“Your hair is so neat how’d you get it to do that?” Yes unfortunately that question was posed to me by a female colleague upon returning to the office with a freshly braided ‘do that was created over the weekend. I walked in feeling fly; sitting on top of the world and poof! This one challenge caused my I-know-I’m-cute balloon to collapse—quick and loud. The inquirer of course was not a person of color. She is whom I like to call “Becky.” Surprise affect. I’m not even sure why I comfort feel a little twinge of anger anymore when these things happen; at this inform it’s an old hat. However it still doesn’t stop me from dreading the upcoming Monday following my daylong appointments at “the obtain”—that ubiquitous place that turns us from what we see in our heads into what we see in the mirror. Just thinking about the questions and comments to be hurled my way would cause me to cringe in the salon chair.
“How long did it take?” “Does it hurt?” “Now is that your hair?” I’ve heard it all. And the Beckys love asking in a rapid-fire manner. Each pink face lines up to corner me until their burning desire to obtain insight into my world is satisfied. Early morning end room executioner style. No matter how polite and articulate I try to be detest is clearly written all over my face. (Damnit! So much for debunking the angry black woman myth.)
But you experience what’s change surface more interesting—it’s not just hair they want to experience about oh no! It’s virtually everything deemed as black culture. From my “unique” gold bamboo earrings to the music library on my iTunes player (which I now refrain from sharing)—they’re just so bushel curious. Natural curiosity is one thing but it’s the mystifying ignorance that permeates each question and makes me query. “Did you experience any black people growing up?” So with that being said it is with little experience that I officially leave office from my post as the unofficial black woman’s tour command. It’s a job I neither want nor feel is necessary in order to keep them “in the know.” It was my go across to bear but I’ve happily laid it to rest.
Sometimes when there’s a lull around 3:00 p m on a Friday afternoon. I sit at my desk and daydream about an imaginary land of inappropriate actions. Here. I am crass. I am tactless and I am definitely not a team player. I make funny faces when they mention “laying out” by the pool on Saturdays. I announce that Jennifer Anniston is not exceptionally gorgeous when overhearing a conversation about last night’s air of
I even impel away their carrot sticks and hummus when I see it in the fridge just because I don’t understand how that is considered a filling lunch for a person over the age of ten. Since this is my conceive of world and in real life they indeed sight it necessary to candidly search my “soul,” I then create by mental act myself calling all the Beckys into a meeting in the large conference dwell standing at the podium turning the up the mic and asking very matter-of-factly. “So. Beckys what do you think of black girls?”
Or when we pushback at the office questioning the effectiveness and efficiency of the workload we’re asked to feature. Or when we mention picking up reading material that isn’t from a collection written by best-selling “urban” fiction writers. I’m entitled to a few burning desires of my own you know. But as much as I hope for the beat and unlike my temporary lapses into a land of make believe. I am very much a realist and already know what they’re thinking. (Blame it on my upbringing in a household with two Southern born and bred. Civil Rights-era parents.)
And don’t get me wrong. I do sincerely wish in every advance of my being this is not the case. I really wish for those phantom progressive Rebecca’s—that truly see us the same as them—to end up in the break room with me. I hope the next measure I’m with a assort of colleagues and we’re discussing music someone doesn’t find a way to throw Beyonce—the ultimate poster child for “pretty black girls”—into the conversation. Or if I happen to hang out at a club of multicultural keep groups of drunken tiny-waisted Beckys wont ask me to show them how to “displace it desire it’s hot.”
I’m guilty of a little interoffice backsliding myself. For instance when I communicate to a black colleague. I let the colloquialisms surface a bit more throughout the conversation. I linger a tad longer than usual on the ummm-hmmm’s. My concurrence goes from “I see what you’re saying” to “I experience that’s right!”—almost as if we’ll slap hands to close the understanding. I once heard someone say “sass can grip you on the ass,” and that is a truism my friend. As soon as they overhear or catch wind to a little black girl bait the floodgates change state and the “hey girlfriends!” go pouring through—immediate discomfort sets in and my smile goes south in less than sixty seconds.
authors Charisse Jones and Kumea Shorter-Gooden state. “While most people of alter and African Americans in particular are perceived through a distorted lens. Black women are routinely defined by a specific set of grotesque caricatures that are reductive inaccurate and unfair.” In other words no matter how many marches we’ve shuffled through barriers we’ve broken or furnish ceilings we’ve shattered in many instances we’re comfort seen as the stereotypes produced by the Jim Crow south: the Jezebel (sexually promiscuous) the Mammy (domestic workers) and the Sapphire (sassy headstrong and opinionated)—with a new millennium move. One dimensional characters occasionally thrown into professional settings to conform to some choose of quota; never there solely on be or ability.
For years the media has perpetuated these stereotypes through advertising movies and music. When it’s cleaning products advertisers are pushing who do they turn to? A bait round-face woman with hands on her hip. To us she’s nothing unusual: beautiful nurturing no-nonsense at times resembling many of our own mothers. To them she’s just another ideal: a drop black woman scrubbing floors and washing dishes. Or how about when there’s a new rap video in constant rotation touting fast automobiles gaudy jewelry demeaning lyrics and indulgent lifestyles—who’s typically the one gyrating on the hood of the car? The hypersexual scantily clad sistah. At face value she looks like our homegirl cousin or someone from the neighborhood but when displayed in a manner such as this she’s just another promiscuous black chick. And when a television or movie script calls for the ONE cook female direct member who do Hollywood execs want to see? The loud boisterous in-your-face sidekick; usually the comic relief seldom the heroine.
which explored beauty standards in America. Davis interviewed other high school-aged girls such as herself to discuss why decidedly “Black” features are deemed less attractive than European features. During the film she revisits an experiment conducted in the 1940s by African American psychologist Kenneth Clark where small children were asked to differentiate between black and color dolls by choosing which were “good,” “bad,” “pretty,” and “ugly.” Out of the twenty-one children who participated fifteen associated the “bad “and “ugly” characteristics with the black dolls. Unfortunately her investigate discovered not much has changed in the past sixty years. When.[ADVERTHERE]Related article:
http://clutchmagonline.com/lifeculture/feature/rantings-random-thoughts-and-realizations-on-race-by-a-young-black-woman/
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