diary of a press junket
10 days until we ship out for our summer on the road. I think I have enough suitcases to bring everything I want (except the dog which I'm told he has to stay D::::)
This weekend was spent basically ignoring everyone and lazing around the flat with Joe, who is both back from Oz and so adorable when jetlagged and sleepy it makes my chest hurt. Nice bit of change from the few days prior.
I had been tapped to be on the cover of African Woman magazine. An honour, seeing as I used to sneak them from my Nan when I was a kid. I grew up wanting to be the women in that magazine with their (mysteriously, especially to 11 year old me) styled hair and gorgeous printed clothing...I used to pour over them.
To say that I was disillusioned after my meeting with one of their feature writers is putting it lightly. She completely ignored the questions Seb had approved last week, and charmingly decided to push me about answering questions about my family, including some case my (estranged) father is currently presiding over that I have less than no interest/information about, but then pulled out the big guns when I firmly refused to answer them. She launched into a tirade about black women "succumbing" to marrying white men. She accused me of forgetting my heritage by taking his last name (because Martin screamed 'I'm Zimbabwean') and asked me how I could refuse this claim when I "married an Australian and your brother would be married to a 'white European' if he was more willing to be open about his 'alternate lifestyle.' I pointed out to her that his long-term partner (a lawyer) handled the papers to have me legally emancipated from my parents at 11, to have himself and my brother named as my legal guardians, I felt, was being rather open. Her facial expression told me exactly how she felt about this new nugget of information.
That was the point where I walked out, and let Seb stay behind to tell her to fuck herself. I know there are stigmas in the white community surrounding interracial marriages, relationships (and homosexuality, another can of worms entirely) that I could never hope to completely understand, but the pressure put on black men as husbands is something I am so glad mine will never have to ever attempt to adhere to. This interview was an appalling affront to the people I hold most dear in my life. This woman who did nothing more than a fucking cursory wikipedia search on me and my family thinks just because we share the same heritage (her grandmother, I learned before this explosion of vitriol, was from the same village as my grandparents before they emigrated to England, so who the fuck is she?) that she has the birthright to question my choices? My family, who has NOTHING to do with the album I am supposed to be promoting and everything with the topics that are off-limits in interviews, is not subject for public opinion.
I routinely wear, support and promote small-name African designers to give them a voice, I refuse to give into our label's repeated attempts to tart me up with breast implants and shorter skirts and ABSOLUTELY refuse to let them relax my hair like a white girl before nearly every photoshoot we have. Marc and Del have been listening to me bang on about the trip Win and I took to our grandparent's village when I was in uni for like a million years and they have LEARNED things from those stories and have passed them on to other (white, might I add) people. If these things aren't being true to the person I'm apparently "supposed" to be then everyone can fuck themselves and I'll trade in my fame for a life where everyone minds their own fucking business.
Needless to say, I won't be gracing this mag next month.
This weekend was spent basically ignoring everyone and lazing around the flat with Joe, who is both back from Oz and so adorable when jetlagged and sleepy it makes my chest hurt. Nice bit of change from the few days prior.
I had been tapped to be on the cover of African Woman magazine. An honour, seeing as I used to sneak them from my Nan when I was a kid. I grew up wanting to be the women in that magazine with their (mysteriously, especially to 11 year old me) styled hair and gorgeous printed clothing...I used to pour over them.
To say that I was disillusioned after my meeting with one of their feature writers is putting it lightly. She completely ignored the questions Seb had approved last week, and charmingly decided to push me about answering questions about my family, including some case my (estranged) father is currently presiding over that I have less than no interest/information about, but then pulled out the big guns when I firmly refused to answer them. She launched into a tirade about black women "succumbing" to marrying white men. She accused me of forgetting my heritage by taking his last name (because Martin screamed 'I'm Zimbabwean') and asked me how I could refuse this claim when I "married an Australian and your brother would be married to a 'white European' if he was more willing to be open about his 'alternate lifestyle.' I pointed out to her that his long-term partner (a lawyer) handled the papers to have me legally emancipated from my parents at 11, to have himself and my brother named as my legal guardians, I felt, was being rather open. Her facial expression told me exactly how she felt about this new nugget of information.
That was the point where I walked out, and let Seb stay behind to tell her to fuck herself. I know there are stigmas in the white community surrounding interracial marriages, relationships (and homosexuality, another can of worms entirely) that I could never hope to completely understand, but the pressure put on black men as husbands is something I am so glad mine will never have to ever attempt to adhere to. This interview was an appalling affront to the people I hold most dear in my life. This woman who did nothing more than a fucking cursory wikipedia search on me and my family thinks just because we share the same heritage (her grandmother, I learned before this explosion of vitriol, was from the same village as my grandparents before they emigrated to England, so who the fuck is she?) that she has the birthright to question my choices? My family, who has NOTHING to do with the album I am supposed to be promoting and everything with the topics that are off-limits in interviews, is not subject for public opinion.
I routinely wear, support and promote small-name African designers to give them a voice, I refuse to give into our label's repeated attempts to tart me up with breast implants and shorter skirts and ABSOLUTELY refuse to let them relax my hair like a white girl before nearly every photoshoot we have. Marc and Del have been listening to me bang on about the trip Win and I took to our grandparent's village when I was in uni for like a million years and they have LEARNED things from those stories and have passed them on to other (white, might I add) people. If these things aren't being true to the person I'm apparently "supposed" to be then everyone can fuck themselves and I'll trade in my fame for a life where everyone minds their own fucking business.
Needless to say, I won't be gracing this mag next month.