raising a fist at the fix

“Since the time of Jesse Owens it has been presumed that any poor but rugged youngster who was able to jump racial fences into a college haven was happy all day long.” So wrote Harry Edwards in The Revolt of the Black Athlete (p. 75). The observation describes the ruling common sense, which is to say, a ruling ideology – in which an education is a blue ribbon or trophy (something you win, rather than earn); a college campus is “a haven” and the black male athlete is imagined as the eternal supplicant, “happy all day long” because he has been saved (from what? himself? his world? his color?). Any poor but rugged youngster – any “Jesse Owens” – must be running with joy, he must run as a means of joyful escape – running isn’t his job; it isn’t his work. If he’s happy all day long, it is because this discipline is his pleasure.  This is perhaps, more true today than it was in 1969, the year Edwards published his account of the radicalization of the black athlete, of the movement that led to one of the most enduring images in sports history – Tommie Smith and John Carlos, on the Olympic medal stand, heads bowed and fists raised.

NKU @ Garmsville1968_BlackPowerSalute1

Tommie Smith (the gold medalist) has a dim view of college athletics (even as he has a real love for his sport). Smith is one of the greatest sprinters to have ever taken to the track – he was, of course, a stand-out at San José State, then known as “speed city” for its sprinting program. Smith’s memoir, Silent Gesture, is remarkable for many reasons – he is an incredible person – but many would likely find his lack of nostalgia for his college years bracing. Smith describes his relationship to his alma mater as a big fat blank. Recalling a trip to San José State to participate in events honoring Smith and Carlos’s shared legacy, he writes,

I didn’t feel anything from the faculty and the administration when I was a student, I didn’t feel anything after I graduated and I didn’t feel anything that night [when he and John Carlos were honored] or since.

Smith is clear in his memoir: college sports is a fraud. Black athletes playing big-time sports then and now are ruthlessly exploited; they are treated as frauds (as undeserving), they are abandoned to a world of lowered expectations, used until they are used up. Smith doesn’t think that much has changed since the late 1960s, neither does Edwards.

The myth of the grateful black athlete puts a gloss on the collusion between universities, the NCAA, media and sports corporations – systems that bank on the spectator’s investment in the idea that this athlete is, indeed, “happy all day long” because the world is doing him one favor after another. That spectator’s pleasure is easily purchased, but the cost for the athlete is high. 

Fraud charges were filed last month against a former professor at UNC Chapel Hill, the latest plot twist in an old fashioned college sports scandal that’s been at a gentle boil for over three years. (See The Daily Tar Heel’s “Tracking a Sports Scandal”) It’s a particularly depressing story. 

Professor Julius Nyang’oro (who retired in 2012) chaired the African and Afro-American Studies Department at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill for 20 years.  Today, he stands accused of defrauding UNC by accepting pay for a 2011 course that he basically didn’t teach. That summer course, according to the Raleigh News and Observer

is one of more than 200 such lecture-style classes dating back to the mid-1990s that show little or no evidence of any instruction. These classes included roughly 500 grade changes that are either confirmed to be or suspected of being unauthorized. (See Dan Kane, “Former UNC Official Nyang’oro will fight felony charge”)

The  course in question had enrolled only current and former athletes, and athletes in the school’s football and basketball programs dominate the roster for the other classes. It seems pretty clear from media reports that this faculty member, with the support of administrative staff, helped athletes out by giving them course credit for courses that were barely taught. An NCAA investigation was conducted, and UNC responded with a report. Some tutors and  coaching staff were fired; an athletic director retired. A host of athletes were benched, declared ineligible, dropped and disciplined. And yet it seems the professor stands relatively alone in criminal court. It would be nice for UNC if it could wind this story up by claiming the campus was defrauded by a rogue faculty member – but it defies belief that the situation described in the press could have been conducted without – at the very least – an intense and deliberate blindness. It defies belief that the level of fraud implied here could flourish in the African and Afro-American Studies department without the collusion of the university administration – a New York Times journalist reports:
People in the department described it as balkanized — professors stuck to their own courses and research — and said that Mr. Nyang’oro was an inattentive administrator who was often out of the country, even when he was supposed to be teaching. They said that his continual reappointment as the department chairman, a job most professors hold for 10 years at most, reflected the university’s indifference to what was going on there. (Sarah Lyall, A’s for Athletes)
It’s a Philip Roth novel: by which I mean, it’s a white supremacist fantasy – the corrupt black studies professor as the instrument of a corrupt athletic department, affirming the “common sense” that the black athlete has no real place at all in the classroom – the student is a fraud and so is the black professor. It’s a terrible story – one that reminds us of Edwards’s strident calls for deep reform:
Like a piece of equipment, the black athlete is used. The old cliché ‘You give us your athletic ability, we give you a free education’ is a bare-faced lie, concocted by the white sports establishment to hoodwink athletes, white as well as black.
First of all, there is no such thing as a ‘free’ ride. A black athlete pays dearly with his blood, sweat, tears, and ultimately with some portion of his manhood, for the questionable right to represent his school on the athletic field. Second the white athletic establishments on the various college campuses frequently fail to live up to even the most rudimentary responsibilities implied in their half of the agreement. (Edwards, 16)
In the UNC report regarding the empty credits awarded to student athletes, we see that if anything has changed, it’s the complexity of the system. It’s a miserable story; here I’ve outlined just one or two aspects of its ugliness.

Kissing Contexts

Gran Fury, Read My Lips

This weekend, the members of Russia’s 4×400 relay team made a point of exchanging kisses on the medal stand at the World Championships in Moscow. A photograph of two of the gold medalists has been widely circulated as a protest image. Folks wonder: Is this a European-style greeting or a political intervention? Is this women being friendly? Or is it anti-homophobic and maybe even lesbian?

Footage of the ceremony shows that it wasn’t just two who kissed. Each member of the relay squad kissed every other member of the squad. It was a flurry of kisses.


If you’ve spent time in environments in which people kiss when they meet, the gesture is certainly recognizable as a polite greeting. But it should also seem out of context. Usually you only kiss someone the first time you see them in the day. Kissing someone again after you’ve kissed them hello is odd. And kissing them like this in a medal ceremony is unnatural. There are implicit rules about who kisses who and how – men might kiss each other in one place but not another. Men might kiss women in one place, but not another. But generally, if folks are in the practice of greeting with a kiss, women kiss and are kissed. But not when they are getting medals. In that case, maybe the person putting the medal around your neck kisses you. On the cheek. Maybe. (Generally, it’s a handshake.) But you don’t kiss your teammates. You hug. Which is much friendlier, actually, than a kiss. And, in any case, kissing on the lips – that’s reserved for very particular exchanges. Yes, people kiss on the lips as a greeting – but it is definitely a (very polite) step towards rather than away from intimacy.

The runners gave photographers a very specific photo opportunity. Again and again.

Are these the polite kisses of housewives or are they expressions of gender rebellion? Is it politics? Or is this personal? Is this Western media run amok, looking for gay anything because it makes a good story? In a homophobic environment lesbian desire, love and attachment is both prohibited and also persistently erased. It is erased by the determination to imagine that women have no active sexuality at all (in which case, a woman wants only to be the object of a man’s desire), and also by massive cultural hostility to feminism – as a practice of caring for and about women.

As Dave Zirin writes, folks want to draw from this kiss an analogy to John Carlos and Tommie Smith’s 1968 black power salute. But, he rightly observes, we can’t. He notes, for example that where Carlos and Smith’s raised fists silenced the whole stadium and then drew jeers, people in the Moscow stadium seemed not to notice that the kisses might be an intervention. They didn’t interrupt the ceremony in any way.

The difference between these moments is interesting for all sorts of reasons. But here I’ll just ask: What would a queer feminist power salute look like, if not a kiss? What could be more queer, in fact, than a gesture that makes you look at the explicit homosociality of sports differently – as potentially, at least where women are concerned, always already political? Is it the kiss itself that does that? Or is it, in fact, the homophobic context in which the kiss is staged?

When we look for gay signs and signals, we mirror the homophobic public sphere conjured by Russia’s prohibition of queer “propaganda.” It is not, in other words, Western media that is making a gay spectacle out of sports – it is the virulence of the homophobic public sphere that Russia’s government is nurturing. We can trust that the sport spectacle will inspire new heights of paranoia and fantasy within this Russian context.

Athletes have been asked to tone down even the most discreet demonstrations of support for Russia’s LGBITQ community. Even Rainbow colored finger nails are too political. Nevertheless, women can kiss on the podium at a world championship event in that context, and folks ask themselves “what did we see”? Russian officials are happy to tell us: nothing.

This speaks to a big question – a question at the heart of Russia’s hateful laws: How do we see sexuality? How does one regulate sexuality as something that is seen? That question has never not framed queer activism. It was taken up most explicitly and most consistently, however, by AIDS activist organizations like Gran Fury.

Gran Fury, Kissing Doesn't Kill (1989)

In 1989 and 1990, a poster of lesbian, gay and straight couples kissing was mounted onto the sides of NYC buses. It was a part of a series of images of queer kisses – others were captioned with the demand, “READ MY LIPS.”


The Russian team’s kiss draws out their context: a world that scrutinizes every gesture, every movement towards members of the same sex, looking for and beating out signs of the queer from the social body. All public displays of affection unfold within cultural tradition and social practice. There is something distinctly powerful about a group of women athletes staging the warmest and most polite of gestures within a context in which that gesture is also quite clearly political.

What could be nicer, more queer or more feminist that meeting the world with a kiss on the lips?


Russian women race to a kiss-in (and a gold medal)

The beauty of absolute gender segregation in sports is that it makes a display like this almost impossible to avoid! It’s always either all women or all men on a podium at the IAAF World Track and Field Championship. Every medal ceremony has the capacity to be a gay kiss-in!

They fought for this medal. It’s a great race.

The furtive kiss-in:

I count seven. Maybe eight kisses.

%d bloggers like this: