Sean Battle: Six Ways to Look at Blackness in Pro Wrestling
5:54AM, after George Zimmerman was Found Not Guilty I. As the Downtown Miami sun shines on damage from the riots, WWE will do final preparations for Pay-Per-View in Philly. A tag team whose characters wave the Gadsen flag, shout We The People, tell immigrants to speak English only, could use that time to say justice was served, pull boos from the crowd. Little chance that a wrestler born with a black face will be booked to hit the ring, slam them into silence. If he does, do not expect him to win the feud on his own. Suspension of disbelief is never that strong against such lack of logic. II. Like the child in the Hunger Games book reveled to be black in the movie, wrestlers with dark skin are seen as worthy of less empathy. No too many cheers for the black baby face in peril when the bad guy looks more like them. Silence for the match that features Two dark superstars: The masses will not know who to cheer, both sporting that villainous melanin craved by pale co-workers baking their bodies in chambers. III. Even though he passes as white, his clout coming more from his Samoan Grandfather, Dwayne âThe Rockâ Johnsonâs longest reign as WWE Champion started by pinning the boss in a six man tag team match. He was never booked to beat the champion outright. Two months before, Dwayne won the title after a five on one assault from the championâs crew, but only after a bald-headed bionic redneck laid everyone out with a steel chair. That savior, the year before, was an enemy to Dwayne, whose time at the top started by selling out to the Boss who learned Dwayneâs electricity cannot be controlled. The people wanted to cheer him for how cool he made being bad look with every five hundred dollar silk shirt and sunglasses worn indoors. They grew tired of the pearly white smile he wore back when he debuted as a blue chipper. This was the attitude era. Vitamin and prayers fell to middle fingers and crotch chops as signs of heroism. Women who interfered in a match got what they deserved should the hero get their hands on them amongst the roar of a pleased crowd. To be the man, Dwayne had to buck up, which is to say, surround himself with fellow blacks as a nation of domination; recognize when to switch up for the cooperation; accept that in both groups, he will be bad for a while. Enough justification for a group of degenerates to engage them in satire, wear his sunglasses, silk shirts, toy belt, curly wig, blackface, dialect. IV. If a wrestler is dark enough, heâll be assigned the thug gimmick. He will sport gold teeth, compete in timberland boots, be part of a tag team called Cryme Time. His name, JTG, will be an acronym for nothing. A parody of names given to rappers. All of this for a good guy act to cool the crowd off with time to laugh, or do a bathroom break. V. John Cena gets booed by adults as if he stalked the children who cheer him, took the safety off his gun, got out of the car, grappled them to the ground, shot them in the chest. All he did was go kid friendly after years of rapping in black dialect to the ring. He still wrestles in jean shorts and sneakers, uses his rap song as his entrance music. But gone are Basic Thuganomics lessons in sixteen bars, rebellion only white lyricists from suburban Massachusetts can project. In wrestling, Blackness is a gimmick too dangerous for corporate crossover, too taboo for the 21st century Hulk Hogan. Meanwhile, Booker T, black Texan, birthed the gimmick of an English king: crown worn over dread locks, pinky finger in the air while his queen yelled amongst boos, the crowd, allll haiiil kiiiing Bookaah! With this costume, he clutched a world title in a company whose roster grew so big, they split it into two conferences. Of course, Bookerâs belt was secondary to Johnâs. of course, when angeredâlike when Cryme Tyme stole his walletâhis accent reverts to dialect deemed unworthy of gold by a champion years ago: the same cerebral assassin who donned blackface to enrage Dwayne, who never lost clean to either man. VI. The George Zimmerman Trial found its way onto a private pro wrestling discussion group. Under the image of Free Zimmerman T-shirts laid comments from people united in their love scripted reality inside a 20X20 foot ring. Someone called Trayvon Martinâs mother, Sabrina Fulton, money hungry. Like she didnât have the right to copyright her sonâs name, the one she and her husband gave to him after hours of emptying her womb of their baby boy, never thinking they were fattening him up to feed Floridaâs dirt. Suddenly I was in a handicap match: Me versus a stable of a thousand profiles, no tags needed to be in the ring. I was ignorant of the facts beyond Zimmerman dismissing the cops, his hand trading the steering wheel for a gun. I couldâve seen this match through the eyes of the defense, use the ring as my weapon, like Trayvon used the concrete as his. But I tapped out, placed my focus on another topic: a wrestlerâs status with the office since he appear at the grand opening of WWEâs Performance Center In Florida. There I said the reporter Needed to cite his source, shouldâve waited to release a name. Then they came The groupâs neighborhood watch stomping my patience through the mat, calling me a hypocrite. For speaking up, I was a threat to be followed, told indirectly that I wasnât welcome here. This was the night before Florida said another murderer goes free/said another prosecutor failed to have a backbone/ said more children will watch riots and silence from their golden nosebleed seats.