Fic: Minstrel Show
I’ve had pieces of this one on my computer for a while (in a much more irreverent form), but blame Dwimordene coming up with the idea of “protocols” regarding gender identity for this one finally coming to completion.
I was listening to a lot of Garth Brooks when I wrote this. Make of that what you will.
“To Canada old John was bound
All by de railroad underground;
He's got no clothes-he's got no "tin"
He wishes he was back agin.
“Gib me de place called ‘Dixie's Land,’
Wid hoe and shubble in my hand;
Whar fiddles ring an' banjos play,
I'll dance all night an' work all day.”
- “Johnny Roach”, minstrel song composed by Dan Emmett, 1859
“The brother always gets it.” -Darius McCrary, 2007
Minstrel Show
Sometimes, there is just nothing quite so alienating as having your own differences pointed out to you by way of something else pantomiming them.
A couple of weeks after Mission City, the mess was starting to settle into something of a routine for Tech Sgt. Robert Epps. Looking out the window of the Humvee he was in, Lennox next to him and on the phone with some apparent ‘douche’ in the CIA, on some unquantifiable level Epps wasn’t particularly looking forward to repeated dealings with the NBE’s in the first place. This was his second visit to the Autobot HQ, which for all intents and purposes, was basically their ship buried in the side of a mountain in the middle of the desert. Would stick out like a sore thumb if anyone saw it, but as only the most desperate of makeout-spot-seeking teenagers might venture there, it was assumed to be unassuming, as it were. At any rate, the conspicuousness of the aliens wasn’t his department; for him was acting as part of Lennox’s military liaison team.
The past couple of weeks had been positively hectic for everyone. The fact that there had been a huge epic battle in a densely populated area notwithstanding, what followed was essentially an avalanche of bureaucracy, much of which neither Epps nor his direct superior, Captain Lennox, were involved in. After all the work they did in the city, helping the wounded and beginning to clear out the rubble and dead bodies of the aliens, they had figured their work in this whole charade would be done, aside from the apropos NDA’s and whatnot. Apparently, this was not to be the case; the military had every intention of keeping as close tabs on the aliens as possible, and who better to have direct contact with them than the very same men who had actually battled with them?
On the plus side, that meant both not having to go back to Iraq and a close proximity to his native California. On the other hand, it meant regular dealings with the giant alien robots.
He wasn’t very sure he liked being around them very much.
The Humvee pulled to a slow stop, and sure enough, there they were, or at least, there two of them were: Optimus Prime and their medic, Ratchet. Lennox by this point had decided to continue his argument with CIA guy later, not wanting to look unprofessional in front of the aliens. “They are going to give them such hell,” said Lennox.
“Yeah?” said Epps. “How do you figure?”
“Well he’s already got this huge list of wire taps, sky surveillance, Big Brother shit, you name it. And I guaran-damn-tee you they haven’t said word one about this to the Autobots.”
Epps nodded understandingly. “So let me guess who that joyful duty’s fallen to.”
Lennox snapped his fingers, looking over at the thirty-foot leader of the Autobots. “Bingo.” The two, along with the rest of their small MI unit assertively began to approach them. Epps looked once again at the big damn “garage door” in the side of the mountain and the big damn blue and red robot standing next to it, and sighed, once again thinking back to his limited experience with the one of them who was, somehow, the anomaly.
He had been put off, or at the very least, confused, by “Jazz”, and every time he was around them, a voice in his head piped up, why? They certainly didn’t bother to explain it. Rather, it was almost to him that their fallen comrade never even existed.
To Epps, Captain William Lennox and the rest of their Special Ops team, battle had been nothing new. What was new for the battle in Mission City was the fact that these men were both fighting with and against a highly advanced alien species, and the friendlies had taken their first hit. The yellow robot lay in the road, legs all but severed from its body. They were being attacked by God-only-knew how many of these things disguised as their own machinery, and to top things off, their communication abilities were next to zero.
Epps had been able to take all of this in stride. He was, after all, trained by the finest military schooling in the world to be able to handle the most stressful of situations. Toward the beginning of the battle, he had been trying his very damndest to get as many civilians out of the line of fire as possible. The little yellow alien had already sustained heavy damage, and now the best he could do was to hope the same didn’t happen to the throngs of innocent bystanders watching the situation in complete shock.
“Get out of here!” cried Epps at a small group of people, frozen in absolute terror at what had just happened. “Now!”
Startled from their reverie, a man and a woman turned silently to get out of harms way. Three others, one a teenager, stood rooted in fear.
“Yo, he ain’t playin’!” yelled a voice from behind him. “Y’all better getcho asses off this turf befo’ Decepticons bust loose another cap! Sheeeyit.”
The three people final broke out of their stupor and fled from the danger, but Epps found himself rooted in place in utter confusion. Surely, this must be a trick orchestrated by the “bad guys” to disorient and confuse them. Epps turned around. Lennox and most of the other troops in their squadron were gaping at the smallest Autobot, which up until a few seconds ago had been a Pontiac Solstice.
“Fool’s gonna catch a beat down!” said the Autobot, turning to his fallen comrade. “Y’all ain’t got no sense!”
Of course, all of the men in the unit had heard the alien, and of course, every single one of them then turned to look at Epps, as if inquiring whether or not it was okay for them to be bewildered. Noticing this had been enough to shake him out of his own bewilderment, at least enough to be a little bitter and uncomfortable at what he’d come to dub the “white people affirmation stare”.
The irony that the one robot who identified as ‘black’ being the only one that died certainly didn’t escape his attention, either.
After the battle, Epps’ bewilderment certainly hadn’t abated. While he and Lennox were waiting for more equipment and vehicles to arrive for the cleanup, the subject had come up briefly.
“You don’t think it’s weird that there was a damn black robot?” Epps puzzled.
“What, the truck?” said Lennox, hardly paying attention.
Epps glared at him for a moment, a little bitter. “No, you know what I meant. The one that-“ he paused, hands in the air, still bewildered and somehow even a little offended. “The one that was calling everyone ‘punks’ and ‘bitches’.” Epps cocked an eyebrow. “They’re aliens. And… hell, the others didn’t do that.”
“Maybe… I dunno, some kind of joke?” Lennox offered.
Epps wasn’t sure how to feel about that insinuation. “Why would you assume it’s a joke?”
Lennox snorted. “I dunno, giant robot going on about poppin’ caps and calling people bitches? Well, I dunno, it certainly sounds like a joke.”
Epps chuckled, deciding then to drop it. It didn’t really matter how tight they were as a result of being brothers in arms, and the same applied to any and all of his white friends and comrades. There were at times simply things that were uncomfortable for them to think about, let alone discuss, and him antagonizing them only ever served to alienate himself further. “Yeah, I dunno, maybe it is some weird robot humor that we don’t get.”
Thing was, it didn’t feel like weird robot humor that he didn’t get. It felt like human humor, like someone else was looking in on his culture and reappropriating it the way he saw it. Someone somehow distinguishably white.
It felt like a minstrel show.
Epps hadn’t known about the concept of minstrelsy until fairly recently in his life, and only then by way of a special on the History channel. He hadn’t known how very pervasive the whole minstrelsy movement had been. For almost a hundred years, one of the most common and even beloved form of entertainment in the whole country was people, usually Irish, dressing up “black” wearing “blackface” and acting how they perceived as “black”. What disquieted him the most was the fact that after the Civil War, black people took over the mantle of “blackface”, playing off their blackness for laughs.
Learning about this did open him up to a whole era of history he couldn’t help but feel like current American culture as a whole hadn’t shaken, especially with the advent of “gangsta” culture going mainstream and making obscene amounts of money. Having grown up in Watts in the 90’s and therefore being practically consumed with the “gangsta” culture of the time, one could say it was somewhat integral to his character, but all the same, things were different then. Young Robert had pedistalized Public Enemy and N.W.A. and Dr. Dre, rappers who were concerned with upsetting societal norms and who were fed up with the status quo and the poverty that both they and he had been surrounded by as youths. As for what it had turned into now? “I’ve got ho’s in different area codes?” Fiddy cent, getting rich or dying trying? What the hell was this shit?
Then, as if to affirm the very joke his culture had become in the minds of the majority, along comes a jive-talkin’ alien robot.
It was perhaps this contrast that made him a little uneasy around the other four Autobots, that they had consciously chosen for there to be a contrast between the four of them and the other one, Jazz, in the minds of the humans they came in contact with. Epps had tried to bring it up to the weapons specialist once.
“Because Jazz liked bending protocol,” was the only response he got from that one.
Okay.
The times when he was around the four Autobots, that dichotomy popped back into his head, and once again he was aware of his own differences. He probably wouldn’t have even felt it had Jazz never existed in the first place, but he couldn’t help but feel like, surrounded by (white) Lennox, his (white) superiors, and four (white) alien robots, and that it was he, not the aliens, who was the Other in this situation.
There was just something a little fucked up about that.
As Lennox began to solemnly inform Optimus Prime of his civil liberties that were going to be very, very infringed upon from here on out, Epps hung back for a moment, seeing the Autobot medic standing apart from his superior, looking wistfully off into the desert. Epps then realized that he hadn’t gotten the chance to get any one of them alone. And, as they say, no time like the present! He covertly strode over to the Autobot.
“Hey,” he said. The medic favored him with a glance. “Wassup?”
The way the medic was looking at him immediately smacked to Epps that he knew exactly what was on his mind. “A break from my final repairs on our Camaro friend,” he said, looking back out to the desert. “Prime has placed strict regulations to humans being allowed in or near our base, therefore during checks and meetings such as this, one or more of us need be outside.”
“Ah,” said Epps, wondering how exactly he was going to broach the subject.
Ratchet seemed to pick up on this. “Is there something on your mind?” he asked.
“Well, yeah,” he said, trying to sound impartial, “I was just thinking, you know, you never talk about your bro.”
This seemed to put Ratchet somewhat on the defensive. “My brother?”
“Yes, your brother,” said Epps, trying not to sound bitter at what he perceived as a correction. “The one that died.”
“And what, pray tell, would we say about him to you?”
He had a point there. The Autobots had made it very clear that their relationship with the military was strictly business. Why would they bring it up, even in a casual sense? The medic stooped slightly to look at him, and his expression then changed; he now seemed more compliant. “I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised that it hasn’t occurred to you that the reason we are reticent to talk about our fallen comrade is because of the too-recent sting of the loss.”
“You didn’t seem very upset when he died,” Epps pointed out, perhaps a bit too brusque.
“Sergeant, we’re robots,” stated the medic calmly. “We aren’t prone to histrionic displays of grief in public.”
Epps decided that this point was not the best time to pry into whether or not they actually did feel grief for their fallen comrade. He tried to keep it on the subject at hand. “Well, the only thing I’ve heard about him from any of you was from your weapons boy, and all he gave me was, ‘He liked to bend protocol.’ Or something.”
Ratchet stood back upright, as though he’d been expecting someone to bring that up eventually. “You wish to know why he chose to mimic an African American vernacular dialect by utilizing certain slang words.”
Epps hadn’t thought about it in those words exactly, but now that he put it that way, it made perfect sense. Jazz hadn’t spoken with a black dialect, he’d basically mimicked it by peppering his speech with slang. It was that, in part, which made it feel so much like he had been hearing a white guy pretending to be black. “Yeah, what was up with that?”
“I believe Ironhide put it rather succinctly; Jazz liked to bend protocol.”
Epps forced a good-natured smile and chuckled, pointing his finger at the medic. “Yeah, that doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“We have a certain protocol for interactions with organic species,” said Ratchet, speaking as though he was reading safety regulations from an instruction manual. “Directives include that we adopt the dominant culture of any specific region, more specifically the dominant gender. With earth, however, our late friend was able to find a manner of loophole for his, shall we say, more unique disposition for this planet.”
“A loophole?”
“Yes, Earth is somewhat unique in its proliferation of subcultures. It is actually somewhat rare to see such disparity of speech, demeanor and culture within one single culture, in this case, American culture. Jazz choosing to identify with a very large subculture, with which I would assume that you, as an African American, would identify, did not technically go against protocol.”
“Yeah, but…” he chuckled nervously. “I don’t associate with him, if that makes sense. I don’t mean to be… disrespectful or nothing, but… he felt like a minstrel to me.”
Ratchet looked at him, his expression now more engaged. “An interesting analogy,” said Ratchet, not maliciously. Epps was a little surprised that the alien immediately knew what he was referring to. “One I wouldn’t consider altogether unfounded.”
“Yeah, it felt to me that he was more… acting black then identifying black. That make sense? Okay, so you decide that you want to identify as ‘black’ rather than ‘white’, and really, I’m flattered, but that’s the way you see us?”
“Given the method by which we learned your languages and cultures, it does make some sense that that is how he would perceive you,” said Ratchet. Epps cocked his head in acquiescence, a little sad at the state of affairs in America for both sides. “It only makes more sense having now received greater exposure to your media, and how they portray African American subculture. But I find it curious, you found that Jazz acted black, but would you not say the same for us acting white?”
Epps arched an eyebrow, as if the answer to that statement was blindingly obvious. “No, why-“
“You associate us with a default for your culture, and, whether you like it or not, the default for your culture is that of a white male.”
Epps scoffed. “C’mon, man, that’s not fair, they’re not the default.”
“I would beg to differ,” said Ratchet. “Had we arrived with the appearance, voice and demeanor of, for instance, white females, I think not only would we see a higher degree of confusion, but also an even higher level of distrust. If, for instance, we had chosen to identify all as white females, or as black males, or as Latina females, immediately within your culture, either from you or from anyone else, the question would arise, why have you deviated from that which we consider the norm? Why would you not acclimate yourselves to that which we consider the default? Surely there must be a reason for this.”
Epps stood still, not entirely sure how to respond. A part of him wanted to laugh at the Latina female analogy, the image of five giant robots greeting him, “Ay, papi!” somehow endearing.
“We see it here in the case with Jazz, and your own bewilderment,” Ratchet continued. “Naturally, as you associate us with the default, the white male, then you associate our motives with the motives of the default. And why would the dominant demographic in your culture be mimicking you? Are they mocking you, your culture and your speech patterns, or are they paying homage, in a way that they perceive as respectful?”
Epps considered this for a moment. “Honestly? To me? It felt like a little bit of both.”
“In which case, it felt like a minstrel show,” said Ratchet. “And it is a sad state of affairs for your culture where the same conclusion can’t be drawn by us acting the way we do, not mimicking or paying homage to white males, but simply just existing, and communicating. The fact that we would identify as white males, as you would perceive it, is simply a given. The further we deviate from the dominant social group on the planet, the more difficult acclimating ourselves becomes.”
“And he found a loophole to more or less just amuse himself,” finished Epps with a chuckle. “I guess the question remains, whose expense was it at? Black people, or everyone else?”
“I suppose that’s up to you,” stated Ratchet calmly. “Do you assume that he did it to make fun of you? I suppose in a way he was, truth be told, but it wasn’t anything directed at you or your culture in particular, so much as how all of you would perceive him. This sort of thing, perception and self-awareness, he always found fascinating.”
Epps smirked. “So he just did this to piss us off?”
“Did he succeed?”
Epps narrowed his eyes for a moment. “No,” he said. “I’m not mad, I’m just… confused! So he decided to go out of his way to practically broadcast that he identifies as black, and the only reason he does this is to see how we react.”
“And you’re not angry?” There was a hint of amusement in the medic's voice.
Epps couldn’t help but chuckle. “I guess not, wouldn’t really make sense when you think about it, to be angry. After all, he’s not white, he’s an alien. I just wish his little sociological studies didn’t necessarily have to be at my expense.”
“I wouldn’t say its at your expense,” said Ratchet. “It would seem that he has made you reexamine your cultures, both your subculture as an African American and your American culture as a whole. Not only how you are perceived by the rest of the world but how you yourself perceive it.”
“And that would be my penultimate ‘why’,” said the soldier, jamming his hands into two of his many pockets.
“And, that being the case, I imagine on some level, perhaps our friend has succeeded, if in his own little subversive way.”
Epps smiled, at long last developing some latent respect for the guy. For the first time, beyond the superficial “dying to defend Earth” angle, he was genuinely sorry for his death. He would have liked to have found out more about how this guy thought, and moreover, the extent to which he was looking at Epps and his culture from that eponymous “default.” “What was his real name?”
The medic looked at him thoughtfully. “Our real names are rather lengthy and verbose, by your standards,” he said. “They could be considered a record of our lives, and also our functions. Jazz was a communications specialist.”
Epps chuckled. “Really? Then I guess he was a fan of ‘alternate’ forms of communication.”
“You could say that,” said Ratchet good-naturedly. “His name symbolized quick thinking, a propensity for handling a variety of situations, and also for improvisation therein. Apparently he felt the English word ‘Jazz’ suited him best.”
Epps nodded, processing that being the case. The way he acted may have been some sort of mimicry, but there was some level of respect in there, if that, indeed, was why he chose the name “Jazz”. “I can see that,” said Epps. “Yeah, I can see that.”
I don’t mean to condone Jazz’s portrayal in the movie- far from it, personally I find it borderline grossly offensive. But regardless, it does force us to reexamine what we, as a culture, find acceptable, or even humorous. Thanks, Bay!
I dedicate this one to the memory of Benjamin Sherman “Scatman” Crothers, who was, in all senses of the word, “Jazz”.
I was listening to a lot of Garth Brooks when I wrote this. Make of that what you will.
“To Canada old John was bound
All by de railroad underground;
He's got no clothes-he's got no "tin"
He wishes he was back agin.
“Gib me de place called ‘Dixie's Land,’
Wid hoe and shubble in my hand;
Whar fiddles ring an' banjos play,
I'll dance all night an' work all day.”
- “Johnny Roach”, minstrel song composed by Dan Emmett, 1859
“The brother always gets it.” -Darius McCrary, 2007
Minstrel Show
Sometimes, there is just nothing quite so alienating as having your own differences pointed out to you by way of something else pantomiming them.
A couple of weeks after Mission City, the mess was starting to settle into something of a routine for Tech Sgt. Robert Epps. Looking out the window of the Humvee he was in, Lennox next to him and on the phone with some apparent ‘douche’ in the CIA, on some unquantifiable level Epps wasn’t particularly looking forward to repeated dealings with the NBE’s in the first place. This was his second visit to the Autobot HQ, which for all intents and purposes, was basically their ship buried in the side of a mountain in the middle of the desert. Would stick out like a sore thumb if anyone saw it, but as only the most desperate of makeout-spot-seeking teenagers might venture there, it was assumed to be unassuming, as it were. At any rate, the conspicuousness of the aliens wasn’t his department; for him was acting as part of Lennox’s military liaison team.
The past couple of weeks had been positively hectic for everyone. The fact that there had been a huge epic battle in a densely populated area notwithstanding, what followed was essentially an avalanche of bureaucracy, much of which neither Epps nor his direct superior, Captain Lennox, were involved in. After all the work they did in the city, helping the wounded and beginning to clear out the rubble and dead bodies of the aliens, they had figured their work in this whole charade would be done, aside from the apropos NDA’s and whatnot. Apparently, this was not to be the case; the military had every intention of keeping as close tabs on the aliens as possible, and who better to have direct contact with them than the very same men who had actually battled with them?
On the plus side, that meant both not having to go back to Iraq and a close proximity to his native California. On the other hand, it meant regular dealings with the giant alien robots.
He wasn’t very sure he liked being around them very much.
The Humvee pulled to a slow stop, and sure enough, there they were, or at least, there two of them were: Optimus Prime and their medic, Ratchet. Lennox by this point had decided to continue his argument with CIA guy later, not wanting to look unprofessional in front of the aliens. “They are going to give them such hell,” said Lennox.
“Yeah?” said Epps. “How do you figure?”
“Well he’s already got this huge list of wire taps, sky surveillance, Big Brother shit, you name it. And I guaran-damn-tee you they haven’t said word one about this to the Autobots.”
Epps nodded understandingly. “So let me guess who that joyful duty’s fallen to.”
Lennox snapped his fingers, looking over at the thirty-foot leader of the Autobots. “Bingo.” The two, along with the rest of their small MI unit assertively began to approach them. Epps looked once again at the big damn “garage door” in the side of the mountain and the big damn blue and red robot standing next to it, and sighed, once again thinking back to his limited experience with the one of them who was, somehow, the anomaly.
He had been put off, or at the very least, confused, by “Jazz”, and every time he was around them, a voice in his head piped up, why? They certainly didn’t bother to explain it. Rather, it was almost to him that their fallen comrade never even existed.
To Epps, Captain William Lennox and the rest of their Special Ops team, battle had been nothing new. What was new for the battle in Mission City was the fact that these men were both fighting with and against a highly advanced alien species, and the friendlies had taken their first hit. The yellow robot lay in the road, legs all but severed from its body. They were being attacked by God-only-knew how many of these things disguised as their own machinery, and to top things off, their communication abilities were next to zero.
Epps had been able to take all of this in stride. He was, after all, trained by the finest military schooling in the world to be able to handle the most stressful of situations. Toward the beginning of the battle, he had been trying his very damndest to get as many civilians out of the line of fire as possible. The little yellow alien had already sustained heavy damage, and now the best he could do was to hope the same didn’t happen to the throngs of innocent bystanders watching the situation in complete shock.
“Get out of here!” cried Epps at a small group of people, frozen in absolute terror at what had just happened. “Now!”
Startled from their reverie, a man and a woman turned silently to get out of harms way. Three others, one a teenager, stood rooted in fear.
“Yo, he ain’t playin’!” yelled a voice from behind him. “Y’all better getcho asses off this turf befo’ Decepticons bust loose another cap! Sheeeyit.”
The three people final broke out of their stupor and fled from the danger, but Epps found himself rooted in place in utter confusion. Surely, this must be a trick orchestrated by the “bad guys” to disorient and confuse them. Epps turned around. Lennox and most of the other troops in their squadron were gaping at the smallest Autobot, which up until a few seconds ago had been a Pontiac Solstice.
“Fool’s gonna catch a beat down!” said the Autobot, turning to his fallen comrade. “Y’all ain’t got no sense!”
Of course, all of the men in the unit had heard the alien, and of course, every single one of them then turned to look at Epps, as if inquiring whether or not it was okay for them to be bewildered. Noticing this had been enough to shake him out of his own bewilderment, at least enough to be a little bitter and uncomfortable at what he’d come to dub the “white people affirmation stare”.
The irony that the one robot who identified as ‘black’ being the only one that died certainly didn’t escape his attention, either.
After the battle, Epps’ bewilderment certainly hadn’t abated. While he and Lennox were waiting for more equipment and vehicles to arrive for the cleanup, the subject had come up briefly.
“You don’t think it’s weird that there was a damn black robot?” Epps puzzled.
“What, the truck?” said Lennox, hardly paying attention.
Epps glared at him for a moment, a little bitter. “No, you know what I meant. The one that-“ he paused, hands in the air, still bewildered and somehow even a little offended. “The one that was calling everyone ‘punks’ and ‘bitches’.” Epps cocked an eyebrow. “They’re aliens. And… hell, the others didn’t do that.”
“Maybe… I dunno, some kind of joke?” Lennox offered.
Epps wasn’t sure how to feel about that insinuation. “Why would you assume it’s a joke?”
Lennox snorted. “I dunno, giant robot going on about poppin’ caps and calling people bitches? Well, I dunno, it certainly sounds like a joke.”
Epps chuckled, deciding then to drop it. It didn’t really matter how tight they were as a result of being brothers in arms, and the same applied to any and all of his white friends and comrades. There were at times simply things that were uncomfortable for them to think about, let alone discuss, and him antagonizing them only ever served to alienate himself further. “Yeah, I dunno, maybe it is some weird robot humor that we don’t get.”
Thing was, it didn’t feel like weird robot humor that he didn’t get. It felt like human humor, like someone else was looking in on his culture and reappropriating it the way he saw it. Someone somehow distinguishably white.
It felt like a minstrel show.
Epps hadn’t known about the concept of minstrelsy until fairly recently in his life, and only then by way of a special on the History channel. He hadn’t known how very pervasive the whole minstrelsy movement had been. For almost a hundred years, one of the most common and even beloved form of entertainment in the whole country was people, usually Irish, dressing up “black” wearing “blackface” and acting how they perceived as “black”. What disquieted him the most was the fact that after the Civil War, black people took over the mantle of “blackface”, playing off their blackness for laughs.
Learning about this did open him up to a whole era of history he couldn’t help but feel like current American culture as a whole hadn’t shaken, especially with the advent of “gangsta” culture going mainstream and making obscene amounts of money. Having grown up in Watts in the 90’s and therefore being practically consumed with the “gangsta” culture of the time, one could say it was somewhat integral to his character, but all the same, things were different then. Young Robert had pedistalized Public Enemy and N.W.A. and Dr. Dre, rappers who were concerned with upsetting societal norms and who were fed up with the status quo and the poverty that both they and he had been surrounded by as youths. As for what it had turned into now? “I’ve got ho’s in different area codes?” Fiddy cent, getting rich or dying trying? What the hell was this shit?
Then, as if to affirm the very joke his culture had become in the minds of the majority, along comes a jive-talkin’ alien robot.
It was perhaps this contrast that made him a little uneasy around the other four Autobots, that they had consciously chosen for there to be a contrast between the four of them and the other one, Jazz, in the minds of the humans they came in contact with. Epps had tried to bring it up to the weapons specialist once.
“Because Jazz liked bending protocol,” was the only response he got from that one.
Okay.
The times when he was around the four Autobots, that dichotomy popped back into his head, and once again he was aware of his own differences. He probably wouldn’t have even felt it had Jazz never existed in the first place, but he couldn’t help but feel like, surrounded by (white) Lennox, his (white) superiors, and four (white) alien robots, and that it was he, not the aliens, who was the Other in this situation.
There was just something a little fucked up about that.
As Lennox began to solemnly inform Optimus Prime of his civil liberties that were going to be very, very infringed upon from here on out, Epps hung back for a moment, seeing the Autobot medic standing apart from his superior, looking wistfully off into the desert. Epps then realized that he hadn’t gotten the chance to get any one of them alone. And, as they say, no time like the present! He covertly strode over to the Autobot.
“Hey,” he said. The medic favored him with a glance. “Wassup?”
The way the medic was looking at him immediately smacked to Epps that he knew exactly what was on his mind. “A break from my final repairs on our Camaro friend,” he said, looking back out to the desert. “Prime has placed strict regulations to humans being allowed in or near our base, therefore during checks and meetings such as this, one or more of us need be outside.”
“Ah,” said Epps, wondering how exactly he was going to broach the subject.
Ratchet seemed to pick up on this. “Is there something on your mind?” he asked.
“Well, yeah,” he said, trying to sound impartial, “I was just thinking, you know, you never talk about your bro.”
This seemed to put Ratchet somewhat on the defensive. “My brother?”
“Yes, your brother,” said Epps, trying not to sound bitter at what he perceived as a correction. “The one that died.”
“And what, pray tell, would we say about him to you?”
He had a point there. The Autobots had made it very clear that their relationship with the military was strictly business. Why would they bring it up, even in a casual sense? The medic stooped slightly to look at him, and his expression then changed; he now seemed more compliant. “I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised that it hasn’t occurred to you that the reason we are reticent to talk about our fallen comrade is because of the too-recent sting of the loss.”
“You didn’t seem very upset when he died,” Epps pointed out, perhaps a bit too brusque.
“Sergeant, we’re robots,” stated the medic calmly. “We aren’t prone to histrionic displays of grief in public.”
Epps decided that this point was not the best time to pry into whether or not they actually did feel grief for their fallen comrade. He tried to keep it on the subject at hand. “Well, the only thing I’ve heard about him from any of you was from your weapons boy, and all he gave me was, ‘He liked to bend protocol.’ Or something.”
Ratchet stood back upright, as though he’d been expecting someone to bring that up eventually. “You wish to know why he chose to mimic an African American vernacular dialect by utilizing certain slang words.”
Epps hadn’t thought about it in those words exactly, but now that he put it that way, it made perfect sense. Jazz hadn’t spoken with a black dialect, he’d basically mimicked it by peppering his speech with slang. It was that, in part, which made it feel so much like he had been hearing a white guy pretending to be black. “Yeah, what was up with that?”
“I believe Ironhide put it rather succinctly; Jazz liked to bend protocol.”
Epps forced a good-natured smile and chuckled, pointing his finger at the medic. “Yeah, that doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“We have a certain protocol for interactions with organic species,” said Ratchet, speaking as though he was reading safety regulations from an instruction manual. “Directives include that we adopt the dominant culture of any specific region, more specifically the dominant gender. With earth, however, our late friend was able to find a manner of loophole for his, shall we say, more unique disposition for this planet.”
“A loophole?”
“Yes, Earth is somewhat unique in its proliferation of subcultures. It is actually somewhat rare to see such disparity of speech, demeanor and culture within one single culture, in this case, American culture. Jazz choosing to identify with a very large subculture, with which I would assume that you, as an African American, would identify, did not technically go against protocol.”
“Yeah, but…” he chuckled nervously. “I don’t associate with him, if that makes sense. I don’t mean to be… disrespectful or nothing, but… he felt like a minstrel to me.”
Ratchet looked at him, his expression now more engaged. “An interesting analogy,” said Ratchet, not maliciously. Epps was a little surprised that the alien immediately knew what he was referring to. “One I wouldn’t consider altogether unfounded.”
“Yeah, it felt to me that he was more… acting black then identifying black. That make sense? Okay, so you decide that you want to identify as ‘black’ rather than ‘white’, and really, I’m flattered, but that’s the way you see us?”
“Given the method by which we learned your languages and cultures, it does make some sense that that is how he would perceive you,” said Ratchet. Epps cocked his head in acquiescence, a little sad at the state of affairs in America for both sides. “It only makes more sense having now received greater exposure to your media, and how they portray African American subculture. But I find it curious, you found that Jazz acted black, but would you not say the same for us acting white?”
Epps arched an eyebrow, as if the answer to that statement was blindingly obvious. “No, why-“
“You associate us with a default for your culture, and, whether you like it or not, the default for your culture is that of a white male.”
Epps scoffed. “C’mon, man, that’s not fair, they’re not the default.”
“I would beg to differ,” said Ratchet. “Had we arrived with the appearance, voice and demeanor of, for instance, white females, I think not only would we see a higher degree of confusion, but also an even higher level of distrust. If, for instance, we had chosen to identify all as white females, or as black males, or as Latina females, immediately within your culture, either from you or from anyone else, the question would arise, why have you deviated from that which we consider the norm? Why would you not acclimate yourselves to that which we consider the default? Surely there must be a reason for this.”
Epps stood still, not entirely sure how to respond. A part of him wanted to laugh at the Latina female analogy, the image of five giant robots greeting him, “Ay, papi!” somehow endearing.
“We see it here in the case with Jazz, and your own bewilderment,” Ratchet continued. “Naturally, as you associate us with the default, the white male, then you associate our motives with the motives of the default. And why would the dominant demographic in your culture be mimicking you? Are they mocking you, your culture and your speech patterns, or are they paying homage, in a way that they perceive as respectful?”
Epps considered this for a moment. “Honestly? To me? It felt like a little bit of both.”
“In which case, it felt like a minstrel show,” said Ratchet. “And it is a sad state of affairs for your culture where the same conclusion can’t be drawn by us acting the way we do, not mimicking or paying homage to white males, but simply just existing, and communicating. The fact that we would identify as white males, as you would perceive it, is simply a given. The further we deviate from the dominant social group on the planet, the more difficult acclimating ourselves becomes.”
“And he found a loophole to more or less just amuse himself,” finished Epps with a chuckle. “I guess the question remains, whose expense was it at? Black people, or everyone else?”
“I suppose that’s up to you,” stated Ratchet calmly. “Do you assume that he did it to make fun of you? I suppose in a way he was, truth be told, but it wasn’t anything directed at you or your culture in particular, so much as how all of you would perceive him. This sort of thing, perception and self-awareness, he always found fascinating.”
Epps smirked. “So he just did this to piss us off?”
“Did he succeed?”
Epps narrowed his eyes for a moment. “No,” he said. “I’m not mad, I’m just… confused! So he decided to go out of his way to practically broadcast that he identifies as black, and the only reason he does this is to see how we react.”
“And you’re not angry?” There was a hint of amusement in the medic's voice.
Epps couldn’t help but chuckle. “I guess not, wouldn’t really make sense when you think about it, to be angry. After all, he’s not white, he’s an alien. I just wish his little sociological studies didn’t necessarily have to be at my expense.”
“I wouldn’t say its at your expense,” said Ratchet. “It would seem that he has made you reexamine your cultures, both your subculture as an African American and your American culture as a whole. Not only how you are perceived by the rest of the world but how you yourself perceive it.”
“And that would be my penultimate ‘why’,” said the soldier, jamming his hands into two of his many pockets.
“And, that being the case, I imagine on some level, perhaps our friend has succeeded, if in his own little subversive way.”
Epps smiled, at long last developing some latent respect for the guy. For the first time, beyond the superficial “dying to defend Earth” angle, he was genuinely sorry for his death. He would have liked to have found out more about how this guy thought, and moreover, the extent to which he was looking at Epps and his culture from that eponymous “default.” “What was his real name?”
The medic looked at him thoughtfully. “Our real names are rather lengthy and verbose, by your standards,” he said. “They could be considered a record of our lives, and also our functions. Jazz was a communications specialist.”
Epps chuckled. “Really? Then I guess he was a fan of ‘alternate’ forms of communication.”
“You could say that,” said Ratchet good-naturedly. “His name symbolized quick thinking, a propensity for handling a variety of situations, and also for improvisation therein. Apparently he felt the English word ‘Jazz’ suited him best.”
Epps nodded, processing that being the case. The way he acted may have been some sort of mimicry, but there was some level of respect in there, if that, indeed, was why he chose the name “Jazz”. “I can see that,” said Epps. “Yeah, I can see that.”
I don’t mean to condone Jazz’s portrayal in the movie- far from it, personally I find it borderline grossly offensive. But regardless, it does force us to reexamine what we, as a culture, find acceptable, or even humorous. Thanks, Bay!
I dedicate this one to the memory of Benjamin Sherman “Scatman” Crothers, who was, in all senses of the word, “Jazz”.