In his essay, “Music,” part of “The 1619 Project,” Wesley Morris delves into a time when minstrelsy’s grip was unshakable, a stranglehold too powerful for even the most spirited Black performer to escape. It was an era when the stage seemed to demand that if a Black artist wished to be seen, their only recourse was to don the mask of a white persona, concealing their true essence beneath layers of mimicry.
This reflection brings to mind Gwendolyn Brooks’ poignant poem, “The Life of Lincoln West.” Within its verses, we encounter a young Black boy who, bearing the weight of a world that found him “the Ugliest little boy/that everyone ever saw,” is bestowed an odd recognition. A white observer gazes upon him, proclaiming him to be the “real thing.” The boy’s features, akin to the exaggerated caricatures etched in minstrelsy, serve as a harsh reminder of those “pendulous lips, those branching ears, the wildness in his eyes, and that skin, a vague unvibrant brown, along with that great head,” a presence that seems to carry the enormity of a world within.
Minstrelsy’s shadow hangs heavy, casting doubt upon authenticity — authenticity of Blackness itself. This brings to my mind the lyrics by Megan Thee Stallion in “Realer.” She casts verses that articulate her essence: the audaciousness, the rawness, the fire of being unapologetically real. Yet, in her words, themes of materialism, self-indulgence, and objectification are amplified, as if channeled through the same distorted lens that once cast a sinister glow over Reagan’s welfare queen narrative.
As Morris mulls over the necessity of this masquerade for Black performers, a poignant chord resonates: the voice of a Black artist who, coerced by circumstance, becomes a pawn in this grand minstrel show. The tale of a Black boy, not by choice but by coercion, thrust into the spotlight to replace a star minstrel, John Diamond, by the scheming P.T. Barnum. A young soul pressed into performing to an audience’s expectations, those very expectations carefully crafted by white performers, and, one must underscore, for a white audience.
And what do we make of this “white audience”? A term that encapsulates more than mere racial dynamics — it’s a canvas on which economic motives were brushed, hues of insensitivity splashed. These shows thrived not just on prejudiced portrayals but on the financial flow that followed. The canvas was painted with images of Black caricatures that amused, fortified racial biases, and danced in step with the societal symphony of that time.
The tapestry of minstrelsy was woven with threads of ignorance, racial insensitivity, and unchecked prejudice. It lured crowds, drew laughter, and lined pockets. Yet, the audience, predominantly white, was deaf to the heartbeats beneath the performances, blind to the pain etched into the souls they belittled.
But let us pivot to T.D. Rice, the “father of the minstrel.” A “nobody” who seized the spotlight by “darkening his skin beyond that of any true Black soul, concocting gibberish dialects that seemed to mock Black speech,” and twisting old spirituals into tunes that no white ear had ever heard before. Did he realize the tempest his actions would unleash? Did he foresee that this tune would become a rallying cry for degradation, a cacophony of mockery?
As I weave these words, I’m haunted by the image of Megan Thee Stallion in NPR’s Tiny Desk. Her performance, rather than a soulful beat, seems to resonate with a different, more disheartening rhythm — a rhythm that echoes a troubling narrative. In a world awash with the hues of ideals, one might have aspired for an audience as rich and varied as the tapestry of human experience itself. Yet, within the frame of our own stark reality, the syncopation of her verses finds a deeper connection among those who tread the corridors of privilege.
Megan's verses resonate with the cadence of empowerment and self-assuredness. Yet, woven within her lyrics, a loud murmur of disquiet beckons. One can discern the threads of materialism and the fervent pursuit of personal triumph, a portrait of self-worth painted in the hues of riches. The composition she crafts is bold and assertive, yet its texture reveals strands that, unbeknownst, might weave a caricature of Black womanhood — one hypersexualized, enmeshed in material desires, and propelled by an ardent competitiveness that edges towards divisiveness. It becomes evident, in the wisdom of the moment, that the absence of young Black souls in the audience might have been a merciful design.
In the grand narrative of music, the echoes of the past reverberate. The power of minstrelsy is not forgotten. It metamorphosed over time, donning new faces, wearing new masks. The empowered female rapper, tracing her lineage through the legacy of MC Lyte, Queen Latifah, and Salt-N-Pepa. Yet, a transformation occurred, a shift towards more explicit expressions of self, of audaciousness. The harmony shifted from unity to individualism, from empowerment to unapologetic assertion. From respectability to unrespectability.
The minstrel’s face evolved, its contours transformed, but the shadow remains. Today’s Black female minstrel doesn’t darken her skin, but she adorns herself in wigs that conceal the natural strands of her being. The “gibberish” persists, interwoven in lyrics that steer clear of the call for Black Power, fixating instead on pursuit of riches, objectification, and a distorted individualism that runs counter to the collective uplift woven into early African American spirituals — those soulful hymns that transcended suffering to beseech for deliverance.
The minstrel’s song was cacophonous, a mockery. Yet amidst the sorrowful melodies of the enslaved, there lived a defiant strength, a chorus that sang with words that held deeper meaning, hidden from those who lacked the key to unlock their truth. Frederick Douglass spoke of these songs, seemingly nonsensical to some, but brimming with significance to those who bore the weight of their meaning.
In his narrative, Douglass describes how the enslaved “would sing, as a chorus, to words which many would seem unmeaning jargon, but which nevertheless, were full of meaning to themselves.” The emphasis being, “full of meaning to themselves.” And with regards to any plea, Douglass writes, “I have sometimes thought that the mere hearing of those songs would do more to impress some minds with the horrible character of Slavery, than the reading of whole volumes of philosophy on the subject could do.”
The act of singing became a sacred ritual, an offering of souls intertwined in suffering. These songs, seemingly unintelligible to outsiders, held a deep resonance for those who shared the burden of history. A stark contrast to minstrel performances, where laughter rang hollow, ignorance played the lead, and empathy was absent.
To find amusement in degradation is to lose touch with humanity’s depths, to become blind to the scars that mark the history of Black lives. To be entertained by minstrelsy is to forfeit the chance to hear the anguished cries, to understand the legacy of inhumanity and the urgency for compassion. The laughter that echoes in the halls of minstrel performances is a hollow sound, devoid of empathy, devoid of understanding.
Those who derive pleasure from such displays reveal a fracture in their humanity. Their joy springs from a place untouched by empathy, a place where the heart fails to resonate with the suffering endured under the weight of slavery and racial injustice. It is a deficiency, an ailment, a barrenness that renders them incapable of embracing history’s complexities, of feeling its nuances, and sharing in its pain.
And now, the Black artist stands at a crossroads, a pivotal choice to make. To wield music as a vessel of soul, to pour into it meaning that resonates with those who understand its essence — even if that audience is smaller, less privileged. Or, to mold music devoid of soul, crafted to appeal to a white audience, seeking financial gain, and perhaps, as Morris would phrase it, “achieve national acclaim.”
Morris queries whether a Black performer can achieve national acclaim without accusations of betrayal. The question reverberates with historical weight. Yet, the answer may be found not in national acclaim, but in the reverberation of songs, not on a grand stage but in the hearts of those who find solace, affirmation, and power within the echoes of music that uplifts, that binds, that heals.
As I reflect on these words, I am reminded of Langston Hughes’ musings in “The Big Sea.” He writes of the upper class Negroes, the ones with polished shoes, the ones acquainted with privilege and academia. Yet, his words gravitate towards the people he knew intimately, the ones who lacked polished shoes, Harvard degrees, or the recognition bestowed by the world. He finds beauty in their simple goodness, their unadorned humanity.
Yet, there is a distinction between celebrating goodness and orchestrating degradation. To uplift the human spirit is a noble endeavor, a testament to the power of words. But to partake in the minstrel’s dance, to orchestrate the mockery of character, is to forfeit the sanctity of one’s craft. It is to disregard the scars that history carved, to dishonor the resilience that carried a people through the darkest of times.
So, in the tapestry of music, let the Black artist choose with care, for their words hold immense power. Let them be guided by the echo of history, let them heed the song of the soul. For in that choice lies not just personal acclaim, but the power to shape a narrative, to weave a story that resonates through time, lifting spirits, embracing wounds, and reminding the world of the unbreakable strength that lies within.
Embark on a visual encounter that complements the concepts explored in “A Chorus Sings: Soulful Melodies and the Legacy of Realness” by exploring the immersive Black Power Room exhibition. This curated experience brings the essay’s themes to life through dynamic artworks, narratives, and historical references. Immerse yourself in the interplay between power, transformation, and history, bridging theoretical discourse with impactful visuals.
