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Within Spoken Soul, better known as Ebonics, the term down can be used as an adjective to describe a person that willingly yields a tremendous amount of support to another person. The “Down Ass Bitch” (DAB) is a controlling image of the black woman that calls for her unwavering support of the black man, even when it is pernicious to her best interest. In fact, we can see this in the black community on many levels: (1) from black women faithfully waiting years for men to be released from prison; (2) hiding domestic abuse or rape at the hands of black men for the sake of protecting the race; or (3) sexually exploiting our bodies for the financial benefit of black men. However, what is most interesting about this particular stereotype of the black woman being “down” for her man is that this is not an expectation that is asked of the black man. It is this author’s contention that the “Down Ass Bitch” is obsequious to the powers of black men— though she is portrayed as being strong, aggressive, and assertive. Essentially, the “Down Ass Bitch,” a highly celebrated image in the black community, is the black version of the submissive white woman, the Eurocentric construction of the idealized womanhood. Various controlling images of black womanhood— such as the mammy, the jezebel, and the welfare queen— served as justifications for the oppression of black women and have been discussed significantly by scholars.

In recent years, scripted television has been joined by a more “realistic” look into peoples’ lives— reality television. Reality television claims to give viewers an unmediated glimpse into how real people live. The “realness” of reality television invokes controversy by providing a voyeuristic and potentially exploitive look into people’s lives. As the genre has matured, shows that offer insight into communities that are systemically underrepresented have become common. Indicative of this trend are shows that depict the lives of African Americans and opportunistically exploit representations of black culture for drama, ratings, and profit. One network that has taken considerable advantage of this is VH1— first, with the success of Flavor of Love and its spinoffs, then more recently with shows such as Basketball Wives and Love and Hip Hop. In fact, the excessive amount of fighting among Black women on Basketball Wives led to a boycott of the show, which prompted creator Shaunie O’Neal to promise less violence in its next season. Akin to Basketball Wives , Love and Hip Hop Atlanta exemplifies the trend of exploiting black culture. As members of the black community, we find ourselves both intrigued and troubled by the implications of the show. Capturing the essence of our paradoxical interpretation of Love and Hip Hop Atlanta — as one of many reality television shows that simultaneously reproduces and challenges negative stereotypes about blackness— are contradictory headlines such as “The 21 Most Ratchet Women of Black Reality TV,” “How Reality TV has Changed our Daughters,” and “Wealthy Reality Stars Humanize Black Women.”

Reality programs rose to prominence based on claims that the shows depicted “real life,” but in recent years many shows have come under fire for being anything but “reality.” Orbe (1998) suggests viewers are drawn to such programs based on the notion that they show “real people in everyday interactions,” and there is a certain level of “unpredictability that comes with reality.” However, what has become predictable and potentially problematic, over the past two decades, are the negative stereotypes associated with African American women on these programs. This skewing of reality is particularly significant when we consider the limited opportunities these shows provide viewers to witness the many facets of black womanhood. From the head-bobbing and finger-waving of Alicia Calaway on season two of the hit show Survivor to the on-and-off-air mudslinging between Kenya Moore and NeNe Leakes of Real Housewives of Atlanta fame, black women are portrayed as disloyal, bitchy, lazy, difficult to work with, and a threat to others.

Tyra Banks, supermodel and producer, is the creator of the reality show America’s Next Top Model ( ANTM ), which is now in its twenty-second cycle, and features contestants who present themselves to a panel of judges for modeling critique. ANTM has been nominated for twenty-nine awards, including the GLAAD Media Award and Image Award, and the show has received five awards in 2009 from the Teen Choice Award and the Director’s Guild of America Award. Further, ANTM is currently shown in over 120 countries. The winner of each cycle receives a featured spread in a magazine, a modeling contract with a prominent agency, and a $100,000 modeling contract from a cosmetics company. In 2005, however, there was an infamous episode— dubbed the “Tyra Tyrade,” —where Tyra Banks yelled at a contestant whom she had just eliminated from the show. This episode was parodied more than any other ANTM episode, with the penultimate parody shown on a 2007 episode of Family Guy (a primetime cartoon television show with millions of viewers each week), where Tyra turns into a lizard and eats the model. While this episode is now nine years old, parodies from as recently as 2014 continue to live on and, as we argue, perpetuate negative stereotypes of black womanhood, particularly as related to the Sapphire mediated stereotype— loud, bossy, angry black woman. From the various interpretations of the “Tyra Tyrade,” it is clear that those who created the parodies covertly and overtly ventured into maintaining white supremacist stereotypes of black womanhood— where one is supposed to be beautiful, a jezebel, or a mammy, but not a Sapphire. Continuing the marginalizing mediated tradition, in almost every parody, the Tyra character becomes the object of ridicule for being “excessively black” and outside the parameters of her hegemonically prescribed role, because she demonstrated negative emotions resulting in an assertion of her power as the expert.

It is near impossible to have a discussion of black women in reality television without mentioning the infamous Angry Black Woman (ABW). In fact, some critiques have argued reality television is damaging for black women since many shows focus heavily on this character. 1 This stereotypical characterization of black women is long-standing, due largely to its constant inclusion in media messages. As noted in chapter one, audiences were first officially introduced to her in the 1920s as Sapphire Stevens from the Amos ‘n’ Andy Show ; and her character continued to resurface throughout the years, across several different genres. Despite the many time periods through which this image has traveled, the key characteristic of the Sapphire— her unexplainable anger and aggression— seem to resonate in many modern day images of black women.

In this chapter we analyze three reality TV (RTV) shows whose main characters do not fit the old movie stereotypes of dark-skinned maternal Mammies, bossy, brown Sapphires or light-skinned sexy Jezebels. Many RTV shows with black cast members are falling back on such stereotypical representations. In contrast, the female characters we analyze are smart and sophisticated, and they live in multi-racial environments. Hence, the primary mediarelated question we address concerns how one slice of black motherhood is represented. The social question we address concerns the extent to which the character presentations actually point to social progress, with diverse symbols and meaning making of real life, or are they as artificial and stereotypical— perhaps in new ways— as the old portrayals?

Jones’ comments reflect a general consensus among TV critics and viewers that: 1) the black women who command the most attention on reality television tend to portray stereotypical, Sapphire-like characters; 2) as audiences consume such portrayals, there is a consistent line of argument from producers that insists “pitting [black women] against each other” is expected or “what the people want;” and 3) black female reality TV stars are willing to indulge the Sapphire fantasy if it means they will be able to further a personal and/or professional agenda. These are important themes to interrogate, especially given the history of mass mediated representations of black Americans, as well as the present-day “evolution” of black characters and other characters of color on unscripted and scripted American television. However, because attention is primarily focused on arguably “negative” portrayals, there has not been much critical analysis of “alternative” or more nuanced portrayals of black women in the televisual sphere. This chapter represents an attempt to fill in some of that blank space by focusing attention on an underexplored and relatively new consortium of reality television programming that features black women who are defined by their roles as mothers and entrepreneurs.

Although African-American women are still underrepresented in narrative television, reality television appears to be a site where one can find many portrayals of them. As other scholars have explained, the representations of African American women in reality television are usually negative, generally presenting them as loud, angry, and without “class.” However, there has been little research on the complicated relationships of black motherhood, black wifehood, and their portrayals on reality television. One black mother who illustrates this tense interaction is Tameka “Tiny” Harris, nee Cottle, formerly of the 1990s girl group Xscape, and star of two reality television programs— BET’s Tiny & Toya , and VH1’s T.I. and Tiny: The Family Hustle . Though both programs prominently feature Cottle, BET’s program constructs Tiny as an emotionally strong and pragmatically capable business woman who maintains the emotional health and financial stability of her family while her relational partner/husband, rapper Tip “T.I.” Harris, is serving time in prison. However, upon T.I.’s return home, The Family Hustle presents Tiny as having little business savvy and as overly permissive with their blended family. This is a dangerous portrayal, given that reality TV purports to disseminate some version of “reality” to its viewers.

The display of spirituality, faith and religion is not a new phenomenon among black women in the United States, nor is it new to the world of media. Africans came to the Americas with their own sense of spirituality and religion, and the awareness of a higher being became the mortar that bound the community together during the trials of enslavement and subsequent oppression. Not surprisingly, this legacy of worship continues to provide solace and strength, with black women at the helm.

The premise of the show revolves around six preachers in the Los Angeles area. They each pastor churches ranging from 3,500– 4,000 members; however, one pastor’s church has nearly 20,000 members (season 1: episode 1). A multitude of cameras follow the stories of each of the pastors’ lives, their relationships with each other, as well as their wives relationships with one another. The show has five black male preachers and one white male preacher. In season 1, all of the pastors— except for two— are married; one of the unmarried pastors is engaged to the mother of his child, and the other has a long-standing relationship with a female friend who frequently appears on the show. As viewers watch the show, they are given a glimpse into the world of evangelical preachers. Although at first glance the show seems to only focus on the men, the women provide an interesting glimpse at what it means to be a preacher’s wife, fiancée, or female companion. There were a total of eight episodes that aired over the course of two months. This chapter explores how black women and their friendships are portrayed on Preachers of L.A. — including the one white woman on the show. It also examines their discourse between one another— using critical race feminism to analyze the roles of these women as first ladies (a term used to describe the wives of pastors), their relationship with one other, and the conversations they have surrounding sex, marriage, relationships, and friendships. The chapter focuses on the first season of the show, which began in the fall of 2013. The show was later renewed for a second season, which began airing late summer 2014. This critique attempts to bring awareness to black women in the church and the discourse that perpetuates the stereotypes of black women on television. It also aims to initiate further conversations on various stereotypes— regardless of context— that have the potential to bear negatively on black women.

This chapter provides a description and critical analysis of Noah’s Arc , a Logo cable television series featuring a predominantly African American gay male cast. Queer theory and quare studies are used as theoretical tools to examine the conceptions of blackness in general, as well as representations of blackness in Noah’s Arc . Thereafter this chapter turns to an analysis of the representations in this series to illustrate how Noah’s Arc not only queers and quares notions of authentic blackness but also serves to expand various notions of blackness. Finally, this chapter provides a treatment of how whiteness and heteronormativity are implicated in this recent iteration of a racialized queer visibility in popular culture.

The Paramilitary Hero on Turkish Television: A Case Study on Valley of the Wolves explores the representation and reception of nationalism and masculinity in Turkey through an examination of the popular television serial, Valley of the Wolves which has been aired on Turkish television since 2003. This detailed examination of the show demonstrates a particular discourse of nationalism, namely the Turkish Islam synthesis embedded in a gender-specific regime in which the paramilitary hero is placed at the centre. The study draws on thirty-seven in-depth interviews with viewers of the programme from different social backgrounds. These viewers read the serial from various perspectives in the light of their gendered experiences, suggesting that the relationship between text and audience is not necessarily predetermined by the former, but is rather constructed through an interdiscursive process. The book also examines the pleasures of the “contesting” readers of Valley of the Wolves, drawing on the audience interviews, and argues that critical approaches to a particular media text do not present a barrier to audience pleasures.

Fusing audience research and ethnography, the book presents a compelling account of women's changing lives and identities in relation to the impact of the most popular media culture in everyday life: television. Within the historically-specific social conditions of Korean modernity, Youna Kim analyzes how Korean women of varying age and class group cope with the new environment of changing economical structure and social relations. The book argues that television is an important resource for women, stimulating them to research their own lives and identities. Youna Kim reveals Korean women as creative, energetic and critical audiences in their responses to evolving modernity and the impact of the West. Based on original empirical research, the book explores the hopes, aspirations, frustrations and dilemmas of Korean women as they try to cope with life beyond traditional grounds. Going beyond the traditional Anglo-American view of media and culture, this text will appeal to students and scholars of both Korean area studies and media and communications studies.

Aaron McGruder’s “The Return of the King” (2006) is one of many of the artist’s controversial episodes, yet it stands out because of the criticism it received among mainstream media outlets and civil rights leaders. It was the ninth episode to air from his series The Boondocks, which is an anime show that airs on the Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim cable channel. McGruder presents the following scenario in “The Return of the King”: What if Martin Luther King Jr. (MLK) did not die after his April 4, 1968, shooting and instead awoke after being in a coma for thirty-two years?

At best, our knowledge about the lives and experiences of Black gay men is limited to a series of stereotypes, snap judgments, and ridicule. In terms of television media product, this aforementioned knowledge has been packaged mostly within the framework of comedy: a red-leather-clad Eddie Murphy talking about the most effective ways to shield his ass from the gay male gaze in the 1983 HBO stand-up performance Delirious ; Damon Wayans and David Alan Grier’s effeminate film critics Blaine Edwards and Antoine Merriweather on the 1990s television variety show In Living Color ; fashionista panel members Miss J and Andre Leon Talley

Why is it important that a Black woman created, wrote for, and co-produced¹ two highly-regarded television situation comedies that engaged a variety of Black women’s health issues while at the same time these issues were being reduced, simplified, or altogether ignored in mainstream American hip hop? Mara Brock Akil tacitly responded to this question when asked why four episodes of the third season of Girlfriends (2000–2008), the situation comedy she created and co-produced for UPN, addressed the HIV/AIDS crisis among Black women in America. “I have things I want to say,” explained Brock Akil, “about bridging television’s gap between

Picture this: a comedy about an overweight Black woman who lives with and takes care of a white family. Joking all the way, she cooks, cleans, helps the father of the family, and comforts the children. Then at one point, we see the father holding his gun and pointing toward the door. The Black woman enters and jumps up and down, screaming, “Massa! Massa! Massa! Please don’t shoot!” It is easy to imagine these scenes in a 1930s film about the antebellum South. But they are actually from the first episode of a 1980s sitcom.

This chapter unpacks the tension between secular, modern values and conservative, Islamic interpretations within the Indonesian middle class by taking the consumption of Turkish popular cultural products as a case. The chapter explicates the social responses towards the first Turkish television drama aired on terrestrial, private television in Indonesia: The Magnificent Century (Muhtesṃem Yüzyıl/Abad Kejayaan). This chapter understands the reproduction of secular and conservative Islamic values, while in contestation, as a response to broader global, market-capitalist developments. It finds that in response to audience criticism regarding the “un-Islamic” portrayal of the epoch in the drama—specifically the depiction of women as concubines—television stations enlisted the services of Muslim clerics to correct or justify the representation of historical facts. This reveals that market-driven self-censorship has opened up ways for Muslim clerics to influence television content. As such, the chapter argues that market-capitalist forces discursively use Islamic authority as a way to legitimise the halal consumption of Turkish drama among Indonesian Muslim audience at the expense of programme diversity.

This chapter explores the social and cultural factors that have contributed to the success of Turkish programs in the Arab world. Following the cancelation of Turkish serials on the Arab world’s largest networks in Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, this chapter will explore how dedicated Arab fans are continuing to watch Turkish shows via alternative platforms after having seen them become such a large part of their daily lives and a permanent fixture on their screens in recent years. By using the Gulf State of Qatar as a departure point, it will examine why Turkish content resonates so closely with female Arab audiences, while also determining their viewing motivations and how Turkish serials have managed to fill a void among its viewers that Arab media has failed to satisfy. At the same time, this chapter will discuss why Turkish dramas have been widely perceived as a women’s genre despite being prime-time serials in Turkey.

Police procedural has been historically perceived as a dominantly masculine genre for continually revolving around the investigations of male police officers. In accordance with the patriarchal norms that pervade Turkish society, local variations of the police procedural genre have conveniently appropriated this globally known convention and left little room for female detectives in their narratives. However, whenever they got a chance to be included in this male-dominated universe, female detectives have been frequently depicted as relatively independent women but also submitted to the traditional norms of womanhood in an ambivalent manner. This chapter examines this hesitant position of female police detectives in three contemporary Turkish police procedurals, Kanıt (The Evidence, 2010–2013), Cinayet (The Killing, 2014) and Sṃahsiyet (Personality, 2018), by building connections between the interest of police procedural genre in feminist debates in the global context and the influence of this interest on local variations.