people as possible. I feel like there are always ways that I can do better with this, and I absolutely want to continue to expand and challenge my own norms as far as the characters I tend to create and the kind of world I’m building with my artwork.

Though you’ve worked with many companies and organizations, you always remain true to your artistic style. What are some key elements you’d fight to keep in your work?

I am generally pretty open to different color palettes and even new imagery that I might not normally draw, but at a certain point, if a client is wanting an entirely different style of linework or method, I will usually decline the job and politely recommend a different artist who might fit their vision more closely. I’m all for expanding on my style, but as an illustrator, it seems counterproductive to make art that doesn’t look like my own work.

Speaking of your style, where do you pull inspiration from?

So many things! Living in L.A., and feeling forever in love with the city, the ocean, and the desert. I have lived in a lot of other places, but I love L.A. for having all three of those things so close together. AND FOOD! So much food in L.A. — another big inspiration!

People-watching has always been one of my favorite activities — although now it’s sometimes replaced with Instagram scrolling, which is not as fun but still can be really inspiring. Haha! It is still rad and weirdly novel to me how you can see into the lives of so many people and artists from all over the world! Even though you know it’s a filtered view, it’s still really interesting to me. Other inspiring things are new music, old favorite music, my parents, books, and changing weather.

At what point in your career did you feel comfortable calling yourself an artist?

I’ve never really thought about that! I guess I have always defined myself as an artist in some way, as it’s been the primary thing I’ve done for most of my life. I was actually voted “most artistic” in my high school yearbook, which is really funny to me. But yeah, drawing has always been such an integral part of my day-to-day life that I don’t know if I’ve ever really thought about whether or not I was an artist. I do think it took a long time for me to feel like I could call myself a “professional” artist. I would say that happened last year, when I realized I was finally supporting myself 100% with art.

What is one fear you’ve had to face on your journey as an artist? How did you overcome that fear?

Probably this, haha! Talking about myself and being able to somewhat eloquently discuss my work and my thoughts on where my art sits in the world. I’ve definitely gotten better (hopefully!) when it comes to interviews, but I still get incredibly nervous with in-person interviews or the notion of being part of a panel, talk, or conference. (Palms are sweating thinking about this. Haha.) I generally just go with the “confront your fears” thing. I think it’s definitely true that the more you do something, the less intimidating and scary it becomes until it is just a normal thing that you do and are fine with doing, no matter how good or bad you are at it. Also — forgiving yourself for making mistakes, not expecting yourself to be perfect 100% of the time is also important I think, and something I always try to remember.

As a fan of your Instagram account, I can’t get over how prolific you are. It feels like you are posting new, amazing content every day. How do you keep up with it all? Is there something specific you do to get in the zone when you’re working?

I really love drawing, and I really love working maybe to the point of being somewhat obsessive. I have to actively force myself to leave my desk or my studio because if I don’t, I will work every waking hour, which I don’t think is healthy or ultimately productive. But I really do love it and it is really rare that I have a day when I’m not excited to sit down and draw.

My dream vacation is a light-filled room with a huge desk and an epic ocean view. Haha. Having said that, I think it’s so important to shake yourself out of your habits and be involved in the real world, too, so I do try to get out and explore places, see friends and family, etc., so that I don’t feel like my work is becoming stagnant/repetitive (or feel like I am merging with my desk chair).

Your GIFs are STUNNING. What is your favorite part about creating them, as opposed to creating static images? The hardest part?

Thank you! It is so exciting and weird to see your art move and change! I have been doing it now for over a year but I still think it’s so fun and cool. I love how animation offers an entirely new world of possibility for art and what you can do with it. That’s my fave part.

The hardest part is just that, for me, it is so incredibly time-consuming. As of now, I do everything frame by frame, so my animation capabilities are pretty limited and everything takes forever. I’m hoping to expand on my skills this year, so I can start working on more extensive and complex animations.

So much of your work has an otherworldly quality to it, with many of your characters appearing to be from a different planet. Why would you say this is?

I really love the idea of a weird alien world that somehow still feels familiar and relatable instead of feeling distant. I also love drawing everyday life things in otherworldly settings! I was always obsessed with fantasy and sci-fi books/movies/games as a kid, so that has also definitely been a big influence. I still love all of the artwork from the book covers and graphic novels I had when I was younger. Lots of runaway princesses riding on dragons and sorceress women casting spells and alien ship captains looking tough … So rad! I still love all of that, but I guess I try and make it a little more personal.

If you could create your own world, what would it look like?

Lush, green, two moons, purple oceans, pink sand, deserts with craters, lots of sunflowers and eucalyptus and juniper and moss and cacti and palm trees also. Really nice dogs everywhere!

What is one piece of advice you’d give to all the women who aim to work in a creative field?

Don’t undervalue your own work. Be proud of your successes, no matter how big or small. Lift each other up. Whoops, sorry, that’s three pieces of advice!

by M. Brianna Stallings

Ode to White Women from a White Woman

(And Why I Shouldn't Have to be White to Get You to Listen)

Some helpful advice from someone who looks like you, ladies.

 You do not get to advocate for trans-racialism.

You do not get to claim that reverse racism exists.

You do not get to whine about the perils of white/cisgender/heteronormative privilege.

You do not get to say that someone is “too [insert race here]” or “not [insert race here] enough.”

You do not get to get into pissing contests about whose struggles are harder: yours or those of everyone else.

You do not get to claim that you are colorblind as a way to shirk your responsibility to be a thoughtful evolving person.

You do not get to say that “some of my best friends are [insert race here]” when called on an obviously prejudicial statement or gesture.

 You do not get to speak for women of color.

You do not get to dehumanize another person by describing them as “illegal.”

You do not get to assume that women of color are poorer or less educated than you.

You do not get to tell women of color what work they get to do or how they get to do it.

You do not get to assume that all white women come from the same class or educational backgrounds as you.

You do not get to treat people who do not look like you and do not live where you live as pet projects to bolster your charitable image.

You do not get to congratulate yourself for properly compensating the efforts of women of color in service to you because you “know how hard their people work.”

 You do not get to use women of color as props.

You do not get to comment on beefs that have nothing to do with you.

You do not get to wear Native American headdresses to music festivals.

You do not get to collect cultural artifacts from a culture to which you do not belong because you think doing so makes you seem “worldly.”

You do not get to weigh in on cultural appropriation with equivocating statements about costuming and “done all in the name of fun.”

You do not get to get famous for stealing from queers, transfolk, and/or women of color, then denying them the validity and significance of their works.

You do not get to co-opt the slang or vernacular of a subculture, community, or racial identity to which you do not belong in an attempt to bolster your street cred.

 You do not get to praise white female celebrities like Lena Dunham or Chelsea Handler without understanding how they are deeply problematic.

You do not get to understand how deeply problematic white female celebrities like Lena Dunham or Chelsea Handler are without turning that same type of scrutiny on yourselves.

 You do not get to sexually objectify people of color.

You do not get to congratulate trans women for “passing.”

You are not automatically issued a gay black male best friend.

You do not get to ask transfolk about anything related to their anatomy, attire, or sexuality.

You do not get to transform gay bars and Pride events into your own personal bachelor party sites.

You do not get to define sexualities, sexual expression, or sexual identities for communities of which you are not a part.

 You do not get to wear dreadlocks. Ever.

You do not get to dictate how Muslim women dress. Period.

You do not get to touch black women's hair. I cannot believe I even have to fucking tell some of you this.

 You do not get to weight shame anyone.

You do not get to tell women of color how to raise their children.

You do not get to determine what constitutes reproductive freedom or justice.

You do not get to police the bodies of queers, transfolk, and/or women of color by adhering to a false belief that yours is the penultimate beauty/physicality in Western culture.

 You do not get to tell people of color how to interact with the police.

You do not get to deny someone the validity of their voice because they have been incarcerated.

You do not get to assume that people of color who suffer from police violence have such experiences because they’ve “done something wrong.”

 You do not get to determine accessibility to a space.

You do not get to base another person’s worth on their physical needs, mental health concerns, or level of functionality.

You do not get to deny someone the validity of their experiences simply because you were not there with them to witness those experiences as they were taking place.

 You do not get to assume a voice of authority.

You do not get to say “not all white women.” Ever.

You do not get to pout or rationalize when you are called on your bullshit.

You do not get to reduce someone to one aspect of their identities and then wonder why they get furious at you for doing so.

You do not get to assume any concept of a “universal feminist struggle” and thereby nominate yourselves or others of your ilk as spokespersons for all of what you perceive to be womankind.

 You do not get to pretend that there have not been countless other queers, transfolk. and/or people of color before or after me that have not, do not, or will not tell you the exact same damn thing as what I am saying right now.

By Lindsey Weedston

Feminism’s biggest problem is and always has been how it treats women who are further marginalized. Many feminists refer to this as “intersectionality,” a term coined by Professor Kimberlé Williams Crenshaw, leading critical race scholar and creator of intersectional theory. It was originally used to describe how the oppression of womanhood and blackness overlap to create a unique experience. It was then expanded to include issues of gender identity, ability, sexual orientation, social class, and so on. The idea is that someone who experiences one form of oppression does not have all the same problems as someone who experiences that form of oppression and others, and not to the same degree.

This is demonstrated in the fact that black, native, and Latina women earn less on the white man’s dollar than white women do. Or the fact that disabled women don’t generally suffer from catcalling and are often depicted as completely non-sexual, yet experience much higher rates of sexual abuse than able-bodied women.

Feminists are often criticized for failing to take intersectionality into account. Prominent rich, white, cis feminists regularly give advice that only a privileged section of women can reasonably follow (“Lean In”) and then are surprised when so many women who don’t have that privilege get upset. At the same time, similarly privileged feminists are out there every day, organizing campaigns that leave out trans women and marches that don’t take accessibility into account and using language stolen from women of color. They tell us to get degrees in science or run for office or risk our jobs by reporting sexual harassment without considering the fact that many of us are too poor to do so.

Basic income is a set sum of money given to every resident or citizen by the government every month or year with no strings attached. For example, Finland started a program at the beginning of this year that gives 2,000 unemployed citizens €560 per month - about $627. The hope is that this will encourage these individuals to look for part time jobs without having to worry about losing their unemployment benefits. In Finland, like in the U.S., earning any income can greatly reduce or eliminate a person’s unemployment payout, even if that income still isn’t enough to reasonably live on.

Growing basic income movements across the world are putting forth the idea that people could be given enough money to lift everybody out of poverty by the government, solving the myriad of problems that come with not having enough cash to meet your basic needs. Zoltan Istvan, California gubernatorial candidate for 2018 and basic income advocate, said that “each California household could receive over $50,000 annually if the 45 million acres of unused land were developed,” according to the Basic Income Earth Network, and that this would “lift 19 million Californians out of poverty.”

Class is not the be-all and end-all of oppression, as some individuals believe. But it does have an effect on every marginalized individual, and oppression and poverty tend to go hand-in-hand. Therefore, any feminist who claims to want to be intersectional should advocate for basic income.

It’s not an easy sell, especially in the U.S. Racialized misconceptions about work ethic and rumors of “lazy takers” and mythical “welfare queens” abound - it’s assumed that without the threat of starving to death, many people won’t work at all. This is untrue. A basic income experiment done back in the 1970’s in a small town in Manitoba, Canada found that the only people who quit their jobs under basic income were young people who wanted to stay in school. Mothers also wanted longer maternity leave, but still, most of those who were employed stayed employed. This is largely due to the simple fact that people need to do something with their time in order to feel good.

While it’s true that “being active” or “productive” isn’t a magical cure for clinical depression, it’s also true that people who have nothing to do tend to become depressed. This is why post-retirement anxiety and depression is such a common phenomenon - and why so many retirees seek part-time employment even when they don’t need it financially. If it’s true with people past age 65, it’s going to be true with younger people.

As for where the money will come from, there are a multitude of proposals on how it could be funded, but the money is there. Plus, the idea is that basic income will significantly reduce the cost of tax-funded services. Experiments in basic income have found that it reduces emergency room visits and mental health care costs, plus costs related to crime. It’s a big investment into giving everyone a better world instead of using that money to clean up the results of poverty.

But the best and most feminist part of basic income is how it will help all women and all people of marginalized identities, particularly those who are so often forgotten by privileged feminism. Disabled and chronically ill women won’t have to worry so much about whether they’ll be able to live. Though you can get welfare payments for disability, the hoops that these individuals are forced to jump through in order to get a sum that is no longer enough to live on are a full time job and a constant source of anxiety. Basic income in unconditional. They won’t lose it if they save up too much money or a form gets lost in the mail. If universal healthcare is also implemented (which should be another top feminist goal), they could live in relative peace instead of being forced into poverty at high rates because of something they can’t control.

If I had basic income, I could go to therapy for my mental illness without having to worry so much about the cost or how it might conflict with my work. Last year, I had to give up going to therapy to get a 8 to 5, Monday through Friday job. Since my therapist also keeps those hours, I couldn’t see her anymore. Luckily I don’t desperately need it, but if I did, it would severely limit my job prospects and/or which therapist I could see - and it’s hard enough to find a good therapist.

Although marriage equality is great, one of the biggest problems for LGBT+ people is the high rate of homelessness. To this day, teens are still kicked out of their homes by homophobic and transphobic parents, forcing them onto the streets. Homeless shelters aren’t enough to protect them, and can be unsafe, especially for trans people. Feminism has such a persistent problem with transmisogyny, with trans-exclusionary radical feminists (TERFs) misgendering refusing space to these vulnerable women, and even going so far as to fight to take away their ability to exist in society. Trans women of color in particular face shockingly high rates of murder, and living on the streets increases that risk exponentially. Basic income could save so many of these lives and likely reduce suicide rates, as well.

Arguably the most often forgotten women are the sex workers. I’m not here to argue that basic income should be implemented to save them, because many sex workers like what they do and would continue regardless. But as long as sex work remains taboo and some forms illegal, personal safety will be an issue for them. With basic income, however, many of these individuals who are struggling to get by won’t have to consider putting themselves in a risky situation so that they can eat the next day. They could afford to be choosier with clients, reducing their high rates of on-the-job violence.

Wage gaps shrinking. Educational gaps disappearing. Parents able to spend more time with their kids no matter how much money they make. With so many problems alleviated by basic income, we could better focus on the rest of the issues plaguing marginalized communities. It’s even possible that otherwise privileged poor people might not feel the need to take out their frustrations by attacking immigrants, Muslims, people of color, and anyone else easy to blame for their problems.

Getting basic income may not be an easy goal, but neither is eliminating rape culture, or achieving parity in government, or getting men to calm the hell down and stop killing us. If there is such a thing as a unified feminist agenda, let basic income be one of the top on the list. Our feminism will raise up all women, or it will be bullshit.

Amani Al-Khatahtbeh and the entire MuslimGirl team has had Equality for HER's back since day one. By lifting up our programming, elevating our fledgling platform, or amplifying our narratives, MuslimGirl has been steadfast in its support of Equality for HER.

This dynamic army of women who support women was the first group of people to reach out to me when I was arrested in Baton Rouge, LA. MuslimGirl offered a place for me to express the struggles I was feeling after experiencing such an intense trauma. It is without reservation that I say: MuslimGirl supports all women and Muslim women in particular, no matter what. 

The inspiration for MuslimGirl emerged out of Amani Al-Khatahtbeh's need for a place to be heard. Today, she continues to use her privilege to give other Muslim women these opportunities as well. Just last night, Amani and I appeared on MSNBC to discuss #45's last 6 months in office. I was wearing #HalalPaint's shade of pink polish called "The Perfect Amani-cure." I have seen first hand how Amani is dedicated to bringing people, like me, with her on her path of success.

In 2017 alone, MuslimGirl has delved into a myriad of notable enterprises as the election of #45 made Amani's platform more crucial than ever before.

Responding to the increased violences committed against Muslim women, MuslimGirl launched a care package subscription so Muslim girls around the world could do self care.

In March 8, 2017, Getty Images, a world leader in visual communications, and MuslimGirl, partnered to create diverse, vibrant and accurate portrayals of Muslim women for their stock photo gallery.

On March 27, 2017, MuslimGirl launched a new day of celebration during women's history month: Muslim Women's Day.

In the midst of Ramadan, MuslimGirl announced a trailblazing partnered with Orly to create #HalalPaint. #HalalPaint is a breathable, halal certified nail polish formula that would enable Muslims to make requisite ablutions for prayer while also having vibrant nails in cleverly named shades.

When I first heard about #HalalPaint I had to restrain myself from maxing out my credit card to buy as many sets as I could. I thought to myself, finally, I can paint my nails as often as I did before I converted to Islam! Not only would #HalalPaint be a fabulous Eid present, it would allow me to indulge in one of my favorite forms of self expression; anytime and all the time.

In Islam, we make wudu or cleansing ablutions prior to making salat prayer.  It is believed that if water and soap cannot touch one's nail beds the wudu is incomplete and the prayer must be redone. For this reason, many Muslim women forgo nail painting until their are menstruating. This small inconvenience is a small price to pray in exchange for one's faith, but #HalalPaint challenged this notion by allowing Muslims to paint their nails whenever and whenever we saw fit.

Not only is nail painting with halal nail polish a form of self care but it is a form of creative expression allowing us to make adorn ourselves without compromising our religious beliefs. #HalalPaint is more than just nail polish. #HalalPaint for me is an avenue for self love, creative expression and more. However, all of the positives that #HalalPaint provided were suddenly complicated by Orly leadership making anti-Muslim, anti-Black, and anti-Palestinian statements. 

I have been admiring the work of Amani Al-Khatahtbeh and her team at MuslimGirl for a while now and I am always struck by their continued investment in authentic and intentional movement work. This commitment was demonstrated today when MuslimGIrl announced the end of its partnership with Orly. Divesting from corporations whose leadership directly contrasts with one's mission is a necessary step to take if we are to truly be committed to liberation. Because #HalalPaint was more than just nail polish it is perhaps even more necessary to hold Orly accountable for its indiscretions. When met with this controversy, Amani Al-Khatatbeh and the entire MuslimGirl team chose the path of integrity and righteousness.

Growing up, Palesa Kgasane saw the potential of an audience. With unapologetic confidence, she would entertain her family and friends as an outlet of expressing herself. Now a rising star in the buzzing South African creative fashion world, she is rewriting the history of women of color by documenting the many faces and facets that they behold on her  notable platform, Mzansi Moodboard. Inspired by her matriarchy and indelible African icons such as Miriam Makeba and Brenda Fassie, Palesa employs the flawless fashion sense of her elders to her creative direction and matchless fashion finesse. Unimpressed by labels and pop-boxes, Palesa is breaking the mould by leveraging her creative eye and expressing a hard-to-hear but necessary truth and visibility of creative WoC.

When did you realize that you were interested in fashion styling? What inspired your choice of film and photography to document your art?

I think I knew from a young age that I loved fashion, largely attributed to my mother’s great sense of style and all the glamorous women I would see when we watched TV. They seemed so confident. I think that’s what I liked about clothes, how they make people feel. Expressing myself was sort of second nature. When I was younger I just wanted to entertain, whether it was singing or writing, I always ended up taking part in things that involved entertaining people. Picking up a camera for the first time and documenting myself and my friends back in high school was something I did for fun. I remember how I insisted that we always take pictures. I edited them and put them on Facebook. That was the thing then. And now, I do it as a means of sharing my narrative with people and that of other black womyn.

What were the images of women of color that you saw growing up in South Africa? Did that observation inspire your art today?

I never saw enough images of women of colour. That was why I had to start creating them, for myself. I realised that history was not very accommodating of brown girls who aren’t thin and outspoken and who don’t fit in. Therefore, creating and writing was always an outlet for me. Solitude inspired me. That and strong womyn who also stuck it to the man; Brenda Fassie, Miriam Makeba and Lebo Mathosa.

The visual representation of queer and nonbinary femmes of color seems integral to your art. What motivates your choice of your subject matter? Why do you think it is important to create this content at this time?

The honest answer is that there isn’t enough out there. I don’t create having those labels in mind, I am not a fan of labels and boxes. I do what I do from a place of truth, I try to. But I used to try to hide who I am for a very long time, as a queer femme womyn. It has been really difficult coming to grips with my own truths, but I am grateful to have been able to be in spaces where I could come into my own. Creating is a means of surviving. It is important for me to be and exist beyond the impositions the world puts on me; whether it be as a black womyn, a queer womyn, or a ‘plus-size’ person. My subject matter is always going to be what is closest to home, intentional and also sometimes not. I’m always going to be black first and a womyn too, those are things that give me a certain primacy in the world. I hope to make something positive out of these realities.

In your direction, what are the key ingredients needed for a killer, relevant production?

Patience. I’m basically a one womyn show and the pressure to constantly be creating is overwhelming. Be patient with yourself and the people around you. Not everyone will get it but you just need to trust your gut. Be truthful and authentic. That goes with not doing things for the sake of doing them but knowing what you hope to achieve at the end of the day. For people to feel a sense of black joy and pride after engaging with my work is important for me. Nothing exists in isolation. And lastly, genuine love for what you do. That can be really difficult when you are a solo ranger like me but loving what you do is so important.

At the foundation of it all, artists create what they know; what does your art says about Palesa the person? How has your family upbringing, and your localization, influenced your views on the representation of WoC in the media?

I grew up in a small town. Home is where I return but leaving home was also the only way I was able to find myself after high-school. I went through a lot, both good and bad, which brought me to the person I am today. I owe a lot to my supportive mother, who never gave up on me and would fund every dream I had- whether it was going to record a demo for radio or taking a course guitar lessons or doing extra-curricular art classes, studying journalism – she believed in me refining my skills. And so I did. Being a South African womyn is beautiful and challenging. That story alone is one of survival, being a creative black womyn is filled with paradoxes and I’m learning to be patient with the process of coming into my own. I’m grateful for my upbringing, for being a moTswana girl, for the gift of writing, which to this day, appeases me.

Which are some of the fashion stables whose work you like? Who would you love to work with?

Locally, I love where African fashion is at right now. I have worked with some local desigenrs Imveli Designs and Merwe Mode. I would really love to do something with Anisa Mpungwa, ALC, Matte Nolim, Jenevieve Lyons and Oxosi. I also really love Imprint, Maxhosa and Droomer. Maybe they’ll read this and call me up ☺ .

How would you describe your personal style?

Comfortable, retro, easy.

How has being a native South African and being immersed in its rich and eclectic culture affected your styling direction?

I like to embrace being South African as much as I can, whether it’s wearing bangles or a head-wrap or a pair of earrings from a local designer. It’s been challenging sometimes wanting to buy local but not having enough of it around or it being unaffordable. My country is so beautiful and culturally rich and inspiring, I really want to work with more local designers. I really think they need more platforms and shows and stores. I am really proud of my Tswana, Sotho and Zulu heritage.

In Mzansi Moodboard, Taking it Black is a special space featuring iconic African forerunners. Who are your style icons?

My mom, obviously. Brenda Fassie and the womyn of the late 80s. I love the style back then and my family(mom, aunts and older cousins) have given me some amazing articles of clothing from back then that I wear now. I love Solange, and her style us an eclectic mix of Diana Ross meets Queen Patra. I think a lot of the black womyn that I grew up looking up to and listening to were inherently stylish; Letta Mbulu, Yvonne Chakachaka and Janet Jackson.

You’re well known for utilizing social media to document your process. How has social media been useful? Do you think it affects how people perceive your work?

Social media is a great tool if used properly. I sometimes overshare-in my personal capacity and that has been something I am learning to balance. Although a lot of the work that creatives do is very personal, letting emotions govern the things you put on social media can be really detrimental. This is also hard because you want to be truthful. With Mzansi Moodboard, I always think of what inspires me and what I would want to see from a platform like that. Although I really believe in harnessing the power of social media, it can also be laborious and the things we see can be redundant. However, there is also so much you can do; conversations to be part of, stories to share, voices to hear. Images are powerful, so can words and social media makes it that much easier to share with thousands of people. There’s a lot of negativity in the world, I want to be part of the happiness, the good stuff.

Going on to your seventh issue, what should we look forward to from Mzansi Moodboard?

Envelope breaking, non-binary content that is beautiful, powerful and truthful.

You describe yourself as a Creative Visual Expressionist. What fuels your creative intentions?

Being black. Learning to love my blackness, my queerness, my otherness. Womyn. Re-writing history. Visibility. Representation. Truth. Love. Beauty of the unknown, of the strange and unapologetic black girl magic.

What do you believe is the role of the modern day Black artist?

by Lisa Hofmann-Kuroda

1, 1.5, 2, 3, 4…. It is a tradition among immigrants in the United States, particularly those of Asian descent, to measure generational distance from their homeland in terms of numbers and, more recently, decimal points.

1 is the immigrant, born and raised in the home country, who arrives in the United States as an adult. The naturalized immigrant, the trail-blazer, “1” stands for “first” in their family to do, to go, to leave. 1 is the immigrant of action, the one often saddled with guilt for for leaving the familiar behind. “1” stands for sacrifice.

1.5 is the immigrant who is born in the home country but raised in the United States. The “in-between,” who, when asked where they are from, is torn between the laws of autochthony (claiming their place of birth as their place of origin), and the laws of memory, which may have few if any associations of the homeland, immigrating as they did to the United States as a child. Perhaps they have no recollection of their arrival here except through narrative inheritance, the stories their parents recounted to them years later.

And then there are the 2’s. 2’s are born here. 2’s are from here, though they may not always be treated that way. If 2’s travel to their homelands, it will not be as a return, but as an arrival. Their passport, if they have one, is a clean slate. They are a guest in the homeland. They may not necessarily speak the language of their homeland, though from all outward signs they may be expected to.

0, of course, implies no distance from the homeland. Immigrant 0 is the non-immigrant. Ideally, the one who speaks and breathes the same language she dreams in. Generation 0 is the one who, presumably, has true claim to an “authentic” homeland, has perhaps never left the homeland, who is the guardian and repository of tradition, who 1’s, 1.5’s, and 2’s look to as the “source.” The native speaker. The non-exile. Generation 0 is always at home--supposedly.

What function do these numbers play for us? How do they, in their numerical hegemony, reinforce a hierarchy of authenticity among immigrants in the United States today, particularly those of Asian descent? What does it mean to organize the diaspora--a horizontal concept--as a measuring stick?

And who do these numbers leave out? Measuring immigration in terms of generational distance from the homeland relies on a number of assumptions--most notably, the assumption of a nuclear, heterosexual (reproductive) family.

Can international adoptees, for example, be considered “immigrants” at all, when the conditions of their arrival do not depend upon the kind of biological continuity that the generational-numerical complex assumes? When their departure from the homeland was a kind of trauma, enacted against their will?

And what of the queer immigrant, who decides not to have biological children? Or, if they do have children, do not look or speak like them? Do they, in their refusal of biological notions of continuity, implicitly break the numerical order of things? And what of their mixed race descendants, whose appearance may threaten racial notions of continuity?

I write this to put my finger on the discomfort I feel in the numerical system of thinking and speaking about what it means to be an immigrant in the United States. I write this as a queer, mixed race, 1.5 immigrant, who is unsure about my debts and inheritances here.

What, if any, alternatives might we imagine to this numerical system? Alternatives that allow for a connection to the homeland, but which refuse to frame the homeland as the “originary source,” of which we, as 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th generations, are the increasingly diluted forms? The increasingly fraudulent, or “fake" forms?

What, if any, alternatives might we imagine beyond the binary of cultural fidelity and assimilation? And at which number on the generational timeline do we cease counting altogether? When does the homeland become so distant in the generational imaginary that it ceases to be a relevant part of our identity at all?

This isn’t a prescriptive essay; it’s an exercise in imagining alternative forms of belonging, alternative ways of talking about belonging. A way of thinking about my relationship to Japan that doesn’t rely on hegemonic notions of authenticity, one that recognizes my experience as an equally, but alternatively, authentic way of being Japanese.

I’m sure that I am not alone in this desire. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that I’m not alone in the feelings of discomfort, embarrassment, anxiety, and shame that accompany my trips to the homeland. Who, among Asian-Americans, has not experienced a degree of shame when asked about their relationship to the homeland?

Maybe I’m interested in this affect of shame and the way in which it shapes the immigrant experience so centrally. What is it? What work does it do? Is it useful?

In an alternative universe, I imagine a way of de-centering the homeland without erasing or eliminating its importance to me. I imagine a way of being Japanese that doesn’t center Japan as such, in its current form. For example: I imagine a person of Japanese descent living in Brazil; one living in the UK; one living in the Netherlands; one living in Taiwan; and one living in Japan itself. And none of these modes of being Japanese are more or less authentic than any of the others. Just as, for example: I imagine a person of Japanese descent who lived in the 8th century, and one who lived in the 16th century, and one who lived in the 21st century would all have vastly different understandings of what it meant to be Japanese.

Too often, I think, we imagine the homeland as an unchanging structure. What would it mean to think of the homeland itself as always in an identity crisis? To think about the homeland as an unstable entity, always in flux, just as I am. What would it mean to think of the Zero Generation (my grandmother) as herself having an uncomfortable relationship to her homeland? A complicated one, just as mine is complicated?

What if we imagined identities beyond the current configurations of nation-states and borders? What other possibilities might lie beyond them?

In the beginning, God created the Earth, Moon, stars, and the universe and... J-Hova. Twenty years later, there was a 47-year-old Jay Z, rapping in the confines of a dark studio confessional, laying prostrate before millions while admitting to years of wrongdoing from criminal activity to unscrupulous betrayal of those close to him. His first studio album in four years, 4:44 is a highly-anticipated, timely collection of modern “Hip-Hop Noir” reflections on the impact of his legendary career and iconic status as one of Hip-Hop’s preeminent cultural giants. This new album has energized Jay Z’s fan base, many of whom have long awaited an album worthy of his god-like moniker, J-Hova. While I wish this pseudo-apologia included a mea culpa for Magna Carter, Holy Grail, I’m willing to accept that it takes a lot for a man of his stature to hold lay bare his soul and hold himself accountable so publicly.

During my first listen of 4:44, I wondered about the album’s set up in the opening track, “Kill Jay Z”. The self-flagellating song presents itself as a eulogy for the American gangster persona he created and happily embodied for decades, while stacking millions of dollars. Maybe Mr. Carter no longer wishes to be so closely associated with the Jigga man, having grown into a husband, father, and more mature friend. I get it; we all change and look back with shaking heads at cringeworthy things we’ve done and said. He condemns himself and his behaviors largely within the context of the impact that persona may have on his daughter, Blue Ivy (with wife Beyonce), suggesting it took becoming a father to realize perhaps he wasn’t living his best life.

“But you gotta do better, boy, you owe it to Blue

You had no father, you had the armor

But you got a daughter, gotta get softer”

After listening to the album straight through several times, I realized that in this early confession, he offers explanations of the impact of his gifts and his curses, acknowledging his actions and behaviors in a way that disarms the listener. It’s a battle rapper tactic that a wise veteran would employ: lay out all of your demons and vulnerabilities first before anyone has the chance to eviscerate you by weaponizing your flaws and negative experiences.

I knew, then, that this would be an album that simply doesn’t give a fuck about much of anything anyone would have to say about it. Indeed, it does take on a pointed turn towards a “I am who I am and you are not me so I am going to do whatever I want and you will deal” tone one would expect of an aging husband and father who is more likely to yell “Get off my lawn!” than two-step on a boat to UGK bars.

I also realized that 4:44 is, for all intents and purposes, a summation of the life and times of Shawn Carter; it is an album in four parts. If this is the last solo album we get from Jay Z, and it may very well be, it sounds like he wants us to understand how full circle his life has come, what he’s learned from his experiences, and why it’s important to him to share what he’s learned with others who look up to him.

Act I: “14-Year Drug Dealer and Still Counting”

Shawn Carter sold drugs. Superfacts. The question now is whether or not we are justified in knocking his (and so many others’) hustle. It isn’t like Jigga would ever let you forget his roots, not with decades of storied rhymes that oscillate between exhibiting tremendous pride in said hustle and his ability to beat the odds stacked against kids like him in places like that to being somewhat embarrassed by and remorseful of his contribution to his own people’s destruction. It wouldn’t be anything remotely close to a classic Jay Z album without ruminations on his life as a drug dealer, except this time, there is more of a shadow on his recollections. Way less bravado and bragging, more outlining the blueprint that got him from points A to B in his 20+ years career.

“I'm the Gotham City heartbeat

I started in lobbies, now parley with Saudis”

“Marcy Me”, arguably the most nostalgic song, continues where In My Lifetime, Vol. 1’s “Where I’m From” left off--an ode to the Brooklyn housing project that made him strong, taught him valuable life lessons, and gave him his first opportunity to cash in on the drug game. Borrowing a few lyrics from fellow artists, as Jay Z is notorious for doing, he flows over a melodic tune that boasts his 800 street credit rating, in case you forgot Jigga is from Bed-Stuy!

In “Smile”, Hov reminds us that bad times turn into good memories and, with the help of a therapist, reconciles his tumultuous past with his prosperous present and future. He is clearer about his understanding of how the life he was born into, drug-infested, crime-riddled poverty, was intentionally designed and is systematically maintained. He teeters on the edge of placing full blame of his choices on societal impediments but he comes back and recognizes his own complicity and challenges others to do the same.

“Adnis”, a gutpunch that opens you wide as Jay Z shares what he’s been holding, buried deep inside. It is in this piece that the stage is set for us to reckon with the creation of “J-Hova”, a boy abandoned by his father, left to fill that void in whatever ways made sense to a poor Black boy. This is the space in which we find Shawn Carter, truly and finally, without the bells and whistles. Nostalgic. Reflective. Hopeful. Real.

Act II: “She Fell In Love With the Bad Guy, the Bad Guy”

The Beyhive has long known that Jay Z has cheated and mistreated his wife, Beyoncé, for years; she has several songs on several albums about the pain she’s been dealing with in the role of his life-partner. Her last album, Lemonade, was a collection of this pain with an ending that offered the promise of better days to come with forgiveness, love, and a commitment to make it work.

What I find the incredibly interesting about the title track,”4:44”, the apologetic ode to his far better half, is that it is in the present tense and suggests all isn’t well...yet. “I know in my heart, I’m letting you down every day” is how it opens. “I don’t deserve you” he laments, but doesn’t seem willing to let her go even after admitting how crappily he’s treated her. “I fall short of what I say I’m all about,” is a powerful admission for a selfish Sagitarrian, and I’m eagerly awaiting an outline of a plan for how he plans to be better and do better as a man, especially since so many young (and older) men are looking to him for guidance as a role model. “I’m never going to treat you like I should” is what he offers.

Wow. At least he’s honest. My hope is that the subtlety of this isn’t lost on those having epiphanies and suddenly feel compelled to drop off packages of diapers to their kindergarteners’ mamas.

Also interesting is how he seems more focused on looking bad to his daughter than anything else. “It took for my child to be born to see through a woman’s eyes” is entirely too reminiscent of the problematic “What if it was your daughter or wife?” approach to challenging men to be better about sexual harassment and assault. The song (and album, really) resonates like a Hard Knock Life by Shawn “Jigga” Carter, a bedtime story penned specifically for Blue Ivy and their newborn twins to hear when they grow up. “And if my children know...” and “My heart breaks for the day I have to explain...” are lines that suggest there is a strong embarrassment of being caught out there treating their mother so poorly, especially when their mother is the greatest entertainer of modern time.

Is it so wrong to want to hear an outright commitment to being a man who acts with integrity and honor towards his wife? We get a glimpse of that on “Many Faced God” which features James Blake, but it comes off like more begging and pleading instead of affirmation and strong commitment to moving forward with integrity.

“Baby, I get ya

Let's go through this thing, come out stronger, the golden journey

Broken is better than new, that's kintsukuroi

You're fine china

I'm a bull and ball in a china shop

I promise to repair with gold each bowl I drop

Be grateful for whatever comes”

I’m not sure I believe him. He needs fewer people, like the Becky he has to tell to leave him alone, when he should be saying “I’m leaving you alone Becky”. But it doesn’t matter if I believe him or not because he isn’t my husband and I respect Beyoncé enough to honor her right to make whatever choices she wants and needs to make for her family and her own happiness.

Act III: “All Black Everything, Nigga, You Know My Fresh Code”

Once upon a time, while Kanye West watched the throne from a far, far off distance, Jay Z happily declared how much he loves us Black folks. Black pride has seeped into his most recent works and occupies a more prominent position on 4:44. When one of our own stands up for us, knowing that doing so can risk one’s accumulation of coins, we experience a certain elation. As they say, representation matters.

Calling out Jimmy Iovine for his co-opting of Hip-Hop culture? Bold. Particularly when the block is still hot with tales of Iovine’s collaborative work with Dr. Dre, a genius west coast Hip-Hop producer who briefly dabbled in rapping. (I know that’s not Hip-Hop politically correct. Forget it.) Dame Dash and Lupe Fiasco called out Lyor Cohen a few years ago for similar reasons. And KRS-One did the same years ago, just to name a few. It’s important that icons like him expose the traps of the industry that too many succumbed to as we allowed the infiltration of Hip-Hop by rich White predators who sought to profit more than consume.

“The Story of OJ” is promising in its critique of those who believe the green color of money will erase their Blackness. He uses O.J. Simpson as a target, though it’s clear he is speaking about the tendency of Black folks to get rich and forget they’re still likely to face racism in any income bracket. Riding over the best use of a sample on the entire project, Nina Simone’s “Four Women”, his repetition of the word “nigga” picks up on the knowledge previously laid down by A Tribe Called Quest (“Sucka Nigga”) and Mos Def (“Mr. Nigga”). I appreciate his keeping the conversation going and hope others join in.

However, I take issue with some of Jay Z’s ideas for how Black people can reclaim power and “build intergenerational wealth”, especially to the tune of Donny Hathaway’s “Someday We’ll All Be Free” on “Legacy”. It’s admirable to want to leave a legacy for yourself and your descendants that is honorable and self-sustaining. I think because Black people have been shut out of accessing resources to build the kinds of legacies and empires that European colonizers have, we may erroneously cling to the idea that this money or “wealth” is the best way to go about securing our families’ futures. But does that free us, truly? Or do we become enslaved to a new master that will require us to continue giving so much of ourselves as offerings in order to sustain our new lifestyles?

I think we look at the superstars who started at the bottom and “made it” as inspiration for our own lives, but the truth is that the majority of people born into poverty won’t ever be “wealthy”. Forty-two percent of children born into the bottom fifth (household income/net worth) in America will remain there as adults and only 23% will elevate to the second lowest fifth. Overall, if someone lives in poverty for more than seven years, there’s only a 13% chance of exiting poverty. This is the reality that can’t be solved by preaching that poor folks should invest in Nike stock instead of buying Michael Jordan sneakers, as too many of today’s Black “financial literacy” gurus preach.

You know what’s better than money? The wealth of having love, friends, and family which, according to Jigga, is a lesson he missed out on.

Black capitalism is not freedom, no matter how you picture it, frame it, or flip it, and it continues to trouble me that Black folks insist that building material wealth should be the major goal for every Black family. It simply is not nor is the acquisition of material items to leave to one’s children a priority for everyone. Not everyone wants to own their own business. Not everyone believes money is the key to happiness. Not everyone wants to work days in and out striving towards a goal that statistically most of us will never achieve.

See above: Jay Z was a drug dealer who sold poison to his own Black people, the ones he boasts about having pride in now that he has cleansed his hands from the dirty work it took to get him where he is. Sure, he can give life advice about flipping a $1M painting into $2M, but to the listeners ignoring the past two decades of “I got all of this because I used drug money as start up capital”, I implore you to reconsider from whom you get your financial lessons.

And if we examine Jay Z’s approach to discussing Black women throughout his career, along with his boasting of accumulating wealth by dealing drugs to his community, one has to wonder when this new sense of Black pride developed. Shawn is only human, so of course he can be multi-faceted, but perhaps it comes from the same well from which modern pimps-turned-charlatans who profess “Afrikanness” and denounce White supremacy drink, while disregarding Black women, Black LGBTQ, and Black disabled people in their “freedom” fights?

Growth, though. Growth. What do we want him to do? He’s sorry!

*pours Ciroc*

Act IV: “I’m The Greatest MC, I’m The Greatest MC In The World”

Jay Z is anything but washed, yet he still felt the need to issue a challenge those who have claimed he is. Again, I get it; this braggadocious boasting and declaration of kingly status is what Hip-Hop is about. I’m left wondering to whom is he comparing himself because, if we’re being perfectly honest, *whispers* Jay Z has no real competition today. It’s like a cat toying with a mouse that just wants to go home and eat its stolen cheese in peace. He appears to want the best of both worlds, knowing he’ll go down as one of the greatest rappers to ever bless a mic while schooling these young cats, O.G. style, about personal honor, artistic integrity and cultural respect within the Hip-Hop community.

Calling out current rappers for being corny? Necessary. “Caught In Their Eyes”, a collaboration with existential bemoan-er of life, Frank Ocean, suggests that part of the problem with modern Hip-Hop is that people with little experience with the struggles that Hip-Hop was created to shine a light on are getting deals to make music that hurts the culture.

“Please don't talk about guns

That you ain't never gon' use

Y'all always tell on y'all self

I'm just so fuckin' confused”

He reminded us again, he did it all without a pen, alluding to his now-signature approaching to recording albums without writing the lyrics down. And it sounds like it, but not in a great way, unfortunately. One of my biggest critiques of this album is that Jay Z sounds bored, mostly, not unlike how he sounded on MCHG. The times when he seems connected and energized is when he is boasting about his prowess as an MC. Other than that? He seems to be producing content for reasons other than pure love of the culture and the art of rap. He’s not the first rapper to address the themes in the album (see: “Life Is Good” by Nas) and this isn’t the first album he’s produced that’s been darker or more introspective (see “Kingdom Come” and “The Black Album”). There isn’t anything groundbreaking on the album or remarkably different from what’s circulating around the internet and SiriusXM.

My other criticism is that the production by No I.D., a talented producer out of Chicago, is more often than not pedestrian. The sampling isn’t quite as simplistic as Diddy turning down vocals on his favorite old school songs and having his friends rap over them, but it isn’t nearly as good as those he clearly seems to be emulating: 9th Wonder and Pete Rock. And *looks around* Kanye West. I would have liked a bit more nuance throughout and the strongest songs are the ones in which Jigga is a co-producer.

****

It is solid production and Jay works well with it, but part of me wanted 4:44 to pack a stronger punch. I accept, however, that it was created exactly as it needed to be. It’s adult contemporary Hip-Hop, putting him in excellent company with A Tribe Called Quest and De La Soul who, in the last year, dropped “older”, critically-acclaimed Hip-Hop albums. I like where this is going and I’m sure my peers born before 1982 will also appreciate the growth and maturation of our beloved culture. Our fears of Hip-Hop dying by way of predatory infiltration and loss of integrity have been staved off, if only temporarily, by artists like these who continue to serve up guidance and offer the next generation the most important Hip-Hop history: themselves.

“Hovi's home, all these phonies come to a halt

All this old talk left me confused

You'd rather be old rich me or new you?”

“My mother got cancer when I was sixteen and died when I was 22. Don't feel sorry. Bad things happen.”

Rather than listing off her accomplishments or waxing poetic about her stylistic choices, this is how Martha Rich begins her artist statement. Amid these 20 words, one can recognize what they see in the creator’s work: dialogue. Whether literally or symbolically, Martha’s artwork starts a conversation about the spectrum of life, from the difficult to the seemingly trivial. Such conversations could go on forever, bursting forth from the canvas as they withstand the test of time.

Since her work is “informed by moments quietly noticed and not by what is shouted,” one will likely encounter a sense of empowerment when viewing Martha’s pieces. That’s because the artist cultivates what may initially appear insignificant until she coaxes out the significance that was there from the start. We just weren’t able to see it until now. Those who observe the artist’s work can grow to understand that details matter — which can be quite intimidating (as our world is made up of countless tiny details). Yet, with Martha guiding us, viewers instead feel liberated knowing that nothing is off limits when it comes to creativity. Everything — even the outwardly absurd — is fair game.

To continue the conversations started by her work, Martha generously agreed to start a dialogue with us.

Based on your biography, it sounds like feminism played a key role in your start as an artist. Does it feel that way to you? If so, can you talk more about the connection between the two, based on your experiences?

I would say that, as a child, my mother played the key role in my start as an artist. Our basement was set up as an arts and crafts room. She taught me and my brother to macramé, batik, how to develop film and print photos, tumble rocks, make sun prints, to spin wool and to dye it with natural dyes. We made drinking glasses from old beer bottles, she taught us how to make stained glass art, we did weavings with straws, made zoetropes and flip books and so much more. She gave me the courage to make art. She was a woman of the ‘60s and ‘70s trying to find her way during the women’s liberation movement. Watching her come to terms with what it meant to be a women had a big impact on me — so yes, feminism played a key role.

During your talk with Danielle Krysa at L.A.’s Skylight Books, I remember you mentioning that you went back to school later on in life. Was there a defining moment that inspired you to do so? Were you at all anxious or afraid – how did you deal with these feelings?

There were two defining moments. The first was divorce. For some reason, I willingly fell into the traditional role of wife and supporter of my husband’s path, putting my needs on the back burner. I did all the things I was “supposed” to do and he left me anyway. So I was like, fuck it, from now on I am going to do what I want to do, so I started taking night classes in illustration at the ArtCenter College of Design. That brings me to the second moment. My teachers Rob and Christian Clayton told me one night in class that I should quit my job and go to art school full-time. I did and here I am now.

As I recall, your inner critic is called Chad. When Chad is acting out, what do you do to quiet him down? 

I’ve banished Chad. I am tired of dudes telling me what to do.

In your interview with Robert Newman, you describe your work as “humorous and absurd and affordable.” Why is affordability key? 

When I think of the blue chip artists whose work sells for millions, it makes me crazy. I suspect most people who can afford that are buying the art for an investment and for prestige. It’s unreachable for the majority of people. I love the idea of original art in the homes of everyday people, who buy the art because it makes them feel something, not because it is a prestigious investment. Rebellion against the 1%. Maybe I am selling myself short in not charging more for my work, but I truly love knowing the people who buy my art really appreciate it and want it.

What does humor do for you as an artist? Where do you source your comedic material? 

Humor is how I survive. The source is life.

“Love Ya, Mean It” Cat (1st image) – http://cargocollective.com/martharich/100-for-100-2013

Are there any themes or subjects you love to play around with? Can you tell us why each one matters to you as an artist? 

I don’t consciously set out to play around with a theme. I have never been able to see themes until way after I have made something. It usually reflects what is happening in my life at the time. Right now, I am feeling very contrary, so that is showing itself.

What is one lesson your mom taught you that serves you to this day?

Act like you know.

I love your artist statement. Just one of several parts that stood out to me: “Sometimes I am afraid my art is corporate and bland due to fifteen years spent in cubicles.” How do you combat this way of thinking? For those who are currently in a cubicle state of mind, how would you recommend they free themselves?

I combat it with time. I have now been an artist longer than I was a cubicle-ist! The only way to combat that thinking is to make more and more and more and more until you force the corporate out of you. Get weirder and weirder and weirder.

“I am giving myself permission to make useless art.” Why is this important to you? 

This goes along with what I said above in the question about being corporate. If you are always trying really hard to make something be something useful, it’ll probably be dull.

I imagine that many (including myself) can relate to your need to please others. Yet, we rarely admit this. What made you want to include these feelings in your statement? How do you deal with this need?

It is funny — I should probably update my artist statement. Getting older really helps with lessening the people-pleasing part of life. Yes, I still do it, but it is a conscious choice. I’m not willy-nilly pleasing people all over the place. I don’t people-please to my detriment much anymore. It’s exhausting. People still like you even went you aren’t trying to please.

What are you currently working on and excited about? 

I am currently working on a book pitch of my own. I am most excited about the fact that I am about to become a first-time homeowner!!!

Do you have any advice for the women out there who dream of becoming an artist? 

By now you may have seen the vibrant artwork that accompanies each of our stories on Equality for HER. All of artwork (outside of Modern HERstory) is created by Jenn Solo. We are pleased to announce that Jenn Solo now serves as the Creative Director for Equality for HER, a role in which she supervises the artistic direction of our original content. 

Jenn Solo is an artist and illustrator who works in a variety of mediums ranging from oil paint to collage, with a large focus in digital art.  Her work spans many different styles and touches on many different subjects/themes. She has attended both the Fashion Institute of Technology and Pratt Institute and is currently a part of the New Blood Shift 2017, hosted by D&AD. She is not afraid to address social issues including race, LGBTQ and women’s rights and is passionate about making an impact with her artwork.

Equality for HER: When did you start calling yourself an artist?

Jenn Solo: I didn't start calling myself an artist until others starting viewing me as such. I have been doing art and crafting since I was old enough to use my hands. I first considered myself a hobbyist because I was only creating art for myself, but once I started sharing my work I felt more like an artist.

EFH: Are you a full time artist?

JS: Right now, I freelance but I hope to move into that role. I have a full time day job and I hope to move from being a freelancer to being a full time artist. I have so many freelance gigs that I feel like I need to make a decision. I hope that as Creative Director of Equality for HER I can start to take more steps towards my goal.

EFH: Did you formally study art?

JS: I went to FIT and Pratt Institute. I didn't necessarily go to get a degree but to develop myself as an artist by learning from skilled professionals. I was able to build relationships with other artists and it was an amazing opportunity to build my networks and abilities.

EFH: What do you like about being the Creative Director of Equality for HER?

JS: I love the fact that I get to illustrate events and things that are happening in everyday life. Words are very impactful but art cannot be ignored. I like having a role where I can help catch people's eyes and make them stop and click on the story and learn something new.

EFH: What is your artistic process?

JS: I sit with the themes and descriptions of the articles and let the images come to mind organically. Then, I draw them!

Q: What has been your biggest artistic challenge?

JS: Consistency. Inspiration. It's hard to find inspiration in everything. Even when I am in dark places in my life and making artwork feels forced it's important to keep creating. I try to stay consistent in what I produce.

by Kyia B. Young

“There’s a SECRET LANGUAGE shared among black girls

who are destined to CLIMB MOUNTAINS and CROSS RIVERS in a world

that tells us to belong to the valleys that surround us.”

Solange Knowles

Black women hold the current position as the pioneers of society. Ever since the early 2010s, when the first major social media outlets were born, a new era of black feminism took place. Social media advocacy was defined by multiple Black people speaking on behalf of our community, due to the ongoing oppression and killings of our black brothers and sisters in America. These two things alerted not only regular Black folks around the world, but ignited celebrities to use their platforms to bring awareness to our culture and its suffrage.

According to International Socialist Review, “intersectionality” is a term that was coined by Kimberle’ Crenshaw in 1989 that described “a description of the way multiple oppressions are experienced.” Crenshaw argued that many black women cannot limit black feminism to just revolving around sexism, considering that feminism, or white feminism, was established based on white, but not black women. This argument labels black women as being “invisible” to the legal system without having the rights or privileges as being a male or a white individual in today’s society.

Two modern pioneers and sisters, Beyonce’ and Solange Knowles, have recently centered their attention towards promoting black culture and feminism through their albums, Lemonade and A Seat At the Table. Both Grammy-nominated albums introduced an explanation of how it feels to be black in America, especially to those who aren’t able to understand our struggle. In addition, they also paralleled many of these songs to their personal lives, in order to help African American women overcome whatever issues they face as being a double-minority in the United States.

Lemonade by Beyonce’ Knowles-Carter

Beyonce Knowles-Carter, international pop sensation, wife, and mother, introduced the world to her problematic marriage issues and journey towards overcoming personal trials and tribulations in her sixth-studio album, Lemonade. Lemonade was a black-inspired album that represents how black women overcome their struggles dealing with personal issues involving marriage, relationships, and oppression.

Most of her songs involve her seeking a change in her marriage, starting with songs like “Don’t Hurt Yourself,” that allows black women to realize their importance regarding their spouse and infidelity issues, promoting that we have a right to relationship-liberation that popularizes our ability to survive. She also included “Freedom,” featuring Kendrick Lamar that expressed her frustrations on behalf of the #blacklivesmatter movement. “Freedom” is the main song off of the Lemonade album that represents how black Americans feel in this time of police brutality and our ongoing fear of who will be the next victim to die underneath our legal system.

Being that most of her visual album takes place in the South, we reminisce about our ancestor’s tribulating times and their need to hide their personal lives from the public. A black woman's inability to show her emotions to others stems from the angry black woman stereotype. This stereotype generally sheds a negative light on African American women and their stereotyped habit of emasculating men and deeming themselves as being too independent for a relationship. Knowles-Carter reminds black women that it’s okay to feel vulnerable in unprecedented situations and enables them to recognize that showing emotions are acceptable--no matter how much you’d be judged.

Additionally, her single, “Formation,” encompasses black pride through natural hair, black culture, southern roots including her infamous wit to controversy. The purpose of this song is to assemble black womanhood to promote resilience and resistance towards our opposition, police officers.  

A Seat at The Table by Solange Knowles

Solange Knowles, Beyonce’s sister, dedicates the full album of A Seat At The Table to the experience of being a black individual in today’s society. Solange provides a glimpse of black frustration and issues that perceives her as a voice on behalf of the black community. From “Don’t Touch My Hair” to the song, “Cranes in the Sky,” she acknowledges how unique our melanin is to others. Having always admired her talents, I’m happy that she decided to make others aware that it’s okay to not fit the “social norm” of permed, straight hair and calling to attention that kinky hair is beautiful and also that cultural appropriation is still alive and well.

Like Beyonce,’ all of Solange’s visuals promoted black culture with a double dosage of black representation in every video. Along with this representation, she exemplified the amount of diversity we have within black culture when it comes to skin color, hair textures and facial features.

This retro, R&B, pop and old school genre album allows black women to relate to Solange’s past of personal issues like having a child at a young age to overcoming grief and finding salvation towards the end. She sets the ultimate example of a true feminist and black woman in America. Solange, unlike many other popular celebrities, dedicates the majority of her career to acknowledging black importance and creativity.