i prefer your love

I didn’t even tune in to the Golden Globes tonight. Typically, I’m one of those twenty-somethings who gets starry-eyed over spangly dresses and jewelry I’ll only wear in my dreams feverishly had in the hours I manage to squeeze in between working two jobs to pay back my student loans. Tonight, I chose to make homemade pizza. But now, I find myself struggling to remember I even made the pizza because of the reason I didn’t watch the Golden Globes—Lupita Nyong’o didn’t win her award. Jennifer Lawrence did. Congratulations, J. Law.

I have to admit, I didn’t bother seeing American Hustle, largely because I can’t afford a movie ticket, but also because I’ve seen this story of secrets and lies and debauchery involving drugs and politicians in the 1970s a million fucking times. I’ve seen Boogie Nights, The Godfather, Goodfellas, Scarface. We get it. Corruption makes money. However, when it comes to a different kind of corruption that ran rampant throughout the earliest days of American history, it’s conveniently ignored or glossed over, very few dollars are made and, more importantly, little awareness is raised. Until 2013 when Steve McQueen released a little piece called 12 Years a Slave.

Being a recent recipient of an undergraduate history degree and having focused primarily on American and African American history, the advertisements alone for 12 Years almost brought me to tears. Finally, finally! another story about the struggle of African Americans during slavery—surprise, surprise, one of the main reasons, in my humble post-undergrad opinion, this country and most countries even exists—was being told. Ah, but what’s this? Solomon Northup was a free man tricked, drugged, and sold into slavery? And even further, Solomon worked with a woman named Patsey who was involved in a desperately horrific sexual relationship with her master? Previous attempts to moviefy African American history (most notably Amistad and Beloved) had failed miserably in the money-making = successful film category. Maybe this story would have a different outcome. 

But hey, where are the drugs and politicians?

I think what really gets my goat about this is not that Jennifer Lawrence didn’t deserve to win—like I said, I didn’t see American Hustle—however, it baffles me that this country would prefer to dim the lights on the most paramount aspect of its founding and success—even the horrible parts—and instead would rather focus and produce yet another fucking movie all about sex, drugs, and lies in the 1970s featuring awful hair, giant moustaches, and way more mustard-hued clothes than any person should have to suffer through.

I also can’t comprehend the fervent denial surrounding the illicit, typically abusive, relationships involving white masters and their black slaves. What Lupita Nyong’o portrayed was not simply a racy love affair with a married man. It entailed rape, horrific abuse, and her character’s desire to take her own life just to escape this man. And the worst part about it? It actually happened. Please don’t forget that 12 Years a Slave is based on a true story. Patsey existed. This story isn’t just a glamourized Hollywood, star-studded affair, it was her life.

There was an interview with Alfre Woodard, a costar in 12 Years about what would happen to Lupita after the awards circuit: would she have a similar fate to Jennifer Lawrence’s? Clearly not as Lupita chose a role that was stunningly controversial, never told before, and heartbreaking to watch. Sure, Jennifer Lawrence did a similar thing with last year’s Silver Linings Playbook, but no one can deny that this country still hasn’t figured out how to deal with race relations. Guess what, Africans have been in this country since the earliest fragments of the fifteenth century—we’re talkin’ Christopher Columbus times here—and people still feel the need to whisper “You know Tom, he’s black,” when describing a coworker. You’re more likely to hear from someone “No, no! I have black friends! I have black friends!” to prove their good-natured human being-ness rather than “I’m so inclusive! My friend Diane is bipolar!” Being black in the United States is still taboo even in this, the year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Fourteen.

Trust me, being a white girl who studies African American history has often kept me up at night. Should I be studying this? Do I have any right to study this? Who knows? I surely don’t. But I do know that I’m tired of good, important stories being ignored because it deals with black people or with slavery. I read in an article by Lonnie G. Bunch III, the founding director of the currently under-construction National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington, DC that you can learn a lot about a country by what it focuses on in its museums and history books, but that you can learn even more about that same country from what they choose to leave out.

Drug cartels, crooked politicians, the 1970s, and that decade’s horrible hair are all aspects of our history that we’ve grown comfortable with. It’s almost commonplace now to see a featurette on the History Channel—which very rarely deals with actual history, mind you—outlining the lives, loves, and drug of choice of America’s most notorious mobsters, gang members, or politicians, etc. It’s practically at suitable dinner table discussion levels of comfort. Trust me, I’d much rather put up with my 18 year old brother belching at the table than have to listen to another relative explain to me Obamacare and What It Means For Me™ for the umpteenth time.

me:

fare thee well (dink’s song)- oscar isaac, off the inside llewyn davis soundtrack