You Can't Touch My Hair

by Phoebe Robinson

  Anyway, shit gets real in Soul Man when Mark meets Sarah Walker, a black classmate and single mother who lost the scholarship to him and now must waitress to pay for her tuition. All of the sudden, Mark feels guilty—not because he took away money that could benefit a “real” black person, but because the black person he screwed over gives him a boner. Barf. Also, can we just comment about how absurd that Sarah is a waitress and she can afford to go to Harvard AND raise a child by herself AND also live in a world where nobody at Harvard treats her like trash for being a black single mom? As if that’s not ridiculous enough, here comes the most unbelievable aspect of the movie: Sarah and Mark begin dating, and before long, she finds out the truth about him. Initially, she’s mad, but she decides to forgive him and the two get back together by the end of the movie. And that, my friends, is how Mark finally learns that it’s hard out there for black people. Right. Or he could have just, I don’t know, asked a black person how hard life is. Or paid a black person $300 to teach a six-week Learning Annex course about what it’s like to be black. Or read a book written by a black person. Or listen to the blues. There are so many options!

  OK. Clearly, Soul Man is an over-the-top example of white people trying to comprehend the black experience. In reality, most people aren’t taking extreme measures to learn. Some pick up knowledge when a case of police brutality becomes national news, or when they ask a black friend about his or her culture (i.e., “Pheebs, why are black people’s dap handshakes more complicated than the Yankees’ catcher signals to his pitcher?”). And still, there are other instances where some had no intentions of educating themselves but stumble into it, as was the case with Uniontown, Ohio, couple Jennifer Cramblett and Amanda Zinkon.

  In 2011, these women decided to add to their family, so Cramblett was artificially inseminated at the Midwest Sperm Bank in hopes of getting the blond, blue-eyed baby of their dreams. Nine months later, the couple was in for a surprise: Their newborn daughter was biracial. There was a highly negligent mix-up at the sperm bank, and, as it turned out, Cramblett was impregnated with a black man’s sperm. There’s no denying that this clerical error was hugely inappropriate, but what follows is even worse. Three years later, Cramblett and Zinkon filed a wrongful birth and breach of warranty lawsuit against the sperm bank. Because this was such a unique case, the contents of the lawsuit got leaked to the public—and what’s in there is cringeworthy:

  Getting a young daughter’s haircut is not particularly stressful for most mothers, but to Jennifer, it is not a typical routine matter, because Payton has hair typical of an African-American girl. To get a decent cut, Jennifer must travel to a black neighborhood, far from where she lives, where she is obviously different in appearance, and not overtly welcome.

  Memo to Jennifer and Amanda: There are hundreds of Tracee Ellis Ross–looking women on YouTube, moisturizing their biracial hair like they’re putting an egg wash on a tray of hot cross buns. So watch those videos and apply that knowledge so your child’s hair won’t look like the lint filter in a Whirlpool dryer. Quit acting like you’re merely 50 Shades of Concerned over which grapeseed oil to use on her hair.

  OK, fine. I am being a tad flippant here, but I do have a point. The Midwest Sperm Bank’s mistake is inexcusable and their reaction (issuing an apology and offering a partial refund) doesn’t make their mix-up any better, but when it comes down to it, what’s done is done. Payton, Jennifer and Amanda’s daughter, is a half-black living being in this world. Her parents making it national knowledge that she is not necessarily the child they envisioned and hiding that disappointment under the guise of “It’s Hard Out There for People Who Are Darker Than a U-Haul Box” is cruel and unforgiving. Yes, life will be difficult for Payton, as it is for any POC, but the truth is her parents are making it harder for her. By denying their child in this way, Zinkon and Cramblett have inflicted irreparable psychological damage on their daughter that will forever shape her self-perception—a self-perception that already has to contend with the litany of negative outside forces that affect the lives of every POC.

  What I am about to write may seem like a sweeping generalization to anyone who is not a person of color in this country, but here goes: For POCs, having a strong sense of self often feels like a Sisyphean task. Every. Single. Day. This is not to imply that white people don’t struggle; of course they do. Yet, there is no denying that whiteness being “The Standard” makes everything a little bit simpler for them. Think about this. According to the 2009 American Community Survey, Brooklyn is 54.6 percent white and 45.4 percent ethnic, yet in my neighborhood Walgreens, I have to go on an Amazing Race–esque journey just to find the products for my skin type. POCs are an afterthought if they’re lucky, which explains why, for example, the makeup appropriate for my skin color in my Wally’s is crammed into a corner like Christmas lights in an attic. To be fair, there are moments when POCs are not treated like the Other. In my experience, it’s often the “Oh, Wow! You’re Not Like My Racist Preconceptions of the Others, but You Also Aren’t One of Us Either,” which is as much of a compliment as doing the sign of the cross before drunken sexy-times is a form of birth control.

  The truth is daily micro-aggressions like the ones mentioned above, as well as the macro ones, await someone like Payton. So instead of educating themselves about that, Cramblett and Zinkon forged ahead by suing for $50,000 for having, as their lawsuit claims, suffered “personal injuries, medical expense, pain, suffering, emotional distress, and other economic and noneconomic issues, and will do so in the future.”

  Pain. Suffering. Emotional distress. Oh, dear. Payton is going to grow up, use Google, and discover that her skin color and coarse hair were sources of duress for her parents. By Cramblett’s own admission in the lawsuit, she lives in a racist neighborhood, but apparently that fact only became problematic when she found herself raising a biracial child. Sooo, if they had a white child, she would’ve been fine with raising him or her in a racist environment, perpetuating the same ignorance? This woman needs to sit down and study the “When White Privilege Moonwalks Out of Your Life” pamphlet. Turns out it’s a quick read because inside is just the following:

  People don’t think you’re white anymore. Say good-bye to the societal advantages that benefit whites in Western countries in a variety of social, political, or economic circumstances. Listen to N.W.A to cope, but when rapping along to them, don’t say the N-word . . . because you are still white. Duh.

  Hey, Jennifer and Amanda, are you now majorly inconvenienced on the smallest and biggest levels? Do you have to deal with people sometimes treating you like a Cheetos stain under their fingernail? Do you worry about your child’s safety, as my parents did when my brother and I went into certain neighborhoods? Then WELCOME TO BEING BLACK. You don’t get $50,000 because being a mother to a half-black child is hard. You swallow the indignities like I do when the color of my skin is explicitly why I don’t get hired for certain jobs. You rise above the ugly statements—the “Your natural hair isn’t professional” or “You’re black, but you’re not black black”—that are directed at you. You figure out how to live your best life because dammit, your mama and daddy love you. You tell yourself, “And still I rise,” “I’m black, and I’m proud,” “I’m young, gifted, and black,” and then you go to bed, wake up, and do it all over again. Every. Single. Day. With no expectation of $50,000. With the understanding that forty acres and a mule is a dream that’s been long deferred well before you were ever alive. You just live. That’s what you do.

  What you don’t do is live in Uniontown, Ohio, for several years, give zero thought to the racism that happens there until your child’s blackness becomes an earth-shattering inconvenience that undoes your decades of white privilege, and then turn on Pandora and play “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” on repeat while crying crocodile tears. Please bottle those tears, package them in a self-addressed envelope, and mail them to:

  Phoebe Robinson

  c/o H
aus of Fucks I Do Not Give

  Anytown, USA 12345

  Also, Jennifer, you don’t go on NBC News as you did and say, “Payton will understand it wasn’t about ‘We didn’t want you. We wanted a white baby’” when you and your girlfriend specifically requested white sperm the way I pick out a new weave for a Jamaican to put in my head. You wanted a white baby; pretending it’s not about race is an insult to everyone’s intelligence. Furthermore, to have the audacity to say, “She’ll understand. It’s all good,” with the carefree attitude that I have when I put too much baking powder in cookie dough is horrifying.

  But what’s most important is the well-being of Payton. She will not understand why the fact that you ended up with a half-black baby made you cry on national television. Payton will not understand how until you had her, the importance of knowing anything about African-American history ranked somewhere below getting regular touch-ups on your Mark McGrath Sugar Ray frosted tips (#Callback), yet above . . . absolutely nothing. She’s not going to understand why you feel entitled to $50,000 because you can’t even last two years raising a half-black child without wanting to tap out as if Hulk Hogan put you in a headlock. She will not understand why, since you are apparently incapable of educating yourself about black culture and loving your child, you didn’t give her up for adoption so she could potentially grow up in a much healthier environment. All she will understand is that she was not wanted because of the color of her skin.

  But, at the very least, she will have the comfort of knowing that the legal system saw through your bullshit. DuPage County Judge Ronald Sutter threw your suit out because wrongful birth is usually for when medical testing was negligent and failed to show risks of congenital or hereditary disorders to a child before birth, not because your baby is not the race you wanted. You’re lucky because if you two did get awarded that $50,000, then a charge of black people led by Octavia Velina Robinson and Phillip Martin Robinson Sr. (my parents) would’ve beat down upon the doors of the US Department of Treasury with the sheer force of a thousand thunderstorms and go, “Fuck you, pay me,” like Paulie in Goodfellas.

  So now that this lawsuit is done, you and your partner can turn your attention to the “less-than-ideal” situation: your child being black. So welcome. Take off your coats. You’re going to be here a while, so please read this beginners’ guide I give to all African-Americans when they enter the world.

  Welcome to Being Black

  Congratulations on being black! I know you had no choice in the matter, but I find that congratulating people on something, no matter what it is, just puts them in a fantastic mood, especially when you have to tell some bad news. Let’s try it!

  1. You’re Black. Here’s a Lifetime Supply of Cocoa Butter! Now, Here’s the Thing . . .

  Yep, you’re right. I didn’t give you much time to enjoy the lotion. But it’s because we have to get to the juicy stuff! Like facing an inordinate amount of discrimination and strife in your life! Or teachers being harder on us than our nonblack classmates, as was the case with the late Supreme Court Justice and former University of Chicago professor Antonin Scalia, who routinely gave his black students failing grades just because. Or the fact that black women experience “35% higher rates” of domestic violence than nonblack women, according to the ACLU. Oof. This is tough stuff, but sometimes you will feel like a badass whenever you overcome adversity. Other times, the harshness of the world will make you cry. But #SilverLiningsPlaybook, things are getting better. All the black people who came before you had it way worse: slavery, lynchings, and Jheri curl juice sweat gushing down their faces like blood did out of the elevator in The Shining. So take advantage of the now and kick some ass!

  2. Your White Coworkers May Be More Enthusiastic about Black History Month Than You.

  How can you tell? Well, the warning sign is usually pretty clear: They will come over to your cubicle and start doing a crappy barbershop quartet rendition of ”Rapper’s Delight.” When this happens, just remain calm. Remind them that Black History Month is not daylight saving time, so they don’t need to set their Pandora station to the Sugarhill Gang as soon as the clock strikes midnight on February 1 to show that they’re down with the cause.

  3. Halle Berry Is Prettier Than You.

  That’s just science.

  4. Every Once in a While, a Nonblack Person Will, Apropos of Nothing, Tell You about the One Black Person to Whom They Would Say, “Yes to the Sex,” Which Is Obviously the Spin-off to the TLC Show Say Yes to the Dress.

  This is only being said to you in hopes that you will be so moved to award him or her with the Purple Heart for their bravery. Yes, you will want to punch this person in the face. Don’t, but I totally understand if you do.

  5. Sometimes—and by “Sometimes,” I Mean “All the Time”—When You and Another Black Friend Show Up to an Event Together, People Will Think You’re Related.

  You know how in the movie 27 Dresses, Katherine Heigl’s character spends the majority of her time at weddings apologizing for being single? Well, that’s going to happen with you, except instead of your relationship status, you’ll have to explain how all black people aren’t related. Hooray! Because that is everyone’s favorite conversation right up there with “Whoever smelt it, dealt it,” and my dad telling me he’s taking the slow march toward death anytime I bring up his birthday. Fun times for everyone.

  6. When Standing in Any Sort of Line—at the Post Office, DMV, Grocery Store, etc.—Old Black Ladies Will Randomly Hum What You Think Sounds like a Negro Spiritual.

  You are correct; it is a Negro spiritual. Don’t question it. For OBLs, this genre of “Lawd, give me the strenf” music is their version of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.” It gets them pumped up and ready to take on the day. So let these ladies do their thing and fight the urge to join in and show off your vocals. Just toe-tap ever so slightly as though John Lithgow from Footloose outlawed dancing in your town, and let the OBL be the star.

  7. Regardless of Gender or Age, Strangers Will Tell You That You Look like Whoever Is the Most Famous Black Person at the Moment.

  I was once told that I look like LeBron James. By someone who can see. Specifically someone who can see my A-cup boobs chilling at the opening of my V-neck sweater the way freshly cooked gnocchi floats in a boiling pot of water.

  8. If You’re in an Interracial Relationship and You Wear a Sleeping Cap/Do-Rag to Bed to Protect Your Afro, Your Significant Other Still Has to Get a Boner Even Though You Look like an Inmate on MSNBC’s Lockup: Raw.

  Don’t look this up. Just trust me when I say that this will hold up in a court of law.

  Well, Crambletts (and in particular, Payton), that’s it! This concludes your crash course in the world of blackness. As you can see, you’ll spend a lot of time explaining yourself to other people, making sure your skin is moisturized at all times, and praying that when Verdine White of Earth, Wind & Fire passes away, no one will say you resemble him. Look, I love him, but he always wears a lot of sparkling accessories like he’s getting ready to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” at the county fair and that’s a choice that not even Sophie would make. In all seriousness, I understand that the truths and responsibilities I just told you about are annoying things you’re going to have to contend with for the rest of your life—to varying degrees, of course, because Payton is the one who has brown skin—but just try and remember that being black is also great. We, as a people, have overcome so much and have become astronauts, CEOs, and even the president of the United States. So, Payton, you should be stoked to be a card-carrying member of blackness. Just make sure you don’t try to frame it at Michaels.

  Dear Future Female President: My List of Demands

  Future Female President, I know handing you a list of my demands without properly introducing myself is approaching “Kanye West creating the Yeezy fashion line” levels of overconfidence. Although, now that I mention it, I don’t even know if he was ove
rconfident. Sure, it’s a little cray that he apparently based Yeezy season one off the following fleeting thought: What if my clothes only came in Beige #267, aka Law & Order’s Ice-T’s skin tone and everyone bought them? What. If. But what do you know? His clothes have sold out nationwide, so it seems he was just the right amount of confident. Well, you can rest assured I am not at Yeezy level right now. I’m in the presence of your greatness and my confidence is kind of shaky like that French guy who walked across the tightrope in that documentary Man on Wire. I mean, hello! You’re the first female president of the United States! I would be a fool if I weren’t bugging out. It’s such an honor for me to be communicating with you.

  Oh, right, right. Who am I? My name is Phoebe Robinson. I’m a stand-up comedian/writer/actress, and I’m a huge fan of your work. I’ve been following you ever since I read that Buzzfeed article listing the [insert number] times you did [insert the thing that everyone loves about you] for years. I’ve been told some of my best qualities include excellent listening skills, a mastery of finding the best GIF to express what I’m feeling instead of actually using words, and my ability to have a stank face locked and loaded when someone acts a stone-cold foo at Steve Madden, but by far, the best thing about me is my perseverance. I’ll give you an example.