Last of De' Mo-Hee-Kins (Part IV)

For all its ghostly power, Aryan Enterprise cannot exist without a proscribed number of little people. Sadly, they sometimes forget themselves. When such tragic events occur, corporate fathers liberally apply the tips of steel-toed wingtip shoes.

Within the bantustan called Wal-Mart, restless natives not long ago were pounding drums of envy and hopping around a bonfire of self-pity. Nearly half of the 1.4 million member tribe earns less than $15,300 a year, the federal annual poverty income for a family of three. Newcomers make an estimated $6.25 to $8 an hour. Every year, half a million flee, screaming, into a Jobless Desert.

Heeding encouraging words from corporate overseers, Wal-Martians often seek food stamps, apply for the federal government's Earned Income Tax Credit and turn to state governments for child support payments. As for health insurance, art-time workers must wait two years; full-timers six months. Besides high premiums and deductibles, tribe members must swallow a plan that doesn't even cover child vaccinations. Nearly 700,000 get coverage from government or spouses' plans.

Meanwhile, the widow and four children of Wal-Mart founder Sam Walton comprise -- so sayeth corporate scripture in Forbes Magazine -- the richest family on the planet. The bones of aborted labor unions, lavish tax holidays, sweatshop-made goods and supercharged public relations/lobbying campaigns have risen into a breadloaves worth $20.5 billion for each of the aforementioned family members. Simultaneously, the company (with sales of $259 billion) has remained perched atop the Fortune 500 list three years running.

America, it seems, loves low prices more than workers' rights (Wal-Mart employs more than 70 people full-time to break union organizing efforts) or gender equality (the company faces the largest sex discrimination case in history with perhaps 700,000 plaintiffs who could be owed billions of dollars). (In 2001, company CEO H. Lee Scott, Jr. snatched more than $17 million in total compensation while employees in 30 states alleged managers forced them to punch out after eight hours, then keep working for free. )

During the early days of Ah-nald's gubernatorial campaign, Princess Shriver graced one hamlet (of 1,512 retail stores, 53 "neighborhood markets," 1,344 Supercenters and 528 Sam's Clubs) on the Wal-Mart bantustan. To her great shock, her garments were soiled when she wandered too close to the natives.

For several weeks, the Princess stumped across the Golden State, telling largely female audiences "ten things you don't know about Arnold." On this occasion, the natives were unimpressed. Their boos forced a hasty "rush through protesters." Later, chastened "campaign insiders said the lesson was learned, and never again was (the Princess) subjected to such treatment," in the future shielding herself from reporters' questions and calling sexual harassment allegations "gutter journalism."

A "secret weapon" with women and Democrats, the Princess played a leading role in hubbie's campaign. This emancipated was granted despite Ah-nald once opining: "I hate pants. This is something I have inherited from my father. He despised pants, and my mother was never allowed to wear them at home. We're talking about a different time period now, when the man was much more the ruler of the house. But I still feel that way, and neither my mother nor Maria is allowed to go out with me in pants."

Following the Leno appearance, Herr Gropen-Fuhrer stumbled while trying to answer the errant, if infrequent, substantive question. Standing by her man, Shriver "put her foot down" and demanded that campaign focus "less on celebrity and more on the hope" hubbie offered "in contrast to grim problems under (incumbent Governor Grey) Davis."

The Princess also "engineered another media coup," his appearance on Oprah. Acknowledging her media smarts, a campaign spokesman said of Shriver, "She understands this process both behind the camera and in front of it."

The day after Herr Gropen-Fuhrer's coronation, scribblers on newspaper business pages wondered whether his political ascension boded well for Bay Area capitalists. Heretofore mute campaign issues -- such as California's $10 billion budget deficit, its Third World credit rating, $27.5 billion of outstanding government obligation bonds, anemic unemployment insurance program and crippled workers' compensation protections --re-emerged from the mists of public unconscious as topics worthy of critical examination.

The born-again hand-wringing added little to the proceeds of divination. Uttered in Arabic and Japanese, leaves of tea and lines drawn in the sand stayed unintelligible. Easier to understand was a below-the-fold account of the wondrous powers granted to NBC as it merged with entertainment giant Vivendi Universal, the French conglomerate hell-bent cornering the world market in fresh water.

Henceforth, the reconstituted unit of General Electric Co. (masters of the universe and manufacturers of mushroom clouds) will be known as NBC Universal. With a paltry $13 billion in annual revenue, the conglomerate will still be considered puny compared to Time Warner Inc. ($41 billion) and Walt Disney Corp. ($25 billion and owner of ABC, the network on which Oprah's smile can be found). Still, clutched within its invisible hand are the Universal movie and television studios, 14 local TV stations, various cable networks including USA, CNBC, MSNBC (co-owned by Microsoft Corp., Bravo and Spanish-language Telemundo), and five theme parks (one for each of the titan's fingers).

Meanwhile, Wal-Mart flexes its constitutional rights, freely espousing censorship (by denying distribution of Robert Greenwald's documentary, "Uncovered: The Whole Truth About the Iraq War"); CNN propagates the corporate theft of healthcare (by distributing Department of Health video news releases touting extortionist Medicare legislation); and Costco conscripts cowed cashiers (bolstered by a gubernatorial celebrity appearance) into gathering signatures for a ballot initiative to weaken already anemic workers' compensation benefits.

Not to be outdone, Disney bolsters its brand as protector of family valuables, sweeping under a flying carpet importunate observations of the dynasties Bush, Saud and bin Laden. Currying favor and protecting tax breaks (in sunny Florida where presidential brother Jeb Bush plays "Bull" Conner and governor), Mousekexecutives have determined shareholder interests are best served by hamstringing distribution of Michael Moore's "Fahrenheit 9/11" rather than being "dragged into a highly charged partisan political battle."

HEAD HANKY IN CHARGE


As Head Hanky In Charge, Oprah's market appeal looms as massive as her backside. Each day, silver pieces in hand, advertisers and pitchmen journey to her dimly lit temple to loiter in shadows and await their turn to make offerings. In bowels of communion, sitting or kneeling on woven carpets and marble floors, the Blessed bathe in incense, candlelight and muskrat love.

In the heat of the afternoon, the dusky Delphi of the New World Order comforts the materially afflicted with tales of palsied children, idiot savants and elephantine chocoholics, all the while eliciting thankful wails and crocodile tears. For the length of the sermon, base considerations are swept under the rug of "we're all in this together." During the inevitable encore, a barefooted Oprah fields post-production questions about divine celebrities of the day.

Back home, safely ensconced within millionaire mansions and white houses, governors and would-be presidents rest assured in the certainty that on the frontiers of television there exists neither danger of ruffled consciences nor semblances of political awareness.

As it is written, Oprah harbors no illusions about her deepest, darkest obligations. "If other people perceive me to be representative of black people in this country, it is a false perception," she has claimed. "The fact that I sit where I sit today, you can't deny there have been some major advances. But I'm still just one black woman."

Me thinks the lady doth protest too much.

Another media star, Hattie McDaniel, exercised a fraction of the freedom Oprah enjoys. The youngest of thirteen children, she endured an era bereft of social pretense, one where black- and poor-folk knew their place. And those who forgot were quickly, and violently, reminded.

How unlikely that Hattie, like Dorothy in "The Wizard of Oz," would ride a twister of her own making, fly far from her native Kansas and ultimately land in Hollywood where, in 1939, she became the first AfroAmerican to win an Academy Award. Even Hattie, the face of "Mammy" in "Gone With the Wind" and countless other film classics, tried to kick up more dust than Oprah.

But, then, controversy isn't good for a homegirl's career.

One doubts, for example, that Oprah's favorite love story of all time, "Their Eyes Were Watching God," would be listed on her steroid-laced book site if the author were not already dead. It is impossible to imagine her calling a U.S. president a "monster" and "Butcher of Asia," recalling Harry Truman's "grin of triumph on giving the order to drop the Atom bombs on Japan. Of his maintaining troops in China who are shooting the starving Chinese for stealing a handful of food." More predictably, Oprah touts a protagonist who plows through two decades of abusive relationships before finding true love with a man who "teaches her to open her heart to the world."

Yet Hurston's era, especially the decade of the 1930s was "the golden age of the black servant." Indeed, "no other period in motion picture history would see as many black actors cooking, cleaning, carrying, kowtowing, and cutting up -or getting steady work. There was little long-term success to be had playing a role beyond the stock servant."

Schooled in minstrel shows, Hattie McDaniel tramped around Colorado, alternately performing and working as a domestic before getting her "big break." In 1920, one of Denver's most popular AfroAmerican musicians, "Professor" George Morrison, hired her as a featured performer with his traveling "Melody Hounds." During that same decade -- and foreshadowing Oprah's experience -- McDaniel became the first black person to sing on Denver's KOA radio station.

She kept working with black vaudeville troupes.

In 1929, after a touring production of Show Boat went belly up in Chicago, she landed a gig at Milwaukee's Club Madrid. Despite auditioning as a singer, she was hired as the ladies' washroom attendant. Her lavatory arts spurred patrons to lobby for a promotion.

"Legend has it that she got her chance on a particularly slow night. McDaniel took the stage and belted out a rousing "St. Louis Blues" that got a standing ovation from the sparse crowd. People started coming to the club just to hear her sing, and what began as a lucky shot stretched into a successful two-year run." In 1931, she followed her siblings to California, arriving with a cheap purse, $20 in cash and a lucky rabbit's foot.

The foot didn't help McDaniel much either. After visiting several studios, and running short on cash, she took a job as a domestic. Finally, she landed a radio gig, playing the cook in a sketch entitled "Miss Ann's Kitchen."

McDaniel soon had her own show. On Friday mornings, listeners tuned in to The Optimistic Do-Nut Hour "starring Hi-Hat Hattie McDaniel." (Her popular on-air nickname was earned after she showed up for her first broadcast dressed in a formal gown. The other cast members teased her about trying to act high-hat, and the name stuck.)

Still, the five dollars she got for her weekly performance weren't enough to live on, so she had to continue working as a domestic. In 1932 and 1933, she won several bit parts. Receiving no screen credits, she always played a maid, house servant or cook. In 1934, she got her first credited role playing Aunt Dilsey in "Judge Priest" with Will Rogers.

As the decade progressed, she became a regular screen presence.

She appeared with Hollywood's biggest stars: Shirley Temple and Bill "Bojangles" Robinson (The Little Colonel ,1935), Katharine Hepburn and Fred MacMurray (Alice Adams ,1935), and Irene Dunne and Paul Robeson (Show Boat ,1936).

"Although she was cast as subservient, she did not present herself that way. Her sassy, offhand delivery, rolling eyes, and exasperated expressions often made it seem that she, instead of her white mistress or master, was in charge.....Hattie's brashness caused some white moviegoers to complain to the studios that the actress was too uppity."

Her attitude -- as seems always the case -- served as focal point for a larger debate.

As president of the NAACP, Walter White during the 1930s continued a practice -- one that started with protests of racist stereotypes in "Birth of a Nation," D.W. Griffith's 1915 "film classic -- of calling upon the major studios to replace grinning, darky stereotypes with more positive images of black folk on the screen. White's harshest criticism fell on those who played demeaning roles. Sadly, McDaniel was a frequent target (In words echoing delineating class and skin-tone lines, she called White a spiteful, meddling hypocrite and a "one-eighth Negro" who resented dark-skinned AfroAmericans.

Not surprisingly, the filming of "Gone With the Wind" garnered a lot of attention in segregated communities that in the previous decade debated Marcus Garvey's "Back to Africa" movement and the merits black nationalism. Many organizations sent letters to Selznick International, calling Margaret Mitchell's novel, upon which the screenplay was based, "anti-Negro." Some community leaders opposed making any film version. Others appreciated the economic and cultural benefits available to those who would participate in such an important production.


"As the controversy raged, the film's producer, David O. Selznick, auditioned more than a hundred black performers for the five major servant roles.

Among the several actresses trying out for the role of Mammy, Louise Beavers was the front-runner, with Hattie McDaniel, who was favored by Clark Gable, a close second. Beavers, who had given a moving performance as the long-suffering Aunt Delilah in Imitation of Life, was the best-known black actress of the day, and industry insiders were certain she'd win the role of Mammy. She showed up for her audition decked out in her finest furs, but the flashy display put Selznick off. McDaniel, on the other hand, arrived in period costume, looking every inch the antebellum Southern mammy. After hearing her read a few lines in the thick Georgia accent she had acquired for the audition, Selznick canceled the rest of the tryouts and signed McDaniel to a $450-a-week contract.

Selznick wanted to remain as faithful to Mitchell's book as possible, but he had to deal with the author's liberal use of the words nigger and darky, which had also been written into Sidney Howard's original script. The NAACP, an unofficial "adviser" on the film, and the principal black actors -Oscar Polk, Butterfly McQueen, and McDaniel -pressured Selznick to remove the language. He compromised by deleting nigger but leaving in darkies and inferior.

Gone With the Wind was a box-office sensation. The critics praised not only Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh, but also Hattie McDaniel for her stellar performance as the feisty, loyal Mammy. As Oscar time approached, Selznick became sure she would receive an Academy Award nomination. Even though most black newspapers had panned the film for its suggestion that blacks had actually enjoyed slavery, and some had even called for a boycott, the Chicago Defender, Pittsburgh Courier ,and Baltimore Afro-American all ran stories promoting McDaniel's Oscar nomination. The Academy's voting members obviously agreed and made her a candidate for Best Supporting Actress."


Before McDaniel, no AfroAmerican had ever attended the Hollywood ceremony. Seated at a table in the far rear, she was the first who wasn't a cook or a waiter to be granted entrance into the Ambassador Hotel's Coconut Grove ballroom. When her victory was announced, to cheers and a standing ovation, she mounted the stage and, in a speech written by the studio, told the Academy: "I shall always hold it as a beacon for anything I may do in the future," she said tearfully. "I sincerely hope I shall always be a credit to my race and to the motion-picture industry."

After winning the Oscar, McDaniel rode a wave of approval that resulted in her appearing in more than 20 movies during the next decade. At the height of her success, she had earned enough money to buy a 30-room mansion in an affluent Los Angeles neighborhood known as Sugar Hill. Unfortunately, she was forced to file a lawsuit (which ultimately went to the Supreme Court) when a group of white neighbors tried to enforce a restrictive covenant.

During the WWII era, with AfroAmericans debating how to express patriotism while living under American apartheid, Walter White's crusade against "mammyism" reached its apex. As a correspondent in the Far East, he reportedly encouraged segregated troops to write letters of protest against Hattie. For an active USO entertainer, a member of the Hollywood Canteen and supporter of the war-bond effort, the letters cut deep.

Moist fingers to the wind, post-war Hollywood began realizing if it wanted AfroAmerican dollars, plantation films would have to go. Wary of race-based controversy, studios dumped scripts and black parts wholesale. Casting directors balked at hiring proven moneymakers, even the beloved Hattie.