“This Little Light of Mine: Performing the Visual Economy of Black girlhood”
by Lashon Daley
“The story of shine…is not confined to a study of the African diaspora but is an assessment of and a reflection on processes of consumer culture, capitalism, and the modern more broadly: their aesthetic, political, and social effects and their often unrecognized perils.”
-Krista Thompson, “Shine”
A young Black girl shines: bright starched white dress, white hair bow, white socks, and white sneakers juxtaposed against her dark illuminating skin. She is dressed in her Sunday best. A public display of girlhood and normative femininity. Her back is straightened in confidence. Her eyes are focused forward. There is no struggle here — no hesitancy. She knows where she is going. In motion, her right arm swings forward as she keeps in step (or perhaps in line) with the two deputy U.S. marshals walking in front of her. Despite her petite stature, she is able to match their strides; her right foot poised — heel, toe. An aura circles her thoughts.
The young Black girl is ready for school: ruler, pencils, book, and a notebook in hand. Public education is made to be her saving grace. Her left hand clutches tightly onto a falling ruler. Today she’s receiving a different type of education. In 1963, learning was brutal.
A second set of deputy U.S. marshals walk a few paces behind her — approaching. A battered tomato along the back wall demonstrates that she is not as protected as one may think. The crumpled tomato is scattered in various places, but it is the stain splattered a few inches from the top of her head that speaks to a violence outside of the painting’s frame. Along the wall’s fold, edge, and onto the sidewalk the tomato’s battered body is left on display. A reminder, a warning.
Whoever threw the tomato has a good arm.
The letters “NIGGER” are spray painted along the back wall. They are scripted in capitals letters inches above the Black girl’s head. The letters were seemingly scrubbed off instead of painted over like graffiti often is. Each letter is traced with permanent social residue. At the forefront of the painting, the letters “KKK” are also scripted on to the wall. How can three of the same letters consecutively written hold so much power? Is signification merely an illusion?
The guards are headless, faceless. Powerless? Their bodies also in motion, pants creased at the knees and elbows. Their arms sway with more fervor than their strides imply. They are not ready for school. No supplies to get them through the day. Just arm badges, metal badges, wedding rings, and shiny black shoes — white man’s bling. In one guard’s jacket pocket is a wrinkle-free paper. Is it a warrant or a declaration giving him, these officers, and this young Black girl permission to be going where they are going?
A proverbial hall pass because in 1963, learning for a young Black girl was brutal.
Two Black girls identically dressed and identically staged for Norman Rockwell’s 1963 painting, “The Problem We All Live With.” Their bodies still, yet simulating motion. Their feet propped up unnaturally on wooden planks. Heads held high, eyes focused forward.
A side-eye glance.
Black and white photos enhance their dark skin, and the lightness and whiteness of their clothing. Two pristine white dresses; two sets of white shoes, socks, and bows. Held in the left hand of each girl is a lunchbox, two pencils, a notebook, and a book.
One: an arm reaches into the frame. Her grandfather positioning her just right.
Two: her right arm peeks around her dress, feigned motion.
Three: her right hand barely visible.
Model students; model citizens.
Center: a Black girl walking down cement steps in the morning light of day. 9:43 a.m. Her head is lowered as she gazes towards the unknown. In her right hand is a sack, a briefcase. At six years old, she is a young business woman, a young civil rights activist. Her dress is dark, but not as dark as her skin or as black of her shoes.
This grainy black and white photograph is a metaphor for America’s racial binary.
Downstage left: He looks out into the distance. He wears no hat to shade his eyes (or to cover his face). What does he see out there in the horizon? His arms sway from the momentum of his steps. His tie pin and metal badge reflect the sun. His stance permanently fixed in contrapposto.
Left center: An arm badge encircles his left arm like a blood pressure cuff. “DEPUTY US Marshal” made visible to establish his rank. The hat does not shield his eyes from sunray. His eyebrows are furrowed with intensity.
Upstage left: A policeman grins as he stands behind the door, inside the building — shielded. Protecting what? Serving what?
Upstage right: A man with sunglasses. Only his face is visible cast half in shadow, half in light. His smile is unnerving.
Right off-center: He body towers over the young Black girl. His head is titled downward. Watching her? Watching his step? Shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare?
This young Black girl’s body, positioned between these five white men, shrinks her size and her framing. Five men: four labeled, one unknown. Visible faces and comfortable strides. Determined. Smiles. No one is in sync or in step. Each man walks or stands on his own accord.
The background structure — the newly integrated school — borders the photo. The light-colored concrete contrasts the Black girl’s dark skin and the men’s dark suits, but not their skin.
The sun shines towards all of their bodies, casting shadows towards the back of the steps and along the building. The Black girl’s shadow is unidentifiable. It is either too small or has morphed into the shadow of the men walking before and behind her.
The Black girl’s mouth is agape perhaps because of breathing, perhaps she is speaking. Either way the spotlight is on her.
At 9:43 a.m. where is she going? Why is she walking away from the school? What transpired behind those doors? What is just outside of this frame? What kinds of sounds is she hearing? Who is out there waiting for her?
Why does she look so alone?
