I can’t see, your hair’s in the way

Soooo I have finally done it. I have finally started wearing my hair “out.” This means all of my hair in it’s curly glory is unleashed unto the wold, vulnerable to judgement and rejection, approval and pride, confusion and dismissal. 

For a while I didn’t wear my hair in a ‘fro because it just didn’t ‘feel right’ but then I started to think about where those feelings were coming from and dissecting them to see if it was some crazy self-loathing or embarrassment that stems from American society’s idea of beauty. In the end, I do think it was a bit of that, because let’s be real, it’s hard to be impervious to the onslaught of beauty standards that berate us everyday. But, it was also my preference to wear my hair in twists because it’s a style that doesn’t dry out my hair within minutes and I can wear that hairstyle for a few days (ahem, weeks) without having to mess with it. I’m very low-maintenance, so the thought of doing cute styles everyday would put me in shock. I’m slowly overcoming my aversion to spending more time on my hair. Ha.

So, whatever, I did it. And I love it. However, I do want to share an instance where my full head of kinky hair wasn’t so appreciated and I was so surprised and taken aback at WHERE I felt this incredible discomfort and more so sad as to the probable reasons why:

My little sister’s dance recital for an all-black dance company.

There were quite a few things going on before I even stepped foot into the theater that made me a little uneasy, including the fact that my little sister was required to wear a weave (which she looked adorable in- but still), as were all of the ladies in the dance company. I understand the creative desire for uniformity when putting on a show, but because our culture has been so ravaged by history it seems like maybe putting young black girls in straight weaves isn’t the best way to encourage confidence, but I digress. What went on in that show is a whole other blog post. 

Anyway, so I’m sitting down watching these super talented kids bop around stage when I feel a distinctive tap on my shoulder. I turn around and this girl tells me in the most condescending, self-important tone that my hair is in the way and that she can’t see and asked me if I could ‘move the the left’ so she could see.

Honestly, I don’t mind someone asking me to scoot over if my hair’s in the way, but sweet jesus they better do it in a way that is respectful. This kid made it seem as though I was wearing a giant sun hat that haloed 8 feet around my head. The way she said ‘your hair is in the way,’ my hair may as well have been live cockroaches crawling all over her. Needless to say I wanted to level her out right then and there. Of course, I refrained because the thought of actually getting into a physical fight with anyone makes me squeamish, but it also made me sad because I could almost hear the disgust in her voice and immediately understood that kind of hateful sentiment that permeates black culture when it comes to hair. Also, she was like 14- I think. Sigh.

I’ve been wearing my hair natural my entire life and have been subjected to all sorts of criticism, but in this new age of #blackgirlmagic and the warm embrace of and enthusiasm behind black hair care, I thought I would have a safe space at this event that was suppose to be celebrating blackness. Though, that may have been the case, not everyone is onboard with the ‘fro, and that’s okay- I guess. The only thing is to make sure the reason behind not wanting or liking afros is coming from a healthy place. Because, just look at it:

As I mentioned earlier, I think there was a part of me that was so hesitant to rock a ‘fro because of the prejudice associated with it, and I didn’t want to be ‘categorized.’ I know. I know. It took a long time for me to recognize and accept those feelings. It’s so frustrating because it was like I knew better, but couldn’t shake these strange sensitivities. I’ve come to terms with the fact that the healing within the community is going to take a lot longer than a few years of insightful speeches, ‘woke’ celebrities, and social movements. The kind of damage that’s been done is so much deeper than hair and so much more than just putting more black people in TV shows and films. My ancestors were completely stripped of their humanity and told they didn’t deserve, well, anything. Nothing. They didn’t even deserve to be themselves. So, of course that kind of psychological trauma that has manifested and evolved in countless ways not only within the black community but in society as a whole is going to take some time to mend. We’re on the right track though, finally, but whew. It’s gonna be a while. In the meantime, I’ll be over here rockin my ‘fro.

I'm Thankful For Being Black

***Annoyingly I did not charge my laptop but luckily these little mobile innovations were created to not only keep me entertained while I wait to board, but give me the ability to update today!

It’s been a pretty heavy year what with the influx of news sources covering police brutality that has been plaguing the black community for years, the rise and growth of the Black Lives Matter movement, this new, open conversation about race that’s been popping up all over the Internet, and the general sense of frustration many have with the way the world is solving problems and how the media is portraying conflict(s). In this mess of frustration and realization I wanted to write about one thing I’m very thankful for and don’t get to say often and certainly don’t hear often enough and that is: I’m thankful I was born in this brown body and I’m happy to tell you why.

I didn’t always think about how great being black was. Due to the one-dimensional, prejudice portrayal of black people, black women in particular I used to be afraid of the way white people would perceive me without even opening my mouth. It used to give me anxiety to enter into a world full of preconceived notions and know I had no way of being seen as an individual or be given the benefit of the doubt. It made me scared to know my word against a white person’s was null and void in some situations. It made me angry that when white people mimic black culture they were seen as edgy while my own people were seen as “hood” or “ghetto.” Then I realized something. It’s something Eleanor Roosevelt said I think. Something along the lines of, the only way other people can put you down is if you let them.

There was a turning point for me in college when I gave up on allowing others to dictate who I was and let people tell me “how to be black.” Instead I embraced myself as I was, a black woman tied to history of violence and unfairness. A black woman whose ancestors fought struggled and persevered in a nation built against them. I found myself feeling proud and less angry with the way society viewed me but began pitying those that were racist or prejudice. It’s truly a mental illness to hate another human being because of the color of their skin. I used to feel like I wasn’t black enough because I was trying to define myself through society’s eyes instead of reality. My people are not afforded the luxury of individualism upon first glance, but that does not mean it doesn’t exist within our beautiful culture that has endured for years.

I’m thankful for being black because of dual consciousness and to represent a history this country is continuously trying to forget. I’m thankful to come from a people who have overcome obstacles beyond comprehension and thrived in perpetual adversity.

I’m thankful for a family that encouraged me to be who I am and accepted me without question. I’m thankful for people in my life that continue to amaze and surprise me with their open minds and hearts. I’m thankful for finding love that makes me smile from ear to ear like an idiot. I’m thankful for the way activists are clinging to causes and fighting for change that needed to happen hundreds of years ago. I’m thankful for the people who have woken up and realized slavery is still alive today in the form of institutional racism and not so subtle rhetoric in the media, but I’m also sorry.

I’m sorry for all of those men and women who were murdered by the very people who were supposed to protect and serve. I’m sorry their families won’t be able to enjoy anymore holidays with their smiling faces. I’m sorry this world has such a long way to go in terms of unity and equality. I’m sorry that this holiday of thanks is steeped in blood and subsequently so is this country’s sordid past. I’m sorry for all of the people who lost their lives due to radical fundamentalist views (IN EVERY RELIGION).

One last thing. I know race is “just a construct,” but until society recognizes this truth, it’s simply not.

Also, sorry for any typos. Not writing on a laptop is rough.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Charleston

A lot of emotions have been bubbling under the surface of this country since the coverage of perpetual, almost unfathomable police brutality has permeated the mainstream with fervor. There is now a watchful eye not only on police, but the media as it persistently changes the narrative of certain crimes based on who is perpetuating them. 

After this massacre that occurred very recently at a place of worship in South Carolina, those feelings percolating beneath the surface seem to have boiled over and are pouring out as a steady flow of hopelessness and defeat along with a desperate plea for justice for all of these heinous crimes that continue to go unpunished. An ardent call for a cease and desist to this horrendous violence precipitated by racism that plagues the black community. The notion of even gradual change is quickly dying because the media has proven once again that ignoring blatant racist acts and condemning those who dare to shed light on real problems is more important than admitting there is a very real issue at hand that is directly affecting the safety of black lives. Pandering to the masses of people who want to stay in the dark is not helping anyone.

White privilege is real. This is a point that is vital to understand if we ever want to heal as a nation. It has manifested itself in numerous ways, including the twisted way the press covers stories of violence when the victims are people of color. What happened in Charleston, South Carolina on June 17th was a vile act of terrorism. I’m not sure how else it can be spun from any point of view unless the intention is to lie and disregard this man’s obvious, hateful purpose to “shoot black people” (in his own words). There have been many jarring, and eye-opening (for those of you who still refuse to believe the heavy reality that black people are plainly treated differently by police) images portraying the arrest of Dylann Roof in comparison to that teenager at a pool party in Texas where an officer is pictured kneeling on a small 14-year old girl. Then there’s the way police force was used on Mr. Garner, an unarmed man accused of selling cigarettes without a permit that lead to his death.

It’s appalling and yes, it is about race. It has always been about race and will continue to be about race unless we take the time to take steps toward peace as a nation, including having conversations without getting defensive or offended. 

I saw the pictures of the 9 people who were murdered and the thought of them being in that church with no other motive but to praise and espouse love while a hate-mongering, calculated killer was in their midst is incredibly sickening. 

He sat there for an hour, being treated with kindness so he would feel accepted. He sat there knowing what he was going to do. He sat there in a place of what is supposed to be security and comfort and plotted something so wretched and incredibly savage. He is a true coward to open fire on innocent people in a safe place. He is the product of racism and what ultimately happens when racism goes unchecked - not only in people, but in a society, in institutions, in laws and policies - the inevitable death of black people. 

The families that have suffered this egregious loss are more victims of a society built on hatred. Sure, there are tiny glimmers of progress, but obviously more needs to be done. My heart and thoughts go out to the families that have senselessly lost loved ones and what little hope I can muster at the moment goes out to all of the people who are continuing to fight for equality. 

Love each other. That’s all we have.

Stop Shooting My Little Brother

This country has gone through a lot in regards to race relations in the past oh fifty years. It’s always jarring realizing the Civil Rights Movement was not that long ago and that progress albeit progress has not been anywhere near what MLK envisioned. Sure, little black boys can hold hands with little white girls, if the black boy is seemingly nonthreatening and wearing a suit.

All of our notions about race are just so systematically ingrained in legislation, in media, in bigoted ideas passed down from ignorant generation to the next it’s hard to see a future where none of that exists. 

The mistreatment of people of color is forever torched into American history with a flame that has extinguished hope, burned an unrelenting inferiority complex into millions and laid waste to humanity in a way that is almost irreparable. 

American Slavery is a big deal. It was more than humans being stripped of basic rights, it was more than families living in constant fear of being ripped apart, it was more than slaves being whipped and beaten by slave masters on a whim, it was more than the human spirit being tortured to the point of suicide, it was more than every violent action done to a person you can think of, it was more than dismantling the laws of human nature. Slavery ruined- no, poisoned the hearts and minds of this county and its ramifications continued to haunt our present in ways nobody wants to admit.

During the Civil Rights movement there seemed to be a special place of hatred and violence singularly preserved for black men. They were the main enemy in the minds of millions of Americans because of the mere color of their skin.Their presence was a threat and their lives an afterthought. 

Skin color was (in some minds still is whether it’s admitted or not) equated to intellect, reasoning, responsibility, the capacity for love and understanding. In slavery black people were not allowed to be perceived as human, holding all of these qualities, along with an astounding magnitude of hope, because then the reality that humans were being treated as cattle would settle in and demolish the whole notion of free, renewable resources (HUMANS). 

Again, I talk about slavery because for me that, later to be repackaged as institutional racism, can be the only source of all the unapologetic violence constantly berating the black community for so many years. We have come from an incomprehensible amount of pain and broken spirits to get to where we are today. I am apart of a community that is bigger than me, that holds a diverse array of minds. I am apart of a community that has been and continues to be subjected to atrocious mistreatment and injustice over and over again.

It scares me that black boys are continuously getting shot or beaten with no hope for justice. It scares me that the system that is suppose to protect the lives of all Americans has been so lax with defending the rights of some. It’s even more frustrating that the justice system ignores the harrowing implications of these injustices.

More importantly, it scares me that I have a little brother in Florida who just wants to hang out and be a teenager, but can’t be because being a black teenage boy in Florida can get you killed.

My little brother is tall for his age. He’s lanky and goofy and is one of the funniest people I know. I love talking to him because he has this airy demeanor of wisdom sometimes or this refreshing, wide-eyed infectious curiosity. He asks me questions about life and listens to my clumsy answers with a furrowed brow and at those moments I feel humbled that he actually sits there and listens. We talk about his dreams of becoming the next Dwayne Wade, but I always tell him he could be the next Neil Degrasse Tyson. I love my little brother. I love him so much it makes me want to cry when I hear about these shootings. And I do. I have. I’m crying as I write this. I honestly don’t know what I would do or how I would react if anything happened to him. It makes me crazy even thinking about it.

It makes me physically ill knowing families have lost pieces of themselves because of unfathomable hatred. It makes me angry that there is nothing I can do to quell the rage or sadness the families must feel.

This has got to stop.

Plain and simple.

There is no excuse for this blatant disregard for human life. I don’t feel safe in this country knowing guns are in the hands of maniacs and guilty people get away with murder. 

This is definitely a gun issue, but even more seriously it’s a human rights issue.

It’s time to start protesting. It’s time to start taking action. We cannot keep living like this.