Our Black Power forebears were anti-consumerist, grounded in socialist and Marxist theory. Today, activism is seen by many as a legitimate hustle through which to “get your coin.” On top of this, we buy products and “lifestyles” that demonstrate our wokeness; we are persuaded that we can “shop ourselves free.”
Thus, today’s protestations remain largely devoid of any analysis of capitalism. The fact that most forms of inequality find their origins in the neoliberal logic underpinning the industries and institutions in which we want to be represented is largely ignored. Black Power activists, on the other hand, believed that liberation for the black masses and the marginalized, poor, and oppressed more generally could never be achieved through the existence of a small elite or the presence of a few “exceptional Negroes” taking up space in the very institutions that perpetuate exploitation or the corporations that lobby for the policies that legislate against the interests of minorities and the poor. Representations employed in the service of providing a humanizing facade to authoritarianism or a veneer of kindness to capitalism are not only counterproductive—they are counter-revolutionary. Organizers such as Fred Hampton and Stokely Carmichael theorized from a position of exclusion, using their liminality to challenge the moral and ethical legitimacy of the society that oppressed them. They inhabited the “angry, disreputable places” that Paul Gilroy reminds us remain crucial so that “the political interests of racialized minorities might be identified and worked upon without being encumbered by an affected liberal innocence.”32 It is difficult to see the parallels between such an approach and conversations today that frequently conflate activism and involvement in “the struggle” with diverse representation in the corporate, glossy world of advertising campaigns for brands owned by multinationals.
The natural-hair movement that emerged from this earlier intellectual and political space sought to avoid artificial manipulation of hair as a rejection of consumerism. Today’s natural-hair movement has been born out of a different cultural moment: a renewed confidence in our own worth driven in many ways by the revolution in social media. Today we are product-obsessed, and a lot of them are expensive products. “Natural” products, usually paraben- and sulphate-free, and which claim to use only organic materials, are pricey and often marketed as high-end luxury goods.
In contrast to the picked-out ’fro that reigned supreme in the late 1960s and early ’70s, the emphasis today is much more on stretching, making the hair look long and achieving a twisted-out, soft, curly look, one that conforms to a type of femininity more in line with European beauty standards. While the dominance of straight hair might have been pronounced for decades now, the boundaries have recently expanded to include curly-haired girls: “if it’s going to be curly then it has to be the white kind of curly, loose curls or, at worst, spiral curls, but never kinky.”33
The internet, in its thirst for endless content, has contributed to the creation of a historically unique moment in which there is a continuously eroded distinction between private and public. Identities—particularly traditionally marginalized and intersectional ones—have become their own lucrative form of cultural capital. Much like the Revue Nègre in Paris in the 1920s, blackness is “in” and—in addition to the almost guaranteed vitriolic backlash—there exists a whole system of benefits and rewards acquired for speaking publicly about pain resulting from racism, sexism, homophobia, or transphobia. As the acerbically sharp Instagrammer Jill Louise Busby (formerlay Jill is Black) summed it up, “trauma is trending.”
In this context it can be easy to confuse representation with liberation. But speaking about pain is not the same as dismantling the power structures that create that pain. Seeing our images reflected back to us in advertising campaigns for institutions or brands that further entrench those systems is certainly not freedom. I have this sneaking suspicion that our kin didn’t endure what they did so that we could wear THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE T-shirts produced by sweatshop slaves. We have to dream bigger than brand inclusivity as an end goal. Market research has recognized that the general market is becoming increasingly diverse and that ethical insights are invaluable in terms of creating an authentic message. Sundial Brands, the home of Nubian Heritage, Shea Moisture,* and the relaunched Madam Walker, were pioneers in coining the new general market concept about ten years ago.
Diversity is the default today, not the exception. Minorities are already the majority in most large cities . . . Tony Bartell, former COO of GameStop, describes the New General Market as inherently social, mobile, and disproportionately influential. They are diverse and urban; they value authenticity, creativity, and community.
Advertising stereotypes is cancerous for a brand. Failure to acknowledge social commentary and cultural norms appears insensitive.
A committed group of brand advocates are your best brand influencers. What people buy is more and more indicative of who they are.
There is the illusion of subversion, or the newly popularized “disruption,” as part of a “woke” lifestyle that one can now buy into.
But “subversion” in the service of oppressive power systems and exploitative practices is not subversion, ya dig? As Susan Bordo explains, “Subversion is contextual, historical, and above all social. No matter how exciting the ‘destabilizing’ potential of texts, bodily or otherwise, whether those texts are subversive or recuperative, or both or neither, cannot be determined by abstraction from actual social practice.”34
Revolutionary symbolism emptied of all its revolutionary meaning is appropriated by companies whose social practice is about wealth accumulation. This defanged symbolism is then sold back to us as evidence of progress. Businesses now know what the new general market demands to see. Yet they still so often get it wrong—“coolest monkey in the jungle,” anyone? Much like an automaton attempting to express emotion, this diversity is still only performative. There is no substance. Like the tin man, it has no heart. When the agents of these processes are black themselves, they are even more seductive and thus even more pernicious. UCLA professor of American history Robin Kelley cautions about the black face of authoritarianism and the “rise of a black political class that serve as junior partners in forms of authoritarian governance” 35 yet at the same time are held up as evidence that things are getting better, because hey, look: diversity. I reiterate: all skinfolk are not kinfolk.
Personal success stories are not necessarily transformative for the group. More often they are merely reflective of one particular individual’s aptitude at calculating a way to thrive under capitalism. Usually these individuals are the exceptions, and they often operate from a position of structural advantage vis-à-vis “ordinary blacks,” an advantage that is likely to have emerged from a social, cultural, or aesthetic proximity to whiteness (although, of course, not always; sometimes sheer ruthlessness can be sufficient).
In Style and Status, Susannah Walker notes a March 1994 fashion editorial entitled “Free Angela: Actress Cynda Williams as Angela Davis, a Fashion Revolutionary” that appeared in the urban entertainment magazine Vibe. In a response that would be unlikely today, the iconic activist Davis penned an essay, “Afro Images: Politics, Fashion, and Nostalgia.”36 Davis argued that reproducing the photographic images from her high-profile court case in the service of consumerism was incongruous with everything she stood for and represented. It was the “most blatant example of the way the particular history of my legal case is emptied of all content so that it can serve as a commodified backdrop for advertising.”