Her unassuming honesty about the ways that racism had challenged her faith in American democracy also betrayed something of the political discontent that many sisters feel with the American political system. Her candor unfortunately situated her within the rhetorical realm of the Angry Black Woman, a shift that is a surefire way to discredit the legitimate claims Black women make about the limitations of American democracy.
In Beyoncé then Michelle Obama has found someone who is not bound by the same expectations of respectability, or rhetorical reticence, or the performance of chaste sexuality that shapes the lives of public Black women. To the extent that people try to police and regulate Beyoncé’s choices in this manner, she takes great pleasure in flouting the rules of social propriety.
Where Michelle Obama’s fist bump and the subsequent satirizing of it fueled the racial panic of white Americans and might conceivably have cost her husband the presidency, Beyoncé could forthrightly invoke this history. Beyoncé’s Super Bowl performance demanded some level of social reckoning with the truth of the Black Power Movement, and its descendant, the current Movement for Black Lives, in ways that Michelle Obama could never do. But Michelle’s quip to Gayle that she hoped “Beyoncé likes what I have on” suggests not only some level of Black girl solidarity, but also the sense that the song “Formation” gave voice to matters that would otherwise go unvoiced for the First Lady.
More than two decades ago, Darlene Clark Hine, a historian of Black women at Northwestern University, wrote about the ways that race women had perfected a culture of dissemblance, a strategy of moving through social space in which Black women gave the appearance of openness, while holding their most private, innermost thoughts, desires and lives in abeyance from public consumption. Michelle Obama’s path to dissemblance has been fraught with struggle. Her candor in the early days of her husband’s campaign was a study in her failure to dissemble.
That time she was caught on camera rolling her eyes at John Boehner after he made a terrible joke is another example. While it is rare for any Black woman in the public eye not to hold her cards tight to her chest—Oprah is the exception—Michelle Obama has not seemed interested in gripping her cards as tightly as she has ultimately been forced to do.
In her love and admiration for Beyoncé, she tips her hand a bit. That relationship challenges a myriad of historical narratives that shape American public perception about Black women’s lives. Excepting Oprah and Gayle, we have rarely been treated to seeing unabashed admiration between two sisters at the top of their game. The other exception would be the Williams sisters, but then, they are actual blood kin.
Black women know full well that our lives are nothing without the sisters who inspire us, pull our cards, make us laugh uproariously, and show up for every manner of celebration or rescue mission, depending on what is required. We are our sisters’ keepers. So at one level, Michelle and Beyoncé’s relationship is not qualitatively different from any number of other powerful encounters Black women have, when we walk into a room, see that other sister winning, and catch the twinkle in her eye because the feeling—the pride—is mutual.
But we should not act like such Black women’s friendships are forged on easy terrain. We have to travel through a landmine of shame, stereotypes, distrust, and pain to get to each other. We have to pull off the shades and stop the dissimulation for just a moment sometimes to see and reciprocate that twinkle in the eyes—that look of recognition.
Michelle Obama and Beyoncé Knowles-Carter don’t travel across easy terrain to embrace one another. They travel through histories that would deny the visceral pleasure of sexiness to a First Lady like Michelle, and one that would deny the privileges of respectability to an otherwise traditional, privileged upper-middle-class Black girl like Beyoncé.
Both Michelle and Beyoncé are actively remixing the terms upon which Black womanhood has been cast. The denial of the right to ladyhood that has shaped Black women’s lives since the advent of slavery can no longer proceed unchecked into the twenty-first century. For Michelle Obama has been a consummate lady, despite her haters’ claims to the contrary. Like Bey said, “Y’all haters corny with that … mess.”
The thing is, though: maybe it was never Michelle’s goal to be the consummate Black lady. Maybe like many high-achieving Black girls, she wanted her ladyhood to be a strategy, a tool, a performance she could pull out of the briefcase when necessary, and store it away again when no longer required. On more than a few occasions, I’m sure the First Lady has wanted to tell some of her haters to bow down. For instance, her official White House portrait caused a minor controversy, when the First Lady opted for a sleeveless dress for the photo. Two years later, Representative Jim Sensenbrenner of Wisconsin remarked that Michelle Obama had a “big butt,” and thus no business leading the Let’s Move! campaign. Surely she wanted to tell his ass to bow down. Sometimes ratchet is a more appropriate register in which to check your haters than respectability will ever be. But overtly ratchet Mrs. Obama simply cannot be. Beyoncé can be as ratchet as she wants to be though, and in this, I think the First Lady finds a place to let her hair down and put her middle fingers up.
In those moments, I can imagine Michelle reading the words of her critics, and responding like Beyoncé might: “You know you that bitch when you cause all this conversation.” Her husband has certainly followed Beyoncé’s husband’s lead in dealing with his haters, once famously “brushing that dirt off [his] shoulders,” in a speech, like Jay-Z told us all to do in response to our haters. The Knowles-Carters routinely provide anthems that the Obamas can live by.
The U.S. is no nation for Black women. It is too limited a container for the magic we bring. And because the American national imaginary is built on the most limited and stingy ideas about who Black women get to be, when we are called to navigate the terrain of racial representation as public figures, many sisters return to the most basic truth we have—we need each other to survive. Michelle Obama needs Beyoncé. I say need, not in the way that you need a drink of water. But rather in the way that you need to be able to see and love yourself—not only in your own eyes but in the eyes of another sister. Every sister who spends a fair amount of time navigating predominantly white professional environments knows that you need some kind of anthem to help you decompress after you twerk, wine, and two-step your way through racial micro-aggressions, while making that shit look like you waltzed.
For many, many of us, our anthems of choice come from Bey. She is our friend in our head, that girl that says the stuff that you wish you could say, but can’t.
In many ways, the friendship between Lady O and the King Bey is remarkable. But when you get right down to it, that kind of Black girl friendship is as regular as rain. Or maybe as regular as reign is more precise. When Black girls win, we all win. These two Black girls win on the regular, and long after they have departed their respective thrones, Black girls will win more easily because they were here—together.
We Go Way Back
YLONDA GAULT CAVINESS
We go way back. Back to the enchanting little-Black-girl rhythms of wooden paddle balls, jacks and double Dutch ditties: “Ice cream, ice cream; cherry on top. How many boyfriends does ’Chelle got? 1-2-3-4…”
We go back like well-greased afro puffs, boney knees and narrow hips—shaking till our backbones slip. Back like playing the dozens with Pumkin, June Bug and Tiny—whose pretty moon face and wide-bodied frame never let a honeybun go unloved. We shared secrets, dance moves, Right On! magazine centerfolds and grape Now & Laters.
It was the 1970s. She and I reveled in our Blackness, in our fineness—at the same damn time. Modest means did not define us, instead emboldened us, sharpened our senses—granting license to cast the “don’t-come-for-me” stank-eye to any interloper out to test the bad-assery we wore with the ease and pride of bold-printed culottes.
Please! I been knowing Michelle LaVaughn Robinson. Her power, her style, her stance, her cadence—every idiosyncrasy, in
cluding the single raised eyebrow and pursed lip half-smile—is as familiar to me as stove-top hot combs and fried chicken gizzards. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you better ask somebody.
Just don’t ask ’Chelle. When she burst on to the national scene as Mrs. Barack Obama a decade ago, she and I needed no introduction. We are old friends.
My girl does not suffer foolishness. She will graciously oblige but, with a knowing look, I can tell that she is not here for simple-minded queries into her intrinsic strength, her mother wit, or her straight-up truth.
I saw it back in 2007, when 60 Minutes’ Steve Kroft asked if she feared for her husband’s safety as a presidential candidate, Michelle Obama looked dead in the camera: “The reality is that as a Black man, Barack can get shot at the gas station.”
Translation: “Please. We all know what time it is.”
Months later, she gave me and other women an insider wink with CNN’s Larry King. In an attempt to contrast the Bush administration’s stubborn stance on warring with Iraq, King wanted to know if the then-presumptive presidential nominee had a mind that could be changed. “I change it every day,” she deadpanned.
In other words: “You better recognize.”
The white media establishment was not ready. New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd wrote: “She came on strong … I wince a bit when Michelle Obama chides … casting Barack as an undisciplined child.”
Days later, when Mrs. Obama sat her tall, dark and lovely self down with The View’s round-tabled hosts, Barbara Walters wanted her reaction to the piece: “I can’t even give that any attention…” Michelle said. “She [Dowd] doesn’t know me … [or] what’s going on in our household.”
Paraphrase: “Girl, bye.”
Mrs. Obama does not back down. No, she didn’t stutter in February 2008 when we heard her say, “For the first time in my adult lifetime, I am really proud of my country.” Clarifying the statement on The View, she countered that “only in America” could working-class parents on the South Side of Chicago send her and her brother to Princeton University. But until primary voters turned out in such large numbers, she was not certain “we, as a nation,” could look past race.
In other words: “I ain’t sorry.”
Why should she be apologetic? Come to think of it, why should I? Michelle did not come to play. Yes, she is proud in her role as Mrs. Obama and, rightly so, she gives Barack his propers all day long, loving and supporting his candidacy. But she never set out to function as a mere prop to his—or anyone else’s—agenda. Fearlessly and fiercely, everything about this startling “bad-mama-jamma” from the Chi shouted to the world: I am a strong Black woman. And not strong in that long-suffering, carrying-the-burdens-of-generations way many of us have come to know from our mamas, their mamas and the mamas before them. Strong in a brand-new way. A strong that declares, “You don’t get to define me. Only I get to define me.”
It may seem like a reach; certainly my intention is not to disrespect our ancestors in any way. But Michelle Obama set me free!
Probably, she set all women free, in a way. Sojourner Truth once said: “If women want rights more than they got, why don’t they just take them and not be talking about it?”
Two Black First Ladies Walk into a Room
CHIRLANE MCCRAY
We were backstage in a hotel event space in Manhattan. It was just moments before she had to go out and speak to supporters. I could hear the bustle of setting up on the other side of the heavy velvet curtain and the click of heels as people moved across the wooden floor. The lights were dim and I still remember the chairs they rounded up so we could sit together in the barren backstage area. They were straight-backed and uncomfortable. It was a short while after Bill was sworn in as mayor. And I had asked to see First Lady Michelle Obama while she was in town; I knew exactly what I wanted to ask her, but I was a little nervous.
Some people might think two Black First Ladies would have a whole lot to talk about. And we probably did. After all we were both working mothers of color devoted to our families. And we both had ambitious partners in public office. I was the newbie First Lady in New York City. She was six years settled in as First Lady of the USA on a grand, national stage. But we were also in different stages of life. She was my junior, a hair short of a decade, with two young children. I had one child in college and was soon to be an empty nester.
Also understand that everything changes once you become a public person. A person on whom some folks pin their hopes and dreams. A person under constant scrutiny. A person often under fire for, well, just about everything. Too Black. Not Black enough. Too feminist. Not feminist enough. Too political. Not political enough. And to be a Black woman is to know there are many people you will not please—just for being alive.
There are suddenly many, many, many new people in your personal space. Some are phenomenally helpful. Some are not. New relationships take time.
And time is very, very precious.
So here we are, two Black First Ladies, meeting solo for the very first time, with only minutes to spare. I thanked her for her service to our country, thanked her for the kindness of taking time to speak with me. And I’m saying this, while still standing and looking up in awe at a whole lot of tall and gorgeous. After all, this was Michelle Obama, a woman navigating an extremely challenging position of power with exceptional grace, confidence and poise (who also happens to have a lot of inches on me).
At first we made some small talk about our kids, just like I’d done with other moms on countless park benches. Finally I asked her: Do you have any advice for me?
If you care enough about Michelle Obama to be reading this, it probably won’t surprise you to learn that she did not offer me a clichéd response about following my passions. With a sternness that is refreshing in retrospect but was quite a bit to absorb at the time, she talked about the kind of practical support and staffing I would need, including a chief of staff, scheduler and communications director. Surround yourself with people you trust, she told me. And she stressed how I would have to protect my personal time.
I listened carefully, almost wishing I had a recorder. And then, as she was standing up to leave, her tone softened and she said with assurance, “You’ll be alright.” I smiled. She smiled. And then she put her game face on and went out to meet the people.
I often think back on that conversation, and whenever I do the soundness of her advice becomes increasingly clear. But I have learned even more from the First Lady by observing her from afar. The way she has arranged her life reveals a lot about who she is and what she cares about. And the way her life is portrayed and perceived has much to teach us about what it means to be a woman in the twenty-first century.
When First Lady Obama said her top priority was to serve as mom-in-chief, she was telling us that her family comes first. It must have been a huge challenge to be uprooted from her home, find new schools for her girls, get them acclimated to a new life, and also take on a new role and new responsibilities while being a supportive, loving spouse. I have tremendous respect for how she defined herself, right from the beginning, defined her role before there was too much speculation about what she would do. And she brought her mother, someone she could trust without reservation, to live with them in the White House. Such a smart move! And, by all accounts, Malia and Sasha are growing up to be as poised as their famous parents.
I am relieved that we do not see them in the media that often, but when I do I get a kick out of how regular they appear. It is no small trick to raise children and have a healthy marriage while living in the spotlight. It’s one thing to have a tired child meltdown on the playground. Imagine that happening around hundreds of people with cell phone cameras! I count my blessings that our children, Chiara and Dante, were older before Bill became mayor, able to get through most of their teen years without the intense scrutiny that comes with public office. As we reflect on the Obama presidency, we must not limit our gratitude to Barack and Michelle alone�
�their entire family has made enormous sacrifices for our country and won the respect of the world.
While I have no doubt that her amazing, loving family is the First Lady’s proudest achievement, her work obviously extends well beyond the domestic sphere. Although no First Lady receives a salary, the title comes with traditions and countless expectations. Of course, it also comes with enormous opportunities to do good. To be First Lady of the United States is to be stuck between a rock—what the world expects of you—and a hard place—what you expect from yourself. The only way forward is to tread carefully and have faith in your own sense of direction.
The First Lady has done exactly that with Let’s Move!, her signature initiative to solve the challenge of childhood obesity within one generation. For starters, Let’s Move! is as big and ambitious as many of the President’s efforts, which shows that she is not afraid to embrace the full potential of her platform and tackle one of the most urgent public health crises facing our nation. Right now, nearly one in three children in this country is overweight or obese, and the statistics are even more unacceptable in the African American and Hispanic communities. No one can argue with the urgency of this issue.
But I also love that she chose an initiative that nurtures her own physical and mental health, because if you’re not careful, being a First Lady can really mess with you. I can testify! With all those event meals, it’s tough to keep track of all the calories you’re eating. And if you’re sitting in meetings, you are sitting—that is, you are not exercising. With Let’s Move!, the First Lady stayed well by doing good. And when you see her at a Let’s Move! event, harvesting vegetables or playing flag football, it always looks like she’s having fun, which doesn’t surprise me a bit. One of the best things about my job is having opportunities to read, play and make art with young New Yorkers. If helping our young people is a stereotypical First Lady thing to do, then that is one stereotype I am happy to perpetuate.
The Meaning of Michelle Page 5