Blaming Diddy’s legal troubles on race is absurd

After Sean “Diddy” Combs was arrested on federal charges that include sex trafficking, kidnapping and bribery, his legal team put out a statement.

It had all the things you’d expect attorneys to say to defend their client: He’s an “innocent man with nothing to hide,” and “he looks forward to clearing his name in court.” Then somewhere in there, Combs’ lawyers (I think we can safely assume with his urging) decided to add that he had “spent the last 30 years… working to uplift the Black community.”

Anyone who cares about the advancement of the Black community should be offended. The message implies that Black people have a duty to stand by Combs at the expense of his alleged victims. And if we don’t, then we’d be aiding in the takedown of one of a few Black men who broke down barriers and got a seat at powerful (white) tables in the business world.

His legal team seems to be exploiting the feelings of some of Combs’ fans, particularly during a heated election cycle where issues of racial inequality are at the forefront. His supporters have repeatedly flocked to social media to point out that while Combs sits in jail, Donald Trump, a white man who has been convicted of 34 felonies and has been found liable for sexual abuse, is running for president.

I understand the sentiment, but both men benefited from their wealth and power. And while we ca n’t deny that Trump’s whiteness and his status as an ex-president have afforded him more abilities to fail forward — and that he needs to be held accountable — it does n’t mean Combs should get a pass in the court of law or public opinion. Not to mention, Trump’s criminal convictions are for financial crimes. The criminal allegations against Combs aren’t exactly comparable.

And if we really want to add race into it, I’d argue that he may have taken more from the Black community than he’s given it. I found his brand of advocacy to be hollow and self-absorbed as far back as my college days in the early 2000s, and so have some of the people he’s worked with throughout his career. The most widely referenced examples stem from accusations that he made his fortunes by not fairly compensating his mostly-Black artists on his Bad Boy label.

To understand why Combs, his legal team and supporters feel it necessary to spotlight his place in Black history, it’s worth looking at why a code of silence has long been prevalent in the hip-hop industry.

Among other reasons, many believed staying quiet was a way to safeguard one of the few avenues for Black people to build wealth and equity. While Black artists are the face of the hip-hop culture, the business side of the industry — such as the labels, recording studios and marketing — has traditionally been controlled mainly by white men.

As someone like Combs rose the ranks to occupy those corporate spaces and brought other Black people along with him, the community didn’t want to jeopardize the accessibility and what it represented. Combs reaped the benefits of that power dynamic for years.

Consider that the indictment cites incidents “from at least in or about 2008, through on or about the date of the filing,” and they include Combs “distribut(ing) a variety of controlled substances to victims to keep (them) obedient and compliant ” and keeping videos “he filmed of victims engaging in sex acts with commercial sex workers.” It was so abusive that “victims typically received IV fluids to recover from the physical exertion and drug use.”

At the same time, he thrived and was celebrated. He launched a cable network in 2013 and bought a tequila brand in 2014. Vanity Fair ran a glowing profile on him in 2021. He received a lifetime achievement award from BET and reached billionaire status in 2022.

A year later, MTV presented him with his Global Icon Award and New York City Mayor Eric Adams gave him the key to the city. Now, his empire is crumbling, and his supporters want to make it a narrative about a Black man being taken down all because of his sex life.

Sure, the indictment highlighted parties that Combs referred to as “freak offs.” Social media commentary and news reports predictably emphasized the name and the “supplies” law enforcement seized from his residence — namely, the 1,000 bottles of baby oil and lubricant. However, the public should resist sensationalizing that aspect of the case. It only feeds into the spin Combs and his legal team are trying to put on the charges. This case is not about kink-shaming him; it’s about an alleged sexual predator being held accountable.

Many, including myself, have been writing about the need for the music industry to have a #MeToo movement for years.

Hopefully, the reckoning is finally here.

If you love and respect hip-hop, you should want anyone who harms the culture to be held accountable. Now is the time to worry not about saving Combs’ legacy but about how to undo the damage he’s done within the art form.

Michael Arceneaux writes about pop culture, politics, race, sexuality, religion, class and gender. He is the author of “I Don’t Want To Die Poor” and “I Can’t Date Jesus: Love, Sex, Family, Race, and Other Reasons I’ve Put My Faith in Beyoncé.” This column does not necessarily reflect the opinion of the editorial board or Bloomberg LP and its owners.