Confessions of a “Universal”
Hustler
I’m not sure exactly when, but at some point being Black became my full-time job, my career. Being a good copywriter became secondary to being a good Black copywriter. Being a smart marketer became secondary to being an urban marketer. At some point my insights into the Black community and hip-hop became my most valued assets; and after a while nothing else mattered. It wasn’t because I didn’t have value in any other capacity or role. And it wasn’t because I was looking for an easy way out (or in). It was because that’s all they wanted from me: Bosses… Clients… Coworkers… Consumers… Women… They wanted was “Blackness,” or at least a marketable, ownable version of it. Most days I felt like the token black comic on SNL—Give ‘em Blackness. On their terms. For their purpose. For their profit.
Show ‘Em My Motto!
I’m in this brainstorming session for a major soft-drink client: There’s me, a couple VPs, account execs, creative directors, etc., all sitting around a conference table staring at cans and bottles of product. The soda’s image is flat; its market share is slipping. Our assignment: Re-energize the brand; make it hip. Make our core audiences of 12–17 year old and 18–24 year old mainstream kids already thirsty for coolness drink it by the caseload.
Our
solution? Black folk. The gist: While our core audience is white,
our client knows what most in the beverage, music, fashion, and
entertainment industries have known and utilized for decades: Black
people are cool, trendsetters. And if you get black people to do it,
most everyone else, in the great American tradition of co-opting
black culture will probably do it, too. So the plan is essentially
to surround the product with black people, black music and boom—sold
to America. In business terms, it’s the O.J. Principle reloaded:
Back in 1968 at the height of the Civil Rights Era as top black sports figures like Jim Brown, Dr. Harry Edwards, Muhammad Ali, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, et al, are championing civil rights, a rising RB named Orenthal James Simpson who’s just won the Heisman Award publicly distances himself from the movement by claiming it (black civil rights) “isn’t his problem.”1 This public declaration makes him an instant folks hero among many mainstreamers and a cash cow for everyone from ABC and NFL to Hertz to Hollywood.
Over the next 25 years, O.J. Simpson built a multimillion-dollar career of product endorsing, motivational speaking, sports commentating, and even acting, based almost exclusively on being “universal”—black but accepted by mainstream marketers and consumers. He protected his crossover appeal consistently avoiding all things “controversial” or Black (women, civil rights, race, etc.). And until his big trial he was consistently ranked as one of the most beloved black people in America. Companies have been spinning the O.J. Principle ever since. (Many have cited Michael Jordan, Tiger Woods, and Will Smith as the O.J. Principle’s most successful offspring.)
Now, back to the lab…
We start batting around ways to seed this soft drink into the Black community. Giveaways. Churches. Community events. Eventually someone suggests celebrity endorser. (The client has deep pockets and if we offered the right one, they’d bite.) Names start flying: Jordan. Janet Jackson. Chris Tucker. Chris Rock. Tiger. Sir Charles… Quickly, some begin expressing concerns over “how black is too black” for this brand. After all, the core audience is white soft-drink consumers; we need to attract Blacks but not if it means alienating whites.
As the celebrity prospects are discussed, a mild off-color comment pops up. Then a couple light-hearted but derogatory jokes… Criticisms of various aspects of black culture that they “just don’t understand” follow… Next thing you know, a wholesale discussion breaks out over what “type” of Black person our client should be associated with. Many champion Will Smith. He’s “nice,” “articulate,” and not breaking the law “like the rest,” as they put it. Other counter that Will isn’t “real enough” and “too boring,” or something to that affect. He’s “too O.J.” for them—pre-Bronco chase, of course.
As an apparent wildcard, someone offers up Allen Iverson. Quickly the room agrees AI is “a little too much” for the client. (Remember this is 2000—Iverson was still too “street” for most of America; even some NBA execs thought so.) Someone else suggests trying a black endorser who isn’t an athlete or an actor “to avoid the obvious.” But after a minute or two of dead silence they realize they can’t think of anyone. In between lots of hand-wringing all decide that it might not be “interesting enough” and possibly a “disconnect” to show a black person “in that context.” So it’s back to athletes, entertainers, and who/what is “too black.”
What's
yours is mine!
By now I’m so frustrated that I storm out of the room. I don’t know what bothered me more—the discussion or the fact that I was in on it. I went back to my desk and began writing my resignation letter. While typing I realized that I still needed money, and this whole “blackness” thing was lucrative. So I stopped and hit one of our big comfy bathrooms, splashed some water on my face and sat in a stall to chill out.
About 20 minutes later I went back into the meeting. Judging from the reactions, I don’t think anyone noticed I was gone. In my absence five Black endorser options had been scrawled onto one of those gigantic Post-It pads. They were noted as “final selects.” I read the names… Will Smith was number one. The others left me shaking my head in masked disgust and counting the days until my next paycheck. (The client ended up going with a patchwork of messages until their L’il Penny rip-off took off.)
But that day got to me. There was something about being in a room full of whites with more power and influence than even they probably realized or would ever admit to having literally deciding what is too Black. They were actually imposing their values on Black culture and Black people, not just in the name of commerce, but also in the name of America. But what got to me even more was that I helped them do it.
Looking back, that soda meeting was typical and actually quite mild compared to the rest of my marketing experiences and those of most black marketing professionals. Overall, the schemes are usually way more manipulative and exploitive. The clients and coworkers are usually more callous, clueless, condescending, biased, indifferent, insert-descriptor-here…
The images we created were often destructively stereotypical and fetishizing, even when we were being subtle. The ideas and ideals we attached brands to were often marginalizing and dehumanizing. The brands we pushed were often as disposable and empty as our perceptions of our ethnic target audiences. The money we made seldom if ever saw the pockets of minority professionals or vendors. (Most of the companies involved had few if any minority professionals on staff and spent as little money as possible with black vendors and companies. Such is still the case today.)
Funny thing it never felt like some secret cabal or Illuminati-type stuff; it was just business as usual. And of course, it was ethical. Maybe that’s why we seldom if ever cared about the repercussions.
ON WHITE-COLLAR PARENTS:
Over the years, I’ve met plenty of working parents. Women, men, single, divorced, execs, secretaries, and such, all stuck with the same struggle. And by and large, they always tried to put their families first. But I knew (and still know) entirely too many who are out there stacking 80-hour work weeks trying to make partner, get the corner office, the bigger title, etc. all in the name of “for the kids.” To all of them and all of you I say:
Quit using your kids as an excuse for trying to get ahead!
You
want the big-time career? Fine. You want all the perks that come
with being CEO, CFO, or Big Boss Woman? Good for you. Climb that
ladder as hard as you can and go as high as it’ll take you. But
don’t ever get it twisted: Your kids would rather see you than see
what you’ve accomplished in their name. Sure, you need money and
security, but at what cost?
Businessfolks have a choice. You’re choosing a corner-office over your child. You’re choosing your industry over your family. You’re choosing your ego and your desire to succeed over a personal life. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying career success and family are mutually exclusive because they’re not. But what I am saying is (1) Don’t measure your worth by your title. (2) Don’t lie to yourself about why you’re making the choices you’re making. And (3) don’t lie to your kids about it. They know the real deal even if you don’t.
I’m not sure exactly when, but at some point being Black became my full-time job, my career. Being a good copywriter became secondary to being a good Black copywriter. Being a smart marketer became secondary to being an urban marketer. At some point my insights into the Black community and hip-hop became my most valued assets; and after a while nothing else mattered. It wasn’t because I didn’t have value in any other capacity or role. And it wasn’t because I was looking for an easy way out (or in). It was because that’s all they wanted from me: Bosses… Clients… Coworkers… Consumers… Women… They wanted was “Blackness,” or at least a marketable, ownable version of it. Most days I felt like the token black comic on SNL—Give ‘em Blackness. On their terms. For their purpose. For their profit.
Show ‘Em My Motto!
I’m in this brainstorming session for a major soft-drink client: There’s me, a couple VPs, account execs, creative directors, etc., all sitting around a conference table staring at cans and bottles of product. The soda’s image is flat; its market share is slipping. Our assignment: Re-energize the brand; make it hip. Make our core audiences of 12–17 year old and 18–24 year old mainstream kids already thirsty for coolness drink it by the caseload.
Our
solution? Black folk. The gist: While our core audience is white,
our client knows what most in the beverage, music, fashion, and
entertainment industries have known and utilized for decades: Black
people are cool, trendsetters. And if you get black people to do it,
most everyone else, in the great American tradition of co-opting
black culture will probably do it, too. So the plan is essentially
to surround the product with black people, black music and boom—sold
to America. In business terms, it’s the O.J. Principle reloaded:Back in 1968 at the height of the Civil Rights Era as top black sports figures like Jim Brown, Dr. Harry Edwards, Muhammad Ali, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, et al, are championing civil rights, a rising RB named Orenthal James Simpson who’s just won the Heisman Award publicly distances himself from the movement by claiming it (black civil rights) “isn’t his problem.”1 This public declaration makes him an instant folks hero among many mainstreamers and a cash cow for everyone from ABC and NFL to Hertz to Hollywood.
Over the next 25 years, O.J. Simpson built a multimillion-dollar career of product endorsing, motivational speaking, sports commentating, and even acting, based almost exclusively on being “universal”—black but accepted by mainstream marketers and consumers. He protected his crossover appeal consistently avoiding all things “controversial” or Black (women, civil rights, race, etc.). And until his big trial he was consistently ranked as one of the most beloved black people in America. Companies have been spinning the O.J. Principle ever since. (Many have cited Michael Jordan, Tiger Woods, and Will Smith as the O.J. Principle’s most successful offspring.)
Now, back to the lab…
We start batting around ways to seed this soft drink into the Black community. Giveaways. Churches. Community events. Eventually someone suggests celebrity endorser. (The client has deep pockets and if we offered the right one, they’d bite.) Names start flying: Jordan. Janet Jackson. Chris Tucker. Chris Rock. Tiger. Sir Charles… Quickly, some begin expressing concerns over “how black is too black” for this brand. After all, the core audience is white soft-drink consumers; we need to attract Blacks but not if it means alienating whites.
As the celebrity prospects are discussed, a mild off-color comment pops up. Then a couple light-hearted but derogatory jokes… Criticisms of various aspects of black culture that they “just don’t understand” follow… Next thing you know, a wholesale discussion breaks out over what “type” of Black person our client should be associated with. Many champion Will Smith. He’s “nice,” “articulate,” and not breaking the law “like the rest,” as they put it. Other counter that Will isn’t “real enough” and “too boring,” or something to that affect. He’s “too O.J.” for them—pre-Bronco chase, of course.
As an apparent wildcard, someone offers up Allen Iverson. Quickly the room agrees AI is “a little too much” for the client. (Remember this is 2000—Iverson was still too “street” for most of America; even some NBA execs thought so.) Someone else suggests trying a black endorser who isn’t an athlete or an actor “to avoid the obvious.” But after a minute or two of dead silence they realize they can’t think of anyone. In between lots of hand-wringing all decide that it might not be “interesting enough” and possibly a “disconnect” to show a black person “in that context.” So it’s back to athletes, entertainers, and who/what is “too black.”
What's
yours is mine! By now I’m so frustrated that I storm out of the room. I don’t know what bothered me more—the discussion or the fact that I was in on it. I went back to my desk and began writing my resignation letter. While typing I realized that I still needed money, and this whole “blackness” thing was lucrative. So I stopped and hit one of our big comfy bathrooms, splashed some water on my face and sat in a stall to chill out.
About 20 minutes later I went back into the meeting. Judging from the reactions, I don’t think anyone noticed I was gone. In my absence five Black endorser options had been scrawled onto one of those gigantic Post-It pads. They were noted as “final selects.” I read the names… Will Smith was number one. The others left me shaking my head in masked disgust and counting the days until my next paycheck. (The client ended up going with a patchwork of messages until their L’il Penny rip-off took off.)
But that day got to me. There was something about being in a room full of whites with more power and influence than even they probably realized or would ever admit to having literally deciding what is too Black. They were actually imposing their values on Black culture and Black people, not just in the name of commerce, but also in the name of America. But what got to me even more was that I helped them do it.
Looking back, that soda meeting was typical and actually quite mild compared to the rest of my marketing experiences and those of most black marketing professionals. Overall, the schemes are usually way more manipulative and exploitive. The clients and coworkers are usually more callous, clueless, condescending, biased, indifferent, insert-descriptor-here…
The images we created were often destructively stereotypical and fetishizing, even when we were being subtle. The ideas and ideals we attached brands to were often marginalizing and dehumanizing. The brands we pushed were often as disposable and empty as our perceptions of our ethnic target audiences. The money we made seldom if ever saw the pockets of minority professionals or vendors. (Most of the companies involved had few if any minority professionals on staff and spent as little money as possible with black vendors and companies. Such is still the case today.)
Funny thing it never felt like some secret cabal or Illuminati-type stuff; it was just business as usual. And of course, it was ethical. Maybe that’s why we seldom if ever cared about the repercussions.
ON WHITE-COLLAR PARENTS:
Over the years, I’ve met plenty of working parents. Women, men, single, divorced, execs, secretaries, and such, all stuck with the same struggle. And by and large, they always tried to put their families first. But I knew (and still know) entirely too many who are out there stacking 80-hour work weeks trying to make partner, get the corner office, the bigger title, etc. all in the name of “for the kids.” To all of them and all of you I say:
Quit using your kids as an excuse for trying to get ahead!
You
want the big-time career? Fine. You want all the perks that come
with being CEO, CFO, or Big Boss Woman? Good for you. Climb that
ladder as hard as you can and go as high as it’ll take you. But
don’t ever get it twisted: Your kids would rather see you than see
what you’ve accomplished in their name. Sure, you need money and
security, but at what cost? Businessfolks have a choice. You’re choosing a corner-office over your child. You’re choosing your industry over your family. You’re choosing your ego and your desire to succeed over a personal life. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying career success and family are mutually exclusive because they’re not. But what I am saying is (1) Don’t measure your worth by your title. (2) Don’t lie to yourself about why you’re making the choices you’re making. And (3) don’t lie to your kids about it. They know the real deal even if you don’t.
