I shoulda said this way earlier: Please see Precious for yourself.
This isn’t some Coke and gold circa 1986 shit. Won’t nobody accuse you of killing sisters and brothers in apartheid South Africa if you indulge your love of name-brand cola and dookie ropes.
I had a disturbing verbal altercation discussion with a random, aggressive woman from Ghana who had never heard that fried chicken consumption was a stereotype used to clown African Americans but still tried to bully me into agreeing that it was OK that Precious stole a 10-piece bucket of chicken because that’s how people get down in “the ghetto” sister about this fucking provocative movie at the Bed-Stuy version of Cheers. I did not bring up this movie or the book on which it is based. The instigator male bartender did by asking me what I thought of the flick and announcing my feelings about the narrative unevenness, the troublesome color politics, the pileup of visual stereotypes and the almost gleeful visual degradation of Precious’s large body to the bar full of Black women who loved the film.
So here’s a Hollywood happy ending:
I am no longer discussing Precious with people who ride for it. Sorry. If they want to believe that it’s OK for a brown-skinned director who already stated his bias against dark skinned, overweight people to trot out corny, racialized stereotypes under the auspices of telling a “real” story in “da ghetto,” that’s fine. Feel how you feel, how you feel, how you feel, how you feel, feel, feel it. Word to Roy Ayers. In the sunshine.