Small Doses

by Amanda Seales

  Growing up in the ’90s, the message was “Keep It Real.” It was the only goal. I mean, is there anything realer than the video of the beating of Rodney King, the “Mammie” episode of A Different World, or Tupac as “Bishop” in Juice, or hell, Tupac just as a human being?!? From the clothes to the music to the movies, throughout my youth there was a constant surge of honesty that wholly shaped the way I viewed the world. However, since then, real has gotten a bad rap while nice has been lifted up. In my opinion nice is overvalued in comparison to the shit you can’t fake, which is being kind.

  “Be nice.” You hear it all the time, but at this point, what does that even mean? I’ll tell you. The expectation has become that, regardless of the situation, you’re always supposed to be smiling, and sweet, and cool, which sounds to me like nice is really about how you appear to react to what someone is saying and not so much about the contents of what they’re actually saying. Where does telling someone who is ABSOLUTELY full of shit that they’re full of shit fall on the “be nice” spectrum? These days, it doesn’t even make it on the spectrum because, to hella folks, “be nice” really means “be fake,” so just plain saying the truth is a nonstarter. When it comes to women, this is nothing new. “Be nice” has always landed in the bosom of “make all men feel like they are special.” That was the mark of a lady—a woman who knew her place (read: when to shut up) and knew her purpose (read: to shut up and serve). Well, thank GOD many of us have gotten past that Mad Men–style madness, and although there are guys who love to see us living out our hard-fought right to tenacity, in general, there is still the underlying expectation that a “nice” woman is one who smiles and says, “OK.”

  In the case of black women, this concept runs deep, as the “angry black woman” trope continues to rear its ugly weave over every one of us who attempts to stand up and be heard. It’s like a sista can’t say “Happy Birthday” without someone saying, “Whoa, I don’t like your attitude.” We should be able to speak our minds honestly, without this added expectation to soothe with our speech. On the other hand, for guys of all races, the whole nice thing has gotten out of hand. Take the tired-ass saying, “Nice guys finish last,” or “Women like jerks.” Wrong. It’s not that we don’t like “nice” guys, it’s that we don’t like boring guys. We don’t like SIMPS who don’t have anything exciting or funny or intellectual to add to the conversation. Hear me on this, men: BEING NICE IS NOT ENOUGH. The standard has gotten so twisted that somehow being “nice,” which should be a basic requirement, became the only requirement. Now, dudes think that just because they’re not douchebags, they deserve entrance into Shangrilina. No, sir. Can we raise the bar and stop getting so hype for men doing basic shit that many women are expected to and would do for them in the blink of an eye? You gotta do more! WE ALL HAVE TO DO MORE. That’s where “be kind” comes in. Unlike being nice, kindness is not about what you’re portraying, but what you’re doing. It’s about how you are using, like for real applying, actual love to make the world a better place. Sure, you may smile nicely at the old woman on the bus, but kindness is what makes you give up your seat for her. Yea, you might nicely say hello to the baby on the flight seated next to you, but kindness is what makes you have empathy instead of annoyance when it’s crying because its ears won’t pop. Ok, you may think it’s nice not to point out the food in someone’s teeth because you don’t want to embarrass them. But let’s be real. You just don’t want to feel uncomfortable telling them. Kindness is getting over your fear and giving them the heads-up so they don’t continue to walk around looking like they just feasted on a carcass.

  Niceness is cosmetic. Kindness is kinetic. It is the act of. It is the application to. It is the implementation within. It can be difficult. It can be exhausting. However, contrary to this whole “be nice” thing, kindness is absolutely about being real. It requires truth and principles, two things this world could use a lot more of these days. Make no mistake, just because someone is nice does not mean they’re kind. What do you always hear after someone shot up a school, or some man chained three women to a rusty radiator in a basement, “But he was so niiiiicccceeee.” Niceness is a mask many folks can wear because that is simply a part of being in a society. You want things done? You can’t expect it if you’re a prick. You want friends? They’re hard to acquire if you’re a cold-hearted Scrooge. You want to get ahead? People have to like you! So, niceness is necessary. However, it is not a fair expectation for every situation. It is not fair to expect others to be nice about your unexplained shitty attitude. It’s not cool to expect others to be positive about the negative situations you create. Expecting folks to be silent about your mistreatment of them or others? Where they do that at?! Folks will disrespect your time, disrespect your livelihood, disrespect your home, and expect you to serve up a response with sugar on top just so they don’t have to feel uncomfortable, guilty, or ashamed. They want you to “be nice!” aka passive.

  Now listen, I’m not saying, SCREW NICENESS!!! As I said, regarding the original definition of nice, there is a place for it. We live on this rock together. Being nice is an active part of being civil. That’s why I work on it. OG nice can require added effort because of its use of extra words, extra thought, and extra patience to make people feel at ease. As a straight-to-the-point, high-brain functioning, type-A personality, only child, few-fucks-given kinda person, sometimes my shortness gets mistaken for meanness, when it’s not meant to hurt, it just wasn’t nestled in nice. I do little things to help along the process: 1) My email signature says, “Pardon the brevity, I’m corresponding on the move :)” I started doing this after a business transaction stalled because the other party felt I was being short with my responses. Of course, I was simply answering his questions, but because in my directness I didn’t use extra words of cordiality and niceness it came off short and disinterested when on my end it was simply concise and succinct. 2) I speak in a higher register on the phone with customer service so my deep voice doesn’t get misread as abrasive or “over it!” I try, really, truly try, to smile through folks’ fuckshit and their attempts to get it past me. I call it, “emoji speaking.” It’s the live and in-color version of texting someone, “You’re full of shit. ”

  I am a daily work in progress. I will admit that kindness comes naturally to me, but the “old” nice can be tiring and the “new” nice I won’t even entertain. The saying goes, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, but the question is, how fast are you trying to catch the flies? The pretend politeness of niceness can get in the way of tactful honesty and constructive critique that can be essential to advancing people and projects to a higher plane. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned that being “nice” about something can save you conflict, but often, being real about it can save you time. You just gotta learn when, where, and how to apply your realness. Nonetheless kind always has a place in the game, even if it’s just being kind to yourself. My point is, we gotta challenge the new status quo. Regardless of if you’re “nice” based on its old or new definition or nah, not everybody is gonna like you. Not everybody is gonna rock with you, and you know full well why you don’t rock with them. All you can do is try your best to be yourself and make a practice of being kind.

  Living in Your Truth

  THAT ONE TIME

  In 2013 Barack Obama was inaugurated into his second term in office, I mounted my one-woman show, It’s Complicated: Hilarical Answers to Serious Questions on Love, and everyone was rumbling about the film 12 Years a Slave, which was soon to be released in theaters. Two years prior, I had a series of epiphanies that led me to change my name from Amanda Diva back to its original form, Amanda Seales. This was a part of my decision to leave the music business and my pursuit of being a recording artist, and to instead place my attention on finding my way back to TV from the digital space. It was tumultuous, to say the least, and classic Saturn Return behavior.

  Sure, I was an artist, and yes, I was a woman, and of course, I identified loud and
proud as a black woman, held a master’s in African American studies, and was a legit hip-hop head, but then what? When I looked around at my peers blowing up (which you should never do), I knew that I was missing something. I didn’t truly know the direction I was going in, because I hadn’t truly figured out where I was coming from! The advice I kept getting was, “You need to be more crossover” or “You need to be an ‘it’ girl” or “You gotta get the whites to like you.” But, how? The answer seemed to be: By toning down all that hip-hop-African-American-studies-“Who-you-callin’-a-bitch?!” stuff and fitting in. I wrote blog posts on pop culture that shied away from social commentary and topics in the African American zeitgeist. I tried to go to the “right” parties, which pretty much had a Taylor Swift, Katy Perry playlist and invite list, so I was often one of only a handful of people of color in the room. I also attempted to define myself simply as a “personality”—WTH does that even mean? It was all so contrived. Nonetheless, it seemed like if I wanted the success of being recognized as a notable voice and talent, this was the only option. And maybe I’d have to front or fake a lil bit, but it’d be worth it, because eventually I’d have the clout to do what I wanted to do and define the rules myself. I continued on the path to pop culture maven, resolute that this was the way, on up to the fall of 2013.

  It was October and 12 Years a Slave was set to drop. There were rumblings within the black community about whether a film like this was “needed.” Did it unnecessarily continue the already exhaustive narrative of black folks as slaves? Did it bring anything uniquely creative? Was it a responsible choice of work? All valid questions, none of which stopped me from going to see it.* I’m not quite sure why, but I ended up going to a movie theater in New York City’s Lincoln Center. Literally the hotbed of upper-class geriatrics who serve as patrons to the various performing arts venues surrounding the area. These were the liberal elite, who are often more white savior than white ally (we covered that in “Race Realities” [see this page]), and although they may use their funds for foundations and providing shoes for a generically Latin-named child in some Central American nation, they, themselves, don’t do much mingling with the “others.” This was painfully apparent when my mom, a Swedish girl who was AirBnBing at my apartment, and I sat down in our seats at the theater. It was winter and my trademark curly fro was serving as an effective head warmer, glistening in all its glory, when I felt a finger tap my right shoulder. I turned around and was met face-to-face with a woman who seemed to share the age of Downton Abbey’s Dowager Countess and the style of Vogue’s Anna Wintour. Without even so much as a morsel of irony she asked in an unassuming manner, “Can you please put your hair away?” Y’all, I nearly climbed over that seat!!!! However, I remained calm and told her, through gritted teeth, “Sure, I’ll tuck my ethnicity in for you,” and turned, back to face the screen. No sooner was the Swede asking me what happened when another Dowager Countess to my left sent a sharp “Shhh” my way. Already triggered, I turned to her and said, “This is not the film you want to be giving me orders at.” Without a word, she faced forward. The lights dimmed. The movie began.

  The film was unwavering in its honesty and its portrayal of the characters as individuals trying to thrive through their strained and suppressed existence, instead of simply as black characters representing a tragic tale. It was not a Hollywood interpretation of an era that many know about but that few speak about candidly. It told the story of these Black lives and was vivid and bold and earnest and sharp and unapologetic and visceral and real and done with grace. I left the theater quickly, skootching past DC2, leaving my companions behind, and climbing the stairs to the fresh air of 66th and Broadway, a well of emotion overflowing. Angry at the history that came before me, frustrated with the present, and motivated for the future, I stood on the sidewalk and cried that single silent tear that Denzel did in Glory, or like my best friend in college said she did when she had her first orgasm. Seeing such a daring depiction of this individual’s previously untold story steadied my rudder. It made me look at my own path as a creative and as a descendent of those who were enslaved, and it gave me courage. In that moment a calm came over me and I had an epiphany. It was time to abandon the false narrative and discard the misplaced ideal. It was time to stop looking outside of myself for acceptance, but instead to start digging deeper to plant my purpose in authenticity. It was there on that curb, surrounded by a bunch of rich old white folks, after seeing this masterpiece of black storytelling, that I decided I would no longer try to cross over, I would commit to breaking through, and do so being as black as I wanted to be.

  * See Side Effects of Being a Multihyphenate (this page).

  * I still look sideways at black folks who haven’t seen this film. It truly is an artful piece of work worthy of anyone’s time. Also, Steve McQueen is from Grenada. BIG UP!

  #ImOut

  This may be the end of this book, but it’s far from the end of its evolution. If I wrote it right I’ll come back in three years, laugh at how much I’ve learned, and hit y’all with a volume 2! May your journey to self-awareness continue and flourish into social impact.

  Love,

  Amanda Seales