Kalamu ya Salaam's information blog
KEB’ MO’
Rawa Blues Festival 2013
Keb’ Mo’- guitars, vocal
Michael Hicks – keyboards
Les Falconer – drums
Vail Johnson – bass guitar
Track list:
01. Intro
02. Government Cheese
03. More Than One Way Home
04. Muddy Water
05. The Whole Enchilada
06. Soon As I Get Paid
07. Just Like You
08. Dangerous Mood
09. Shave Your Legs
10. Standing At The Station
11. The Door
12. Am I Wrong?
13. She Just Wants To Dance
14. Outro
TAJ MAHAL
Taj Mahal – Full Concert
Recorded Live: 11/26/1989 – Henry J. Kaiser Auditorium (Oakland, CA)
More Taj Mahal at Music Vault: http://www.musicvault.com
Subscribe to Music Vault: http://goo.gl/DUzpUF
Setlist:
0:00:00 – Big Legged Mamas Are Back In Style Again
0:04:20 – Easy Rider
0:12:09 – Fishing Blues
0:15:26 – Light Rain
0:20:32 – Sweet Home Chicago
0:26:45 – Blue Light Boogie
photo by Alex Lear
“Joshua, you’re laying here wounded in a hospital bed and you’re worrying about what’s happening in Fallujah?”
Joshua looked at Vivian, a pained tenderness clouding her usually clear dark brown eyes.
“No, I’m worrying about humanity, about the species, and about my own personal humanity. If I can’t feel their pain, how human am I?”
Vivian bit her lower lip. Joshua momentarily paused when he saw the signature sign that she disagreed with something he said.
“Vi, they’re killing women and children, dropping 500 pound bombs. Those people, all they’ve got is rifles and grenade launchers, and a will to resist. They’re burying their dead in a soccer field cause the Marines won’t let them get to a cemetery. And why? What for? Cause four mercenaries got killed? Cause, to quote president Chavez, that ‘asshole’ Bush…”
It wasn’t good for his healing when Joshua got so agitated. Closing her eyes to dam the beginnings of tears welling up, Vivian softly kissed Joshua in an intimate attempt to halt his ranting. Joshua did not return her kiss.
Ignoring her unvoiced plea, Joshua raised the remote and clicked on the TV. Since the play-offs hadn’t started yet, all he watched was the news for as long as he could stand it, which was usually twenty-some minutes at the max. If his brain was a computer, TV was a virus. What was he to do: the radio was worthless, filled with twenty songs in constant rotation on the pop stations, right wing toro-poopoo on the talk stations, and liberal drivel from NPR?
Vivian took the remote from Joshua’s hand; he did not resist. She clicked the mute on. The surrealness of Joshua watching war reports from his hospital bed was too much. Thankfully, the efficient hum of medical equipment provided an unobtrusive aural wallpaper.
“They doing that mess in our name, baby. You know?”
“I know.”
“I don’t want my silence co-signing that.”
She was faring worse than he was. Even with bullet wounds in his lower right leg, in his right side and in his left foot, Joshua was still feisty; his inability to sleep peacefully did not seem to too adversely affect him.
When you have shared a bed with a person for over thirty years, you know their breathing, how they toss when troubled, which way they turn when upset, moreover, inevitably you know that person’s slumbering self better than the person knows that part of their own self. Almost two whole weeks of keeping watch over Joshua’s fitful, sometimes nightmarish sleep had exacted a heavy toll, and now here he was all wrapped up in this Iraq thing…
In the pastel gloaming of the sun setting in the distance on the other side of the city, panoramic as a postcard when viewed from this seventh floor room, Vivian searched for something safe to say.
“Jamal’ll be here tomorrow.”
“I told that boy he didn’t have to spend that money to come out here. I’m alright. He’s just stubborn.”
“I wonder where he gets it from?” Vivian chided Joshua.
“Probably from his mama.”
Joshua returned his attention to the cool, color images flickering on the screen mounted on the wall facing his bed. What was Rev. Sharpton protesting now Joshua wondered without much interest. Then Kobe Bryant appeared. Josh reached for the remote. Vivian handed him the controller. The clipped but breathy tones of a female anchor gushed forth, “…charge that police did not read Bryant his Miranda rights.”
“Ain’t that something?”
“Joshua, please.”
“Ok. Ok.” Joshua clicked the TV off. “I’m just saying…”
“Joshua, we had this discussion already. Just because the police were wrong doesn’t make what Kobe did right.”
“You don’t even know what he did, Vi.”
“He admitted he committed adultery.”
“Yeah, ok.”
“Ok, nothing. He shouldn’t have never had that girl up in his room.”
“You’re right.”
Joshua looked up at the ugly ceiling. After twelve days of laying in bed, it seemed like he knew every inch of the room. In the corners, the wall, which once had been a sort of dark teal, now looked more like a putrid dish of lentil soup crusted over, molded and gone to some shade of brownish-green between tequila-laced, guacamole vomit, and the dirty brown of two week old road kill. Although he didn’t know what the name for that color was, he was sure there was a name and equally sure it was clearly delineated on Vi’s mental color wheel.
Joshua smiled grimly and then looked at Vi standing beside his bed, her left arm held across her paunch-less stomach and her slender right hand curled over her mouth–as usual, she was not wearing lipstick.
He really liked that she was not self-conscious about the faint, but unmistakable, sexy, facial hair above her full lips–at least he thought the ecru-colored, wisp of a moustache highlighting the plum dark fullness of Vi’s luscious lips was sexy as hell.
Funny, he had been able to resist the enticement of Vi’s kiss a minute ago, but now here he was, entranced by the tantalizing sight of her negroidal profile silhouetted by the twilight glowing through the two, large windows directly behind her. He was especially mesmerized by the way she pursed her mouth into a fleshy pout, and though it was concealed in the darkness covering her profile, he vividly imagined the deep dimple two thirds the way up her jaw. Even in her fifth decade there were no hanging folds of flesh marring the elegant line that curved from chin to jaw to throat. Vi could have been the perfect model for a Dogon mask.
Vivian saw Joshua lick his lips and slowly work his jaw muscles, producing saliva which he casually swallowed.
“Here.” Vivian held a straw to Joshua’s mouth so he could suck a small sip of cool water. As the liquid trickled down his esophagus, Joshua closed his eyes, wondering how it was that this wonderful woman always anticipated his desires. There was a slight click when she sat the plastic cup on the Formica tabletop; then the unmistakable sound of a visitor in the hall–it had to be a visitor because of the click of hard-soled high heels on the linoleum (all of the nurses were stealthy in their rubber-soled sneakers); and finally there was the distinctive, hushed, musical jangle of Vi’s bangles quietly clanging.
“Hmmmm,” Joshua half-audibly hummed as Vivian rubbed his chest. Vivian was leaning against the bed, the head of which was elevated at a gentle twenty-degree angle. She had slipped her right hand between the top and the third button of Joshua’s pajama top after deftly unsecuring the second button to give a wider range of motion.
“That feels good.”
Vivian playfully pinched his left nipple.
“Yeahhhh.”
A nurse walked in.
Vivian did not move her hand.
The nurse said nothing, peered at the equipment connected to the patient, picked up the chart and made a few quick notations. “Do you need anything, Mr. Gibson?”
“He’s Ok.”
Joshua glanced from Vivian to the young, white nurse–well, at least she had reason to be in his room. Vivian continued lightly scratching her fingertips through his chest hairs, maybe scratching was not the word for it, perhaps tingle-touching was a better way to put it; whatever, it felt good. When the nurse left, Vivian withdrew her hand. Oh, so Vi’s touches had been a marking of territory, a sign to other females: hands off.
“What’re you smiling about?”
“Why yall always got to want to know what a man is thinking?”
“Why are you men so reluctant to share your thoughts?”
“Just like yall got secrets…”
“Ok. Whatever.”
The lamp’s florescent glare masking its departure, daylight was near completely gone from the room.
“Mr. Tucker called.”
Josh knew where this was headed. Thirty-three years and counting. “I told that fool I don’t work cause I got to, I teach cause I want to. The kids need me.”
“I need you.”
“Just wait til they let me out of here, I’ll give you all you can handle.”
“Joshua, I’m serious. You know you could volunteer in a community program. You don’t need the pressure of teaching every day.”
“Vi, haven’t we crossed and re-crossed this bridge?” Hadn’t they talked about why he wouldn’t retire until he did thirty-five years? Thirty-five–just like his mother. It hadn’t mattered that it was safer when his mother taught, much less stressful, the schools better. Actually there was nothing sacred about thirty-five years. It was just something Joshua wanted to do.
He had started when he was twenty-three. In two more years he wouldn’t even be sixty yet–he had plenty enough years left to enjoy retirement.
Vi kicked off her comfortable red-suede mules and half sat on the side of the bed, cozying beside her husband. She drew her knees up, careful not to touch his side, and lightly rested her head on his collarbone while smoothly slipping her right hand down his arm, that sensual motion culminating with her fingers intertwining his as she clasped his hand.
Joshua had felt a twinge of discomfort when Vi climbed aboard but that was quickly replaced by the pleasure of her softness: soft touch caressing, soft voice humming, soft spirit nurturing.
Joshua half-turned his face towards the crown of her head. The peach-flavored fragrance of the shampoo in Vi’s salt-and-pepper un-cut, longer-than-shoulder-length, natural hair delightfully tickled Josh’s nose. Once out of high school, Vi had never again permed her hair and after she retired from the Post Office in ‘98, she said she’d let her finger-snap-short afro grow until 2000. By the time 2000 arrived, Joshua had gotten so used to burying his face in the luxurious pillow of her black and silver mane that he begged her to keep letting it grow, like, what was her name, Sonia Braga, yes, Sonia, that gorgeous Brazilian mama with the flowing, au-natural hair. Vivian preferred to believe that her auburn hair and skin shade resembled Alice Coltrane like on the cover of Alice’s Transformation album, but she knew Brazilian beauties was Joshua’s thing and had long ago come to understand that Joshua’s fantasies and movie-fueled infatuations were no threat to their marriage.
***
“Aaahhhh.”
Even though Joshua’s cry had not been very loud, Vivian woke instantly. The nightmare was back; this time after only two nights absence.
For the first week it had been very rough and then it got rougher–some inexplicable signal would rouse Vivian and she’d know immediately, Joshua was… was… well, was… what was it Robert Johnson sang? Hellhounds on his trail. Yes, that was it, Joshua would have that terrified look, the look of a runaway flailing through the swamps, vicious dogs about to leap on his back.
The first time Vivian saw Joshua cry she shrank back involuntarily for a moment before gathering her self and going to him. “Ssssshhhhh, ssssshhhh. It’s all right. I’m here.”
Joshua had shook.
“Ssssshhhh.” Badly as she wanted to, she had been afraid to hold him less she harm his wounds. She could only think to dab his forehead with a cool towel and to coo to him until he eventually quit shaking.
And, my God, that first time he hollered out, she was sure it was physical, probably his side or something like that. He wouldn’t talk. She rang for the nurse. They ended up sedating him. But it happened again a few nights later.
“Tell me. Joshua, tell me. What is it? Joshua?”
When he had turned to face her, his eye sockets were twin grottos, each filled with a glistening pool of tears. Vivian’s heart had raced at that point. She had never before seen him cry.
He didn’t have to say anything. She knew, from that first night when the police called, when they told her as near as they could figure it, some young thugs tried to car jack Joshua and a battle ensued over a gun and two people were shot, one was dead and “your husband is in the hospital. He’s wounded but the doctors say, it looks like he’ll pull through ok.”
Vivian had known the healing would be difficult but she was anxiously confident he would overcome. She remembered decades ago his struggle to master martial arts, how long it took him to get to black belt, how many times he damaged his hand trying to break wooden planks, but he kept at it…
“Vi, you know I been loving you since I met you…”
Vivian snapped out of her momentary hypnosis. It had only been three and a half seconds before she gathered herself and bent to minister to Joshua, but during that long interval, Vivian had remembered encountering this anguish for the first time.
“Sssshhhh, sssshhhh. Joshua’s it’s ok…”
She had also remembered Joshua apologizing for loosing the new, forest green, Toyota Prius that was found two days afterwards, burned out. The irony of getting jacked for an environmentally safe car and that car subsequently getting trashed; were it not so serious, it would have been laughable.
“…don’t try to talk. It’s ok.”
When Vivian bowed to rub Joshua’s brow, he turned his head away. She began humming Naima, Joshua loved her singing.
Vivian knew, neither the car nor his wounds was the issue, it was…
“Vi, you know, it’s like, I don’t see how we’re going to survive.” He spoke while looking at the wall. “What can we do? The shit has gotten so bad. All my life… well, you know.” Joshua paused, turned to face Vivian and then continued in a firm voice, “The sit-ins, the going to jail, the African liberation support stuff in Tanzania and hanging in the bush with the Frelimo guerillas in Mozambique, right down to supporting the Sandanistas in Nicaragua in the eighties, and, all that. You know?”
Joshua stared helplessly at Vivian, she closed her eyes, bent low and whispered in his ear: “this too shall pass.” But even as she said it, she knew that neither she nor Joshua would ever reconcile themselves to the horrible guilt that Joshua felt for killing that boy.
“He told me to run. I said, take the car, man. He said, ‘run, nigga.’ Vi, I ain’t never run from nobody in my life, and I wasn’t about to start that night. I was already mad cause I had bought this car for your birthday and…”
“It’s ok, it’s ok.”
“Naw it ain’t. When he shot me in the foot, I knew I had to do something or at least die trying, even though it was two of them. I would’ve been alright, but the other one started shooting…”
Joshua stopped.
It was early, early, ‘fore day in the morning. The silence was awful. The sinister mechanical chirp of the medical equipment, awful. Joshua squeezed the morphine pump. Vivian blinked to keep her own tears from spilling as she bent low and slow-kissed away Joshua’s tears.
-end-
—kalamu ya salaam
February 8, 2014
octaviocarlin
According to Enchanted Learning, a site that charts inventions, the potato chip was invented in 1853 by George Crum.
Crum was a Native American/African American chef at the Moon Lake Lodge resort in Saratoga Springs, New York.
French fries were popular at the restaurant during that time, and one day a diner complained that the fries were too thick. Although Crum made a thinner batch, the customer was still unsatisfied. The chef kept slicing them thinner, then fried them to a crisp, and seasoned them heavily with salt. By then, they were too thin to eat with a fork. Crum expected the fussy customer to dislike them, but the man praised them highly. So the potato chips were invented by accident. The chips became popular and subsequently became known as “Saratoga chips” or “potato crunches.”
The evolution of the potato chip
Now doesn’t this just make you want to eat some potato chips?
>via: http://www.examiner.com/article/black-history-fact-potato-chips-were-invented-by-african-american
November 23, 2015
1989 documentary ‘James Baldwin: The Price Of The Ticket’ has been digitally restored and was recently shown in Chacago. Nina Metz of Chicago Tribune reports: “Originally conceived as a cinema verite project, the filmmakers were to follow Baldwin as he worked on his next book. Karen Thorsen was on board as producer, and renowned documentary filmmaker Albert Maysles was at the helm.” [After Baldwin died in 1987], Thorsen took over as director and adopted a style she calls cinema verite passe, “which just means cinema verite in the past tense.” Most of the film is footage of Baldwin himself — TV interviews, but also informal footage shot throughout various periods of his life, including his time in a small Swiss village when he wrote what would become his most famous novel, 1953’s “Go Tell It on the Mountain.”
Excerpt from the film: “When you were starting out as a writer you were black, impoverished, homosexual. You had to have said to yourself, ‘Gee, how disadvantaged can I get?’ ” Unflappable, Baldwin almost laughs: “Oh no, I thought I hit the jackpot — it was so outrageous, you could not go any further. So you had to find a way to use it.” Read more here.
>via: http://www.afropunk.com/profiles/blogs/feature-restored-james-baldwin-documentary-timely-as-ever
November 2015
Tuesday night, Viola Davis gave a moving speech about her younger sister’s sexual assault that occurred when she was a kid.
Davis was speaking at the Stuart House, a L.A. based organization that helps sexually abused children.
“I have a sister, who, when she was 8 years old, put on some rollerskates with her friend, went down to the corner store at 1 o’clock in the afternoon, went into the store, and was sexually assaulted in the store,” Viola began. “She came home and she told my mom. My mom ran down to the store, started screaming at the store owners and they said: ‘Leave that man alone. He does that to all the little girls.’ And then my mom proceeded to flag down a police officer. They found the man. They put him in the car. I saw my little sister crying. My mom was crying, too. And that was it.”
“And then from there, a precocious, very intelligent, very creative child grew up to be frail, angry, a drug addict by the time she was 20,” Viola continued, her voice cracking. “Six children, all of which have been taken by social services. A prostitute. An IV drug user. You know, memories demand attention, because memories have teeth. And in my vision, and in my dreams, when I pray for my sister . . . you pray in general terms. You pray that she finds peace and love and happiness, she gets off drugs. And then of course you open your eyes, and you’re like, she’s still on the streets.”
“I wish she had the Stuart House to throw her a rope, because her whole life could have been different,” Viola said toward the end of her speech. “There are a lot of beautiful stories that are going to come out of the Stuart House . . . there’s going to be so many testimonies of winning and heroic young people literally opening their mouths and speaking about their abuse — daring to call out their abusers. And I guess if there was anything I was going to speak about today, I’m going to speak about my sisters of the world. The people who fell through the cracks. The people who didn’t have a Stuart House.”
Davis’ story was not only touching but the reality for so many kids across the world.
In closing, Davis simply stated, “This is a day the lord has made, and I’m going to rejoice and be glad in it,” she said, “because I wish I could tell my sister that she’s not dirty, and that she should not feel any shame for something that she literally was not responsible for. I wish I could save her life.”
>via: http://www.clutchmagonline.com/2015/11/viola-davis-gisexual-assault/
November 19, 2015
By Kiese Laymon
Charlie Braxton
As I write in “Da Art of Storytellin’ (A Prequel),” Goodie Mob’s album Soul Food pushed me to understand the imaginative will one needs to collectively reckon, and OutKast’s ATLiens pushed me to innovate. But the truth is, I had no intention of making a life out of writing until I read an article on OutKast by a writer from my hometown of Jackson, Mississippi.
The writer’s name was Charlie Braxton.
As much as I revered Margaret Walker Alexander, Toni Cade Bambara, Richard Wright, CeeLo, André, and Big Boi, Charlie Braxton was my literary superhero. I wanted to be him. Charlie wrote about OutKast for eight different publications. He’s written for every major hip-hop magazine in the country, interviewed everyone from Scarface to Big K.R.I.T. to Master P. Charlie is easily the most thoughtful writer and thinker on the importance of the South in American music. When the Oxford American asked me to write about OutKast for their Georgia Music issue, I knew I needed to talk with Charlie before crafting a word.
First of all, thank you for talking OutKast with me. Do you remember the first piece you wrote about OutKast? I read it when I was up at Oberlin College. I still wasn’t sure I could become a writer, but reading what you wrote, and the way you wrote it, in a national magazine, made me know I could do this work.
I wrote my first article about OutKast in Beat Down magazine. We talked about how they were chronicling their alienation from mainstream society, our alienation from the mainstream, as black Southerners. Think about it, Kiese. When they beat out Wu-Tang Clan and others at the Source Awards, and got booed, it was over, man. They went back to the dungeon intent on showing people who we were and what we were capable of. They went against everything for that album. L. A. Reid wanted another “Player’s Ball.” Like Public Enemy’s It Takes a Nation of Millions, there will never be another ATLiens. Those boys were digging deep into themselves for that album. And they felt disrespected. It’s Afrofuturism for sure, but it’s also soul music.
What makes OutKast so different from any other group to come out of Georgia or the South?
That’s easy. OutKast is unique among their peers regardless of region because their music embodies the essence of great black music before them, i.e. blues, jazz, soul, and funk. But unlike their peers who were content to take a record and sample or interpolate it, OutKast would capture the spirit of a song by recontextualizing the song and placing certain elements of a tune within their very own composition.
What’s an example of that?
Okay, a perfect example of this would be how OutKast took the melody and the vocal arrangement from the chorus of Parliament’s song “Children of Production” and used it for the hook to “Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik.” But note that the only thing that they borrow is the melody, not the bass line, the horns, drums, or anything else. This is done in the spirit of funk bands who were known to take elements of other songs and incorporate them into their own tunes. Also, André wasn’t trying to sound funky. He was physically embodying funk. There’s a difference. Look at him. Look at Parliament-Funkadelic. He became funk.
Oh, I see. Do you hear any Georgia-specific sound in their albums?
As far as specific sounds, like the type of whiny keyboards or handclaps that you might find is nineties West Coast music? No. There are no specific sounds that I can hear in their production and say, “that’s a typical Georgia record.” What makes their music Georgia-specific is the fact that they incorporate organic elements of soul music into their music. When you hear songs like “In Due Time,” “Growing Old,” or “Crumblin’ Erb” you are moved in much the same way you are when listening to Sam Cooke’s “A Change is Gonna Come” or Marvin Gaye’s “Inner City Blues.” And as you well know, the progenitors of soul music, Ray Charles and James Brown, called Georgia home.
Damn Charlie. Damn. Okay, Here’s a hard one: Is André the greatest rapper alive?
I can’t answer that objectively because I am totally partial to OutKast as a whole. To me, it’s a matter of the sum being greater than the parts. Separately, is Dre one of the best emcees in the game? No question, he is better than any of his peers. But I believe he is at his lyrical best when he’s rhyming next to Big Boi. You see what I’m saying? There is a chemistry that the two of them have that brings out the best in each other.
What was the closest thing you ever heard to ATLiens?
I’ve never heard a record come close to ATLiens. It is a once in a lifetime record, Kiese. I’ve heard plenty of records that have been strongly influenced by ATLiens, as well as Southernplayalistic. Big K.R.I.T.’s Cadallactica and Kendrick Lamar’s recent record come to mind. Honestly, man, I would strongly caution artists who are influenced by OutKast not to spend too much time trying to reproduce a sound or style of a specific ’Kast record. Notice how each OutKast record sounds different from the last one. Once they make their musical statement, they move on. If you want to be like ’Kast, you’ve got to be innovative by being the best you can be.
What do you think about people who say Kendrick is channeling André?
I really don’t like the term “channeling” and I will tell you why. To me, the term implies that the person one is “channeling” is dead. Last time I checked Dre was very much alive. To answer your question, though, I have no doubt that Kendrick is influenced by Dre. You can hear it in his phrasing and the way he speeds up the pitch on his vocals. Even the introspective way he talks about life seems to be influenced by Dre.
Charlie, I don’t know that you’ll ever know what this conversation means to me, man. You, ATLiens, Toni Cade, Margaret Walker, and Soul Food are why I write what I write, brother.
Kiese, you won’t believe this, but I read your book of essays and was so inspired.
Stop trippin’.
I’m serious, man. I wrote a poem about it after I finished it.
My Mama would love this conversation. What do you remember about my Mama when you were at Jackson State?
Your mother had a reputation for being a fierce, no-nonsense teacher. She taught a couple of friends of mine who would always talk about her classes, so in my free time I would crash her classes a lot. I mean a whole lot. I particularly remember her class on political theory, where she and I would get into spirited debates. I was young, bull-headed, and wanted to change the world yesterday. I hadn’t done nearly the amount of reading your mother had. As you can guess, she would win every single time. Your mom forced me to rethink and refine so many ideals about politics. Those intellectual exchanges helped shape my political outlook and I am eternally grateful for her taking time to challenge me intellectually instead of kicking me out of her classes.
What advice do you have for young writers, artists, emcees coming from Georgia and Mississippi?
That’s a great question, Kiese. Aside from telling them to master their respective crafts, I would tell them to know that by virtue of being born and raised in the South, which is the bedrock of American culture, you are heir to a great legacy of artists, musicians, writers, and emcees who have shaped global culture. That legacy empowers you to be bold and tell your story—your truth, your way. All you have to do is embrace it.
I’m thankful, Charlie Braxton.
++++++++++++
Kiese Laymon is the author of How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America and Long Division. He’s an associate professor of English at Vassar College, and currently the Grisham Writer-in-Residence at the University of Mississippi. He has a memoir and novel forthcoming from Scribner in 2016.
Read “Da Art of Storytellin’ (A Prequel)” by Kiese Laymon
>via: http://www.oxfordamerican.org/item/712-your-truth-your-way
June 2, 2015
By jai tiggett | Women and Hollywood
“Girlhood”
The response was overwhelming after we posted the original list of 84 Films By and About Women of Color, which came from a recent Twitter conversation led by director Ava DuVernay. Not only was the list shared far and wide, but lots of readers weighed in with more film suggestions to add.
After tallying up the additional titles, not only has the list grown to 115 women-directed films about women of color, but there are also a number of insights we can draw from the data.
To be clear, the list itself isn’t comprehensive and doesn’t claim to represent every woman-directed film about women of color; there would be too many to name. Rather, consider it a solid reflection of people’s tastes. The original call was to “name three films you like with black, brown, native or Asian women leads” that were also directed by women. So the response online tells us a great deal about the films that general movie fans watch, like and remember.
You could say that the original list of 84 films reflects which movies had an impact on Hollywood and the US independent film scene, since the call came from a well-known US-based filmmaker. In order to come up with titles beyond the original 84, many of you looked to films made overseas, in nations where people of color are the majority.
It’s interesting to note which directors were listed multiple times; names like Mira Nair, Gina Prince-Bythewood and Gurinder Chadha came up more than once as women who have built careers on telling the stories of women of color, and whose films have made money over the years.
And of note, we’re looking only at feature-length, scripted films directed by women. Of course there are lots of important documentaries made by and about women of color, arguably many more than narrative features due to the cost and means of documentary production. So again, there would be too many documentaries to name here. There’s also the fact that many docs focus on groups of people, societal systems, or eras in history rather than individual protagonists, which makes it tougher to classify which documentaries are “led by women of color.” But it may be worth a separate discussion on docs in the future.
For now, here’s the updated list of 115 women-directed films with black, brown, native and Asian women leads. Most of the titles from the past decade are available on cable, DVD and/or Netflix. Although still in beta, the MPAA’s database wheretowatch.com is a good place to start your search for each movie. For older, indie or lesser-known titles, media organizations like Third World Newsreel and Women Make Movies are great resources to locate these films. And still more of these films aren’t available from major retailers or distributors. “Naturally Native,” for example, couldn’t be found through a mainstream distributor, but the film still has a website where you can order it directly from the filmmakers. It may take some hunting to find some of these titles, but it’s certainly worth the time.
So there you have it. Watch, enjoy and most importantly, support!
35 Shots of Rum by Claire Denis (2008)
A Different Image by Alile Sharon Larkin (1982)
A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night by Ana Lily Amirpour (2014)
A Tale of Love by T. Minh-ha Trinh (1995)
Advantageous by Jennifer Phang (2015)
Ala Modalaindi by Nandini Bv Reddy (2011)
All About You by Christine Swanson (2001)
Alma’s Rainbow by Ayoka Chenzira (1994)
Appropriate Behavior by Desiree Akhavan (2014)
Aya of Yop City by Marguerite Abouet (2013)
B For Boy by Chika Anadu (2013)
Bande de Filles (Girlhood) by Céline Sciamma (2014)
Belle by Amma Asante (2013)
Bend it Like Beckham by Gurinder Chadha (2002)
Bessie by Dee Rees (2015)
Beyond the Lights by Gina Prince-Bythewood (2014)
Bhaji on the Beach by Gurinder Chadha (1993)
Camila by María Luisa Bemberg (1984)
Caramel by Nadine Labaki (2007)
Chutney Popcorn by Nisha Ganatra (1999)
Circumstance by Maryam Keshavarz (2011)
Civil Brand by Neema Barnette (2002)
Compensation by Zeinabu irene Davis (1999)
Daughters of the Dust by Julie Dash (1991)
Des étoiles (Under The Starry Sky) by Dyana Gaye (2014)
Descent by Talia Lugacy (2007)
Double Happiness by Mina Shum (1994)
Down in the Delta by Maya Angelou (1998)
Drylongso by Cauleen Smith (1988)
Earth by Deepa Mehta (1998)
Elza by Mariette Monpierre (2011)
Endless Dreams by Susan Youssef (2009)
Eve’s Bayou by Kasi Lemmons (1997)
Fire by Deepa Mehta (1996)
Frida by Julie Taymor (2002)
Funny Valentines by Julie Dash (1999)
Girl in Progress by Patricia Riggen (2012)
Girlfight by Karyn Kusama (2000)
Goyangileul butaghae (Take Care of My Cat) by Jeong Jae-eun (2001)
Habibi Rasak Kharban by Susan Youssef (2011)
Hiss Dokhtarha Faryad Nemizanand (Hush! Girls Don’t Scream) by Pouran Derahkandeh (2013)
Honeytrap by Rebecca Johnson (2014)
How The Garcia Girls Spent Their Summer by Georgina Reidel (2005)
I Can’t Think Straight by Shamim Sarif (2008)
I Like It Like That by Darnell Martin (1994)
I Will Follow by Ava DuVernay (2010)
In Between Days by So-yong Kim (2006)
Incognito by Julie Dash (1999)
Introducing Dorothy Dandridge by Martha Coolidge (1999)
Invisible Light by Gina Kim (2003)
It’s a Wonderful Afterlife by Gurinder Chadha (2010)
Jumpin Jack Flash by Penny Marshall (1986)
Just Another Girl on the IRT by Leslie Harris (1992)
Just Wright by Sanaa Hamri (2010)
Kama Sutra by Mira Nair (1996)
Lady With a Sword by Kao Pao-shu (1971)
Long Life, Happiness & Prosperity by Mina Shum (2002)
Losing Ground by Kathleen Collins (1982)
Love & Basketball by Gina Prince-Bythewood (2000
Love the One You’re With by Patricia Cuffie-Jones (2015)
Luck By Chance by Zoya Akhtar (2009
Mi Vida Loca by Allison Anders (1993)
Middle of Nowhere by Ava DuVernay (2012)
Mississippi Damned by Tina Mabry (2009
Mississippi Masala by Mira Nair (1991)
Mixing Nia by Alison Swan (1998)
Monsoon Wedding by Mira Nair (2001
Mosquita y Mari by Aurora Guerrero (2012)
Na-moo-eobs-neun san (Treeless Mountain) by So-yong Kim (2008)
Naturally Native by Valerie Red-Horse (1998)
Night Catches Us by Tanya Hamilton (2010)
Nina’s Heavenly Delights by Pratibha Parmar (2006)
Paju by Chan-ok Park (2009)
Pariah by Dee Rees (2011)
Peeples by Tina Gordon Chism (2013)
Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi (2007)
Phat Girlz by Nnegest Likké (2006)
Picture Bride by Kayo Hatta (1994)
Radiance by Rachel Perkins (1998)
Rain by Maria Govan (2008)
Real Women Have Curves by Patricia Cardoso (2002)
Saving Face by Alice Wu (2004)
Second Coming by Debbie Tucker Green (2014)
Sita sings the blues by Nina Paley (2008)
Something Necessary by Judy Kibinge (2013)
Something New by Sanaa Hamri (2006)
Song of the Exile by Ann Hui (1990
Still the Water by Naomi Kawase (2014)
Stranger Inside by Cheryl Dunye (2001)
Sugar Cane Alley/Black Shack Alley by Euzhan Palcy (1983)
The Kite by Randa Chahal Sabag (2003)
The Rich Man’s Wife by Amy Holden Jones (1996)
The Rosa Parks Story by Julie Dash (2002)
The Secret Life of Bees by Gina Prince-Bythewood (2008)
The Silence of the Palace by Moufida Tlatli (1994)
The Watermelon Woman by Cheryl Dunye (1996)
The Women of Brewster Place by Donna Deitch (1989)
The World Unseen by Shamim Sarif (2007)
Their Eyes Were Watching God by Darnell Martin (2005)
Things We Lost in the Fire by Susanne Bier (2007)
Ties That Bind by Leila Djansi (2011)
Toe to Toe by Emily Abt (2009)
Wadjda by Haifaa Al-Mansour (2012)
Water by Deepa Mehta (2005)
Whale Rider by Niki Caro (2002)
What’s Cooking? by Gurinder Chadha (2000)
Where Do We Go Now? by Nadine Labaki (2011)
Whitney by Angela Bassett (2015)
Woman Thou Art Loosed: On The 7th Day by Neema Barnette (2012)
Women Without Men by Shirin Neshat (2009)
Woo by Daisy von Scherler Mayer (1998)
Xiu Xiu: The Sent-Down Girl by Joan Chen (1998)
Yelling to the Sky by Victoria Mahoney (2011)
Yo, la peor de todas (I, The Worst of All) by María Luisa Bemberg (1990)
Young and Wild by Marialy Rivas (2012)
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jai tiggett is a writer, content creator and curator. Find her at jaitiggett.com.
Plenary Speakers:
Call for Papers:
The American University of Paris announces a call for papers for the International James Baldwin Conference to be held 26-28 May 2016 at the American University of Paris. Other Paris venues crucial to Baldwin’s experience of the city will be used as additional settings, thus taking conference participants into “Baldwin’s Paris.”
The Conference encourages broad international and interdisciplinary exploration of Baldwin’s life and writing, with emphasis on the Paris he inhabited (intermittently from 1948 onwards), both for what it was and for what it is today as a result of the marks he left behind. An emphasis on his versatility in terms of style, genre and socio-political concerns is also of primary concern. Stressing the importance of Baldwin’s life, work and literary relations, the conference will be an intersection for all those interested in Baldwin’s work: from literary and cultural critics, to scholars of gender and queer theory, to political activists, poets, filmmakers, historians and musicians as well. We seek a wide range of academic and public discussions which can engage with Baldwin’s work.
Topics may include but are not limited to:
Proposal for papers should include:
1. A brief (250-300 word) abstract
2. A one to two page vita.
Submissions to Alice Craven at acraven@aup.edu and William Dow at wdow@aup.edu.
Deadline for Submissions: December 1, 2015.
>via: https://whisperingprairiepress.submittable.com/submit
