by Issa Rae
Even within the black community, hair adjectives like laid, fried, nappy, jacked, whipped, dry, and snatched are all used to convey approval or disapproval. They are used judgmentally, as if they assess not just hair but also character, quality of life, and decision-making skills. When dealing with people who pose so-called questions even as they judge you, here are some foolproof responses.
Question: “Is it real?”
Thanks to the widespread popularity of hair extensions, this question is no longer asked solely within the black community. Some people are even desensitized to the question. For those who aren’t, the proper response is usually, “Is yours?” with a smile. If that person does not relent, you can try, “It’s as real as you are bold,” with a friendly chuckle. Passive aggression is absolutely appropriate in this instance. (Equal offenders: Is it yours? How long is your actual hair?)
Opinion: “It’s so soft. I wasn’t expecting that.”
A backhanded compliment I receive often, it always begs the silently self-posed question, “What exactly were you expecting? Did you expect it to prick you like cotton plants, or to feel rough like gauze tape?” This usually comes from friends I’ve let touch it, or whom I’ve asked to braid my hair, or from chatty hairstylists. The only response I’ve been able to muster is a curt, “I know, isn’t it?”
Question: “Can I touch it?”
The dreaded question that many with “ethnically expansive” hair have heard countless times. A simple, “Are your hands clean?” not only infantilizes the request, but it also sends the message that your hair isn’t the sheep exhibit at the petting zoo. Should you decide to decline the request, a polite “I’d rather you not” should do the trick. If you see that the asker’s spirit is crushed, and you’re inclined to care, simply qualify your denial with, “I’m very tender-headed.”
Opinion: “You should press it.”
This opinion is almost always unsolicited. It is an opinion most commonly held by the older generation in the South where, in certain parts, natural hair is meant to be hidden, not seen. So as not to cause confusion or uproar, a simple “Maybe” or “One day” is enough to give them the hope that you’ll gain some sense and “do something with that hair.”
Question: “How did you get your hair like that?”
If the question’s context refers to a complicated hairstyle, i.e. gravity-defying twists or an insanely thick side bun, this question is acceptable. If this question refers to one’s hair texture, i.e. “Can I make my hair ‘nappy’ like yours?” or “Why doesn’t my hair shrink when water touches it?” then we have a problem. Because “kinkify it” is not a readily available option in the hair salon, those whose scalps don’t naturally produce such awe-inducing tresses may be confused or uninformed. So as not to exhaust oneself by explaining genetics, an appropriate response would be, “I woke up like this.”
Opinion: “I wish my hair did that.”
Ah, hair envy. There is no proper response to appease those who can’t achieve the nap-tural roots. But this admission, especially given the self-esteem-threatening history of “nappy” rejection, is always appreciated. An appropriate response is, “Thanks.”
* * *
By the year 2100, when the world is even more globally connected, with intergalactic travel common and interracial mixing the default, we can expect less of a fascination with the mystery of “black” hair. Until then, during your lifelong hair journey, understand that many will want to touch your hair and some will. A number will speculate on its authenticity; few will care. Consistency is boring. Variety is key. Don’t be afraid to try various styles and numerous textures, with confidence. Proudly exclaim, “I can wear my hair however I want, whenever I want, anywhere I want!” The advantages of black hair are infinite.
Public Displays of Affection
While I was scrolling through Twitter, I came across this picture on Instagram that a ponytail-wearing, plaid-shirt-donning, braces-wielding teenage girl posted. In it, she smiled happily in the mirror, her room adorned with all the generic decorations that fourteen-year-old girls fancy. She lay on her bed, stomach down, elbows propped up, to pose for her picture. At the foot of the bed, directly behind her, stood her bare bird-chested, undergarmentless, curly-high-top teenage boyfriend. His penis wasn’t visible because, well, because they were doing it.
Kids, these days—gotta love ’em.
As social media redefines the boundaries of privacy, and the term “public” expands to limits that I can’t even fathom, one thing remains the same: I don’t EVER want to see you and your significant other’s displays of affection.
PDA used to be more or less avoidable. As in, I could just turn my head and walk in the other direction or leave the dinner that we agreed would be just the two of us, to which you brought your new girlfriend with whom you keep making out. But since a relationship isn’t officially recognized by the public these days without an incessant display of a couple’s inseparability, here we are. And it’s gross. And inconsiderate.
According to my mother, when I was a toddler I used to love PDA. Whenever I’d see two characters on-screen kissing, I would exclaim, “Look, Mommy, they’re married!” Had I employed the same prudish logic in my teenage years, maybe I would have surmised that my parents’ marriage wasn’t doing so well. They never kissed in front of us. Or said “I love you” in front of us. In fact, the words “I love you” were reserved for life-threatening occasions (i.e. air travel and accidents) and birthday-card signatures. There was no doubt in our minds that our parents loved each other, but if I were to evaluate my parents’ love based on their PDA, I’d think they were just above an arranged marriage.
My parents had other ways of showing their affection without openly fondling each other. They joked frequently and often made each other laugh. I think my mom made my dad laugh more, which I loved. Even now, our sense of humor is what binds us as a family. It’s how we express love. It’s the reason that I sit at the kitchen table for hours at a time when my four siblings are in town and just laugh and laugh. I don’t know that I’ve ever told any of my siblings that I love them, but if anything, my tearful laughter expresses that emotion on my behalf.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve found other ways to say “I love you” without saying those exact words that I have trouble saying it now. The words seem so unnecessarily dramatic. I would much rather be shown love than to merely hear the words. Not everyone agrees; some people won’t know it’s love until the expression of it is so obvious and public it’s displayed on Facebook. Really? If you ask me, your unctuous displays of love should be kept to your damn self.
Growing up, the words “I love you” were a special gift, from me to you. I didn’t say it often and when I said it, I absolutely meant it. It was for you and only you at the specific time that I chose to utter it. Then I went to private school in Brentwood and befriended a bunch of white girlfriends who dished out those words as if they were meaningless.
“Ohmygodiloveyou.”
“I love you, you’re the best.”
“Can I just say that I love you?”
I would always just laugh it off, unsure of what to say in return, worried about being insincere. I watched as those words turned into public caressing and hand-holding and kissing and groping. It was almost as if they were checking to see if anyone was watching, hoping they were watching. Mini, preteen exhibitionists.
The first time I was both intrigued and repulsed by PDA was when my younger siblings and I took a trip with my parents to Paris. We were visiting my Tonton Bocar’s family and sightseeing. As we walked through some famous Parisian park that I couldn’t have cared less about—because I was ten and tired of walking and developing what would become a lifelong hatred for tourism—I spotted a couple on the open lawn, going at it. They were laid out on a blanket as the man kissed the woman’s neck and started to disrobe her. She stroked his back, her eyes thrilled
and ecstatic. Then as I walk-watched, I swear I noticed her check to see if anyone was watching. Like, “Look at me and my adventurous sexual relationship. Look at ME, EVERYBODY!” And that, more than the public act of doing it in a park full of kids, was what disturbed and annoyed me most. How dare she?
PDA signals a desperate need for outside validation of one’s relationship status. “Look at how he kisses me in front of you all. Surely he loves me. Don’t you wish you had this?”
How ironic, then, that my very first kiss was a public display of affection. Well, not really “affection,” so much as “acquaintance.” A shameful display of acquaintance. I don’t know how it happened, but I was so proud of myself at the time. I felt so validated. It was the summer after sixth grade. My mother had decided that the school I was attending, Palms Middle School, wasn’t enough of a challenge for me. Not only that, but my sixth-grade best friend Ashley’s mother had decided to enroll her in a private school. When Ashley was pulled out of Palms, I was, too. The entire process was just like applying for college, I’d find out later. My mother set up appointments for me at the top private schools, Harvard-Westlake, Windward, Archer, Crossroads, and Brentwood. Once there, I’d interview with the headmasters and charm them with my intellect and vast and worldly twelve-year-old experience. Then I’d go back to sixth grade and sit in class, fantasizing about my new, diverse, state-of-the-art future.
Much to my delight, I got accepted into all of the schools. I couldn’t decide between Harvard-Westlake and Brentwood. But I remember that during my Brentwood tour a really cute (probably not, I had horrible sixth-grade taste), white, brown-haired upper-classman waved to me as he leaned coolly on his desk, a pencil in his mouth. That image of coolness and the potential for diverse love interests solidified my choice of Brentwood.
But my mother had toured the schools along with me, and in her eyes there were very few black faces in what seemed like an overbearing sea of white. She feared that my sense of identity would be snuffed out and needed reassurance that I’d be okay. She discussed it with Ashley’s mother and discovered ABC. An acronym for A Better Chance, ABC was headed by a short but robust, shiny-scalped black man named Michael who served as the preemptive olive branch between black kids and the private school system. The organization was founded to make sure we didn’t get lost in the private school culture, that kids with less fortunate economic backgrounds or kids who were prone to forget that they were black or Latino would always have a place to simultaneously uplift and ground them. This was music to my mother’s ears.
What excited me the most was that there was an ABC summer retreat, right before I would begin junior high in the fall. A co-ed retreat in Northern California?! What a perfect opportunity to find a boyfriend! This was a must for me. Ashley and I prepared, giddy with opportunity.
Except that everyone hated me. With the exception of one girl—who hailed from Inglewood, loved chicken nuggets, and was dubbed “Cheerful Cherie” for her upbeat attitude—nobody thought I was cool. My “uncool” status was established on the bus ride we took up to the Bay. My mother insisted that she, my little brother (nine), and my little sister (six) would ride with us and take a return flight home. Aside from the designated chaperone, she was the only parent present. But since my mother was gracious enough not to sit near me so as to fully embarrass me, no one besides Ashley knew that the family in the back belonged to me.
The trip started off hopeful enough. Ashley and I watched as various junior high schoolers of all shapes and sizes and both genders filled the bus. That’s when I saw him for the first time. I tried not to stare as he walked onto the bus. Taller than me, crème-brûlée-colored skin, green eyes, puberty buff—it was lust at first sight. I jabbed Ashley with my elbow.
“Ohmygod, he’s SO fine.”
“Who?”
“Don’t look, but he’s about to walk past us. Don’tlookdon’tlook.”
Ashley looked.
“Him? He’s not fine. He’s cute.”
He walked to the back of the bus. This is going to be so much fun, I thought.
Then my little sister got stuck in the bus bathroom and lost. her. MIND. My little sister who grew up to be a cool, calm, and collected germophobe freaked out at the thought of being stuck in the bus bathroom. She started banging on the door, yelling, “I CAN’T GET OUT, MOM! I CAN’T GET OUT!” To which my mother rushed to help her baby girl, while everyone on the bus turned in their direction. When my mother failed to get through to her, assuming I’d know more about bus engineering, she called me.
“Jo-Issa, help your sister! Jo-Issa!”
Ashley fell out laughing as I sunk in my seat, pretending that my name was anything but that which my mother shrieked. Thankfully, one of the young fine gentlemen sitting near the back came to my sister’s rescue and simply and calmly told her to try turning the knob to the left. And, presto, the door opened. My sister emerged, with tear-stained eyes, grateful to be let free from the grip of the bathroom monster (a level-one boss, at best). I remained in my seat, mortified.
By the time we arrived at Mills College, an all-girls campus, the color had returned to my face and my hope for the trip had been restored. The campus was beautiful, and I felt like I had fast-forwarded to the college chapter in my life. We got off the bus and I looked up at what must have been the most beautiful dorms on campus, akin to freshly renovated, quaint townhomes. As Ashley and I made our way toward them, we heard hand claps.
“All right, guys, those are the residence halls for college students,” Michael said. “You guys will be staying over there.”
Our heads turned collectively as he pointed to what looked like a haunted, abandoned part of campus that we hadn’t even noticed before. It looked as if it had just emerged from the depths of hell. Ghosts of students past were wailing and circling the dilapidated roofs and breathing fire on the tattered exterior. The disappointment was palpable.
Michael remained cheery. “This is where the international students stay. Make friends! Learn a language!”
One of the girls we stood next to shook her head. “Dag. They get the Holiday Inn and we get the Motel 6.” I cracked up laughing. Later, upon recalling this memory, I laughed again at how our frame of reference for “luxury” was the Holiday Inn. The hotel/motel girl introduced herself as Kim. With caramel skin and her hair in a sock bun, which accentuated her beautiful cheekbones, she was tall, thin, and pretty. Next to her stood a girl who had African-American facial features but looked closer to white. She introduced herself in a thick East Coast accent as Taipei. With long, jet-black hair that she wore partially up, she was Italian and black (clearly a mix more common than I thought; see “A/S/L”). She had a cute gap between her teeth that actually looked good on her (I had a gap between my teeth that I hated, mostly because my little brother and sister would parody the Gap theme song with, “Falllllll into Jo-Issa’s gap!”). The most notable thing about her was that she was a lesbian, and I had never met one up until that point. She was edgy and cool. Both Taipei and Kim were fourteen, going into high school.
My best friend, Ashley, who I clutched onto as if for (social) life, was the only reason I was able to get in with these cool girls. With her long hair, cocoa skin, puberty boobs, and “chinky” eyes, Ashley was constantly approached by boys and adored by girls alike. And that girl could dance. She was everything I wasn’t and, as such, she fit in perfectly with the cool girls, despite being two years younger than they were. When our families were first introduced, we discovered that she and I were distant cousins, by marriage. To deepen our bond and solidify the potential for coolness in my own genes, I publicly identified her as my cousin.
As we unpacked our belongings in our respective hostel rooms, we were also introduced to Jennifer, a pretty, petite girl with an infectious high-pitched squeal-laugh, who went to elementary school with Cheerful Cherie. They would both be attending Brentwood, the same private school as me. Up unt
il that point, I hadn’t met anyone else who would be joining me at Brentwood, so I tried to stay close to them. Jennifer was hesitant, but Cherie welcomed me with open arms.
We all gathered together in Kim and Taipei’s room to discuss the program, our schools, and of course, boys. We talked about who was cute, who was checking for whom, and our personal relationship statuses. Before I could mention my crush, Taipei spoke up. “That boy with the green eyes is really cute. I think his name’s Jordan.” Trick, what?! Don’t you like girls?
Ashley and I exchanged glances as I nodded silently.
“Jo-Issa likes him, too,” she blurted.
Taipei turned to me. “He’s cute, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, he is fine. He’s a fine boy,” I confirmed.
“He’s Italian and black, just like me. Small world.”
Small-ass world, in-fucking-deed. Too small for lesbians to be claiming the most attractive boys at our haunted college, too. But, whatever. Then it was only a matter of time (hours, even) before the two of them were booed up. That night, at one of our first mixers, they hit it off and started making out. All week. She had won him, and I dismissed the idea of ever having a chance with him.
The rest of the retreat was unmemorable, until the final dance. It was a semi-formal, but the closest thing I had to that was business casual—my brand of awkward involves fashion faux pas. I wore a long black skirt with a white collared short-sleeve top. Boom: semi-formal. I had flashbacks to my sixth-grade dance the year before—where dateless and rhythmless, I wandered about by myself—and decided not to get my hopes up this time around. Ashley was my “date,” but that didn’t mean much as she was constantly being asked to dance, left and right, leaving me to wander as if I were looking for someone in the glass-door ballroom’s completely open space.