By Vanessa Willoughby, Contributor, Emerson College '09
When I was a child, my father used to say, "don’t let anyone ever put their hands on you. If they do, you have my permission to hit back." It’s a code of honor that creeps in the back of my consciousness, restless like a violent beast trapped on a short chain. For some reason, I believe that these words are a battle cry. I’m waiting, biding my time with reluctance like a broken-down hitman waiting for the perfect moment to strike down his mark.
My father had missed his chance to be a hero in the history books. The fleeting opportunity to join the ranks of the Black Panthers and the Freedom Riders and the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee had been squashed by overprotective parents. His fiery convictions simmered, smoldered, and eventually cooled into a stone of regret fixed to the pit of his stomach. His memories of elementary school, middle school and high school were tainted by the gnashing echoes of racism and bigotry, the word n****r hurled across the schoolyard by a student spurred by the taste of power and the ability to inflict pain in less than three syllables. Consequently, my father vowed to protect his children from these injustices to the best of his ability. He wanted to be Malcolm X and Superman rolled into one intimidating colossus. For one glorious moment in time, the world had seemed bright and alight with the promise of social and cultural change, radical revisions to the institutionalized oppression that trailed after him like his shadow. At home, my father stressed the importance of our ethnic heritage, lining his bookshelf with voices that championed minorities, some of them treasured souvenirs from his Afro-sporting days - The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Soul on Ice. At home, the concept of racial pride was like watching a kite listlessly hover in the air; I could appreciate the beauty of my father’s convictions, but it was somewhat inaccessible to the comprehension of an eight-year-old. At home, wrapped in the cocoon of my father’s 'eye for an eye' brand of homegrown faith, I felt safe. I couldn’t imagine having to fight someone. The battles my father had fought were relics, ugly scars revealed after dinner, tales of wounded pride meant to enlighten. Knowledge and social awareness were weapons meant to defend the soul.
Of course, my father couldn’t always protect me. As a young African-American/Asian-American woman, my natural hair has always elicited unnecessary fascination, denigration, and sheer ignorance. In middle school, classmates often asked, “Is your hair real?” This question was typically accompanied by a familiar flash of reflexive need etched across dumbstruck faces - the yearning, twitchy, itching desire to reach out and cop a feel of the hairdo in question. Some people are able to control these urges. Most aren’t ashamed to give in to the impulse, the manifestation of views that scholars such as bell hooks and Frantz Fanon would trace back to European colonialism.
One of these inquisitors was a white girl that sat behind me in English class. Sometimes she would yank on my curls, chuckling to herself as though she were a little child playing dress-up with her army of dolls. White people seem to be always downright confused by thick, curly hair, especially if it resides on the head of an unsuspecting black woman. The woman in question is stripped of her dignity and transformed into a walking petting zoo. It seems that no matter how sincere the admiration, the majority of these expressions of admiration are poorly and sloppily executed, grotesque displays of the divide in cultural and social consciousness. An African-American woman’s hair is not simply a fashion statement; it becomes an unmistakable signifier of her "otherness."
When we talk of 'beauty,' it is automatically associated with white mainstream ideals, traits that purposely exclude and devalue minorities. Embracing one’s natural hair defies society’s standards of beauty, turning one's "otherness" into open season for racists and bigots. Some people like to argue that the disgust and condemnation of natural hair is not connected to race. But how can the fetishization of black hair be separated from the manifestation of prejudice, the unfortunate vilification and fear of the other?
In her essay, “Straightening Our Hair,” bell hooks unabashedly argues that within the framework of the white supremacist society, such vitriol is not only an active tool of oppression, but seeks to destroy black women’s self-esteem and self-worth. The problem is rooted in the lack of exposure to positive body image, as “most of us were not raised in environments where we learned to regard our hair as sensual or beautiful in an unprocessed state…Reponses to natural hairstyles worn by black women usually reveal the extent to which our natural hair is perceived in white supremacist culture not only as ugly but frightening…the extent to which we are comfortable with our hair usually reflects on our overall feelings about our bodies.”
I had a tiny moment of catharsis in high school. Tired of the usual chatter from the peanut gallery, one day I came home, snatched a pair of scissors from my desk, and hacked off my hair. The act itself was a release, a 'fuck you' to the world. I was cleansed of my anxiety. Until I looked in the mirror.
Recently, I was out at a restaurant. The location of the restaurant and the name of the town are not important, as the following behavior is not limited to one section of the country. The residential population of this particular town is overwhelmingly white. I was sitting at the bar with a few friends. One minute I was trying to decide on what beer to order, and the next second, I felt fingers digging in my hair. When I swirled around to face my assailant, it was a middle-aged white man in faded plaid, beer belly sloshing with Pabst, a leering smile on his weathered face.
“Sorry,” he half-apologized, "I saw your hair and I couldn’t help but touch it." He finished his confession with a few more eager gropes. I stayed frozen in my seat, synapses tingling with shock, feeling violated.
Naturally, no one in my lunch group thought this was much cause for concern. When I later confronted the man, my companions thought it was a bad idea. I was seen as the "angry uppity black girl." They were embarrassed that I hadn’t remained silent. I felt embarrassed that they were so trained to think that such an incident was amusing and not a racially-fueled breach of respect.
It’s taken me twenty-four years to feel semi-comfortable with my hair. My mother wonders why I’ve stopped using my expensive straightening iron. She enjoys her vanity and seeks escape in the beauty process - escape from aging, escape from self-doubt. When I was thirteen, she was the one to propose that I could start dying my hair. She doesn’t understand that I feel as though I’m making a statement, a promise to myself, a vow to discard the poison of hating what you’ve been given.
When I was a child, my father used to say, "don’t let anyone ever put their hands on you. If they do, you have my permission to hit back." It’s a code of honor that creeps in the back of my consciousness, restless like a violent beast trapped on a short chain. For some reason, I believe that these words are a battle cry. I’m waiting, biding my time with reluctance like a broken-down hitman waiting for the perfect moment to strike down his mark.
My father had missed his chance to be a hero in the history books. The fleeting opportunity to join the ranks of the Black Panthers and the Freedom Riders and the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee had been squashed by overprotective parents. His fiery convictions simmered, smoldered, and eventually cooled into a stone of regret fixed to the pit of his stomach. His memories of elementary school, middle school and high school were tainted by the gnashing echoes of racism and bigotry, the word n****r hurled across the schoolyard by a student spurred by the taste of power and the ability to inflict pain in less than three syllables. Consequently, my father vowed to protect his children from these injustices to the best of his ability. He wanted to be Malcolm X and Superman rolled into one intimidating colossus. For one glorious moment in time, the world had seemed bright and alight with the promise of social and cultural change, radical revisions to the institutionalized oppression that trailed after him like his shadow. At home, my father stressed the importance of our ethnic heritage, lining his bookshelf with voices that championed minorities, some of them treasured souvenirs from his Afro-sporting days - The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Soul on Ice. At home, the concept of racial pride was like watching a kite listlessly hover in the air; I could appreciate the beauty of my father’s convictions, but it was somewhat inaccessible to the comprehension of an eight-year-old. At home, wrapped in the cocoon of my father’s 'eye for an eye' brand of homegrown faith, I felt safe. I couldn’t imagine having to fight someone. The battles my father had fought were relics, ugly scars revealed after dinner, tales of wounded pride meant to enlighten. Knowledge and social awareness were weapons meant to defend the soul.
Of course, my father couldn’t always protect me. As a young African-American/Asian-American woman, my natural hair has always elicited unnecessary fascination, denigration, and sheer ignorance. In middle school, classmates often asked, “Is your hair real?” This question was typically accompanied by a familiar flash of reflexive need etched across dumbstruck faces - the yearning, twitchy, itching desire to reach out and cop a feel of the hairdo in question. Some people are able to control these urges. Most aren’t ashamed to give in to the impulse, the manifestation of views that scholars such as bell hooks and Frantz Fanon would trace back to European colonialism.
One of these inquisitors was a white girl that sat behind me in English class. Sometimes she would yank on my curls, chuckling to herself as though she were a little child playing dress-up with her army of dolls. White people seem to be always downright confused by thick, curly hair, especially if it resides on the head of an unsuspecting black woman. The woman in question is stripped of her dignity and transformed into a walking petting zoo. It seems that no matter how sincere the admiration, the majority of these expressions of admiration are poorly and sloppily executed, grotesque displays of the divide in cultural and social consciousness. An African-American woman’s hair is not simply a fashion statement; it becomes an unmistakable signifier of her "otherness."
When we talk of 'beauty,' it is automatically associated with white mainstream ideals, traits that purposely exclude and devalue minorities. Embracing one’s natural hair defies society’s standards of beauty, turning one's "otherness" into open season for racists and bigots. Some people like to argue that the disgust and condemnation of natural hair is not connected to race. But how can the fetishization of black hair be separated from the manifestation of prejudice, the unfortunate vilification and fear of the other?
In her essay, “Straightening Our Hair,” bell hooks unabashedly argues that within the framework of the white supremacist society, such vitriol is not only an active tool of oppression, but seeks to destroy black women’s self-esteem and self-worth. The problem is rooted in the lack of exposure to positive body image, as “most of us were not raised in environments where we learned to regard our hair as sensual or beautiful in an unprocessed state…Reponses to natural hairstyles worn by black women usually reveal the extent to which our natural hair is perceived in white supremacist culture not only as ugly but frightening…the extent to which we are comfortable with our hair usually reflects on our overall feelings about our bodies.”
I had a tiny moment of catharsis in high school. Tired of the usual chatter from the peanut gallery, one day I came home, snatched a pair of scissors from my desk, and hacked off my hair. The act itself was a release, a 'fuck you' to the world. I was cleansed of my anxiety. Until I looked in the mirror.
Recently, I was out at a restaurant. The location of the restaurant and the name of the town are not important, as the following behavior is not limited to one section of the country. The residential population of this particular town is overwhelmingly white. I was sitting at the bar with a few friends. One minute I was trying to decide on what beer to order, and the next second, I felt fingers digging in my hair. When I swirled around to face my assailant, it was a middle-aged white man in faded plaid, beer belly sloshing with Pabst, a leering smile on his weathered face.
“Sorry,” he half-apologized, "I saw your hair and I couldn’t help but touch it." He finished his confession with a few more eager gropes. I stayed frozen in my seat, synapses tingling with shock, feeling violated.
Naturally, no one in my lunch group thought this was much cause for concern. When I later confronted the man, my companions thought it was a bad idea. I was seen as the "angry uppity black girl." They were embarrassed that I hadn’t remained silent. I felt embarrassed that they were so trained to think that such an incident was amusing and not a racially-fueled breach of respect.
It’s taken me twenty-four years to feel semi-comfortable with my hair. My mother wonders why I’ve stopped using my expensive straightening iron. She enjoys her vanity and seeks escape in the beauty process - escape from aging, escape from self-doubt. When I was thirteen, she was the one to propose that I could start dying my hair. She doesn’t understand that I feel as though I’m making a statement, a promise to myself, a vow to discard the poison of hating what you’ve been given.