What parts of yourself are you willing to give up to belong?
It started with TikTok, of course it did. My algorithm is so 'on point' and I love it. A video popped up with a scene from A Jazzman's Blues, and I was locked in.
Bayou, the young protagonist, realises that Leanne, the love of his life, has chosen to marry into a white family, passing as a white woman. It's the kind of moment that I knew I had to find out more and see if I could watch the full movie, because I have a blog to write and I needed content. I hit play on Netflix almost immediately.
The film, directed by Tyler Perry, is set in the Jim Crow South and tells the story of Bayou and Leanne's forbidden love. They meet as teenagers, full of hope, but are torn apart by racism, family pressures, and the harsh realities of the world around them.
Years later, their paths cross again, only for Bayou to discover that Leanne has erased her Blackness in order to survive. Choosing a life as a white woman that protects her from the violence of racism, but at the cost of her authenticity. That is the best overview I can do without too many spoilers.
Leanne's choice to pass—to abandon her identity, her family, and her love haunts the entire film. And while the betrayal of Bayou is devastating, watching the betrayal of herself that hit me hardest.
Watching her navigate a life of constant fear and denial like worrying that her son might "look too dark" or that someone might expose her truth was hard.
What hit me most is how relatable this betrayal feels—not so much about passing, but the bigger question:
What parts of yourself are you willing to give up to belong?
This question feels uncomfortably close for me. I've been thinking a lot about the ways we're asked—subtly or overtly—to contort ourselves to fit into spaces that were never designed for us. As a Black woman in corporate spaces, the pressure to assimilate, to code-switch, to be "palatable," is constant. And I feel it. I feel that tug to soften my edges, to adapt, tomake myself, let's face it, smaller.
But I also feel the resistance. The rebel in me. The part of me that refuses to believe that fitting in means betraying myself. And maybe that's why Leanne's story cut so deep. It was a reminder of what's at stake when we make those compromises and a reminder of why I don't want to.
This theme of passing isn't new. Nella Larsen's Passing (1929) and Brit Bennett's The Vanishing Half (2020) both explore the idea of ‘Black women navigating identity and survival in a world designed to erase them’.
Like Leanne, their characters grapple with the cost of trading authenticity for access—a cost that never stops haunting them.
I’ve read The Vanishing Half, and if you haven’t yet, you should—it’s one of those books that stays with you, just like this film did.
But there’s more to this story. Watching A Jazzman’s Blues, I found myself wondering:
Who is this story really for?
For people like me, none of this feels new. Betrayal, passing, systemic racism—these are themes I know all too well. I know what it’s like to navigate systems that strip away pride and humanity, to carry the weight of a world that makes you choose between being true to yourself and being accepted.
But for others—particularly white audiences—this might be a revelation. And that's where the risk lies. I have been thinking that there's a danger that people will watch this film and think, "How terrible things were back then," without connecting it to the systems we live in now.
Because let's be honest: Racism hasn't disappeared. It's just evolved. The systems that forced Leanne's choices still exist—they're just harder to see. They're in hiring practices that penalise Black professionals for "not fitting the culture." They're in algorithms that reinforce racial bias and so much more. They're in the ways society continues to devalue Black lives, forcing subtle acts of survival that are similar to Leanne's choices.
What's great about my commitment to writing this blog is that it pushes me to go deeper when I watch movies like this, which speaks to the power of art like A Jazzman's Blues."
The film doesn't give you easy answers or neat resolutions. It asks you to sit with the discomfort, to wrestle with the questions it raises, and to look for those same patterns in the world around you.
The final scenes of the film stayed with me.
Seeing Leanne, older and carrying the weight of her choices, made me think about how betrayal, whether of your own identity or others, lingers. It doesn't resolve. And maybe that's the point: to make us sit with that discomfort and ask how these patterns of betrayal continue in our own lives and systems today.
For me, it sparked a deeper reflection on the ways we're all asked to betray parts of ourselves to belong—and what it means to resist. To stay true. To say,
"I won't contort myself for your comfort."
So,
What Now?
Watching A Jazzman's Blues left me with more questions than answers. What does it mean to live authentically in a world that demands you betray parts of yourself?
Maybe the first step is simply to talk about it. To sit with the discomfort, connect the dots between the past, present, and future, and resist the urge to dismiss stories like this as relics of another era.
And maybe it also starts with small acts of rebellion. Choosing to be yourself, even in spaces that weren't built for you. Choosing not to betray yourself, even when it feels easier.
If you haven't seen the film yet, I'd recommend it. Just be ready for heartbreak, and maybe a little reflection, too.
