How “Surviving R. Kelly” Exposes The Depth of Societal Ire Towards Black Women
Black men help to fuel our pain
Spoilers and graphic content
There are no words to describe the mental hurt that overwhelmed during and after taking in the truths from Lifetime’s stunner — Surviving R. Kelly.
Culture curator, executive producer and showrunner of the explosive docu-series — dream hampton, has been on a long-term mission, and the resultant is a graphically brutal exposé that shreds its infamous villain to pieces.
We definitely needed the bravery of hampton and her diligently passionate crew to propel the realization of a project that’s swimming in controversy and the weightiness of outright betrayal by the industry-at-large.
As an observer and consumer, there’s a sickening comprehension of how all those red flags weren’t flapping without the winds of inappropriateness.
The nineties and early aughts were overflowing with rumors and sights of how powerful men with the authority of limitless access and the mandated lips sewn shut for extra measure — could overrun and override the law of decency that’s meant to protect the disposition of vulnerable girls with active dreams.
The disposability and dismemberment of bodies and souls that are attached to Black women is a negligent sport with major players and cowardly referees — who helped to facilitate this methodical glitch in a system that was implemented for epic destruction that will last our lifetime.
How many of us were weirded out at the collaboration between R. Kelly and an impressionable and talented teenager who sang her heart out about how “Age Ain’t Nothing but a Number,” without the eye roll or raised eyebrows of the adults in her midst?
How were her parents willing to allow their precious daughter to be ravaged by a demonic predator — who robbed her of those vital years of self-discovery that shouldn’t ever be manipulated by the wiles of a wild animal on the prowl?
Finding out about the marriage between an underaged girl and a grown ass man who forced his victims to play the roles he dictated for his benefit and protection was revolting and defeating.
Listening to the tearful testimonies of Black girls who has been traitorously sold into slavery under the glam and glory of record deals and the superstardom that knows no bounds — was a triggering reminder of how the powerful and wealthy are given a different set of rules — that are never challenged until the culture undergoes an unexpected renaissance.
The #MeToo and Time’s Up initiatives were activated after decades of accumulated ammunition exposed the diseased mechanisms of the Hollywood machine — and the overfed moguls that thrived with pleasure on the basis of the torment levied on their prey.
When we got bombarded with headlines about hip-hop royalty being wedded to teenage models, we simply shrugged away with casual uneasiness of those implications — and accepted the problematic consequences of a nefariously unruly climate.
Russell Simmons followed the rule book of his prominently positioned predecessors who only have an appetite for the very young and barely-Black ingenues.
Quincy Jones gave an in depth interview not too long ago where he shared the typical items on his lustful platter, that consisted of young White girls who he used as leverage against White males.
Jones believed that his preference for Whiteness was the key to overall success, and the irrefutable evidence that he was worthy of respect without the limitations that would ordinarily be assigned to his station.
His youngest conquest may have been Ivanka Trump; who knows, and who cares!
Thirty-five-year-old Russell Simmons literally had to patiently wait for Kimora to graduate from high school before he could wife her. Beloved comedian Jerry Seinfeld was about to turn forty when his high school girlfriend Shoshanna was being touted by the press as his wife-in-waiting.
It was hard not to be fascinated by how the media propped these young girls as the ultimate prize for men who can afford to destroy anything in their path for the purpose of egos and delightful excess.
And that practice of celebrity worship and allowing the rich and famous to do whatever they desire, makes way for the level of deplorability, that recruits a cold-hearted momager to sign off the sexualization of her underage daughter. The purpose is for her to attract the attention of a famous rapper for brief storylines, and the the line of lipgloss that will solidify billion dollar status.
Middle-aged editors task their Millennial editorial staff to grab the images and supply the captions that prove how Kylie is living her #bestlife with her implanted lips, butt and hips, with the loving glance of Apple Beats rotation artists — all before she turns the golden age of eighteen.
We enable these behavioral deficiencies because of the fame and fortune that glazed over the dust that settles, but doesn’t cause the allergic reaction that should haunt humans with common sense.
But White pain and suffering is always centered with dramatic tendencies that demand immediate revision with compensation under the guidance of societal penance.
Black pain is on display for entertainment purposes and viral profitability.
Despite Tarana Burke’s ambitious and thoughtful quest that began in 2006 after a personal experience inspired the genesis of MeToo — it was a White actress who initiated the trending hashtag — and major outlets still associate Alyssa Milano with a privilege she didn’t earn.
Just like actress and Girls creator Lena Dunham tried to align herself with hardworking comrades who opened the doors to Time’s Up with little or no assistance from the self-proclaimed White feminist.
When it comes to the societal ire towards Black girls and women — we can blame a plethora of things and people for the rejection we suffer over and over again.
After watching the first half of Surviving R. Kelly, and internalizing the unsightly wounds of survivors, who will live the rest of their lives in intense recovery — there was a mental homage to the likes of Tyler Perry.
Perry is the classic Black man with enviable success, that creates the formidable path to the ordained crucification of Black women under the ever-dependable guise of entertainment.
We enabled the false narrative of how our “anger” gifts us the ability to overcome the unfathomable with superhuman endurance that births the clever clap backs — and ease of nonchalance that gives Black men permission to be shitty enough to guiltlessly fuck us over.
Tyler Perry amassed a fortune producing utter garbage about the “Angry Black Woman” and the Black men who make her angry enough to angrily strike back.
When you have a successful Black filmmaker churning out this nonsense with box office gold — it basically endorses those damning themes of how Black women are pathetically pathetic enough to be righteously abandoned by those who are meant to adore the very ground we walk on.
White women have an unlimited library of cinematic hits that uplift their worth with the award-winning synopsis that centers on the guys of all hues, who fuck up and then work hard as fuck to win back what they lost.
The damage of Perry’s vault of trash definitely did more harm than good, and whether he owns it or not — he helped to finesse the public opinion of how Black women deserve to die at the hands of bullish males, who aren’t hesitant to abuse and demean our station.
There’s also the general sentiment of how our pain doesn’t qualify in the realm of investigative pursuits, and the valiant endeavor to uncover the allergen that has caused such violence.
While putting together what has turned out to be the scandal of our lifetime on Lifetime — dream hampton and her angelic helpers tried to get the big names to appear on film as valuable contributors for a cause much bigger than guarded reputations.
A shitload of them refused to speak on what they’re also guilty of — to some degree.
But Chance the Rapper has been vocal about his ill-advised affiliation with a sexual predator, who he worked with even after the rap sheet on R. Kelly was miles and miles long.
The Chicago-born rapper is repentant, and opened up about what inspired his inexcusable decision to brush away the proof of what his collaborator had wrought on the lives of Black girls in the industry that made him rich.
Maybe I didn’t care because I didn’t value the accusers’ stories because they were black women. Usually, niggas that get in trouble for shit like this on their magnitude of celebrity, it’s light-skinned women or white women.
At just twenty-five, Chance the Rapper has expertly assessed the landscape of dysfunction, that birthed the fatal notion of how raping a Black girl isn’t nearly as troublesome as exacting that same treatment on the fragility and purity of White girls, or girls that are as close to that aesthetic as possible.
Jay Z & Co. don’t want to be bothered by the duress of having to submit to the ultimate test of their steadfast allegiance to the very women they used as references, to boost the bass and verses that currently sustains their illustrious statuses.
Bitches and hoes with dark skin are only viable when the rhymes have to add layers for players who like to play with the hottest chick in the game, as long as she’s light enough to avoid the less than honorable reception afforded to her demonized counterparts.
Of course Black women are the ones who are most incensed by the docu-series while most Black men who’ve been Trapped In The Closet under scandalous circumstances — seriously question the behind-the-scenes ploys, that seem to always hold their brothers accountable for shit that White criminals are able to commit without issue.
Misogynistic tendencies cripple the ability for Black men with influence to step up and denounce the obvious tragedy of how the industry that blessed them, also cursed innocent lives without justice on the horizon.
R. Kelly isn’t paying for what he did and he may never have to atone for his evil deeds in the manner that befits a roving bastard, who likes to fuck girls who are too young to grasp what they’re engaged in.
The disgusting Black men who champion the efforts of those who fought against the grand reveal on the rhetoric of how Black men are unfairly punished by society’s obsession with their ceremonial downfall — will have to suffer through the season of reckoning that won’t be denied.
It’s breathtaking to be gripped by all the crowded signs of how Black women are easily disposable by those who have been tarnished by the symptoms of White supremacy.
Surviving R. Kelly is a terrifically sobering journey into the bowels of congestion, that won’t stop erupting until the fits of injustice are stabilized with the recognition of how women that resemble my template have been held hostage long enough.
The days of eyes wide shut are over.
Those who refuse the offer to do the right thing regardless of minor repercussions are indicted in the court of opinion. You can’t eat your cake and have it too. You can’t be defectors who ask Nice For What? When you’re forever bonded to Mob Ties.
We are taking notes, and so far the scores are not encouraging. The Black women who are loyal to predators are also on the stupidly long shit list.
You can drag us though the aisles of diners or pounce at us across the counters of fast food hubs — and even brutally separate us from our babies — but the one line that can’t be crossed out is the love we have for each other and how that sisterhood will continue to insulate our mission statement.
Fuck all those who did what needed to be done to ruin the lives that won’t be repaired.
You may not have provided the dick but you did fund those events and hopefully the losses will flow sooner rather than later.
In the meantime the mantra of living to survive takes on an even more dire meaning.