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The Burning Truth: Thoughts As I Watch My City On Fire
Posted on January 13, 2025 by Britt Oates
I405 Freeway N/S bound near Getty Center. (Taken 1/10/25 Credit: Patrick T. Fallon/AFP/Getty Images; cnn.com)
I can remember driving down the I405 freeway often, chuckling and shaking my head as I’d spot little poofs of flames seemingly randomly igniting along the Skirball, Getty, Sunset stretch. Another dumb ass fire. Anywhere else this would cause a massive panic, but here, in Michael Bay-ey, Steven Spielberg-ey, La La Land we just drive by without thinking twice. Always assuming (hoping) they’d (local emergency response) hurry up and get to them quickly and put them out, but without fail, each time was an almost secret ritualistic moment consisting of a sweet and sour inside joke between my city and I.
I don’t recall those particular little poofs ever becoming monster wildfires. I imagine because they sit at the base of those perfectly crafted bossoms of the Santa Monica Mountains along with us on the 405 happily splitting her further down the middle with each pass. Perhaps too much smog and not enough natural wind and oxygen exist at that position to propel its flames and embers with enough violence to awaken a flaming beast like the Palisades or Eaton Fires. But I am no meteorologist nor a Certified Fire Investigator, just a girl from LA - all of LA - with a bit of intelligence and common sense, in complete awe as I watch my city burning to the ground on the news from 3000 miles away. And as I witness on FaceTime with my son while he and my mom evacuate their neighborhood with, at one point, an Armageddon sky as their 270 degree backdrop racing down my old friend, 405 in the nick of time. I do nothing but helplessly watch from the other side of a screen, on the other side of the country, ironically frozen in snow and fear for the family I left behind 2 years ago, wishing I was there, if for no other reason, to at least hug them and navigate them to safety myself.
Fire.mp4My son's cell phone video footage from the I405 freeway as he passed by the Palisades Fire after receiving evacuation order - 1/10/25
It Ain’t a F***ing Movie!
I have quickly become frustrated, furious in fact, with the media coverage of this calamity. I feel stuck in an intense push-pull between sorrow and righteous indignation on behalf of my city. Not the red carpet, tinseltown, glammed up Palm trees and sunsets on the beach Hollywood version of LA, but my Los Angeles. The Los Angeles that’s made up of an unsung cultural seasoning of hard-working people without whom tinseltown as we know it would not exist.
In a five minute span I see reporters stopping families for interviews as they attempt to enter emergency shelters. The stinging light of their news cameras piercing the eyes of crying children who were just forced to flee for their lives now forced to show their frightened, soot-kissed faces to the world.
Cut to earlier recorded footage of the National Guard in-formation preparing to prevent looters from pillaging evacuated but still-standing neighborhoods of value.
Cut to an onsite interview of a man crying because he just found out he lost his sister in the fire.
Cut to an onsite interview of a man worried about leaving his Italian Sports Car behind in his Hollywood Hills neighborhood under emergency evacuation.
Cut to live footage from the news chopper of someone’s home collapsing as long, angry flames dance wild and unhinged all around it. The correspondent said it was a “spectacular sight!” (“Spectacular” is not the word I would use to describe someone's memories literally going up in flames, but that’s just me).
Cut to commercial break, but not before a quick 30-second dramatic reel of latest clips of the “California Wildfire Coverage”, in 5K HD! I thought I was watching the trailer to a new James Cameron film, sure to be a Blockbuster hit:
Structure engulfed in flames dropping to the ground in just-sniped Call of Duty slow motion replay style
Helicopter water drop 1
Drone scan of neighborhood completely leveled and turned to ashes
Helicopter water drop 2
Nighttime aerial shot of flaming landscape that looks like an erupting volcano
Helicopter water drop 3
and, scene!
Finding myself wrapped in spectacle, I started to become angry as I watched on. Recalling the pre-existing problem with unhoused residents across the whole of Los Angeles county, I began to wonder why no one was talking about who was helping them. A tent on the street is no match for 60-80 mph winds with flaming embers and hot ash falling out of the sky. While pop-up shelters for pets get news coverage, no one questions whether the unhoused individuals out of these now leveled communities with no means of transportation (many already cast aside for lack of space in community shelters), are receiving help as well. Did they even get out in time?
Don’t get me wrong, I have caught brief coverage of pop-up community donation and food service sites established by neighboring community members (not by the city or county) as a beautiful demonstration that true Angelenos will always band together in times of crisis. That has offered some sense of personal hope for humanity I suppose, but the way the media is Hunger Games propro-style presenting the very real horror of this unprecedented catastrophe, by exploiting the vulnerability of victims and click baiting viewers with digitally orchestrated action-adventure movie teaser footage is plain old shameful.
The Reality Check No One Wants to Hear
My mom and son were luckily able to go back home after 24 hours, as emergency responders were able to get containment of the fire burning closest to their neighborhood and some containment of the fire that would have trapped them in the valley should it had spread any further. I can’t help but think about the families who won’t have a home to go back to, especially those of the predominantly Black and Brown communities now reduced to ash and rubble, who (as we’ve seen happen far too many times throughout American history - coincidence?) will be forever displaced due to economic disparities preventing them from being able to rebuild the homes their families have worked hard to hold on to for generations.
We remain on alert as the Santa Ana winds continue to dance around greater Los Angeles, unapologetically entangled in some twisted Fox Trot of fluctuating intensity, and we are forced to be mere spectators on the sidelines of Mother Nature’s talent show and nothing more.
A point I was remiss to include in my earlier recap of the exploitative display of media coverage of the wildfires was one of disgust over the consistent politicalization of this disaster. While people flee for their lives, politicians are pointing fingers at one another as reporters fan the political fire (no pun intended) with questions about meaningless antagonistic comments from the President-Elect, taking much needed attention away from saving lives. This is not the time to play a silly blame game, rather it’s the time to get real. While mayors, governors, senators, and presidents argue over who screwed up what, and how much money to provide for ill prioritized resources with the goal of rebuilding - in some haughty display of quasi conquest over nature - we ignore the real lesson she is teaching us. We are no match for her.
Our Indigenous brothers and sisters know this all too well and have long understood the difference between living on the land and living with the land, and with the land, comes a mutual responsibility to protect it. Coexistence with nature is a foreign concept to the average contemporary human American it seems. We quickly forget that the hilltop house with the stunning ocean view we’ve always envisioned living in might not be suitable for a drought prone, mud slidey, flash floody landscape, that sits on the volatile border of harsh desert, and cold Pacific Ocean climates. And so we build our mansions on the high and dry hilltops, in a “hard work pays off” showy display of power and status, only to find ourselves toe-to-toe with and at the mercy of Mother Nature’s raging annual biological reset, with the audacity to be surprised at her devastation.
This is in no way meant to diminish the pain and great loss this catastrophe has caused to all who have been and will continue to be impacted by this year’s California Wildfire season, regardless of economic class, zip code, or ethnic background. Fear, pain, and suffering cannot be sorted into levels of value and validity. Humans are the most adaptable, and one of the most resilient mammalian species on the planet. At the same time, we are fickle minded to the point of insanity in how we consistently neglect the fact that because we are not taking care of our planet (living with her rather than on her), we’ll soon have nothing left to adapt to.
As we look ahead to what comes next when the bounce-back begins, I pray we do better. I pray we remember that the Earth tells us how to live with her (and therefore love her) if we just take a moment to listen. And she will in turn love us back. I pray we use logic to dictate re-establishing equitable and sustainable communities in ways and in places that generate harmony between us and the land around us. I pray the bonds built through disaster serve as the catalyst for reigniting and maintaining our sense of community for generations to come. And most of all, I pray that some dormant but all powerful collective sense of humanity will one day awaken with such strength that it will outweigh political and economic ambition, enough so that we no longer have to question and criticize our ability to overcome disaster, let alone the disparaging categorization of who and what land and property is worthy of rescue.
Godspeed LA…
Hip Hop is Life!
Happy 50th Birthday Hip Hop
Posted on September 22, 2023 by Britt Oates
“I said-a hip, hop, the hippie, the hippie to the hip hip hop-a you don't stop the rock it to the bang-bang boogie, say up jump the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat…”
The moment those words broke through the sound barrier and touched the atmospheric spaces around any living creature with the ability to absorb them, the world changed forever. At the time, no one knew their true power and potential, but the Sugar Hill Gang made Rapper’s Delight Hip Hop's forever anthem and a cultural beacon of unity for the hopeless, the down-trodden, the misfits, and the well-to-do’s alike. Like so many others, this was my introduction to the greatest life I would ever live, the life that is Hip Hop.
But this post is not a Hip Hop history lesson, nor is it a cherry-picked curation of Hip Hop’s greatest hits. This is a story of the power of culture when it is built upon the crossroads of love and pain. It is a story of survival and resilience and the ability to positively impact the entire world, unintentionally yet unapologetically, with a kind of raw energy unlike anything else that exists. It’s hard to believe that Hip Hop is only 50 years old because it has transcended space and time as a conglomeration of ancient drums, futuristic soundscapes, and timeless resonances, verbalized and gestured, danced and sung across endless timelines.
More Than Music
I wish I could have been there. Even if just passing by, strolling down the block as Kool Herc allowed the unknown and the unsure beauty of melodious bumps, horns, strings, scratched and twisted ever so slightly under his finger tips, to manifest through him - a prophetic tale being told to the masses. That day in August of 1973, Hip Hop was born out of broken neighborhoods, broken spirits, but an unbroken fever to simply live in our own skin with joy.
Some would say it began as a fad, but now we know it was meant to be. And over the next 50 years Hip Hop served and continues to serve as a catalyst for change, an amp for the voiceless, and a rallying cry for Black personhood and place. When Grand Master Flash and the Furious Five said, “Don’t push me cause I’m close to the edge…” every Black man, woman, and child rose up and replied “I’m trying not to lose my head..” and together we shouted, “It’s like a jungle sometimes it makes me wonder how I keep from going under…” It was our contemporary negro spiritual.
When Public Enemy said “Fight the power!” we did. Their militant steelo gave us the courage and righteous indignation we needed to survive the police brutality and political warfare, unprovoked but that had still been waged against us since Freedom Day 1865. They reinvigorated us, evoking the spirits of Huey P and Fred Hampton to lead the charge against oppression. Even Flava Flav’s outlandish persona, though seemingly a misfit, allowed us to maintain a joyful tone in the midst of our fight, wearing his giant clock necklaces as a reminder of what time it is - our time.
From the teachings of Afrika Bambaataa, to KRS One, to Nas, to Tablib Kweli, and Common, Hip Hop educated us when society hid our history. The moment I would pop in that conscious rap mixtape, school was in session and nothing else mattered. We were taught of our royal lineages, our divine talents and minds. When society told us we were nothing, nor would ever be worthy of equality, we could turn to our teachers for the inspiration and truth we needed to keep going.
No matter the mood, Hip Hop is there for us. I can throw on some LL when I need some love. Some Pac when I need to cry out in fury followed by a sweet hug and a whisper that everything will be okay. A bit of Queen Latifah to empower me, and a splash of Lil Kim when I’m feeling as sexy as I want to be. Nothing like Lil Jon and the Eastside Boys to give me that twerk workout and Outkast to take me away to a distant galaxy. When I’m stressed from the hustle, E-40 and Too Short sing me a sweet lullaby. Snoop heals me when I’m missing home, and J. Cole has become my new best friend, knowing exactly what to say in any situation whether I’m up, down, and anything in between.
Hip Hop is our poetry slam, our caucus, our therapy, our fraternity and sorority, and our serenity. It speaks to and for everyone - the broken, the thug, the healer, the hustler, the optimist, the pimp, the lover, the gangster, the righteous, the angry, the heartbroken, the teacher, and the student.
U.N.I.T.Y
Though it began as an unintentional For-Us-By-Us movement, Hip Hop has always existed with open arms and an extended invitation to everyone. It never mattered where you were from or your ethnic background, if Hip Hop spoke to you, it welcomed you to speak back. Even as white America set out on a campaign to discredit and dismantle Hip Hop during the 80’s and 90’s, the children of white America ever embraced it. From Marky Mark and Vanilla Ice, to Eminem, Mac Miller, and Macklemore, Hip Hop could never discriminate. Rather, it has unified people of all ages, genders, and nationalities.
Today Hip Hop exists in every corner of the earth. B-boys and girls, emcees, dj’s, and beat boxers of all shapes, colors, and sizes can be spotted around the world blazing sidewalks and alleyways with Hip Hop sounds - from Eric B and Rakim, to Biz Markie and Dougie Fresh, to Kendrick Lamar and Jay Z - serenading the streets. Run DMC said “Walk this way,” and we in turn walked through neighborhoods around the globe, with those three Adidas stripes connecting us all.
Latifah’s U.N.I.T.Y was our hood Women’s Suffrage anthem, reminding everyone to respect the Black woman or face the consequences, and inspiring young girls like me to never be afraid to speak up, fight back, and demand respect. TLC blended R&B and Hip Hop that made us dance, laugh, cry, and feel empowered all at the same time. Lauryn Hill sang us to heaven and emcee’d us back to the ghetto with profound truths and a grace beyond measure.
Nearly any Hip Hop concert you attend today is filled with diverse audiences ready to rock with whoever is on stage as if taking in a pastor’s sermon and letting the Hip Hop spirit move through them. The 808 is the church organ and the lyrics are our holy scripture. And every so often one of the ministers comes off stage, moves through the crowd, and reaches out to heal members of the congregation, drenched in sweat and raw divinity. Even if we don’t resonate with every song, every artist, and every melody, through Hip Hop, we’ve found a way to resonate with each other anyway.
Whether because of the truth of the lyrics or the inescapable urge to move our body to the beat, we are unified with Hip Hop just as it has unified every musical inkling that has existed across time. Whether a disco or funk sample, a beating of an ancient African Djembe drum, or a chord from a classic Beethoven symphony, Hip Hop encompasses every aspect of our existence. It is now a universal language taught by the likes of Wu-Tang Clan spanning airways and sea ports from New York to Tokyo, and Snoop Dogg riding on a cloud of ganja smoke from LA to Amsterdam, to Jamaica and back.
Baggy pants, gold chains, grillz, track suits, sneakers, Kangols, bucket hats, beanies, Chucks and Dickies are our uniform. Graffiti our hieroglyphs, and a pen and pad our holy tablets hidden inside our very own Ark of the Covenant - the boombox. Any of these artifacts in any part of the world will be associated with anyone, living nearly any kind of life because Hip Hop is a reflection of it all. Hip Hop is the answer to any question, and the remedy to almost any ailment. It is in our commercials, our movies, our television shows. It is in the air and under the sea. Hip Hop is the epitome of global culture, born from the children of civilization’s cradle. Hip Hop is life.
Dear Mama:
A Love Letter to Black America from Afeni and Tupac Shakur
Posted on May 16, 2023 by Britt Oates
Behind the headlines, jail time, myths, and conspiracies… Behind the music, the gold chains, and court cases, a Black woman and her Black son sit in silence. After what feels like an eternity of internal questioning, strategizing, and visualizing sunsets of red, black, and green, they turn to face each other then giggle like children. They leave each other’s side for a while, maybe forever. She, setting fires along the journey and he, carrying hurricanes on his shoulders, cultivating and widening the path as he follows not far behind. They meet again only to say goodbye, fully aligned in healing, hope, and an unwavering mission of freedom realized. With tears in heart and molten lava in eyes, they take a final breath and sink into the seeds which they planted in the soil beneath them. As the soil dissipates, and seasons cycle through, even as the concreate is poured and dries, you can hear their whispers ever present, ever existing in the atmosphere. A sprout begins to grow, and soon a rose emerges from the concreate with the scent of a mother’s love and a son’s fury. We hear them, we see them, we are with them as they are with us. And we carry on in their memory, in their voices, and in their love for us and for each other. Their story is our story. We love them because they have only always loved us.
Dear Mama: The Saga of Afeni and Tupac Shakur is an intimate telling of a most precious love triangle. Not in the typical sense meaning romance, but a love triangle pure of heart, mind, and soul between mother, son, and Black people in America. From her profound leadership as a Black Panther, to his earthshaking ghetto poetry, Afeni and Tupac are 20th and even 21st century Black America’s symbols of enlightenment and deliverance.
He was a reflection of the strength, brilliance, and wisdom of the mother who raised him. From the way he understood and broke down oppression while smiling in the faces of white men and women, to the shear eruption of fierceness when he got wind of injustice, Tupac was born a freedom fighter. But of course he was, his mother, the late and great Afeni Shakur was a powerhouse freedom fighter herself. While in shackles, she carried a divinity that would become a profit. Because of Afeni, her teaching, her wisdom, her resolve for revolution, we were given the majesty, even if but for a fleeting moment in time, that is Tupac. But one sentiment that was most clear throughout each episode of this docuseries was that everything Afeni and Tupac did was because of love.
Underneath the canvas of propagation of scandal and violence surrounding the Black Panthers, were Black people organizing, strategizing, and taking real action to preserve our Black bodies and minds. Afeni was at the forefront. Her story is not just one of a Black woman dripping in bravery and resilience, but more so a history of pure, unapologetic Black love. Her story holds the same weight as that of Cleopatra, or Queen Nzinga. White society did its best to paint her as a villain, but we see her, especially now, as a goddess and mother to us all.
Afeni loved her son deeply, and Tupac loved her. Likely the most quoted line in his acclaimed song Dear Mama, “And even though you was a crack fiend Mama, you always was a Black Queen Mama…” was just one testament to the honor and respect he had for her. Even when she was at her worst, unable to keep carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, somehow young Pac understood her pain and struggle and loved her still. The love the two of them had for one another extended to the rest of us. Afeni fought for justice and freedom for all Black people, and Tupac carried the torch through his words, and generosity. His raw and unfiltered lyrical content and poetry was a sweet embrace for Black people, and a cracked and bloody mirror for society at large.
Tupac was our Malcom X, our living history taken long before he could receive his crown, yet just in time to change the world. We watched him victimized by police brutality, yet he continued speaking truth to power. We watched him become falsely accused and convicted of a crime he did not commit, and rather than crumble under the system, he used it as fuel for his most successful album All Eyez On Me, recorded and dropped only 2 weeks after he was released from prison. Every song on that album spoke to every Black man, woman, and child in ways white America would never understand. For them Tupac was angry and violent, but for us he was forging a new path to freedom via love and fire. When Tupac speaks, it is our call to prayer.
The Dear Mama docuseries lets us into the lives of Afeni and Tupac like never before seen, nor understood. Their story is painful, and beautiful, and tragic, and magical. It is deep and raw history, the kind our children will never be allowed to learn about in school, because it holds truths about Blackness and Black love, and American history in a way that ignites every emotion inside of us. Afeni and Tupac are our Black national treasures, and those of us living today are beyond fortunate to exist in the same world they once called their own. Their story is a love letter to us, and this is mine to them.
An American Dream Come True?
Posted on November 29, 2022 by Britt Oates
I haven’t written in quite some time now which has left a kind of void I can’t fully describe. Of course there have been major life changes which I’ve been adjusting to, a (very busy) new job, moving across the country and starting a new life just to name a couple. So clearly I’ve got some good excuses, but still, allowing these new aspects of life to consume me and keep me from the thing I find most therapeutic has left me a bit in the dumps. Finally though, I have stolen a moment for a much needed exhalation. This time, I’m breathing out thoughts about the intersection between life goals and dreams and hard-hitting realities.
I will circle back and talk about what led to my newest thoughts of surrealism in a moment, but I have to say that these thoughts have begun to consume my conscious mind in a way which has me questioning my very own integrity. I am standing at a crossroads, where anthropological thought, Blackness, and society interlock in an eye-opening way. I’ve been struggling with what this thing called the “American Dream” means - in general and to me personally. And if somehow I’m able to settle on a definition satisfying enough, whether achieving it is even possible. I mean, let’s face it, being Black in America has been no breeze (to put it as light as the skin of the colonizers), so it is almost impossible to embrace ideals meant to belong solely to Americans when I’m still not even seen as American according to many of the people who do embrace this concept.
Throughout history some of the most horrific acts against Black people have been in the name of patriotism. I am reminded of images I saw growing up of Klu Klux Klan rallies with American and Confederate flags displayed proudly. Uniforms with American flag patches on the sleeves were worn by law enforcement officials who beat peaceful protestors in the streets and blasted them with fire hoses during the Civil Rights movement, as well as the officers responsible for the unjust killings of George Floyd, Eric Garner, Sanda Bland, and countless others. Clearly, for myself, and many other Black people I’m sure, symbols representing America are not easily digested. They come with a kind of deep-rooted trauma caused by a deep-rooted hatred that continues today. Naturally, when attempting to define my “American Dream” I am met with a great deal of conflict. And yet, I dream on.
history.com
New Adventure!
In August 2022 I got a new gig - a career propelling gig in fact - which is the reason for my move to the East Coast. Now I am living in the incredible city of Washington, D.C. and could not be more excited for the journey! I’ve dreamed of living in this part of the country for years, surrounded by an almost anti-Hollywood, and highly socially conscious culture of people, where seasons are actualized rather than suggested, and fellow Black people move through the colonial architectured streets with a sense of belonging.
I am finally working in a dream role. I am an exhibit content developer at a non-profit organization that is building a new museum here in D.C., focusing on the creation and curation of exhibit experiences surrounding public health and medical research. Pretty dope right? Especially given the tumultuous road I’ve trekked for the last decade leading to this point. Sometimes I ask myself, was all the degradation, sacrifice, underestimation, racism, microaggressions, and debt worth it, just to get here?
So, I’ve now got the dream job, but it comes with a bit of an ironic caveat. The content I am creating in my new role is centered on supporting this thing called “the American Dream.” This concept of the “American Dream” has never been something I felt I could identify with (for many reasons including those which have already been established earlier in this post), and I’d be lying if I said I felt much different now. So why did I take this job? Could I be more concerned with what my career profile looks like on paper, and am therefore a sell-out? Or could my decision be deeper than that? And so, my internal conflict grows with intrigue.
Dreams vs. Reality
Upon deeper reflection, I realize that it’s never been about looking good on paper. I’ve had jobs that look good on paper before, but I was completely miserable from either the work or the management, but most of the time because of a combination of both. On the flip side, I’ve had jobs that didn’t look as good on paper but I absolutely loved because the work itself gave me joy and self value. After having built up so much experience working these sorts of jobs, I’ve learned to really embrace my self-worth and push hard to build a career doing what I love - making museum exhibits - but now with greater wisdom and gumption. I realize that taking my current job was about much more than a respected title and getting to move to one of my favorite cities. It’s about doing what I love to do in the face of the system that for so long made me believe I wasn’t good enough. Could this be the Black American Dream?
The challenge now however is more about the balance between personal, cultural, and professional integrity. I am confronting my personal feelings which are confronting cultural values, while confronting historically harmful tropes that simply cannot be avoided when talking about the American Dream. The American Dream, conceived by individuals who once considered people like me ⅗ of a human and have maintained this hateful thinking through the generations, perpetuating it time and time again, ie. Black Wall Street, Seneca Village, MOVE bombing, and many other incidents that we are never taught about in our history classes in school. But I have to admit, there is something really satisfying about the thought of creating a successful life as my unapologetically Black self, in spite of all the attempts made to thwart Black people’s ability and determination to happily thrive in this country. Some would say that this is part of the “American Dream,” to overcome obstacles and find success, but then, what is an obstacle?
The dictionary defines it as a “thing which blocks one’s way,” and when you stop and think about that, that means that it can be removed, destroyed, avoided, or pushed aside. Being Black in America is not an obstacle for Black people, but maybe it is seen as such by those who keep trying to, how can I put it, get us out of the way. We cannot undo being Black. We cannot remove our skin, or step outside of it. Being Black can never change for us. The real obstacle is the system in which we’ve become uncomfortably accustomed to living. This is something that can be removed, destroyed, sometimes avoided and pushed aside. This system that claims the American Dream encompasses equality for all, while destroying Black bodies (among others) left and right is the obstacle which needs to be removed. Sounds like an easy enough solution, but how to accomplish this is the big question those of us on the side of social justice are constantly grappling with, because let’s be real for a second, the people benefiting from the system are fighting to maintain it at the same time.
What Happens to a Dream Revised?
One way to look at this situation is that the only new thing about my life is a better job in a new location. The struggle for equality has always been my journey. As much as I wish for it, I cannot expect my employer to be fully aware of this life-long conflict between myself, as a Black woman, and the multitude of off-shooting obstacles perpetuated by our oppressive system. But therein lies the crux of the conflict.
I have grown tired of having to explain over and over again why I feel self-conscious and uncomfortable being the only Black person in the room, or on the team, or why that is the immediate thing I notice in the first place. I have grown tired of explaining why concepts as they stand, such as the “American Dream,” do not, and likely will never resonate with me. And further, despite the increased activism efforts and the corresponding increased attention and awareness of the truth behind those efforts, I find myself exasperated with still having to speak these truths to power, only for them to be quickly forgotten. But I recall the old saying in Black culture, “a closed mouth don’t get fed,” and remind myself that if I silence myself then I will be guilty of self starvation from the food which keeps my dreams alive, the food that keeps me alive. And this extends even beyond me. By speaking openly about the conflicts that continue to plague us, keeping us segregated even under the umbrella of concepts such as the American Dream that claim to be accessible to all people, eventually the bureaucratic powers that be will start to listen and eventually still, do something good about it. Possibly another facet of the Black American Dream.
So what does this mean for me and my dreams? Often it feels as though the further along I get on the path to achieving my dreams, the more complex and conflicting it gets. At times, part of me wants to drastically switch to a life off the grid, away from the rat race, the hussle, and the seemingly unbreakable stronghold of this country’s oppression-rooted systemic function. I sometimes can't help but feel like giving in to the oppression, and accepting the false narrative of being unworthy of happy dreams come true. But I realize that questioning my dreams wouldn’t be of any benefit because there is no such thing as a wrong dream. My dreams are what made me, and what have been the driving force behind every goal I’ve accomplished, and the creativity which shapes my work, and are responsible for my motivation to seek my truth and happiness.
Getting to where I am, after all that I’ve been through, the good, bad, and stank, began with a dream. The dream of standing face to stone with the pyramids of Giza when I was just 5 years old, and wanting to get a tiny taste, is what led me to a museum. A museum visit exposing me to worlds far beyond mine, filled with color and ancient cultural truths etched in rock faces I never imagined I could resonate with. A museum visit led to connecting with people of all backgrounds and loving them and their traditions, full of magical nuances capable of making the world better and more beautiful. A museum visit, unforgettable enough to lead me to anthropology, where I gained a few tools helpful for collecting bits and pieces of that magic to respectfully and consensually share with the world, as well as to personally learn from and grow with. And so here I am, a museum exhibit developer and curator in the middle of a 400 year (and counting) battle for freedom and peace to exist as equals.
My dreams are not gone, nor have they ever been deferred. But they do require revision from time to time. They must evolve to accommodate the growing uncertainties of a life lived in a system that is undergoing multiple complex surgical procedures in an attempt to correct its genetic dysfunctions. Those dysfunctions being deep-seeded bias and hate. My dream of developing and curating museum exhibits has evolved to include the exorcism of demons of the colonizers’ past, creating a new lens through which we too can look and see ourselves (Black people) clearly in the dream. So, rather than shy away from the idea of the “American Dream” because of its colonial foundation and the constant reminders of the hate that persists often in its name, I’ve decided that it’s time I go toe to toe with it. This is my dream, revised.
Featured Posts
Diversity, Equity, Accessibility, and Inclusion (DEAI) Reality Check
Posted on MARCH 15, 2021 by BRITT OATES
We all know that 2020 was a year filled with unprecedented challenges that have forever changed our lives. Covid-19 brought negative impacts on the economy both locally and globally, extensive losses of employment, and not to mention the effects on personal health, causing millions of people of all ages to have to fight for their lives, many of whom lost that battle. On top of all of that, everyone felt the sting of the public murder (some even referring to the incident as a modern lynching) of George Floyd in Minnesota back in May 2020 by Minneapolis police. The incident became the catalyst for people of all races and from all walks of life to take to the streets in protest of racism, and police brutality against people of color, primarily Black people. While this was not something new for Americans who have never been shy about exercising their 1st amendment right, the reach of the Black Lives Matter movement and the call for attention to antiracist action grew to never-before-seen numbers not just in the United States, but around the world.
With these events came the need for institutions, especially community-based institutions such as museums and other educational organizations, across the country to take a step back, acknowledge if/how they have contributed to perpetuating systemic racism within their organizations, and reassess how to move forward with a DEAI lens at the forefront of each step to be taken. However, even with the shift in focus to DEAI efforts, it is clear that institutions have quite a long way to go. Establishing and maintaining an antiracist environment, with all that such an environment would entail, is not something that can magically occur overnight, and more importantly, it is something that must be a genuine belief and the primary goal starting with executive leadership.
More specifically, it is important to note that the work doesn’t end with forming a DEAI committee, hiring a few more Black, Indigenous, People of Color (BIPOC), and posting a short message of solidarity on social media. It is the amplification of BIPOC that will inform this work, and lead to re-establishing community-based institutions to be a true reflection of the “equal opportunity” they claim to offer and uphold in their core values. To begin even scratching the surface of reversing the effects of systemic and systematic racism, institutions need to dig deeper and commit to a total restructure of operations from the top down, with BIPOC leading the way.
Whether or not this is the true intention of institutions claiming to be committed to this work, and in turn can become a reality, is something I tend to question. Is it that institutional leaders honestly care about DEAI and antiracism, or is this simply a trend? Is the claim of commitment to DEAI work merely a way of “throwing the BIPOC a bone,” but behind closed doors, knowing you will only satisfy the minimum expectation so as not to upset your conservative stakeholders? What kinds of actions have been taken toward accomplishing the goals of DEAI and antiracist practices, and have those actions made some kind of immediate difference? How is/will the success be measured? I think these questions are important to raise because from a BIPOC perspective, simply talking about the issues is passe. Real action with tangible results is long overdue, and most of us BIPOC who have been navigating trying to survive in a society built to work against us are tired of talking about it, in the name of “having a voice.” It is no longer enough to simply have our voices be heard (should they chose to be heard at all), especially because we’ve always had a voice and we’ve always technically been heard. The difference now is that we are finally making so much noise that not only is there no choice but to hear us, there is also no way to continue ignoring us as well.
Setting aside intent for a moment, I want to focus on reality. Regardless of the intent we all want success, and if institutions are looking for success when it comes to DEAI and establishing an antiracist environment, the first goal needs to be to amplify BIPOC as leaders and change makers. But one thing I am hoping institutions will realize is that learning about the BIPOC experience is only scratching the surface. Don’t patronize BIPOC by claiming to want to learn from us and establish more equity, all while maintaining the role of Puppet Master along the way. It is time for current leadership, primarily white leadership, to step aside.
Here are 5 key points in the form of DO’s and DON’Ts for community-based institutional leadership to consider in order to amplify BIPOC as Leaders and Change Makers.
DO self-educate; DON’T perpetuate.
Keep in mind, it is not up to anyone who identifies as BIPOC to teach you about racism. The information is out there right at your fingertips, so just as quickly as you are able to write a thank you note to a major gift’s donor, so should you be able to locate the plethora of information and credible resources available online about racism, and even better, antiracism. If you are serious about not wanting to perpetuate systemic racism within your institution, you have to understand what racism is, from its history, to what it looks like, and how it impacts BIPOC today, especially in the form of microaggressions, which are the most common form of racism BIPOC experience in the workplace. And remember, you do not know as much as you may think you know, so put your humble caps on and self-educate, not perpetuate.
No one likes to make mistakes, but as you may have heard before, mistakes are often our greatest teachers. For white leaders specifically, accountability might be a tough concept to grasp, especially if it is initially unclear how you have personally perpetuated racism in the past, and how racism somehow exists even today within your institution. But it is equally important to identify and take accountability for even unknowingly perpetuating racism, including by way of complicit bias, possibly one of the most overlooked forms of racism in professional settings. You can’t begin to reverse the impacts of racism and amplify BIPOC without understanding where you fit in with the issue first, and trust that everyone fits into the issue, so no one is excused. And remember, there is no room for jumping on the defense when learning how to be an antiracist, so check that white fragility at the door. Keep in mind, it does not matter how much time passes, if you are able to identify a past incident, or recall a recent incident involving saying or doing something that perpetuates racism, genuinely apologize for it, and don’t do it again. Take accountability and drop the white fragility.
DO take accountability; DON’T fall into white fragility.
DO decenter whiteness; DON’T tolerate bias.
There are a lot of great resources that talk about decentering whiteness as being one of the first steps in working toward establishing and boosting equity in institutions across fields. A major part of this that warrants mentioning also includes taking a clear stand against bias in all its forms. It is simply not enough to incorporate more diversity trainings, hire and promote a few BIPOC, and establish a DEAI committee mostly comprised of Executives with a sprinkle of mid-level staff among the group.
White leaders especially need to step back, and rather than focus on receiving accolades from your peers on the DEAI work that is being done on the surface, focus on ensuring that any issues of bias that do come up are taken seriously and met with appropriate consequences. For decades BIPOC professionals have had to endure a great deal of racial bias and microaggressions that more often than not go unchecked for fear of retaliation. So, one of the most important and more immediately correctable issues that white leaders can resolve is the way in which the organization handles reports of racial bias, and this especially includes issues involving transgressions of executive leaders toward non executive staff. Remember, part of decentering whiteness means zero tolerance for bias no matter where that bias comes from.
What are the Criteria for anyone interested in a position of leadership at your institution? Many organizations maintain very specific eligibility requirements in order to be considered for leadership roles, but often those requirements are riddled with bias. Being honest about the position criteria on paper versus how the job is done in reality may prove that typical requirements such as having higher education degrees really don’t make much difference when it comes to productivity. Taking a close look at the organization’s strategic plan to pinpoint areas that can be restructured for a true equal opportunity such as job eligibility, is necessary if you want to progress your DEAI efforts. Keep in mind, reclassifying current BIPOC staff on paper is not good enough. Amplifying BIPOC as leaders and change makers means relinquishing control and making room for BIPOC staff to be leaders and decision makers on paper AND in reality. Time to re-strategize not just reclassify.
DO Re-strategize; DON’T just reclassify.
DO establish BIPOC leadership; DON’T underestimate the power of differences.
Having a diverse staff, a few BIPOC Managers, and BIPOC all over your marketing materials is not all it takes to showcase your DEAI efforts. True leadership involves being more than just the face of an organization and the authority to enforce rules and take disciplinary action against staff not in compliance. White leaders especially need to take a big step back and trust that there is a wealth of BIPOC professionals with the capabilities to lead, operate, and maintain a successful institution without having to look, sound, and carry themselves in the same way as you or your other white colleagues. The differences we have coming from various backgrounds and experiences are what makes the work we do all the more progressive. Remember, BIPOC leadership that includes decision making is a true reflection of a successful DEAI plan, so back off from taking the lead and don’t underestimate the positive impacts of differences in leadership styles. It’s time for BIPOC to lead the way.
Taking Action Now
For the top executive leaders, while understanding that accomplishing the goals of establishing and maintaining a DEAI and antiracist work environment is a long and uphill journey, it is crucial to keep in mind that certain aspects should not be up for debate. Stop beating around the bush with addressing the fact that racism exists inside of your institution, and BIPOC have had to just “shut up and dribble” through the pain of it. We should no longer have to sit back and wait for white leaders to catch up in their understanding of racism in order to figure out what to do. You want to know what to do now? Bring BIPOC staff into the board room, listen to them, and include them as decision makers. This is against policy you say? I have the solution to that too, change it! Yes, change the policy and re-write the rules. If your Board of Directors takes issue with this, then maybe it’s time to make some changes within the Board too. Don’t sell yourself short in thinking that the only people within your reach with deep pockets are conservatives who will not support these worthy and extremely necessary efforts, in fact, stop looking at this through a political lens altogether. Most community-based and community serving institutions are only able to sustain themselves because of those communities. Without those communities your institution would not exist, so really consider where your true loyalties lie, and make the necessary adjustments now.
In addition, and lastly, one simple yet highly effective method to showing your commitment to DEAI and antiracist work is transparency. One of the most frustrating experiences I’ve had working for past institutions is having no heads up and no say so about already made decisions which directly affect my role, and/or the roles of other staff. Being transparent is probably the most courteous thing institutional leadership can do, because it shows that you respect your staff enough to be open and honest and keep them from being blindsided with decisions that may not in reality be beneficial to them anyway. Regardless of classification, status, and title, BIPOC staff should have the freedom and agency to determine what will benefit them most, and this begins with truthful and open communication.
I hope this sheds some light on what DEAI and antiracist practices should look like, not just on paper, but in reality. While realizing this multi-layered work is not for the faint of heart, there is action to be taken now in order to jumpstart the amplification of BIPOC as leaders and changemakers. Remember, BIPOC have already been not only talking about this for probably our whole lives, but have also been oppressed by the systemic and systematic structures stemming from white supremacy that have been in place for over 400 years, so let’s not keep harping on discussion, rather, it’s time to take action now, and it’s time for BIPOC to take it from here.
Museums and Me
Posted on DECEMBER 11, 2020 by BRITT OATES
Sneaking a quick selfie inside the Ancient Egypt gallery at the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History in Washington D.C. September 19, 2019
Since I was a child in elementary school, I’ve had a fascination with museums. For me, visiting them was like visiting far-away lands, filled with magic carpets and buried treasure. My favorite museums included those that featured anything having to do with ancient Egypt. Scarab beetles made of gold, obsidian, turquoise, lapis, and jade danced around in my dreams as a kid, in fact, they still do! It’s probably my fascination with ancient Egypt that made me fall in love with museums to begin with. They’ve been my time machine, transporting me back to what I believe to be the most prolific, innovative, and exquisite civilization that ever existed, ancient Egypt.
My dad and Michael Jackson
Some may be wondering why I am so ensconced with ancient Egypt. Really, it’s all because of my dad and Michael Jackson – that’s right the King of Pop! No, my dad did not personally know MJ but he was Jacksons’ biggest fan, hands down. My dad could even sing and sound exactly like Michael Jackson (which in hindsight is a tad creepy)! Around the age of 6 years old when I stayed home sick from school one day, my dad sat me down in front of the television and popped a VHS tape into the VCR.
I wasn’t sure what I was about to experience, but knowing my dad I figured it would be something cool. It turned out to be a compilation of Michael Jackson music videos. Of course it was nothing short of amazing given it was Michael Jackson, but there was one video that stood out far beyond the rest. It was the music video for his hit song Remember the Time. I could not take my eyes off of the screen. The rich colors of the costumes, the illuminous glow of every shade of brown skin one could imagine, and the allure of soulful almond shaped eyes starring back at me as I watched the most perfect choreography, was enough to hypnotize me. In that moment, I traveled to ancient Egypt, and I hoped I would never leave. (If you have not seen the Remember the Time music video, you must watch it now!) That was how I fell – head over heels, I can’t remember my name – in love with ancient Egypt. I’ve been researching the ancient civilization since that most pleasant day nearly 30 years ago. By the way, the Grammy Museum in Downtown Los Angeles has an incredible Michael Jackson exhibit!
My Favorite Museums
I have a few favorite museums in the Los Angeles area. I am usually down to visit any museum, but those that really provide that food for the soul feeling usually maintain a strong multicultural atmosphere, and highlight ancient cultures. The Bowers Museum in Santa Ana definitely fits that description. Back when I was a teenager, I used to love visiting the Getty Museum and the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) – especially back when the King Tut exhibition was on display in the early 2000’s – but that changed when both museums decided to remove their ancient cultures exhibits. Well actually, let me re-phrase – that is when they decided to only display European art/culture exhibits. I can remember the day I was told by a curator at the Getty, after asking what happened to the gallery with ancient Egyptian and African objects, that those objects were removed and the museum was focusing on “classical” artworks. I was 18 years old, with my best friend just hanging at the museum for the day. Oh, and I was also 5 or 6 months pregnant at the time. I can’t remember exactly what I said to that curator, but I do remember my friend apologizing to him and throwing out the “she’s pregnant” card as she gently guided me away.
If you’ve read a couple of my other posts, you may have gotten the sense that I love adventure! Any museum that offers the feeling of adventure is always a plus for me. The LA County Natural History Museum and the La Brea Tarpits are of course a couple of go-to’s for getting that sense of adventure. Walking through the galleries, I imagine what it could have been like to live in the Ice Age among the mammoths and saber tooth tigers as I stare into the empty orbital sockets of the fossilized skulls. I would often begin to think about what sorts of art I would have carved or painted onto cave walls for explorers thousands of years in the future to discover and go crazy trying to interpret. But most of all, I recall gaining a feeling of comfort when visiting those museums. I realized how much humans and our ancestors are really alike by learning of the adventures and the basic survival practices from the past, and seeing how close they parallel with what we do today. Those experiences make me feel like I’ve gained some kind of everlasting life.
Of course I could not talk about museums without talking about anthropology. My absolute favorite museum on the west coast is the Museum of Us (formerly Museum of Man) in San Diego California. It is the only anthropology museum in the region, and it is magnificent! Nearly every aspect of anthropology is showcased in compelling and interactive ways, from the way we speak, how we evolved, to cultures of the ancient past and the modern world, and what it’s like to make the kinds of archaeological discoveries that provide a deeper understanding of what it really means to be human. The Museum of Us feels like my home away from home.
An Affair to Remember
National Museum of African American History and Culture
Nothing compares, and probably will ever compare to the National Museum of African American History and Culture (NMAAHC) in Washington D.C. I mean, I don’t even know how I can describe the majesty of this museum and do it any sort of justice. From the royal architecture to the superb exhibits and fabrication, and the truest story of being Black in America that could ever be told, it is my museum Mecca.
Blueprint of a slave ship with African Slaves stowed in lower and storage decks en route to the west.
My experience visiting the NMAAHC was not like any other. Every emotion and every sense that exists inside of me was awakened and shaken to the core. The physical pain I felt after seeing the slave ship blue prints and drawings of thousands of my people stuffed in the bottom of those ships like sardines sting right now as I type this, over a year after my visit. The shackles encased in state-of-the-art vitrines, as if a sculpture of classical art, enrage me. Back-lit portraits of Black Panthers, and Civil Rights leaders fill me with righteous indignation. Artifacts of Black pioneers from science to entertainment illuminate my entire body. I can close my eyes right now and see all the vivid colors of the art gallery, as if they were alive, high-fiving and embracing me as an old friend. It was a deep heartbreak to have to walk away at the end of that most magical day, but it is euphoria to recall the ancestral love affair that took place during that moment in time.
National Museum of African American History and Culture Musical Crossroads exhibit
So, I must take a moment to give thanks first to the National Museum of African American History and Culture for reaffirming my love of my Blackness, and second, to museums around the world for creating portals for a broke, street/book smart adventure seeker such as myself to find a way to explore the world. Without museums, the world would not have any sense of who it is. Museums are our informal instructors, our bridge between our inner minds and the real world around us. My safe haven, my sanctuary, my treasure boxes. I will forever hold on to the sanctity of the bond that is museums and me.
This docuseries, while indeed emotionally charged, presented our beloved holy Black mother and son with such beauty and light. It was deeply moving and rewarding to watch the magic that was Tupac, even before I came to know and love him, when he was only a child himself. Listening to him speak, I was jolted back in time nearly 30 years, soul to soul with my adolescent self in my bedroom, staring at his posters hanging rebelliously around the walls of the room while Shed So Many Tears blared from my boombox. Though imagined, I could feel his presence with me in my room where he and I would dance and sing and laugh and cry together for reasons I did and did not fully understand at the time. Somehow, we were connected through the pain that lived inside of our DNA even if separated by a generation. I remembered why I fell in love with Tupac before I was old enough to know what love was. His intelligence and sharp tongue and fearlessness, toe-to-toe with the oppressor was beyond that of any of the peers of his time. At just 17 years old, Tupac was a genius.
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