Water

When I went to the Organization of American Historians conference, I attended a panel by black women professors telling their stories of what it is like for us in the academy—the challenges, the classroom questioning of authority, the dismissal, the please-can-you-serve-on-every-committee, the isolation, the feeling of being an impostor.

But that is another post. I bring up that panel because of what happened to me when I heard Dr. Ula Taylor speak. She spoke about all those pains and about the hurt that results from the much-too-soon loss of black women like VeVe Clark and June Jordan. But she also spoke about healing, about how she soothes and comforts and heals herself by swimming.

And I started to cry. Because for the longest time, I have wanted to write about water.


Yes, water.

Because of my heat- then chemically-straightened hair, I was taught that water was my nemesis. I could not lie back and pretend to float in the tub. My sister and I could not run under the water hose or the sprinklers on sweltering Louisiana summer days. I could not play in the rain. On Memorial Day or the Fourth of July, when our family went to the park, the girls could only go so far into the water.

And I could not swim. Never even learned.

I wanted to so badly, because somewhere along the way, I realized I loved water in my hair, on my scalp. I think it was when I first had to wash my hair on my own—I’d always believed I didn’t have the expertise necessary to deal with that “difficult” part of me, but college-induced poverty changed my mind.

That water on my scalp--the first warm rush, the later, slow trickles--made me think longingly of swimming. What it would be like to immerse my whole body, to have water move in its gentle lap-lap-lap as it caressed my skin?

But my "whole body" was the other issue. How could a fat girl learn to swim? What would I wear? I was (am) too fragile to reveal myself like that. I do not want the pitying, disgusted gaze of others.

I am afraid the pitying, disgusted gaze will be mine.

So I learned to suppress the desire to swim.

Mostly. Sometimes it overwhelms me.

Like when my son is swimming and I dangle my feet in the pool, bathe them in the cool, silky water while the sun warms my back.

Or when we spend holidays near the water and I, very quickly, trail one of the babies’ feet or hands through it. Just so they’ll know the delicious feel of it.

Those moments are fleeting, subordinate to my attachment to my bone-straight hair and my internalized body shame.

But I want to be like Dr. Taylor. I want to find healing and peace in the water. It's not that I think water is somehow magical. The appeal is rooted somewhere in something both literal and figurative--how the weightlessness we feel in water is a temporary reprieve from all that we carry, all that brings us/holds us down. So, I know there is something there for me.

Why else would I crave it so?

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My New Haircut

I accomplished something this break! Complements of my sister-in-law, the scissors-whiz.

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Anatomy of a Lazy Friday Morning

I'm being totally shameful this morning. I woke up for the second time around 8:45 and have been in bed most of the time since.

I have developed a hunger headache, but I don't want to cook, don't want cereal because my refrigerator gets the milk too cold for my poor teeth, don't want a cold sandwich. Apparently, I just want to whine and have a headache.

I had an appointment for highlights at 11, but as my stylist warned me that it wold take two hours at least, I rescheduled. Don't feel like spending Friday like that, but now I'm going to have to wash my own hair.

I want to do more work today (spent last night examining microfilmed newspapers from 1960) and am trying to arrange it so I don't have to do much more than sit up to write and read. The laptop is on a tiny table right here beside the bed. And the books:



It occurs to me that it might seem sad that the other side of my bed is covered with books. I'm almost motivated to do something about it... almost. Any rectification will have to wait until after the nap I'm about to take.

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Things Seen 9

My "Things Seen" series might lead y'all to believe that I never run across anything good. Actually, I saw something really cute last night.

My niece and I just took down her braids:



And I told her...


..."Awww, you like a brown Heat Miser!!"

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Ok, There Are a Few Stupid Questions

The other day at Feministe (and on her site), Renee wrote about white people who touch our hair (or ask to do so) and why that is... ahem, problematic. To paraphrase (what I believe is) the heart of the post,

Today white people still feel that they have the right to our bodies. [I]t is an assault, and an affront to our bodily integrity.

One of the first comments I saw was

I grew up in the Caribbean and being the only white child in my school I often had requests form black children to touch my hair… I never thought they were being racist, I still don’t think they were being racist, only curious.

Lovely turnaround, I thought. Then on Renee's site, I saw

... I do want to lend some support for touching hair and sharing information as a way of expanding people's minds who are honestly curious and just don't know better.

and

I think maybe you are attributing to presumption which might be pure primate curiosity.

Can I just say, quickly, that neither your intent nor your curiosity are what matters here? Or, can I highlight what Jessica said

I think that here, the act of "touching," especially without permission, is a claiming and colonizing act meant to put the person being touched in a subordinate position to the one who is acting/touching.
A person who considers another to be an equal would say, "I like your hair."

Then I thought, silly elle, it doesn't matter what you or Jessica or Renee say.

It doesn't matter if I point out that some people who believe this is simply curiosity can, on the other hand, (rightly) see why it is sexist that people feel they have the right to touch women's breasts, or bottoms, or pregnant bellies.

Because this conversation has been had.

The first thing I remembered when I saw reactions to Renee's post was people arguing with nubian over whether or not the white woman who asked her if she (nubian) got hotter because her skin was darker had made a racist observation.

Even after nubian said

i stand there in amazement after listening to this woman “other” me into some kind of sub-human anamoly

See the point is not Renee's or nubian's perceptions or feelings. The point is I intended no harm!! I'm curious!! I really wanna know dammit!! And then, the huffy, "Well if I can't ask questions how do I learn???!?!?!" (Hmmm... gotta ask Holly if that fits into "The Lean On You When I’m Not Strong" maneuver).

In any case, I'm soooooo over your intent. /snark
_________________________________
ETA link to Holly's post. Duh!

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Hair Woes

I did something shocking last weekend.

I bought shampoo and conditioner.

Why is this significant? Because I've been taught to not wash my relaxed hair at home, so I never really have shampoo and conditioner.

One of my stylists used to have a sign up warning customers against being "kitchenticians." Another used to complain of clients who attempted something at home, then came crying to her to fix it.

Given my indoctrination into the "Water, Mine Enemy" school of thought, I never wanted to risk garnering the wrath of my stylists or dealing with relaxed hair that doesn't bounce back from home washings.

But I just moved here and I sweated a lot during said move. I haven't found a stylist, but I can't take another minute of my "sour" hair.

It occured to me, not for the first time, that it is a mad, mad world in which we live that women can be convinced that they lack the skills or knowledge to deal with something as simple and personal as our own hair.

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