Fighting prejudice, one joke at a time

Sophie Duker’s show at the Fringe explores the reality of black women’s lives in Britain and the many ways in which they are subjected to racism. The stand-up explains how she found humour in the hate

Heard the one about the Hottentot? My debut stand-up hour is inspired by a harrowing historical story. Just over 200 years ago, a Scottish doctor trafficked a woman from South Africa to the UK. Billed as the “‘Hottentot Venus” (Hottentot being a pejorative term for the Khoi people of southwestern Africa) she was christened Sara Baartman in Manchester Cathedral but known “affectionately” as Saartjie. Our plucky heroine found fame on the stage, meaning she was paraded unclothed in front of anyone who fancied a good gawk. A freakshow “performer”, Saartjie regularly had every inch of her “exotic” body ogled in what was an inescapably exploitative and cynical setup, the Georgian-era equivalent of Naked Attraction.

Saartjie’s situation was a hot mess – but how far have we come since? How are Britain’s black women faring today? Are their afros bouncy? Their elbows well-moisturised? Sis, are they thriving?

As we prepare to enter 2020, we shouldn’t take for granted the fact that our society celebrates black British women as distinct as Alison Hammond and Afua Hirsch. Black British babygirls of Gen Z owe inestimable debts to the trailblazers who became the “first black woman” in paler, maler arenas. Trailblazers like broadcaster Moira Stewart, MP Diane Abbott, comedian Gina Yashere or activist Phyll Opoku-gyimah.

These individuals tend to be held up as microcosmic success stories – and yet, bubbling underneath every “black girl magic” fairytale is something much darker. No matter how unapologetically black women exist, a low hum of hate grumbles on in the background. Before “making it” as a comedian, Yashere’s colleagues pinned banana skins to her work clothes. Amnesty research in 2017

revealed that Abbott received almost half of the abuse sent to all female MPS. By Abbott’s own account, the aspect of working for her that most surprises new recruits is the amount of racist, sexist abuse they have to sift through daily.

Today, most of the racism I experience is indirect. Like second-hand smoke, it’s easier to ignore, but equally toxic. When Danny Baker compares the newborn royal to a chimpanzee, then refuses to admit the cheap joke had anything to do with ethnicity, when Yewande Biala, like Samira Mighty before her, just isn’t the type of most male Love Island contestants, when Naomi Hersi is murdered in a hotel near Heathrow – I can X out of the browser, refuse to engage. Occasionally firsthand racism punctures even my privileged bubble – monkey noises are hooted at me from a passing car, or a nana clutches her bags closer when I board the train. But on the whole, I can dismiss misogynoir, the smooth chocolatey blend of combined sexism and racism, as white noise.

I’m able to tune out intolerance, because I’m no longer one of its prime targets. As a physically unremarkable, middle-class, young, Oxfordeducated British black woman, I’m deemed close enough to a vague template of acceptability to live life relatively unchallenged. Prejudice has become intersectional, and the trolls have other fish to fry.

Take Munroe Bergdorf. The model and activist is a transgender icon, such a beacon for the LGBTQ+ community that last Christmas she was called on to deliver her inaugural Qween’s Speech. Munroe has become a lightning rod for the kind of hot, crackly hatred that

I, as a cis black woman, can barely imagine. In June 2019, she was named Childline’s first LGBTQ+ ambassador, a title that she held for a total of three days before the charity unceremoniously cut ties with her. NSPCC’S CEO stated Munroe’s dismissal was due solely to the “lack of process” that led to her appointment. What is undeniable, however, is that she was dumped after a virulently transphobic Twitter backlash, allegations of cancelled direct debits to the charity, and libelous claims about her background (notably from one Times journalist who erroneously called her a “porn model”). Smearing a black woman by distorting or emphasising her sexuality is a tactic consistently used in racist rhetoric.

Hyper-visible and constantly targeted, Munroe seems to be stuck in a Sisyphean loop. Time and time again she ascends to positions of power and influence (through being announced as the “face” of a L’oreal campaign, LGBTQ+ adviser to the Labour Party, NSPCC ambassador), only to have transphobic, racist bullies gleefully knock the hard-won happiness out of her hands. Munroe is only human, but the supernatural strength required to absorb vicious blows is demanded of black women as a matter of course.

As I write this, a Glasgowborn jazz singer called Bumi Thomas has been ordered to leave the UK within a fortnight. Born weeks after Thatcher’s government instated the British Nationality Act (removing the automatic right of citizenship for children of parents from former colonies), she slipped through the net. Now, after decades of paying taxes, her right to remain has been invalidated because she split with her “British” partner. Like Saartjie, Bumi currently risks being uprooted – unwilling and without warning – to a place that is not her home.

All these stories sit in Saartjie’s shadow. Black women are still constantly reminded that our bodies are not our own, that we are legitimised only by whiteness, that we are dispensable, disposable, sassy, savage, sexual, stupid. The stereotypes that some embody, some embrace, and some don’t identify with at all – are weaponised against us. The same message for over 200 years – we are not suited to this white man’s world, and if we refuse to know our place in it, we will be punished.

Wait, this is gold. Why aren’t you laughing?

It may seem counterintuitive to base a stand-up show around black female bodies, when they are sites that experience violence, ridicule and disrespect. But don’t get it twisted. Oppressed people in general and black women in particular are natural comedians – even if, to my knowledge, there are only five doing full-length comedy hours at the Edinburgh Fringe this year. Desiree Burch, London Hughes, Njambi Mcgrath, Phoebe Robinson, and Sophie Duker (ya girl).

The melanin in our skin and the coincidence of our gender ties us to a rich tapestry of narratives. Sunday afternoons spent scorching hair straight with a hot comb from the hob, Saturday nights spent witnessing the uniquely postmodern phenomenon of white girls copying gay men copying black girls, Monday mornings laced with imposter syndrome and inappropriate colleagues – our lived experience is a hoot.

Can you guess why Saartjie was considered a freak? Because she was packing over-the-average amount of junk in her trunk, because she had a big butt (and I cannot lie), because she boasted, not to put too fine a point on it, an enviable arse. While this decade’s Instabaddies pay for Brazilian butt lifts, back in the day (1785), false rumps were all the rage. That history’s genteel Georgians were sufficiently appalled, aroused and transfixed by the Hottentot Venus’s lady lumps is nothing short of hilarious.

I’m not a goddess (and my shorts are staying on) but this summer at the Edinburgh Fringe I’m putting myself on a pedestal (or rather, a small stage at the Pleasance) to make jokes about pain, porn and Pokémon in the shadow of Saartjie Baartman. When we’re rolling with the punches and writing our own punchlines, black women can make you laugh the loudest.

● Sophie Duker: Venus is at The Pleasance Below at 7pm from 31 July-25 August, www. pleasance.co.uk

Black women are still constantly reminded that our bodies are not our own, that we are legitimised only by whiteness, that we are dispensable, disposable, sassy, savage, sexual, stupid