The Time I Wore My Satin Bonnet to Work…

For the past few months I have been tucked away in a quiet little town in the Shenandoah Valley. How did I get here? Well, I have been awarded a nine-month fellowship at a flagship university. Yes, little ole me was asked to partake in a fellowship that would have awarded me much coveted teaching experience AND dissertation writing time. See, I was already a history professor, but it was like I was being called off the bench to bring it on home, in an academic sense. I had arrived!!! Did I mention the university is a PWI?? Why is this significant? Well because I am a product of HBCUs, and when I started teaching at the collegiate level, I was lecturing to black faces. Add that to the fact that I had spent my whole life in urban spaces, where again, black folks were everywhere. While I was aware of the change, it was not something that was on my radar. I just excited about teaching at a four year school.

But I had a problem. The climate of the valley is weird. It is constantly cloudy and dense. It rains ALL the time and the air always feels moist. For all my sistas of color, you know my issue without me even saying. But for those who still don’t get it…allow me to just say it. My hair is NOT here for these conditions!!!!! On my first day of work, I decided to walk to campus from my cozy (and paid for…YASS!!!) apartment. I was so excited about my first day. I walked into the building and caught my reflection in the hallway widow. Something seemed off. I ran into the bathroom and started in horror at the mop on my head. My big curls had become a damp frizzy mess. A hot ass mess that I could not save. I walked into class on my first day completely off my game. Because of my hair.

As a scholar I can contextualize seemingly mundane things …after all, that is what I do for a living. As I looked around I became extremely self-conscious. I also became hyper aware. As a black woman, my hair is more than my hair. It is my crown. It is my identity. I find myself in the elasticity of my natural curl pattern. It is one thing to deal with your hair inside of your own cultural space, but it is a completely different feeling to rationalize it outside of your cultural space. As I told my best friend last night, a black woman’s hair is her politics!! Had this been been my old job, I would have been met with sympathetic looks. That “yes I know your struggle,” look. It is almost the same thing as the “nod” that black men give to each other in passing. {SN: if you have not seen the “nod” episode of “Blackish”…you should be ashamed.} But I found no sympathy. Through my hair I realized I was completely out of my element. I was a black woman in a room of white faces and no one understood how I felt. Man listen…for the first time ever, I am hypersensitive to my race, the attached culture, and its place in the academy.

After class, I walked to my apartment and immediately restored my hair. Naturals know that in such a state you got to “co-wash, coconut oil, bantu knot and satin scarf” your hair back to life. The next morning, I released and fluffed my curls, beat my face to the gawds and headed out, ready to have a better hair day than the day before. WRONG!!!!!! I left work feeling defeated. While walking home, I took notice of all the white girls who could walk around unaffected and unfazed by the effects the climate has on their hair. I looked at them as this species that evolved to handle the evil climate monster that was holding me captive!!  The valley was super unkind to my tresses. I had to do something. The next morning, I made the executive decision to walk to work WITH my satin bonnet on my head WITH my twists still in place. Yes I did. The first time I did it, I received some looks. But I did not care. I found a way to beat the evil climate monster and all it required was a $1.99 satin bonnet I got from Beauty4U on Branch Avenue. Something that was once so insignificant to the point where I would either forgo using them some nights or misplace them frequently was now central to my life. I walked into class now with my crown full and fluffy for the world to see. From blowouts and pin curls; to twist outs and rod sets; you name it I walked in with it. My hair popped severely.

That night I told my friend what I did and she said “I know you ain’t stroll across campus with a hair bonnet.” Yes I did. Before you roll your eyes and say I was setting black folks back three hundred years, I am aware of the criticism. Yes it’s a faux pas. Yes it makes me look unfinished and unpolished. Yes it can come across as ghetto. Yes, I know the public is NOT supposed to see my bonnet. But I truly give zero cares. I don’t see a satin bonnet as anything but a protector of my identity. The instrument God gave me to protect what He blessed me with. It keeps my frizz at a minimum while I stand in front of 100+ students lecturing about the black diasporic experience. Cut me some slack. Those who know me know that I am a rachet intellectual. I do not hide who I am and what it takes for me to be who I am. {I am listening to Fetty Wap right now} I find such value in satin bonnets, that I will defend their use to anyone who shames them or black women for using them. Black men hate them and white women really don’t need them. AND?? The satin bonnet is a legitimate part of the black women’s experience. It is everything from the “you aint getting none” signifier to the supreme protector of our edges. It is what keeps us fly. And as long as I am in the “valley” as the locals call it, I will continue to wear my bonnet to work.

P.S. This blog is dedicated to my best friend Ashley, whose love for me and all things Brie can only be described as “Lebron in the 4th….sometimes!

Why Vh1 Should Not Cancel “Sorority Sisters.”

**DISCLAIMER: This is in no way reflective of the BGLO members I know personally. In other words…please do not come for me because I am not sending for you. Lord knows I don’t want no troubles.**

I love reality television. I love everything from Real Housewives of Atlanta to Duck Dynasty. I do not discriminate when it comes to my reality television choices. So you know I was front and center last week to tune into Vh1 for another Monday full of rachet reality television. Of course Love and Hip Hop: New York was typical. Peter Gunz realized he created the same situation with Amina that he was trying to avoid with Tara, while Rich Dollas is still a hot mess all around. Erica Mena was still trying to convince us that Cyn was a real thing and Yandy got her boo Mercedes (or whatever he calls himself) back from Club Fed. I was all set to put in a movie and doze off.

Then this happened…..

Chiiillleeeeeeeeee……

I, with the rest of the Vh1 legion watched in awkward horror as “Sorority Sisters” became the train wreck that I could not turn away from. As the minutes passed, I cringed for all my friends in pink and green when April’s “Skee-Eee” and clutched my pearls  (no pun intended) when Cat received an “Oh I’m sorry,” when she told April she was a member of Sigma Gamma Rho.

As a proud graduate of an HBCU, I am well aware of Black Greekdom. After all, Black Letter Greek Organizations were birthed, nourished, cultivated and thrived on the campuses of HBCUs. You can not help but be in awe of them when the stroll across the yard. They are literally, to an undergraduate, what you would want to aspire to join.  You are taught early on in your undergraduate tenure to respect the sacredness of the “Divine Nine.”But for those who are non-Greek, you know that there are certain things you can and can not do..say or can not say in reference to  BGLOs. So if I have that common sense then where was the common sense of these ladies when they were approached by Vh1 to do this show? If I clutched my pearls then I know one of those ladies had to have had second thoughts.

I always believed VH1 was a culture vulture, with Mona Scott Young leading the flock.  With shows like Basketball Wives and Love and Hip Hop, and Atlanta Exes, this was bound to happen. Think about it. All these shows have cast that are primality black and majority women. I am not surprised VH1 found another aspect of black culture to exploit explore with black women serving as the conduits.

But my surprise was the reaction of black Greek members. I mean, geesh! They took to Twitter and tweeted their disgust and outrage that such a show was allowed. As as a collective, they pulled together and managed to get major companies like Hallmark to pull their ads from the show’s time block. That’s commendable, except that doesn’t mean much when the ads play at other times. I was bothered by the hypocrisy.  Sooooo it is okay to  promote Selma while Erica Mena is involved in her upteenth fight?? I don’t believe y’all.  Y’all need more people.

The reason I don’t believe y’all is because where is this outrage at the fact that Vh1 has made gazillions off of shows that feature black women cast members acting a complete ass?? Before you were Greek, you were a black woman, a culture that needs wayyyyyyyyyyyyyy more protecting than those three letters on your chest. It’s okay to cheer on Evelyn when she hopped across that table to beat Jennifer’s assets, but it was not okay to watch two women argue over a boutique? Why? because they are Deltas? Bye Felicia. I think y’all really need to take a step back and reevaluate your position. You have no room to be entertained one hour then get on a high horse of privilege sixty seconds later. If it’s that bad don’t watch. That sends more of a message to Vh1 than the 1.3 million people who watched last week. There is this little thing called Nielsen ratings and guess what? It does not send your opinion to the network. In other words watching = ratings.

There is an aspect of this show that I think a lot of people missed because they were soo blinded by the Greek ish…so let me break it down for y’all. Have you noticed that for the first time in the history of rachet reality TV, we are presented with an ENTIRE cast of college graduates? Let me put it a different way. Sorority Sisters‘ entire cast is of black women who are college educated.  The closest we have come to this is Yandy Smith. When she was first introduced to the Love and Hip Hop, she was bossed up. Now her storyline revolves around her relationship drama because that is way more entertaining than showing Yandy running around New York networking and handling business. Think about it. Vh1 knew what they were doing when they released a show with no promotion, trailer or cast bios until the weekend before the premiere. Instead they decided that a group of college educated black women was not going to cause the controversy it needed. Vh1 believed that we would not find that interesting….and we took the bait.

This is why VH1 should NOT cancel Sorority Sisters. Yes, I said it. Yes I know my BGLO friends do not like it. But I do not care. I’m curious to know how these women, Greekdom aside, navigate life post college. I am interested in how they attempt to shatter the proverbial glass ceilings that hangs over our heads as black women. I am interested because I was faced with the same issues as most of the cast. I’ve had that “oh shit! What do I do now?” moment. I’ve been overwhelmed and scared at the thought of leaving the bubble that is “the yard.” and I know a lot of ladies that can identify with Lydia, a single mother to a four year old who is one blink away from homelessness. I know plenty of women who juggled classroom with children. My best friend did it. It is this aspect of the show that resonates with me most…not that Greek stuff. Who cares.

The Seven Things Students Do That Professors Don’t Like.

I feel this semester has not been one of my best. For some reason I can’t connect to the students the way I usually do. For some reason I feel I am having an off semester as far as teaching.

So imagine the panic I felt went I went to my faculty mailbox and pulled out a memo alerting me that it is the time of the semester where we have to conduct student surveys. See, this is the time where students get to rate the professors on everything from content to enthusiasm. Oh! And the best part is that they are given an entire sheet of paper that allows them to vent their feelings regarding the professor. After the results are collected and tallied, the professor receives the results the semester after. Trust me, these things can be brutal. They can make you question why you wanted to be in higher education in the first place. Students get to shred your entire career in one sheet of paper…never taking into account the amount of energy it takes to teach them and that it isn’t the easiest thing to do. Now normally I get stellar evaluations but wondering what the students had to say this semester made me feel queasy. So I got to thinking…what if we can rate the students? What if, we the professors, get to tell them all the sh*t we don’t like???
Allow me to step on my soap box and speak for disgruntled professors everywhere.

1. Unstapled papers.
This annoys me fully! I mean you really could not take two seconds out of your day to grab the stapler that sits beside the printers to make sure your paper was stapled?!?! TF???

2. Unprofessional Emails
There is nothing wrong with using emails to communicate with your professor after class but where is the subject line?? Or use of proper language? I am not your friend nor your peer so please do not insert emojis in your emails. Do not address me with a “hey.” Oh! and please do not send threatening emails when you do not hear from me on your time clock. When sending a business email, etiquette states that you should expect a response between 24-48 hours.

3. Constant repetition.
I stood in class a few days ago and announced that I will pass back the quizzes on Friday. Two seconds later a student had the audacity to raise his hand and ask “when are we getting our quiz back?”
I literally had a mild heart attack. As professors, we hand out syllabi, post announcements in Blackboard, send emails and students will still ask things like “when is the midterm?” Life needs to be had and several seats need to be taken.

4. Not reading/following the syllabus.
I take pride in my syllabus. It is detailed with everything my students need to pass my class. It even has a section where it gives a detailed descriptions of each assignment. When I pass my syllabus out on the first day I go over it with a fine tooth comb with the students. So when I am asked “when is the homework due?” I instantly get annoyed. Students do not understand the importance of a syllabus. It is a contract between you and the professor. Anything goes wrong in the class or complaint you have, the first thing that is asked is “what does the syllabus say. I just don’t get why students don’t use it.

5. Late work
I absolutely love when students turn in late work. I love it!!! Because I would much rather spend extra time grading assignments that doing other things like roasting marshmallows or watching Forest Gump. (Insert sarcasm)

6. Not reading the textbook.
Why the hell do you spend hundreds of dollars on books for?? Listen. The professor’s lecture is designed to supplement what you read/study at home. We do not read the textbook for you. If I have to go home every night and read and draft lecture notes then why is it that students feel they are above the same standard?? Which leads me to my next point…

7. Reliance on lecture notes.
After I say “Good morning,” lets start in chapter fifteen,” a student will raise their hand and ask,”Will this be on Blackboard?” I am screaming “Hell no,” on the inside, but I always manage a polite smile and say, “No, I do not provide students copies of my notes.” For some reason, students feel that by NOT reading the textbook and only relying on my notes will guarantee them a successful term. I want to say to any student reading this..actually come closer to the screen so you can feel me say this…I will NEVER provide you my lecture notes. Do you want to know why? Because there is nothing in my contract that says I have to. Grow up and be a college student. Act like you are in a place of higher learning.

Don’t get me wrong, I love teaching. I love the feeling of being a part of a link in the chain that molds young minds. I love my craft. I love being a historian, a scholar an academic but sometimes I feel that we lose sight of that catering to students. My students make me scream. I think my hair is thinning. I remember a time when my professor would use expletives if I dared to ask her a frivolous question or even thought it was okay to waste her time by asking to turn in late work. And for my fellow colleagues, do not be afraid to tell students “NO.” Do not be afraid of those evaluations. I have learned that administration will back you. They know the difference between a disgruntled student and a genuine evaluation of your teaching methods. Believe me, if you are fair, honest and respectful, evaluations are nothing to fear. This semester has been a learning curve for sure. I have learned that not every semester will be a stellar one. Just relax, breath and enjoy the bumpy ride.

The Five Things People Aren’t Getting About Ferguson.

When I started my blog, I never thought race would dominate my posts as of late…but it has because race has flooded my understanding of life as of late. I have been watching the events in Ferguson unfold for a few days now. A few nights ago, Twitter exploded as rioting occurred Ferguson after a planned peaceful demonstration went wrong. As the unrest turned into looting, I was glued to Twitter watching real live updates from people that were there, along with opinions from people who were not there.

I am one for watching a situation before I comment, but the comments I saw on social media bothered me so much I decided to crack open my laptop. So, without further a due, here are the top things that people aren’t understanding regarding the killing of Michael Brown and the rioting in Ferguson. (you don’t have to agree with me, I just needed more than 140 letters to articulate my thoughts) 

1. Social media broke this story.
If it were not for social media, this story would not have the press coverage that it does. It would not have prompted a statement from the president, nor would major outlets care much. The night of the riots, I would have preferred to watch the news, but no every major station was silent. Instead, I watched the tweets of Alderman Antonio French, who fed Twitter live updates as the rioting occurred. We know of the high powered guns, tear gas and road closures thanks to his efforts. Is it now safe to say that journalism has changed forever?

2. The legacy of “wearing the mask.”

I got into a argument with a woman who stated that she did not understand what the big deal was with police stopping Michael Brown in the first place. I told her that she was white so I would not expect her to. Now, although I did not mean to offend her, I was not backing down from how I felt. Plus you only get 140 characters to explain yourself.

“We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.”
-Paul Laurence Dunbar

I proceeded to tell this woman that she will never have to teach her children to “wear masks” I may not have understood it then but I do now. I now know what it meant when my mom would warn me before we entered a store saying, “Don’t show your color in here.” It meant don’t do anything to arouse suspicious or draw it to you. Don’t run in public, because you look suspicious. There were more: “Keep your hands by your side so you won’t look like you are stealing…Say “yes sir and no sir” when speaking to whites. …Keep your identification on you at all times…When an officer stops you keep your eyes forward and hands visible…”

Rewind fifty years to Jim Crow America and you can find some of the same lessons:
“When a white person comes toward you, cross to the other side of the street…Take your hat off in the presences of whites…Do not ride an elevator with a white woman on it. Never look a white person in the eyes…Be polite, be respectful.” I told this woman that I am sure her great-great grandfather never had to teach his son how to avoid the lynch mob. I am almost just as sure she never taught her son how to avoid racial profiling. Her children do not “wear the mask” but blacks folks do. I proceeded to tell her that the burden is on us every time we walk out the door. We wear the mask so we don’t appear as menaces, threatening and animals. We have to “wear the mask” to be given the benefit of the doubt. We hide so we don’t agitate people like you. Black parents teach their children to wear the mask of respectability politics because they know all too well what can happen without it. Jordan Davis left his mask at home the day a man decided his music was too loud and gunned him down. John Crawford took his mask off for just a second when he thought nothing of it to pick up a toy that looked like a gun. Had he had it on, he would have known better than to pick up that toy around all those white folks. Oscar Grant would have kept his mouth shut and head bowed if his mask were on and Trayvon Martin would have put on a different shirt. We “wear the mask” to make it home to our families – every. single. day.

Let me be clear before I am accused of being racist. I am not saying there are not other races who are sympathetic to this situation but I am saying that rage comes from sensory experiences. 

3. Why are they looting in their own neighborhoods? All they are doing is destroying their own economy.

I saw this tweeted a lot. Lets be clear, just because you have a heavily condensed population of blacks living in a singular container does not mean it “their” neighborhood. Or “their” economy. I am not trying to be funny when I say this but black folks do not loot their own businesses. If you study some of the race riots of this century where looting was involved, you will see that it mostly white and Asian businesses targeted. I remember watching the L.A. riots and seeing footage of an Asian woman who spray-painted “black owned” on here store to prevent looting. It didn’t work but you get my point. Black folks aren’t destroying their own communities.
If you want an example of a true black community, look at Tulsa, OK, Rosewood Fl, Durham, N.C. etc. where the entire community was self-sustained. The businesses and institutions were built, owned, and operated by blacks. Black children attended schools and the people had jobs. Barbershops, pharmacies, and lunch counters, hotels all black owned. White rioting destroyed Tulsa and Rosewood and Durham succumbed to integration. But you get my point. If you look at black communities now, I am pretty sure you will find underfunded schools, housing shortages, rent inflation and severe unemployment. And those are the neighborhoods not undergoing gentrification.

4. Rioting is not the answer.
Ferguson was not even on the radar of national news until rioting started. And immediately folks came out the and condemned the actions. More like blamed the actions of the police on the rioters. I’m going make this one simple…. you can’t disenfranchise a group of people then judge how they rage. That rage is racial. It is historical. It is generational. It is embedded. Instead of questioning it, why not help?
I do not condone violence, but I understand why the people are angry. Do you?

5. Image is everything.

In the aftermath of certain tragedies., I play close attention to how it is portrayed in the media. When Sandy hook happened, I, along with the nation, was devastated by the extreme loss of life, especially those little babies. But I was disturbed at the portrayal of the gunman. Every time CNN showed his picture, he was happy and smiling. He looked like a normal teenager. He was described as being “mentally ill” and “disturbed” The media coverage took on the tone as if we should not vilify this young man for what he did because he was ill. The Aurora theater shootings, same thing. James Eagan Holmes was portrayed as a man who was ill. Actually, His pictures, smiling. When the Trayvon Martin case played out on my TV, it was as if he was on trial for his own death. He smoked pot (lets be honest, how many of you reading this right now have smoked pot?) he cursed in his tweets ( I do alllll the time) Pictures of him wearing a grill (I have one…don’t ask) and displaying his middle finger were the images the media wanted you to see. The Columbine shooters wrote manifesto giving the police their plans yet it was glossed over.

The initial image used by media outlets in the aftermath of the shooting.

Brown’s graduation photo.

In the immediate moments after the shooting, media outlets used pictures of Brown that blacks found problematic. Brown on a front porch in street clothes. As if that was all there was to his life was being a non-contributing member to society. It was soo much more to his life. He was set to begin college and recently received his diploma. Yet those pictures we not used. In response, Black Twitter started the #IfTheyGunnedMeDown campaign. All over social media, I saw pictures of young black men posting pictures of themselves, one thought to be negative and one more polished and positive and asked the question of which one will the media pick to cover their murder. I loved it, because it held the media accountable for the way they portray blacks. I was watching Fox news yesterday I believe, and Michael Brown was always referred to as black. But then Ben Carson appeared on a program a few hours later and was described as “African American.” What Fox News was trying to articulate was not lost on me.

I could go more in depth but I will not. I am not in the mood for a history lesson. Instead, I will feel for his family.  I will forever be haunted by the image of him lying in that street. I will watch Ben Crump take the reigns on this situation. My heart breaks at the thought of wasted potential. Brown could have been something spectacular, but that ambition died with him the moment a police officer decided that whatever Brown (allegedly) did was worth a clip into his chest, head and back.

“DaQuan,” Meet “Sambo”

Social Media…a place where one can go for entertainment, news,social commentary, an impromptu modeling agency and dating service. In other words, an outlet that should not be taken seriously…95% of the time. The things I see on social media has made me “smh” and “lol” at the same time. Yes, I consider myself a scholar of some sort but I undertsand the “social media” generation, and besides, I can take a good joke or appreciate a funny meme every now and then, so rarely do I get offended by what I see.

I mean, after all, this is the same place that managed to take Kermit the Frog, beloved muppet, and turn him into a dry snitch with hilarious consequences. Memes, or pictures with captions, of Kermit sipping tea while observing all things wrong in today’s societies is funny. But there is one meme that is going around that I can’t seem to laugh at..no matter the caption…it just isn’t funny…

Around the beginning of July “DaQuan” was introduced to twitter with the subsequent tweet:

Photo of tweet from Twitter user @RealRaymodJ. Source: Know Your Meme

The young girl is shunning a “David” in favor of “Daquan,” implying that she’d much rather date a stereotypical black youth than a straight-laced white David. The tweet went viral and soon memes made their way through Twitter, Instagram and Facebook. Memes of white children rebelling against their conservative white parents in favor of dating or hanging out with “Daquan.”

Who is “Daquan?”

I am a lover of Criminal Minds. I live for the part of the episode where the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit stand before police agents and give a “profile” of criminals suspected of committing crimes. So after a few clicks around the internet, I came up with my own profile just like how Agent Hoffner would deliver it:

“Daquan” is an inner city black youth, typically between the ages of sixteen to twenty. His occupation is “trapping” or dealing narcotics, he is usually on the low-end of a criminal enterprise. He listens to “trap music” and aspires to rap by dropping mix tapes. We can infer that once apprehended he will be found to be illiterate, uneducated and the father of multiple children. Be warned, he is determined to be dangerous as his most serious crime is preying on impressionable white youth who are desperately looking for a pass into black culture.”

The meme does not disturb me as much as what it seems to imply and what society will still deny to this day, that racism is dead. We are in the “Age of Obama,” a time when a man of color can obtain the highest office in the land. This is the ultimate example that we have moved past the days of “Dixie.” When I ask my students what are their thoughts on “race” and “racism, they will either sit silent or loudly proclaim that there is no such thing anymore. “WE ARE ALLLLLL EQUAL” is what I hear this generation of youth echo in my American history classes. I heard one scholar put say, “look at the generation today, they will deny race vehemently. In this post modern world, the denial of racism is racism in itself.” He is one of those that believes racism as a social construct will never be eradicated, regardless of the times and circumstances.

These memes paint the picture that has existed since the introduction of Africans to Jamestown, Virginia. It just looks different. Add “Daquan to the list along with “Uncle Tom “Sambo,” and the “Mandingo.” In “Daquan,” we see a Black male who is a menace to society, a danger to conservative white america. Thier worst nightmare has come true, their daughters have fallen in love with one and their sons prefer to be them.

Another thing that offends me about these memes is that we never see what “Daquan” looks like or who he is for that matter. But we can take a real educated guess here. Raise your hand if someone similar to Chicago rapper Chief Keef comes to mind. Sorry, but it does. The fact that we never see “Daquan” is glaring. This means that he can become representative of all black males of this generation. That is a very slippery slope. All we see in these memes are white parents chastising their children for embracing “Daquan,” and ultimately in their minds, all things negative regarding black culture. I do not care how far we have think we have progressed as far as race relations are concerned we will always find remnants of racial stereotypes in prior generations. Had this been sixty years prior, “Daquan” would have been lynched for looking at a white girl too long. Yes, the days of lynch mobs are long gone but that attitudes that foster the resentment is still ever-present.

I appreciate satire, I get it. But I thought the days of attaching racially negative stereotypical characters to black men and women were over. But nope. I was wrong. The “Sambo.” and “Uncle Tom” and others (yes there is an actually list. Google it) were the result of the imaginations of southern whites to typecast their slaves and subsequently free blacks in a post Reconstruction America. But “Daquan” has found its way onto the list thanks to black social media users. So “Daquan,” allow me to introduce you to “Sambo…”

A proud moment for black America.

Mama said “There’d Be Brighter Days:” The Myth of Light Skin Privilege.

I love my best friend Ashley. The main reason is that she keeps my thought process in motion. We are always in constant exchange of thoughts and ideas. Whether it is two in the afternoon or two in the morning, we are constantly provoking each other’s deepest psyche. So when she hit me with “Have you benefited from light skin privilege?” I had to clutch my pearls. What Ash was asking me was in some form or fashion, have a I, as light bright as they come, benefited from my lack of pigment?

What is “light skin privilege? Well, it is the belief that as a person of a lighter hue, we get special favor in the eyes of this Eurocentered society in which we live. Or as Paul Mooney would say, ”the closer you are to white, the more its right.” Our skin color allows us to be conceited and stuck up. We are aesthetically pleasing to the eye, have better hair and more refined features. We can “pass” and blend in with the white folk! We are more desirable, exotic looking and overall better. Print and commercial ads prefer us as the representative image of “blackness.” Did I get it right?? Did I articulate all of the stereotypical thoughts about us light skin folks? But the one thing left off the list was the constant defending of our “blackness.” Not to outsiders. Oh no. In the eyes of whites no matter how light we are, we are still classified as black. Our defense comes internal. We are constantly defending our blackness because our blackness is constantly question and attacked by the people we should feel comfortable around.

Before I begin, I will not insult anyone’s intelligence by denying “light skin privilege” exists. It does. To cite Charles Parrish’s study “The Significance of Color in the Negro Community,” published in 1946, colorism has been internalized amongst us colored folk, whether we want to admit it or not (Do not act like you are not familiar with the “Paper Bag” test). We have managed to create a system that allows for the separating of blacks into color-coded groups or hierarchies. And what comes with this hierarchy are misguided stereotypes based on those signifiers As a part of his doctoral dissertation, Parish created a focus group of sixty black students from Louisville Municipal College and asked them to compose a list of all of the names they have heard and/or used as color signifiers. Names such as “blackie” “tar baby” “jungle yella” and “clinker” appeared on a list that stood at 143 terms. That’s right. These sixty students collectively identified 143 color signifiers that have been created and used to describe the differences in color hues amongst blacks. Once the list was composed, he used a ranking system to determine which names had the most significance and use. Sorry “tease-em brown” and “stove-pipe blond,” you did not make the top twenty-five. Good try though. Parrish then arranged the list into five groups, assigning them a color description each and asked the students to assign personality traits of each group. He then compiled those into the a summary of the results below:

Group A-Very light in color with Caucasian features and hair: They are physically attractive and look well in there clothes. They are thought to have a superiority complex which makes them conceited; they act like white people and have little to do with Negroes. They are not “in the race.”

Group AB-Light or light brown in color with variable features: They are thought to be good looking if Negroid features are not present, favorable personality traits.

Group BC Dark brown with Negroid features: Only a few are nice looking, must choose clothes carefully. Extremely sensitive about color, some are congenial.

Group C Very dark brown or black in color with pronounced Negroid features and hair: Most of them are thought to be ugly, they are thought to be evil and hard to get along with; they have a strong feeling of inferiority. They are quick tempered and like to fight. On the other hand they usually work hard and can be very smart.

Where did these stereotypes come from? Well I know every time one of my friends cracks a joke about my light brightness, it always sounds something like you were the slave master’s love child. Or I would have been a “house nigger.” Listen. Let me stop right here and school you really quick. There were just as many lighter tone slaves in the fields as there were darker tones slaves in the house. Have we really become soo tense that we believe placement on a slave plantation equated privilege? Yes, house slaves received better clothes and food, but that speaks to the peculiarity of the institution of slavery itself. House slaves were a representation of how a master treats his slaves. Of course when masters and mistresses were entertaining guests they dress their slaves in a way to reflect the generosity of the slave master. And another thing…being a “house” slave does not mean you were treated better. You were under the constant watch of the mistress. You were subjected to her abuses and mistreatments especially if she suspected her husband to be involved with you. If you read plantation diaries, you will hear masters having to place their mulatto children away from the mistress, either in the fields or selling them because of the abuses they would suffer. It irks my soul to hear black folks say with a smile that I would be given special treatment. “Oh Brie you know you would have been in the Big House as light as you are!” As if there is privilege in that. Rarely did house slaves receive the same fluidity as field hands. If you ask me, place me in the fields

I get it. I grew up in D.C., the most color conscious place you can imagine. I played with little girls that were darker than me and felt right at home. It was not until I reached adulthood that I was made aware of my color as a liability. It started with dating. Almost every man that has approached me has asked me the dreaded question,” What are you mixed with?” “What are you?” I am black. “Noooooooooo…not you! No have to be mixed.” Why not me? Why can I not be a black woman? Sometimes I don’t even get asked. One time when being introduced to a group of friends, a guy told everyone that I was Spanish. The hell? Oh and another guy told me he actually believed he was experiencing his first interracial relationship. The hell again? But then it started to move into my professional life. I was a second year master’s student who was soo over school I didn’t care what I looked like. I walked into class and sat across from a first year student. She had locs, was wearing Afro-centered prints and jewelry and here I was looking like I stepped out of an American Eagle catalog wearing Uggs, leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. As the class went on, I noticed that every time I said something she was visibly annoyed. The professor asked me to update the class on my thesis research and this was when she had enough. Standing up she yelled that I has no business writing about black women’s oppression (the central theme of my M.A. Thesis) When I asked her why she said because “you are not a black woman.” In that moment I felt like she was a representative of the Dark Skin Woman Unite!! Club whose mission statement was to police light skin women who showed any visibility of blackness. Or she was that group of mean girls in high school that said, “you can’t sit with us.” Of course I laid her out…in a scholarly way of course. But her words stayed with me. She was saying that I was too privileged to understand the gender and racial oppression of black women. That my color hue allowed me to escape and pass into places were darker women were not allowed.

So to answer Ash’s question, yes, in the eyes of others I seem to have a special superpower in my brightness. But the constant defending of my blackness has left me feeling like the sense of “privilege” that people seem to think light skin women posses has wayyy more legend than truth. Let me present this theory and we can debate it: Unlike “white-privilege” which was created and enjoyed by the same group, light-skin privilege was not something we “red-bones” created. We did not create those stereotypes either. Fed into them, yes. Benefited from them-I don’t deny that. Me personally though, I find no privilege in defending my blackness because I am of a lighter shade. I find no benefit in having my blackness policed by women who feel I don’t belong and men who are looking for an exotic fix without feeling guilty.

 

Stay tuned for Part II: “The Lupita Effect”: Light-Skin Privilege in Media and Print.

 

“I Was a Smart, Dumb Woman.”

 

I saw this picture today and it made me laugh. But I remember a time when this was my life…..Keep scrolling. 

 

 

 

 

“That looks like someone you know. Quick turn around!” 

                                  Pause. 

I wish I had ignored my roomie Reese. Actually, I wish I was not at the bar that night. But then again, maybe I don’t wish that because I would not have this story to tell. 

                                 Resume

“Nope,” I said while glancing over my shoulder, “don’t know him.” This was true, I had never seen this man that was strolling across the hotel lobby of the Marriott. Before I could turn back to my drink, he caught my gaze and waved me over. We exchanged polite conversation. He was in town for his homecoming, I was in town for a history conference. He was a college graduate with a job in corporate America, I was in the last year of my Master’s program. Even though I was living in North Carolina at the time, we were both from the same hometown. On paper, everything looked great! I was months away from graduation, I only had to sit for exams and finish my thesis and pray I got in a doctoral program back home. This was a no brainer. Only, if I was using my brain, i would have heard the big “RUN! RUN NOW,” that I mistook for a migraine. 

Nope, I used my heart. Which was not the problem. The problem was that I had little experience in matters of the heart in my adult years. I was one of those that dated, but my education came first. That was my natural barrier to the men who did not have good intentions. It was also my way to not falling victim to men who did not understand how important a career was to me, and that putting me in a position to choose would end up with them being shown the door without a second thought. My grandma noticed my dating pattern and asked me a very poignant question. “Are you sacrificing love?” I laughed off her question with a shaky “no, off course not.” “Okay, she said, but just remember your degrees won’t keep you warm at night.” Basically, in her own little way, my grandma was warning me not to become one of those self serving “I don’t need no man because I’m an independent educated woman” of the 2000s. Gotta love my grams.  

So this guy seemed like the person to test my grandmother’s theory. I threw myself in, careful not to push him aside for my career goals. After all, my grandma had me thinking I would be a lonely old lady with cats if I didn’t get my life together. While studying for exams, I made time for his late night conversations. I would break away from study groups to ensure his calls went answered. If two minutes was all I had to breathe, it was his. If you know what late study sessions are, then you know that two minutes was a big deal. When it was time to write my thesis, my time was severely limited. I walked around like a zombie, little sleep and a terrible diet trying to graduate. Yet, I took a break every time he drove down for a weekend visit. The pens, highlighters, books and papers disappeared. He got all my attention. When he left, I would work overtime to make up for the time I missed. I feel those were major sacrifices, yet, it was not good enough. Every time he expressed concerns over whether “this would work” because I was “too busy,” I would go into crisis mode. I pulled out the big guns to convince him that I could handle this. I could finish school and be a good partner. My acceptance letters to both Howard and Morgan State should have been good enough. 

But they weren’t.

Graduation came and went. Summer came with a major move back to my hometown to start my doctoral studies. Again, I am thinking that I can do both. I can handle the demands of school, but what I could not see were the demands he was adding to my plate. Every time those demands were not met, I was threatened with a breakup because I was “too busy.” My girlfriends were starting to see me crack and quickly stepped in to intervene. “No” I said, I can handle this. But the truth was, it was too much and I was afraid that if I let go, I would be a failure. A lonely, cat lady failure. 

I was losing who I was as a woman. I looked and felt awful. I cried constantly. I was sad all the time. But soon things started to look up for me when I accepted a teaching position. It was only one class but it was just what I needed to lift my spirits. But I could not share my good news with him, because he would blow off my accomplishments. It was almost as if we were in constant competition, he had to one up me all the time. Be smarter than me, outthink me. I never felt he was proud of me so I usually kept those things to myself. In his insecurity, he silenced my voice. 

But the classroom was where I found it. and I had soo much fun that first semester. But my joy didn’t last long. Let’s just say he had admirers. Lots of them. Now, you would think this was my way out but before I could deliver my rehearsed breakup manifesto, he suffered a devastating setback. So I delayed my breakup speech and stepped in to be his support system. Even in that, he sill found ways to make me feel like I was not good enough. My attempts to walk away were met with guilt trips about leaving him at such a vulnerable stage of his life. I felt stuck and even lonelier than before. But the worse part is that I could no longer keep it a secret. It showed in public. I had no energy to teach class. I drug myself through my lectures and when they were over, drug myself back home. In my grad classes I sat silently because I barely got through my homework the night before. I sung Keyshia Cole and Mary J. Blidge songs and chained smoked cigarettes. Ok that last part is not true but you get my point. I was going through it. One day after class, a student came up to me to inquire about transferring to another school. As she turned to leave she told me that I was the smartest person she knew. I stood there shocked. She gave me the biggest slap in the face I ever had. In that moment I realized that as intelliegent as I was in public,  I was pretty dumb in private. In other words, I was a smart, dumb woman. 

I was that woman. The one who dragged out a dumb moment. See there is nothing wrong with dumb moments. Every woman has dumb moments. If you feel you never had one, I will say, “I don’t believe you. You need more people.” Dumb moments are where some of life’s best lessons come from. But it becomes problematic when you let a dumb moment define who you are. I refused to stay that woman. That day I kicked him to the curb and started a long regimen of caffeine eye serum to heal my raccoon eyes. I began to understand so much about who I was as a woman. I learned my strengths and weakness. Most importantly, I learned to pay more attention to my heart. See, I know that as educated women, we spend so much time taking care of our minds that we neglect our hearts. As much as we hate to admit it, we need it. The heart is where the passion comes from. The ability to give away the energy it takes to change the world. Or a piece of it. How can you serve your life’s purpose when you are empty? Think about it. But I also learned that there is nothing wrong with sacrifices, as long as it is for the right person. Because the right person will uplift you and support your dreams. Even if he/she does not understand what you are doing, they will cheer you on from the sidelines. Until that person comes along, don’t share your dreams with someone who does not support them. Do not let someone make you feel inadequate or inferior for wanting more for yourself. 

As the seasons changed, I started to look and feel like my old self, but better. I was back! I have moved on, happily walking my path alone until…..well…..lets just say someone came along who does not hesitate to cheer me on. Sometimes I find myself smiling for no reason because he has no idea how appreciative I am for just encouraging me in the smallest of ways. Whether it’s checking in with good morning messages to bringing dinner because I can’t pull away from a paper, he is there for me. But don’t get it twisted…just because he plays a supportive role doesn’t mean he plays a supporting role. The best part is the ability to give your partner back the same energy they invest in you so you can support their ambitions. See how this works?

You can feel empowered to go out there and change the world. Or a piece of it by yourself or in a relationship. But until that person comes along, have the courage to walk alone and take care of you. Be good to you. Put your energy into why you set out on this journey in the first place…TO BE GREAT! Most importantly, be the safe keeper of your dreams until someone shows you that they can be trusted with such precious things. In that moment is when you’ll be able to balance love and career without losing yourself.
Every once in a while, my mind will take me back to that time…that place. When I find myself there I become extremely thankful for being that smart dumb woman, because she helped find me. 

A Simple Thank You.

I need to say thank you to every single person that has read, liked, commented and shared my piece. The response has been overwhelming. It was my first but certainly not my last. All I need to do now is find someone to help with designing this thing because the colors are hideous!

Usually bloggers use their first post to introduce themselves and the purpose of their blog. Since I was in such a rush to get that piece together, I’ll do it now.

I have been influenced by scholars such as bell hooks and Benjamin Quarles. Eric Foner and Joanna Schoen are also my favs. People like Cornel West and Darlene Clark Hine have reached a level that my cohorts and I are still imagining. Although phenomenal in their achievements, we see them in the “after.” After they are published and established. After they have tenure and validation. After they are labeled “authorities” in their fields. After they have contributed the legendary works that have taken years to mold and cultivate. My cohorts and I are still trying to get there.

So there lies the misadventure. Because nothing prepared me for all that I’ve faced as I have navigated my way through. Things like love…geesh! Try dating and writing a thesis! But that is another post for another day. Heck! I’m still navigating. At times the navigation intersects with my race or my gender…and sometimes both.

I want to show that there is a crop of young scholars on their heels. Young scholars who are still at the ground level and unstable. Young scholars refuse to wait for that tenure track position to be heard. Young twenty-somethings who have a voice before the publishing deal and invitations to panels and lectures. Young scholars who are unfiltered and unapologetic in their rhetoric. Appreciative of the arts and humanities but listen to Big K.R.I.T. when studying. Scholars who understand the value of Ar’n’t I a Woman by Deborah Gray White as well as enjoy “Beyoncé” by Beyoncé. (Sorry Ms. hooks. I love Beyoncé and I am currently formulating a respectful response to your “terrorism” comments.) Those who understand both the importance of political and social activism as well as the #freeBootsie movement. (Don’t ask). Young scholars who are not afraid to blur the lines….those who are not waiting for a generational gap to occur before they leave their mark on the world.

So join me as I continue on this journey. I am not afraid to give you my fails and successes. My lessons in life and love. Grow with me. Learn with me.

With love and gratitude,
B.

Is My HBCU Degree Worthless?

That is the question I asked myself as I stared at the following tweet:

(DISCLAIMER: In a rush to jot down my thoughts, I hastily put this blog togther….do not judge me.)

No shade?? Honey, you threw shade all the way back to my forefathers with this tweet. Although her page is now private this very public tweet caused a major firestorm that I am sure @med_school12 did not anticipate when she tweeted this.  A little research informed me that she is an undergraduate student at James Madison University, a PWI. This means that she in no way is able to make such a broad, sweeping opinion and present it as fact. No ma’am.

The debate over PWIs and HBCUs is nothing new. Every year as thousands of black students pack up and head to college, we debate the nuances of both. I am aware of the backlash blacks receive for being “sell outs” for choosing to attend PWIs just as I am aware of blacks being accused of having “Hillman Syndrome” because they attended a HBCU. Personally, I do not care. All I care about is that black students are given the chance to sit in a classroom and receive an education at the collegiate level if they so choose to.

That is why I have shied away from this debate. But this tweet…rubbed my spirit wrong. So wrong that I broke away from a term paper to tweet my concerns for why this young woman of color would make such a statement. Then I realized. She, along with those who defended her has no idea that they brought into the superiority of “whiteness.” That whiteness equates to rigor. Although she did not mention race, it is implied in the nomenclature: Predominately WHITE Institutions versus Historically BLACK Colleges and Universities.

We all know the legacies of HBCUs. But the legacies of PWIs need another reexamination. The legacy of PWIs, particular southern PWIs are clouded in racial segregation and white supremacy. The legacies of HBCUs is the response to that racial segregation and white supremacy. Black students were routinely denied admittance to PWIs because of COLOR. Black students who could not afford the migration north were left with no opportunities at the collegiate level, especially in the American south. This means that @Med_School12’s grandparents would have received a denial letter from the institution she attends now. Also, PWIs would routinely hand over “scholarships” to black students to attend an out of state school, just so they would not apply to theirs. But it gets better! I can imply from her twitter handle that @Med_school12 either loves the BET show “The Game,” or she wishes to attend medical school one day. I would hope it’s a desire to attend medical school. I wonder if she knew that states HAPPILY gave money to HBCUs to establish graduate and professional programs so black graduates would not apply to theirs. Yes, HBCU presidents (shoutout to Dr. James E. Shepard) lobbied states for money to establish professional and graduate programs so their students would not face rejection from PWIs. Lastly, let us not forget the violence that black students were subjected to for attempting to integrate PWIs. Does anyone remember James Meredith? I am pretty sure that was not mentioned in freshman orientation. But it was an ugly stain on University of Mississippi’s otherwise “glorious” Dixie southern past.

HBCUs are not without issues. However, that had NOTHING to do with the education I received. My tenure at North Carolina Central University was indeed rigorous. NCCU put me through the ringer before it let me snatch that degree. I anguished over failed exams, cried over classes I could have done better in. I watched my friends fight over the right to not only graduate but graduate with honors. When I graduated, I did a little shout right on the field. Yes, while my parents watched, I had a “Won’t He do it?” moment. I must have been a glutton for punishment because the following fall; I was back for that Master’s. In reality, I knew there was no better program for me. This M.A. in History program was top notch. I learned and was cultivated by the best. We were required to take a Foreign Language Exam, sit for Master’s Comprehensive Exams and successfully defend a thesis of original research before our professor allowed us to hope that graduation was possible. I know PWIs who never even heard of a comp exam until their doctorate program. My cohorts and I walked around like zombies in the months leading up to graduation. By the time I snatched that degree from NCCU (again), I knew that I was well prepared for life at the doctorate level at Morgan State Univetsity. I have a friend who received the same Master’s degree from a PWI, yet called me freaking out about writing a historiographical essay as a doctoral student, a skill I learned in undergrad. So yes, the path to my degree was rigorous.

I commend any person who makes the decision to attend college. It is not an easy feat, no matter the instituion. I am not one that buys into exceptionalism, the notion that an institution is sooooo great that it is above criticism. But HBCUs are constantly attacked for their “precieved” inferiority and I am over it. Sick of it actually. Let us be great! Even though she did not intend to throw shade…she caused every person reading that tweet to take pause. The degree comes from the GPA. The GPA comes from the grades and the grades comes from the ability to perform. So when she questioned the weight of the GPA…she called into question the entire academic experience at HBCUs. Waiiittttttt…..I could have sworn I just read an article about a “rigorous” PWI who is under fire because their athletes are being shuffled through school without basic reading and writing skills. But I digressed.

Recently, a young black high school student was bashed for his decision to turn down an Ivy League school in favor of an HBCU. At the end of the day, he made a decision based on proximity to his home and funding. There was no racial issues in his decision. I know black people who chose PWIs because it’s “better” but could never tell me how. Let’s be clear…being black does not mean you have to attend a HBCU…choose a PWI as long as you are making a decision not clouded by mythology. Or that you think that because you attend a PWI that you are given a slice of “white privledge.” Oh and before I’m hit with the “employers choose applicants from PWIs over HBCUs” statement…allow me to flip it this way. What if a black student and a white student from the same PWI were up for that same position? At the end of the day your PWI will not shield you from racial discrimination. It will not protect you and give you special powers. Sorry.

A friend of mine pointed out that HBCU students trash each other. Ummm yes…this is true (HEYYY AGGIES!!!!) but that trash talk is limited to football games and who has the best “yard” or homecoming. But when it comes to its central core mission, the educating of young black scholars, we stand united. I was inspired by the rallying of black scholars in the Twitterverse who came to the defense of not only their HBCUs but the legacy of HBCUs in general. I understand that in the process some people tweeted things that were deplorable and disrespectful to this young woman. That is unacceptable behavior. But I wish this young lady would understand where the sensitivity comes from. It comes from a legacy that we are taught and will defend. It is a legacy that we are proud of. HBCUs are important because it gave us a chance at the same education that PWIs had to be forced by federal law to give us. If you want to have this debate then I welcome it. I am open to an exchange of dialogue that will foster growth and development. There is much that PWIs and HBCUs can teach each other. But what I will not allow are advocates of PWIs to come to the table with feelings of superiority…and I will not allow them to leave that table feeling victorious because they left HBCU alums and current students feeling inferior. Because when I snatch that degree (for a third time) I will proudly proclaim that ALL my degrees belong to an HBCU.