Quietly, there is a revolution brewing.
And this revolution frequently is televised.
Sure, last week’s news meant tense times for race relations, from the impending demise of affirmative action to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms’ racial-slur-ridden “Good Ol’ Boys Roundup.”
But check it out. Underneath the racial angst, something is afoot. From MTV to the malls, from the music we blast to the food we eat and the clothes we wear, we’re turning into a multi-culti polyglot.
Whether we like it or not.
And a lot of us like it.
Contrary to popular thought, the races have always mixed. But it has become a much more public occurrence–one that’s played out in the fashions we wear and the music we party to. What we pull out of the closet each morning has everything to do with who we are, and perhaps more importantly, who we think we are.
And from the looks of things, we’re starting to think we are the world.
Case in point: “Clueless,” a new flick set in Beverly Hills about two fashion-obsessed rich girls “named after famous singers who now do infomercials”–Cher and Dionne.
But this ain’t no lily-white Beverly Hills 90210.
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Far from it. Cher and Dionne are the teenaged Salt-and-Pepper duo of the ’90s. Cher (Alicia Silverstone) is an Alaia-clad Caucasian chic who drops homeboyisms like “dope” and “phat;” Dionne (Stacey Dash) is a Bap (Black American Princess) who sports Jamaica braids, nose ring and Chanel couture.
Maybe it’s easier to do the rainbow coalition thing on the shallow silver screen. But it’s happening in the real world, too.
Take, for example, Sunday night’s Omar concert–an orgy of black British acid jazz–at the Double Door in Wicker Park, where there were more dreadlocks per square foot than at a reggae festival in Brooklyn.
There were Pakistanis dancing with Japanese. Wild-haired baby bi-racials dancing with each other, decked out in crop tops, sarong skirts and clogs. White boys with dreads dancing with black boys with bald heads. . . . And everywhere there were two unifying accessories: The navel ring and the backpack.
Or Friday night’s Barry White concert at the Chicago Theatre, where fans of all colors sported some rather, shall we say, unfortunate ensembles. Like the woman with the painted-on blue “leather” dress whose top was composed entirely of super-skinny studded strips of leather. And yes, the wide expanse of brown stuff peeking through those tiny strips was, uh, flesh.
Proving that even amidst all this sartorial harmonizing, you can always find some equal-opportunity tackiness.