Something has been on my mind lately that I haven’t been quite able to articulate. I will try to say it, and I hope that it makes sense to someone other than myself. I’ve noticed that a lot of our culture’s interaction with Black History (in particular, though this sentiment could be extended to any historically excluded group) is centered on achievements and “famous firsts.”
As I was reflecting on Hattie McDaniel’s legacy, I asked myself about the significance of awards like the Oscars and how (or whether) receiving recognition from white institutions benefits Black people. I think that seeing positive representations of one’s identity in the various spheres of society is positive and helpful; especially when we consider the messages that white supremacy foists on people of marginalized identity.
But does representation and recognition mean anything outside of the good feelings that these things might create? Why is it that when we think of Black history, we almost always default to achievements and accolades? Are there any other meaningful ways that we can elevate people from historically excluded groups that don’t involve a focus on achievement?
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In 2015, writer and activist April Reign created #OscarsSoWhite, a social media discussion that evolved into a social movement and changed the process for how movies are selected for Oscar nods. The movement directly challenged the film industry and forced them to rethink how movies are made, though critics who are in favor of more diversity (rightly) point out that the new standards don’t foster meaningful inclusion.
I am thankful for #OscarsSoWhite and similar movements, because I think that they provide tangible illustrations for the public of how systemic and institutional racism work. At the same time, I think that these conversations cause people to conflate awards and accolades with actual social progress.
To be sure, the arts create space for people from historically excluded groups to test and subvert social norms and to challenge the status quo. As an extension of the arts, the entertainment industry serves as a means for people to introduce this work to society on a mass scale. The entertainment industry can be a bellwether for the latest social change, and awards shows often serve as spaces for people to encounter diversity that they may not otherwise experience.
At the same time, I believe that American society has reduced social justice to achievement, especially when it comes to Black people. How many trophies will it take for Black people to be treated as equal members of society? How many barriers must we break before the yoke that we carry on our collective shoulders is broken? How many “famous firsts” must we achieve before the systems and structures of oppression are torn down? For too long, we have treated achievement, accolades, and recognition as a sign of progress, when, in reality, they are often weaponized to stifle meaningful progress.
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Society only seems to value Black folks when we are achieving, and as a result, we seem to only be able to value ourselves when we are achieving. Too many times we see achievement as the end rather than as a natural result of justice. Too many times our achievements occur “despite” oppression rather than as a natural consequence of justice. In other words, the type of Black achievement that is widely recognized within American society has always happened “despite the odds” or “despite adversity.” Our achievement comes by crashing through steel-reinforced walls rather than because we walked through open doors.
As a result, we celebrate the ones who accomplish the miracle of shattering steel while ignoring the folks who negotiate an obstacle course as the baseline of their existence. We focus on the people who become “successes” within the system while failing to question why so many others never seem to find their way through.
Very often, Black people’s success within “the system” comes at the expense of that person’s connection to their identity and culture (or the system chooses to elevate those with only a marginal connection to their culture in the first place). Being accepted by white people within white culture is seen as “elevating” oneself, and the circumstances that forged a successful Black person’s career becomes their “backstory”—a tale of trial and hardship intended to garner sympathy that serves as rationale for why the person is successful in the first place.
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Despite how this article might sound, I’m not against Black people receiving awards and recognition for their hard work. What I am against is awards and recognition being equated with justice. It represents a grave injustice when we hand Black people trophies and heap accolades on them for succeeding in oppressive systems while failing to change or completely uproot those systems.
I am also against the stratification that comes from elevating so-called successful people over and against the folks who are just out there trying to survive. Black people shouldn’t have to be “excellent” as a prerequisite for being treated with humanity and kindness. We shouldn’t have to achieve in order to be seen. We shouldn’t have to break barriers in order to have access to resources.
Give us our flowers, yes, but we deserve justice foremost.
The Armchair Commentary 