Archive for August, 2012

Straight Talk, No Chaser: The Hair Chronicles

Posted in Uncategorized on August 9, 2012 by theninjaparade

All current and future members of the Joint Committee on Black Cultural Correctness and Keepin’ It 100, as well as their apologists, have a standing invitation to kiss my muthafuckin’ ass—and that’s because I’m feeling charitable. Or not.

If I were really feeling charitable, I would see all of you as merely pitiful and try to reason with you. But not one of you arouses an iota of pity of commiseration from me. I find you all to be despicable in the denotative sense, i.e., you’re so worthless and obnoxious that you rouse my utter moral indignation. And you’re despicable only in part because you don’t appreciate you’re worthless and obnoxious as you camp out on your laptops, tablets and cell phones pontificating from on high about the appropriate expressions of blackness—emboldened, apparently, by the notion that you and you alone are keepers of The Funk.

Fuck. You.

You’re a bunch of liars. Fuck you for that. No, seriously. You know y’all be lyin’ just as sure as you’re reading these words. But has that stopped you from swaddling yourselves in black righteousness and sanctimony as you chastise those of us who dare to speak honestly about our take on blackness? It hasn’t, no. So fuck you, again. Matter fact, muthafuck you.

If you’re black and you saw Gabby Douglas compete during the Olympics, you’re a gotdamned lie if you say you didn’t think, ‘That child’s hair looks a fool.’ Yes, you did. I say that (about her hair) without any malice, something I’ll expound upon later, but to be clear, her hair was popped!!!

Yes, she’s 16 years old. Yes, she has lived in Iowa with a white family for years while training for the Olympics. Yes, she made history by becoming a gold-medal winning gymnast at the 2012 Olympics and deserves to be congratulated for her accomplishment. Yes, she will earn millions of dollars as a commercial endorser (though not the $90 million figure that’s being thrown around).

But, yeah … it’s also true that her hair was bogus as hell, her age, place of residence, training and earning potential notwithstanding. Saying so doesn’t make me a hater or a confused, self-hating Negro, nor does it mean that I’m not “evolved”—a pet-word that the Joint Committee has bastardized into some New Age shit that would find me walking around wearing a faded Bob Marley t-shirt and looking vaguely unkempt, smoking weed and referring to women I don’t know from a hole in the wall as “queen.”

The point of straightening hair is to make it, you know, straight, right? Well, Gabby’s edges had forgot. And the stick-straight ponytail weave? Whole new dimension of confusion.

It should’ve dawned on you self-impressed assholes by now that if anyone should be labeled as self-hating, it’s a person who would sooner have relaxed or straightened hair sitting atop a hidden Afro than to wear it in its natural state. But that’s an inconvenient truth that applies to too many of you who are hurling the “self-hating” barb around so you ignore that. But you’re evolved? I’d rather be honest.

In the spirit of honesty, you know who I hate? Your lying asses.

And what is this bullshit about the focus should be on her gymnastics? If I’d hopped on Twitter and said that I thought her hair looked nice, no one would have told me that I should be focused on gymnastics then.

It is possible for us non-evolved folk to appreciate more than one thing about a person and in this case, I appreciated that her hair was busted and that she was the best gymnast on the floor. If you chose to ignore the obvious, congratulations, Super Black Ass Person! You’re blacker than I am!

But along the lines of staying focused, fuck you. For years we’ve been inundated by all manner of revelations, venting and commentary about natural hair. The shit is annoyingly ubiquitous. Even Oprah is talking about wearing her natural hair now (count me as being among those who were shocked to learn she hadn’t been all along). There are New York Times articles, support groups, a natural hair sorority (Pi Nappa Kappa), websites, You Tube Channels and Facebook pages about natural hair and that’s okay, right? Cool.

But how are you not only going to cram the natural hair discussion down the throats of we who are somewhere between indifferent and incredulous, but also tell me what I should think about a woman’s hair? Get thee whole, entire fuck outta here with that shit!!! If I have to hear all about the big chop, read about parties where women celebrate going natural and see the #happilynappy on Twitter, you’ll excuse me for feeling free to share my opinion about Gabby Douglas’ hair. Why? Because I want to. And all you can do about it is lie, be mad and feel evolved.

If it’s okay to compliment a woman’s hair –and I’ve told more than my share of women their hair looked good—then it has to be okay to criticize a woman’s hair. Oh, wait; Gabby’s “just a girl,” right? So? Is there an age restriction on good- or bad looking hair?

You know what? Don’t even answer that. Fuck you.

The discussion about Gabby’s hair became public because the discussion among black people about black hair is happening in private. That’s just how it works so stop talking this shit about not airing our dirty laundry. That genie has been out of the bottle.

Like it or not, hair is how black people communicate our sense of self—or do you think it just so happens to be the case that the black community spends a half-trillion dollars a year on hair products, processes and prosthetics? The real reason the Joint Committee and its supporters are upset is because when they saw Gabby Douglas, they saw themselves, their daughters, sisters, nieces and cousins on television. And they felt ashamed and embarrassed. As hard as they struggle to keep their hair tight, ‘Here you have this little nappy-headed black girl on TV making us all look bad???’

That’s your business and while a small part of me wants to empathize with you, all of you can go play in traffic trying to tell me what I should or shouldn’t say, how I feel about what my eyes saw and what that says about me. What it says is that I didn’t like what I saw. The End.

Fuck you.


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