Whose Afraid of Post Blackness?: Has the Fat Lady Finally Sang on Old Definitions of Blackness?

Recently I began reading Toure's book, Whose Afraid of Post Blackness. In this book the term post-blackness is kicked around by a host of black artists and scholars.  I haven't completed the book yet, but so far it identifies post-blackness  as the ability to view blackness as a significant part of who we are but not as the whole of what we are.  I realize that a definition such as this is a slippery slope because there is always the risk of being placed under the same scrutiny as  Tiger Woods and even Clarence Thomas for that matter. Despite its dangers however, I must still confess that the definition of post-blackness has forced its way into my line of sight.  It's probably because I have always found myself being the oddball, doing oddball things like, snowboarding, listening to rock music and jumping out of airplanes.  People like +Aisha Tyler with her podcast "Girl on Guy" where I learned of Toure's book have given me the perspective that it might indeed be possible that all of the fighting that blacks have done throughout history to gain freedom may have given us a freedom that we did not expect; self-expression.

In 2007 I attended an event produced and hosted by my wife called Opera Noire.  As the name suggests, it was an event that featured an all black ensemble of classically trained, professional opera singers. In hindsight, this concert was a vivid example of the clash between post-blackness as defined by the artists and scholars in Toure's book and the blackness defined by the civil rights era.  A room full of black people of various economic and class statuses assembled together for various reasons this night.  Some were obvious opera enthusiasts identified by their postures, seating and overall proud-ish demeanor during the performances and even during intermission in the way the mingled, chatted and sipped glasses of wine.  Others were of a different ilk, possibly sharing the same economic status, but aggressively leaning toward a more ethnic influenced standard of music such as jazz, R&B via Motown and gospel via Mahalia Jackson.  And then there were those who were not really interested but maybe a little curious and proud to be among a group of black people that appreciated a tradition of music that demanded that that they look their best.  I found out shortly enough though, that no matter how much our  diverse groups seem to blend together, we can always find a way to distinguish ourselves from one another in the end.

It started with the first diva among divas.  She was a buxom dark-skinned woman with a voice as soft and as full as mink.  Since I'm not into opera so much, I will not confess to knowing her name. But I do remember her voice, which added theatrics without the need of physical gestures. She brought a drama to the stage that astounded those who did not know what to expect and pleasure to those that were expecting that which made them love opera in the first place.  She gave a stirring performance that caused a standing ovation, which splintered off into a black fork in the road of Hammerstein Ballroom, divided by the pleasantly surprised and the appreciatively awed.  Many of the former stood because it seemed the right thing to do.  This group seemed to be the novice opera goers who in spite of rarely if ever witnessing this art form could not deny its power.  But I would dare to say that it was the instrument of this power, a black goddess that made it real to them.  The other prong of the utensil that fed this artist's ego was the high cultured black folks who needed for this performance to be exactly what it was; astounding, to reconcile what their presence at this event demanded; bona fide proof that the opera diva could definitely be found in Brooklyn, Chicago, Newark or Atlanta. This part of the crowd showed off their approval with loud Bravos! And other Italian praises that only high cultured folks at an opera would yell.  And even though the respectful crowd silently frowned at this, both sides seemed united for the duration of this rousing round of applause.

Then something interesting happened.  There was a last minute change on the playbill.  One the headliners whose name again escapes me, could not make it.  A woman whom I had not heard of came to the stage who certain members of the non-opera crowd seemed to know. The moment she opened her mouth to sing this was confirmed because they began as if in a collective sigh of relief to smile and cheer.  She sang a traditional gospel song that was equally as theatrical and proceeded to redefine the word diva for those of the opera persuasion. Her voice was an aggressive roar in comparison the subtle one that preceded it, but the power that each of these feminine voices held should not have been compared because this woman showed everyone who witnessed that comparisons were irrelevant.  All that mattered were the ghosts she released that whispered history into the souls of the listeners that night and reminded them why they had come to this event in the first place.  They might not have known it but they were in search of answers. They were in search of some sort of perspective on our enigmatic existence on this planet.  What they got was answers in both French and southern fried English.  She ended in gospel music's dramatic fashion with a loud yet controlled soulful wail and the crowd leapt out of its seats again.  This time the roles of the prongs in this fork in the road were changed.  The proud, high cultured folk became reserved, forced into a place that did not allow them to forget their roots and smile while they clapped enthusiastically enough to show their pride and not wrinkle their clothing, while the once respectful crowd suddenly unleashed a passionate gushing of gratitude for their singer for bringing them back home again from far away France to North Carolina and Georgia.  They clapped until their hands burned, mockingly yelling Bravo! Bravo! 

My first thought although I might not have been aware of it at the time, was that this event was symbolic of the large amount of distance we have to cover before the psychoses created by slavery and Jim Crow will come anywhere close to an end.  But after reading some of Toure's book, I realize that we may be closer than I thought. Yes, I did see a distinct divide between the proud black folk on both sides of the spectrum who have either assimilated into the culture of this country or chosen a path that seems to go in the opposite direction. But what is most important is that these groups have actually chosen paths that were not aggressively imposed on them by mainstream culture.  The snake that mingles in the grass of each of these group's collective gardens is the pressure that the groups themselves put on their members to assimilate.  

One poignant example of this phenomenon is in Daniel Beaty’s poem Nerd vs. Nigga.  www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vbp6RvAY3MI In his monologue Beaty takes on the personae of the nerd, an upstanding, status seeking, Ivy League graduate who at times comes into direct conflict with his nemesis the nigga, whose mission is to constantly remind the nerd that even though he is a smart talking, suit wearing, Ivy League boy, “his father still smokes heroine” and his brother is still on crack”.  In essence, it would seem that the members of the Opera Noire crowd also represented this conflict.  The gospel crowd who mockingly yelled bravo definitely were intent on letting the opera lovers know that no matter how much they love and even sing opera, they also even sometimes reluctantly so, belong to a peer group that still boldly worships Jesus as well as other tropes that are un-mistakenly considered black.  In this case however, amens were replaced with bravos.  So where does this leave us? Where do we go from here? Is post-blackness the answer to our post Jim Crow trauma, which is acknowledged by some but, denied by others?  I guess I'll have to read the rest of the book to find out. No spoilers please!