Black Folk Be Tacky
and why I love it
“Imma call you the shoe bandit.”
-my mom referencing my loud-ass KD’s I wore religiously in middle school. she said don’t even think about committing crime ‘cause I would get clocked in a lineup so quick from the shoes alone.
Tacky Black folk remind me to take up space.
I say ‘tacky’ with reverence. Bright, bold colors, polarizing silhouettes, or the opulent skin of some animal. Whether fitting super loose or skin tight, our aesthetic North Star is in praise of the body. The miracle of existing in this moment, in this body. Toni Morrison gave a loving critique of the “Black is Beautiful” movement less because of the focus on looking good and more on the belief that looking good was ever enough. When I celebrate this insistence on being acknowledged as somebody, I am transported to the muggy landscape of Morrison’s Beloved:
“In this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don't love your eyes; they'd just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them. Raise them up and kiss them. Touch others with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face 'cause they don't love that either. You got to love it, you! And no, they ain't in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there, they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream from it they do not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give you leavins instead. No, they don't love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I'm talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support; shoulders that need arms, strong arms I'm telling you. And O my people, out yonder, hear me, they do not love your neck unnoosed and straight. So love your neck; put a hand on it, grace it, stroke it and hold it up. and all your inside parts that they'd just as soon slop for hogs, you got to love them. The dark, dark liver--love it, love it and the beat and beating heart, love that too. More than eyes or feet. More than lungs that have yet to draw free air. More than your life-holding womb and your life-giving private parts, hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize.”
What I am attempting to uplift is the beauty of persistence ever-present in Black American culture, especially in the South.
Stuntin’ on ‘em.
Doing the most.
When I learned about cultural expression literally being stripped and shaven from the bodies of enslaved Africans during the Transatlantic Slave Trade, I didn’t have my current capacity to hold the absolute depravity of that practice. Culture is essentially how a group of people do life together. A repository of rituals, cosmologies, standards of intelligence, artistic expression, social practices, etc. that sustain a people through the inevitable hardships of being alive. Stories of survival, heartbreak, laughter, and love descending through the tongue create refuge and a launchpad when life presents more questions than answers.
A few weeks ago, my friend and I watched a documentary showcasing the origins and contributions of the iconic Alpha Kappa Alpha sorority. My friend comes from a long lineage of AKA’s and I, not coming from a family embedded in Divine 9 culture, was so curious about what makes such a formidable organization this influential for so long. I found myself a fan of the prioritization of creating a group of highly educated Black women in a country that at one point banned said group from learning to read at all. The necessity of education as a pathway to autonomy, along with the featured interviews of many an accomplished Black woman were affirming, but it was one of my friend’s side comments that tickled me: the colors salmon pink and apple green are loud. And what could have remained a funny throwaway comment ended up sticking with me for the following weeks. I started thinking of gaudy ways in which folk in my life expressed themselves: my Granny’s glistening gold tooth, my Aunt Frances’ Atlanta-based hair salon experimenting with sky-high styles, my accountant mother’s gold hoops peeking through her Auburn hair as she strutted into her corporate office, and my MawMaw’s purse showcasing the First Black Family in their inaugural glory. What unites them all is audacity. These cultural signifiers are magnified on the Black body as a site of veneration for the ancestors whose tangible brilliance was snuffed.
I also want to be transparent about the risks of being loud. Yes, you are a beacon for someone to refract their own image off of, but you also become a target. Those of us who are the loudest in expression are often the first to be denigrated when cultural tides shift. This phenomenon makes me think of Dr. Koritha Mitchell’s coined phrase “know-your-place” aggression. That violence is amplified in response to improved, not weakened, material conditions amongst marginalized groups of people, and that is what scares me sometimes. By my nature (and nurture, chile), I am someone who fawns in the face of confrontation. I don’t like yelling, raised voices, or unnecessary rudeness as a way of resolving tension. I lean into firm diplomacy until I have no choice but to tell somebody about themself. Resolving tension was a way of regulating my nervous system in sometimes harmful situations, but what I learn time and time again is that sometimes, violence can’t be evaded through social graces. Sometimes I need a firm “try me and see what happens” to protect myself. Do not let this beaming smile and swish in my hips fool you. I get ugly when needed. So style is that for me, a language for communicating my grace and grit. My way of declaring that damn it, I AM SOMEBODY.
Refusing to apologize for taking up space in a body rendered socially dead is necessary for folk who want to keep living. Refusing to be made invisible in a world that wants you erased is tacky, so be that. Divorce your mind from ‘tacky’ as merely visual and implement its behavioral capabilities. The look must be informed by an intangible understanding, not an act of Narcissus cosplay. Heavy is the mouth that wears the grill.
softly,
dev<3