The Case of Rachel Dolezal

The controversial case of Rachel Dolezal continues to fascinate and to challenge many of our ideas and misconceptions concerning race and the cultural construction of identity. 

Ms Dolezal, according to her parents, is a white woman of predominantly European descent who has been wilfully misrepresenting and disguising herself as an African American in order to advance her career and rise to a position of prominence within the black community. For not only did she become a university professor of African studies, specialising in the intersection of gender, race and class, but also president of her local NAACP.  

To be fair, Dolezal grew up in a family with adopted black siblings and attended a school in Mississippi where most of her friends and fellow pupils were black. She also married (and subsequently divorced) a black man with whom she has a child. But, of course, none of this serves to make her African American - anymore than does the deep-tanned skin, the clothing, the jewellery, or the make-up and hairstyling. Biologically speaking, she remains what she has always been: a white woman.

But since when has race ever simply been a question of biology? 

Thus, I have to admit I'm sympathetic to Dolezal and know precisely what she means when she suggests that her case is far more complex and multi-layered than many of her critics (or her parents) understand or wish to concede. This includes, for example, that great paragon of sensitive and sophisticated commentary, Piers Morgan, who brands Dolezal a lying, deluded idiot and is clearly outraged by the thought that race might be reconfigured as a question of style rather than blood and the fear that other essential binaries might in this manner also be problematized.

For Morgan - and he explicitly says as much - race is an either/or issue: you're either black or you're white. And Dolezal is 100% white by birth and breeding and can never be anything but white. Morgan thus brands her carefully crafted and performed identity fraudulent and a mockery; akin to wearing blackface. It would be laughable, he says, were it not so serious, concluding that Dolezal has "committed an appalling act of deception that deserves every heap of abuse now raining down on her head".

Of course, what those such as Morgan really wish us to understand is not that Dolezal is who and what she is no matter what she does, but that we are all born into fixed and fatal identities, regardless of what we learn, accomplish, or become in later life. And this would even include Barack Obama: he might be living in the White House and be the son of a white mother, but, according to those for whom race is an all-determining absolute, he remains a nigger for all eternity.     

In other words, racism begins and ends with a form of death sentence; the belief that colour is so much more than merely skin-deep and blackness entirely unrelated to artifice. 

     

Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay!

Lottie Collins                                               Tara King

Steed's exclamation of pervy joy when he discovers that he has been assigned Agent 69 as his youthful new partner - Ra-boom-de-ay! - is perfectly understandable, as, despite her critics, Miss King, played by the very lovely Linda Thorson, brings a fresh and flirtatious new dynamic to The Avengers. 

She's no Mrs. Peel - but then, who is?

However, it's not the female characters in a sixties spy-fi that I wish to discuss here, but rather the old music hall song to which Steed gives reference when playing on the name Tara.

Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay is one of those silly songs with a long history and an amazing cultural resonance which continues to this day. Although first publicly performed in the American vaudeville show Tuxedo in 1891, the song became widely known in the version sung by Lottie Collins, star of the London music halls, the following year.

Having gained rights to perform the song in England, Collins commissioned new lyrics, a new arrangement, and - crucially - added a dance routine. According to contemporary reviews, she delivered the suggestive verses with deceptive demureness, before launching with real gusto into the bawdy refrain and her celebrated kick dance - an idiosyncratic and rather bizarre version of the cancan. It caused a huge sensation and immediately became her signature tune. 

Personally, however, the version of this song I find most interesting is the one given us by Malcolm McLaren and the Bootzilla Orchestra in 1989, retitled as Waltz Darling and re-imagined in the context of the dance craze known as voguing. 

McLaren's version rather nicely returns the song to its black origins; origins which are often not known or simply not cared about. For Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay doesn't ultimately have its roots in London's music halls, but in a 19th century nightclub-cum-brothel run by Babe Connors in St. Louis, Missouri. And the song belongs as much to Mama Lou, as it does to Lottie Collins.

Note: those interested in viewing McLaren's video for Waltz Darling should click here.

In Defence of Giant Lovers

The Meeting Place (detail) by Paul Day 

POV shot by Stephen Alexander

Whilst I wouldn't say I'm a fan, I certainly admire much of Antony Gormley's sculptural work and share many of his criticisms and concerns to do with public art. 

I think he's right, for example, to argue that many pieces unimaginatively plonked down in our airports, stations, and city centres lack ambition or challenge and fail to address the question of what role statues might play in the 21st century. 

However, I'm disappointed to discover that he seems to particularly despise Paul Day's giant brass figure of two lovers embracing at St Pancras International Station, as I quite like it. The Meeting Place might be crude and ill-proportioned - might, in a word used by Gormley, even be described as crap - but it can still excite fetishistically, even if it fails aesthetically.

For not only does the female figure have very lovely calves and ankles, given emphasis by her high-heeled shoes and tip-toe posture, but she also invites an upskirt peek (although, alas, there's nothing to see). 

And then there's the fact that she's thirty-feet tall, which surely brings out the macrophile in many a man. I don't know why it is that giant women - or, more precisely, the thought of being crushed beneath their feet - is so ingrained within the pornographic imagination, but so it is and Day's sculpture obscenely exploits this fact (whether or not he consciously intended to do so).

So, to conclude, we might say this: that whilst The Angel of the North artistically intrigues as an erection, it doesn't solicit an erection; it makes one wonder, but it doesn't make one want to perv.     

     

On Lenny Henry's Knighthood

Photo of Lenny Henry taken in the 1970s by Graham Gough

See: The Black Country Album, (The History Press, 2012)

Comedian, actor, and all-round good egg Lenny Henry is to receive a knighthood from the Queen and he's clearly thrilled and delighted by the fact, describing how receiving word of it left him feeling as if he had been filled with lemonade.

On the one hand, I'm pleased that he's so chuffed and that his family and friends are proud of him. But on the other hand, I'm disappointed that this highly intelligent man - who is clearly sensitive to the politics of class and race - doesn't seem to have any qualms or reservations about accepting such a dubious honour and thereby lending his support to a system of privilege and patronage. 

Still apparently troubled by his experience as a teenage performer on The Black and White Minstrel Show in the 1970s, one worries that his acceptance on bended-knee of this hugely symbolic award will also retrospectively cause him shame and embarrassment and attract further criticism from more radical members of the black community.

Personally, I have the greatest respect for those individuals - whatever their ethnicity or social background - who, when offered the royal seal of approval and a place within the Established Order, have the integrity to refuse. Revolution always begins with the word No.

Lost in Democracy [A Letter from Greece] - A Guest Post by Maria Thanassa

In June 2013, the then Greek government unilaterally decided to shut down and dissolve the state broadcasting corporation (ERT). No prior public or parliamentary debate on the matter took place, nor was there any consultation with the staff.

The move was partly the result of adherence to the austerity measures imposed (demanding the sacking of some 15,000 state employees) and partly an attempt to end years of state media extravagance. The aim was to eventually re-launch the corporation as a smaller, independent broadcaster whose workings would be more transparent and thus open to much greater scrutiny.

At the time, the closure caused widespread anger and condemnation - viewed as it was as a blow to democracy and an assault upon freedom of expression. But now, two years later and the national TV channel has returned triumphantly to the airwaves.

And yet, when Syriza hail this resurrection of ERT from the electronic ashes as a victory of the people, one cannot help feeling rather nauseous. Especially when - despite its makeover - it's essentially the same corporation that, in the past, was associated with cronyism, corruption, and the squandering of public funds (not to mention dull programming).  

Of course, the past doesn't necessarily determine the future. And maybe it would be wise to defer criticism. But, I have to say, it really does stick in my craw when far-left populists portray themselves as the true defenders of democracy and implicitly characterize any who would challenge their authority as the reactionary enemies of freedom.


Athens-born Maria Thanassa is a teacher of Greek language, literature, and film. She has a Ph. D. from Kings College London and is the founder and director of EKON Arts. She also writes a blog that combines her love of baking, photography, and poetry. Readers who wish to visit Moonshine and Lemon can do so by clicking here.

Maria appears here as part of the Torpedo the Ark Gastautoren Programm and I am very grateful for her contribution and, indeed, for all her help and technical support with this blog. 

The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle

And so Malcolm is revealed to have been deadly accurate in his characterization: Johnny Rotten is the Collaborator, happy to be pimped by Richard Branson and to whore first for Virgin Records and now for Virgin Money. 

Of course, deep down, we knew all along Rotten couldn't be trusted and the evidence has been steadily accumulating over the years. Thus what really interests is what Jamie Reid thinks of his still very powerful designs being used on the newly issued credit cards.

Is this, for Reid, the further continuation of the Swindle: one final attempt to slay the innocence and naivety of fans who so desperately want to believe in the integrity of their rock 'n' roll idols; one last lesson in how music makes you waste your time, your energy and ideas, and indeed what little money you may possess?

Perhaps. And it would be some comfort to think so. But probably Reid has no control over the use made of these images and he can only laugh (or cry) like the rest of us.

Carri on Sex Pistols ...

On the Japanese Love of Cuteness

Is there an important difference within Japanese language and culture between moe and kawaii? Does the former, for example, serve to describe what is emotionally experienced by a subject about objects designated as belonging to the latter as an aesthetic category?

Maybe this distinction could be drawn, but it seems to me that the two terms have become virtually synonymous; for that which is felt to be adorable in Japan is invariably cute, just as those things regarded as sweetly endearing invariably solicit feelings of powerful affection amongst dedicated fans and followers.

These feelings can, of course, become eroticised, but an explicit sexual element is not usually key; the relationship established with the (often fictional, not always human) object that one finds too darling for words, is romantic, ideal, and disneyfied rather than obscene or pornographic.

Having said that, there's obviously a fetishistic aspect to moe and one can't ignore the fact that the figure of the doe-eyed, nubile young girl is central within this genre. One might describe devotees of cuteness as bambisexuals who are more interested in imaginary petting and fantasy perving, rather than the actual penetration of bodies or committing sexual crimes involving real children or live animals.

Whatever we might think of this phenomenon, the fact is that kawaii is increasingly accepted in Japan as part of their culture and national identity; one that incorporates older elements of beauty, refinement, magic and myth into an aesthetic and a sensibility that is playful and postmodern in character.

And, ultimately, cuteness surely has to be preferable to the cruelty and asceticism that characterized imperial Japanese society; given the choice, I prefer Hello Kitty and Harajuku fashion over the way of the warrior. 
  

Masterchimp

Photo from PetsLady.com

In news that must surely delight Karl Pilkington, it's been announced by researchers that chimps possess the intelligence and the skills to cook and that, if given the choice, much prefer roasted veg and baked potatoes over raw food - even if they have to wait for their meals and thus defer gratification. Sadly, what they don't have is the secret of fire.

Such findings suggest that early humans or ape-men may have developed a taste for grilled meat much earlier in their evolution than was previously thought, thereby shifting the timeline for one of the crucial developments in human history - barbecuing. 

The transition from a world of raw food to one in which cooking became standard practice, is widely regarded as important because it allowed human beings to expand their diet and increase population size. It also allowed them to significantly reduce the time previously spent foraging for fruit and nuts and edible plants and thus be free to do other things; to daydream and exchange ideas, for example, or to invent new technologies, thereby enlarging brains and stimulating the development of mind.  

What I find particularly pleasing about this story, however, is that it further challenges notions of human uniqueness. Most gratifying of all is that it's one in the eye of those idiots on Masterchef who really think that what they are doing is so fucking exceptional. Now we know that, given a little encouragement, even a monkey can turn the oven on and serve up dinner on a plate!

Note:

Those interested in the research by Felix Warneken and Alexandra G. Rosati on the cognitive capacities for cooking in chimpanzees should see the June 2015 edition of the Proceedings of the Royal Society B (Volume 202, Issue 1809): click here.

     

Omorashi

Kairi Omorashi by HarukoOmo 
deviantart.com

I suppose most of us have experienced the mildly perverse pleasure of a full-bladder and its eventual release, or felt a gently sadistic joy at witnessing a loved one's discomfort when they desperately want to piss in a public space, but are denied the opportunity to do so (the thought that they just might not make it home amusing and arousing in equal measure).  

But only the Japanese have given this variant form of urolagnia a specific name - omorashi - and have not only developed it as αn idea within the pornographic imagination, but built a fetishistic subculture upon it, thereby allowing like-minded individuals who delight in bladder desperation and panty wetting to exchange stories and images and to meet up if so desired. 

It should be noted, however, that for most devotees of omorashi an exchange of bodily fluids is not desired; they neither wish to piss on others, nor be pissed on by them. Nor do they want to see naked organs in close-up action, or hope that things might develop in an overtly sexual manner. 

For the obsession is ultimately with clothed incontinence and omorashi videos tend to focus on the garments worn by the participants; these invariably include schoolgirl uniforms, but films with women dressed as business professionals - looking dignified and in control, before shamefully succumbing to the need to urinate - are also very popular with certain male viewers. 

Now, whilst we might legitimately have concerns with some of the dubious sexual politics played out within the world of omorashi, it is, I think, relatively harmless and is frequently looked down on as too tame by hardcore fetishists for whom watersports involves far more edgy and unsettling elements. 

However, under current UK legislation I wouldn't be at all surprised to find that even omorashi is categorised as a form of extreme pornography and that peeing your pants has thus been made into a criminal offence!

Note: thanks to political writer and researcher - and defender of civil liberties - Nick Cowen, for his kind advice on this post.

Of Birds and Blondes (and One Fat Film Director)

 

The recent spate of attacks by crows on young blonde women jogging in a South London park, has once again highlighted the fascinating relationship - marked by corvid animosity - between a highly intelligent species of bird and a type of human being often unfairly portrayed as attractive and fun-loving, but not so smart.

Predictably, but, in this case, quite legitimately, the news media that covered this story all made reference to Hitchcock's 1963 classic, The Birds, a film loosely based on Daphne Du Maurier's short novel of the same name and deeply ingrained in our cinematic memory and cultural imagination. 

Of course, the events in Eltham Park don't quite match the full horror of what unfolds in Bodega Bay, but it's always perversely pleasing to recall Tippi Hedren making her film debut and being pecked to pieces for the sadistic pleasure of director and audience alike. 

Hedren, a former fashion model, was one of a number of so-called Hitchcock blondes, famed for their ice-cold innocence and Nordic beauty. When asked why he preferred to cast such women in lead roles, Hitchcock replied in a somewhat creepy manner that it was because bloody footprints are best seen against virgin snow.

Hedren portrayed the character of Melanie Daniels to perfection and Hitchcock was full of praise for his new protégé and plaything, noting her slightly glib humour and jaunty confidence, her sharpness of expression and attractive throw of the head. 

As for the actress, she initially found everything on set fascinating and wonderful. But she would later describe the week spent filming the final frenzied attack scene as the worst of her life. 

Before shooting, Hitchcock had assured her that only mechanical birds would be used. Hedren found herself, however, in a tiny bedroom having prop men in thick protective clothing fling dozens of live gulls and crows directly at her. Admittedly, their beaks were held shut with rubber bands, but their wings and feet were free to beat and to scratch. When one of the birds gouged her cheek, narrowly missing an eye, Hedren understandably burst into tears and collapsed, dizzy with fear and exhaustion. 

When a doctor recommended that she be given a week to rest and recover, Hitchcock protested. Angered and outraged by this, her physician was moved to ask whether the director wanted to kill his leading lady. Hitchcock's silent response to this is, I suppose, open to interpretation. But what is for sure, is that Hitchcock certainly wanted to possess and intimidate Hedren and ultimately the real horror of this tale lies in the abuse of a young woman by a fat man with power, not by a few angry birds.


Note: thanks to Maria Thanassa for bringing the story of the crow attacks in Eltham Park to my attention and suggesting that it might make the basis for an interesting post on this blog.