102 Time February 15/February 22, 2021
LYNSEY
WEATHERSPOON
PHOTOGRAPHER
THE SUDDEN URGENCY
FOR BLACKNESS within
the arts has propelled
many of us to believe that
it’s a one-time activity
that will eventually fade.
There’s a feeling that
we’re being asked to churn
out much more work in
order to remain relevant.
Anything that pertains
to the Black experience
is now en vogue, and
that becomes inherently
tiring. S. Darius Parker,
with whom I collaborated
for this image, has seen
this increased desire for
his work. He and I share
the concern that our work
will eventually disappear,
which is why we made
this portrait in an open
and desolate space.
As we make more and
more work, will it remainin demand? Will Black
creatives still receive work
to compensate for the
times we were overlooked?
The last few years, it has
felt as if there wasn’t much
space for Black women,
and especially Black
queer women, to have a
voice in the commercial
and editorial field. I’ve
seen that small amount
swell significantly since
the racial reckoning of- I’ve found a family
in the field of photography.
We know that we can
communicate our triumphs
and angst in a steadily
growing field. Talking to
my partner, who is also
a creative, keeps me
grounded and provides
another window into what
it means to be a Black
creative during the time of
the current uprising.
A DISAPPEARING ACT
Maybe. So what does that mean for me, now,
as a creator? It means I have an urgent choice. I
can license my experiences and culture while the
opportunity exists. Or I can pass. If I choose the
former, I have to know that corporate interest
in my stories will fade when attention diverts,
and that the experience of selling off pieces of
my stories will hurt. It’s uncomfortable and
humiliating to sit in rooms full of white people
and explain our pain over and over again. It’s
demeaning to take notes on my screenplays and
stories from white executives at studios and
networks who encourage me to change my voice
for “mainstream” audiences. If I take the money,
those are the taxes I pay.
But the choice is mine. I can take the money,
or leave it. I can think of these opportunities as
some form of reparations, because I know no ac-
tual reparations will come, or I can reserve myself
and leave that money on the table. That is a choice
for each Black creator—and each Black person—to
make right now.
It’s the choice we face when companies invite
us to speak to rooms full of white employees about
our experiences as Black people in corporate
America. It’s the choice of affirmative action. It’s
the choice of accepting or declining a promotion
or new job that feels like a representation grab,
and risking being demeaned and devalued as such.
Every Black employee is faced with that choice
when given the mic in a meeting to speak as the
voice of “diversity.” Each person must make that
choice with the strength of their own stomach and
their own bills in mind.
But I’m going to seize the moment. After all,
I’m a subject- matter expert. I’ve been Black for
300,000 hours. (Which means I’ve reached my
10,000 hours of master training 30 times over,
thank you very much, Malcolm Gladwell.) I’m a
creator and an entrepreneur, and money is lever-
age. I choose to seize that leverage to do what I can
to keep this window open for myself and others
when the day comes that Blackness is no longer
trending. For me that means creating more, part-
nering with Black producers, hiring Black produc-
tion crews and investing in fellow Black artists. It
means telling my story—the story of a Black cre-
ative and entrepreneur—right now, while it’s hap-
pening, so others like me can stand beside me to
hold this window open.
But make your own choices. That’s freedom.
Sanders is a screenwriter and author
The Black Renaissance ESSAY