I have worn my hair natural for nearly the last 10 years (without interruption) and I think I have earned the right to be over it. Yes, lawd. I am over calling a relaxer “creamy crack.” I am over using Black hair as a barometer of Blackness or self-pride. I am over YouTube videos, tutorials, and 50-leven products crowding up the cabinet under my bathroom sink. I am over Naturalista Nazis and Repulsed Relaxistas. But mostly, I’m just over natural hair being a “thing” we tell other Black women is or isn’t for them.
Almost a week ago, moments before sunlight scattered darkness, Bree Newsome scaled heights to bring down a symbol that had long outlived its day. My social media timelines had been abuzz with folks pointing fingers about “no more marching or praying,” they said, “let’s start doing.” So the 30-year-old Black activist did something. In a planned action of civil disobedience, Newsome climbed the flag pole at the Columbia, South Carolina Capitol and simply unhooked it, waved it, and descended. We have lifted her name in pride since. Well, most of us have. Please collect your stripper-shaming simple siblings.
Last week, my daughter turned to me and exclaimed out of the blue, “Mommy, you’re brown!” She has not yet made the deduction that she, too, is brown. She soon will. And when that day comes, I want to be ready to tell her what it means to be brown. I do not want to wait until she reaches school age for her to love herself, to love the almond of her skin, to know that others can love themselves and not disparage her.
I don’t know if I can fortify my daughter against having skin color issues as I did when I was younger. Some hurdles our children must find the strength to jump by themselves. I will do what I can. Nonetheless, more than just a general sense of Black pride, I would like to instill in her an intolerance for colorism. Here are five things parents of preschool girls can do to foster self-esteem.
Last week I went to my first blogging conference, Blogging While Brown and I had a BALL! I spent two whole days around people who share my interests, speak my language, and inspire me to do better with my talent. I soaked up so much information that will help me become a better blogger and Internet citizen. One thing #BWBATX taught me is to share resources. I’m putting my spin on a recap post with the best quotes I heard from speakers, presenters, and (of course) my favorite bloggers!
Greetings, my lovelies! I am writing from Austin, TX, where I am SO stoked to be attending Blogging While Brown. #BWBATX is my first blogging conference!
When I graduated with my Master’s degree, I don’t really know what I thought would happen. Maybe I imagined what the whispers subliminally told me. A Master’s degree will garner higher pay, a better position. Education for education’s sake is never a bad investment, right? All this may have been true prior to the Great Recession. Today, though? All I have to say is: Master deez.
Let’s get one thing straight: I’m just here for the humor about Rachel Dolezal. I wanted, if only for a day, to take my mind off serious “issues” and laugh about a white woman pretending to be a Black woman who really looks like a White woman. The jokes write themselves and #BlackTwitter is Shakespeare at […]
Now that I’m older, it’s somewhat more frustrating to not be “where I thought I’d be” as if life is supposed to unfold just as we imagined it. You ever do that? Look at your 25, 30, 35-year-old self and glumly measure your progress against what might have been? Yeah, me neither. So I dream. Maybe I’d get more time to write if I could quit my job? Be a stay-at-home-writer-mom? I pin my dreams on those “perfect” circumstances, and wait and sigh, sigh and wait.
But frankly, I have a bad habit of waiting until my life is perfect to live my life.
My three year-old baby girl is off on summer vacation spending the week with her grandparents in Jacksonville. And her mother doesn’t know what to do with herself. We did the same thing last year and I was fine. Giddy, even, to be kid less for a few days. But as we pulled away from the house last Sunday afternoon, I felt a twinge of separation anxiety. I miss my baby!
Kalief Browder committed suicide after being held for 3 years without conviction at Rikers Island. He had nowhere to run. He disintegrated. They chipped and chipped at him until he had nothing left. And then they gave him back to his mother, a shell. How could Kalief live in the state of New York, in America even, knowing they sanctioned every cruel indignity he suffered? There was no place he could run to feel safe, not even in his mind. I pray that in death Kalief is freer than America allowed him to be in life.