sigh... halloween costumes
Blackface remains exoticist and offensive as a practice, not just because of its long tradition of being used to mock black selfhood, sexuality, and speech but because of its assertion that black people are merely white people sullied by dark skin.
—Kevin Young
To my mind, you see, before one can really talk about the Negro problem in this country, one has got to talk about the white people’s problem… until we face our responsibilities as citizens of this country quite apart from the Negro problem, I don’t see that we can begin to talk about the Negro problem with any hope of clarity.
—James Baldwin
For the past two or three years, dear readers, we’ve made a kinda sorta friendship. I am everyday so grateful. Strangely, I feel I have shared more with you than with friends that I actually see face-to-face. That’s not due to any cowardice on my part but simply because you have been kind enough to welcome me and to see me. Quite honestly, there are many who actually have sat beside me and offered me much less.
I have shared with you what it feels like to live as a black woman in white neighborhoods that I imagine look much like your own. You have shared what it feels like to be white, and just now realizing that being so means something in this country and in this world. I have shared my sorrows and fears, and you, bravehearts, have shared your own. I don’t know about you, but I feel that we have traveled some distance together across our racial landscape. But of course we still have miles to go and I could not have asked for better traveling companions.
This Halloween, I shared an indiscretion—a minor one. In case you missed it, I will repeat what I said. I still stand by it: If you are part of a dominant culture, don’t dress as a character from a minority culture.
I knew before I hit “share” that this might be awkward and hard. I wasn’t exactly sure how you were going to react. I knew there was a chance that many of you might collect your things and never return. But I dared to do the thing that a good friend should do—not let you walk this earth looking unkempt, or even worse, a fool.
I have to say that so many of you responded with such bravery. You asked important questions. You asked for clarification. You offered your own struggles and stories. It was beautiful. It’s how I’ve always wanted this monster of a social media vehicle to be driven—responsibly and with every mirror checked, riding smoothly over the potholes and speed bumps.
Some of you pushed back and downright disagreed. Again, this is good. At least we’re talking. Keeping your real feelings veiled or silent really doesn’t do any good. It just perpetuates resentments and festers emotions that become frustrations and ultimately lead to you giving up.
So, to my friends that still disagree and for those who still have questions, I would like to address those arguments and questions with a bit more clarity.
Let’s begin…
“What if my child wants to honor a black legend or hero like Maya Angelou?”
Honestly, what does that look like? How does one dress up like Dr. Maya Angelou? I love Maya Angelou, but I can’t see how dressing up as her would honor her—and I’m a black woman. Wouldn’t memorizing one of her poems perhaps be a better way to show respect?
During a TV appearance, a young girl addressed Dr. Angelou as “Maya,” and Dr. Angelou was quick to correct her:
Child: I wanted to ask Maya her views on interracial relationships.
Dr. Angelou: Thank you, and first of all, I’m Ms. Angelou.
Child: Ms. Angelou.
Dr. Angelou: Yes ma’am. I’m not Maya. I’m 62 years old. I have lived so long and tried so hard that a young woman like you—or any other—you have no license to come up to me and call me by my first name. That’s first. Also because at the same time I am your mother. I’m your auntie. I’m your teacher. I’m your professor—you see?
I met Dr. Maya Angelou when I was a hostess in a fancy restaurant in Chicago. I was a divorced, single mom who was so honored to show her to her table. I was overwhelmed by her magnitude. She was majestic, yet humble. I don’t have the wardrobe to embody that in a costume. I wouldn’t dare even try. Again, how does one put on a costume like that—one of equal parts dignity, wisdom and grace? How does a white person who hasn’t lived the experience of a black woman “make believe” that experience? Dr. Maya Angelou is wholly and fully a black woman. How does a white child pretend to be that? What clothing could possibly recreate her history of abuse? What mask can mimic her journey of overcoming unimaginable barriers? It simply can’t be done without some form of appropriation of her African-American culture because Dr. Angelou wore her culture from the inside out.
So again, I say pick someone else, or find another way to honor her that isn’t a half-baked interpretation of her. Because dressing as Dr. Maya Angelou in white skin is to diminish so much of her story.
“What if my child really loves a Disney princess that isn’t her same race? Can’t she dress up as her without using black or brown face?”
Here’s a question: When does your child stop dressing up like others from different races? If your child dresses as Princess Tiana at the age of 4, how do explain to them that it’s not okay at the age of 14, 24 or 34?
My friends, this is another form of color-blindness. To dress your child in these costumes is to say that color doesn’t matter, when of course it does! Black people have waited 75 years for Princess Tiana. Therefore, it would really be a disgrace not to always see her in the world as our black princess.
White women have always been the princesses, the queens, the movie stars—the preferred. Always. Always. Always. Before you name the few stars of color who have overcome the lazy stereotype that white equals desirable, think about America’s first movies, first magazine covers, first pin-up girls. You got there first because you’ve always been there. Please don’t deny it. We know it’s not true that white is the only desirable beauty in the world. That’s why many cultures of color created their own magazines, movies, pageants with their own princesses and queens. But guess what? It’s based on a beauty that is often based on yours—lighter skin, long, straight hair, slimmer bodies, European facial features.
This has been a source of pain for many little girls and women of color to carry. So when a white child dresses as one of our icons of beauty, it brings up those feelings. It’s as if you’re saying to us, “We own this standard. You’re only borrowing it.” Because let’s face it, Princess Tiana is the kind of beauty that is acceptable to white mainstream culture. She has long hair. Her nose and lips are slender. Her body is slender. She quiet and non-threatening. Her features could easily be colored in as white with blue eyes and blonde hair. It took 75 years for Disney to finally feature a black princess and guess what? She still looks like you.
The truth is your child isn’t wanting to dress as Tiana or Moana or Mulan or Pocahontas because they are interested in their culture. Perhaps you have a savant who truly is that culturally awake. But if they are, then they can also understand appropriation and it should be explained to them. But more than likely, your little one’s only desire is to dress as someone who is beautiful—like we’ve taught them all princesses should be. These princesses are a novelty beauty to them—which we as POCs often hear as “exotic” or “different.”
But our beauty is not exotic, rare, or different. It’s just not yours. Our beauty is hard-won. To dress up like Tiana is to wear her entire story:
the fact that unlike her white friend, princes weren’t lining up to marry her;
the fact that her white friend hires her to serve her needs and this is what gets her the money for her own dream of having a restaurant;
the fact that her white friend really isn’t a friend so much as her mother’s ex-employer;
the fact that she was working multiple jobs like many black women do today in order to make it;
the fact that even working multiple jobs she might still lose her dream to a bidder with more money; and
the glaring fact that she’s mistaken as a princess only because she’s dressed in her white, affluent friend’s gown and crown.
”But I’m not racist and neither are my kids! It’s just a costume!”
In a perfect world, every person of every race would have fully dealt with their complicity with white supremacy and its towering systems. In that world, our children could dress up as they please and no one would be offended. But also in that world:
black women would be receiving equal pay;
predominately black schools would be receiving the same funding as white schools in gated-communities;
discriminatory policing would be a thing of the past;
prisoners would not be used as slave labor; and
there would be more than one narrow measure of beauty.
But that world does not yet exist. In our actual world, celebrities and civic leaders have donned “make-believe” in mocking ways that cause deep hurts and ruptures. When this happens, we wonder, “Why didn’t they know better?” Well, they were never given a boundary, and you can’t respect a boundary if you don’t know that it’s there.
Unfortunately, racism doesn’t diminish or vanish with time. Though wouldn’t it be nice if it did? If anything, it’s a clever chameleon adapting to current times so brilliantly that it can be impossible to see. Blackface today looks more like butt-implants or lip injections. It’s Miley Cyrus’ 2013 MTV Music Awards’ performance. Appropriation looks more like Kim Karadashian naming a line of clothing Kimono. Prejudice and bigotry can come dressed like a wolf in sheep’s clothing in a Halloween costume.
Racism has always required vigilant uprooting of even the most minuscule speck of it. Historically, this has not been something that white people—even when they are allies—have been willing to do. Many white allies become convinced that they can hold racism like fire and not get burned. Often they feel more empowered and enlightened than others who haven’t even thought to think about doing the work. So, they feel cured.
But we people of color know that even if you have been cured of racial bias, the rest of our country hasn’t received the remedy. To insist that “good” white people and “innocent” white people—in this case, white children—should be given a pass, is asking a racially sick country to be well without the proper course of healing and medication. You are well! You’re post-racial! But is the world well? Is the world post-racial? We can’t just diagnose what’s ailing on a few thriving, racially-aware bodies. We have to treat the country as one whole body with each person making up a single cell. It really doesn’t matter if our all the cells in our hands and feet are working if the cells in our heart have a viral infection.
Black mothers are dying giving birth at higher rates than our sisters, and our children are being policed and incarcerated more often than our sisters’ children, and we are getting paid less than our sisters. We are suffering. The best course of healing for our suffering is to allow all these places to heal without causing further injury. And by gosh I am totally saying that when you choose to show up dressed as us for Halloween, it affects our healing. But you say, “I’m doing it to honor your culture.” I’m telling you that if you want to honor us, first believe us when we say, “This hurts.”
What it comes down to, dear white friends, is this: giving up a costume is chump change that you can easily afford. Even if you truly have a right to do it, you don’t have to. Nothing in your life will crumble or fall apart because you didn’t get to dress up as Beyoncé or Oprah. Your kids world will not diminish because he didn’t get to be Colin Kapernick or President Obama.
White friends, you come from a history of people who systematically took possession of people who were darker than them and systemically tried to erase any perceived otherness. You come from a history that has justified harm to darker people by calling it wild, savage, ugly—and then satirized our “nature”. You come from a history that has borrowed so much without asking. And this hurts, really hurts. So when you dress up or you allow your children to dress up as us, our first feeling is pain, no matter your intentions. Your costume demands us to do the work of figuring out if you are friend or foe, sincere or teasing, benign or malignant. For every black person who gives your costume a pass and even praise, there are plenty of us who are triggered and think, “This again?”
I’m not telling you this as some finger-pointing, shaming act to make you feel like you are not a good and decent person who happens to be white. I’m telling you this because I am a writer who happens to be black and I write about that experience. I’m telling you my black experience. This is what I think about and pray about and seek God about. I’m writing this because I feel that we can be friends and love each other better. I’m telling you this because Jesus told us to “love each other deeply.” Deep love requires honesty. And Jesus told us, “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friend.” I’m laying down my life here.
There’s a story about Jesus and a young, rich ruler. This young and privileged man tells Jesus all the good he has done. He wants to know what is the one good thing that he can do to obtain eternal life— to get the gold star. And Jesus tells him that if he wants to be perfect, he has to give it all up—the title, the riches, the privilege. But the young man goes away dejected because he was so very, very rich.
So what was Jesus really asking him to do? Give up a bank account or a treasure chest of gold? No, he was asking him to give up how he presented himself in this world—titled, privileged, a good guy who was already perfected. The young man expected Jesus to answer, “You’re already perfect.”
Dear white friends, you are so rich in this country. You are ridiculously filthy rich with just the color your skin. You are titled and privileged to move about the country in a way that I can never experience—even when I don a costume made for you. I can dress as every one of your favorite characters and never truly embody your privilege. I can have the same titles of doctor, lawyer, Christian, homeowner, teacher, judge—and still not be treated the same as you in the surgery, courtroom, pulpit, cul-de-sac or school. I think this is what the young ruler knew Jesus was asking him to give up.
Paul wrote:
Weep with those who weep. Romans 12:15
Carry one another’s burdens. Galatians 6:2
Regard others as more important than yourselves. Philippians 2:3
Become weak to win the weak. 1 Corinthians 9:22
Share suffering. 1 Corinthians 12:26
Paul’s admonishments only reverberate what Jesus said: “Sell everything!”
So weep with us. Help us lift this burden of racism. See us as more important than maintaining your whiteness. Be willing to become weak in order to win our friendship and welcome. Share our suffering.
And, on Halloween, don’t dress up as us. Pick something else.
People of color come from a history that didn’t allow us to choose our titles or our clothing. In our history, we didn’t get to “make believe” or even dream as fully as white people in this country. Our history chose garments for us that no one would ever choose for themselves.
But “So & So”, who’s a famous person of color, posted pictures of white kids dressed like them!
You are right—not every person of color feels this way. It’s not your job to worry about everyone’s feelings. You don’t know them. You don’t owe them. They don’t know you. You probably won’t ever meet them face-to-face. Besides, your costume is funny. Target makes the costume so it must be okay. Your child looks adorable. Black kids dress up as white characters all the time. You’re not racist! Your best friend is black, Chinese, Korean, Native, Mexican, etc…
And when our black children dress up like your princesses or beloved characters, we are saying “My child is beautiful and beloved too. Can you see her? Can you see him?”
All of it boils down to this: when a person of color tells you, “Don’t pretend to be us,” and a white person responds, “I hear you, but I’m gonna do it anyway, because I can,” what you’re really saying to me is that my black body, my black culture, my black beauty will continue to be owned and consumed by the hunger and greed of your whiteness. And, history repeats itself.
