What does a childhood photograph reveal about America's long-standing obsession with race and poverty? In 1978, I found myself on the front page of the Westport News—grinning widely, immortalized as the face of the local school lunch program. The headline suggested I was one of the "hungry students" benefiting from this daily treat. But this photograph was not just an image; it was a narrative imposed upon me, one that I have spent years reclaiming.
Here’s the reality: I was neither hungry nor part of the school lunch program. I brought my lunch from home, packed by my parents in a town known for its affluence and elite public school system. Westport, Connecticut, where I grew up, was a place where educational opportunities were abundant. While I was a resident of this community, the town also hosted a selective group of Black students from nearby Bridgeport, who were bused in because they were considered exceptional and because the educational opportunities in their own community were lacking. Yet, in the eyes of the media, my face in this photograph told a different story. It perpetuated a stereotype, linking Blackness to poverty in a town where my reality was far more complex. This was not just a mischaracterization of me but a microcosm of how media narratives can distort and simplify Black lives, casting us in roles we did not choose.
This experience echoes that of Vice President Kamala Harris, who, like me, sought refuge and affirmation at Howard University. Kamala was bused to school in Berkeley, California, to integrate a predominantly white space, while I grew up in an affluent suburb. Different circumstances, but the same struggle to navigate spaces that too often sought to define us before we could define ourselves. Both lawyers, we found in Howard a space where we could reclaim our narratives, where our identities were not questioned but embraced—a necessity born out of the stories imposed upon us elsewhere.
Kamala and I have seen firsthand how the media can shape perceptions, influence opinions, and distort realities. My image in that newspaper was used to perpetuate a stereotype of neediness, just as the media has often sought to simplify and question Kamala's identity and right to occupy spaces of power. Now that Kamala is running for president, people often tell me that we look alike and see me as "presidential." But what I want everyone to know is that we’ve all been presidential and looked presidential; some just didn’t realize it. This pattern of imposing limited narratives extends beyond personal anecdotes; it’s part of a systemic issue where media subtly reinforces damaging stereotypes, impacting public perception and policy.
Consider how the media reports crime. We’ve come to recognize an unspoken rule: when a criminal's race is not identified, we can almost always infer they are white. If the person is not white, their race is usually one of the first details provided. This pattern reinforces biases and perpetuates the idea that criminality is intrinsically linked to race. It’s a stark reminder of how narratives are crafted, who they serve, and how they shape our understanding of the world.
Today, in our fraught political climate, the weaponization of narratives is not just about a photograph or a misleading headline; it’s about controlling the very fabric of our social and political understanding. The seemingly small stories lay the groundwork for larger, more damaging narratives that shape public consciousness. When the media constructs narratives that align with stereotypes, it not only distorts individual lives but also fuels systemic inequalities. We see it in the criminal justice system, in public policy debates, and in everyday interactions that hinge on these ingrained misconceptions.
This is why Kamala and I chose Howard—an institution that allowed us to reclaim our stories, to speak on our terms amidst a cacophony of voices eager to define us. Howard gave us the tools to confront these narratives head-on, not just for ourselves but for those who come after us.
What we are all looking for, regardless of race, gender, or background, is the equal opportunity to be ourselves and become who we want to be. But this simple aspiration becomes complicated when media narratives box people into narrow identities that limit our collective imagination of who we can be.
As we navigate this era of misinformation and media bias, it is imperative to ask: Who controls the story? Whose narrative is being told, and to what end? This isn’t just about my childhood photograph or Kamala’s journey to the vice presidency and, perhaps, the presidency. It's about recognizing the power of media in crafting narratives that can either enlighten or mislead. We must demand more of the media and of ourselves.
It’s time for media outlets to commit to nuanced storytelling. We must move beyond the lazy tropes and invest in narratives that reflect the complexity of Black lives, Brown lives, and all lives. When stories are told with care, they can challenge perceptions, dismantle stereotypes, and foster a more just society. And as readers, we must critically engage with the stories presented to us, challenging simplistic portrayals and seeking the deeper truths they often obscure.
We must recognize that every misrepresented story, every unchecked stereotype, and every omitted truth contributes to a larger culture of bias and inequality. By reclaiming our narratives, we take a step toward dismantling the structures that have long sought to confine us. The question is not just about what is said, but what is left unsaid.
So here we are, decades later, understanding that the power of storytelling is not just in its ability to reflect reality but in its potential to reshape it. Let’s demand a media landscape that reflects the full spectrum of our humanity, where individuals have the space to reclaim and tell their own stories. Because only then can we begin to rewrite the narratives that have, for too long, shaped the world to the detriment of us all.
Seanne
Comments