Representation of Black Women in Comics Matters
Since the creation of the printing press, and the circulation of media on a global scale, comics have been used as a medium to reflect the human condition and the different facets of life. Be it a political cartoon taking potshots at a fascist tyrant, or the retellings of fantastical heroes going on adventures, to defend humanity, from malevolent forces or even from itself.
When you think of a comic book hero, there are probably a few characters that come to mind — like Batman, Superman, and many others, in an endless array of universes and plotlines you can throw yourself into. It must be such a nice thing to have — especially if you’re white and male. The Appearance of these characters, like the comic book industry itself, the appearances of these characters are geared toward their audience and depends heavily on their engagement.
If everyone in these comics looks like you and acts like you, there is security and comfort in that. There is a privilege in knowing that what you’re reading will be satisfying and relatable. Yet, all the while these comics strengthen the white-male power fantasy.
Now consider this: You’re a lone Black girl perusing the local comic store, or browsing through titles online and all the Black female characters you see, — besides the ones that aren’t based on caricatures or stereotypes — are sidelined, never to be seen again, or they are used as sidekicks; props to their white counterparts. This is my constant reality as a Black woman. Every time I try to use comics as my escapism, like my white counterparts, I'm not quite as able to disappear into the fantasy, as they do.
The comic book industry has been predominantly white and male. They are executives making the editorial decisions, pitching the character decisions, and promoting the characters.
Intentionally or not, the Black female characters that do emerge will often fall into the pit traps that are stereotypes. The stereotypes often attributed to Black women include but are not limited to: the Jezebel, the Mammy, and the Sapphire. Jezebel implies hypersexual, “sexually provocative, possessing loose or no morals”, as well as being “nicely shaped” (Lewis 34).
In her writings, Lewis continues to describe the Mammy as “Kind, caregiving, motherly, [and] non-sexual in nature,” and the Sapphire as “Bitter, “bulldozer”, threatening, [and] aggressive.” The issue with these stereotypes is that they reduce Black women to their ability to cater to the desires of other people, or portray them as having no empathy or feelings for others at all.
Marvel’s Storm, is a prime example of a character who, while a trailblazer for Black female representation, also suffers from these stereotypes. Storm, the first female Black character from a major publishing house, was a part of an initiative to draw in more readers from different demographics. The storm was intended to be a character that would be more likely to resonate with people who identified with her. However, she is a victim of all three aforementioned archetypes.
On the cover of her first appearance, in Giant-Size X-Men #1 (1975), her breasts are made the main focus, despite her figure taking up equal space with the other members of her team. Throughout her initial appearances, Storm is shown frolicking naked through the homeland of a tribe of people, who could be considered “primitive” by the modern standards of the comic. When Storm is discovered by the X-Men, she is shown to have confusion about why she should cover herself.
Worshiped as a goddess before being discovered, she rightfully becomes bitter at having her title reduced to “mutant” and is combative about joining the X-Men. They must cajole Storm so as not to upset her, for fear of her strength being used on them. This attitude she has, is very much akin to that of the Sapphire, or “angry Black woman,” via the techniques they use to appease her.
In later years, as Storm became a popular Marvel regular in contrast to her humble beginnings, her appearance began to change. She cut off a large portion of her hair and started to wear tight-fitting, leather clothing. In a rather contradictory fashion, Storm was heavily sexualized, while also masculinized in her rebellion against the status quo of what a Black female superhero should look like. Storm’s white, female predecessors were hardly sexualized, often seen as sexless, innocent sweethearts, who weren’t written to be as bitter, wrathful, or bold as she is. The stark differences in treatment act as a microcosm of the reality outside of Marvel’s comic book storylines.
These narratives demonstrate how by being both Black and a woman, one is both invisible and hypervisible, at the whims of the white majority who interact and consume them, not as if they are people, but as caricatures.
These characters draw the short end of the stick in terms of how they are perceived by the general public, while also not being allowed happy endings. Their physical and mental suffering is used as a prop for the development of others’ stories.
Furthermore, these characters are often used occasionally for “diversity points',” so the publishing house doesn’t seem outright racist, or risk upsetting the “woke mob.” The “woke mob” is comic readers of color and others who are tired of stories, fantasies, and dreams being told improperly. As an example, in the case of DC Comics, the number of Black women who are not allowed to be long-term love interests is astounding.
Shondra Kinsolving, a doctor who treated Bruce Wayne outside of his persona as Batman, was one of his healthiest relationships to date. So much so that in the comics she was featured in, Bruce falls, head over heels in love with her, and wants to propose to her. This is shocking considering that they never went through what could be considered a “traditional” dating or a courting process.
However, through a rather convoluted turn of events, Shondra is kidnapped and undergoes severe trauma. She loses her memory, reverting to a child-like state for several years. Afterward, she has no memories of her relationship with Bruce, and the comic’s canon moves on without her. It makes no sense as to why DC Comics would sabotage such a promising relationship, other than being afraid of the social implications of displaying an interracial relationship with a strong, successful Black woman, and the potential backlash from their white fanbase. This decision upsets the dynamic that keeps Black women from the forefront, supporting the wrongful narrative that they can be in the spotlight but not for too long — lest they be successful and gain notoriety.
A Black woman who suffered greatly from being a sidekick to a white counterpart is Nubia. In her early appearances, she was first toted around as the Black sister to Wonder Woman, who received more accolades than Nubia, despite them having the same abilities and drive.
She was often given small roles in her appearances until later years when her origins were dusted off and retconned. She was finally given her own proper stories, though flawed in some ways as well. Her young adult book, although a beautiful coming of age story and a step in the right direction, is also littered with the trauma that comes with being a Black woman, like police brutality, and your lack of perceived femininity. It’s a struggle having to overcome the barriers that were placed by forces outside of your control.
With all this in mind, one has to wonder, do Black women care about being represented properly if they continue to settle for mere crumbs of representation? To those who say, “rather than complain about the lack of representation, why don’t Black people create it themselves?” — the number of Black people allowed into writer's rooms is notoriously low. Kwanza Osajyefo, before publishing his comic BLACK, worked at both DC and Marvel. There he witnessed how the lack of different perspectives impacted the writing of Black characters.
He managed to publish his own comic, but only by crowdfunding for support. There was a good chance that if he hadn’t received such help, the comic would have failed. According to Torri Staton’s dissertation, she came to the conclusion that the depiction of Black women in the media directly impacts how young Black girls and women see themselves. And that they respond positively to images of Black women who were independent, did well, for themselves, and avoided falling into negative stereotypes.
In short, — representation matters — because Black women are not privileged in the way that their white counterparts are. The fact that white people would speak on how Black women should be happy with what they have, rather than strive for more, speaks to how privileged they are, and how anti-Black comics and the media are.
My dream is, that one day, a little Black girl will be able to walk into a comic shop and see heroes that look like her, as far as the eye can see. She’ll be able to jump into a million and one universes and fit into every single one, — because her stories and, her dreams matter —, and there won’t be any social, economical, or racial obstacles to stand in her way.
By Christie Sylvester
Illustrations were done in collaboration with the New Media Artspace at Baruch College. The New Media Artspace is a teaching exhibition space in the Department of Fine and Performing Arts at Baruch College, CUNY. Housed in the Newman Library, the New Media Artspace showcases curated experimental media and interdisciplinary artworks by international artists, students, alumni, and faculty. Special thanks to docent Anya Ballantyne for creating artwork for this piece.
Check the New Media Artspace out at http://www.newmediartspace.info/