|
|
“she don’t seem afrikan enuf to know bt seems she’s dabblin in ghetto-life”
A light-skinned, loudmouthed troublemaker is what some on either side of the economic boycott think of Amanda Mayes, spokeswoman for the Coalition for a Just Cincinnati. But there’s a dynamic, young black woman behind the clichés and misconceptions.
The boycott was an afterthought until Mayes showed up. On Feb. 18, she turned the soon-to-expire boycott on its ear when she got the ear of comedian Bill Cosby.
In an explicit one-page letter, Mayes managed to convince Cosby to cancel two scheduled shows at the Aronoff Center for the Arts.
As spokeswoman, Mayes has commanded the attention of not only the city but also the country by appearing in print and broadcast news stories. Her profile rises to the dismay of some.
“We have a city council that loves to sweep stuff under the rug,” she says in her characteristically biting manner.
Her grassroots letter-writing campaign worked. Cosby instigated what has been a bubbling groundswell of pro-boycott support from other headlining acts declining invitations to perform here.
Cosby rocked the boat, and many other entertainers — Smokey Robinson, Prince, Wyclef Jean, The O’Jays and Wynton Marsalis — have since jumped ship. The ship’s captain, Cincinnati Arts Association (CAA) President Steve Loftin, and his mates threw out a life preserver by filing a civil lawsuit naming Mayes as one of three defendants who’ve caused “tortious interference” with CAA business.
The coalition countersued the CAA, alleging intimidation.
Meanwhile, the boycott trudges along, despite rumors of its demise. Boycotters have yet to accept mediation overtures from Mayor Charlie Luken and/or the CAA.
Responding to those offers, Mayes, 26, is clear and abrasive, qualities supporters admire and detractors detest.
“I’m ready to set the table with Luken,” she says, “but I will not take some bullshit agreement.”
Mayes calls the coalition “a multiracial group with varying concentrations in which everybody is working for justice.” She and others have 24 demands to be agreed upon before the boycott is officially over.
“They all have equal weight, all the police accountability demands have not all been met, and we will not budge on economic apartheid,” she says.
Mayes answered the metaphysical call to action last July when she joined the coalition.
“I thought it was only going to be a boycott for the Jazz Festival,” she says.
According to Mayes, the major problem in the city is “the overt nature of racism and separatism and how complacent people are.”
In some circles she’s seen as the lynchpin keeping Stonewall Cincinnati, the gay and lesbian human rights group, affiliated with the coalition and boycott efforts. Without her insistence of overall inclusion, the movement would become as segregated as the city whose problems precipitated it.
City leadership is another problem Mayes openly scrutinizes and criticizes.
“Luken is unwilling to admit the problem and deal with it,” she says.
Mayes feels strongly that the massive collaborative agreement signed by the city, the police department and others was made to bring an end to the boycott. She’s concerned with staying power — the city’s, not the coalition’s.
Mayes knows a thing or two about staying power. Last summer she interned for Vice Mayor Alicia Reece and was fired after a week.
“Reece saw me at a council meeting, realized I was in the struggle and told me that my services were no longer needed,” she says, openly discussing her disdain for her former boss. “Reece is a sell-out. She don’t give a damn and is only trying to get her daddy paid.”
Ouch.
“I don’t feel like I have to bite my tongue for anyone,” she says.
Mayes’ verbal assault came weeks before current allegations against Reece, her father and business owner James Washington in a federal lawsuit filed by attorney Kenneth Lawson and Angela Leisure claiming coercion and racketeering.
With all her pointed criticisms and fiery involvement, it would seem Mayes is a native accustomed to Cincinnati’s politics. But she’s an outsider just visiting.
She moved to Cincinnati from Ann Arbor, Mich., in 1993 to attend Xavier University. As a political science major who minored in women and minority studies, she has no desire to practice law. She instead wants to use her education and experience to someday start a human rights organization.
The boycott takes up most of her time, and she has no hobbies and no companion to speak of other than “Spongy,” her dwarf rabbit.
Happiness to Mayes is a fully charged cell phone. Whether at church, school, home or the April 7 March for Justice, the phone is attached to her ear.
She counts prayer and long conversations with her best friend in Seattle as salve during the hard times.
The oldest of three girls, she isn’t on good terms with her white father, and her black mother is deceased. Because of her fair complexion, people often question the validity of her blackness and whether she’s a racial poser.
“I’m not uncomfortable with my skin, but a lot of people are,” Mayes says.
A conversation with her adds to the questioning. Her accent is educated with a touch of Ebonics.
Persona aside, Mayes has nothing to prove.
“I’m not trying to overcompensate for my skin,” she says. “People feel like they know you when they see you and hear you.”
When asked about power, Mayes inserts herself into the answer.
“My power lies in my integrity and tenacity, and that’s what has everyone in the city hating me,” she says, noting what a difference identity makes. “If I were a white man, it wouldn’t be an issue.”
Cincinnati has five years to implement policies in the collaborative and racial profiling lawsuit agreement. During that time, Mayes sees an entirely different Cincinnati than the one currently before us.
She says she sees “the boycott ending, Nate Livingston taking over the political black caucus with me by his side, mobilizing the community.”
A girl can dream, can’t she?
This article appears in May 8-14, 2002.