TLC’s “Unpretty” (Remix featuring 2Pac – His rap really doesn’t fit but that’s kind of why I like it…)
Sitting under the dryer at the hair salon, I can’t help but wonder “Why am I doing this to myself?”. Every 4-8 weeks, I’m paying someone to straighten this, highlight that, thread those, wax that. On special occasions, I pay more to have this cut, those painted or that lasered. (I’m no longer just talking about the hair on the top of my head.) To keep in line with the costly exterior upgrades, I also pay to have access to those weights and run on that treadmill. In short, I’m a normal, healthy, self-conscious, vain 25-year-old woman.
Now, I understand all of these “services” are voluntary but I see most of them as necessary to stay in line with my contemporaries and expectations. And to be completely honest, I feel better about myself and my appearance afterwards. No one believes my hair’s naturally straight with red highlights, eyebrows perfectly arched, or that my toes naturally appear in various shades of reds and purples. BUT I imagine more people would notice bushy eyebrows, kinky (and not in the attractive afro style) hair, and a mustache. I do what I can and what I think I need to. (Sometimes not the same things.)
A few months ago, I went to see Chris Rock’s documentary “Good Hair”. If you’re at all interested and/or curious about the processes, costs, stigmas, and assumptions about black hair, I’d highly recommend the film. As my friend and I found ourselves laughing and nodding our heads in agreement with the commentators, one particular moment, or better statement, stuck with me.
A well-known, arguably renowned, hair stylist preparing for a major hair show and competition decided to go the extra mile for vanity and try Botox. The costs and pain were worth it for him to look his best. After the procedure, once the bleeding had stopped, he looked in the mirror and said, “I don’t feel as beautiful as I anticipated.” I couldn’t help but laugh and wonder “Do we ever?”. This man’s in the business of making people look and feel better and he’s still unsatisfied with himself. Of all the people, shouldn’t he have more realistic, and therefore more achievable, expectations?
For good or bad, God made me whatever I am. While I’m not considering anything as drastic as plastic surgery (although an upper lip and cup sizes proportional to my backside would be nice…), my actions are, in effect, trying to improve on His design. He loves me hairy legged, nappy headed and ashy. I should be able to too. And you know, I do love myself. I just like myself more well put together. Hair, make-up, outfits, shoes, they’re all a front. The question really isn’t “if I’m putting up a front with my efforts” but “if I can accept and admit a front’s all it is.”
Not anticipating beauty (just hoping really hard for it),
A clip of the song “Almost There” from Disney’s “The Princess and the Frog”
Over the Christmas holidays, I took my mother and grandmother to go see Disney’s “The Princess and the Frog”. Three generations of black women sat in a movie theater in the middle of the day on a Wednesday to somewhat celebrate Disney’s first black Disney princess.
I won’t give the movie away but it IS a Disney movie afterall. There’s a sweet, smart young woman facing hardships that can only be righted with hard work, magic, music and a man she hates only to eventually love.
Now when the buzz about the movie began a few months ago, I heard critics praise Disney’s move to finally include African-Americans in their special princess clique and others berate Disney for having the first and only black princess only be a human for 1/4 of the movie. (You see Tiana turns into a frog when she kisses the cursed prince…)
You know, I get it. I see both points and why people would be so upset. What other princess is an animal the vast majority of the movie? The closest I can think of is Ariel in The Little Mermaid. But at least she was human-like from the waist up. Is this unfair? Maybe. Would I prefer to see Tiana as the beautiful human rather than the adorable frog? Maybe. But do I (want to) believe Disney was being racist? No, not really.
Of the nine “Disney Princesses“, four of them were already princesses. The other five were peasants, poor, lower class beauties who strived for equality and success and became princesses. Tiana is one of these five. Would it’ve been nice to avoid some of the stereotypes? Sure. Were the accents and assumptions of lower education all that necessary? Probably not. But the fact that Tiana is a poor, black, and from New Orleans isn’t such a bad or surprising thing. Disney (and most entertainment companies) play on stereotypes. While the heroine was poor and black, her rich, spoiled friend was a little round, blond and always in pink. The prince was beautiful and immature. The villain was thin and dark (in fact he looked very much like The Lion King’s Scar). Her friends were bumbling and sweet, parents supportive and wise. And most importantly, Tiana’s success was based (mostly) on her determination, intelligence and big heart.
Growing up, my mother made a conscious effort to surround me with dolls who looked like myself. Why get me a blond Barbie? Beauty was defined as blond, blue-eyed and pale everywhere outside of my home, even on the television and books within it. Why force her daughter to stare at and idolize something she’ll never be? Was giving me all black dolls a little extreme? Yeah, maybe. But you know what? I grew up thinking Christie was just a pretty as Barbie. Barbie just had better outfits. Plus, my grandmother and stepmother added a little diversity to my dolls with Barbies (blond), Midges (red head), Teresas (brunette/Hispanic), Skippers (blond little sister) and Kens (blond boyfriend). And you know, Christie didn’t even need Ken. She had Steven. I played with them all. Barbies, Cabbage Patch dolls, average baby dolls. If I’d had more/any asian dolls, my trunk would’ve looked like Brangelina’s brood.
Conclusion: If I were 7 (shoot, maybe even at 25), I’d want a Tiana Barbie. She was pretty, smart, brave and successful. And it’s finally nice to have a Disney princess who looks like me. And you know what else? After Pocahontas, Tiana’s the 2nd American princess. Fancy that!
Contemplating asking for my first Barbie in 15 years,
Ahh, to see. For those who’ve never needed assistance and/or tools to do so clearly, seeing just seems a given. You open your eyes and the world presents itself to you. However, if you’ve ever opened your eyes only to see the world out of focus, I feel your pain. Now, I recognize that having whatever bad eye sight I have is better than having none at all but for the purposes of complaining, I am only comparing those in need of contacts and/or glasses to those who’ve only considered these options to cosmetically change the color of their eyes or to “look smarter.”
I’ve had glasses since age 6. Yep, I was a scrawny, thumb-sucking, know-it-all first grader with glasses. (Very little has changed since then sadly…) At that age, glasses didn’t mean much else than something you had to be careful with because mom would get really upset when you broke them. Of course, you didn’t understand why. You just went back to the doctor and got more. (Ah, the ignorance/innocence of youth.) I don’t believe I ever really liked my glasses. I just don’t think they began to bother me until middle school/junior high.
As hormones started to kick in and the pretty girls were identified (for at least the next 10 years), being scrawny and boyish was bad enough. But I had to wear these thick plastic glasses too?! They were just setting me up for social failure. Beauties never wear glasses. You don’t see singers, actresses or models with glasses unless they’re playing the part of the nerdy and the less attractive. Glasses were like having braces, being flat-chested and having short hair. You just didn’t want that. Glasses did not equal attractive.
When my mother told me I’d have to get braces in 8th grade, I almost cried. Well, could I at least get contacts before? The last thing I wanted to happen was to look like a nerdy boy with crooked teeth that needed to be fixed. Now, of course, I was far from the only one going through this helplessly awkward phase. But at age 12/13, other people’s awkward phases don’t make you feel better. Most people don’t seem to adopt the mean “at least I look better than them” mentality until they’re further into their teenage/early 20 years. Thinking I was just being ridiculous, my mother didn’t want to deal with costs and issues associated with contacts so I ended up not getting them until I started working at Sears my senior year of high school and could afford them myself.
To not avoid the cliché, contacts opened my eyes to a whole new world. Nothing looked better with contacts than it did with glasses except for my reflection. There was a sense of beauty (or at least less ugliness) and freedom. In my clouded, naive teenage brain, glasses made me unattractive. Contacts at least helped to level the playing field. I could now really play with makeup, eyeshadows, eyeliners, mascaras. I could dress up my face. They didn’t do anything for the acne or other flaws but at least the glasses were finally gone. And with the braces having been removed the year before, I felt I was starting to look more like a young lady and less like a slightly more feminine Steve Urkel. (No, seriously. Urkelina was my nickname on the junior high volleyball team. At the time, no one could think of Myrtle – the name of Steve’s southern belle cousin who came to visit a few times.)
Fast forward 8 years and not much has changed. Aside from family and my roommate, it’s rare that anyone see me in my glasses. (In fact, if you see me in glasses, it generally signals it was a rough morning and will probably not be a very good day so stay of my way as much as possible. If it’s glasses AND my hair is tied back/wrapped up, stay clear. I’m probably either sick or exhausted.) Contacts and the insecurities tied to years of glasses are still very much a part of my identity. I still believe I look better in contacts and usually have at least a bit of eye makeup on. Luckily, I don’t really wear the bases, foundations, creams, powders and the like. Genetics and the dermatologist have helped me maintain relatively clear, consistent skin. But those eyes are a different story.
While I like to fancy myself rather intelligent, I don’t want to look like a nerd, just maybe sound like one at times. Over the last two years, I’ve started to reconsider my opinion of glasses and me in them. As I’m trying to force myself to wear these $400 pair of glasses more often than between my bed and the bathroom where my contacts are in the morning and the bathroom to my bed at night, I still find myself preferring the image of a glasses-less me. Ideally, I’d love to get lasik surgery. But last year my optometrist quoted me around $6,000 for the procedure. Are my eyes and vanity worth six grand? Yes. I just don’t have the available funds. Trust, as soon as I do, I’ll happily toss out my glasses, glasses cases, lens cleaning clothes, lens cleaning spray, contacts, contact cases and cleaning solution bottles, and stare blindly into the light. Only to open them later seeing the world the way it’s meant to be seen – clearly. I simply can’t imagine waking up in the morning and being able to see. It must feel like a miracle. (And I don’t care how overly dramatic that might sound. 🙂 )
Realizing it’s time to schedule her annual eye exam,
I would’ve used Kanye’s “Workout Plan” but I’m still pissed/disappointed by his VMA stunt. So…. I’ve decided to go with a new millenium Madonna video. True, she seems to go overboard but it’s evident she works out.
Over the last 6-7 months, I’ve managed to lose a few pounds and inches. I don’t know the specifics of both but let’s just say it’s been enough to make admiring my closet a less enjoyable endeavour. You see I have a shopping problem. And nothing like unemployment makes you realize the need to use what you’ve got (at least as it relates to clothes). So rather than add to and complement what I have, I’m having to figure out what would be tailor-able and pay more just to be able to wear something I already own.
I know that as a typical female I’m not supposed to complain about losing weight… but I can’t help it. The whole (okay, well maybe not the whole) reason I changed up my gym routine enough to see a change (you know like actually going more than once a week) was that my clothes were getting a little snug. I wanted to not have to go up a size. Obviously, I went too far b/c now I’m forced to go down a size (or two in certain cases). This scenario might be wonderful if I had the funds to replace all those 8s with 6s but that is sadly not the current case. Thank goodness I have a wonderful tailor. (For one of my interviews, I HAD to keep my blazer buttoned. The shirt and skirt were so big it looked like I was playing dress up in my mother’s clothes. But not necessarily my mother since we’re about the same size but you get the point….)
Aside from clothing adjustments, my weight loss has caused a number of people to speak out, either in support or lazy envy. No one is negative toward me. It’s just difficult to hear a sentence start “You look great” and end with “but look at me.” Sure, we all have areas we could work on but for the most part, the people in my life look good. (But I won’t deny we could all benefit from a few extra hours at the gym. Flat abs don’t just appear and jiggle-y butts don’t suddenly firm up.) However, in these and similar scenarios, I always wonder if people are saying those things b/c they believe them or b/c they’re hoping I’ll disagree. Do I feed into the obvious set-up for a compliment or agree with their assessment (whether I really agree or not)? Either response could be bad. So I generally opt for the silent shake of the head “No” and smile. Anyone can read into that what they like but having that conversation with someone like me could be potentially dangerous, especially if you pick the wrong side.
I have to admit that it’s interesting that my weight loss has prompted others around me to feel more comfortable to point out their faults to me. Flabby arms, extra butt cheeks, non-pregnancy pouches, whatever. It’s as if they project their insecurities onto me. Obviously I too must have been unhappy with my own reflection to change it as much as I have.
My roommate recently made a comment that just made me laugh. She’d been off in her own world thinking about something when she suddenly turns to me and asks “Is it bad that looking at someone else makes me want to work out?” It took me a second to realize what she’d meant and then I just couldn’t help but laugh out loud. I’d made similar comments for the last few years and been told that I was just being mean. It was reassuring to have someone else say it out loud.
You’re not necessarily judging the other person. You don’t know their situation. But when you see someone else with a lot of extra fill in the blank you just might think to yourself “I don’t want to look like that.” You’re not saying that person should change or that there’s even anything wrong with their fill in the blank. But you are realizing that you’d personally like to avoid that size of a fill in the blank. You don’t think you’d “carry it well.” Arms that continue to wave after you’ve stopped, ass cheeks that spread to your hips, love handles you hate, fupas, cellulite (no explanation necessary), whatever your case might be.
There are only three ways to handle that situation. Regretfully accept the evolution of your own fill in the blank, exercise and diet/eat healthy (I refuse to “diet”), or rely on drugs and/or tactics to limit your food intake. I hope that no one makes themselves sick and understand that some evolutions just have to be accepted. But I also realize that I am 25, single, not a mother, financially able to eat healthily, and physically able to exercise. I don’t really have any excuses. So I had to stop creating them when my pants didn’t fit anymore.
“Personal Self-Worth”. Yes, I know it’s redundant but I think there’s usually a significant difference between how one defines oneself to others and how one defines oneself to themself. (So many “selfs”) Your public persona is often very different from the one you face in the mirror alone in your bathroom in the morning or evening (depending on when you’re most self-reflective).
—Warning: This post sounds quite melodramatic. I know. And while I mean evertything I’ve written, they’re not the only things I believe about myself (or anyone else for that matter). I just have too much time on my hands to explore the extremes right now. I’m sure a “I’m F-ing Awesome” post will follow shortly. Just you wait. But with people constantly asking “How are you doing”, sometimes I just want to actually say what’s going on in my head. For now, I’ll just write parts of it.—
When you’re given those personality tests with endless lists of qualities to check off or rank for yourself, what do you always say? I’m always things like strong, opinionated, detail-oriented, cautious, rational. I’m structural and analytical. Anal and organized, cold and serious. My personality tests read like a resume. I sound like the ideal employee to sit in a corner with stacks of papers, a computer, her iPod and the occasional phone call. When in “real life”, I’m nothing if not emotional and desiring to be around other people. Sure, I still come off cold and calculated but that’s because I’ve found people don’t react to fiercely emotional very well. At least with the alternative, I only give up sensitive information when I feel like volunteering it. I’m very rarely asked out right. I imagine that’s because people don’t think I really think (or feel) about those types of things, whatever they may be.
So if I was going to make a list of my “real” characteristics, I’m not sure I’d be able to be that honest with myself. My entire life (as short and uneventful as it’s been) has been built around being in control. I had goals and found ways to easily achieve them. I’ve always been an above average student, a capable employee and a loyal friend. Give me something to do and I’ll simply do it. Need something from me and I’ll simply give it. Now I’m not saying I am always the best but I am nothing if not dependable. Friends get to see the bitchier side but I think they all know if it ever came down to it, my personal opinions and sharp words really wouldn’t mean a thing. But I digress…
My recent job loss was a jolt to my ego, personal self-worth, life-gauge. I did well in high school to get a scholarship for college. I was a high-performing and well-rounded student in college to get a good job upon graduation. I got that good job and moved to a new city to pursue my “future.” I maintained two jobs for nearly three years to be “responsible” and pay off more of my debt. I avoided all things that could get me in trouble, derail me from my goals, negatively affect my future. I didn’t get into relationships because I told myself I needed to “focus”. I didn’t really “enjoy” the time in my life to be acceptably “stupid” or “naive.” And what do I have to show for it now? An apartment full of novelty items that don’t really mean much or provide any comfort, suffocating bills, a desk covered with papers about unemployment, COBRA, contacting creditors, canceled plane tickets, revised resumes and job applications. My life could be 100 times worse but I’m not in the mood to worry about others right now. One of my developing characteristics is relentless selfishness and self-pity. It’s really not attractive.
I was never the pretty one or the athletic one. Never the nice one or the bubbly one. The super smart one or the smooth talker. I was always just the one with the plan and usually the means to accomplish it. Smart enough to get by and pleasant enough to not be completely anti-social. My skills and planning, research and execution made me seem lucky or at least hard-working. Now what? Now what am I? Will getting another job right my world or will this feeling of inadequacy stick with me for a while? I don’t really know but since I don’t want to talk about it, it’ll probably manifest itself in another character flaw, my bitchy desire to push people away when that’s the last thing I need to be doing. But recognizing the problem is the first step, right?
And what makes me inadequate? In this time of stress and drama, I’m not comparing myself to someone or everyone else with some measurable goal in mind. I’m comparing myself to what I think I should be doing and that’s the truly unattainable goal. How can I have a goal if I don’t have a plan? And at this point, my only plan is to get another job that will allow me to use the skills I’ve spent a few years developing and to pay off the debt I’ve spent the same few years collecting.
Of course, no job should define a person and mine never defined me. I am not and never will be software PR. But when having a job that justifies most of your life choices is no longer an option, then what? I have to really like the “personal” parts of myself? That means I have to deal with the not so great parts also. No fun. This job search is another test of my ability to like myself. I’m having to learn to sell myself all over again. It’s been three wonderful years of just doing something, not having to really think about it and why I’m the perfect one to be doing it (or not).
If only my self-worth could be in something tangible and easily adjusted like my looks. Haha. Just kidding. That would probably suck more…
My personal self-worth lies in the ability to stress about all of these things and still just do my thing, whatever it may be. In this case it’s market my marketing abilities. A true test, I guess.
In my current unemployed daze, I started cleaning my room and came across a photo of myself and 7 of my 8 roommates from my semester in Florence (Firenze), Italy 4 years ago. Yes, I had 8 roommates in one not-large apartment with 5 bedrooms. Luckily (or not surprisingly), I was the only person that had their own room. I got there first, it was the only one ready, I offered to switch but no one took me up on it…
Of course, I took this photo as a perfect reason to stop whatever I was doing and reminisce. I’m unemployed. I should just live the middle-class, uninspired, quarterlife-crisis happening American’s dream and backpack around Europe (again). But being pragmatic and a month and a half away from absolutely broke, I didn’t linger on this fantasy very long. However, I did try to remember what it was like to live in Florence, the sounds, the smells, the foods, the people, the school, the market, the mosquito nets…
Aside from the expected culture shock and complete lack of disposable income, I had a great time. In the most cliche way, that semester made me feel like I could be a grown up and I started to toy with the idea of being able to really do this, really living abroad. Pack up and become more concerned with a passport than a state driver’s licence. I liked just being classified as an American, not as black, or middle class, or a Southerner, or the product of a broken marriage, or a preacher’s kid, or whatever social constructions I use to identify myself at any given time. Of course those things would still matter, but I now how had this larger title AMERICAN to identify and/or argue with.
However, I had another title that I wasn’t prepared for. So growing up in the US, Tennessee and going to school in Iowa, I’ve never been the ideal of beauty. Real beauty is petite, buxom and blonde. Real beauty has blue or green eyes, gets curly perms and pays to tan. Real beauty looked like Britney, not Beyonce. Not to go too extreme, the US is a melting pot and values melting pot beauty but if we were to identify one true ideal for the nation as a whole it would not have an excess of melanin. It’s just the truth.
I happened to room with 4 wonderful, very different looking and acting white women from Iowa State. I respect these women and hate to reduce them to physical descriptions but it’s necessary to make my point. We had a short, cutsy sorority girl, an athletic, artsy blond, a shorter, fuller diva and a commanding, self-assured amazon. And then there was me, I guess I’d describe myself as a tall, sassy black girl. We were nearly as different as possible.
In Iowa (or just about anywhere else in US), I would not have been the 1st, 2nd or even 3rd person someone would look at in our group. However, in Florence, to my surprise (and that of some of my roommates…), I was often the object of attention. How odd it was to be walking to class through the market and hear “Brown Sugar, Can I love you?” in a thick Italian accent. Well of course you can’t but thanks. 🙂 Cat calls were strange to me. At home, it only seemed to be dirty old men I could easily dismiss. Here, not so much. It seems that brown was exotic in Florence. Blondes were typical. Every American, British and Australian exchange student looked like my roommates. Italy gave me a little ego boost. 🙂 And to make things even better, I didn’t look my best. Here I was getting more attention than ever before and I didn’t have access to a hairdresser or my entire wardrobe. Who knew?
And I have to give it the Italian men. They were not shy but they were also not all that annoying. Yes, I definitely heard some things that would make a less brown person blush and some of the guys would follow you around. But unlike at home, once they got the message that it wasn’t going to go anywhere, rather than get pissed or hurt, they simply turned in one direction or another in search of the next female. You don’t want me? Ok. She might. And I’m off…
I also have to note that there were quite a few male African immigrants out during the day. At any tourist spot, you’d find men selling random knock offs on sheets for easy pick up. I later found out that there were quite a few African immigrant women as well. It just so happens that they are the popular choice for prostitution. I can’t say for sure if this is true but my sources led me to believe that Italian men had no problem paying for a little brown sugar and in fact, preferred it. Supporting that remark, I was visiting a friend, my wife actually, in Rome and as I was walking back to the hostel, four cars pulled over to ask how much. It’s important to understand that I was in a hoody, jeans and tennis shoes. Rather than be offended, all I could do was think how our “girls” are being played in the states. Of course, I didn’t but I could’ve gotten some business in comfortable clothes while they’re suffering in spandex, stilettos and fishnets…
Anyway, the whole point of this story was the fact that I had to get out of the country to recognize my melting pot attraction, whether I was the one leading myself to believe it didn’t exist or not. I’m not saying that I’m horrendous and doomed to live with 14 cats because my looks are so offensive. It’s just that growing up I was brown, lanky, only developed the one curve I have in college and always had cute(r) friends. A semester in Florence gave me a little more confidence and the ability to possibly see myself as being a little more, if not one of the “cute friends”, at least not “the ugly one.”
The Truth: According to Jo'van 