Blackfishing: World’s Fakest Catch

By: Salena Braye-Bulls

In 2022, there are certain things you can always expect to see on social media. Meal kit services, LED lights, and trendy dances to the latest Billboard hits come to mind, but I also think of ‘black shing’. Black shing is a portmanteau of ‘black’ and ‘cat shing’, the latter of which is slang for someone posing online as someone that they’re not. As a term, ‘black shing’ was created by Toronto writer Wanna Thompson to describe the phenomena as non-Black people purposefully adopting certain traits historically linked to Blackness to appear Black or at least racially ambiguous. Ariana Grande, Iggy Azalea, and the entire KardashianJenner clan are known to ‘black sh’ to such intense degrees that their brands are synonymous with the phenomenon. Its reach isn’t limited to multi-millionaires; I’ve seen people that I know do their fair share of black shing on their platforms, and simply scrolling past their content doesn’t re ect the depth of the issue. As a trend, black shing is aggravating and unsettling–it encourages non-Black people to conveniently emulate features and aesthetics that Black people have been historically marked, categorized, and subjugated by. They want the

‘Black’ look without the labor, life experiences, and trials that come with Blackness.

While there is not a speci c or explicit way that any member of the African Diaspora must look, race–as a construct–is distilled into certain physical features and heritages. Black shing harps on society’s emphasis of these features. As explained by Wanna Thompson herself, “with extensive lip llers, dark tans, and attempts to manipulate their hair texture, white

Photo courtesy of Unsplash.com women wear Black women’s features like a costume.” On one hand, I’m desensitized to seeing a white woman wearing box braids and deep foundation because the phenomenon is so prevalent. On the other hand, it’s deeply painful to see women of other races placed on a pedestal for their “style.” At the same time, cosmetic companies still fail to provide options for darker-skinned women, and young Black girls face disciplinary actions for simply wearing protective hairstyles to school. Black shing deniers often argue that the practice is not a problem at all. They argue that Black women are insecure in their identities and other races can enjoy clothing, makeup, and hair trends. As a young Black woman and critical social media consumer, I am personally secure in my identity. Still, I take issue with non-Black folks commodifying aspects of Black existence at their convenience. Raven Smith of Vogue speaks to a similar idea. She details how black shing leads people to reduce Blackness into a single visual essence – often rooted in stereotypes – that perpetuates “esteemed minstrelsy” without any accountability for perpetrators. Ultimately, Black shing sets a dangerous precedent. As it continues and becomes more accepted, we become more desensitized to it. Recently, Nora Lum also known as Awkwa na, an Asian-American comedian and actress was publicly spotlighted because of her use of African American Vernacular English (AAVE). In her work, Lum has often used AAVE and a ‘blaccent,’ an accent or voice used by non-Black people to imitate Black Americans. In Lum’s case, her mimicry of Blackness is so deeply ingrained into her public persona that her mainstream success is directly tied to her anti-Black behavior. On a societal level, we need to have conversations about appropriation, awareness, and our actions’ impacts on communities at large. On a personal level, I want people to realize that Blackness isn’t a free trial. It isn’t a costume for me, my family, and my community. When I come home, my skin complexion, nose, and lips stay on, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.