It all began about a month ago, uptown in Harlem. After having an intimate, family-style dinner with friends, a group of us stood on the host’s stoop, stuffed from a home-cooked meal, tipsy from just enough pinot. All evening, voices swelled and calmed as conversations about Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton, and reenactments of favorite scenes from Martin came and went. It was the perfect night.Then, while leisurely grabbing our belongings, slipping on shoes, and readying ourselves to head back to our respective boroughs, the mood shifted. Two guests — engaged in an offshoot discussion — brought up one name: Tyler Perry. You could cut the air with a knife.All it took was the mere mention of the Black, 47-year-old filmmaker, producer, and writer to turn a kumbaya night of adulting into a competitive, raucous display of us versus them — the woke versus the unwoke if you will. It was like an obnoxious comment section thread come to life: Those who liked his work went on the defense; those who didn’t were annoyed with those who did. Everyone talked over one another.I looked on, amused, calculating when to interject. Shit, I’ve really only ever seen one and a half of his films, I thought. Then it hit me. “Umm, who here has actually seen more than two of his films tho?” I shouted. Silence. “Is anyone planning to see his new movie next month?” I continued, referring to Boo! A Madea Halloween, in theaters this Friday. Laughter and side-eye ensued from both Perry naysayers and defenders. Vibe crisis averted; discord quelled.Still, I wondered, Why hadn’t I really given more of Tyler Perry’s films a chance? And why was I so ready to have an opinion on something I knew so little about? The man’s received Oprah’s blessing — he has four programs under the OWN umbrella. My mom likes his films. They can’t be that bad. Hell, a few friends I dined with that evening considered themselves passive (if not huge) supporters. These are my people, my hive. What am I missing?