Regardless of which network or publication you first received the news from, you likely never once heard or read the word racist.By Indigo Following the 2016 election, ABC Entertainment reevaluated its strategy in hopes of connecting with a demographic the network believes it left behind: the (white) working class. In pursuit of winning over working-class Americans, ABC rebooted “Roseanne”. 18.2 million viewers tuned in to watch the debut of the reboot back in March. Three days after the show’s premiere, ABC renewed the show for 13 more episodes. Critics raved about “Roseanne”, writing that working class families finally have media representation. No, seriously. The “Roseanne” high was short-lived. Last week, ABC Entertainment president, Channing Dungey released a statement announcing that the show had been cancelled and Barr was fired. The reason for the highly anticipated reboot’s cancellation depends on where you first heard the news. If you first heard it from The Hill, you probably read that a “racially charged ‘bad joke’ about Valerie Jarrett” led to the show’s cancellation. If you came across the announcement while tuning into E! News, the show’s cancellation came after a “racially charged tweet [sparked] outrage”. If you regularly read The Guardian, ABC Entertainment cancelled “Roseanne” after some “‘abhorrent’ tweets”. If Barr broke the news to you herself, an Ambien-induced rant at 2 AM led to the show’s cancellation and her firing. Regardless of which network or publication you first received the news from, you likely never once heard or read the word racist. Each time a headline with one of, or a combination of phrases such as “racially charged”, “culturally insensitive remark” or “controversial joke”, appears on my Twitter timeline, I’m reminded that I am expected to report blatant and violent racism as “racially charged jokes” or “culturally insensitive comments”. I’m reminded that I am only valuable in a newsroom if I can remove my Blackness from my perspective so that I can pretend that white supremacy isn’t life-threatening on a daily basis.
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Despite the ongoing trauma I've experienced and the toxic things I've had to unlearn, I wouldn't trade being Blasian for anything.Until recently, I thought that being a biracial Black and Asian person was no big deal. I look Black and was always closer to my African American dad than my Vietnamese mom, so I thought that nullified my biracial heritage somehow. However, certain experiences, new stories, and media have reminded me that no matter how Black I appear to be, I will always be Blasian. The very first time I became aware of how my ethnicity affected me was when I was asked what my race was on a form when I was in elementary school. Ten to twenty years ago, official documents didn't give you the option to say that you were multiracial or choose more than one race. I remember being a little confused because I knew my skin was Black, but both my parents weren't. In the end, I chose "Black" and sometimes I still just choose "Black" when I think my ethnicity is too complicated for others to understand. Growing up in an interracial household meant that I was being exposed to bits of two different cultures and sometimes seeing them come together. Lunch and dinner meals would sometimes be Vietnamese foods like fried rice, fried spring rolls, and meat, hard-boiled eggs, and rice in a brown sauce. When my dad was alive, the house would be permeated with his deep, booming voice as he talked loudly on the phone to his siblings in Troy, Alabama. Occasionally, I'd hear old-school R&B music playing from his computer and in his truck when I would ride with him. Since I was closer to my dad, he planted the seeds for what would eventually become pride in my Blackness. Through music, radio, and television, we developed a special bond that involved us listening to music and the Tom Joyner's morning radio show when he took me to school. In the evenings, we would watch the news followed by game shows like Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. Through these things, he instilled in me values of intelligence, news awareness, and artistic appreciation that stayed with me long after he passed.
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My pain is real and the medical system is broken, misogynoir is more pervasive than what is generally perceived, and Black women deserve to been seen.By Jazmine Joyner I was an antisocial 7th grader who wanted nothing more than to read books and watch movies. Being the new kid at my middle school, I had no friends and spent most of my days in the library reading “Fear Street” books. My closest friend was the librarian Mrs. Stanley, a tiny white woman with coke bottle glasses and a blonde pageboy haircut. I would eat lunch with her in that library, talk about books, and what I was learning in class. I felt truly invisible in my school and in an effort to appease my father (who loved sports and thought I should try out for some) and to make some friends, I tried out for the track and field team. Practices would start off with running and conditioning, something I particularly hated. Cardio has never been my strong suit, and back then I struggled to even finish a mile. It was during one of my first practices that I felt a sharp throbbing pain in my lower left abdomen. It felt like I was being burned and stabbed at the same time—it took the breath from my lungs.The pain would often show up as soon as I started running and I would fall to my knees on that dead grass, gasping for air and holding my side. I told my coach about the pain I was experiencing, and she said to me it was just cramps. I had recently started having periods so I had no idea what was right and what was wrong when it came to menstrual pain. So when she said it was cramps I just took her word for it, she had to have been right. Right? Turns out she was so very wrong. The pain just got worse and it wasn’t just when I ran or was physically active, it happened all day, every day. I would stand up to go to my next class and the razor blade like “cramp” would spring to life and send me abruptly back down into my seat. I would walk in between passing periods bent over like a praying mantis, clenching my teeth, sweating like crazy, trying my hardest to get through the day. I went to see my doctor and when I voiced my concerns that the cramps where constant even when I wasn’t on my period, she told me that I was overreacting and that it was normal. So I took Motrin and continued to push through the daily pain. One night I woke up vomiting, the cramps had reached a level I can only describe as full blown labor contractions (which I later learned was very similar, if not worse to the end stages of contractions). I was crying, rocking, and folded like a lawn chair. I couldn’t keep anything down. I was bleeding through every pad and tampon I put on, and I can remember thinking I was dying, that this was it I was going to bleed to death and die. I built up the strength to hobble to my mother's room. It was around 3:00 am, and I was the only one who was awake in the house. I knocked on her door, walked in, and she took one look at me and leapt out of bed.
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