Friday Night Micro-Aggression Session.

I went to a symphony concert last night. It was last minute- my friend invited me just hours before. I went straight from work to meet up with my friend. No time to change, so I wasn’t wearing my finest threads, but didn’t look reprehensible. 
The concert was absolutely beautiful. The music was mostly by Brazilian composers and no joke one of the compositions sounded like something straight out of Wakanda. It was by Heitor Villa-Lobos, Chôros No. 10, “Rasaga o Coração.”

Afterward, we went to the reception since my other friend’s mom was in the orchestra. She was lovely. Anyway, the friend who invited me (also a poc) and I were standing and eating near the bar when a white man rolls up next to us while we’re mid-bite and starts talking.

     “My friends and I are wondering where all these people are coming from. Did you go to the show,” heavily implying we did not seem the type. We said yes and told him we really enjoyed it, explaining which piece was our favorite. His face contorted in confusion as if the song described hadn’t been apart of the repertoire. He then asked what we do. My friend told him his profession and I said I work at a startup. The man thought I said Starbucks and asked me about the sensitivity training employees had to go through after the Philly incident. I looked at him bewildered, and corrected him, “Start Up, not Starbucks,” I laughed, but internally was like-

Granted, ‘Startup’ and ‘Starbucks’ can sound quite similar when you’re chewing on a meatball. HOWEVER, a few things here:

1. We were visibly in the middle of eating and weren’t even talking to each other, so it was an awkward moment for a stranger to start a conversation.

2. Even if I did work at Starbucks, it’s another weird thing to bring up in a situation with people you JUST met- ungracefully and with questionable intention.

We then learned he was a minister and grew up in Japan with minister parents. He even has his own church in the east village - gawd bless. I know this isn’t fair, but all I could think about as he was telling us this was colonization, imperialism, and self-righteousness that comes with the idea that ‘others’ need to be taught Christianity to save their ‘savage’ souls but I digress. That topic warrants a whole other post.

At this point, he seemed to have gotten what he came for- making us uncomfortable and plugging his church. He walked away and I was very annoyed. Later on that night my friend and I revisited the conversation. I usually try to give white people the benefit of the doubt, but most times the conclusion remains the same: If I was white the conversation/situation would have gone differently.

This was certainly not as bad of an exchange as it could’ve been but micro-aggressions are still unacceptable. It was a violation of our space and comfort. There’s no escaping this behavior. People always say New York City is so progressive but there isn’t one inch of this country that is completely impervious to racism/prejudice.

At least the symphony and chorus was dope. Even he couldn’t ruin that.

https://www.grsymphony.org

Africa, right?

The airport is always a lot. People are rushing or not rushing. Standing still or weaving through crowds. It’s a place where people go to escape or to return. To go off adventure or come back and ruminate.

Many different people are rotating in and out of those doors, so it was strange to have this experience with one of the attendants while I was having a hard time using the self check-in machine.

That machine is a whole different story. It was aggressively unintuitive and the instructions were sparse. I’m not sure how anyone was able to check-in without assistance, but I digress.

Anyway, back to the person who helped me and subsequently surprised me.

My machine was flashing a message that let me know I needed assistance. The first thing he asked me for when he came over was a Visa. So, I rummaged through my wallet to show him the card I used to buy the ticket. He looked at it perplexedly, and then said, no I mean your passport. I chuckled at myself in the moment but that was really strike one. Oh, I said, I thought you meant my credit card. No, he said, slightly amused. He left and I continued the check in process poking at the screen, entering all of my info until I came again to another roadblock. I looked around and he was close by, helping other people with this horrendous check-in machine. We made eye contact. How can I help miss, he asked, focused and ready to assist.
“It’s asking for my email and address but I can’t keep going.”
“Did you put in the country?”
“Yes.”
“Two letters?”
“Yes.”
He finished up with the person he was working with and they went off triumphantly as he walked over and took a look at my screen.
“Country?” He asked again. He pressed some areas of the screen, “Africa, right,” he asked distracted. I didn’t say anything as he continued assessing.
“Ah, forget it. You can hit cancel.”
I nod.
He hits cancel, “I don’t know why it wasn’t working. That’s a new screen.”
“Oh. Well thanks,” I grab my baggage tag and attach it to my bag and he’s already walked off attending to other struggling people.

I’m not sure if it was because he was distracted or stressed out but the situation was uncomfortable now that I think back to it. I mean I appreciate his help because otherwise I probably would have been there for another 30 minutes trying to figure out how to get that thing to work. I’m going to chalk up what he said to an honest misunderstanding but in this world of high tension, it’s hard not to ignore instances like this. Anyway, I’m in France. We’ll see what kind of interesting stories I’ll have to tell from here.

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 Not Here For You

The fact that I feel like I have to continuously defend my blackness is astounding and shocking on so many levels. Like, where is this coming from?! But also, who are these people?! In this day and age of #blackgirlmagic and a refreshing resurgence of unapologetic, indelible pride in being brown, I am TIRED of hearing people tell me I’m “different” or explain things to me about the black experience as if I’m some ignorant bystander. Regardless of how you think I interpret race, I am still a black woman existing in a society that is constantly telling me I’ll never be good enough, scoffing at any semblance of confidence, and making snap judgments about my character. 

This assertion that I don’t understand what’s happening in my own community seems like another type of prejudice masked in this realm of pseudo-political correctness and saccharine empathy. This strange haughtiness of liberals who believe they “get it” and truly understand all of the issues plaguing the black community more than the black people experiencing it is just plain ridiculous. 

It’s infuriating and it’s exhausting, but like, in the end - I’m not here for you. I don’t owe anyone an explanation. I don’t need to defend my blackness, because, regardless of whether or not whoever thinks I’m “black enough,” I will and forever be black. I’m not in a “unique” situation. I’m not “above” criticism or the white gaze. I haven’t ascended to the plane of that fallacy “beyond race.” I’m still pissed as hell about that stupid Buzzfeed video. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe this notion is so upsetting, because I can still remember being called “oreo” in high school and screaming on the inside because it incensed me that people’s perception of blackness was so limited. It hurt me that people felt that who I was didn’t have a place in the narrative of black culture, like I was some pariah. It angers me because I thought the older we got the wiser we got and that meant that I no longer had to explain that blackness comes in all different shades and that inferring otherwise is no better than haplessly stereotyping. But again, I’m not here for them. I’m not here for this oversimplified bs and I’m not here for that self-righteousness. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Loss of Words? Azealia Banks Will Find Them

I have been struggling to find the words to describe the influx of conversations about race in America because for so long it has been a dream of mine to finally get this in-depth, candid exchange of ideas. It’s been a dream to actually have this conversation on a larger, more open platform (social media or just media in general) in order to reach millions of racist, oblivious, ignorant, clueless, foolish, etc. people who have been bottling up their insensitivities beneath feigned indifference or nicely packaging them behind fake smiles. Now, passionate, intelligent voices can reach people who are embarrassingly unapologetic about their bigotry -hateful and inept- and really begin this process of unpacking the hundreds of years of injustice and inequality that is plaguing this country. We can begin to unpack the racism that is still so alive and well in this great nation.

The flood gates seems to have finally burst open and years upon years, decades, centuries of pain and ruthlessness are surfacing on a national scale and the outcry for justice and plainly respect for black people in society is finally being heard. 

At first, I’m not going to lie, I was annoyed. I was annoyed because all of the events leading up to these mass protests have been happening for centuries. I was annoyed because black people have been living with this sense of insecurity for so long it’s became normalcy, born from the hopelessness that consumes any glimmer of positive change due to systemic and institutional racism. There was never an acceptance of this horrible reality, but our voices were just not loud enough for the media to take any notice. 

I understand that these atrocious events happening back to back with this ferocious public investment is the catalyst for this open conversation about race, but it makes me sad that police brutality and violence has been happening for so long without reprieve. I understand that it’s the new wave of technology and our “global oneness through Twitter” that have brought about many uprisings not just here but across the globe. I understand that now there is literally nowhere to hide or deny this unthinkable violence because cameras come with cell phones and people record everything nowadays. 

However, it’s the interview with Azaelia Banks that has essentially made me want to write today. I was so floored by her honesty and moved by her persistence. She was not going to stop talking about society’s cruel mistreatment of black people just because it makes listeners uncomfortable. Numerous times during the interview when whatever-his-name-is told her to put all that raw energy into her music, she said, no, I don’t want to put it in my music. She explained that it’s rare for a black woman to be able to speak the way she does so it can be heard by millions. She told him, it’s her prerogative to say whatever the hell she wants because she’s not afraid of the repercussions. She knows her talent and her fan base. I think she also knows that people, regardless of this strange, twisted way the media portrays people in this country as a blob of mindless apathetic morons, people really do respond to honesty, and as numerous protests have proven, people are neither mindless or apathetic. Well, not all people…

Azealia Banks, if you ever read this I want to thank you for saying all of the things that have been resonating within the black community for centuries. I want to thank you for not accepting the picture being painted of you through twisted media outlets, but embracing your right to speak freely as a citizen of this world and as a black woman. I want to thank you for giving me hope that money doesn’t change who you are or where you come from, but does give you the ability to say whatever the f*ck you want on a platform that would usually be denied topics so deep and so honest.

This post is kind of all over the place, but it is reflective of the bitterness and joy I feel about finally entering a moment in time where I’m not scared about sharing my opinions or apologetic or nervous I’ll hurt people’s feelings or make people uncomfortable. I’m merely exercising my right to free speech, something so wonderfully apparent in that interview.

If you haven’t seen/heard the interview yet, I HIGHLY recommend it: