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The Beauty Battle Royal
Okay out of third person. This email I received made me aware of an online blog/mag named Jezebel with a centrally white readership that is asking for pictures of embarrassing hairstyles from Black women. (I’m not even going to the not-so-ironic-irony of the name of the magazine.) In light of a past two years of white-supremacist fetishization over Black women’s hair (i.e. Imus, Boortz) you’d think white folks would just pretend they don’t have an issue. Instead, the recent years has merely given permission for frank white-centered discussions about how different, crazy, wild, and wacky Black women look. I’m actually not offended by the idea itself. We (women across the racial spectrum) all have embarrassing photos of our hair at one point or another—particularly if we’ve lived more than two decades. For example, I have a picture of an ear-to-ear bang via the 80s that is absolutely INSANE and in my teens I rocked a wave-nuveau which was inevitable for me in killer Kali. Sisters can crack up about it as much as I do (especially those who know what I wave nuveau is!). But in the real estate of thought its all about context, context, context. There is a way in which this racialized voyeurism (i.e. white chicks wanting to specifically look upon Black chicks) lends itself to a Beauty Battle Royal of sorts. A spectacle of excessive Blackness through black hair, that also is a reminder to Black women of the unattainability of Eurocentric beauty. Look but don't look, they say. Don’t desire this thing, this thing is not yours. The racial context of this contest raises an eyebrow, and rightfully so. I would like to see how this whole thing pans out—how far viewers comments go to dance around their horror, awe, and amazement of the gravitational defiance of Black women’s hair. Lets see how many or how few comments directly drop the p word (I don’t mean pussy.) to describe youthful female blackness. We’ll see if "nappy" even comes up, with arms folded, lips pursed, eyebrows raised. We’re looking at them, looking at us. Defiantly. And so the post blackness of my generation allows that much. Allows the chance for the white gaze to do its thing as it will (they will even look at us as we look at them). As we watch, analyze, and understand ourselves in the process. I’d hope we’d heal, as is the call for much of our "take the power back" discussions. Not through this kind of ish, but in spite of it. I cringe when "take the power back" means join them in their jeering and peering. It’s as sad as teased children making fun of themselves in the face of bullies. I’d hope that we’d heal not by joining them, but by putting the burden where it belongs, in the arms of white supremacy. By pointing to the irreverent and insensitive racism. By gazing back. Relentless, unforgiving gazing back. This has certainly been a process for me. An un named uber leftist white woman with… matted hair tries to make comparisons to my locks and share "hair stories." I simply reply no, and look at her (as to not embarrass her in the professional setting we were in) so as to remind her that her hair is blond, long, and fine, and her eyes are blue. "We" have no shared hair stories this was not MLK’s dream. I’m with a friend who has been invited to her neighbors’ house. Her neighbors are a white lesbian couple who have recently adopted a black baby boy. They hem and haw around the issue that they don’t know what to do with his hair (acknowledges collective exasperated sigh from sisters everywhere). What they’ve told me is that they wash his hair every day and put tea tree oil in it. They still don’t know why his hair is dry. I give some basic pointers for the sake of the poor kid and hope the books we’ve given, along with the little djembe my friend has given him will give him some smoke signals early on. (I’ll discuss the unhealthy black hair generation to be raised by "colorblind" gay white folk some other time.) This is not to say that I cannot talk to white people about hair in general. This can happen (and it has with white folks who know that there are hair differences not only visually, but historically), what cannot happen is a conversation about hair that assumes a similar and parallel history when it comes to my embodiment as a Black woman. I cannot be the one to consistently educate white people on Black hair and the politics of it. Ignorance of some of these basics is merely evidence of white supremacist notions of racial and aesthetic normalcy that results in a "what’s the difference?" "black people are so sensitive" response to Don Imus or Neal Boortz’ comments on Black hair that reveal a deeply historic and psychic fetish about Black hair. The very moment calls for a direct and serious gaze back. To let folks know that they are looking, and looking as if difference merely belonged to us. To let them know that our sensitivity is rooted in a history that has maintained whiteness as normal and default. That we are gazing back not only to neutralize their gaze, not only to reveal to them their outright racism, but to access our embodied power, to challenge the fetish. To take off our blindfolds in this battle royal. Labels: black women, blogging, history, nappy headed ho, race, racism uttered by a black girl at 6:17 PM. | 0 comments
I have a theory: If we can't unite, these emails or at least the sentiment behind them, have something to do with it. This past week in anticipation of the National Blackout, I was horribly frustrated by the ways in which Black people talked about my people. It was entirely Black people talking about why the boycott wont work, how disunited Black people are anyway, how Black people are lazy, etc. It was like being at a Klan rally with nothing but Black folks. These conversations always come with some kind of superior air about being so disunited: "I would involve myself if I knew that Black people were united, but we aren't. If a brother has an opportunity to buy some rims, he will." It always comes with the speaker as a "good" Black person, down with the people, fiscally sound, educated... but those other Black people... they need to get it together. Just shut up. I wonder sometimes with these emails and others about Black people not doing enough XY or Z how the morale of Blackness is? Does scaring black people by berating us on what we think we aren't doing work? How does how we perceive ourselves as Black people affect how we organize? Who is mediating this? Where are these assumptions coming from? Why do we so quickly beleive them? Who does it Ultimately serve? I thought the Literary renaissance of the 1970s and 80s proved to publishers that Black people read. What has suddenly happened that we assume we don't? There is an industry targeted at us as readers--now we can discuss or dispute the "value" of what is being read but it is an insult to writers, scholars, students, and readers who are Black that there is this blanket assumption even amongst ourselves that we don't read. New mantra for Black people: Black people love Black people, Black people want to support Black people, and Black people read. So now I'm off to buy 3 dozen books of stamps of Hattie McDaniel and to purchase a few books published by Third World Press from Karibu Books. In Love and Blackness, Bettina Labels: black folk, emails, internet, race, racism uttered by a black girl at 11:20 PM. | 1 comments
This conversation is not meant to invoke Tyler Perry's version of this woman, although it is quite possible that she is relevant to my discussion here. I say this to discuss madness as it is psychologically understood. I think madness in this respect is completely related to madness that is understood that *all* black women have--a never ending well of anger. The source of this anger is never interrogated, which is actually more fuel for that anger. Being ignored is a frustrating position to be in. One beings to wonder if she exists at all, and rightfully so. The world proclaims that we don't and if we do, we shouldn't. Perplexing situation. But I digress. There is a ninety year old mad black woman beneath me. She screams of an injustice to her humanity most every night: the inhumane and inconsiderate playing of loud music above her. She usually wakes me up with her complaining. One evening I called her to ask her what was going on and immediately she began to curse me out about how I come in late and play loud music. This particular evening she says I came in late, I had actually been at home since four in the afternoon, I went to sleep early, and didn't play music at all in my house at the time. I rarely even watched television. Suffice it to say, although I checked with myself to make sure I wasn't the one causing her outbursts (I really did have to double check.), it was clear that she saw this black girl as the culprit of her sleepless nights. Madness is contagious. Or at least--madness brings up more madness for already-mad people. The outbursts of anger, frustration, and sadness are overwhelming. I have broken down and cried many times myself during them. She says things like: "Why would you do this to me? I can't sleep." or "I'm old, you shouldn't do this to old people!" "Why would you do this to me." is such a universal mad cry. It's often been offered to God, lovers, friends, the president... It is a cry of both outrage and sadness. There is the remnants of an assumption that she would be considered. This is a horrible and familiar feeling. I've decided that this is possibly a problem she's had before that is rearing its head in her old age. Her anger (of which there is much, she later cussed me out in the hallway for accusing her of complaining about loud noise--something she vehemently argues that she has never done) and her madness as in her onset of dimensia are one in the same. And she is triggering in this mad black woman more mania. The week after my birthday I was unable to go to my house. I was afraid of the woman downstairs, and of something deep within me that, at the moment could not help me help myself. It is the me that has always been afraid to go home--for fear of what would be there. I talked about this little piece of me with my brother and therapist... surely it is something to be worked on. Nevertheless, the fear of going home was so intense that I slept in my car (which is not surprisingly, more warm than my actual apartment). This whole episode made me think about black women and madness. Madness as anger, and madness as psychological distress. I'm thinking about this with all eyes open, knowing that psychology has certainly over-diagnosed and under-diagnosed black folks for the past century and a half. I'm thinking about that, about how psychology has looked to our brains to pathologize deviance and primitivism. I'm thinking about how serious the affects of racism has caused TRAUMAS within the black community that actually warrant spiritual (not psychological) evaluation. I'm thinking about black folks' skepticism about psychiatry--how depression as an illness is a white thing. (Although WE invented a whole series of musical genres around depression: blues, hip hop...) I'm thinking about trauma and genius as two interrelated possibly co-symptomatic terms for the experiences of women of color. I'm thinking about the necissary-ness of bi-polar (dis)orders. The need to get shit done although you are hopelessly depressed. I'm thinking about Harriet Tubman's blackouts (which were literally caused by an oppressive slave system, they were set on by a brick being thrown at her head.) I'm thinking about Gayl Jones, who is currently in a psychiatric ward... and who continues to make amazing novels. I'm thinking about genius, and trauma, and women. Mad black women. The Mad Woman Below is both a reality for me and a metaphor. A reality in the sense that I am watching myself run away from madness constantly. Sometimes, all I have is my mind. The mad woman below screams of injustice that appears not to be there. She is the manifestation of the trauma she's endured in her life. The mad woman below relives injustice. Her refrain, "How could you do this to me?" however is proof of her very grounded sanity, because somehow through the madness, she is able to expect humanity and groundedness from others. Old (white) feminist literature had her hanging above my head... in attics. The mad black woman is below. Deep within. She shakes me from the feet up. She screams all night (and some days) trying to convince me that she is human, that she deserves attention. Sometimes her convincing sounds like a question and I have to answer to her, yes you are, yes you do. But so often, I do not know what to do for her but to move, and try to make home safe for me. But she will scream until i find the courage to go downstairs to the pissy disheveled apartment and rock my mad black woman to sleep. Labels: age, home, madness, race uttered by a black girl at 12:04 PM. | 7 comments
Be ---- Hey yall, As much as I love any movie with swords, bows and arrows, Vikings, Romans, Greeks, Egyptians, Amazons, Gladiators, Chariots, and/ or The Huns… I think this film is FIRMLY rooted in western xenophobia and racism! Although most “war” movies carry metanarratives of patriotism, nationalism, xenophobia and racism, this one is egregious! I am sure I will love the cinematography, costumes, and musical elements… I am going to have a very hard time with the plot and dialogue… The trailers for the film feature this: "They came from the Blackness,” says the lovely pure Spartan white lady, to her defending white Spartan man, as she dies... Defending white Spartan man says, "You (the Black Persians - And yes they are all BLACK, BLACK American, BLACK European, Brazilian etc. from what I can tell from the cast) threaten us (the white Spartans) with slavery and death! - This is Sparta“ (The United States of America) and he kicks him into a Black hole in the earth… Exotic sexually deviant Black and Brown "Persian" women dance in jewelry and little else... Pure motherly white women of Sparta wears a white goddess robe and plays with her child in a field of grain... Dark, larger than life, heavily pierced and animalistic snarling, growling Persian men are juxtaposed with muscular but classically masculine "white guys" who attempt to negotiate and reason before turning inevitably to violence... Another trailer includes a scene where the Persian king threatens miscegenation saying, "you (Spartan men) will not be slaves, you will be dead, your women will be our slaves". Geez… I could go on… but take a look at the trailer. I also have included the official film synopsis… http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wZm52UrkDpA -Mel They say its about: Film: 300 Based on Frank Miller's graphic novel, "300" concerns the 480 B.C. Battle of Thermopylae, where the King of Sparta led his army against the advancing Persians; the battle is said to have inspired all of Greece to band together against the Persians, and helped usher in the world's first democracy. Written by Anonymous In the Battle of Thermopylae of 480 BC an alliance of Greek city-states fought the invading Persian army in the mountain pass of Thermopylae. Vastly outnumbered, the Greeks held back the enemy in one of the most famous last stands of history. Persian King Xerxes lead a Army of well over 100,000 (Persian king Xerxes before war has about 170,000 army) men to Greece and was confronted by 300 Spartans, 700 Thespians and other Slave soldiers. Xerxes waited for 10 days for King Leonidas to surrender or withdraw left with no options he moved. The battle lasted for about 3 days and after which all 300 Spartans were killed. The Spartan defeat was not the one expected as a local shepherd named Ephialtes defected to the Persians and informed Xerxes of a separate path through Thermopylae, which the Persians could use to outflank the Greeks. Written by cyberian2005 In 480 BC, the Persian king Xerxes sends his massive army to conquer Greece. The Greek city of Sparta houses its finest warriors, and 300 of these soldiers are chosen to meet the Persians at Thermopylae, engaging the soldiers in a narrow canyon where they cannot take full advantage of their numbers. The battle is a suicide mission, meant to buy time for the rest of the Greek forces to prepare for the invasion. However, that doesn't stop the Spartans from throwing their hearts into the fray, determined to take as many Persians as possible with them. Written by rmlohner uttered by a black girl at 12:08 PM. | 3 comments
It's time for contorsionartist to be done. She's impatient now and the universe has set up at least one venue where she can be shared with the world (literally), and with the internet, that makes two. I've struggled with how she will be executed for almost a year now, and I've decided to simply leap into it. I've made so many images already that spring from my mind and confess pain beyond the physical in technicolor. It's time I took my creativity seriously, because there are more projects waiting to be born after this. The universe is amazing amazing amazing. As soon as my mind is fixed on getting better the universe bends to tell me what is right and what is wrong. Ms. Sales called me today to invite me to a concert next weekend. She also offered me some work, with some pay that's a blessing. And she discussed with me her current project which will be opening in Los Angeles. She hopes to take this on the road, each city a new set of artists. I asked if I could be considered and she was open to it, asking me for more details about how contorsion artist can be transformed into a performance peice. My mind spun at the idea. She also let me know that she didn't know if I was really and artist sometimes because of this whole PhD thing. This she told me after I said I am thinking of leaving my program. She told me that yes, I should focus on my art. I came into clarity and fear at the same time this afternoon. On my way to take Nia to her new vet was an art supply store. Although I didn't buy anything (instead I opted for the bookstore next door to get a medical dictionary and a medical anatomy book for the project) I decided, yes it will be done. I promised myself that tomorrow it will be done: the first day of the week long anniversary of my ovary's death. I am also to meet folks from SCAD tomorrow. I am rethinking Atlanta now, but even it seems to call nonetheless (or maybe its Savannah? I miss the ocean...). No programs in painting here in DC. The closest one is in Richmond (yuck). But inside me begs the question of where I can find community there. Nothing is truly stable or promised. Recently I've been thinking France. SCAD has a program in Lacoste. The Universe has found favor in me. Labels: activism, art, fortune, gender, medicine, race uttered by a black girl at 11:51 PM. | 5 comments
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