My conversation with the co-creators of #BlackLivesMatter
Perspectives on storytelling
Not since “Black Is Beautiful” has there been a slogan as on point as “Black Lives Matter.” I can’t remember the first time I heard, or more accurately, saw the hashtag #BlackLivesMatter, but what I do remember was the clarity with which those three words captured a feeling that I, and so many Black people, were experiencing in the wake of Trayvon Martin’s murder. This feeling is not new and not unfamiliar. And it is a feeling that we continue to relive, again and again, in the months and years since.
Sabrina Schmidt Gordon produced and edited “How a hashtag defined a movement” about #BlackLivesMatter.
The hashtag #BlackLivesMatter is deceptively simple but carries a profound message. It is at once an unapologetic affirmation and a scathing condemnation. When we say “Black Lives Matter,” we assert our dignity and humanity; but to have to say it is a damning critique of the anti-Black racism in American society that persists in denying us both.
As I write this, a protest march is taking place in Charlotte, North Carolina, after the police murder of Keith Lamont Scott, a Black man waiting with his wife for the arrival of his son’s school bus. This occurred four days after the murder of another Black man, Terence Crutcher, who was unarmed, and with his hands up when he was killed. These are just the latest in a disturbing pattern of murders of Black people by the police. For Black folks, each incident is an injury to the psyche, and a reminder of our vulnerability. We press forward but a chilling and terrifying thought persists — that in the United States of America, Black lives are worthless.
It was clear that a movement was born when people demonstrated around the country, and around the world, chanting “Black Lives Matter!” The hashtag, which already blanketed social media, began appearing in articles, magazine covers and TV shows. The women who created the hashtag that galvanized a movement — Alicia Garza, Patrisse Khan-Cullors and Opal Tometi — were rarely seen or even sought out. Instead, other activists, scholars and journalists — mostly male — were on regular rotation on the Sunday news talks shows to discuss and define “Black Lives Matter.” It was as if the hashtag was everywhere, belonged to everyone, but somehow, was birthed by no one.
“We got positioned as women who would do the work, but don’t deserve to share our vision, and don’t deserve to lead,” Alicia said to me when we met for a video interview organized by my friend Jose, the founder and editor of #EmergingUS. To be sure, the three women have since been recognized for their leadership (shout out to Black Girls Rock!). But this interview and video is not just about naming them; it is about telling their story and, as Alicia, said, sharing their vision.
When Jose told me about #EmergingUS, it felt to me to be a natural and inevitable progression in his professional and creative journey. I met him when we worked together on his film Documented. What started as a short gig grew into a very successful collaboration and enduring friendship. One of the things I appreciate most about Jose is the way in which he thinks about storytelling. He asks himself, and others, this question about authorship all the time: “Who gets to tell whose story?” His decision to direct Documented was rooted in this ongoing conversation with himself and others about art and activism, journalism and agency.
On the heels of the #OscarsSoWhite debate earlier this year about the lack of diversity at the Academy Awards, I was invited to speak on a panel called “#DocsSoWhite” at the Full Frame Documentary Film Festival. Again, the central question was “Who gets to tell whose story?” Moderated by Ian Robertson Kibbe, I was in impressive company, on stage with S. Leo Chiang, Roger Ross Williams and Sam Pollard. We had a very frank conversation about the colonialist tradition of documentary filmmaking, and the importance of challenging White filmmakers who choose to tell the stories of people of color — often tackling particularly sensitive, intimate and difficult subjects — to interrogate why should they be telling these stories.
Filmmakers of color are increasingly vocal about challenging the stereotypical “White gaze,” fascinated by people of color in a way one might be fascinated by an exotic bird, or titillated by “tragic-porn” stories that re-inscribe notions of white saviors and wretched-of-the-earth colored folk.
These tropes — often presented in much more subtle and insidious ways than I just described — are ones with which we are all too familiar, and are resisting. The idea is not to say that only Black people can tell Black stories, and White people can only tell White stories, but rather, for all of us to ask ourselves: “Why should I be the one to tell this particular story?” It’s about interrogating privilege, access and empowerment.
Throughout the making of Documented, Jose and I looked at how identity informed the choices we made. We are both people of color, and we both have an immigrant story. We even both grew up speaking two languages, and for us, navigating two cultures was second nature. As we screened footage, I recognized many subtle but telling moments in his Filipino immigrant story that presented opportunities to illuminate aspects of the immigrant experience that may be unfamiliar to many viewers.
When Jose approached me about collaborating on this video that would bring together the women who created #BlackLivesMatter, I jumped at the opportunity. We discussed why it was important to him that I, as a Black woman and filmmaker, interview the women and create the story. Certainly, I agreed that my conversation with the women would probably have little resemblance to much of the mainstream media’s discussion of #BlackLivesMatter. For one thing, I wanted to get to know Alicia, Patrisse and Opal — the women, whose stories do not begin and end with the creation of a hashtag. And, I wasn’t particularly interested in continuing a reductive “Black people vs. the police” narrative. I was more interested in unpacking and exploring ideas. I wanted to talk about the thoughts and feelings that often remain unspoken. I wanted to talk girl talk, Nina Simone style.
When we met, we talked about siblings, grandparents and childhoods. Opal, like me, is the daughter of immigrant parents, hers from Nigeria, mine from Haiti. I asked her how they felt about her activist career choice, and we shared familiar immigrant ethos “become a doctor or a lawyer” stories, and about how our parents’ concern for our choices eventually transformed into admiration and pride. Personal experiences inform public life. All three women are activists in their own right, their sensibilities and priorities shaped in myriad ways, by role models, political circumstances and personal trauma.
I interviewed the women and edited the video in New York. Throughout the editing process, I sent versions of the story to the #EmergingUS office in Los Angeles, which provided me with archival and file footage. They would send my sequences back to me with footage temporarily inserted. This interaction also became an object lesson in perspective.
Trayvon Martin is key to the birth of #BlackLivesMatter, and I needed footage to tell this part of the story. I received images of Martin and George Zimmerman, including video of Zimmerman at the crime scene and in the courtroom. As I reviewed the material, it occurred to me that so much of Trayvon’s identity has been framed and eclipsed by his fatal encounter with Zimmerman. So many images I received were small split screens of Martin and Zimmerman side by side. I told the #EmergingUS team that I did not want to continue to make Zimmerman the co-star of Martin’s life. I did not want to keep framing Martin primarily in relation to Zimmerman, and I wondered how can I tell this story without giving him any more space than was absolutely necessary. I made the decision to not give Zimmerman any screen time in this video. I realize that some folks may not agree, but I figured anyone who is interested can easily find that elsewhere. But here, in this video, the story is not about him — it’s about a boy who is loved, who is missed and who inspired three words that have come to represent the movement for Black life. The scene includes a brief news clip about the murder, followed by a picture of Trayvon being kissed on the cheek by his father. This was the lens through which I wanted viewers to see Trayvon — not as the murder victim of a sociopath, but as the son of Sybrina Fulton and Tracy Martin, who was loved and nurtured and cherished. I wanted the focus to be on that boy, that teenager, that son.
Following the murder, news coverage quickly took a callous turn with hypotheses about the many ways Martin caused his own death. Among them was wearing a hoodie sweatshirt. During a guest appearance on his show with former U.S. Congressman Allen West, Bill O’Reilly explained this notion, that Martin essentially brought on Zimmerman’s suspicion and wrath by dressing like “gangstas” do. When I received the O’Reilly video clip, a photograph of Trayvon in a hoodie had been sent along with it. Martin’s image was used often to illustrate the hoodie-as-criminal argument, but I told Jose and the #EmergingUS team that I did not want to follow suit. I was concerned that using the photograph in this way lent validity to an insidiously racist theory, and that it visually re-inscribes and frames Martin as a criminal. I said that we should not be doing that here. We should be disrupting this framing of Black boys and men as criminals, not perpetuating it. I also thought about Trayvon’s parents. How many times have they seen their son’s image used in this way? He was a victim of violence, not the perpetrator of it, yet his image was being used repeatedly as an example of what violent criminality looks like. I chose, instead, to leave O’Reilly in full view as he spoke, employing his “gangsta” accent for full effect.
During our time together, Patrisse, Alicia and Opal shared their visions of justice, participatory democracy, caring economies, creating safe communities, and “centering from the margins.” Sprinkled throughout was playful chitchat and laughter, made possible by a sense of familiarity despite having just met. An interview that was supposed to be about an hour turned into an intimate and deep-dive conversation that continued for over two, all the while sitting under hot lights and on wooden stools.
During a break, the women compared our conversation to other interviews they’d done. Patrisse joked about having been “interrogated” by others, and that our conversation was more about “telling our stories…actually caring…actually listening…” That’s the difference that telling our own stories can make.
