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Seeing Black Male Humanity: Why 'Moonlight' Impacted Me As An Afro-Latina

My father, who is from Haiti, didn't express himself much to me growing up.

Watching Moonlight at a family-owned movie theater in New Jersey, I was in the company of my longest friend. She and I – now adults – had found new space to rebuild with each other after spending much of our youth fighting. Together we wanted to support the film, feeling tasked with the responsibility to sponsor a story of such narrative bravery. We're both passionate about our cultures, the men and women we share it with, and how the world perceives us in spite of it. The two of us often gravitate toward the underdog, almost always connecting with the proverbial “come up”—because we done came up. Not to mention, we’re also attracted to actors Mahershala Ali and Trevante Rhodes who play Juan and Chiron, respectively. With our own coming-of-age story behind us and many other serendipitous reasons propelling us forward, my longest comrade and I sat in the dark theater surrounded by people from all walks of life.

My first sexual experience was with a homosexual guy in high school. I had fallen for a boy who was struggling with sexuality and identity, while trying to love me simultaneously. He was skinny, dark and popular, and was always the center of attention. He grew up in a religious household and brought the church wherever he went. He'd often quote the Bible, too, using his signature preacher’s voice: "In the name of Jesus! I rebuke the devil!" He was in the marching band and part of the gospel choir, traveling to different churches across Tampa to perform. He was the first boy to touch me, to sing me praises and even inspire me. I was in denial and didn't want to accept what my intuition was telling me about him. Rumors started to circulate about who his new partner was—another boy who was out. When he started to ignore me, I knew it was over. He had arrived at a point in which he could no longer hide from himself or the rest of the world. Years later, while in college, I received a letter from him: a confession and an apology.

When Moonlight was over, I immediately thought of him.

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The tone of black masculine vulnerability is set from the very first scene. We watch Juan park and emerge from a blue car before he confidently walks toward another man standing at the sidewalk. Toking on a cigarette, Juan, who plays a drug dealer, arrives just as a customer and apparent drug addict is attempting to negotiate a loan. All the while, the camera is moving in circles, a reminder that there is always something happening in the backdrop. A co-dealer, who addresses Juan as “sir” and thanks him for “the opportunity.” Juan briefly asks his newly appointed employee about his mother, letting the young man know she is in his prayers. They communicate with few words and more with eye contact and body language. Much of the film moves in this cautious way, allowing the audience to be a witness of the humanity in relationships between black men.

My father, who is from Haiti, didn't express himself much to me growing up. He was a provider, and the line between adult and child was not to be crossed. He was the most colorful when with his brothers. Now that I am an adult, out in the world and taking care of myself, he has evolved into someone wanting to share things with me. There is more of an interest in who I am now versus when I was a child. Although he doesn't share the same narrative of the characters in Moonlight, the film is a poignant reminder of the tenderness my father now exercises with me.

Shortly after being introduced to Juan, enters a cute, shy and dark-skinned Chiron who must deal with being bullied everyday and going home to a mother who is almost always high (Naomi Harris as Paula). For some reason, Juan feels inclined to take him in as his own, house him from time to time, and serve as an image of influence. We don't learn much of Juan's past (just that he’s from Cuba), so there is no informing why Juan found interest in Chiron. All we know is that a man and a little boy carve out a space for each other, becoming the father-son duo they never had. Soon, we meet the various men surrounding Chiron's life, whose interactions play pivotal roles in how he transitions into a man.

Terrel (Patrick Decile), for example, is a high school bully and arguably the least likable character. He appears only for the bad things, and is always angrily looking to cause mayhem while forcing others to join him. Chiron is an easy target because he isn’t confrontational and only looks to go home unscathed. By the time we meet Terrel, we've developed a soft spot for Chiron, wanting him to be and feel loved. Apprehension develops towards Terrel and I wished for him to hurry up and disappear.

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Kevin (Jharrel Jerome) is the amiable, yet complicated cool kid who gets the girls because he talks and walks a good game. In fact, he’s so unbothered by his peers that he doesn't mind sitting alone at lunch. He befriends Chiron, still maintaining his swagger in the open. The interactions we go on to witness between Kevin and Chiron are youthful and good-natured. In one scene, for instance, Kevin instigates locker room talk after getting caught in the staircase having sex with a girl. "Why she gotta go ahead givin' a n**ga compliments and sh*t?" But then we are with them again one night at the beach, where they are soft with each other, eyes locked and embracing longer than they should. It is the first time we experience their intimacy. We see it again: two black men communicating with body language that speaks louder than words.

When Kevin betrays Chiron on school grounds at the hands of Terrel’s peer pressure, my heart shattered. I was later relieved when Chiron sought out his revenge. Even later, I was excited to see that Chiron – still a loner – grew into an aesthetically beautiful man. It was frustrating, however, to learn that his prior circumstances had eventually forced Chiron to choose a life of trapping.

It’s in the third act of the film where Kevin re-emerges, also fully-grown.

Men who better communicate with body language do not do well on the phone, so watching Kevin call to speak with Chiron for the first time in years was alluring. I found myself wanting to put words in their mouths—just tell Kevin you love him already! Chiron later takes a nine-hour drive from Atlanta to Miami to see Kevin in person.

And that vulnerable tango between them begins again: tender eye contact, soft smirks, more body language.

We learn that Kevin has a son by a woman he is no longer seeing. He’s chosen a simpler life, working as a cook at a local diner after spending time behind bars. He is happy—content. I begin to wonder what their lives would have looked like had they chosen each other, instead.

There aren't many women in the film. Early on, we meet Juan's significant other, Teresa (Janelle Monáe). Juxtaposed with Chiron's mother (Naomi Harris as Paula), the two present themselves as the good and bad of feminine energy. Their respective characters either give or take away, with Teresa always appearing to be the one who can better love and nurture Chiron. Paula, on the other hand, is only shown to us at her worst, being verbally and emotionally abusive.

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My mother, who is from Puerto Rico, sacrificed her dreams for others her entire life. Today, she has all the right ideas but lacks the focus and ambition to fulfill them. Like Chiron, my mother is the source of much of my pain and anger. But she is also the cause of my happiness and ambition. I remember her better days, when she was always center of attention, her friendliness attracting men, young and old. When she left my dad and downsized our life, I was angry at her most of the time for living the kind of life she did. I didn't understand at nine why she was partying and drinking all the time. Of course, she didn't feel like she owed me an explanation. She didn't know then that she'd begin a new life, in a new state, to sacrifice for others once more. Only this time she was giving her all to her religion.

My mother's struggle was nowhere near Paula's, but both women gave up pieces of themselves chasing a light at the end of the tunnel. The thing about staring at light for too long is that it’ll burn your eyes.

It’s no secret that the creators of Moonlight, Barry Jenkins and Tarell Alvin McCraney, built on personal accounts to tell a story that would allow us to observe a specific kind of human interaction. It was moving, and more, reminiscing of the people I've experienced life with from my youth onward. I was coincidentally watching it with someone from my past, who spilled into my present, and will optimistically be a part of my future. It reminded me of the first boy I loved, who hasn't served a purpose in my life for more than 13 years. Before I knew it, I was overwhelmed with a sense of knowing that everything that happens in our life is connected.

When my dear friend and I exited the theater, we walked out in sheer awe. Not only did we boast about the artistry and beauty of Mahershala Ali and Trevante Rhodes, we felt overjoyed and privileged to have watched a film for and by black men that was filled with such emotion. (Shouts to Joi McMillon, the first black woman editor to receive an Oscar nomination). We arrived at my apartment, bottles of wine in tow, still impressed with the weight of the film. As we went on and on about it all, we lit candles and played music. We even called our sister-friend, the link that completes our tribe, to further unpack all that we were feeling in that moment.

Moonlight gave me permission to intimately connect with others in more ways than one. —Bianca Salvant

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NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell and Jay Z at the Roc Nation and NFL Partnership Announcement at Roc Nation on August 14, 2019 in New York City.
Kevin Mazur

‘Inspire Change?’ NFL's Super Bowl PSAs Only Inspire More Skepticism

It’s been a few months into the NFL’s controversial “Inspire Change” initiative, a promotion by the league to highlight the Player’s Coalition and its work to address social issues. “Inspire Change” officially launched last year, (to “nurture and strengthen community through football and music,” said official statements) with the league’s partnership with Roc Nation expected to guide much of the outreach and voice.

"With its global reach, the National Football League has the platform and opportunity to inspire change across the country," Jay-Z said via press release back in August. "Roc Nation has shown that entertainment and enacting change are not mutually exclusive ideas -- instead, we unify them. This partnership is an opportunity to strengthen the fabric of communities across America."

The first “Inspire Change” ad featured the Botham Jean Foundation, and focused on the Jean family and their reaction to Botham’s 2018 death at the hands of Dallas police officer Amber Guyger. Jean’s murder, in which Guyger shot the 26-year-old as he sat in his apartment after saying she’d believed it was her own, drew international attention. The subsequent trial and conviction of Guyger drew derision and criticism after the former officer was sentenced to ten years (with parole eligibility in five) amidst hugs from the prosecuting judge and official statements from the family that focused on forgiveness.

“He just loved people and he was very particular about the company he kept. So I felt he was not in harm’s way,” his mother, Allison Jean, says during the video.

The NFL debuted the Jean ad online in late January to a mixed reception, and a new ad was shown during Super Bowl LIV. In the new ad, former 49ers wide receiver Anquan Boldin is heard speaking about what happened to his cousin, Corey Jones, on the night of October 18, 2015. That night, Jones was shot and killed in Florida by a plainclothes police officer as Jones was stuck on the side of the road with car trouble.

“I was still playing with the 49ers and my wife walks up after the game and told me that my cousin Corey had been killed. Corey broke down on the side of the road and a plain clothed police officer pulled up. Then this guy starts screaming. All you hear from there is three shots.”

Both ads focus on family and loss: the first clip features footage of Botham Jean’s brother hugging his convicted murderer in court as Jean’s mother and father talk about forgiveness. In the second ad, Jones’ father tearily asks “Why? Why’s my son gone today? Why?” The human toll of these crimes is front-and-center, but as far as the institutions that have created this reality for so many non-white people in America, they’re comparatively peripheral in these clips. The word “police” is never uttered, and while the tagline is “We’re all in this together,” there is nothing on screen to suggest racism is the common enemy. It’s cozy to posit that “we” are the solution, but what’s the point if I don’t have the fortitude to declare that you are the problem?

When Jay-Z’s partnership with the NFL was announced just before the start of the 2018-2019 NFL season, many saw it was a mogul putting business before social justice. After all, the league had kept Colin Kaepernick on the sidelines for three years, and Jay supposedly supported Kaep and his protest—so why get in bed with the league that had effectively blackballed the quarterback? There didn’t seem to be any benefit in Roc Nation partnering with the NFL—outside of the NFL being able to save some face after losing some fans because of the treatment of Kaepernick. Working with a mogul who, in recent years, has become a symbol of Woke™ Celebritydom, could go a long way towards softening the league’s image as one that defers to good ol’ boyism. The most skeptical saw the initiative as a chance for the NFL to score cool points while using Jay-Z’s brand to do it. And with these new ads, those cynics have been proven right.

The hope behind these ads is that they will inspire the more ambivalent or right-leaning members of the NFL’s viewing audience to take up the cause that the league itself effectively punished Colin Kaepernick for protesting. That side of the NFL’s audience has made it clear that it does not commiserate with Kaepernick or his cause, but these ads are supposed to be what sways them. These ads are supposed to start a conversation. Roc Nation also pressed NFL commissioner Roger Goodell to commit $100 million to social justice outreach, and Jay-Z has emphasized that he did not do this deal for anything other than a chance to use the platform to raise awareness on the issues.

It’s a stance that Jay has been voicing since that first announcement in August. “As long as real people are being hurt and marginalized and losing family members, then yes, I can take a couple rounds of negative press,” Jay said this week in an interview with The New York Times. He also said that he feels for what’s happened with Kaepernick (a workout this fall turned into a debacle for all parties involved), but he feels that what Roc Nation is doing is pushing things forward.

“No one is saying he hasn’t been done wrong. He was done wrong. I would understand if it was three months ago. But it was three years ago and someone needs to say, ‘What do we do now — because people are still dying?’

“We didn’t say, ‘Let’s go make some money off the N.F.L.’”

Nonetheless, the NFL’s “Inspire Change” campaign feels more like a big-budget facelift for a league that still struggles with who it is and who it wants to sell itself to; as opposed to a lucrative corporation finding its conscience. In 2016, famed director Spike Lee was hired as a “consultant” for the NYPD when the department wanted to create initiatives to “build trust with minority communities.” Roc Nation’s cosign amidst the “Inspire Change” campaign feels like a similar maneuver from the NFL. These ads stoke emotion without indictment, evoking the murders of Botham Jean and Corey Jones at the hands of police officers, but focusing on sentimentality and not how and where reformation is needed. Jay has become someone who wears his “activist celebrity” tag on his sleeve, but how do moguls truly benefit causes? From his role in Barclays Center and the gentrification that accompanied its opening, to his deal with Barneys--can he truly occupy both worlds? Jay-Z wants Roc Nation's work with the NFL to push people to act, for everyone to see themselves in these victims. But the NFL can’t soft soap this and expect anyone to take any of this seriously. You can’t truly “inspire change” with post-woke pandering—or by helping conglomerates save face.

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Shakira performs onstage during the Pepsi Super Bowl LIV Halftime Show at Hard Rock Stadium on February 02, 2020 in Miami, Florida.
Kevin Winter/Getty Images

Shakira's Cultural Homages During The Super Bowl Halftime Show Deserve A Standing Ovation

Now that the glitter and fireworks have settled in Miami after Jennifer Lopez and Shakira's Super Bowl Halftime performances, the ladies are getting their just due props for incorporating Latinx, Arabic, and black/African culture into their sets.

Shakira's homages were the most prominent Sunday (Feb. 2) with many mocking her "tongue-wagging" which was a nod to her Lebanese roots. Known as zaghrouta, the act is one of celebration and joy often done to express gleeful emotions at weddings and graduations. The 43-year-old (Sunday was her birthday) was born and raised in Barranquilla, Colombia, by her Lebanese father and Spanish/Italian mother. The singer, whose name is Arabic for "grateful," has talked about her mixed heritage and how it played a big role in her music and performances (think her iconic Bellydancing or her punk-rock era).

“I am a fusion. That’s my persona. I'm a fusion between black and white, between pop and rock, between cultures — between my Lebanese father and my mother’s Spanish blood, the Colombian folklore and Arab dance I love and American music," she told Faze Magazine in the early aughts. "I was born and raised in Colombia, but I listened to bands like Led Zeppelin, the Cure, the Police, The Beatles, and Nirvana. I was so in love with that rock sound but at the same time because my father is of 100 percent Lebanese descent, I am devoted to Arabic tastes and sounds."

 Zaghrouta was heard loud and clear during her performance of the 1998 classic “Ojos Así," which is also one of the few songs in her catalog to feature Arabic on it. She also tapped Afro-Colombian dancer Liz Dany Campo Diaz to help incorporate champeta into her performance. A dance from her hometown, the moves are traced back to African ancestors. It also has a similar groove to South African pantsula dance routines which some may remember from Beyonce's "Run the World (Girls)" music video.

Btw this dance is called Champeta and it is originated in Shakira’s hometown of Branquilla Colombia! It’s respected for its footwork and it’s an important part of Colombian culture 💃🏼 pic.twitter.com/JtcLsl9sm9

— SHAKIRABOWL2020 (@Exmotions) February 3, 2020

The singer also danced to another Afro-Colombian routine called mapalé, importantly at the start of her performance. The moves (including the beautiful sea of Afro-Latinx dancers) was a sight to see at one of the most-watched shows all over the world.

The initial eyebrow raises of a Colombian pop singer at the Super Bowl Halftime Show made sense but the singer was thoughtful in the songs she picked (her 2008 World Cup hit "Waka Waka" (This Time For Africa)" is a remake of the 1986 song "Zamina Mina" by Cameroonian makossa group Zangaléwa) and even more mindful in her riffs (she repeated with passion the "no fighting" lyric during her performance of "Hips Don't Lie"). In all, Shakira's set will be one hell of a cultural study in years to come.

Jennifer Lopez also made subtle political statements during her performance. Her set was a pleasant blend of her Vegas and "It's My Party" tour sprinkled with some of her newfound pole skills from her performance in Hustlers. Swing Latino, a competitive world-champion salsa group from Colombia returned to the stage with the singer as they previously were special guests during her "Party" tour dates. It took her On The 6 single "Let's Get Loud" to new heights as the group brought together swing dancing, a very Americana dance, and salsa on the stage.

 

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A treat for pop culture fanatics, J. Lo's five outfits were customed made by Versace which we can give a smirk to. There's also the undeniable presence of Parris Goebel, who choreographed Lopez's entire Super Bowl performance. The two met back in 2012 when Goebel worked on her world tour and the American Idol season 11 finale where Lopez sang her 2012 hit, "Dance Again."

But it was the presence of her daughter Emme Maribel Muñoz singing with her that captured the audience. What many did miss was how the 11-year-old along with other children, appeared in silver cages, pointing towards the immigration and family separation policies the country has enforced at the southern border. "Let's Get Loud" then collided with a cover of "Born In The USA" with Lopez touting a feathered American flag with the Puerto Rican flag on the other side.

 

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Emme Daddy is so proud of you. You are my ❤ and I am forever yours.

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You can't please everyone, but their performances were one of precision. The two living legends who don't need validation from anyone were in control and commanded the attention of everyone, including those who make it difficult for Latinx families to live their version of the American dream. We like to imagine that the two singers also learned from each other, especially J. Lo since some cultural stances go over her head. "Let’s show the world what two little Latin girls can do," Lopez said on Instagram before their takeover. And that's exactly what they did.

Rewatch their performances below.

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Terry Crews speaks onstage during Steven Tyler's Third Annual GRAMMY Awards Viewing Party to benefit Janie’s Fund presented by Live Nation at Raleigh Studios on January 26, 2020 in Los Angeles, California.
Anna Webber/Getty Images for Janie's Fund

Terry Crews, 'America's Got Talent' And The Conditional Solidarity Of Celebrity

Terry Crews is doing quite a spectacular job of torching any goodwill the public had toward him. The actor moved from tertiary to central figure in the ongoing controversy surrounding NBC’s popular talent show America’s Got Talent and its November firing of former co-host Gabrielle Union.

Union has stated that there was a toxic environment on set, citing the behavior of producer Simon Cowell, and an incident involving a racist joke she says was made by guest host Jay Leno and other instances where she felt AGT and NBC had not addressed racist or sexist behavior and policies on the show.

Terry Crews offered mild support for Union upon her initial firing but has drawn the ire of fans this week after he offered a less empathetic take about the situation during an interview with the Today show.

“First of all, I can’t speak for sexism because I’m not a woman, but I can speak on behalf of any racism comments. That was never my experience on America’s Got Talent,” the AGT host said. “In fact, it was the most diverse place I have ever been in my 20 years of entertainment.”

When asked if he’d spoken to Union, Crews offered, “I have reached out, but I have not heard anything.”

The online reaction was critical, with fans and pundits pointing out that Union had been one of Crews’ most vocal supporters in 2017 when the actor revealed and then testified that he’d been a victim of sexual assault by a Hollywood studio executive. With the flurry of criticism, Crews scoffed at his detractors, tweeting that there’s only one woman in his life who he works to please—his wife.

“There is only one woman on earth I have to please. Her name is Rebecca,” the 52-year-old tweeted. “Not my mother, my sister, my daughters or co-workers. I will let their husbands/ boyfriends/ partners take care of them. Rebecca gives me WINGS.”

Crews’ statements—and his nonsensical Twitter reaction to his critics—were disappointing for anyone who’d hoped Union wouldn’t be left out to dry in her fight against a very powerful corporate entity. When there was an opportunity to support a person who’d been vocal in her support of him, Crews chose to lean on his own experiences in a way that would obviously pave the way for America’s Got Talent to cast hers into dispersion. This entire debacle has been reminiscent of other high-profile instances where Black celebs offered criticism in the wake of solidarity—either focused on the comforts of celebrity or preoccupied with the trajectory of their careers.

Mo’Nique famously engaged in a feud with streaming service Netflix, after she felt the giant lowballed her in regards to a proposed stand-up special. The star had been branded “difficult” for years and she’d felt blackballed by Hollywood notables like Oprah Winfrey and Lee Daniels, whom she worked with in 2009's Precious. It was her performance in that film that landed her an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress in 2010.

When Mo’Nique appeared on Steve to discuss her proposed boycott of Netflix and the blackballing, her longtime friend Harvey chastised the Oscar-winner. “We’re fighting two wars here,” Harvey said. “There’s two wars, it’s what your issue is and is what the perception of the issue is.”

Mo’Nique’s stance was that she was fighting for equality—for women and for Black comics—in her battle with Netflix. In regards to her stance on Winfrey and Daniels, she was fighting to be paid for extensive travel and promotion. To her, this was a fight for the right to say “no” in Hollywood.

“Now, I said ‘no’ to some very powerful people...the difficulty came in when people that looked like me, like Oprah, Tyler [Perry], Lee Daniels—and I got to put my brother Steve on the list. Y’all knew that I was not wrong. Each one of you said to me, ‘Mo’Nique, you’re not wrong.’ And when I heard you go on the air and say, ‘My sister burned too many bridges, and it’s nothing I can do for her now,’ Steve, do you know how hurt I was?”

“I would have appreciated it, had my brother called me up and said, ‘let’s talk,’” she also said.

But Harvey was adamant that Mo’Nique’s wounds were self-inflicted, dismissing any notion of solidarity for what she was fighting for. Instead, he scolded her.

“This problem that you had at Netflix are rich people problems,” Harvey told her. “Because they’re looking at us saying, ‘you’re talking about millions, well, you got this, so you oughta be cool.'”

“I felt you had done yourself a disservice by the way you chose to go about it. When you tell the truth, you have to deal with the repercussions of the truth. We black out here. We can’t come out here and do it any kind of way we want to.”

“Black people can’t do that” was always poor logic for not standing up for oneself, and Harvey’s take on Mo’Nique may have been more egregiously condescending than Crews and Union but it also reveals how “my career” can trump “you were right” when it’s time to show solidarity. It’s also important to understand that you can’t only see “the problem” via your own “experiences”—what you’ve experienced isn’t the sum total of what goes on. And waiting until the wackness affects you will have you dismissing the oppression of those who may not be in your position.

Five years ago, rapper A$AP Rocky was at the center of a firestorm after he dismissed the idea of rapping about the 2014 killing of 17-year-old Mike Brown in Ferguson, Md., at the hands of police officer Darren Wilson. The incident sparked weeks of unrest, as citizens gathered to protest police violence against Black communities, with artists like J. Cole and Talib Kweli offering support.

“Why would I feel compelled to rap about Ferguson?” Rocky said at the time during an interview with TimeOut New York. “I’m not about to say that I was down there throwing rocks at motherfuckers, getting pepper-sprayed. I’d be lying…I live in fucking Soho and Beverly Hills. I can’t relate.”

When Rocky found himself imprisoned in Sweden in 2019 for assault, the rapper’s old interview came back to haunt him. Many of his peers called for his release and railed against what they felt was a racist overreaction as Rocky faced up to six years in prison for what was essentially a fight. As his supporters pleaded his case, many online called back to Rocky’s dismissiveness when he was asked to offer support for the protests in Ferguson.

In an early January sitdown with Kerwin Frost, Rocky offered an explanation for his words in 2015. “In those old interviews, I used to say ‘I think it’s inappropriate for me to rap about things I didn’t help with… I felt like when it came to Ferguson, J. Cole went down there and he actually was on the news and he helped. I felt like he deserved to rap about it. So when someone [asked] me that in 2015 I’m like: ‘I just feel, personally, if I’m in SoHo or I’m here I can’t even talk on that’… That’s appropriating.

“It’s not sincere. It’s pretentious.”

Black voices can often be scorned when they’re facing off against powerful gatekeepers; that those in positions to amplify those voices can so often decide to take the more “practical” route of undermining or outright dismissing those voices in the most public forums is just evidence of how much the upward mobility of the individual can blind them to the bigger picture. When Rocky had to deal with what it meant to face law enforcement while young and Black, when Terry Crews had to stare down a powerful Hollywood entity who’d wronged him—they fully understood what oppression can feel like. When Steve Harvey finger-wagged Mo’Nique on a high-profile platform, he did so acknowledging the sliding scale that Black people face. Supporting each other when “that’s not my experience” means not undermining the fight against powers-that-be. Because being able to retreat “my experiences” is the greatest privilege. Hopefully, someone will remind Terry Crews.

Editor's Note: Terry Crews has tweeted an apology to Gabrielle Union saying, "I want you to know it was never my intention to invalidate your experience— but that is what I did. I apologize."

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