[img]139|left|Jessica Gadsden||no_popup[/img]My hackles rose when I forgot my iPod. I hate listening to the car radio – especially on a Saturday. There have to be some choices between the poor reception of shouting heads – screaming about socialism on AM, and pop music – which all seems to be variations on the theme of Lady Gaga on FM.
On my desperate ride down the 405 Freeway to breakfast with friends, I toggled between “Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me – It’s Another Hour of Boring White Folks Who Think They’re Funny,” and a bland blend of hip-hop/rap on various ethnic radio stations.
The only reason I ever stop my radio cruising on National Public Radio is because it’s relatively commercial free. The advertising on black (-themed, but not -owned) radio always upsets me. If it’s not an ad for car rim rentals, then it’s someone rapping about going to a fast food joint, buying an American car, or engaging in some equally undesirable behavior. Do marketers think I’m going to be-bop my way to McDonald’s or the Dodge dealership because of their spectacular rhythm? Wait, wait, don’t answer that.
Last year, in the parking lot of some mini-mall, I almost smashed my radio. This time, the advertisers were trying to evoke some mythical mammy aunt or mother when the disembodied middle-aged African-American voice asked someone to “Gimme some sugar. No, gimme some Splenda.” Cause there’s nothing like a Hattie McDaniel soundalike to make McNeil Pharmaceuticals chemical sweetener alluring.
Oh, Yes, Colorblind
A few weeks ago, I was watching an episode of Mad Men and admiring the writers for telling a truth by showing an ad man framing ideas for “negro marketing.” I’m not sure if the sendup was tongue-in-cheek, as if we don’t have that kind of thing anymore in our “colorblind” society or a reflection of the dichotomy that still exists today. Surely viewers glance at the black maid and view her as a relic of a bygone era (not looking at the brown, Hispanic maid who replaced her, possibly in their own home).
Usually, after a few moments of irritation, any thoughts of the stereotypical advertisements flee my mind after I get out of the car and on with my life. This week, though, the ads of the moment got my goat. This is probably because of my dubious belief in the U.S. Census Bureau’s need to record race. This weekend, two “black” sounding men come on the air lamenting a lack of jobs in the black community. One guy implores the other to fill out the census, because that act alone – the ad suggests – will bring jobs to the ‘hood. Yet another Census ad implies that $400 billion will be spent on transportation and healthcare in “our” communities, if us black folks just fill out that one little form.
Breakfast to the Music of Al Green
Now being black, I stereotypically started shouting at the radio (much to the amusement of fellow drivers, no doubt). My ire was based on the obvious. After hundreds of years of being counted in the census, first three-fifths of us, then our whole being – had any of it really benefitted us? There are more of us in jail, unemployed, and in foreclosure. Counting the millions of us left behind in America’s prosperity certainly hasn’t made us any better. Pasting a black voice or face over these grave facts certainly doesn’t make me want to run out and complete a census form.
Unfortunately television is no better. My usual TV blackout (no pun intended) hit a blip in the road while I was having my hair braided recently. The ten-hour ritual was peppered with various television shows – a little of KCAL 9 – car chases, news, court shows, and a liberal dose of BET. My beautician, like myself, likes to see people like us reflected on television – but it comes with a liberal dose of advertising.
And like me, she had to mute the sound in frustration. She wanted to know if the fast food joints and card manufacturers thought we’d purchase anything unless someone rapped about it or R&B music accompanied it. You’d think from watching black-themed cable that we all drank our orange juice with a heavy dose of Al Green every morning.
I certainly couldn’t think of a cogent reply. My unemployed, rim-renting, mammy-loving, American-car-buying, rap-listening self didn’t have the answer.
Jessica Gadsden has been controversial since the day she discovered her inner soapbox. She excoriated the cheerleaders on the editorial page of her high school paper, transferred from a co-educational university to a women's college to protest the gender-biased curfew policy, published a newspaper in law school that raked the dean over the coals with (among other things) the headline, “Law School Supports Drug Use”—and that was before she got serious about speaking out. Progressive doesn't begin to define her political views. A reformed lawyer, she is a fulltime novelist who writes under a pseudonym, of course. A Brooklyn native, she divided her college years between Hampton University and Smith.
Ms. Gadsden’s essays appear every other Tuesday. She may be contacted at www.pennermag.com
