You Can't Touch My Hair

by Phoebe Robinson

  While these incidents are devastating, the average person experiences racism in lesser life-threatening ways. Micro-aggressions, or slights/snubs/insults, that reinforce marginalization of a particular group are the more common way that racism manifests on a daily basis. Normally, my run-ins with racism come in the form of jokes that I “talk white” or that I’m not like “other black people,” as if that is some sort of compliment. Other times, I may find out that I have lost out on a job in entertainment because they wanted a white woman instead. All of those are, unfortunately, standard-issue, and while they are upsetting in the moment, I tend to use that mixture of anger and sadness to propel me forward. I would have run out of tears a loooong time ago if I let every time someone was racist toward me devastate me. Still, even though I’m fairly used to micro-aggressions, there are those occasional situations that manage to surprise me, and not the “I found a $20 bill in a winter-coat pocket” good type of surprise. I’m talking like the “Aunt Flo decided to visit when I just put on a brand-new pair of my Victoria’s Secret five-for-$25” type of bad surprise, as was the case with my recent Uber ride.

  To properly set the scene, you must know two things: One, I had just finished working out at the gym and decided to treat myself to a cab ride home. Yes, this is trifling, but when you’re so single that your Apple TV remote has its own side of the bed, you really try to do anything to make yourself feel special, hence the Uber; and two, my driver looked like Villain #4 from the Taken movies, you know, just real Slavic AF, so for the purposes of this story, he will be known as Taken Face. OK, now to the story.

  During the drive home, Taken Face got into a fight with a belligerent white driver and yelled, “Fuck you, nigga,” while Bill Withers’s “Lovely Day” played in the background, which, as a friend later told me, “if this were a romantic comedy directed by Spike Lee, this would be your meet-cute.”* Unfortunately, this wasn’t a movie, but real life. And in real life, there’s always that awkward moment when a white person realizes they just said the N-word in the presence of a black person, so the white person makes the same face that Dustin Hoffman made in Rain Man when he was assessing how many toothpicks were on the ground. Taken Face quickly came to the conclusion that literally anything would have been better than saying a racial slur to the other driver. So next comes the apology, right? Wrong. Instead, Taken Face tried to make amends with me by showing me pictures of his barely brown daughter. L to the O to the L. Clearly, Taken Face was doing this as if to say, “We’re cool about what I just said because she’s brown . . . and you’re brown.” Nope.com. Let me just say this right now, in case there’s any confusion in 2016: If you’re a white person and you have references on standby to verify that you’re allowed to say the N-word, you are probably the last person on planet Earth who should be saying nigga. Your overpreparedness is very suspicious, and makes you the Tracy Flick of racism. How about instead you use those type A powers for good and teach the world something useful, like how to fold a fitted sheet properly?

  In all seriousness, incidents like these happen so regularly that it’s impossible to believe that the racism of the past simply disappeared the moment Obama was elected. So what do we do? Perhaps the first logical step is to retire the term postracial America. Because much like the ’90s New York Knicks basketball team that was never quite good enough to win the big kahuna, but had a lot of heart, the concept of “postracial America” is an also-ran that tried its damnedest to succeed. Obama is not a deus ex machina–type figure whose mere presence righted all our nation’s wrongs. The truth is, evolution is slow, glacial even, and it cannot occur without people doing difficult and painful work. That doesn’t sound like a whole heck of a lot of fun, which is precisely why it hasn’t happened yet. But there’s an even harder truth to accept: The kind of growth required to move past race is nearly impossible to achieve because racism is rooted in the foundation of America. (Ahem, the Three-Fifths Compromise of our Constitution, anyone?) Without awareness or acknowledgment of how these things have left a permanent stain on our country, no amount of blind hope is going to remedy the erosion that racism has done to this country. It is something that, until then, people like bell hooks and Ta-Nehisi Coates, and yes, people like me, will fight to explain.

  Believe me, it’s not something I necessarily want to do. I don’t wake up every day going, “Aaah! Time to break down institutional racism to people before Kathie Lee and Hoda drink their body weight in Franzia and host the fourth hour of the TODAY show.” Honestly, I would be just fine spending my time finally perfecting the dance breakdown from Janet Jackson’s “If” music video or finally taking an art history course just for funsies or, you know, enjoying the luxury of being a multilayered person like white dudes are allowed to be, but that’s just not how things are.

  So because I, like many of my friends and family, am on the receiving end of racism, and I, unlike many of my friends and family, have a platform—stand-up comedy and writing—it only makes sense to use it to effect some positive change when it comes to racism, and eventually, one day be right alongside Kathie Lee and Hoda, day drunk out of my mind and ordering sensible cardigans from Net-a-Porter.

  But don’t worry. Even though I discuss race fairly regularly, I’m not always operating in “after-school special” mode. Sometimes I’m given some hope that we are coming together as a people. Sometimes that hope comes in the form of a friend/ally who defends me after seeing that I’m being bombarded with racist comments on Facebook. Other times, that hope reveals itself in far less noble instances. Like the time when I was crashing on the couch of a dear friend in LA, who happens to be white, and a piece of my weave fell out and her dog started to eat it, which forced her fiancé to chase the dog around the living room and wrestle the weave from its mouth, and they were totally chill about it, like this happens to them all the time. Hmm, maybe that’s a sign that we’re getting closer to living in a postracial society.

  While we wait to see if that the dog-eating-weave moment will end up in history books, I’m using this waiting period as my chance to pull a Clarissa and explain it all. Well, not all. Just three things—my takes on race, gender, and pop culture—because I’m all about keeping things nice and tight, like the jeans in The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. (Seriously, the four actresses in that movie had different body types, yet the jeans still fit Blake Lively like a glove? How is that possible?) Moving on. I think it’s time we get started, but before we get into my thoughts on interracial dating (two thumbs up), lady presidents (two empty DivaCups up; not risking spillage over here, folks), and Spotify posting notifications to my Facebook wall and letting my friends know that I’m listening to Spice Girls’ Greatest Hits album (two middle fingers up like Beyoncé in the “Formation” video), let’s start with a fun Q&A so you can get to know this book and its author a little bit better.

  One more thing before I start answering your questions. Thank you for buying this book, even though it’s not Black History Month Eve! (That’s not a real holiday, but it should be. Get Hallmark on the horn, please.) I’m thrilled you recognize that this book is a year-round thing, like deleting your parents’ long-ass voice mails without listening to them, or white people wearing shorts. OK, you may begin:

  How do you spell your name?

  This may seem like a silly question to those who are thinking, Uh, just look at the cover, dummy. Never mind those haters! This is an excellent question because when it comes to my name, things like logic and sensibility don’t often come into play. Usually, the person will quickly glance at my license or other official document bearing my name, say, “Got it,” the way I do when a Verizon representative rattles off my sixteen-digit confirmation number even though all I managed to jot down was the letter Z, and then hand me something like this:

  I don’t know what happened either, y’all, but it done happened. What was once the name of a character from the TV show Friends has now morphed into the name of a new medic
ine for restless-leg syndrome.

  This is all to say that my name is spelled P-H-O-E-B-E, and you’ll probably forget that in five minutes, but I love you anyway.

  And your last name? Kidding! Phoebe, you wrote a book. Why?

  You know, I could totally take that “why” as “Hey, crazy lady, why did you write something? There’s no way it can measure up to the work of Junot Diaz, Tina Fey, or Shakespeare,” but instead I’m imagining you meant “why” in a “Charlie Rose interviewing a celebrity” kind of way, which is “Let’s talk about all the ways you are amazing.” Thanks for that, lovely reader, and to answer your question, I wrote this book because of all that sweet, sweet cash unknown first-time authors who had a three-line speaking part on Broad City get.

  You got paid a lot for this?

  If by “a lot” you mean $50 and a month’s worth of salads with five toppings maximum from Hale and Hearty, then yes, I got paid all the money. I’m kidding about the $50; it was more than that. I’m not kidding about the five toppings–maximum rule; Hale and Hearty are some strict mofos. But to answer your “why” question, I’m a comedian, so I have tons of opinions and like to tell them to folks whether they asked or not. So after G-chatting my thoughts about race and gender to one person at a time for several years, I figured why not put everything in a book so people can read them/use the book as a coaster.

  Thanks. I just have to say, your hair looks pretty cool.

  That’s not a question, but tha—

  Can I touch it?

  And thereeee it is. Nope. You can’t touch my hair. Even if my hair catches on fire, do not come to my rescue; just let me do a Michael Jackson spin move to put the blaze out. Honestly, there is nothing I hate more than people groping and marveling in National Geographic–esque hushed tones about how my hair feels different than they expected. It’s frustrating how something as simple as a quick trip to the supermarket can turn into an impromptu seminar about the history of black hair, during which I’m supposed to clarify where I stand in the #TeamNatural vs. #TeamRelaxer debate, discuss how I think black/white relations are going in America, and admit that if I was less defensive about my hair being touched, racism might be solved in an hour.

  Uh-oh. There’s that R-word again. Is this one of those books that’s going to make me feel bad about being white?

  No. However, I’m going to touch on some heavy and complicated race issues that might make things a little awkward between us for a minute, like when a daughter-in-law finally masters her passive-aggressive mother-in-law’s signature dish, and the mother-in-law says, “It’s good . . . but a little light on the paprika, no?” But I promise we can survive that level of discomfort.

  Well, what is this book about, then?

  Well, like I wrote earlier, there are tons of things I still have to explain about being a black lady in this day and age. Such as what it’s like to be the black friend (Hint: It’s annoying), what it’s like to be black in general (Hint: It’s very cool and awesome and also annoying), feminism (See: What it’s like to be black in general), and working on-camera as a black lady (none of the clothes fit, and I audition for lots of characters named Laura and Abby, but then lose the parts to actual white ladies named Laura and Abby). Basically all the stuff that makes some dude on the Internet call me a “See You Next Tuesday” is what I’ll be discussing here.

  Back up. Seems like there’s a lot of black stuff going on here. But, from some Internet stalking, it seems that your last two boyfriends have been white, you read Nora Ephron books when you’re getting your hair did at the salon, and U2 is your favorite band, so . . .

  Hmm, that wasn’t really a question as much as it was an accusation: “You can’t be talking all this ‘blackity black black, blahbity blah blah’ stuff when you go home every night to some CW-looking dude.” One, my previous white boyfriends have mostly been AMC cute, thank you very much. Two, reading Nora Ephron while a Jamaican lady braids my hair is pretty much the America Martin Luther King Jr. dreamed of. And three, sure, I may enjoy what some call “white people stuff,” like U2, but that doesn’t negate the fact that I’m black, which means that when I go shopping, clerks follow me around their store so much that my family crest motto ought to be Rockwell’s “Somebody’s Watching Me.” So I don’t care how much dad rock I listen to or how many basic Chris Pine–looking dudes I date, I’m black and I have the receipts to prove it. Literally, I keep all my receipts in order to prove that I’m not stealing from whatever store I walk out of.

  I don’t know. It seems like this book is going to get deep. Will you judge me for wanting to take a nap instead of dealing with race and feminism?

  Not at all! I mean, I have taken a nap during a pregnancy scare because I was like, “Eh, it can wait.”

  And?

  My fallopian tubes got all Gandalf-y and said, “You shall not pass,” and shut it down. See? If you had taken a nap, you would’ve missed that completely medically sound and killer pop-culture reference. There are tons of those in this book!

  You’re going to write about pop culture, too? Probably should’ve opened with that.

  Fair point. I’ll remember that for my next book. As for this book, there will be lots of stuff about the ’90s (Hello, Felicity and Moesha!), why my niece should use Lisa Bonet and fictional character Olivia Pope as her life guides, and all the amazing moments in black-hair history (I’m looking at you, Angela Davis), and of course, there will definitely be several sentences mentioning actor Michael Fassbender, who’s so gorgeous that the mere sight of him will make any straight woman hum “Taps” as she flushes all her birth control down the toilet.

  OK, this book sounds somewhat more fun. And you seem fun, too! Can I tell people I have a black friend now?

  Wait, seriously?

  I’m sorry. You’re right. That was inappropriate. To make it up to you, I’m going to postpone my Bones marathon until tomorrow so I can read this book.

  Postponing a binge-watch session to read this book is probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. And my mom turned her vajayjay into a Six Flags Water Park slide so I could enter the world. Sorry, Mom, but you’ve just been demoted to number two on my list of awesome people.

  I feel we’ve gotten pretty tight over these last few minutes. What if you close your eyes while I touch your hair? And if it still bothers you, I can give you a cookie, too.

  Hmm, interesting. What kind?

  Oatmeal raisin?

  What I’m feeling right now must be what Freddie Prinze Jr. felt when he was saddled with making over Rachael Leigh Cook in She’s All That. Screw discussing racism and touching my hair—I now know the biggest challenge of my life: teaching you what a goddamn cookie is.

  Sorry about snapping at you just then. It’s just that oatmeal-raisin cookies aren’t cookies! Ugh, I blame health nuts for perpetuating that fantasy! But enough about that. Time to wrap up this Q&A, which was equal parts fun and informative, like a Pap smear! Hey, did you know that if you get a Pap smear while Kings of Leon plays in the examining room, it’s basically like you’re having sex. And sex is fun! Anyway, I feel like we covered some of the basics of what this book and I are all about, so why don’t you settle in and get to reading my opinions on everything else, while I go talk to my parents about how I know sex is fun. Mom, Dad, come back! I can explain . . .

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

  Have you ever been milling about your apartment when a TV-MA rating flashes across your TV screen, so you do a Jackie Joyner-Kersee–esque hurdle over the back of your couch because you know some salacious things are about to go down? (No? Just me?) Well, I’m about to drop my own disclaimer, so get ready:

  BOOK–OH SHIT Rating: for HEY, WHITE PEOPLE, HARSH TRUTHS ABOUT BLACK HAIR ARE ABOUT TO BE DROPPED.

  Sorry. There’s no sex, drugs, or violence to be had here. Just a lot of re
al, open, and honest talk about black hair, and by “black hair,” I don’t mean the raven color Amy Lee of Evanescence fame sported. I mean African-American hair, and the African-American people who have it. Black hair seems to raise a lot of nonblack people’s blood pressure. I’ve seen the gamut of emotion on people’s faces—awe, confusion, stress, anger, joy, amazement, suspicion, envy, attraction, you name it—because we, and I’m using the royal we, as in society, have never figured out how to have a healthy, functional relationship with black hair. Black hair has always been somewhat mysterious, like who the heck Keyser Söze is or why Forever 21’s adult-sized leggings are so small they could double as condoms for sea turtles. And when something is mysterious, people fear it. Fear the Afro, for he who wears it is going to start a revolution! Fear the dreadlocks, for she who wears them must be a drug dealer! Fear the kinky twists, for he who wears them must be an unstable vagrant! And so on and so on. And when you add mystery plus fear together, it equals various forms of oppression, such as how black women who don’t have their hair relaxed (aka chemically straightened) have been told they are “unprofessional,” or how schools have told young black children they can’t wear their hair natural because it’s a “distraction” for everyone in the classroom, or the daily, unwanted commentary, such as this unsolicited message I received when I had dreads: “You know, you would be so pretty if your hair was straight.” Wow—“hire-ability,” acceptance, and attractiveness are all on the line when someone wears his or her hair naturally? That’s a lot of weight to assign to a physical attribute.

  The fear of black hair has been an ever-present part of America’s social history. The tumultuous relationship between black hair and America can best be explained this way: If black hair is the hardwood floor in a Broadway theater, then America is Savion Glover just soft-shoeing all over the floor during a production of Bring in ‘Da Noise, Bring in ‘Da Funk. Outside of skin color, nappy hair is probably the biggest in-your-face reminder of blackness, of Otherness. And in case you haven’t noticed, people have historically not handled “Otherness” well. If you don’t believe me, then, by all means, dog-ear this page and go do a Google search, or watch West Side Story, or save yourself the time and read my supertruncated yet extremely accurate breakdown of the history of the world: