Why I’m No Longer Writing For Afropunk (And Why They Won’t Give A Shit)

Arielle Gray
Sep 6, 2018 · 5 min read

When people think of Afropunk, we think of ankara prints, the summer heat and black bodies decked out in some of the most creative outfits you’ve probably ever seen. We think of music, of an unapologetic ode to Blackness and its beauty. We think we see ourselves in Afropunk, we think that it is a reflection of us, and that finally, maybe, Black people have a safe space where Blackness is not an anomaly but the standard.

I began attending Afropunk around 6 years ago, right after I turned 21. It became what I looked forward to over the summer. The bus rides to New York, my best friend meeting me at the Lucky Star terminal, our subsequent search for outfits for the festival. It became a shimmering mirage that become reality once a year. But as we continued to attend in the subsequent years, it became clear that things were quickly changing.

Last year, Afropunk published my first piece on their site. From there, I worked with the Editor In Chief, Lou Constant-Desportes, on subsequent pieces that I submitted. I wrote around 15 pieces for Afropunk and never once received payment or even got an offer for payment from the platform. Instead, the exposure of being published on their site and having them as a byline was how they “paid”. Come to find out, many of their contributors on the site don’t get paid for the work that they do. While hired Afropunk employees do, the writers helping create constant new content do not.

Lou Constant-Desportes just resigned as Editor in Chief of Afropunk, citing that the platform has engaged in and continues to engage in performative, capitalistic behaviour that harms Black folks. This came shortly after activist Ericka Hart’s scathing story of how Afropunk made herself and her partner leave the festival in Brooklyn this year because of the t-shirt they were wearing. The person wearing the shirt, Ebony Donnely, wrote an Op-Ed on how Afropunk has sold out for white consumption. The story encouraged others to share their own negative and disappointing experiences with Afropunk. One woman, who is deaf, pointed out that Afropunk took years to get an ASL interpreter on stage for deaf folks. The irony is that Afropunk’s banner that has gone so viral since its inception, says explicitly, “No Ableism” (Ableism is the discrimination against disabled folks while privileging able bodied people). These are only the recent allegations- former employees have been speaking out against Afropunk for years now.

Anybody who attended Afropunk in the earlier years of its 13 year run can see the obvious changes in who the festival caters to and how it operates. Press has been especially critical the past few years as more and more stories surface, stories about the platform not crediting Black photographers, about the stark rise in ticket prices. But the bad press has been buried by the good, by the think pieces in The Guardian , Complex , Mashable and many more. Black people will continue to flock to Afropunk, Black people in need of a space where they can unapologetically experience their joy. And Afropunk knows that. And will undoubtedly use it to their advantage.

When I think about why I still wrote for Afropunk, knowing some of the things that I knew, I feel some shame. I allowed Afropunk to not pay me because I was too afraid of saying something about payment to even negotiate. I wanted a platform so that my words and stories could be heard. But then I realized, whether a writer or a festival attendee or a photographer, that’s what Afropunk has been banking on in order to operate. It exploits the fact that we need an outlet to share our experiences and uses its platform to leverage many of us into either providing free labor or into buying the increasingly expensive tickets each year.

I can’t, in good conscious, continue to submit my pitches and have my stories published on Afropunk simply because I want other’s to read what I write. While Afropunk has certainly brought me some exposure, if I allow exposure to be the reason why I continue to write, then I am knowingly complicit in how Afropunk harms Black folks. And I am no longer the person or writer I thought I was.

As Black people, we are used to spaces that aren’t for us. And Afropunk is just that. It is a clever magician. Co-founder Matthew has been intentional about maintaining the illusion of an activist, Black centered platform while still exploiting Black labor for profit and catering to white folks. Afropunk is performative at best- it says that it is against the things that harm us but directly participates in those things.

Afropunk is relying on its uniqueness to silence people. It is relying on the fact that Black folks want and need the space it provides. But we cannot let the fear of loosing a “Black space” stop us from being critical and cognizant of how an organization operates. We cannot excuse Afropunk’s behaviour and ethical violations because we don’t want to “ruin” another thing that’s become important to Black people.

I have no doubt that Afropunk will continue to pull in a global audience and make money off of them. I have no doubt that the Brooklyn festival will continue to be a beacon to which Black people flock to every August. I have no doubt that Afropunk will not miss me at all as a writer and I have no doubt that they already have another writer, willing to write unpaid, to fill my spot.

We must remember that we have the power. That we are what made Afropunk what it is. And the minute an organization for Black people stops listening to the grievances Black people have about how it operates, it is no longer for us. The minute an organization cares more about Capitalism and increasing profit margins, it is no longer for us because underneath Capitalism, the boot will always, always be on our necks.

The illusion is slipping away, revealing Afropunk for what it really is. The only question is, will we continue to love the illusion, knowing that it’s not real? Or do we reclaim our power and demand change?

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