The most popular show on FOX widens the racial divides in America every Wednesday at 9 p.m. Empire tells the story of Lucious Lyon, a hip-hop music mogul played by Terrence Howard, who’s as cold and murderous as a Roman emperor conquering continents.
Some White viewers may not have another frame of reference for marginalized groups struggling to escape poverty. When these viewers contemplate what it is to be a minority in America, they can only draw their knowledge from what they’ve observed regarding minorities.
That’s true even if their observations come from a ridiculous television show. The show’s portrayals are a greater disservice to minorities because studies show that viewers of color are in danger of internalizing the negative stereotypes glorified by Empire.
Members of S.Q. Reviews have talked about Empire on the Justice Show (90.7 KALX), a project from the University of California at Berkeley Graduate School of Journalism. Many of us feel conflicted about the show.
Though we object to how Empire characterizes minorities, we’re grateful that the popular show employs so many actors of color in an industry that historically excluded minorities from central roles.
S.Q. Reviews meets in the lot between the Education Department and the San Quentin News to discuss Empire.
“The last scene was stupid,” says Juan Meza. “Why would you put a dead body in the district attorney’s car?”
Meza refers to the scene where the district attorney, who is out to bring down Lyons’ empire, finds a dead body in her passenger seat and screams. Rahsaan Thomas explains that the dead man is a former witness against Lyons. She hid the fact that he was missing, so that she could execute search warrants under the premise to harass Lyons.
“Now that the D.A. has the body,she can’t say he’s missing,” Thomas says.
“Yeah …” Meza shakes his head. “If it’s about that, they could’ve dropped that body anywhere.”
“They could have done that,” Thomas says. “But then, it wouldn’t have been Empire.”
“Exactly!” I shoot forward on my seat. I rant about how irresponsible it is to frame an African-American’s struggle against a historically hostile authority with a dead body that reduces a district attorney to hysterics.
“It would be a regular soap, just like Dallas, if they had better writing,” says Meza. “I think it’s the dialogue. They’re stereotyping the way people speak. His kids didn’t grow up poor or struggling. They’ve had the best education money can buy, but two of them talk and act like they’re from the hood.”
“You’re onto something,” I say. “Last week, after listening to me for 30 seconds, a well-intentioned volunteer told me that I don’t talk like I belong in prison. I thought to myself, ‘has diction become the standard of criminality?’”
I then say how I meet many people who think I am the exception to the rule of the kind of people who live in prison. I explain how they don’t realize how many people with my same story have transformed themselves.
“My exceptionalism in comparison to other incarcerated Americans revolves around my ambition and articulation, but my drive and diction cannot be the measurement of human worth and redemption; yet for many it is,” I say. “I’m angry and impotent, and so, yes, ranting about Empire and the way Lucious’ kids talk has become my outlet.”
I fear that if nothing is done to change the kind of images that become popular on television, then there is no chance for changing the result of such portrayals in the streets and among viewers.
