This transcript was automatically generated and might contain errors.

[0:00] Tonya Pinkins: Hi, this is Tonya. You're deep in, uh, month eight of the pandemic, I guess we are now. And you are listening to my podcast on the Broadway Podcast Network. You can't say that.

[0:19] Tonya Pinkins: We gotta say what rules for you. Today, this is part two of a podcast that began with my guest, New York Times bestselling author, Cynthia Bond, author of Ruby. And now I'm going to be speaking with two of my favorite women, some of the most talented women I know, my colleagues, Franki Cox, who is a singer, songwriter, educational therapist, writer, and also Tchaiko Omawale, filmmaker of Solace available on Amazon. And, uh, join me in welcoming Franki Cox and Tchaiko Omawale.

[1:09] Franki Cox: Hi, ladies.

[1:10] Tchaiko Omawale: Hey, Tonya.

[1:12] Franki Cox: Hi, Tonya.

[1:13] Tchaiko Omawale: Hey.

[1:14] Tonya Pinkins: So, um, I want to start by saying, talking about this, um, Blackbird Writers Collective that we are a part of, which is, uh, Black women writers. And you know, for me, my whole life, I have really never had many Black friends because maybe you all have had the same thing. If you're of a certain kind of educational level or interested in reading and writing and speaking a certain way, they put you in the class with all the white kids. Was that you guys' experience?

[1:46] Franki Cox: I'll let you go first, Tchaiko.

[1:48] Tchaiko Omawale: Okay. Um, I that that it worked out that way. Um, it worked out that way. I don't think that it was an intentional, like separate her from them, but it was based on what was available in the community. This child was bored and could do other things. So that was definitely, uh, a big experience of, um, here's an opportunity, um, to learn more. But what was academically presented wasn't met with, um, by the way, you're gonna, it's gonna be very different.

[2:40] Franki Cox: And I know you grew up all over the world, Tchaiko.

[2:43] Tchaiko Omawale: Yeah, I was about to say for me it wasn't about where anybody put me in class, but just when I grew up in, um, in Jamaica and Africa and Asia, the Middle East, and then in England and the US. And so I always went to private schools, and for the most part, even in Jamaica, which is like a majority Black country, my private school, my Catholic school there had mostly what we call uptown Jamaicans. But anyway, in Jamaica, there's not a sense the way it is in the US here where there's like white people. It's, it's, um, it's colorism or different shades and then class. But definitely I grew up with, uh, a lot of white friends, but I'm proud to say I also have always had, I've always had Black female friends. Um, maybe not when I was in Thailand, but other than Thailand, every country, yeah, every country I had like definitely a Black best friend and probably a South Asian best friend as well.

[3:41] Franki Cox: Yeah, this is a new thing for me, and I love it so much. I just want to log on to our writing room just to see your faces and to like go, yes, there are other people that see the world the way I see it.

[3:55] Tchaiko Omawale: Oh my God, I've just been gaslit my whole life.

[3:59] Franki Cox: I know, it's terrible.

[4:01] Tchaiko Omawale: It's terrible that we, that it's like such a, well, let me say in the other way. I think it's beautiful that when Black women realize that we need other Black women, that it's just this feeling that is, that other Black women can understand. It's like a, a yes in capital letters.

[4:19] Franki Cox: Yeah, yeah. So, uh, Tchaiko, I got to see your beautiful film, um, which is a short film, and then there's a feature film, and both of them are available on, um, on Amazon. And, um, what was the inspiration? I mean, how did you become a filmmaker after being a child of a diplomat traveling the world? How do you get to filmmaking?

[4:41] Tchaiko Omawale: I, well, I wanted to be an actress first, and then I, because of racism and ignorance, I was like, I'm gonna be a director instead. But I really, uh, when I moved to New York when I was 16, I really wanted to be an actor, and then I was like, who's gonna hire me? Because I'm dark-skinned and I've got a big nose, and I'm, you know, I had like body issues and I'm fat. I'm never gonna be able to like practice my art. So, you know what? I'm gonna be a director instead, because that at least I have more control. And so when I was in college at Columbia, I was doing film studies and really just fell in love with all the ways in which you craft film, and thankfully I was ignorant and didn't realize that being a Black female director was also really hard.

[5:26] Tchaiko Omawale: And so in my 20s, I was definitely blissed out by like not knowing all of the structural obstacles, and unfortunately, like internalized a lot of them. But that's where my love of film started, uh, of like making films was when I was in college. And Solace is my sort of my cinematic love letter to my little girl when I was growing up and having like food issues, but not realizing there were food issues and not realizing I had body issues, because the only thing about eating disorders that I knew of was anorexia, and to me that meant you had to be skinny or bulimia, and to me that meant you had to throw up. So I didn't know about like exercising, I didn't know about laxatives, I didn't know which were all the things like I did to try and purge. So I made this film for, for myself and then for any other Black girl, Black woman, and then it sort of expands out of that, you know, folks who didn't think that they could possibly have an issue, but did have an issue.

[6:32] Tonya Pinkins: And Franki, I knew you were a singer and a songwriter, but I was also fascinated by the fact that you were this educational therapist. I didn't know this about you. You want to share something about the, the, I mean, I know you're so creative. I love your writing. What do you want to share about your, your, your art or your work?

[6:49] Franki Cox: Um, so I'll share about the educational therapy. Um, I happened on it by chance helping a friend. Um, I had a relationship just as a, as a family friend with her, with her daughter, and, um, and it was a positive relationship. It wasn't like, you know, warm and fuzzy, but it was a positive relationship, and she was having some issues in school that I didn't know what the route was. And one day, um, her mother approached me and said, Listen, we, I need some help. This is what's going on. And, uh, you know, she's in a situation where she may not be able to, you know, this is her last straw in this private, they've exhausted every resource that they have. You seem to have a connection with her. Would you be willing to try it out? I said, sure. I'll just, you know, be a shadow with this child.

[7:43] Tonya Pinkins: And how old was the child?

[7:45] Franki Cox: Uh, she was, uh, like a, I don't know, like an 11, 11 or 12 year old. Um, and the response, the response with her to her time with me, it didn't become a soft and fuzzy experience at all, but her experience in the classroom setting was beyond anything else that they had tried with, you know, trained specialists. And, um, that experience I went to, um, and throughout, uh, I've worked for years as a nanny pursuing, um, the arts. I was a dancer for many years. I came to Los Angeles to be a, to be a fly girl, and, um, I supplemented, I, you know, I worked as a nanny, and I always found kids who at the time they hadn't yet, you know, they were, there was like ADHD, but it wasn't quite a thing yet. It wasn't like we're gonna instantly medicate kids. But I always found that I was in the periphery of these children, and I was able to connect in a way that into humanity and to a feeling that was able to, you know, like they, they just felt a little bit calmer with me.

[9:10] Franki Cox: Um, so in doing over the years, I've, when I found myself in this situation with this family. Um, the therapist that was, that was sort of her therapist was mentoring me and said, why don't you consider, I, I have another family that could really use some help. Why don't you consider working with them? And from them I worked with another family, and from them I worked with another family. Now I'm going back to school to pursue a degree in psychology so that I can do this work because I think that so many children are expected, they have really high expectations to process information that's coming at them in so many ways. Right now, every, you know, kids get phones at very early ages, and they're expected to process all of this, uh, information, and a lot of the information is really, really heavy right now.

[10:09] Tchaiko Omawale: They know things that we know about the state of affairs, about the world, about people losing their lives on screens. These kids know about this, and they're expected to process that in a way that like their frontal cortex isn't even developed; physiologically, they cannot do it. And so if I can be of service to, I'm a parent, I have two growing boys, I know that they struggle with just regulating who gets the ball and, you know, I forgot to turn in my homework the way that they told me to do it in the, you know, because everything's distance learning anyway. There's a lot to go on and on, but yeah, I am passionate about the work. I feel like it chose me; it's not easy work, but it chose me, and I am grateful that that might be an option for me.

I think that if there is any future, it's obviously theirs, and if we can help them to have more tools to recognize their own strengths and talents and to be whole as they move through and try to clean up our messes, I'm on board to do that.

[11:42] Tonya Pinkins: Thank you. So I'm, you know, not so much the host facilitator here as much as we're having a conversation about an experience we shared, and I'm pretty open and frank on my show. It's called You Can't SAY THAT! The show where you can. I wanted to talk about something that's actually just coming up for me as we move into this conversation. I am aware that I introed you all and I introed Cynthia in a way that I've not really ever introed anybody, and I was looking at myself, I'm going, why are you doing that? Why are you doing that? And it was like, oh, there is some part of me that felt I needed to validate you as human beings in the world before I share this traumatic experience because I guess I'm just so accustomed to my experiences as a Black woman being invalidated, that in the way that I spoke with Cynthia about watching her plead her humanity to those police officers, I unconsciously was trying to set up your humanity before we go into this story. So I wanted to share that about the space that I find myself in that I wasn't aware that I'd be in. Wasn't planned that way.

[13:01] Franki Cox: Yeah.

[13:02] Tchaiko Omawale: You know, when you say that, what it reminds me of is, I don't remember how long ago, maybe it was like 10 years ago or something, I was arrested for driving with a suspended license because I didn't have money to pay a cell phone. This was in New York; I didn't know I didn't have money to pay a ticket that I got for talking on the phone in the car. And I was driving back up to Harlem with an ex-girlfriend, and I got pulled over, and they asked me to step out of the car, and I thought nothing of it until they handcuffed me. And then I remember this is like the craziest thing that went through my head. I was like, I'm not the kind of— in my head, I didn't say anything out loud— I'm not the kind of person that's supposed to be arrested.

This isn't supposed to be happening to somebody like me. I think that's like a phrase that was in my head, and this is before I had my "nigga wake up" moment in 2016. And I'm using—that's a Paul Mooney joke somebody told me about that every Black person will have their "nigga wake up" moment. And it's not like I was a full-on Uncle Tom before; like I did African American studies, my parents are pan-African, you know, even though I grew up as a diplomat's kid. My father was comrades with Walter Rodney, who's a pan-African scholar and revolutionary. My mom, you know, was in the communist organization in Jamaica. I wasn't like a total dunce in terms of Black consciousness, but I'm not American.

I didn't grow up in America, and the understanding of racism, specifically with the police state, is something that Black people who are of a certain privilege that come from majority Black countries do not understand how, like, talk with my hands, how much the police state and prison and that kind of stuff penetrates all life here in the U.S. And so I really thought that the only— I'm like laughing at myself because I was so ignorant. I really thought that only if you were poor or if you were, you know, maybe like selling drugs that you would get arrested. And when I got arrested that night, you know, for a fucking ticket that I couldn't pay because I was broke, a broke filmmaker in my twenties, I think it was my late twenties.

When they took me to the station, I then thought that, oh, if I plead, I'm a girl, like they'll listen to me. And I, of course, at that time, I also did not know that they don't give a fuck if you're a Black woman because I also thought, oh, well, maybe it's only Black men because so much of the, you know, so much of like even now, so much of what we hear in the news when it comes to police brutality or any sort of racial violence, it is mostly focused on the male experience. I mean, I do not think there's an accident that Breonna Taylor, you know, it's like no justice, and like very, you know, except for this year, there have been tons of other Black women who have died and been assaulted by police that we don't know names of.

I've worked with their mothers, you know, with Kimberly Currents. So I know names, but yes, the press does— the violence done against Black women is largely erased. And you know because you work, but if you're even other Black women I know who would find themselves conscious, still because so much of racialized violence is focused on the male Black men's experience. I mean, that's the reason why Alice— why Toni Morrison is so beloved by all of us because she is centering our experience. Anyway, the point being, I get arrested and I start being like, oh my god, like I, you know, I'm like talking to make sure they can hear that I have this certain accent. I'm like, you know, I'm also being like, I have anxiety because I'm thinking, oh, maybe they'll feel sorry for me because I'm so traumatized.

They did not give a fuck. They were like, you better not tell the judge because they were sending me to the other jail, I forget if it's jail or prison, like downtown. They were like, if you tell them you're having an anxiety attack, you will end up somewhere worse. And now, you know, like many, many years later, when I have so much more of a profound understanding of white supremacy, of anti-Blackness, of misogynoir, like we're not seen as Black women as humans; like we're non-humans. Like the idea of even being a woman is something that is very much ingrained in white supremacy. The binary of gender of man and woman—white women get to be women; that is what being a woman is based off of. And actually, everybody's womanhood is based off of rejection.

The further away you are from being a Black woman, whether it's in skin color, whether it's in, you know, phenotype or whatever, the further away you get from that, the more you get to be a woman, a human woman. Anyway, so that was just that—that's what I think of when you said that because for me, there was a time when I was also under the disillusion that there was something that I could do or say that would have me be exempt from racism in that way.

[18:37] Franki Cox: Yeah, I definitely grew up with that, and I remember with my first husband because I hadn't experienced racism yet, or I hadn't had my "nigga wake up" yet. I didn't even have much empathy or compassion for the struggles he was bringing home to me every day. I think about that as well, my first boyfriend who is from Chicago. I remember, and again, remember I did not grow up in the U.S., so when he would say things to me like, I think it was like he turned 22 and he was like, yeah, I'm so thankful to reach 21. I looked at him like, you are so crazy, like what? And I'm upping my accent to kind of like impress the sort to dramatize it, but I was just like, what is wrong with you? Like, of course, you're gonna live to 21.

Like, why are you trying to pretend that you're somebody poor? Like you did Jack and Jill, you're from Chicago, like you're middle class. And I literally did not have the capacity to understand emotionally the weight of racism in that way for his experience. And I am still working through forgiving myself for participating and being complicit in allowing some of my—many of my white friends to say and do stupid ass shit, you know. And I don't mean stupid shit like them saying, oh, I don't like this person because they're Black. I don't mean that kind of obvious stuff.

[20:03] Tchaiko Omawale: I mean the liberal white person, the quote unquote progressive white person who says things and I did not ever speak up because I didn't know any better. I mean the white friend who loves black music and who loves ethnic girls and who dates the black girls, but you know, and and and like enjoys feeling like they're special because they know black culture. These are things that I like now, it started around 2016. That's when I had my nigga wake up moment where I was just like, I had I broke up with several white friends.

[20:37] Tonya Pinkins: And what was the breakup for you about?

[20:43] Tchaiko Omawale: Um, not being heard because like as I'm saying that, like, I was like, Oh, how do I say this without getting into the details to reveal I don't want to reveal who I broke up with? But honestly, black women are so fucking generous, it wasn't even the thing specifically that they said, it was the fact that I said, Hey, this thing that you did, this thing that you said or did not say hurt me, and then the resistance to that, and then me being like, okay, let me be generous again and explain to you why and how this hurt. And then realizing like it was really a uh I had a split. I literally had a like a sort of psychic split when I was like, oh shit, you white friend who says that I'm your best friend, you other white friend who said that I'm also your best friend or close friend, and I know you guys love me, and literally you're denying what I'm telling you is hurtful, you're dismissing me.

You're going textbook by textbook of white fragility and defensiveness. I I literally was like, I mean, I find I, you know, I was like, fuck all of this, I can't. And that's for me, like, so I've always had black female friends, but for me, that year is where it was also when I was making Solace and I was um trying to finish, and you can identify with this, Tanya. I literally was trying to finish this film that I'd done so much fucking work on in the most brilliant way, like funded it on my own, produced it, you know, mostly by myself, and I just needed a little bit more money. And I was watching my cohorts who are white or non-black get money for stuff about black films where I was like having difficulty like funding this film that I thought was quite brilliant.

Like, who's watched the film about a black girl dealing with an eating disorder? Like, nobody, like, why am I not getting money? So it was like on a on a professional level, I was having this sort of awakening of just like the the liberalism of of uh independent film world, and then on a personal level, so it's like structural, career wise, and then on a personal level, having this this this experience of just like, wow, y'all can't help yourself. So I turned to black women and again it's like I turned to black women artistically so I started like I started being in conversation with other black female filmmakers who knew who were more decolonized in their filmmaking practice than I was at the time I started I I was in therapy and I switched eventually to having a black a dark skinned black female therapist because I needed to have all of those intersections in order to feel like I could heal and it just kind of expanded from there where I was just like oh no part of my part of the way that I need to heal this thing that just happened to me is I need to be with black women.

[23:38] Franki Cox: Yeah that decolonizing of the mind I feel like mine is in a constant state and my early therapy experiences I think were just all traumatizations because it took time for me to actually hire experts to educate me about the fact that it is known in the therapeutic system that white therapists um empathize with identical behaviors in white people that they will pathologize in black people and uh yeah yeah it yeah that decolonization is an everyday thing for me no one can see you Franki I I believe you identify as as uh black or of color but to look at you nobody would know uh so I think probably your experience has probably been a little different.

[24:25] Tchaiko Omawale: No, I would Franki looks black.

[24:27] Franki Cox: No, I think Franki could get away with being uh she could be maybe she could be Middle Eastern, she could be Balinese, she could be Oh, I could I can see that too. She could be Brazilian. I don't know, Franki, we don't let us talk for you.

[24:42] Franki Cox: So um in my earlier years, that was an issue, a big issue. And that was a big part of why I didn't have black friends growing up. I've never had black friends. I was mostly um targeted um in my black community. They did not like me based on the way I looked. Um and you know, I'm older now, so things have there's some gravity happening, but when I was younger, I looked a little bit different. I looked a lot different actually. And um uh that that was not it did not work to my advantage in the in the black community. When I moved out of the black community, when I was moved into the different schools, into the all-white schools, they were able to um allow me in for that reason, because I wasn't quite black in their the I could be something else.

They had just decided it. And it was really it's just perception, you know. Some black people said, yeah, she's black, and some people like she ain't black. And um, so that that was uh that was hard. That was hard. Um because these were my people who had rejected me. And then when I moved into the white community, I was it was really like I was like a uh sort of like this pet. I had to behave a very specific way in order to be fed, in order to be petted, to be cared for, to be seen. And I was locked away when they were tired of me. And that's been my experience throughout growing up is um, you know, on a pedestal, oh look, until something more interesting comes along. And then we don't really care that it's dusty or that it's a like a plant and it dries out. Nobody cares.

[27:01] Franki Cox: It's been very oppositional. I've been seen as a threat and I've been treated like one. You know, like a pest, like you have to get it out. Um, even now, sometimes when I go into, you know, I just went to Trader Joe's and you know, a black woman just said out loud, oh my goodness, like all I did was walk from my car into this store. You know, I was in a I had an experience where I was um doing a, you know, of being part of a fundraiser at a school. I'd made these bouquets. I have a bit of a, you know, like this sort of bohemian little bit of flair to me. I don't speak, now I wasn't anyway. I don't, I don't um, I have a way of speaking that some people would say is like a sellout or uh um, you know, it's not authentically black.

It's not you white people say to me, you're not really black. Um so like how how that is processed from you know being very young, uh, you know, four, five, seven, it, you know, how that's processed to growing up as an adult and you know, being called a nigger, um and as a child as well, but um all of that becomes like a like how do I move through the world and just be safe? Like, how do I identify where it's safe for me to be and how do I need to be so that I'm not harmed? So, my experience is like taking this and using it as to my advantage. Like, okay, they think I'm a chameleon, I will be one. I will figure out how and where I am safe, how to be in the world and who's okay with me, you know, who's willing to be an ally, even if it means they're gonna say really stupid shit.

You know, the white people say lots of really stupid shit. And I know that I just, you know, up until the last recent couple of years, where I've just like, I I can't, I guess it was this starting in 2016. I I can't unsee this. I cannot not see this. I have to, now it's impacting my children. Now I have to have a conversation with my uh, I don't know how old he was, maybe six or seven, seven year old about the N-word because someone just called him that. Like now I have to tell him. Now I have to, you know, and I have to find a way to frame it in terms of you know, kindness.

[29:44] Tonya Pinkins: Hi, I'm Tonya Pinkins. Thank you for listening to part one of my conversation with colleagues Tchaiko Omawale, filmmaker of Solace, and singer-songwriter Franki Cox. Do come back for part two of You Can't SAY THAT.