"The Help": Slavery by Another Name

“My mama was a maid, my grandmother was a maid and my great grandmother was a slave,” is a paraphrased line from the beginning of the movie “The Help”. It’s a line among others that thrust viewers back to a time not too long ago. It reminds them of days when nannies were used to raise white folk’s children and take care of those household chores beneath white women bred in the ways of high echelon.

It’s a line that speaks to the colossal disconnect between white and black women. White women may have a hard time dealing with their mean ways from the past. Black women watch the movie fuming due to the conjuring of memories from not so long ago. “The Help” is not about how race was used as a weapon to disconnect people way back in the bad ole days. It is about the discord between black and white women in our own lifetime.

Yes, it is about the treatment of our parents and grandparents when we were old enough to remember the tension on their faces when they returned home from long days of feeding into the insecurities of white women who used words to discipline them into submission. The movie strikes a chord due to the work done by kinfolk to feed their children and send them off to the university to secure an education to end the cycle of abuse.

Yes, it stirs all of those memories, but there is a point that goes even deeper. I have listened to white folks talk about how Ms. Sally was like a member of the family. I’ve heard countless comments about how Aunt Becky meant more than mama did. The recollections from back in the day are glamorized in a way that leaves those who speak seduced by their own denial. Ms. Sally was not a member of the family. Ms. Sally and Aunt Becky, and the countless other black women who served white families, were no different than the slaves who preceded them.

Kathryn Stockett’s book “The Help” reminds me of another book written by a white woman. In 2003, Valerie Martin unveiled the drama on a sugar plantation near New Orleans during the 1830s. Her novel “Property” tells the story of Manon Gaudet, the wife of the plantation’s owner, and Sarah, the slave Manon was given as a wedding present and who she has brought with her from the city. The private furor is played out against the backdrop of civil unrest and slave rebellion.

Both authors are white women. Both deal with the tautness between white and black women. Both deal with movements to undo the injustice hindering the lives of black people. More than any of that, the two novels expose a deeper truth related to the role of nannies-they served in a way in common with slavery.

That line early in the movie reveals the way black people internalized the work they performed in 1960 America. In their minds, things had not changed. They were not members of those white families. They continued slavery under different terms. The men remained enslaved as sharecroppers and in performing other task considered beneath the white men who called them boys. Women worked in the big house for the women who used them to maintain the image of class privilege.

The movie exposes how black people remain enslaved, which lends credence to all the hostility felt by colored folks who have issue with the movie. The Oscar buzz frustrates those doing their best to break free from Mastah’s whip. The movie reminds us of how white capital can be built on the backs of black folk’s pain. The stories of black women need to be heard, but why can’t they be the recipient of the cash made after the story is told.

Both books are about the assumptions of class privilege. Beyond the telling of the stories that appear in theaters is the story of how the story gets financed. It’s about who decides what gets told, and how often stories aren’t told due to the lack of power among those who have a story to tell. You can call it what you want, but that, at the core, is another form of slavery.

Slavery is any institution that allows a group to advance on the backs of those who lack power. Slavery is about a lack of power and privilege. We see it when people are forced to take certain jobs due to a lack of power. It happens whenever a set population is found begging for the crumbs at the table of opportunity.

Stockett told the stories of black women and sold 5 million copies of her book. It wasn’t her story; it was their story to tell. Sounds like slavery to me.

“My mama was a maid, my grandmother was a maid and my great grandmother was a slave,” Hollywood is a slave master. The crack of the whip can be heard if you listen. I don’t blame Stockett. I blame a system that fails to acknowledge the voices of those who have a story to tell.

In 2011, white folks continue to make money on the backs of black folk’s pain. You can call that capitalism or opportunity in the making. When those on the plantation can’t break free of the system that keeps them enslaved, that is slavery.

It’s time for an uprising!

Lessons From The Bus

I took a ride on a bus the other day. I hiked the short distance from my loft at West Village to the parking lot less than a football field away. It was there that I jumped onboard the Bull City Connector and made my way to Whole Foods near Ninth Street. I picked up a few items in the produce section and ran to the corner of Broad Street and Main just in time to catch the bus headed back downtown. It didn’t cost me anything.

Yeah, I got a bit heated when the driver stopped at the Shell Station to pick up a few munchies. It’s hard to complain when the ride is free. I looked at the only other person riding the bus. It didn’t seem to trouble him that our chauffer took a break in the middle of our journey. His lack of concern forced me to back off from the emotions of the moment and deal with my own ego. The swanky side of my makeup was creeping to the top. I sat back and chilled as I reflected on the gift of the quick ride down the street.

Normally I take the 20 minute walk to pick up my items for the day. I considered walking, but dang it was too darn hot and my feet hurt. When I saw that big orange bus gliding in my direction I waited and jumped on board. Did I mention it didn’t cost me anything?

Walking and catching the free bus is part of a lifestyle change that I’m embracing with passion. If I could I would do away with the car thing altogether. The cost for petro combined with the impact on the environment has me rethinking the comforts of cars loaded down with all the creature comforts. My two feet serve me well, and the bus comes in handy every now and then.

The trip back from my Whole Food excursion was interesting. I took a phone call from my friend Mariann Aalda. Aalda is known for being the first full time African American female soap opera star. She portrayed DiDi Banister in The Edge of Night. She is also known for being the daughter of Redd Foxx and Della Reese in the sitcom “The Royal Family”. I’ll never forget the scene where she kissed O.J. Simpson on the HBO series First & 10. The fact that she played his wife makes it worse.

She shared with me her thoughts on the new movie “The Help”. I normally don’t use my phone in public spaces, but the discussion held me captive. It felt strange having the talk on a bus. It made me think of the women portrayed in the movie. They had to ride the bus to get to work. We talked about our mothers. Most people of color have stories of mothers, grandmothers, aunts, cousins or sisters who cleaned the home of white people.

Aalda loved the movie. Her review was a stark contrast to her views on Tyler Perry. Then it happened. I noticed the people on the bus. Most of them were students from Duke who made their way on the bus somewhere between Duke Hospital and Whole Foods. It felt strange having the conversation within earshot of those far removed from the context of the movie.

Aalda mentioned the dense air at the movie theater due to the older white women who filled the space. The story took place during their lifetime. It must be hard sitting in places that ignite some thought from those days when black and white folks remained distant both in space and way of life. I imagined that the distinction between me and others on the bus has been lessened since the time capsule exposed in the movie.

I said goodbye just before my stop. “Things have really changed,” I whispered upon taking further notice of the people on the bus. Mostly white, obviously not poor, holding backs filled with books, untainted by the labels connected with riding a bus. It was one of those moments within a moment that causes one to exhale. I did.


The bus is for poor people. It’s for those who lack the funds to afford a car, auto insurance and the cost for registration. It’s a haven for criminals and welfare recipients. The bus is for “those people”. Those being jargon used to refer to anyone other than us. This trip was different. In that space and time came the budding of a re-defined community. Small space can do that. It finds people joined together by a common need-to get from point A to point B.

Isn’t it funny how that happens? The image of black women working for white people was transformed into the celebration of new place and time. Those riding the bus were not limited by hue, caste or credentials. Some road because they had no option but to ride the bus. Others road because it’s our way of minimizing the burden on our globe and pocketbooks.

Did I mention it didn’t cost me anything?