Hi.

I'm Shana and I write. I write about blackness, black women, black labor, black sexuality, black radical politics, and black culture. I write about myself as the daughter of black folks who think, write, and resist. 

Blindspotting

Blindspotting

Shana Russell

There's something about the way that non-black people consume black culture that almost always prevents me from seeing movies. Thank god for Newark, where I can relish in the way our people respond to films. Disrupting dialogue with joy. Or anger. Or awe. 

But this movie was too important. Too smart. To urgent to wait and wonder if it would come to Newark eventually. [Spoiler alert: It didn't.] The world feels beyond logic right now. But not beyond art. I needed to experience something that could make sense and make me laugh all at once. 

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The first thing I see when i emerge from underground at Columbus Circle...Trump Tower. I thought, not about the tangerine-in-chief, but about the Central Park 5, which rememory won't let me forget. 

I have only been here twice before. Once to see the ballet as a broke grad student with a ticket purchased by a friend. The second time, to see Meshell Ndegeocello play a free concert at Central Park. 

This time I can afford the $15 movie ticket. And I didn't have to check my bank account balance before buying snacks. 

But I still count the number of black faces in the theater. 1...2...3...distracted by the hipster's Birkenstocks sitting in front of me. Then the movie starts. 

I immediately think about why Oakland is so important. The Black Panther Party is like ground zero for contemporary black history. I think about the Panthers as evidence that gun rights aren't for black people. I think about Philando Castile. I think about the way that Colin, played by Blindspotting co-writer Daveed Diggs, talks back to the killer of a black man with his hands up saying don't shoot. Like seeing Oakland through the eyes of Oscar Grant. 

And yet, my encyclopedic knowledge of the BPP doesn't include the community that birthed them and supported them. The people they first served and protected. My own blindspot I guess. 

I watch. Counting again. 1...2...3...full belly laughs and a room full of uncertain chuckles. The Birkenstocked hipster remains stone faced. 

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At the end of the movie I make a beeline for the bathroom. An old white woman blocks the doorway on my way out. I say excuse me. She averts her eyes and says nothing. Blindspotting. I get it. 

I push my way out and on the way to the train I tell myself I shouldn't feel guilty about hitting her with my backpack. And then that I should have hit her harder. 

Counting black people on the street. 1...2...3. Approaching Trump Tower again, I see a drumline. It is the blackest thing that could possible happen in Columbus Circle. So I walk towards the crowd of selfie sticks, instagrammers, and soccer moms and kids who got bored five minutes ago. 

I get that feeling again. The best of black culture being consumed by white folks in the middle of the city. I think about shouting affirmations. Or dancing along, But I just stand there. Anxiety protecting me from the white gaze I can't seen to get away from. 

I place five dollars I won't miss in the tip bucket and walk towards the train. When I get back to Newark, I won't have to count.