Hair Woes of the Black Kind

"Nappy hair is unprofessional" said the sista on Tyra Banks What is Good Hair? Show. It hurt to listen to the words as they thundered and lightened their way out of her mouth but the deepest pain came from realizing that she saw nothing wrong with her statement. Apparently, she's tricked her mind into believing that she'd been treated with straight hair as she came out of her maker. I guess had it not been for Madam CJ Walker, black women would never be employable. After all, women are hired for the decorum they bring to the boardroom, properly painted in MAC and draped in Marc Jacobs scantily hung best which is really Marshall's doorbuster trinkets. In other words, me, a black woman, in my natural state will never be professional enough to be accepted by the ranks of shotcallers, vp's, account execs, coordinators, directors, and cubicle crusaders all because of the hair I was born with? But wait, there's more*Dick Vital voice*!

I also found out that good hair has the "white girl flow," meaning when I shake my head from side to side my hair will cascade around my neck like a loosely insane child throwing a tantrum. This is the pinnacle of melanin rich feminine existence, white girl flow. And honey, if you don't have it naturally (which none do) and the relaxer won't make it bouncy, you had better get your nappy-headed behind down to the Asians to apprehend that Yakky(jokes on you) number 9, even though your white girl flow might bottle neck due to the excessive heaviness of horse tail attached to your head. I sound kind of angry huh? Please don't take it personal but make no mistake about it, I'm dishing it so it can be taken. I won't get any further into the show because this blog would be far too long. However, I would be remissed not to comment on how pleasantly niggerish Tyra looked with her beautiful black(which I'm sure she had to spray paint them this color) cornrows in her hair-for a day only. Of course, the straight hair with the split down the middle is the only way to get the "white girl flow," which again is the *say it with me* pinnacle of melanain rich feminine existence. Suffice it to say, that style didn't make it another 24 hours on her head.

If you haven't deducted this by now, I have natural hair. I was born this way but I began my relaxing process at the tender age of 8, although I had much prior experience with what they call the hot (pressing) comb. I loved my grandmother to life for making my hair so long and silky....wow, it made me feel airy and flightly like butterflies with the boldly colored radiance of purple gardenias among dead grass. On those days, I much preferred sitting under the tree as opposed to climbing it. I don't recall my first relaxer but the feeling of opened, burning flesh, and scalp sores with flawlessly straightened hair stuck to them-is resting peacefully in the graveyard of my mind beneath a headstone that reads "Love Yourself." Albeit, a slave of the trade because there was nothing I feared more than being without my relaxer(or perm as some who don't even care to READ the jar would say)-it was all I knew. It began to sadden me that I had no recollection of what my real hair looked and felt like. I felt more and more dead in the head as the days went by and I reflected on the truth that relaxers where literally changing the chemical bonds in my hair and permenantly altering it's condition. It's like bleaching black clothes. Yes you want them to be clean but you are completely destroying the garment when you use the WRONG thing on it. HHHmmmm. I decided to go natural for personal reasons but now I also committ to it for the little black girls I teach who think it's acceptable to seperate themselves into cliques based on hair length and skin color. I love my hair and for the first time in my life I feel like my hair loves me. It looks as if it breathes and does yoga on the daily, my tresses are strong-bodied, with twisty-turny paths that speak of struggle, complexity, and determination. Having natural hair has afforded me a buffet of styling options and I get something different on every trip, unless I just feel like chicken to times in a row.

Today's blog is truly inconclusive because this conversation is one that will forever be continued, we have so far to go. It is 2009, black women are still warring against their mane and citing everything from "it's unprofessional," to "I don't have time," and even foolery like "natural hair wouldn't look right on me." Thats synonymous with saying your nose doesn't look right...wait,oh....HELLO Mr. & Mrs. Plastic Surgeon. We are in a crisis. Our men see us as we see ourselves so they assist in perpetuating this idea that long, straight (cause there are sisters with LONG natural hair) hair is the standard of beauty by chasing after women who have hair hanging down to their glutes. A brother once said that he flocks to women with weave in their hair because he views them as "easier" to manipulate than those without. Consider the confusion, most women who wear weaves, also relax their hair...even relaxers are our bastard step-children now. Maybe it's Maybelline...no it's Weavelline, the Rapunzel fanatic that is solely responsible for a countryside full of butt-naked horses and I mean this literally. I'm not passing judgement, just slightly angered at the medias message to me that I'm not worthy of an approving glance unless I can make my hair slap the black off my neck when I swing it which would beneficially make me lighter in that spot too. I would suggest you get angry as well. Watch the Circus below for further details.

Reality or Tv?

*Sing-a-long* "In a 90's kinda world, I'm glad I got my girls, keep ya head up...." remixed by "You are one step closer to becoming America's Next Top Model(and you are the one still standing there with the trembling lip)." I actually enjoy ANTM though...the pharisee in me :0). Notice the contrast. One phrase speaks of sisterhood, the positive vibes radiate like your babygirl's smile on Christmas morning....you can hear "we are family, I got all my sistas wit me" beating down your ear drum and you feel like backyard bbq's before the uncle get's too drunk. The other phrase, feels more like pouring rain with no umbrella and boyfriend running in the opposite direction....your heel breaks-it's the perfect accessory to match your heart. I try not to use profanity in my daily language because I understand some people have a heightened sensitivity to it but words are words so I ask, what the FUCK has happened to television?! I feel better now. TV makes me wanna cuss and listen to T.I. day and night while drinking Moet, perfectly perched on the ledge of my project window. If reality tv were designed to sell life to the immortal, the entire marketing department would be fired....no one in their right mind would buy this product. Sex, drama, lies, and murder have always been headliners in entertainment however, we've gotten more and more imbalanced with our incorporation of such themes into everyday life. It is UN-health-y to be lied to, scandulously sexed, snapped off on, and domestically violated everyday, unless of course you reside on cellblock 8, then carry on. The rest of us actually lead pretty simplistic lives where we meet up with the co-workers for eight hours and head back home to cuddle up with the family....kind of like how things went on the Cosby show, or even like the Jeffersons. Naturally, every day isn't as easy as 1,2,3 but neither is it a-squared + b-squared = c-squared. If it's not the "go home please" shows it's the "lose belly fat" or "grow 3 inches overnight" commercials in between and it all just makes me feel like life is a sugar-free chocolate cake....edible but it sucks to have to eat it. I just want to see something regular. Something that reminds me of my aunt with her long list of failed marriages but decision to adopt 3 kids she didn't carry. Where is the balance? Where are the valuables? Much of what we are exposed to through television is the garbage of humanity and this breeds a certain amount of anger and resentment within me from feeling so misrepresented. So I'm weird like snow in hawaii as I sit staring at the black on my tv realizing I never know where my remote is because I never use it. I fill my silence with sounds of music that tell of struggle and triumph, and sometimes just struggle though. I pleasure my eyes with black words on vanilla colored pages, I write, I laugh at myself, I pray, I sing, and my favorite, I look at pictures. All these things make me feel alive and relatable. Just like Martin did when he fronted on Gina but confessed to Tommy how much of a mistake he'd made-even Roscoe who began his career as a professional beggar at a young age. Or maybe like Red Foxx did when he indirectly announced boundless love for his deceased wife in his claim to be "coming up to see you honey"-almost every episode. I miss reality, it has completely abandoned the tv.

Talking About You Helps

I am not comfortable talking about myself so maybe talking about you might help.
I think you are a rebel without a cause or at least one that will make people applaud.
I think you are subtle and destitute, unbefitting into the box marked "you"....confused, aloof, drowning in truth.
I think you like being lied to simply because it gives you nothing to chew
your food for thought has been bought by the system .
I think you wear a mask of pride but rumbling inside are the rivers you cry in the black of night while begging for the sun of light.
I think you are fruit past it's season,decaying from the pulp of your treason.
I think you've betrayed yourself, traded in your expression for the keeping of your stealth.
Soon everyone will know you move mountains with the blink of an eye and paint rainbows in the sky.
That when you hurt the angels refuse to fly and people die.
Some can already see that your smile is what brings the green to the trees, laughter to the seas, men to their knees, babies to their ease, flight to the bees, confessions to the priest.
Your pitch is high as the moon on which you reside, you glow with the pulse of a rhythm in the key of I.
You are of duplicity, the creater and the created.
You are of multiplicity, through you have come many.
You are quiet when it's loud and quiet when it's not.
You speak only when your words are sought.
You are a dream, difficult to capture but hard to forget
You are peace like the day after the world comes to an end.
I'm not comfortable talking about myself so it's something I just won't do,
even if talking about me sounds a lot like talking about you.

Written By:
GenIsis

Don't Climb Tall Trees

One night
I climbed a tree so high
walked into the sky
fell asleep on a cloud
and prayed to God
to show me an angel
I wanted to fall-in-love
within a realm so expansive it covered both heaven and earth
opened my eyes, there you were
with a melody in your face
as your look descended upon my ears
and sang to my heart a cantata of "I love you's"
You touched me with your lips
Time stopped to watch
eternity penetrated my sphere
a moment sheer like morning dew
Your face makes the sun hide and the moon cry
Your hands make the stars dance and the planets long for romance
Your smile makes my chest warm, my shoulders tingle
You taste like hot chocolate with whip cream and cocoa sprinkles-on top
In your arms are generations of joy wrapped in mounds of strength
I struggle to breathe in disbelief that you are real
struggle to feel for fear of losing the thrill
You unclothe me in your love and let me go, simply because
You live above while, I live down below.

Written By:
GenIsis

Death by Collage

I say "collage" and you think art. I say "collage" and your mind races from the idea of splattering vivrant images all over the paper trying to express your individuality through your own random piece of...something. I hate to spoil your fruit but my "collage" is of the dead. Some are still thinking "art," most are thinking "no thanks." I started a long time ago, when I experienced my first death of a family member. It was my grandfather. He never spoke much and I found him to be rather strange. I was awe-stricken as I took in his distinctive cheek wrinkles and recounted the stories of my grandmother going upside his head with an iron during one of his many drunken stupors. His home was dark, smoky-and not because he smoked but because he never dusted, and it smelled like all the memories that lived there before had died. Despite our obvious disconnect and my discontentment for his dwelling, I was used to seeing him and sitting perfectly still on the edge of his couch for fear of touching anything. Sitting there at his funeral, watching the sobbing and rapid tissue exchanges, the closed eyes and faces of despair, solos sang in pleas for God to help....I cried harder than I'd ever had before, so much so that my uncle sent me packing and I relocated to the seat next to my mother. I realized then that I had definite issues with losing people. By the end of the day, I found it weird that everyone held on to the program from the funeral service...why would you want to be reminded of such a draining moment in life? But people do funny things and who am I not to be amused. So begins the collage. The recent passing of my great grandmother, who was a young 105 years old, brought about a different type of perspective than any I'd had before. I saw myself, 10 years from now, adding more and more faces to my collage and in that moment I felt transitional. No longer did I view my collage as a memoir or a creative way of tracking my past but I saw it's impact on my future. As my art is created, my foundation will be removed right from under me. All that I knew as I was planted in the soil to grow as the flower I am today will decay and things will never be as they were. I will be faced with pictures of people who are of significance to me yet they no longer exist in this realm, leaving me with fragile memories that will begin to rewrite themselves as time takes it's toll on my mind. The people, images, places, experiences that live in the walls of me will continue to fall down. What am I saying? My cornerstones are leaving, my constants are really variables. We depend on people more than we know. Even though we might not confide our affairs to them or even ask about their day, we get used to their presence so we notice when they are gone....sort of the same way we notice when someone moves the trashcan or borrows our jeans. What makes this evolution particularly troubling is the replacement process. I tell myself that those who leave are making room for newness, new people, new family, offspring, love, marriage, etc. Here's the deal though, people are leaving more frequently than they are being replaced and frankly I'm already wreary of losing. The prioritity of marriage and starting a family has risen like Jesus on the third day on my list of things to do in lieu of the reality that I have very little control over this aspect of life. Maybe I should stop looking for something that has the potential to take the very breath out of my body and settle for something comfortable. Or maybe I should follow in the footsteps of a female friend of mine and adopt children to be raised in a single-parent home. The single life is not so glamourous when you find yourself vacationing in the "no one to hold on to" resort. It gets complex when you've had to sit in the middle section of the church and march in with the family....alone. I was flooded with thoughts of how much more intense it will be when I am forced to sit in view of those closest to me laid-out across the front of someone's church. I can't imagine how it must've felt for my great-grandmother to walk down the aisle in honor of the death of all her children, her husband, her sisters, mother, father, even some grandchildren. I know the world has to seem like a much lonlier place. Could it be that this loneliness is an agent that prepares us for death? A necessary evil so to speak. My mind is heavy, I want a solution but answers evade me as I seek to fill the voids my loved ones continue to leave in my life. Collage expansion underway...

Gray Space

Gray area, gray skies, gray by day and night. By the way, is it gray or grey? *shrugs*. In summation, my week has been murky like the pollution of all things crystal and clear. Muggy like the residue of rainshowers come and gone, moisture transferred from a liquid to gas. You can't see it but you can feel the grit descending all around you. Musty like the indoor courts where the boys in the hood style and profile on some And One's-it just don't smell right. Gray like purgatory, I imagine the walls in that place can't be white, they have to be cemented gray, that would be far more tasteless. I've between in between a lot of moods, a lot of thoughts, a lot of tasks, and I just can't seem to settle myself on anything. How did this happen in the course of only one week? I guess I was distracting myself from the envitable and it seems as though this week hasn't afforded me the same luxury of distractive vices. This week has been rather in my face and I've spent most of it feeling like a lottery ticket....discarded. You realize how many lottery tickets are thrown away on the daily? Add to this the odds of winning and you might find yourself feeling lost in the shuffle of players, dreamers, gamblers, risk-takers and such. I believe I'm on the verge of falling(yes falling, not jumping cause I'm not that brave lol) off a cliff only to find that I can REALLY fly! There is something trying to get to me and I'm trying to get to it but there's just so much gray in between us. I can see just enough to avoid major injury, although I'm stumping the hell outta my toe(and it hurts!), but I can't see too far in front of me. Countless hours spent on the wondering of why haven't the dots connected. What is next? There has to be a next, I just don't know what that would be. Struggling to make out the image of what lies ahead subjects you to the reality of just how comfortable staying right were you are might be. If I could step away from my vices long enough to grapple with this thing, maybe I can turn my gray into shades of bold and paint the sky into a palette of love, peace, and hope so there will be no need for umbrellas. This blog is random because my mind is random right now and it's been this way all week, so much so that I've tried my best to shut the hell up around people in an effort to avoid speaking portugese while everyone else is speaking english. That sort of thing makes others uncomfortable you know. I decided to blog despite it all because writing is theraupetic and something has to cure this blurriness in my mind. I know I've looked all WRONG this week, I can tell by how my co-workers have empathetically attempted to give my space and by how I've been all too comfortable keeping kids in from recess so I can eat in my own room in solitude....horrible but true story. So many things have lost their meaning in this moment in time and all that occupies my mind is the question of "what do I really care about?" Typical plague of the Scorpion, die to everything only to live again and start new. Life requires daily maintenance and let's just say I'm more of a "fix it when it breaks" type and this clash has been the cause of several failures. I wonder if I'm the only person who has these moments....maybe I'm too introverted? Maybe I've never known what it's like to actually desire to cry on anothers shoulder....the thought alone is scarrier than anthrax while opening mail. Ha! I'm not going to do this to myself because I've been known to go so far into my head that I forget where the exit is. So my agenda for the weekend, find some inspiration, something that makes me taste honey on my tongue without ever opening my mouth. Where and How? Only time will tell :o). If anybody asks though, gray is my favorite color.......go figure.