Thotpiece: The Curse of Shondaland

Olyvia Scott
Sep 2, 2018 · 10 min read

A story of edges laid and emotions suppressed. How ‘black superwomen’ have helped/harmed the image of black femininity — and our obligation to fix it

clockwise from left: Viola Davis, Nicole Beharie, Phylicia Rashad, Lashana Lynch, Angela Bassett, Kat Graham, Aja Naomi King, Taraji P. Henson, Gabrielle Union, and Kerry Washington

I’m committed to starting all my stories about black women by saying “as a black woman” at least once.

That being said, I — as a black woman — am hyperaware of how we are depicted in pop culture. The image of the black American femme has been twisted since our ancestors arrived with the colonizers, introduced in film and reinforced later in television. Take any History of Television class and you’ll know all about the OG stereotypes: the mammy (a portly black woman tasked with cooking and childrearing), the jezebel (promiscuous_girl.mp3), the sapphire (angry black woman), et al.

Actually, scratch that. You’ll never learn anything about African-American History in school. Just educate yourself.*

The triptych of black female excellence of the 60s, 70s and 80s.

From the 60s to the 80s new characters were introduced to modify said stereotypes: the sassy working-class maid (Florida of Good Times) the single mother juggling it all — Dianne Carroll’s Julia — and the gold standard, Clair Huxtable.

There’s no way to fully express the cultural significance Phylicia Rashad and her character had on the image of black women in the media. Mrs. Huxtable presented a more palatable and apolitical model of the black woman to the public eye, one that remains iconic to this day. She rarely made a mistake, and while it was nice to see a successful black woman who wasn’t struggling, Clair lacked any flaws. The Cosby Show was a fantasy, one that grew increasingly difficult to embody by the time it reached its end in 1992.

Ashley Banks of ‘Fresh Prince’, the ladies of ‘Martin’ and ‘Living Single,’ and Whitley of ‘A Different World’

In the 90’s, stereotypes continued to evolve with shows like Martin, Living Single and A Different World. These women had flaws and flairs for the dramatic, but healthy relationships and fiscal responsibility to offset it all.

Representation reached a new low in the 2000s after those shows were cancelled prematurely and no new content surfaced. From the void of representation came the birth of melodramatic reality TV (thanks to Mona Scott-Young).

Shows like Flavor of Love and Love & Hip Hop perpetuated ‘ratchet culture’ —laying the groundwork for scripted dramas like Empire — and launched the successful careers of several black women (as long as they were willing to reconstruct their image within the parameters of the ‘crazy black bitch’). But the 2010s have seen a rise in a new type of black woman: the superwoman.

The mother (Annalise Keating), the daughter (Olivia Pope), and the holy spirit (Cookie Lyon)

The superwoman is the only trope created by black women, for black women. Also known as the ‘strong black woman,’ it combines the best qualities of the mammy, the sapphire, and the jezebel. She “offers unlimited support to friends and family” and has a “self-sacrificial strength.” She doesn’t need help from a man (be it physical or financial), and “goes to extremes to do what needs to be done.”

Olivia Pope and Annalise Keating, the leading ladies of Shondaland, are the most well-known SBW’s in current pop culture. Not to mention Cookie Lyon, TV’s favorite mama bear. They’re the definition of fearless, influential, powerful. And that’s all well and good. But what other harmful stereotypes are they perpetuating?

The truth is black women can’t be ‘super’ unless they balance their violent or traumatic past with everyone else’s trauma simultaneously. They have to (at least once!) rip off their glossy weaves in a moment of ‘vulnerability,’ antagonize other black women and destroy themselves over a toxic relationship. They are internalized misogyny and self-hatred covertly disguised in a package of strength and sexuality.

Pretty controversial thing for me to say, as a black woman. But let’s dive in.

Black women — super or nah — are expected to have it all together, all the time. Hair is no exception. Try to name any strong black woman on television without a tight blow-out or a slicked-down weave. Actually, to save time, I’ll tell you: we don’t have that many.

Viola Davis bearing it all as Annalise Keating on ‘How to Get Away With Murder’

Though Viola Davis bravely dismantles the standards of black femininity with her performance on How to Get Away With Murder — remember that iconic vanity scene? — the same cannot be said for Olivia on Scandal.

Olivia’s hair is usually only natural when she’s depressed, shutting herself off from the world or captured/incapacitated. Or in love: in the 100th episode of Scandal, an alternate-reality “what if?” about what life would be like if Fitz hadn’t won the presidency, Olivia wore her hair curly — the whole time.

Scandal fans rejoiced, but it also raised questions: why is it only when boy toy Fitz isn’t president, when her job isn’t as high-profile and she has little power to speak of, that Olivia’s hair is allowed to be curly?

It’s important to note that Olivia and Annalise have jobs in the public eye and natural hair is difficult to pull off without scrutiny in professional settings. However, there’s something to be said about the implication of natural hair and the affect it has when juxtaposed with a routine of glossy wigs and blowouts. On shows like Scandal and HTGWAM, natural hair is less about vulnerability and more an indication that the SBW is off her game. She’s struggling, not slaying. It’s a signal of distress, a cry for help.

Emotional abuse just isn’t my cup of tea. That’s one of the main reasons the Shondaland oeuvre remains untouched in my DVR. As Scandal goes on, Olivia tramples her white hat and becomes the embodiment of political corruption — although she goes to lengths to reverse it all in the season finale — and still gets off scot free! — but all anyone can talk about is that painting of her in the National Portrait Gallery.

As far as HGTAWM goes, I’m just sick of watching Viola Davis suffer in gratuitous, masturbatory scenes where she spirals, drinks, takes off her makeup in slow motion, then remembers who she is and dons a wig again. Not to mention the doomed romances that seem to plague each season.

Michaela and Aiden (ABC)

Shonda Rhimes, like many black female filmmakers, seems to have this obsession with interracial relationships. Flings between black women and black men just never seem to end happily ever after in Shondaland. For example: Michaela of HTGAWM. She is introduced almost in tandem with the importance of her off-screen love interest — who, might I add, is black. She is spoken for, and anxiously looking forward to building a brand with fiancé Aiden — her “beautiful, shining black prince” — per her ten-year plan. Awesome. Looks like Black Love™ isn’t dead, after all.

It is later revealed that Aiden is gay, and they break up, but it’s no biggie. Michaela chooses herself in an empowering speech delivered to her ex-almost-mother-in-law and keeps it moving.

Then there was Caleb Hapstall, the adopted son and suspected murderer of two affluent white parents. Annalise essentially uses Michaela to get information from Caleb to aid in his defense case. They sleep together — despite a troubling rumor of incest between Caleb and his adopted sister, who is also accused of parricide. They’re happy, despite the murder accusations.

But Caleb actually is the murderer. And he commits suicide just as the truth is revealed, effectively closing the case and his relationship with Michaela.

So two botched romances with two black men. The only even remotely healthy relationship Michaela had was with fan favorite Asher. And I admit that it was cute while it lasted — it forced both characters to grow and change (almost like a real relationship!) and open up in a way that they never had before. But… Asher was white. The embodiment of white privilege, before he too is forced to learn and grow. Subliminally, it’s a bit too apparent to deny.

And let’s not forget Still Star-Crossed, Shondaland’s highly anticipated (and equally disappointing) remix of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. On paper, the show was promising, complete with colorblind, multiethnic casting and sweeping sets and costumes that reminded us all of Cinderella (you know, the one with Brandy). The protagonist, a dark-skinned black woman, was just what the doctor ordered in terms of representation.

However, Rosaline is torn from a tantalizing forbidden romance with Prince Escalus, the only other black male on the show that isn’t Romeo’s mangled and dismembered body (someone raids the Montague crypt and severely disfigures Romeo’s corpse to insight a little chaos) and forced to marry a Montague — she later becomes a nun to avoid that fate! — all before the end of the third episode.

Rosaline (Lashana Lynch) and Escalus (Sterling Sulieman)

Yeah. I’m a little dizzy too.

If this article ever goes viral and somehow reaches the desk of Shonda Rhimes, let me be perfectly clear: I am in no way denying the feat she has accomplished. God forbid anyone forget what Shonda Rhimes has done for us. Since Scandal’s success more and more black female characters have appeared on television. I just don’t think it’s a healthy kind of appearance.

The problem with the superwoman is its performativeness. It’s still a repackaging of the real black woman: someone violent, hyper sexual and unhealthy. It’s entertainment for the white gaze (ever listened to white people try to catch someone up on Scandal, Empire, or any one of the soap-like dramas previously mentioned?). And the real kicker? It’s killing black women.

There’s something to be said for the fact that alcohol seems to be the only way the black superwoman is able to cope. Case in point: Olivia and her wine. Or Annalise and her scotch. Or whiskey. Or vodka. But statistically speaking, black women are more likely to face problems affecting diet, weight and high blood pressure than anyone else. Not to mention depression and mental health. Carrying the stress of others, suppressing emotions or trauma, and working past the point of exhaustion with limited means (all of which are significant traits of the SBW) can lead to heart disease and cancer.

To clarify: black women aren’t the most likely to get cancer, but they are more likely to die from it, because the compulsion to be ‘strong’ often causes women to neglect seeking any help. Until it’s too late, that is. Let that sink in.

The strong black woman stereotype isn’t inherently harmful. It was created with the best of intentions, and it did save us from those other actually harmful tropes. It has given birth to a renaissance of black female faces on TV. But it cannot be the only representation we consume. Repeated exposure is what is really harming us as a community.

Which is why newer tropes, like the Awkward Black Girl, are so important.

Sasheer Zamata, Issa Rae and Michaela Coel

Unofficially pioneered by Sinclaire of Living Single, the awkward black girl is the long-awaited midpoint to the agonizing see-saw of black female representation. There’s now an alternative to the extremes.

Showrunners Issa Rae and Michaela Coel (of Insecure and Chewing Gum, respectively) were tired of seeing the “extremely magical or extremely flawless” lives of black women on television and brought their own, more realistic experiences to the table. Their shows — for which they produce and write and star — show black women simply living their lives, dealing with normal problems, facing disgruntling jobs and the stagnant dating pool.

There’s also Sasheer Zamata, an SNL alum and only the sixth black woman in the cast (despite SNL’s tedious 40-year history). Zamata was notoriously underused for three years before quietly leaving the show in 2017. Her comedy special Pizza Brain shows just how smart and funny she is and how her talent was wasted on Saturday Night Live.

Black women are often overlooked, bullied and slandered in comedy — take Leslie Jones, for example — but in many cases it’s a place where we thrive.

I think it’s time to see less drama and more comedy from black women. There is something so powerful and rewarding about mundane stories being told with unflinching bravery. Black female comedians have taken back our agency, our femininity, and our sexuality simply by being themselves.

We deserve joy in our lives, we deserve to be depicted as joyful, and we deserve to just…breathe. It’s time to hang up the cape for a little while.

*Oh, yeah. Remember when I told y’all to educate yourselves?:

  • Black Feminist thought: Knowledge, Consciousness and the Power of Empowerment, Patricia Hill Collins
  • Caught Between a Thot and a Hard Place: The Politics of Black Female Sexuality at the Intersection of Cinema and Reality Television, April Lundy
  • Sister Citizen: Shame, Stereotypes And Black Women in America by Melissa Harris-Perry

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