As I write this, I am slated to see Black Panther either tonight or tomorrow.
And yes, I realize I am very
late.
The cool people (including the cool people in med school)
have already seen the film one, two, three times. I have been that girl who
ruins in-depth conversations about the movie because I haven’t seen the film
yet. When I tell people that I haven’t seen the film yet, the reactions range
from shock to scorn. You haven’t seen the
film yet? What are you doing with your life??? I promise that by tomorrow,
I will be in the know.
The reaction to Black
Panther has been something to behold. Wakanda fever has hit nearly every
black person I know! People showed up to the premiere and beyond wearing traditional
African outfits, the kind of stuff they normally pull out for birthday parties
and weddings. They performed large group dances in theaters and posed for
endless pictures by the movie’s poster. The movie has made 940 million dollars
in four weeks, more than any other Marvel film besides Captain America: Civil War and The
Avengers. Even my ignorant self knows the Wakanda Forever sign; I did it as
part of an African dance that my friends and I performed at the Keck School of
Medicine’s annual talent show (see below).
All because of a movie made by a big-name studio with an
all-black cast and an accurate portrayal of African civilization.
Let me be clear: I am very happy about Black Panther and I am very excited to (finally!) see it soon. And
I don’t think anything about people’s reactions to the movie have been even
close to wrong; everyone is happy to finally see some good black (and
African!!!) representation on screen. And yet, when I think about Black Panther,
and the way that people are obsessing over it, I cannot help but see a
phenomenon that I’ve seen over and over in the past couple of years.
I think I first noticed this around 2012, when I first went
to college; there, I ran head-on into a wave of Scandal obsession. From Facebook to Twitter to Tumblr, everyone was
talking about Scandal. To me, people
seemed especially excited about the main character, Olivia Pope, who was a
strong black woman, much like the show’s director, Shonda Rhimes. (Having
watched Scandal now, strong is
probably an underestimation!) I had grown up watching and talking about a ton
of TV shows (as you might have noticed by this series), but the way that my
peers, especially my African-American female peers, talked about this show was
different from what I’d heard. It was as if they saw themselves in Olivia Pope. They basked in the positive attention
that Olivia Pope received, and if she received any negative attention, it was a
personal affront. The amount of self-worth that people gained or lost from a
character on a TV screen amazed me.
I noticed this again when ABC announced the show Black-ish in 2014. The title definitely
caught my attention; TV had come up with a word for a feeling I’d had my entire
life. But again, my African-American peers obsessed over this show and its
existence like it was the most important show in the world at that time. It was
as if black representation on TV was a vital component of their self-esteem.
And now, I feel that I’m seeing the same thing regarding Black Panther.
At this point, I have to admit something about myself.
Growing up, as far as black representation, I was very spoiled. My father is a
pediatric anesthesiologist, my mother a neonatologist. My sister is a general
surgery resident, and my brother is about to be a dentist. Growing up, the
notion of being a successful black woman wasn’t just a possibility; it was the
norm, the expectation. Every two weeks, my parents would invite their friends
over for Bible study. These friends were often doctors as well, and their
children were held up to the same expectations as I was. I was continually
surrounded by well-off black women who were raising families and advancing
their careers. I was in continual contact with black peers who were not only
staying in school, but doing extremely well therein. College was not an option,
nor was having a productive life plan. So, as a child, even though I watched
several TV shows with no black representation at all, I was able to counteract
and supplement the messages I got from TV with the role models that I had in my
real life.
My faith background also had a major impact on the way I
watch TV and movies. Growing up, TV and movies were a special treat, to be
watched only when we didn’t have homework to do. Furthermore, my parents were
aware that TV did not always promote the morals that they wanted us to live by.
They not only restricted us from shows that didn’t promote good morals, but
they also taught us that Christian morality is very different from TV morality.
My brother and I often found cartoons faster than my parents could scan them,
but even when we watched shows, we watched them with the view that we were not
necessarily supposed to look to the characters to represent us or to tell us
what we could be. Instead, we were to look to Christ, and to other people who
emulated him.
In my adolescence and young adulthood, I started to realize
that I am a child of God, and that because he is the King of glory (Psalm 24,
and many other sources), that technically makes me a princess. As a child of
God, I have been made holy, righteous and absolutely flawless in Christ. I am
settled in heavenly places, above any enemy that could come at me. I am fully
able to do anything that he calls me to do, and I have an inner source of love,
joy and peace for every situation. I’ve found that no person or TV character
can validate my existence better than God can. He made me the way I am; he
ordained my family background, my skin color and hair type. If he created me
the way I am, and if every person that he created is good, then I am good. End
of story.
So yes, I will be seeing Black
Panther tonight, and I will probably enjoy it. But I will not look to it to
tell me what I could be; I will see it knowing that I already am a King’s kid.