The World…As I See It: Loyalty Issues

Missy Elliott’s “Work It”

http://youtu.be/UODX_pYpVxk

For anyone who’s ever been to a black beautician, time is not on your side.  You perfect the fine art of waiting.  Waiting your turn (appointments are just a guideline).  Waiting for your relaxer, color, roller set, etc.  Waiting under the dryer.  Waiting once the dryer shuts off.  Waiting to be “finished” is the chair.  A basic relaxer for not-quite-shoulder-length-hair can take anywhere from 2 1/2 to 4 1/2 hours.  Since I only have to go every two months, I guess it’s not so bad.

And let’s not even talk about the costs.  Just refer to Chris Rock’s amazing documentary on black women and their hair “Good Hair“.

While most people (women in particular) are sensitive about their hair and who they all touch it.  I would venture to say it’s even more of an issue for black women.  I can’t just walk into the neighborhood Sharp Cuts or the most expensive salon in town.  Not everyone knows how to do black – or more politically correct “ethnic” – hair.  My “perm” is actually a “relaxer”, bleach should NEVER touch my hair, there’s no such thing as a “quick dry”, a bad cut doesn’t last for a few months, more like years (if not decades), and more and more.  Let’s just say it’s more different than not.

With the wait times, costs and difficulty to find trained hairdressers, why further inconvenience yourself when it comes to getting your hair done?

When I moved to Austin, I knew it would not be a “Chocolate City”.  Like with most things (including attending Iowa State and studying abroad in Italy), I adjusted.  People are just people but beauticians are not just beauticians.  I needed a black beautician or at least someone very familiar with “my people’s hair”.

Google and Yelp were of no help.  Eventually, I found a lady who could do the job but it didn’t seem very well.  There was no confidence.  I was coming off of 4+ years with piece-meal care and sporadic salon visits.  I needed someone to help/teach me more than I needed a perm every 8 weeks.

Six months into my Austin experience, our office manager with the most gorgeous, thick, curly long hair became my hair savior and sent me to her hair dresser.  [Cue heavenly chimes]  Teena is awesome, a young expert interested in always learning more.  Easy to talk to, relate to and trust.  Since my first/virgin relaxer 15 years ago (whew, that’s a long time ago), my hair has never been healthier.  While I recognize a lot of that is due to my maturity in caring for my hair and ability to go whenever necessary.  I also credit much of that “hair health” to Teena’s capable hands.

So where do loyalty issues come into play?

Well…her salon is so far away…

When I first started visiting Teena, here salon was 20 miles from my office but only a few miles from my home.  Over the last few years, I have consistently moved further and further away.  She’s now 20 miles from my office and 25 miles from my home.  Understanding the appointment times, distance and traffic, there are simply no convenient times to go.  Every two months, I’m dedicating up to 6 hours just to get a relaxer, i.e. chemically straighten whatever has grown in since the last time, typically 1/2 – 3/4 inch worth.

How do I make this easier?  Easy – Find a closer beautician.  My mom was really good at this.  She hates driving, waiting and paying.  Every 6-9 months (it seemed), she’d find a new faster/cheaper/closer hairdresser.  While there’s nothing wrong with “moving on”, I’m partial to consistency.  However, every time I move further away, I struggle with my mother’s “choose convenience over loyalty” motto.

This latest move unfortunately coincided with Teena’s maternity leave.  My hair was in desperate need of professional attention and she was busy  attending to a new baby.  How selfish… [Sigh]  After an internal struggle trumped by external vanity, I tried a new person two miles from my apartment.

While I felt a little guilty, I decided to try it.  It was a small, well-kept salon and the beautician pleasant and open.  The shop is owned by her sister, another beautician.  The appointment went well and all was gravy…until she made me feel guilty unintentionally.

As part of standard new client inquiries, she asked about why I’d come to her.  I explained that my current/old beautician’s shop was too far away.  “Oh okay”  A few minutes later, she told me about her clients who had driven close to 100 miles to her shop.  (Strangely enough from a very large city to a tiny one.)

While that trip is extreme (and probably only taken by one person a few times), this woman, a stranger, is telling me about her client willing to make that trip.  Yes, that’s crazy.  But this lady obviously appreciates this client’s loyalty and trust.  So what’s every 8 weeks to continue with someone I trust and believe appreciates it?

While I’m thankful to have a more convenient back-up, I’ll head back to Teena when it’s time for another service.  I curse my loyalty issues during the 4-5 hours but praise them 4 weeks later when someone tells me how good my hair looks or Teena comments on how much it’s grown since we started together.

Results over process, right?

Jo’van

Shades of Understanding: Blacknowledgement

Carlos Santana featuring Seal “You Are My Kind”

I thought I was being a clever wordsmith but, alas, a Google search has proven me wrong.

UrbanDictionary.com describes  blacknowledgement as “the process by which a Black person acknowledges another black person’s presence in a social environment where black people are scarce or otherwise absent. These environments include places and events like: lacrosse parties, ice hockey games, early morning classes, Russia and The Ku Klux Clan Annual General Meeting.  Blacknowledgement is a show of solidarity and support indicating to another black person that you understand their social anxiety and feel their inner torment.”

Stuff-About.com goes further with “A blacknowledgement can be executed using anything from a simple nod to a well executed six part, click and snap, integrated handshake. In less friendly situations, a blacknowledgement may be used as a territorial gesture. It can be used to signal to another black person that you are the resident black person in that environment and that they should cower off and find non-black friends of their own. Many black people feel that their novelty wears thin when they find out that they are not the “token black person” anymore.”

Whether I agree with these definitions 100% or not, they are the basis and blacknowledgement exists and is prevalent.

I started “realizing” blacknowledgement a few years ago but it’s been a part of my life as far back as I can remember.  When I am in public and see another black person across the room, across the street, in the boardroom or behind the counter, I acknowledge my recognition of their permanent tan.  It’s generally subtle, typically eye contact and a nod will suffice.   But it’s there.  Since I recognize I’m doing it, I’ll try not to go out of my way.  Some people will make it a POINT to go out of their way to reach out to you, especially in professional or large group social settings.  Even though, I may not make giant strides across a room to shake your hand, if you do not at least make eye contact, I feel slighted.  Ridiculous or not.

As I came to “realize” my unconscious blacknowledgement, I tried to figure out how I’d explain it, especially to non-black people.  Why do it?  Who taught me to do it?  Consequences of not doing it?  Really I don’t know.  I imagine it’s truly (good or bad) just acknowledging someone somewhat like you.  Sure you could have different backgrounds and experiences but in whatever situation you’re currently in you’re both at least (if not only) black.  As someone whose professional and social circles do not regularly include many chocolate-hued faces, it is somewhat comforting to see another black person in those groups.  And it doesn’t matter what part of the country you’re in.  I’ve experienced blacknowledgement in Tennessee, Texas, New York City, Chicago, San Francisco and Ames, IA.

How did I learn?  I have absolutely no idea.  No one ever told me to do it or even discussed the phenomenon with me.  I think I just learned by watching the adults in my family and recognizing other people were doing it to me.  Either way, I am a well-established participant in regular blacknowledgement.

I’m not aware of any consequences.  But I’d imagine some people may feel slighted.  For whatever reason, I do at times.  Brown faces in a sea of beige and pink stick out.  No one’s truly THAT race/color-blind.  I know you saw me…

So what are we to learn about/from blacknowledgement?  I’m really not sure.  I don’t see anything intrinsically wrong with acknowledging the other black people around me.  I don’t ignore all non-black people in the same situations.  It’s just an extra.  I imagine I do the same thing when in situations with only one or two more women.  However, for whatever reason, 1.) I’m more often the only African-American than woman, 2.) I’m less uncomfortable as the only woman, and 3.) There is a sense of potential competition with the “other woman” that I can’t say I feel with the “other black”.

I imagine I’ll go on acknowledging my brothers and sisters and laughing a little when I realize I’m doing it.  To further overuse a corporate crutch word, I’m just acknowledging diversity (one type, but diversity just the same).

Is this unique to African-Americans?  Do other ethnicities and/or groups do this?

Acknowledging anyone who read this, black or not,

Jo’van

Family Values: I Love THE 90’s – Family Edition

Not an exact fit but it’s still a good song.  Adele recently had throat surgery.  Wishing you a speedy recovery!

Adele “Hometown Glory”

For some reason, I started thinking about the terrible 90’s movie “Made in America”. If you’re not familiar (spoiler alert), sharp-tongued, widowed, black, inner city bookstore owner (Whoopi Goldberg) finds out (through blood-typing in public high schools, really?) the sperm donor father of her teenage daughter (Nia Long) is not a random black man but in fact crazy, perpetual bachelor, over-the-top, pickup-truck-on-steroids-driving, crazy tv personality white car salesman (Ted Danson) .  Whoopi and Ted fight and flirt and the start of a blended family emerges in time for Nia’s valedictorian speech.  While rife with cliches and stereotypes, the movie is cute/entertaining enough.  (It’s interesting to note that Goldberg and Danson actually dated in real life. That one still doesn’t make send to me but I digress…)

Yes, the premise of the movie is ridiculous but only somewhat plausible.  In the case of these parents, their relationship began because of a baby they didn’t know they’d conceived together and a clerical error.  Going beyond the ridiculousness, I began to think about the underlying message – No matter what their differences or how they came to be, blended families and inter-racial (or inter-generational, inter-religious, inter-political, mulit-lingual, etc) couples are becoming more common and less offensive to the general public.  (I’d argue that the two are not one in the same.)

My family is a perfect example. I have 10 people in my immediate family.  No, my parents were not rabbits.  They were “progressive”.  While there are key differences that are missing, my immediate family is definitely the most “blended” of anyone I’ve actually met.  When explaining my family to the newbie who has no idea what they’re getting themselves into, I start by saying we are THE 90’s family.  (Sometimes I wish could whip out a diagram with VH-1 graphics.)  Most of the wonderful and terrible things that were said to happen the family structure in the 70’s and 80’s happened to my family. (Cue the curtain…)

In the beginning, there were three traditional couples married with children, same religions, same races.  For various reasons, divorce entered the discussion and then there were six divorcees sharing five kids.  Everyone married again and had more kids. The end. Kind of…

I am an only child of a black couple that once was.  I have four parents, six siblings, one brother-in-law and a niece.  We are black, white, bi-racial, multi-racial, mixed, college students, struggling twenty-somethings, parents in their 30’s, methodist, baptist, catholic, mormon, vegetarian (not a religion but when your dad’s a hunter with mounted deer heads and fish, it’s enough), reformed screw-ups, goodie-twoshoes, musically inclined, athletically blessed, step, half, whole, born into, invited to join and somewhere in-between.  (As individuals, we are much more but who’s got time for all of that?) Half of the kids have two “homes”, while the other half may wish they had more than one. Some of us switched households for holidays and school breaks, while the others lost or gained siblings throughout the year. Sounds like fun, right? And for the most part it is.  Budgeting Christmas presents and negotiating holiday schedules are the only times it truly sucks.

Let me point something out again: I am an only child with six siblings.  In less than three year’s time, I went from the spoiled only child of divorced parents to the middle child of two households.  Seriously, only to the middle! That’s any only child’s nightmare.  Ok, enough of that…

There are several blog posts to be written about what it means to play any of those roles, especially the roles I fill. But for now, I’ll just end with one thought – Most families are like vanilla ice cream in a cake cone and that’s lovely.  But we opted for the twist in a sugar cone, a bit more complicated but delicious just the same. I love the 90’s!

Thanksgiving in Phoenix and a Nashville Christmas? Sounds about right.
Jo’van

Shades of Understanding: Finally a Black Disney Princess

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,

Jo’van

Shades of Understanding: Denying My Roots By Relaxing Them?

I wish there was a video for this version but alas, just the song.

India.Arie “I Am Not My Hair” featuring P!nk (Please note they both punctuation in their names. Haha)

I recently had the pleasure of having dinner and with two British gentlemen during a conference.  While the conversation covered a number of topics, we spent quite a bit of time on race relations and related issues.  I foresee any number of future posts inspired by this conversation.  One comment in particular made me think about my overall experience with my hair.

One of the guys (of Asian descent, while that distinction is not necessary, I believe it helps add a little color to the story, no pun intended) asked me innocently but pointedly if my hair looks like that in the morning.  At first, it took me a moment to grasp his meaning.  Of course, I’ll need to comb it but for the most part, unless sweat or water are a factor, I don’t have to do all that much to my hair.  Only having to wash it once a week, I generally just get up and go.

Of course, he didn’t necessarily mean the “morning” so much as was my hair naturally straight.  completely unashamed, I shook my head no and explained that it was chemically straightened and that my roots have to be processed every 2 months.  When asked why I did this to myself, I explained that it’s been this way since age 12 and that “going natural” would require cutting it all off.  I’m not entirely confident I could pull off the little boy look.  The other gentleman spoke of a woman he’d dated from the West Indies (I believe) who’d decided to “go natural” and how he’d quite liked it.  This comment is also important but I’ll get into that later.  The most important thing to take from their comments was that while they accepted it, neither understood the need/desire to permanently breakdown the chemical bonds of my hair.

So why do I relax my hair?  (You’ll commonly hear black women refer to perming their hair.  Our perms are actually relaxers.  They straighten, not curl.  The processes do different things.  A perm creates temporary bonds.  That’s why the loosen up over time.  A relaxer on the other hand breaks down bonds.  There’s no coming back from that.  It’s permanent until you cut the treated hair off.)  There’s no need to really dig into the history.  In the early 1900s, both commercial relaxers and hot combs (the precursor to the Chi) were unleashed upon the general public.  Needless to say, black women around the world have been straightening their hair for 100 years.  Walk through any African-American self-help section in a bookstore and you’ll no doubt find some book about the black woman ideal and our struggles with our hair.  History and magazines tell us we straighten our hair to emulate the Caucasian ideal.  But I’m not also bleaching my skin, my hair will never make it past my shoulders, and I’m obviously not going to be able to pass for white, so why do I relax my hair?

There’s no simple answer to that question.  The closest I can get is fear.  I’ve never known my hair to be any other way.  Sure, throughout my childhood, my hair was “natural” but it was still straightened.  The hot comb usually came out on Saturday so you’re hair would still be presentable on Sunday for church.  I’ve always strived for long, straight, full, beautiful hair.  As I came to accept my hair would never look like Tatiyana Ali (Fresh Prince reference for you) or Naomi Campbell’s, I decided to do the best I could with what I had.  For 13 years, as funds and availability allowed, I’ve paid someone to burn the hell out of my scalp to straighten the “new growth” aka my roots.

In college, I remember getting into a debate with an African-American male administrator at a conference funny enough about race and ethnicity.  While in a group circle to discuss the sessions of the day, he launched into a tirade about black women relaxing their hair.  With his age (50s-ish) and “participation” in the Civil Rights Movement, he felt completely justified in lecturing us.  (I’ll have to say that I believe he just saw a collection of early 20s black women as easy targets to vent.  His wife had bone-straight, chemically-altered hair.)  Although a few of the women in the room had natural hair, the general consensus among us all was that to relax or not to relax was a personal choice, usually driven by taste and convenience.  The same reasons I could use to explainrelaxing my hair, another women could use to justify going natural.  And you know what?  More power to us both.

The struggles I remember with my hair during childhood are not necessarily what I’d endure now.  For the most part, the issues arose because someone was trying to keep my hair straight and “manageable.”  Rain, sweat, swimming, basically anything involving moisture turned 30 minutes worth of straightening into a dual-textured, frizzy mess.  I’m not sure I’d experience the same battles now.  If I were go natural, my hair (texture-willing) would be worn in such a way that water would not by my enemy.  What a novel concept!  (Washing my hair once a week really limits my water-based activities.  Sure, I could wash it more often but I’m not really willing to go through the 1 1/2 hr washing-drying-straightening-curling process more often.  Some people find the once-a-week thing gross.  Please understand that my hair does not get oily or greasy.  I actually have to put the moisture into my hair.  Washing it everyday would require buckets of leave in conditioner or cause it to get brittle and break off.  Trust me.  Once a week is the way to go for me.)

I’ve recently begun to contemplate just being bold and cutting it all off, starting over.  Aside from the initial shock, I’m trying to imagine how bad it could be.  Aside from the extreme possibility of resembling a little boy for several years, I’m at a loss for “good reasons” not to do it.   Well, of course there’s always the possibility that I’ll absolutely hate it.  Slow hair growth makes this decision especially difficult.

If I ever choose to take the plunge and rediscover my hair unaltered, it will be for no reasons other than vanity and ease.  I would love to not hide from the rain, go swimming at will and not have to burn my ears accidentally or scalp intentionally every 8 weeks.  But I also like running my fingers through my straight, although short, hair and blending in.  Natural hair seems to make a personal and/or political statement I don’t really care to make.  Me going natural would not necessarily mean I’m trying ot be “more black” or embracing my cultural roots by growing out my physical ones.  For good or bad, my roots are just a part of me that showcases my melting pot heritage.  Relaxers or afros, they all seem to define or explain everything and nothing about me.

Wishing my hair would grow faster so this decision wouldn’t seem so monumental,

Jo’van

Eye of the Beholder: Brown Sugar, Can I Love You?

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.”

Italy – an expensive ego boost,

Jo’van

Shades of Understanding: Being “Just Black”

“The African-American experience” has been a hot topic in the media for the last year.  With Barack Obama running for president (and incidentally being elected), black hope, deliverance, equality has been all over the print, TV, radio and online media.  Some feel a black President signals the day African-Americans have become fully equal.  Others consider it to be a stepping stone but not the finale.  Either way, being Black has been discussed but not really examined.

What does it mean to be black/African-American?  It’s really a personal definition.  There are some common traits/histories that the group shares but YOUR experiences are the most important definers.  Rather than speak for a rather large group, I’ll just try to explain my feelings about it.

For most people that I know (that aren’t black), being “something”, whatever it is, is defined by a history, what your particular group has “gone through.”  While you may be American, you’re also Greek, Spanish, German, Italian, Panamanian, Indian, Canadian, Nigerian, Irish, Brazilian, etc.  Just being able to claim a country and culture outside of the U.S. seems to empower people to be something extra, justifying failed attempts to learn a second language, perfecting one “authentic” dish or a trip you can’t afford to the land of your forefathers.  I’ve realized that over the years, I’ve grown almost bitter about this lack of extended identity.  Yes, African-American culture is rich and thick.  But it’s short.  What’s 300 years in the grand scheme of things?

Let’s say a generation is 25 years long.  300 years is roughly 12 generations.  Growing up, I was blessed to spend time with great-grandmothers, grandmothers and my parents.  We represented 4 generations, a third of African-American history.  That kind of realization helps put the reasons I feel the way I do into perspective.

The roots of “my people” were ripped up and displaced.  Sure, I could “go back to Africa” to visit the land of my forefathers but the continent’s just a little big and somewhat diverse.  True, most slaves brought to the Americas were from West Africa but that only narrows it down to a minimum of 5 currently sovereign nations.  That’s like saying I could be German, Swedish, Turkish, Italian or Austrian.  Just a little different, right?

Like my family, the vast majority of African-Americans have family members of different, usually European, connections.  The only part of my family that I can trace back more than 5 generations is Irish.  There’s nothing wrong with that.  It’s kind of cool.  But for some reason, I don’t feel a strong connection to Dublin, U2 or redheads.  I giggle when I say it out loud, especially around St. Patrick’s Day.  I’m African-American.  Our family also has Cherokee roots.  Unfortunately, I know very little about Cherokee history or culture.  It feels almost wrong to claim it.  Everyone from the South, seems to have a Cherokee great-grandmother somewhere in their family tree.  So I go back to being just black.  What is that?

In college, I had several conversations with African immigrant students about identification while in the US.  Their ethnicities covered every major region of the continent, different languages, religions, cultures, histories.  But one thing most of the students I spoke with agreed on was the fact that they didn’t want to be considered black or African-American while in the States.  At first, I thought it was because they’d like to be identified with/by their home country.  And while that’s true, several people explained to me that it was equally important for them not to be tied to the sordid, unfavorable image of African-Americans here.  How could people who ARE the African part of my African-American identity be SO against being what I am?  What’s wrong with it?  Unfortunately, many of the stereotypes we peddle here are bought around the world.  But there’s enough to say about that for a separate post.  Suffice it to say, I was surprised, hurt and later educated about how we’re seen by our theoretical brothers and sisters and fully get where they may be coming from.

There’s nothing I can do about having a limited history.  And I’m not ashamed of any aspect of the history I can claim now.  It’s just that I sometimes wish I had more I could claim, hope to embrace, love enough to teach.  African-American history is completely American history.  While parts are often (intentionally or not) left out of our traditional K-12 history books, African-American history is nothing but American history.  There is no and never was an Africa-America.  Our history is just red (blood, sweat and tears), white (captors to coworkers) and blue(s).  Every now and again, I kinda wish “we” could share the same kind of specialness other cultures do, being able to claim (if only partially) somewhere/something else.  Not complaints, just thoughts.

Singing “Follow the Drinking Gourd”,

Jo’van

Shades of Understanding: The Black, Female, Democrat Conundrum

Black. Female. Democrat.  If you’re not ALL of those things, this post may not apply to you.  The 2008 presidential election has been especially exciting for me.  (The final outcome was the highlight but I’ll write about that next week.  I still need time to digest.)

Leading up to the Democratic Convention, the country’s registered Democrats (and dissatisfied Republicans) were faced for the first time with two historic candidates: a young, charismatic mixed black senator from Chicago and a seasoned, well-known female senator from New York by way of the White House by way of Arkansas.  Both lawyers.  Both senators.  Both representing a fight for injustice.  One married to whom many considered to be the first “black president.”  The other on his way to becoming the first “actually black president.”  One a great orator.  The other a calculated speaker.  Not a knock to Barack Obama but I was a Hillary Clinton supporter.  Seeing as my side did not prevail, I will not dwell on my reasoning for leaning her way.  Just enjoy the below picture of my puppy Rodman sporting his “Howl for Hillary” shirt during her concession speech during the Democratic Convention.

Howl for Hillary

Howl for Hillary

I think the most interesting thing about my choice of candidate was the reaction I received from other Black, Female Democrats (BFDs) in my life.  Some were appalled that I could even CONSIDER not voting for the black candidate, as if I was abandoning my race.  I didn’t realize that it was my obligation to vote for any black person running for an office.  If the person is qualified AND the best candidate, Hell yes.  If not, it may be my responsibility to help them become the best candidate, not just to give them a position and cross my fingers.  Luckily, Barack Obama was a candidate I could and did (eventually) support.  But what if he wasn’t?….

Until Hillary was out of the race and had conceded, I was hoping to see a Clinton back in the White House.  Following the father-son Bush deal, how cool would it have been to have a husband-wife succession?  Bush-Clinton-Clinton-Bush-Bush-Clinton.  And I still feel Bill Clinton should be the first First Gentleman.  Couldn’t you just see it: Bill Clinton in linen suits reading to underprivileged children in DC?  Simply magical….

In the words of Sojourner Truth, “Ain’t I a Woman?”  Does a black man usurp a white woman in who’s holding my best interests at heart?  Who decides if I’m more or less a woman than an African-American?  Am I not allowed to consider the politics when race and gender are an additional factor?  I feel it should be a personal decision.  Clinton and Obama could have been (and I believe were) BOTH candidates for me.  I’m proud to call Barack Obama MY President Elect.  But I’m still not giving up on Hillary.  I respect her too much not to hold out hope.  No offense to Biden but an Obama/Clinton or Clinton/Obama ticket would have been this Black, Female Democrat’s dream come true.

Still sporting her “I Voted” sticker,

Jo’van

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