Dr. Dre's 20-year-old son found dead in LA

LOS ANGELES - Dr. Dre's 20-year-old son has died, the rapper's publicist said Tuesday.
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"Dr. Dre is mourning the loss of his son Andre Young Jr.," publicist Lori Earl said in a statement.

Young Jr., who was named after his father, was found dead Saturday by his mother at their home in suburban Woodland Hills, county coroner's Lt. John Kades said.

An autopsy was performed Monday, but the cause of death wasn't likely to be determined for eight weeks while toxicology tests are done, Kades said.

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Taking The Sex Out Of Sexual Health Screening

-- Young women would accept age-based screening for the sexually transmitted infection chlamydia, but would want this test to be offered to everyone, rather than to people 'singled out' according to their sexual history. In the study, published in the BioMed Central open access journal BMC Infectious Diseases, the Australian women interviewed did not like discussing their sex lives with their GPs. Some said they would even lie about how many sexual partners they had had if asked. In response to these findings, the study authors suggest that a detailed sexual history should not be required before testing women for chlamydia. Chlamydia is Australia's and the UK's most commonly diagnosed sexually transmitted infection (STI). It is most prevalent in the under-25s and can have serious long-term health consequences, including causing infertility in women. A team comprising three doctors, a sociologist and an epidemiologist at the University of Melbourne, Australia aimed to find out what young Australian women thought about the introduction of chlamydia screening into general practice. The researchers interviewed 24 sexually active women aged 16 to 24 who attended one of a sample of general practices. Equal numbers of women from rural, regional and urban areas were questioned. In contrast to previous research, which suggests women are not concerned about giving information about their sexual history in the context of a family planning or sexual health clinic, interviewees were reluctant to provide such a history to their GPs. This is a new finding which raises the question of whether a sexual history is really necessary when screening for chlamydia. The authors acknowledge that it is important for young women to understand that chlamydia is an STI and that sexual partners should be notified if someone tests positive. However, they said that chlamydia testing should be destigmatised. "In general practice the offer [of a chlamydia test] may seem to come 'out of the blue'" says Natasha Pavlin, who coordinated the study. "The importance of normalising the offer of chlamydia testing, so that individual women do not feel singled out, cannot be overemphasised." By John Williams, BDO Staff Writer

Barbara Jordan: Black Lesbian Politician

Barbara Jordan: Black Lesbian Politician

Barbara Jordan held many 'firsts' in her career: First African American woman elected to the Texas Senate, first African American to deliver a keynote address at a political convention and the first Black woman elected to the US Congress from a Southern State. She was also a lesbian who shared her life with a partner for more than 20 years.

Black Women's Sexuality in America

Wednesday, 09 May 2007

The notion that Don Imus was somehow inspired by African American culture to casually refer to Black female athletes as "nappy-headed hoes" amounts to an inversion of history. White racism and male chauvinism shaped the image of Black females - and males. For centuries, this culture countenanced mass rape of Black women and emasculation of Black men. Unfortunately, this culture has also influenced the thinking and behavior of some segments of Black America - an internalization of self-hatred. But make no mistake about the root cause of the pathology: a horrific history of dehumanization of African Americans of both sexes.

African Women, White Men, Sex and Don Imus

By Mark P. Fancher (April 18, 2007)

"It is no longer enough to simply point fingers at rap artists whose lyrics reference ‘hos' and ‘bitches' and somehow imply that Imus was inspired by African youth."

It is likely that on countless street corners throughout America, young Africans continue to ponder with great bewilderment how a crusty old racist with a radio show caused the national spotlight to focus on them and what they believe to be their music. Imus's vile pronouncement that the women of Rutgers' basketball team are "nappy-headed hos" triggered expected condemnation from "Black Leadership." But like a tornado that first wreaks havoc on a trailer park and then skips gingerly across several miles of grasslands before causing more destruction in a distant location, the leaders' criticism moved swiftly from Imus, landed at Hip-Hop's door, and lingered there. The misogyny and self-loathing racial references of Hip-Hop are indefensible, and "Black Leadership's" instincts were on target. However, Africans in America find themselves in a moment when the struggles for liberation, human rights and justice demand that every blow that a "leader" strikes for the people enjoy the benefit of informed analysis rooted in an accurate understanding of history. It is no longer enough to simply point fingers at rap artists whose lyrics reference "hos" and "bitches" and somehow imply that Imus was inspired by African youth. Very basic questions must first be asked about whether Hip-Hop recordings released by mega entertainment corporations represent the honest expression of African youth culture, or whether they are instead products of white middle-aged executive male fantasies that have been tailored to appeal to the white, suburban teenaged demographic that accounts for more than three-quarters of all Hip-Hop music sales. Questions must then be asked about what drives the handful of young African "artists" who engage in Hip-Hop minstrelsy.

"The Imus affair is but a 21st Century manifestation of a white American pathology that has very deep historical roots."

Even the most cursory research reveals that the Imus affair is but a 21st Century manifestation of a white American pathology that has very deep historical roots. From the earliest days of their nightmarish, but nevertheless glorious sojourn in the western hemisphere, African women have been pegged as "hos" without any regard for their actual conduct. In a well-researched little book titled Ar'n't I a Woman?, historian Deborah Gray White described not only the experiences of African women on slave plantations, but also the attitudes held by white society. She wrote: "One of the most prevalent images of black women in antebellum America was of a person governed almost entirely by her libido, a Jezebel character."

White explained how proponents of the Jezebel idea used African dance styles, African women's sparse tropical clothing, and instances of polygamy as evidence of lust and lewdness. Victorian-era white women who dressed in layers of satin and lace looked with disdain on African women who tied their skirts around their upper thighs as they labored in water-filled rice fields. White men who took to routinely referring to African women as "wenches" convinced themselves that every African female they encountered looked upon them with lust. White quoted one white visitor to the antebellum south as stating: "...in almost every house there are negresses, slaves, who count it an honor to bring a mulatto into the world." This notion of black female sexuality became the foundation for an unspeakable history of mass rape. Countless enslaved African families endured the horror of having slave masters break into their homes and sexually assault a mother, or even pubescent and pre-pubescent daughters - sometimes as the family watched in helpless terror.

"The notion of black female sexuality became the foundation for an unspeakable history of mass rape."

There is much about the slave era that Africans themselves internalized. The word "nigger" became not only a derogatory word that accompanied acts of racial terrorism, but also a word long used by Africans themselves as a term of endearment. It is but one of numerous manifestations of self-hatred and a widely-shared inferiority complex. It is no wonder then that African men and many African women also internalized racist notions of black female sexuality.
While some might suggest that Hip-Hop misogyny is entirely home-grown, history indicates that the denigration of women is at odds with much of the culture of traditional Africa. For example, men not only recognized the genius of the Angolan queen, Nzinga, but also followed her into battle repeatedly in an ongoing war against the Portuguese. Likewise, the Ashanti Queen Mother Yaa Asantewa enjoyed universal respect, as did many other African queens. Among even the common folk, matrilineal succession was a distinct feature of certain traditional ethnic communities. As Africa's cultures were impacted by Arab and European influences, attitudes toward women changed. U.S. male chauvinism has certainly affected the attitudes of African males in America, including those who are willing to use the worst names for their sisters in recordings that they make for large corporations.

"U.S. male chauvinism has certainly affected the attitudes of African males in America."
While it is important to remain vigilant in the quest to purge Hip-Hop of its misogynist language, and racial self-hatred, it is perhaps most helpful to be armed with an analysis of its origins. The young brothers on the block who are puzzled about why they are being blamed for Don Imus's racism deserve a complete, informed explanation and not just finger-wagging condemnation. Mark P. Fancher is an attorney, essayist and activist.

Originally appeared in Black Agenda Report

The Study of Sex

A unique college course on African-American sexuality is shaking up the world of academia.

In a large classroom packed with students, Professor Nick Baham is teaching a course called African-American Sexuality. The course has been taught in the Ethnic Studies Department of California State University, East Bay since the mid-'80s, with Baham taking over as professor in 2000. The students settle in as he turns their attention to a guest lecturer, who is visiting to discuss images of people of color in feminist pornography.

Most of the students in the class are themselves black and mostly female. They range in age from late 20s to early 30s, and between 50 and 60 people take the class when it's offered several times a year. Most students identify as heterosexual. As far as Baham knows, it is the only course in the country specifically on African-American sexuality. For today's lecture, Baham and his guest field questions about black female sexual agency, the involvement of black people in alternative sexual communities and even representations of pleasure and orgasm.
Contrary to some students' expectations, the 10-week course is not a sexual "how to." Baham's challenge is to get students to step out of their comfort zones, as they cover topics such as BDSM, black LGBT issues, sex work, media hype around the "down low," marketing of black female bodies on television, representations of black sexuality in pornography, interracial sexuality and black male patriarchy.

Rethinking what's natural

Students enroll in the course with a variety of ideas about sexuality, Baham says. Among his students, he finds that "certain things are considered taboo because they're considered things that white people do. For example, gay and lesbian identity is considered white, introduced to blacks during slavery and not organic to Africa. Religiosity also comes up; sexual practice is conflated with religious prerogatives."

Representations of black sexuality, especially black female sexuality, in popular culture are also an issue. "They're very aware that their sexual bodies are objectified and commodified," Baham says. "And there are clearly demarcated lines between [women who are] virgins and sluts. [The students'] sexual self-perception is bounded by race, gender and religiosity. Every erotic activity that they're engaged in becomes a contested cultural terrain, where [they're] fighting the legacy of colonialism."

For one of the class assignments, Baham has the students conduct a mini-ethnography. He asks students to interview people whose sexuality is different from that of their own. "So, if they're heterosexual and vanilla, they go to the Folsom Street Fair (an annual leather community event in the nearby city of San Francisco) and chat with people," he says.
"I'm not trying to indoctrinate them. I'm not trying to stop them from looking to the Christian church every time they have sex. I'm looking to get them to think critically about what they do and what they think is 'natural.'"

The color of sexuality studies

The existence of Baham's course itself -- and its high enrollment numbers -- indicates a departure from the norm in the field of sexuality studies. Rita Melendez is a professor in the Human Sexuality Studies Department at San Francisco State University and a research associate at the school's Center for Research on Gender and Sexuality. Both at sexuality studies conferences and in her own classroom, she often finds that she is one of a handful of people of color. Most of her colleagues are white, as are most of her students.

The field of sexuality studies is small but growing, having emerged from an interdisciplinary social sciences arena. Academics and theorists dating back to Freud popularized the notion of studying human sexual behavior, and its development has been shaped by everything from the early psychologists to the birth of feminist theory, from the advent of HIV/AIDS to the creation of women's and gender studies, and more.

Melendez contends that "when you study sexuality, race and ethnicity are pivot points. Who you study and what you find will be influenced by race. There needs to be a lot more people of color doing sexuality studies." Sexuality studies has immediate relevance to communities of color, she argues, because of historical and contemporary intersections between sexualized racism and racialized sexism, and because of the ways in which sexuality can be a particular source of joy for persons of color as well.

Race "hasn't been dealt with very well" in sexuality studies, Melendez says. Despite the fact that many people of color are interested in the topic, "there has been mainly a large group of white men and women in the field of sexuality. A lot has to do with the word 'sexuality'; it gets associated with white people." Melendez finds that when the word "sexuality" gets added to a course title, people of color don't enroll.

Part of that word-association has to do with the fact that many white sexuality researchers are researching people of color. For example, Melendez says, most research being done today on people with HIV is done on people of color with HIV. For that reason, a notion prevails that sexuality studies is something that white people do and something that people of color have done to them. This paradigm sets up a power dynamic that can leave people of color dissociated from the sexuality research field.

Another reason for the low numbers of students of color in sexuality studies courses may have to do with the way race plays out in the mostly white classroom. "I spend all day talking about sexuality. I can say anything in my classes, and nobody will be shocked. But when [I] start talking about race, it often becomes a sensitive subject for my students," Melendez says. "When we really start talking about what race means, we get uncomfortable. Students tend to think that if you know somebody's race, you know a lot about them. I think that's not true. Everybody experiences race and ethnicity differently. If you're white, does that mean we can presume to know everything about you? It's really important to de-teach [my sexuality studies students] about race. [I] constantly try to bring race and ethnicity into the conversation."

When she was in graduate school at Columbia University in 2002, Melendez witnessed firsthand the degree to which many other people of color share her interest in sexuality studies. She was involved in the development of a program at Columbia called MOSAIC, which was intended to get undergraduate students of color involved in the field. By offering minischolarships, conducting weekly seminars and bringing the students to conferences such as the ones held by the Society for the Scientific Study of Sexuality (a leading national sexuality studies organization), MOSAIC was able to engage students of color and legitimize their preexisting interest in sexuality studies.

Melendez believes that sexuality studies need to embrace students of color by creating more structural programs, like MOSAIC, and more courses that acknowledge and examine the intersections of race and sexuality, like Baham's African-American Sexuality. "It's vital that more people of color enter the field, but I don't think that's going to happen until people make a concerted effort." This effort, she says, could include sexuality studies programs working to get more students of color into their classes; it could also entail black or other ethnic studies programs, including classes on sexuality in their roster, and it could mean an academywide effort to destigmatize the word "sexuality" itself.

Race, sex and power

Baham's time in the classroom goes a long way towards meeting all three of those goals. But the real revolution comes from within.

At the beginning of the course, Baham says that students always come in with a "pseudo-scientific" notion. "The question that they want answered is: Why are people gay?" Baham says. "I get them to understand that asking 'why' comes from a particular privileged position of power," namely that of heteronormativity.

Baham also gets the students to look at the notion "that black gay men are the biggest health risk in the black community. What about cocaine, heroin, unsafe sex among heterosexuals?" In getting students to critically examine topics such as internalized and externalized homophobia, Baham encourages analysis of the ways in which students personally construct their own sexualities.

Finally, the course ends with a look at BDSM. "We've had this motif that runs through the course: It's called power," Baham says. "I ask the students: How about if we play with power? How about if we play with violence? How about if we play with slavery? I talk about BDSM as a political act. [In BDSM], all the issues with gender roles, slavery, violence and power, all of these come to a head. I deal with it as a potentially very mature way for people to resolve issues that develop from the sexual persona, such as pain, loss, mistrust."

Baham starts by talking about spanking or being spanked as an example of what BDSM can entail. He'll often bring in a guest speaker from the BDSM community. Through these discussions, the students are able to see the potential for BDSM to be, as he puts it, "a redemptive and spiritual act." His students often mention having a slight interest in the topic, but that they don't know what it is and think that it's a "white thing." Despite this, students report that the idea of "doing things that are aggressive or submissive is exciting. There's a tremendous amount of interest, but real lack of information on it," Baham says. "When I talk about trust and safe words, and they see it's not people getting together willy nilly and beating the crap out of each other, they can understand it. Only later do we talk about the more extreme forms of BDSM, such as race play."

Baham often overhears his students tell their friends, "Man, you wouldn't believe what we do in that class!"-- which he takes as a compliment.

What does the future hold for Baham's African-American Sexuality and for Melendez' desire to see more people of color studying and researching sexuality? In CSU, East Bay's Ethnic Studies Department, Baham and colleague Luz Calvo have proposed the creation of an entire departmental program to focus on the gender and sexuality of people of color. The African-American Sexuality course would become part of that program along with similar courses.
Melendez dreams of the day when academics will work to make sure that "young people of color know the importance of studying sexuality, that it's not just fun and games, but that it deals with really important issues that are of concern to many communities of color" such as HIV/ AIDS, intimate partner violence, pregnancy and birth control, the rights of same-gender loving individuals, and sexual agency and the right to pleasurable experiences. "If I had my way," she concludes, "sexuality studies would take over the entire university, because everything relates to sexuality."