You Can't Touch My Hair

by Phoebe Robinson

  9. Do Not Keep Talking to the Devil’s Advocate Guy or Gal (aka DAG)

  I’m not against playing devil’s advocate, because a lot can be gleaned from it. However, when it comes to topics such as homophobia, sexism, and racism, a particular kind of DAG tends to rear its ugly head. This person isn’t interested in having a fruitful discussion that will enrich everyone involved. Nor does he have any intention to have an open and frank discussion about a difficult subject. This person is simply a shit starter, someone who is bored and wants to derail a conversation or has some inner rage that he’s dying to unleash. During my days of blogging about race, I have encountered this person often. They start out as seemingly run-of-the-mill people, perhaps sharing slightly biased statistics, but asking enough questions to make it seem like they are open to exchanging ideas. Eventually, though, DAG will lose their cool and reveal themselves for who they are. I’ll give you an example.

  My work wife, Jessica Williams (my cohost on 2 Dope Queens, as I mentioned previously, but you may also remember her from her work on The Daily Show—or as the author of this book’s foreword), and I were once interviewed on HuffingtonPost.com, and we discussed how the entertainment industry is simply more difficult for women of color. This is not a refutable fact. Just look at who’s being cast in TV shows and movies, and it’s apparent that many roles tend to go to actors who are the color of the doves that cried in that Prince song. Within hours of this interview being published and shared on Facebook, comments were flying that I just wanted a handout for being black. One DAG in particular was insistent that blacks weren’t the only ones who were oppressed or have struggled in and outside Hollywood. Jews have struggled as well, you know? The Holocaust? (Side note: I love how he clarified that he meant the Holocaust, as if I would have no idea what he was referring to.) He continued on, stating that Jews don’t talk about their oppression every day; rather, they worked hard to change their fortune. He still has struggles, but they don’t define him. Right. OK. Not to be crude, but unless Hitler was creeping over your crib à la Wilson from Home Improvement and giving you nightmares by singing haunting renditions of “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” then the Holocaust is not your struggle, twenty-two-year-old Jewish dude. Pointing out how modern-day institutionalized racism prevents blacks from getting jobs and paints them as angry, scary, and a menace to society by the police until proven otherwise is not me reveling in victimhood. It’s acknowledging the current environment as the first step in attempting to change it.

  Anyway, dear reader, this gentleman and I went back and forth and as you can guess by now, I got ensnared in Devil’s Advocate Guy’s trap. Thankfully, there’s a thing called the Block button on Facebook. And I have to say never does it feel so sweet as when you use the Block button to Heisman a Devil’s Advocate Guy (or Gal) outta your business.

  10. Take a Picture and See How Everyone Responds

  This is the true test, y’all, if you want to find out if you’re The Black Friend. Historically speaking, when color film in photography was invented, technicians relied on what is known as Shirley cards, which are named after the first woman who posed for these cards. Shirley was, of course, a pale-skinned white woman. As a result, nonwhite people have been screwed ever since when it comes to photography lighting. Speaking from personal experience of doing talking head shows and web series, it takes about twice as long to get my lighting correct as it does for the white people on camera. Now, I’m not complaining; I’m happy people are taking the time to make sure I look great and not like a shadow that has a voice. Unfortunately, the same is not always the case in nonprofessional situations.

  In regular old life, people take group photos to post on Instagram without the help of professional lighting. And I find that a photo of myself with a bunch of white peeps quickly turns into a game of “one of these things is not like the other.” Essentially, the picture comes off like the beginnings of a solar eclipse. I’m all dark and shadowy and encroaching on the face of the white person next to me. This is not a good look. But this is where the test comes in. If the white people checking out the photo keep it real by saying, “You know, let’s take that over again,” then you know they have your back and want everyone to look good. If, on the other hand, they look in their pocketbook and find nary a fuck to give about them looking amazing in the picture while you look like the inverse of The Nightmare before Christmas skeleton head, then you are The Black Friend, and not their actual friend.

  Well, black reader, that’s it! You know the path to leading a life free from the unbearable weight that is being The Black Friend. If anything else comes up that I didn’t mention, just follow your gut. Say you’re in your job’s break room during lunch and a coworker jokes that since you’re biracial, you don’t really count as black. Feel free to say, “Excuse me, what is this shit,” with so much fire that it defrosts the Lean Cuisine she’s holding in her hand. Or let’s say a guy expects you to be an expert twerker, simply because you’re black. You have my blessing to Hadouken him, Street Fighter–style. Or perhaps it’s Halloween and you see a group of people dressed in blackface get out of a car and go into a party. This makes you want to key their car like in that Carrie Underwood song and then brag about what you did on social media. Well, I wouldn’t incriminate myself like that, but I’m not here to judge your journey, OK? Now go forth, conquer the world, and join a ragtag crew of multicultural friends that will make the Planeteers look like a group of scary, identical blond kids from Children of the Corn. Do it!

  Uppity

  At the last Black People of America meeting, we reviewed the Official List of Things White People Shouldn’t Do to Black Folk. Obviously, the biggies—no bigotry, slavery, racially motivated murder, racial slurs, profiling, or cultural appropriation for their own gain (ahem, Iggy Azalea)—needed no updating. But then there are more subtle things that need to be added to the list: Don’t use the last of the cocoa butter, talk during an episode of Empire, or attend a black family cookout and say Lionel Richie blows. I mean, you’re really asking to get stabbed with a Capri Sun straw if you say anything negative about Richie around black people. BTdubs, if you’re wondering if there is actually a physical list, the answer is yes, there is, and, no, I’m not telling you where it is. Mainly because I don’t know where it is. Only Danny Glover does. But what I do know is that Glover is solely responsible for amending the list. If, for some reason, he’s unavailable, it’s been decreed that we tuck the amendment(s) inside Aretha Franklin’s hat that she wore to the 2009 President Obama inauguration and then shoot the items into the sky via a missile launcher that Glover has preprogrammed with the coordinates of where the list is located.

  Anyway, at the next official BPA meeting, I’m asking that the following be added to the list: Never, in front of one thousand people, tell a black person she comes off as too smart and, therefore, less likable. No, this isn’t some random suggestion. This is a very real thing that happened to me, and to this day, it gives me Vietnam-esque flashbacks because it’s probably one of the most cringeworthy things I’ve ever experienced.

  A few years ago, I was in LA for what I thought would be my “big break” in stand-up comedy. To be clear, big breaks do not exist in comedy. There’s just a lot of failure offset by brief glimmers of success that keep comics going until things start changing for the better ten, eleven, twelve years into the business. But when you’re almost six years in, as I had been at that point, and your checking account is dire, the idea of a “big break” seduces you. And in my case, this trip to LA was the big break that metaphorically had me splayed out on the bed while I cued up Keith Sweat B-sides and waited for it to have its way with me.

  The big break was the chance to appear on a major network program, a televised stand-up competition judged by three comedians with multidecade-spanning careers. Yes, it was reality TV, but there wasn’t going to be any drama, bullshit, or games, the network executives promised. Instead, the show was going to showcase unknown c
omics, giving them exposure that would push their careers to the next level. It quickly became clear the show was Grade A bullshit, had more games than Milton Bradley, and would rival Telemundo in the fake drama department. However, I was so enthralled by the “big break” fantasy that I disregarded all warnings from other comedians, and repeated Oprah-isms to myself: “live your best life,” “own your own truth,” “believe it is possible and it will be.” Look, I’m not blaming Oprah for what happened to me, because sometimes you just need to repeat these mantras while wearing flowy pajama sets and lighting $15 candles. This was not one of those times, though. This was more like one of those “skip town, change your name, get a pixie cut, train with a boxer for several months, and then go back and beat the ever-loving mess out of your ex” type of situations. This show was going to be a dogfight and I was ill prepared.

  The night of the stand-up showcase, I nervously waited in the greenroom, picking at the buffet-style dinner compiled from a grocery store’s frozen foods department. Some of the other comics were anxious as well, while others relaxed and cracked jokes, seeming cooler than cool. Regardless of their mental state going into it, after each performance, every comic came back to the greenroom slightly disappointed. Confused. All these jokes were supposed to kill—the producers had approved the sets beforehand—yet the judges dismissed the comics the way a fey king would a servant. Still, I believed it would be different for me, because this was my shot. Hello! I even bought an outfit just for this occasion, which is a textbook Carrie Bradshaw move if there ever was one, as if new outfit = everything will go perfectly at the big event. Nevertheless, I was feeling good and looking good, and I was ready for what came next: the preinterview with the producers. At least, I thought I was ready.

  You know those moments backstage on reality TV shows where contestants talk about how they’re participating in this dance/singing/cupcake-making competition for their kids or how they can’t believe they made it this far because they were drug addicts/homeless/called ugly one time while eating Lunchables in eighth grade and that they’re going to win the whole shebang and spend the prize money on their deserving parents/a big vacation/a shopping spree at Williams-Sonoma? Well, a lot of those sound bites happen right before you’re set to perform, when your brain is essentially a bowl of goo. During my interview, I’m pretty sure I said something about how it was a lifelong dream to perform in front of one of the judges (it wasn’t), that the hotel I was staying at was great (no one asked me that), and that I’m doing this for Cleveland, Ohio. That’s right, I was doing this show for the entire city of Cleveland. I acted like I was a gymnast from a war-torn Belarus who knew that if I medaled at the Summer Olympics, I was going to bring honor to my nation. Y’all, Cleveland has the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and plenty of Red Robins; they’re doing just a-OK. Anyway, I said what I said and then it was time for me to perform.

  I went on stage and did my four minutes of jokes that I had been perfecting over the past few months and it went . . . OK. I got laughs, but they weren’t as robust as they were during my initial audition. I knew I had rushed a couple of punch lines and perhaps challenged the audience with some of my race material, but with other jokes, they seemed thoroughly on board. In my estimation, I did well enough to prove that I was funny, but I wasn’t going to advance to the next round. Oh, well, I thought, so much for my big break. But a little hope still glimmered when it was time for the judges’ critiques because they smiled at me. Little did I know those smiles meant: Activate “break a bitch down like an improper fraction” mode.*

  Male Judge #1 grinned. “I just want to say that you look horrible in your head shot.” Wait. Was I just reverse Paula Abdul’d? I thought. I didn’t know that was possible, but apparently it was. Sometimes, a rich person will tell you that both your talent and appearance is wack.

  “But I will say that you look great tonight,” he continued. Well, why did you say that other shit? Besides, what does my appearance have to do with anything?! This is supposed to be about comedy! “You look young and fresh and approachable, but in this picture . . . you look old. Like, you look older than my mom.”

  “Yeah,” the Female Judge chimed in while holding up the head shot, “you look really terrible here.”

  If my inner rage could’ve been measured at that moment, it would have hit “Real Housewife high on Percocet and wearing too-tight Spanx during a reunion show episode” level. This was supposed to be my big break, but I was, as RuPaul would say, “getting read to filth,” aka getting criticized to the fullest extent. I was embarrassed. I was hurt. I was pissed. Mostly at Female Judge because she’s a woman and ought to know better. Let me explain: Like two great athletes who don’t play on the same team but meet up on the world stage, blacks and women have always convened at the Oppressed Olympics and given each other a friendly head nod, similar to how when I’m in line at the grocery store and I notice the person in the next checkout line is also buying lemonade. I feel an instant kinship like, “This chick also loves herself enough to not drink deeply inferior Crystal Light.” The point is that I assumed, perhaps naïvely, that among blacks and women, there would be a general respect for each other’s histories and struggles; thus, anytime anyone came along with piping-hot foolishness, we would have each other’s backs. Not this time. Female Judge betrayed girl code and doubled down on Male Judge #1’s superficiality, thereby perpetuating the message that appearance is a top priority if not the top priority for female comics.

  The hell, Female Judge?! You know better than this! It’s bad enough women have to work harder and be funnier, nicer, and more likable just to get half the opportunities some of these beard-faced, flannel-wearing white dude comics get, and now you’re acting as though us lady comics also have to be “traditionally hot or beautiful” to be taken seriously? Exqueeze me! I got into comedy partially because I was not hot. The other part was that I realized I could make people laugh with slick and snarky comments, but honestly, the not-hot factor played a huge role. I was always the girl that made all the boys laugh, and while that never got me any boyfriends, it got me male attention, which I was happy-ish to settle for while they all traipsed off with the better-looking, cool girls. I’m not writing this to get sympathy or have you, dear reader, go, “Oh, no, Pheebs, you’re beautiful.” Y’all, there was a long stretch where I was not that cute and that’s OK. It made me a better, more interesting person because I developed other skills to attract people, and one of those skills is my sense of humor and personality. Thankfully, as I have gotten older, my looks, in my opinion, have caught up with my personality, but that’s beside the point. Stand-up comedy is not a beauty pageant. It’s about the jokes. It’s about making people laugh until they can’t breathe and tears well up in their eyes. It’s about living by the laughs and dying by the absence of them. After all, that is how most, if not all, male comics are judged. So the fact that female comics are judged by their funny and their looks is really unfair. And the fact that a woman in 2014 was cosigning this sexist way of judging other women comedians made me want to graduate summa cum laude from What Da Fuq University. Unfortunately, I said none of this to her. What I did say was:

  “I-I mean, um, I . . . I don’t understand. I think I look fine in the picture. I don’t get it.”

  “What he’s trying to say is you look good tonight. And he’s right. You look lovely,” Male Judge #2 responded in a “you ought to be grateful” tone.

  Granted, I did look different between my head shot and my appearance that day. Standing before the judges, I had shoulder-length light- and dark-brown box braids. In the head shot, which was taken a couple of years prior to the competition, I was sporting a baby Afro. In the entertainment industry (and also everywhere else), people are divided about Afros. Some love this “trendy ethnic look” which is better known as “the hair that grows out my fucking head, but thanks for patronizing me by saying it’s now OK because some white execs have decided barely-not-white models w
ith ‘fros can appear in T-Mobile print ads.” Meanwhile, others dislike the ‘fro because they think the person wearing it is fixing to start a revolution. There is no in-between. Braids like the kind I had reminded the judges of Moesha, the beautiful, safe, high-achieving, and respectful black teenager who never broke the rules. It wasn’t that I looked old (I didn’t, and if I did, that still shouldn’t matter because they were judging my comedy) or terrible in the head shot (I didn’t, and if I did, that still shouldn’t matter, again, because they were judging my comedy), it was that I had, at one point, looked like the kind of black that they didn’t want. They made their minds up about me before I ever stepped on stage. Everything else—my performance, my preshow banter on camera—was perfunctory.

  “Thank you,” I said to the judges for their “nonpliments” because the only thing worse than being ridiculed on TV is being labeled an angry black woman for defending yourself. Male Judge #1 finally addressed my comedy and said I had potential. And that, folks, is what they call “burying the lede.” On a show about comedy where people are doing comedy in the hopes of getting their own show that is a comedy, spending 99.3 percent of the time discussing a contestant’s looks and just 0.7 percent queefing out a halfhearted sentence of encouragement meant the lede in this case was so buried that it might as well have been the pack of zombies in the cemetery of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” music video right before they are brought back to life for the choreographed dance break.