Kendrick Lamar’s Super Bowl performance was a celebration of Black American identity — and predictably, it was criticized for its lack of diversity. With few exceptions, Black halftime performers typically sprinkle their R&B or rap aesthetics with whiteness to dilute the intensity and satiate the masses. Kendrick self-censored all the profanity and sensitive language — an acknowledgment of this desire for maximum consumption. What he did not censor, however, was his intent to reach Black America.
Having Serena crip walk during the chorus of “Not Like Us” was a stroke of cultural and artistic genius. Serena’s cameo was brief, deliberate, culturally significant, and aligned perfectly with the meaning behind Kendrick’s performance. I know there are rumors of a past romance with Drake and he has mentioned Serena by name in song, but I am not interested in those specifics. Her personal reasons for being there are irrelevant. Yet, there is much meaning in her six seconds of screentime. Her appearance served as a bookend for one of the most culturally significant moments from any Black American athlete ever.
I was a teenager in love with tennis before Venus and Serena, so I was able to fully absorb the impact their presence made from the moment the tennis world started to hear about them. Upon their arrival on the professional scene in 1994 and 1995 respectively, I joined the common consensus in finding fault in their father’s arrogance. It seemed insane that this man was accurately predicting that his daughters would be number one and number two in the world. He could not guarantee one would make it to the top, let alone both of them. But I also found something familiar about Mr. Williams that gave him credibility.
Mr. Williams reminded me of the Black man who, one unassuming day at Montford Park in Asheville, NC, taught me how to play tennis. I’d come to meet a classmate from school who was there with her little brother, which was a treat as I was typically not allowed to play outside of our apartment complex. I spent the better part of an entire day there, running home once to ensure my mom that I was still where I said I would be. I made a quick sandwich that I ate as I rushed back to the park, worried that I might fall behind in my quest to be the star pupil that day. The man was loud, intense, had unreasonably high expectations, and didn’t respond kindly to any perceived lack of focus. I don’t recall his name and I never saw him again after that day. But anytime I’m lucky enough to spend time on a tennis court, it’s his voice I hear in my head:
Get that racket back! Swing!
In one day he made an impression that would last a lifetime. Something in Mr. Williams reminded me of this man, making it impossible for me to dismiss him outright, despite the seemingly overzealous and ridiculous claims. Instead, I buckled in and watched closely as his daughters backed up every prediction he had made, and surpassed anyone’s expectations of what was possible in women’s tennis. I also saw how the tennis world treated them and how that treatment differed from that of their mostly white competitors.
I’m not a sports historian. I haven’t done any academic research on The Williams Sisters. I’ve seen a couple of the documentaries, but not the major Hollywood film made about them. I was disappointed in the casting even before the lead actor publicly assaulted one of the most successful Black comedians of all time. The late, great Ron Cephas Jones was my only choice to play Daddy Williams, and I lead a personal boycott of the film to this day as punishment for the grave casting error. Other than my opinion of who should have played their father, I’m no expert on The Williams Sisters. What I have is a special affinity for them and the way they have conducted themselves over the years.
In 2012, Serena only lost one game in the gold medal match against Maria Sharapova. It was a commanding performance that highlights the lopsided nature of their “rivalry” and helped cement Serena as one of the all-time greats. She became the only woman other than Steffi Graf to win all the major titles and gold medal in the same year: the golden slam. Serena, however, did it in both singles and doubles that year. For the second time, the Olympic gold medal was going home to the infamous streets of Compton, CA. The little Black girls from the ghetto traded their beads for gold medals.
Serena’s post-match celebration contained her typical childlike exuberance mixed with a ladylike charm. She jumped up and down, pausing long enough to zip up her jacket. As her doubles partner Venus cheered and took photos on her cellphone, she created an iconic moment by crip walking, sparking a joyous uproar in the stadium. The British commentator announced she was showing “some fancy moves,” his voice conveying his lack of familiarity with the urban dance.
The gold medal in singles was the only tennis championship that Serena did not have. Moments after this crowning achievement, she asserted her American Blackness with the crip walk. Black professionals often feel obligated to keep the connections to our culture muted at work, being required to code switch in order to be deemed professional. What she did was share a moment of appreciation for the culture that raised her. Her Black ass mama and her Black ass daddy produced two Black ass children that happened to become the best players in the history of the game. As expected, there was a firestorm of criticism, including accusations that she was promoting violence.
It can be seductive to want to remove the race of an athlete when they win a gold medal for the country. But the specific truth is, it wasn’t an American woman that won the gold that year; it was a Black American woman that won the gold. Serena made it clear in that moment that through the celebration of her achievement, she did not want her Blackness to be forgotten. The Williams Sisters didn’t just win trophies — they changed the game, forcing the world to acknowledge Black America and the love/hate relationship it has with us.
Sometime before Serena’s retirement, I visited a friend who was guest bartending someplace in the west village in NYC. She knew the shift would be slow and we’d be able to watch tennis, gab, and drink for free. At some point a regular arrived, and though he sat at the opposite end of the bar from me, he didn’t seem to have reservations about sending his attention to the center of the conversation I was having with my friend. He was paying, so I backed up to give my friend space to fulfill her duty to engage. I backed up, that is, until he criticized Serena. He had heard me make a remark in admiration of her, and took his opportunity to let it be known he thought she was arrogant and rude. He pointed to Venus as an example of how he believed Serena should carry herself. Before my friend could respond, I addressed him point by point; unceremoniously labeling his desire to police Serena’s behavior as racist. He vehemently denied it, of course, but his argument did nothing to augment the evidence he’d just conveniently offered. He protested until his emotions overcame him and he began to cry. Indifferent to white tears, I ignored them. If he was going to boldly proclaim his dislike for Serena to two Black professionals, he should be prepared to learn how his intellectually dishonest reasoning was steeped in racism.
One reason for the joyful response to “Not Like Us” is its unapologetic American Blackness. There’s a false perception that the Black American experience is evenly distributed to anyone with Black skin. I’ve personally experienced someone from another country vehemently distinguishing their Blackness from mine. While there’s nothing inherently devious about the distinction, my underlying takeaway was often that they think themselves to be better than us. Despite the undeniable influence Black America has had on the world, many Black Americans feel universally unvalued, especially by non-American Blacks. They’re not just unlike us, most of the time they just don’t like us.
Kendrick didn’t perform “Not Like Us” in its entirety, so we didn’t get to hear his lyric warning Drake not to speak on Serena. Yet, the message of her presence during the halftime performance is clear. Serena is our Black Queen, and just like Kendrick, Black America is ready to defend her honor. You don’t have to like her — but respect, like her Blackness, is not optional.
