The Love Story of Orange Is the New Black's Taystee and Poussey
EntertainmentWe want to believe our most intimate friendships are inevitable. A bond so essential couldn’t be tethered to circumstance, could it? In a different context, surely our best friends would share with us the same vital companionship; in a different kind of muck, among different haters, we’d stumble onto common ground.
On Orange is the New Black, the characters Tasha “Taystee” Jefferson (Danielle Brooks) and Poussey Washington (Samira Wiley) foster a devoted closeness on the hard-boiled ground of Litchfield Penitentiary. It’s the disheveled togetherness of prison life—a day-to-day strained by competing loyalties and quotidian cruelties—that exposes their affection, which is both profound and knotted by the two characters’ disparate histories. Litchfield storytelling often relies on contrast, the experiential gulf between life in prison and memories of life outside it. Taystee and Poussey’s friendship simultaneously illuminates and torches that aching gap.
As of the second season, OITNB hasn’t incorporated Poussey and Taystee’s first encounter into its narrative; perhaps it won’t. And while we might gradually piece together the reasons behind their respective incarcerations, the show sharply resists characterization through criminal sentence. So when we meet the women in the first season, they’re already habituated to Litchfield’s rhythms and to each other, a tag-teaming duo dispensing wisecracks (and, in Season One’s less inspired moments, peddling exposition).
Thankfully, the show’s second season tarries frequently in moments that explore Taystee and Poussey as both selves and friends. Taystee, equal parts brash and artless, has come of age in state institutions. She sings, she protests Toddlers and Tiaras on the sturdy grounds that it sexualizes little girls, and she ushers protagonist Piper Chapman out of the shower with a gleeful gawk at her perky “TV titties.” Her characterization winks at a fraught and drug-laced sexual history, but she retains a rough-edged innocence, albeit one belying protracted neglect. In Season Two she situates herself in a bathroom stall, Poussey and company in tow, after realizing her naive and erroneous conception of female genitalia and all the magic it wields.
Poussey’s background as a far-flung daughter of an Army major inheres in her French name (“accent à droite, bitch”) and, devastatingly, in the flashbacks chronicling her ill-fated, teenage romance with a German commander’s daughter. She’s revered among the inmates for her hooch recipe, an illicit treat only offered in bonhomie—never as barter. She chides Taystee and the rest of their circle when they dip beneath her ethics and respectability standard, sometimes stirring up privileged-based resentment in the process. And when Poussey loves someone—as she loves Taystee—she loves in a perilously wide open way that invites a punch to the gut.
Together and apart, Taystee and Poussey communicate through comic maximalism, and their intimacy thrives on mutually energizing performance. Adopting the alter egos Amanda (Taystee) and Mackenzie (Poussey), they glide into playful mimicries of upper class New York whiteness. The two delight in the game, but its thorny seeds are close to the surface. Amanda and Mackenzie make their first appearances as a rejoinder to fellow inmate Sophia’s plans for inmate-propelled prison reform. Dismissing their friend’s dreams of more robust health care access as “white people politics,” Taystee and Poussey ping-pong a conversation full of snobbish buffoonery—a mockery of the detached ignorance firmly embedding racism and classism within the criminal justice system.In this scene, they’re laughing; closeness blooms through farce. But the sustaining energy is their fury and pain. They share a common mode of defiance, a refusal to grant dignity to those either willfully or obliviously unconcerned with theirs. “Amanda” and “Mackenzie” spring from a mutual recognition of Litchfield’s rottenness; they’re an embodiment of the desperate laugh provoked by an inhospitable world. It’s a laugh emotionally adjacent to outrage—the same outrage that erupts when pink-lipped debutante Piper is granted furlough, a glimmering myth for women of color like Poussey, previously denied a visit to her dying mother. Through their alter egos, they can inhabit the folly of privilege while also locating each other on the same terrain: they’re black women imprisoned by a system too eager to criminalize them, and to thrust them out of sight.
In OITNB’s second season, the narrative boundary separating Taystee and Poussey’s Litchfield-born intimacy from their selves pre-incarceration becomes more obviously porous. In the scope of the show, Poussey has always been queer-identified. But a flip reference to her sexuality sometimes startles Taystee. When Poussey remarks, self-satisfied, that her knowledge of genitalia derives from being “up close and personal with [her] share of pussy,” Taystee’s countenance fleetingly betrays distress. And when, in the midst of that impromptu anatomy lesson, Poussey offers her friend purely instructive aid, Taystee—still in the bathroom stall, and still disconcerted—hastily refuses.Taystee doesn’t recoil due to homophobic impulse; on the contrary, this blip of agitation prompted by Poussey’s self-acknowledged queerness implies the wider sexual mystification that has sent Taystee to the toilet in the first place. Poussey’s sexuality only disturbs when it destabilizes the relationship’s emotional equilibrium. We see it in their embrace upon Taystee’s Season One reincarceration. Poussey’s fists press against Taystee’s back—a site of resistance compared to her face, which softens as she briefly nestles against Taystee’s cheek.