The First Time I Saw Myself Onscreen

Adepero Oduye in Pariah.

My single mother wasn't the affectionate and maternal sort like Clair Huxtable, let alone affluent and married. So the television raised me on exclusive beauty, slowly and subliminally forcing me to admire fictional characters that looked nothing like me. I grew up watching an endless amount with a preference for soap operas and addressed that in prelude to last year's series on Best TV Couples here. I didn't go to the cinema until around age seventeen, but always had a Halle Berry haircut (though my hair didn't like perms at all, lasting for a week or two before unapologetic nappiness returned). Every boy in school desired Halle Berry. Unfortunately, I (and most of the other Black girls) didn't resemble her at all.

On Saturday mornings, Lisa Turtle (Lark Voorhies) taught me about funky style and fashion on white centric Saved by the Bell.

Her outrageously fabulous wardrobe and dreams for fashion school truly resonated with me. 

When last summer Ava Duvernay asked the question, "when did you first see yourself depicted on screen?" I simmered on the thought for a while, remembering the biracial and non-black women still heralded, still put on higher pedestals in all forms of media. I do recall childhood animated icons: Punky Brewster's Cherie, Jem and the Holograms' Shana Holsford, and The Magic Schoolbus's Keesha Franklin (the later two having been recently turned into racially ambiguous characters). Yet I couldn't hold onto them forever.

Although I didn't watch Felicity, it was special seeing Tangi Miller in those memorable "Oh What A Night" WB commercials. She would the only Black woman, essentially playing the role of spokesperson for our notably absent presence on the network. 

The teenager years were absent of Black girls. I escaped into the WB network (didn't have cable) and eating disorders, wishing to banish the newfound curves alongside my "problematic" short hair and distinctive face that looked like countless masks in the Africa sections of museums than anything on TV or film. It felt entirely wrong to be dark skinned with a broad nose, plump cheekbones, thick lips, and size 0 fantasies. Yet Tangi Miller's sepia skin, dark brown eyes, and long box braids in the commercials between consumptions of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, and Roswell soothed a great inner belonging. She was in the Seventeen and Teen Vogue magazines, but never graced the covers. Always the support, the sistah girlfriend to Keri Russell's lead, Miller lingered in my mind, my spirit, constantly reminding me that we deserve to fit somewhere. Funnily enough, at the time, she was also dating Angel's J. August Richards. I imagined them as the Black King and Queen of the WB, that they clung to each other on a network lacking the very definition of inclusivity.

Adepero Oduye in Pariah.

Thus, the first time I saw myself depicted on screen was poignantly nestled in Adepero Oduye's performance in Pariah as Alike, the shy writer coming to terms with her sexual identity. I remembered racing down to the Neon Movies-- the only art house theater in Dayton, Ohio-- to watch a film that many heralded online, knowing full well that Black films, especially Black films with strong leads directed by women (Night Comes On and Fast Color) tend not to stay in theatres long.

Oduye's character not only looked similar to my physical (skin tone, prominent African features), she didn't wear makeup, loved English, wrote poetry, rode public transportation, and was constantly ridiculed by her peers for not appearing feminine enough. I sought solidarity in Alike hiding her true self, admiring the authenticity shining through Oduye's performance. She began my search for other similar multifaceted characters, for finding those that don't fit the European gaze, their expectation of Blackness, whilst also looking for validation in gifts they could offer the world.

In addition to Oduye, Whoopi Goldberg and Akosua Busia in The Color Purple, Alva Rogers in Daughters of the Dust, Mouna Traore in Brown Girl Begins, Karidja Toure in Girlhood, Samantha Mugatsia and Sheila Munyiva in Rafiki, Dominique Fishback and Tatum Marilyn Hall in Night Comes On, and Marsai Martin in Little all come to mind as to how I see myself portrayed in both past adolescence and current adulthood on the film screen.

Awkward Black Girl, one of the best web series' ever, conveyed my experiences in the workplace. Plus, Issa Rae's expressions are on point.

Whether it's having a deep dark brown skin complexion like Issa Rae or Lupita Nyong'o, an impressionable gap between teeth like Uzo or distinctive negroid facial features and kinky hair like Viola Davis and Danai Gurira, finding these parts on another person in Hollywood has become a new source of unexpected joy. The representation of Black beauty-- the unapologetic, unambiguous African ancestral pride-- is taking phenomenal shape and putting us all on notice in a big, unforgettable way.

Poignant 'Night Comes On' A Reflection On Sisterhood and Regret

Night Comes On film poster.

I left Philadelphia's downtown Prince Theatre from watching Night Comes On with an urgent sea of unhinged sadness rushing forward, wiping away spilt tears and trying to regain some semblance of decent composure. This raw, barren film struck such a resonating cord, my own two lost sisters, two dear friends whom I will never see or hear again, floating at the forefront of my mind.

Sisters on board: Abby (Tatum Marilyn Hall) gets Angel (Dominique Fishback) to go to Long Island under false pretenses.

Night Comes On, set in Philadelphia where every scene bears familiarity, begins with Angel's release from juvenile detention. She is about to turn eighteen, the age of consenting adulthood. The first thing on her agenda, however, is not seeing her sister from whom she's been separated for months. Filled with grief and anger over witnessing a violent tragedy, the revenge devil rests on her shoulder, the dark clouded apparatus that cloaks judgment.

The road to nowhere-- sans dreams and ambitions-- seems to be the package for every brown and black girl in America, a tougher plight in the fifth largest city of poverty, tougher still for one with criminal history. Without a nurturing maternal figure to lead Angel down a redemptive path or a sympathetic counselor to heal inner wounds, her lack of self worth muddies her second chance out in the cruel, harsh landscape. She makes heartbreaking choices, allowing her own body to be disrespected, mentally holding onto the visions of pulling other weaponry triggers

Still, Angel is happy to see Abby despite deleting her text messages. They have an awkward exchange. A silence stretched for miles highlights the fragile relationship between young siblings, a thread that can easily sever at the most tremulous times. Yet the biological bond between sisters is felt as Angel goes to Abby's latest foster home. They make small talk. Abby is more excited about Angel's birthday than Angel. Angel is void and distracted, bloodthirsty. She perks up at the mention of their father. Her stern parole officer couldn't give personal information due to circumstances, but she believes that Abby would.  However, Angel underestimates that Abby is perceptive and intelligent. This will later cause major conflict.

Angel then faces more setbacks. Her girlfriend dumps her, leaving Angel in a hopeless, sunken place. During a vulnerable evening, silent and solemn Angel has no one to ask for help. She seeks loneliness and safety among shady places and those that make her invisible. By the wee dawn, all that is lost is lost again.  

Angel constantly reminisces about her mother (Nastashia Fuller)-- a quiet, gentle figure whose demure presence shapes Angel. Sadly, it is likely that the father had been abusing the mother, but she could not leave him. Angel witnessing her death 

Angel and Abby certainly have different personalities. Whereas Abby can make instant friends, Angel is intensely quiet and guarded. They make friends on the bus to Long Island. These girls are typical friendly girls, a clique of jubilance and innocence, a little younger than Angel and older than Abby. Angel stares at them, observing like a spectator in the wrong group. Abby seems right at home.

Angel is upset by Abby's betrayal-- that their whole trip wasn't to see their father at all.

At the beach, however, Angel and Abby showcases how anger dissolves into splendid happiness and bliss. Everything can be forgiven and forgotten. No amount of time apart diminishes the way sisters can mean to each other. Abby is the remaining light in Angel's life, her hope and moral compass. The love conveyed between them a thrilling spectacle frolicking in the water, their brown girl bodies a beautiful contrast against endless blue waters and coarse white sand. Almost reminds one of Moonlight's Juan and Little.

Girls at the beach.

Angel carries Abby on her back.

Throughout, I was caught by the feelings that an older sister has for her younger one, the follower, the one who looks up, which the screenplay expresses vividly well. I recalled countless annoyances, the many mini battles, late night conversations, good times. For ten years, I shared a bunk bed with her. Like Abby, my sister (and our brothers) were eventually in the system, roaming from foster home to foster home. The family would meet on Mondays at juvenile courts in a room with one door. She was finally emancipated at eighteen. We spent time together-- so much catching up, having been separated. We had spats and arguments along the way. She disappeared in 2010, leaving behind no trace. Her absence cuts like a knife.

Meanwhile, my other younger sister on my father's side whom I never met, died two years ago in September. I will always remember her high pitched voice, our long conversations on Facebook, and regret never taking the time to see her in the flesh.

Night Comes On is a medicinal balm soothing the few broken parts inside. Angel and Abby's sisterhood struck a cord-- an art that moved and expressed vicarious feeling difficult to release day by day. It means something profound and sacred to find a tie to one's own personal struggle from that of two characters framing a beautiful picture.

Angel's got a gun.

Jordana Spiro has directed a powerful, significant film with a raw, intelligent screenplay co-written with Angelica Nwandu. The merit lies fully in the dignified performance of Fishback, offering a complex portrait of a girl who realizes at the most pivotal moment that she has something to lose-- her sister, the most important person in her world. Tatum Marilyn Hall in her first role is quite stellar, holding her own against seasoned Fishback, expressing the right emotional notes from heartbreak to disappointment.

Night Comes On is a solid revenge tale with an affectionate twist. Angel faces her demons alone and realizes that the act of pressing forward positively far outweighs the aftermath of an even greater tragedy. Angel can build a new start and become the steady, influential figure Abby can count on. They need each other in order to survive in a remorseless system that chews and spits them out.

Moral of this sentimental narrative: a sister's love will always be eternal regardless if the sister is here on the earth or in spirit.