You Can't Touch My Hair

by Phoebe Robinson

  A PLUME BOOK

  YOU CAN’T TOUCH MY HAIR

  © Mindy Tucker

  PHOEBE ROBINSON is a stand-up comedian, writer, and actress whom Vulture.com, Essence, and Esquire have named one of the top comedians to watch. She has appeared on NBC’s Late Night with Seth Meyers and Last Call with Carson Daly; Comedy Central’s Broad City, The Nightly Show with Larry Wilmore, and @midnight with Chris Hardwick; as well as Amazon’s I Love Dick. Robinson’s writing has been featured in The Village Voice and on Glamour.com, TheDailyBeast.com, VanityFair.com, Vulture.com, and NYTimes.com. She was also a staff writer on MTV’s hit talking head show, Girl Code, as well as a consultant on season three of Broad City. Most recently, she created and starred in Refinery29’s web series Woke Bae, and alongside Jessica Williams of The Daily Show, she is the creator and costar of the hit WNYC podcast 2 Dope Queens as well as the creator and host of the new WNYC podcast Sooo Many White Guys. Robinson lives and performs stand-up in Brooklyn, New York, and you can read her weekly musings about race, gender, and pop culture on her blog, Blaria.com (aka Black Daria).

  Praise for You Can’t Touch My Hair

  “Phoebe Robinson has a way of casually, candidly roughhousing with tough topics like race and sex and gender that makes you feel a little safer and a lot less alone. If something as wise and funny as You Can’t Touch My Hair exists in the world, we can’t all be doomed. Phoebe is my hero and this book is my wife.”

  —Lindy West, New York Times bestselling author of Shrill

  “You Can’t Touch My Hair is the book we need right now. Robinson makes us think about race and feminism in new ways, thanks to her whip-smart comedy and expert use of a pop-culture reference. The future is very bright because Robinson and her book are in it.”

  —Jill Soloway, creator of Transparent

  “You Can’t Touch My Hair is one of the funniest books about race, dating, and Michael Fassbender. The world is burning, and Phoebe Robinson is the literary feminist savior we’ve been looking for.”

  —Hasan Minhaj, senior correspondent on The Daily Show

  “Phoebe Robinson says the things that need to be said, and does so eloquently and hilariously.”

  —Mara Wilson, author of Where Am I Now?

  “Moving, poignant, witty, and funny. . . . A promising debut by a talented, genuinely funny writer.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  PLUME

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2016 by Phoebe Robinson

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Photo credits: here, here, and here: courtesy of the author; here: photo by Michael Ochs Archives (Getty Images); here: photo by CBS Photo Archive (Getty Images); here: photo by Ian Showell (Getty Images); here: photo by Paul Taggart/Bloomberg (Getty Images); here: photo by John D. Kisch/Separate Cinema Archive (Getty Images); here: photo by Ebet Roberts (Getty Images); here: photo by Ron Galella, Ltd. (Getty Images); here: photo by Rocky Widner (Getty Images); here: photo by Tim Mosenfelder (Getty Images); here: photo by Rob Kim (Getty Images).

  Plume is a registered trademark and its colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC

  eBook ISBN: 9780143129219

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Robinson, Phoebe author.

  Title: You can’t touch my hair and other things I still have to explain / Phoebe Robinson.

  Description: New York : Plume, 2016.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016018322 | ISBN 9780143129202 (trade pbk.)

  Subjects: LCSH: Robinson, Phoebe. | Robinson, Phoebe—Humor. | African American women comedians—Biography. | Television comedy writers—United States—Biography.

  Classification: LCC PN2287.R715 A3 2016 | DDC 792.7/6028092 [B] —dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016018322

  Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.

  Version_1

  For my parents, Phillip and Octavia. I love you.

  CONTENTS

  About the Author

  Praise for You Can’t Touch My Hair

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Introduction

  From Little Rock Nine to Nappy Hair, Don’t Care in Eighteen and a Half-ish Years

  A Brief History of Black Hair in Film, TV, Music, and Media

  My Nine Favorite Not-So-Guilty Pleasures

  Welcome to Being Black

  Dear Future Female President: My List of Demands

  How to Avoid Being the Black Friend

  Uppity

  Casting Calls for People of Color That Were Not Written by People of Color

  The Angry Black Woman Myth

  People, Places, and Things That Need to Do Better

  Letters to Olivia

  Acknowledgments

  FOREWORD

  Work wife (n): That person at your job (same or opposite sex) that takes the place of your “at home” spouse while you are at work (this is not a sexual relationship). You talk with, connect to, and relate to this person as good as or better than you do your “at home” spouse with regard to all things work-related.

  (Source: www.UrbanDictionary.com)

  Phoebe Robinson is my work wife. We’ve been official for about two years now, ever since we met on a field piece I was shooting for The Daily Show, which led to us starting our live show and podcast, 2 Dope Queens. Even though our careers keep us busy, I am happy to report that our relationship is still going strong. Phoebe still texts me pictures of Bono about once a week and asks me if I would “smash” him. (My answer is still “Fuck no, never in a million years.”) She still refers to me as either her Oprah or her Gayle depending on what kind of day we are having. She still tells terrible dudes at bars that insist on having shitty conversations with us to Please buzz off. I’m in my thirties. She always says, My eggs are dying. I don’t have time to hang out with anybody that I don’t want to. Fair enough. And even though Phoebe is only thirty-one, and I am twenty-six, she still insists on giving me the most weathered advice possible, as if she has seen some shit. Advice like: “Doggy style is a great position to have sex in, that way you can have a little bit of you time. You can get some work done, you can think about your taxes or about what groceries you need to get tomorrow. . . .” She somehow manages to say this with all the wisdom and strength of Cicely Tyson. That’s Phoebe, though.

  When I first met Phoebe, she introduced herself to me, but she didn’t even have to—I had already known about her because she was a black lady involved with Upright Citizens Brigade who, like me, also mostly dated white dudes. I could blame my previous knowledge of her on the fact that UCB is a small community, but I ain’t gotta lie to kick it. I had low-key stalked her before meeting her that day. Anyway, she didn’t pick up any red flags from me, so she invited me to cohost her monthly live show, Blaria, at UCB. Our first show together was like a great first date. I found out onstage that night that Phoebe was able to vocalize things
that were deeply important to me. That being a black woman and a feminist is a full-time job. Like, #fuckthepatriarchy even though we both usually date white dudes who look vitamin D deficient and probably burn in the sun too easily. That black lives do matter. And that we both think that Carrie Bradshaw was a fucking stupid idiot for breaking up with Aiden for Mr. Big. Like, really? The man is a carpenter; he could literally make her furniture. And he even bought the apartment next door to hers so he could combine the two. The man wanted to MacGyver her living space! I think I can speak on behalf of all straight women everywhere when I say, “Hi, hello! Sign me up for that, please!” Clearly, Phoebe and I were bonding at a rapid pace, and after the show, I knew that being friends with and performing with Phoebe Robinson was good for my soul and I wanted to continue to do that as much as I could. This is how our podcast 2 Dope Queens was born.

  Phoebe’s ability to talk about the importance of bell hooks as well as her dreams of hooking up with Colin Firth are a part of what makes her so wonderful. She is a badass black feminist and somehow manages to stay #woke while not taking herself too seriously. She is delightfully petty in that way that leaves us giggling and talking shit about everyone around us when we go out for drinks. And she is brilliant onstage. Even with all the comedy shows that we have done together, Phoebe still manages to surprise me and make me laugh until I pee myself a little bit by accident. She is one of my best friends, and I am so excited that you bought this book and are about to spend time with one of my favorite people on this frequently shitty little miserable planet that we call Earth.

  Last New Year’s Eve, my boyfriend and I did shrooms and talked about the lovely texture of the couch while we watched the ball drop in Times Square on TV. After the countdown, I asked my boyfriend what his New Year’s resolution was. He said, “I think it’s to be more like Phoebe.” So I thought about all of Phoebe’s qualities for a second—her brilliance, her strong values, her beauty, her humor, and her strength. All of those things are what makes Phoebe wonderful. Not only is she my work wife, she’s my shero. “Hell yeah,” I said. “I want to be more like Phoebe, too.”

  —Jessica Williams

  INTRODUCTION

  The other day, I was thinking about the first time someone of a different race gave me a lady boner. It was more than seventeen years ago—February 24, 1999, to be exact—and I was watching the GRAMMYs. Let me give you a little bit of background about myself during this time. I was a fourteen-year-old movie nerd and an “everything school-related” slacker. I’d often refer to myself as a “tomboy,” until I learned that liking and watching sports but not actually being good at them does not make you a tomboy, it makes you a human. So, yes, I was a fourteen-year-old sports and movie lovin’ person/nerd who thought that watching award shows was the bomb.tumblr.com, probably because I’d never won anything. So seeing people at the height of their artistic achievements was the ultimate fantasyland for me: I cried along with Hilary Swank as she graciously accepted a best actress Oscar for her performance in Boys Don’t Cry. I pretended I was up there with Lauryn Hill when she did a touching and intimate rendition of “To Zion” right before snagging a GRAMMY for Album of the Year. And I laughed when Italian actor Roberto Benigni (‘memba him?), who was so overjoyed at winning the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film that he walked on the backs of people’s seats to get to the stage. Award shows gave me hope that maybe I would also do something equally impressive with my life, that I could have a future outside of Cleveland, Ohio. Nothing against the Cleve, but I just had a feeling something cool outside those city limits awaited me. Watching these awards shows was my way of preparing for my future successes, I told myself, and was way more interesting than, say, studying for chemistry class. And in my eyes, there was truly no greater award show than the 1999 GRAMMYs. During this golden age of pop culture achievements, Hill was the belle of the ball, Madonna was killing it in her “Ray of Light, earth mother phase,” and Will Smith won Best Rap Solo Performance for “Gettin’ Jiggy wit It.”

  I know. Looking back on it now, it’s kind of ridic.edu that out of all the songs nominated, including Hill’s “Lost Ones” and Jay Z’s “Hard Knock Life (Ghetto Anthem),” that Smith won Best Rap Solo Performance. But the ’90s were full of bad choices, OK? Like guys in boy bands wearing golf visors when they weren’t golfing, the movie Battlefield Earth, Lou Bega and his “Mambo No. 5” bullshit, pizza bagels, the Gulf War, Utah Jazz point guard John Stockton wearing short shorts on the basketball court, and me spending three weeks trying to memorize the lyrics to Barenaked Ladies’ “One Week”—after those twenty-one days, all I got down was: “Chickity China, the Chinese chicken.” Three weeks, guys! That’s all I got! The point is, in the ’90s, mistakes were made. Lessons were learned. And thanks to Ricky Martin’s “The Cup of Life” performance at the 1999 GRAMMYs, I learned that my vajeen is capable of quaking over nonblack dudes the way the glass of water did in Jurassic Park when dinosaurs were nearby.

  Martin may now be considered a slightly cheesy performer whose music is only played as a throwback jam at a wedding or bar mitzvah, but think back to ’99. Martin was gorgeous, he sang with passion and swag, and he commanded the stage like he knew this set was going to be his breakout moment into the English-speaking music market. He was so dreamy. And it didn’t hurt that he could work those hips. Simply put, I was stunned. I was in love, but I was also surprised—I was never really drawn to a nonblack guy like this before. Not that I was ever anti-nonblack dudes; they just never really were on my radar because they didn’t look like me. And I think that most folks would agree with me when I say that it’s human nature to be drawn to people who look like us, especially when we’re younger and not very exposed to the world. So that first time I felt attracted to someone outside of my race, it felt, for a moment . . . transcendental. As in, I, Phoebe Lynn Robinson, had transcended past race! That I was capable of seeing people and not their skin color. In other words: I was (drumroll, please) postracial. Yeah . . . No.

  Look, dude and lady boners can do a lot. They help create babies, embarrass their owners for appearing at inopportune times, and make people overlook flaws in others—such as having a boring personality or being a DJ—because the boner is too busy giving a thumbs-up to an attractive person the way the Terminator does at the end of T2 when he is drowning in hot lava. But existing as a signal of postracial living? Nice try, but no. Sexually desiring someone who does not share your skin tone is not some grand sign that society is becoming postracial, no matter what anyone tells you. The truth is, people love throwing the term postracial around. Americans are so anxious to move on from the sins of our forefathers that we’re on the lookout for any and every symbol that our national nightmare of racism is over. And finding someone who has a different complexion than us hot is a quick way of saying, “See? We did it! Racism solved!” But sexual attraction is just the tip (heh) of the iceberg. It seems like we’ve been looking for our “get out of jail free, we’re postracial” pass for quite some time.

  Even though the term postracial is everywhere these days, it’s actually been part of our lexicon for a while. It was first used in a 1971 New York Times article titled “Compact Set Up for ‘Post-Racial’ South,” which claimed that the topic of race was going to be usurped by concerns of population increase, industrial development, and economic fluctuations. Ever since then, postracial has been marched out fairly regularly anytime something positive happens for POCs (aka people of color). Taiwanese-American basketball player Jeremy Lin being an NBA star? Postracial! Mexican cooks at a Jamaican jerk-chicken restaurant? Postracial! My bestie Jess (who you met in the foreword) and I being upgraded to the front row at a Billy Joel concert just because?* Postracial! A white makeup artist rubbing my legs down with lotion to prevent me from getting ashy. She knows what ashy is?!?!* Postracial! You get the picture. And to many, there is no greater symbol that the postracial era is upon us as when Barack Obama was elected president of the United States. N
o matter where you stand politically, there’s no denying that in 2008, we were coming off the heels of a presidency that left the country disillusioned thanks to 9/11, the war in Afghanistan, and Hurricane Katrina. So when Obama appeared on the national scene with a message of hope, change, and “yes, we can!” much of the country happily got sucked into this tornado of positivity, and it seemed like anything—like a postracial society—was possible. I totally understand the reasoning behind this line of thinking. His election is certainly historical, and along with it came a sense of hope and change. But as a nation, we are far from the “everyone holding hands in racial harmony” that we assumed would happen once Obama was ushered into office. In fact, throughout the Obama years, there has been, at the very best, resistance to change, and at the very worst, a palpable regression in the way the country views and handles—or more accurately, refuses to handle—race.

  We only have to turn on the nightly news to witness the significant uptick in police brutality toward black men and women. Eric Garner. Trayvon Martin. Sandra Bland. Laquan McDonald. Rekia Boyd. Yvette Smith. Shereese Francis. Timothy Russell. Malissa Williams. Sean Bell. Oscar Grant. Miriam Carey. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. MappingPolice Violence.org states 37 percent of unarmed people killed by police last year were black, even though blacks only make up 13 percent of the US population. And these types of deaths are happening with such frequency that it’s almost impossible to keep track of each individual case and mourn the loss of life before another victim appears. Oof. Unfortunately, this is not just an American problem. This sort of police brutality is a worldwide phenomenon. Additionally, the UK’s The Guardian newspaper published research from the Equality and Human Rights Commission (EHRC) stating that “police forces are up to 28 times more likely to use stop-and-search powers against black people than white people and may be breaking the law” to do so.