Black Female Sexualities

Black Female Sexualities

Black Female Sexualities

Edited by Trimiko Melancon and Joanne M. Braxton

Foreword by Melissa Harris-Perry

Rutgers University Press

New Brunswick, New Jersey, and London

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Black female sexualities / edited by Trimiko Melancon, Joanne M. Braxton ; foreword by Melissa Harris-Perry.

pages cm

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978–0-8135–7174–4 (hardback)—ISBN 978–0-8135–7173–7 (pbk.)—ISBN 978–0-8135–7175–1 (e-book)

1. African American women—Sexual behavior. 2. African American women—Social conditions. 3. Sex role. 4. Identity (Psychology) 5. Feminism. I. Melancon, Trimiko, editor of compilation. II. Braxton, Joanne M., editor of compilation.

HQ29.B557 2015

305.48'896073—dc23

2014017499

A British Cataloging-in-Publication record for this book is available from the British Library.

This collection copyright © 2015 by Rutgers, The State University

Individual chapters copyright © 2015 in the names of their authors

Foreword © 2015 by Melissa Harris-Perry

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. Please contact Rutgers University Press, 106 Somerset Street, New Brunswick, NJ 08901. The only exception to this prohibition is fair use as defined by U.S. copyright law.

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Contents

Foreword

Melissa Harris-Perry

Introduction: somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff: Black Female Sexualities and Black Feminist Intervention

Trimiko Melancon

Part I

Sexual Embod(y)ment: Framing the Body

Chapter 1. Entering through the Body’s Frame: Precious and the Subjective Delineations of the Movie Poster

Kimberly Juanita Brown

Chapter 2. Is It Just Baby F(Ph)at? Black Female Teenagers, Body Size, and Sexuality

Courtney J. Patterson

Chapter 3. Corporeal Presence: Engaging the Black Lesbian Pedagogical Body in Feminist Classrooms and College Communities

Mel Michelle Lewis

Chapter 4. Untangling Pathology: Sex, Social Responsibility, and the Black Female Youth in Octavia Butler’s Fledgling

Esther L. Jones

Part II

Disengaging the Gaze

Chapter 5. (Mis)Playing Blackness: Rendering Black Female Sexuality in The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl

Ariane Cruz

Chapter 6. Why Don’t We Love These Hoes? Black Women, Popular Culture, and the Contemporary Hoe Archetype

Mahaliah Ayana Little

Chapter 7. What Kind of Woman? Alberta Hunter and Expressions of Black Female Sexuality in the Twentieth Century

K. T. Ewing

Chapter 8. The P-Word Exchange: Representing Black Female Sexuality in Contemporary Urban Fiction

Cherise A. Pollard

Part III

Resisting Erasure

Chapter 9. "Ou libéré?" Sexual Abuse and Resistance in Edwidge Danticat’s Breath, Eyes, Memory

Sandra C. Duvivier

Chapter 10. Rape Fantasies and Other Assaults: Black Women’s Sexuality and Racial Redemption on Film

Erin D. Chapman

Chapter 11. Embrace the Narrative of the Whole: Complicating Black Female Sexuality in Contemporary Fiction

Johanna X. K. Garvey

Chapter 12. Saving Me through Erasure? Black Women, HIV/AIDS, and Respectability

Ayana K. Weekley

Afterword: Being Present, Facing Forward

Joanne M. Braxton

Bibliography

List of Contributors

Index

Foreword

Melissa Harris-Perry

At the turn of the twentieth century, W. E. B. Du Bois captured the soul-splitting experience of reconciling blackness with American identity by describing double consciousness as this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.¹ While Du Bois delineated this spiritual striving of the black self to find wholeness, particularly in light of a malevolent racial gaze, he did not fully imagine the particular forms of psychological, physical, and sexual threats confronting black women and their bodies by racist, sexist, and imperialist eyes and, indeed, practices.

Black Female Sexualities addresses, in the spirit of the long history of feminist traditions, conceptualizations and consequences of the power of the racial gaze. It does so by bringing together the work of scholars who interrogate both the power of looking—the act of spectatorship—and the experiences of being looked at for African American women. Kimberly Juanita Brown prefaces her chapter for this volume, Entering through the Body’s Frame, by quoting bell hooks’s observation that there is power in looking.² This idea of the power in looking and the experience of powerlessness that so many black women experience when being looked at—especially as these relate to sexual politics, race, and the sociosexual—is central to this volume.

For many, the treatment of Saartjie Baartman, the so-called Hottentot Venus, stands as a warning of the exploitive possibilities inherent in being looked upon by those who find black women’s bodies to be savage oddities or sexual commodities worthy of both visual and physical dissection. Baartman was a Khoikhoi woman from South Africa who became a canonized exhibit at London’s Piccadilly Circus as a result of her supposedly abnormal sexual organs. Her large buttocks and elongated labia subjected her to exhibition and public ridicule. After her death, French anthropologist Georges Cuvier dissected her and crafted body casts of her sexual organs in an attempt to garner evidence for theories of essentialized racial (and by extension sexual) difference. As a result of Cuvier’s work, Baartman’s remains were on display for public view in a French museum until the mid-1970s. More than a century after her death, Baartman was still exposed to dehumanizing patriarchal and racist observation.

In the same decade that Baartman’s remains were finally removed from public display and returned to South Africa for burial, American writer Toni Morrison published her first novel, The Bluest Eye (1970), which illuminates the dangers to black girls of the gaze of sinister others. Morrison shows us the destructive capacity of a white racist gaze that changes a tender, consensual first sexual encounter into a violent rape rendered open to spectatorship. Morrison describes an adolescent Cholly Breedlove and his girl Darlene exploring one another’s bodies with affectionate and privately intimate gentleness when they are happened upon by two white men who demand that Cholly get on wid it. An’ make it good, nigger.³ Through their abusive looking and threats at gunpoint, the men make Cholly the instrument of rape—of their own desire for sexualized violence against young Darlene vicariously through Cholly. Their gaze turns innocence, Cholly and Darlene’s organic sensual intimacy and desire, into violence.

Morrison forces readers to ride the spiral of violence all the way to Cholly Breedlove’s later rape—one that begins with his look, a seemingly innocent stare at his eleven-year-old daughter Pecola as she hunches over the sink washing dishes. The rape is initiated when Cholly observes Pecola scratching the back of her calf with her toe, a gesture he saw Pecola’s mother make when he first met her. Observing Pecola’s physical posture simultaneously shames and seduces Cholly and culminates in his doing the unthinkable: dragging the girl to the floor, raping her, and ultimately impregnating her in a sinister act he considers love. For Pecola, it is far from safe to be seen, to be merely looked upon, even by her own father, even in her own home.

These stories represent the vulnerability and the violence, sexual and otherwise, that so frequently punctuate black women’s experiences of being seen. Du Bois worried about the amused contempt and pity of the onlooking world; bell hooks acknowledged the power of both looking and the oppositional gaze; and other black women have documented the malice and brutality that accompanies the visual engagement, the ocular assaults, and the gaze of others. As Kimberly Juanita Brown writes in her chapter for this book, People are too comfortable with black women in various states of sexual violence and unrest, too comfortable with their dismemberment and their utter corporeal destruction. The 2014 Hollywood awards season produced an example of this comfort with black women’s utter corporeal destruction. In 2014, the film adaptation of Solomon Northup’s memoir, 12 Years a Slave, was a standout of the film awards season. At the heart of this powerful cinematic achievement was the grotesque psychological, sexual, and physical abuse of an enslaved black woman played by the extraordinary actor Lupita Nyong’o. Although Nyong’o’s on-screen endurance of unfathomable cruelty earned her a well-deserved Academy Award and much critical praise, these accolades telegraphed the ongoing message that the viewing public is most interested in seeing black women’s bodies when they are subjected to ferocious terror.

But the experiences of black women’s bodies are not exclusively those of destructive assault or morbid fascination. To be an embodied black woman is also to know joy, subjectivity, pleasure, and the latent capacity to enjoy being seen: to, in a sense, transcend invisibility and to resist erasure. Even, then, as viewers were given opportunities to wallow in black women’s suffering in 2013, and such cinematic enactments were awarded in 2014, a strikingly complex, discordant representation of black women’s experiences with controlling and disengaging the gaze was occasioned in the surprise release of the self-titled visual album by megasuperstar Beyoncé Knowles on December 13, 2013. Beyoncé’s fifth album is notable in large part because each of the fourteen musical tracks includes an accompanying video: a gesture with which Beyoncé insists that she be not only heard but, equally important, also be seen.

The videos invite a breathtaking, almost uncomfortable level of intimate spectatorship. In Pretty Hurts, for instance, Beyoncé addresses the pain, at once physical and visceral, women experience when their value is connected solely and superficially to looks and aesthetics, to meeting the beauty status quo and standards about women’s body image. More importantly, this track explores what is at stake in pleasing those who want to look at them and, in so doing, inflict pain.⁴ In the track Blue, titled for her daughter, Beyoncé allows viewers to participate in the visible manifestations of her maternal adoration and her own complex embodiment of womanhood. It provides a glimpse, on the one hand, of the reproductive aspects of her sexuality (her daughter) and her role as mother, coupled with a sensuality that resists simplistic conceptualizations of black women’s sexualities.⁵ More critically, she uses the video to present a micro-ethnography of Afro-Diaspora dance traditions that reframe the body: celebrating the gyrating, booty-shaking, and twerking in movements that highlight the ample backsides of black women that we see in so many popular music videos, including Beyoncé’s own work. By forcing viewers to encounter these actions in the innocent, joyful, street dance of Afro-Brazilian children, Blue strips ass-shaking of the lewd sexual implications and skewed misreading that the American and larger Western gaze imposes. Through the almost jarring pairing, then, of the maternal ballad with swift posterior gyrations, the movements suddenly resonate as joyful, playful, and indeed sociocultural rather than as a myopic indication of untamed, illicit sexuality. The inversion is achieved only in the visual portrayal of the song, in the very power that accompanies looking, that otherwise does not occur when the music is encountered sonically. This lesson requires looking.

Nowhere does Beyoncé’s album more fully demand black female autonomy in defining the terms of spectatorship—the oppositional gaze, if you will—than in Partition.⁶ The track opens with a dolled-up Beyoncé, an image that alludes to and transforms the notion that pretty hurts, sitting at the end of a long table laden with breakfast. Her love interest is hidden behind a newspaper, oblivious to her red lips, curled hair, and provocatively draped robe. The viewer is sucked into a powerful, almost pornographic and titillating series of lyrics and images as a scantily clad Beyoncé dances for and arouses her man, all the while available for public consumption. The video seems to be an open invitation to fully view her sexuality, but the lyrics, and the title partition itself, offer an important boundary and caveat. In the first line Beyoncé demands that her driver put the partition up please, in order to prevent you [from] seeing her on her knees. Replete with sexual innuendo, the lyric both reveals what is to happen behind the partition and demands a right to act with some measure of privacy. It is a reminder that we are allowed to look, but only on her terms and only through a lens of her design. Like the partition itself, she acts as the entity that controls and even guards: defining her sexuality while simultaneously exercising ownership of its boundaries and accessibility. Partition is electric, not only in its embrace of sexuality but also in its suspense: it is entirely fantasy, a performance that takes place in thought, not action. As the video ends, Beyoncé is still sitting at the end of the table. Her love interest is still reading the paper. What we have seen is her sexual reverie. She exposes the intimacy of her thoughts and desires while also elucidating the ways in which the gaze is not reliable: it is fallible and susceptible to error (as in the misreading of gyrating black bodies). Also, it does not always capture the essence or reality of its own ocular fixation. Even, then, as her performance for her man and for us has unfolded in her mind, occurring behind a partition that she controls, she invites, mediates, and encourages spectatorship of her sexuality as she deems fit. What can feel on first view like a reproduction of a troubling Hottentot Venus act—with black female sexuality on display in ways that seemingly reaffirm myths of black female hypersexuality—is a more nuanced representation of the body, since the locus of control remains with Beyoncé herself.

Beyoncé’s fifth album is complicated, especially in its problematization of hegemonic expressions of sexuality, race, and gender. It is a pop culture intervention worth pausing to consider, as it challenges, as do the engaging chapters of this book, the almost universal cultural notion of black women’s bodies as mired inevitably in violence and sexual dehumanization that compromise their sexual agency, subjectivity, and control. Beyoncé counters the narratives that black women who are seen must be broken, that they are unequivocal victims of the gaze, or that they do not possess ownership of their intimate desires and sexual pleasures. Instead, with her self-titled album, Beyoncé, she not only privileges an actualized and sexualized self (hence the eponymous title) but also evidences that black women can invite watching, even ogling, and maintain a space for pleasure and autonomy across a spectrum of possibilities.

These reflections, ranging from Saartjie Baartman to a contemporary pop icon, barely break the surface of the rich terrain and intellectual coverage that constitute the remainder of this volume. These authors interrogate the multiple spaces black women occupy: from popular culture and college classrooms to the pages of novels and cultural discourses in ways that also illuminate their complex sexual identities, choices, and gender presentations. They question how black girls can grow into women under the weight, literally—see Courtney J. Patterson’s chapter on body size—of cultures that seem to despise while also challenging us to redefine freedom and sexual citizenship from the perspective of black women. For when we prioritize, foreground, and place black women at the center of cultural discourse, popular culture, and in both public and private arenas, to evoke Trimiko Melancon’s introduction, we honor the spirit, complexities, and totality of black women instead of diminishing them or the range of their unique experiences and desires. The scholars represented in this book demand accountability for sexual violence committed against black women while insisting on black women’s right to enjoy and explore the fullness of their sexualities. This book is not simple. It is not easy. It is not uncomplicated. But how could it be? It is about black women’s bodies.

Notes

1. W. E. B. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk (Chicago: McClurg, 1903), 3.

2. bell hooks, Black Looks: Race and Representation (Boston: South End Press, 1992), 115.

3. Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye (New York: Plume, 1970), 148.

4. Beyoncé Knowles, Pretty Hurts, Columbia Records, 2013.

5. Beyoncé Knowles, Blue, Columbia Records, 2013.

6. Beyoncé Knowles, Partition, Columbia Records, 2013.

Introduction

somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff

¹

Black Female Sexualities and Black Feminist Intervention

Trimiko Melancon

Definitions belong to the definers, not the defined.

—Toni Morrison

I still remember with unobstructed vividness screening Lee Daniels’s 2009 film Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire. It was a Saturday matinee in New York City’s Union Square with two of my dearest black women friends. As we navigated the long ticket line, we noticed an audience as diverse in terms of demographics as it was in its responses to the myriad scenes in the film: at times silence and tears, at others applause and laughter. Even more indelible is the incredibly unsettling feelings my friends and I experienced as we shifted out of the theatre at the film’s closing. The heaviness, that visceral feeling, was not simply a reflection of the gravity of the movie’s content and its simultaneous tragic, graphic, and quasi-triumphant scenes. Rather, it was the kind of inundation of spirit that accompanied the reality that we had witnessed a narrative, an adaptation of a feminist text—a rendition of Sapphire’s novel and black women’s sexualities—in the hands, interpretations, and mediation of a male director. What was absent, in other words, was the narrative presented from the authentic perspective and cinematic vantage point of the very subjects, the protagonists, of the film (and the novel itself): black women. Coming to terms with the cinematic adaptation of black women’s experiences and sexualities, forced access and journey to subjectivity, through the (black) male imagination felt like a double tragedy, a multiple violation of sorts that necessitated that we, upon leaving the theater, not only debrief but do so over alcohol.

By contrast, I recall very little in terms of my screening nearly a year later of Tyler Perry’s For Colored Girls, which in its opening weekend in November 2010 grossed nearly $21 million. My lack of recollection of the specificity of the experience is, as I ruminate in hindsight, a kind of willed and strategic disengagement, a result of my skepticism about Perry’s capacity to replicate—to do justice to the eloquence, poeticism, feminist politics, artistic genius, and complexities of black women’s lives and sexualities in—Ntozake Shange’s groundbreaking 1975 choreopoem For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf. As I watched the film, my sense of disengagement transmuted into indignation as my reservations concretized and were proven by Perry’s cinematic treatment of Shange’s work. How was it that a piece as rich, vibrant, and complex as Shange’s in its presentation of the dynamics governing black women’s lives, experiences, and sexualities, which ranged from the tragic to the liberatory, could be so compromised and misrepresented—even defiled? Where was the depth and range? And why, in Perry’s rendition, were all expressions of black female desire and sexual intimacies met invariably with castigation? Accompanied, that is, not by complexity, agency, empowerment, or pleasure but rather by punitive measures not reflective of the authenticity or the unfolding of Shange’s choreopoem. In Perry’s adaptation, when the women on the screen—the ladies of color, literally and figuratively (whose names spanned the color palate from Lady in Yellow to Lady in Purple), engaged in sex, they confronted everything from unwanted pregnancy (and a near-death back-alley abortion), rape, and exposure to a sexually transmitted disease that later compromised fertility to sexual dehumanization and, far worse, the contraction of HIV. Regardless of Tyler Perry’s directorial intentions or his ideological convictions, his cinematic adaptation of For Colored Girls is rife with a masculinist construction and interpretation of black women’s sexualities that not only mediate but, far more deleterious, define black women’s sexual politics and erotics of desire. That is, his treatment, whether consciously or inadvertently, imputes a fundamentalist-like, misogynist, and heteronormative sensibility that punishes black women who operate in the sociosexual realm.

Little did I know that my screenings of For Colored Girls and Precious would be the instances, the temporal moments that would mark the genesis of this collection. Black Female Sexualities is the product of those catalyzing moments reflective of a particular exigency, the very need for black feminist intervention in the routine, inauthentic (mis)representations of black women’s sexualities by men and others. Moreover, it underscores the need for the telling of black women’s narratives, sexual especially and otherwise, by black women so that our stories reflect the range and totality of our sexualities, our agency and subjectivity in defining the terms of our experiences as sexual citizens, and in shaping and problematizing representations of our intimate lives and sexual identities. For as the opening epigraph emphasizes, Definitions belong to the definers, not the defined. It is this sensibility that encapsulates the spirit of this collection, which could not be more pressing than in this current moment, as the American political right resurges, with its extremist policies and uber-conservative politics that seek to turn back time regarding women’s rights, to co-opt and dictate women’s bodies, police women’s reproductive rights, and govern female sexuality. This collection, this exercise in self-definition that is at once political and personal, could not be more necessary or timely.

Black Female Sexualities is a rich intellectual tapestry that foregrounds a number of guiding questions: How do black women’s sexualities operate? In what ways are black women’s sexualities represented in the literary, visual, and cultural imagination and in society at large? How do black women negotiate their intimate experiences, the politics of their pleasure, and the particularities of their sexualities? And, equally consequential, how do we prioritize, foreground, and place black women at the center of cultural discourse, popular culture, and in both public and private arenas in ways that do not reify or reinscribe mandates and stereotypes of performative sexual behavior? Given the degree to which black female sexuality has historically been mediated by politics of respectability or silence and has been both hindered by and constructed in opposition to Western paradigms of womanhood and normative female sexuality, this book consists of contributions that address and illuminate black female sexual desires marked by both agency and empowerment and pleasure and pain in order to elucidate the ways black women regulate their sexual lives.

Contributing essays not only examine twentieth- and twenty-first-century representations and black sexual politics, particularly after the sexual revolution, but they also engage and challenge earlier constructions and paradigms governing intimacy and the politics of black female desire. Instead of characterizing black sexuality as marked by silence or hypersexuality in ways that polarize or obfuscate, this collection presents the complexities of black female sexualities along a complex continuum. Drawing upon critical frameworks informed by feminist theories, theoretical discourses in gender and sexualities studies, and theories in critical race, cultural, literary, visual and performance studies and sociology (among other fields), the essays constituting Black Female Sexualities address the ways black women, via their sexualities, experience and express sensation with feeling that is not characterized invariably by violence, marked by suffering or punitive measures, regulated by men or the state, pathologized, or encumbered by restrictive practices or models.

As a critical study, Black Female Sexualities is part of a vibrant and growing body of scholarship on black women’s sexualities, sexual politics, and critical race feminist studies. In honoring and underscoring the ways black women have long theorized their sexual lives and in charting the politics and experiences governing their sexual expressions, this collection acknowledges the rich history of black female sexuality. It is indebted to pioneering black feminist sexuality studies scholars Barbara Smith, Cheryl Clarke, Jewelle Gomez, and Ann Allen Shockley particularly, who theorized early on about sexuality to challenge homophobia and heteronormativity. Audre Lorde and June Jordan explicated the politics of the erotic as liberatory and empowering while charting a new politics of sexuality. And, Pat Parker, the Combahee River Collective, and others elucidated the complexities of identities through their own simultaneous embodiment as undeniably and inextricably black, female, and lesbian in ways that were consequential precursors to Kimberlé Crenshaw’s conceptualization of intersectionality.

Black Female Sexualities is an intergenerational endeavor—a collaborative effort that speaks across generations, silences, knowledge, discourses, and traditions about sexuality that far too often are not fully engaged, passed down, or contemplated trans-generationally. This collection seeks to inspire diversity and cross-generational dialogue, while also recognizing the growth and dynamism that has developed in black women’s sexuality studies—over generations—since its inception. Black feminist scholar-intellectuals, including but not limited to M. Jacqui Alexander, Evelynn Hammonds, Mae Henderson (along with E. Patrick Johnson), Tricia Rose, and Hortense Spillers have charted new geometries and pedagogies of black female sexual desire, challenged the regulatory practices and inauthentic heteronormativity imposed by modernity, and verbalized and sought to dismantle the power structures that threaten to obscure intersecting identities that shape and form the foundations of black (queer) (female) sexualities and studies.

Other black feminist interlocutors—Jennifer Brody, Cathy Cohen, Sharon Holland, Michelle M. Wright, Mireille Miller-Young, L. H. Stallings, and Jennifer Nash, to name a few—have further mapped the field with new ideological energy and theoretical insight. Their work compels us to reconsider what constitutes normativity where pleasure and pain, sexual deviance and/as resistance, pornography, and the intersections of race and eroticism are related to black women’s sexualities and to fluid gender and sexual identities in the United States and the African diaspora. Black Female Sexualities builds upon and augments these generations of scholarship in black women’s sexuality studies and further explores and illuminates how black women define their sexualities, exercise their sexual citizenship, assert their racialized/gendered/sexualized embodiment, and exert agency with pleasure even as they at times contend with danger, violence, or pain.

This collection has three parts and consists of twelve essays. Its innovation and intellectual vibrancy reside, in part, in its scope, as evidenced by the chapters that engage and analyze black women’s sexualities in history, literary studies, education (through pedagogical explorations of black lesbian embodiment), performance studies, visual culture, film and cinematic studies, media and popular culture studies, rhetoric and hip-hop studies, sociology, African American and black/diaspora studies, women’s and gender studies, black queer studies, and the relatively newer arena of fat (black) studies. While the essays span various ideological, thematic, conceptual, and disciplinary boundaries, they speak, individually and collectively, to the dynamic breadth and continuum of intellectual thought on contemporary black women’s sexualities.

Part I, Sexual Embod(y)ment: Framing the Body, examines how black women’s sexualities are embodied. It illuminates the extent to which black women’s bodies engage the sexual through examinations of how their corporeal and bodily presences operate in varied sociocultural contexts and manifest, more specifically, in movie posters, speculative fiction and literature, language and rhetoric governing body size, and the college classroom. In "Entering through the Body’s Frame: Precious and the Subjective Delineations of the Movie Poster," Kimberly Juanita Brown examines the nexus of black women’s bodies, racialized sexuality, sexual trauma, and representation as they manifest not only in Lee Daniels’s Precious and Sapphire’s novel Push but also, provocatively, in the visual through movie posters. Brown’s essay examines Precious through the film posters that viewers encountered in the theaters and on the Internet in order to explore the graphic display of the body, the sexual access and availability of the protagonist Precious, and the visual affect the viewers must negotiate. It argues that the multiple acts of violence Precious endures on screen are foreshadowed by the film posters and that the viewer’s (ocular) understanding of how to situate the visual as an acceptance of the protagonist’s (sexual) bodily degradation is one of the film’s mandates. Contrasting Sapphire’s novel Push with the film adaptation, Brown explores the corpus of the film’s corpus, arguing that it is a reinforcement of a racialized, gendered, and corporeal politics of disgust in that redemption is visualized as a possibility only after the subject has suffered an almost incalculable degree of sexual, psychological, physical, and intellectual destruction.

Courtney J. Patterson explores the phonic and literal appropriation and reclamation of fat (to phat) as it relates to the stigma surrounding black females and their sexual desirability in Is It Just Baby F(Ph)at? Black Female Teenagers, Body Size, and Sexuality. Drawing on feminist and sexual scripting theories, literary readings, and qualitative sociological data, she examines adolescent sexual development, body image, and teenage sexuality in ways that shift the focus of baby fat/phat back onto fat black female teenagers to explore how that group uses black feminism to subversively script its own sexuality. In so doing, this essay not only illuminates how cultural and sexual scripts both relate and contribute to stereotypes about overweight young black women, but it also demonstrates that understanding fat black female teenage sexuality is crucial to understanding black female sexuality overall.

In Corporeal Presence: Engaging the Black Lesbian Pedagogical Body in Feminist Classrooms and College Communities, Mel Michelle Lewis examines black lesbian pedagogical bodies, modes of corporeal embodiment in the classroom, and particularly how black lesbian feminist professors/pedagogues harness their otherness—teaching the ‘other’ as the self—while engaging their creative pedagogical power through embodiment and performance. For pedagogues whose embodied text (their very bodies) highlights the intersections of race, gender, and sexuality, identity informs and constructs the classroom. As Lewis argues, these intersections can be disruptive and shape the broader pedagogical project. These interlocking identities also influence the expectations of students and colleagues regarding the emotional and intellectual labor of professors whose roles are defined by female, black, and lesbian identities. The essay offers excerpts from valuable interviews and discursive materials that privilege black feminist lesbian-identified professors/pedagogues instead of marginalizing their voices and experiences.

In "Untangling Pathology: Sex, Social Responsibility, and the Black Female Youth in Octavia Butler’s Fledgling," Esther L. Jones examines sex, social responsibility, and representation as they intersect with frameworks and tropes of pathology in Butler’s vampire novel. Historicizing the text in the context of major welfare reform legislation in the United States and discourses on black pathology, this essay argues that the protagonist embodies anxieties about adolescent sexuality and its undesirable consequences: reproduction of more undesirable bodies that threaten the body politic and the state, which will go to extremes to contain that sexuality. Jones explores why black girls’ sexual behaviors are targeted for social control and how Fledgling challenges the ethical logic that justifies oppressive state practices. Moreover, she illuminates how mythologies and social policies that are predicated on black pathology inform Butler’s text and society at large.

Part II, Disengaging the Gaze, examines representations of black women’s sexualities in media such as Web series, urban fiction, and popular culture through the lyrical and lived experiences of black women and looks at sexual identities in the age of hip-hop. In what ways, it asks, do black women disengage the gaze and mediate racialized sexualities in complex and at times complicated ways? How are their sexualities treated in cyberspaces and in real lives, and how do they operate in the contexts of rhetoric, lyricism, and performance? Collectively, the essays in this section elucidate the complexities of black women’s sexualities and politics of the intimate in twentieth- and twenty-first-century contexts and discourses. Ariane Cruz’s "(Mis)Playing Blackness: