Imagine the most intense altercation you’ve ever had with a close family member. Think about the most Soul Food-style family fight—the kind that left Terri (played by Vanessa Williams in the film) slamming silverware and throwing dishes. Now, imagine that same deeply emotional moment captured by a cameraperson, zoomed in to get the perfect angle for millions of viewers to consume on national television.
While that scenario may sound extreme, it’s exactly what played out on the hit reality series Basketball Wives, where Season 12 documented a disturbing fallout between longtime cast member Jackie Christie and her daughter, Chantel Christie. As the season progressed, viewers watched a slow build-up of tension that ultimately exploded into a viral mother-daughter altercation.
How did we get here?
In many Black communities, there’s a longstanding mantra: “Don’t air out dirty laundry.” It’s a form of protectionism that has caused many families to avoid help-seeking behaviors. But now, the pendulum has swung in the opposite direction. Our private pain is no longer hidden—it’s not just aired, it’s edited, monetized, and sold. Physical harm, psychological wounds, and generational trauma are broadcast to millions, repackaged into bite-sized clips for social media, and circulated endlessly. Every replay deepens the damage.
Reality television has long turned everyday people into stars—housewives, basketball wives, even “mob” wives. But when Black people enter these spaces, we bring our full selves—our culture, our charisma, and our complexity. We make the genre richer, more dynamic, more real. And mainstream media takes notice. The issue isn’t our presence, though. It’s what’s being done with it.
Society’s obsession with Blackness tends to follow a troubling pattern: it starts with admiration, slips into obsession, and ends in exploitation. Our style, our slang, our relationships, and even our trauma become content. Reality TV has simply become the latest vehicle in that exploitative cycle. The cameras keep rolling, but once the drama dies down, it’s our communities that are left to sort through the emotional wreckage alone.
VH1 heavily promoted Season 12 with Jackie and her daughter, Chantel, joining the cast, as well as scenes of a confrontation between them, which immediately signaled to fans that something deeper and messier was coming. Throughout the season, Chantel opens up about feeling invalidated as a child. Longtime viewers may remember previous scenes where she claimed Jackie pitted her and her sister against each other while using alleged comparisons rooted in colorism and sizeism.
By episode 11, a sit-down meant to promote healing between mother and daughter quickly unraveled. Jackie walked away from the conversation, giving the impression that she preferred to avoid conflict, at least when the cameras were rolling. Later, in Jackie’s hotel room, a final attempt to resolve things escalated. Chantel, visibly upset, stated, “I have zero respect for you.” Jackie, in turn, waved her off with a sarcastic, “bye-bye” and “good night!”
Chantel re-entered the room to continue the confrontation, and when Jackie attempted to escort her out, her daughter pushed her. Jackie swung in response, aiming for her daughter’s face. The camera jolted and cut as security scrambled to separate them. Chantel stormed back to her castmates, proclaiming, “She swung on me!”
It was a disturbing moment, evident by the debate it created online. And it was disappointing not just because of what happened, but for what it symbolized. A personal family fracture was reduced to shocking TV. Basketball Wives is not alone in that.
The Real Housewives franchise—often branded as the more “high society” depiction of Black women—has its own issues. Though not actual blood, we watch cast members pick apart the longtime relationship of Porsha Williams and Shamea Morton, tainted by poor communication and a lack of understanding. It was clearly painful for both ladies. And over on Potomac, Mia Thornton used her divorce and questions surrounding her child’s paternity as a storyline, attempting to villify her estranged husband in favor of her then-boyfriend (whom she had previously cheated with and, during the season, had moved in with her children). After the backlash from cast members and social media, Thornton decided to leave the reunion early, and ultimately, the show too.
Time and time again, reality TV recycles the same tropes: Black women as angry, combative, dramatic, and incapable of maintaining healthy relationships or families. It’s a dangerous narrative, and it’s deeply misleading. Healing and growth cannot happen in spaces where viewership is prioritized over vulnerability.
What many viewers don’t consider are the driving forces behind the spectacle. Though the cast may be Black, the power rarely is. Executive decisions about what stories to tell and how to frame them are often made by non-Black network owners and producers. This means that Black pain is filtered through a lens of profit, not care. It becomes content, the shocking, viral, profitable kind, but detached from the real consequences it has on the lives involved.
Ultimately, this conversation isn’t just about Jackie and Chantel Christie. It’s about the larger media landscape that continues to profit off the pain of Black women and families. As a people, we need to consider our actions and their costs. When we tune in for the drama but stay silent about the damage, we become complicit in the harm and trauma of our community. It’s time to ask: what are we really watching—and at what cost?