The newest show from creator of “Black-ish” is even more autobiographical. And it turns out he isn’t quite as relatable as his characters (and he knows it).

To be black in America gives one the ever-present feeling that you have to explain or excuse why you are occupying spaces that are meant or feel as though they are meant solely for white people, crouched in a posture of defensive vigilance, susceptible to the intended occupiers insults, condescension or violence when our bodies occupy those spaces. When those spaces are particularly wealthy, theres the expectation that youll be additionally subjected to a host of snide insults or barbs aimed at your expressions of race, while asked to both stand in for all members of it and be able to joke about how you arent like those people.
This is all the frame for the new Netflix series #blackAF, from Kenya Barris, the creator/showrunner of ABCs Black-ish. But where Black-ish was a more traditional sitcom centered on a fictional upper-middle-class family (based on Barris own) confronting issues of race with humor and heart, #blackAF is more Modern Family meets Curb Your Enthusiasm, with Barris as the Larry David analogue and super conscious of the fact that these conventions are seldom afforded to black-centered stories or characters.
The conceit of the show is this: the second-oldest daughter, Drea, is applying to New York Universitys films school by making a documentary about her family. Her father, a successful television creative, exuberantly indulges said favorite daughters passion by hiring a film crew and kitting her out with the latest gear to film her family.
The Barrises, though, are unicorns in more ways than one: they dont exist in community with other black families with their level of financial prosperity, and they are one of a small number of black families in the white Hollywood circles in which they do exist. That singularity of the Barris family in #blackAF, which makes them hyper-visible in both their worlds, plays out over the course of the eight episodes, offering viewers a meta-commentary both about the real-life Barris as a black creative thriving in mostly white Hollywood and how the success of his works (Black-ish, Grown-ish and Mixed-ish) based on his family introduced strains into it.
Barris-as-Barris, of course, constantly frets that #blackAF is hyperaware of itself, and if Barris the character is a one-trick pony. And the white gaze haunts him and, by extension, Drea, who in her role as primary storyteller addresses the (white) audience, explaining black idiosyncrasies, cultural and social sensibilities and aesthetics as Barris’ ABC shows, in part, did.
Part of the context of #blackAF, of course, is that it is first part of Barris multimillion deal with Netflix after his relationship with ABC ended. That relationship soured shortly after a politically charged episode dealing with the controversy over Colin Kaepernick and the NFL was scrapped; both parties later agreed publicly that not airing the kneeling episode was a mutual decision. For ABC executives, though, having one of its sitcoms even one called Black-ish directly address the meaning of Kaepernicks protest seemed to be a bridge too far; Barris inked a deal with Netflix just six months later.
The testing kept saying white viewers were uncomfortable, Barris told Vulture in 2018. And I was like, Wow, you mean the episode about how talking about slavery makes white people uncomfortable is actually making white people uncomfortable? Shock!
It is not hard to imagine that at least some of #blackAF is Barris direct response to that controversy; certainly, the fact that all the titles of all episodes of season one involve the phrase because of slavery seem to be a direct middle finger to ABC and the white gaze.
Black comedy made for mainstream audiences necessarily contextualizes blackness for white people because the conception of black people in America (and as represented in film and television) is rooted in virulent misconceptions of black humanity. As a result, black people end up explaining themselves to themselves and by extension, we are telling white people who they are, because they created and maintained those misconceptions.
As entertaining as #blackAF is in many moments, though and the most relatable bits for the vast majority of African American audiences will be the touchstones and celebration of Black identity like Juneteenth, signatures of Barris other works the show is mostly just escapism for millions of African Americans who will never know such opulent abundance. The wealth gap between black and white Americans is a grand canyon: The median wealth for white families is just over $100,000, while the median wealth for black families is $10,000, according to a recent study by Duke University professor William Darity and others.
The real question “#blackAF” raises, though is: Is the world ready for a black Larry David? Is it are we ready to watch black humanity at the outskirts of the black experience stupidly rich, possibly unlikeable, not truly relatable? If a show isn’t crafted for the white gaze, does it automatically speak to the black one?
Perhaps Barriss greatest trick here is that the answers to those questions dont matter (at least to him): Those of us who exist on the edges of the in crowd and are constantly proving to ourselves and others that we belong in any space in which we occupy have stories worth telling, he says, regardless of the race or class of whoever is watching.