Afronista Rants #22: White People Wanna Say the N-Word, Too

Class, can anyone tell me the difference between a nigger and a nigga?

A white teacher from Chicago is suing the federal government for permission to use the N-word without negative repercussions.  All of this came about because he was caught using the N-word in his classroom.

A black student in his class had written a letter to one of her friends, and in the letter it contained rap lyrics with the N-word.  The teacher confiscated the letter and read it.  According to the teacher, he then used the N-word to explain racism as it related to Huckleberry Finn, the topic of discussion in his class that day.  At this precise moment he decided to use the N-word, the school principal walked into the classroom.  According to the principal, the teacher was using the word in an inflammatory fashion, not in a way that provoked thoughtful discussion.

The teacher was suspended from work five days without pay, but he says that the students were not offended.  They were having an active discussion on racism and the use of the N-word.  The teacher says that principal stayed in the classroom to hear the discussion.  The teacher claims that it is ridiculous that he cannot use the N-word as part of instruction and discussion.

I think this is very interesting.  I have heard quite a bit of debate on the usage of the N-word.  Black people would be supremely offended if a white person called them nigger, but yet black people say this to each other all the time.  A black person once told me that there is a difference between nigger and nigga, and that nigga is actually what black people say to each other, so therefore it is not offensive.  By this reckoning does it mean that white people can call a black person nigga?  Is that okay?  I don’t think so–at least, not in my mind.  Someone else once told me that black people calling each other nigga or nigger is a symbol of ownership.  They took the word back from the white people and made it their own.  I don’t know if I believe that either.

If it weren't for the N-word, Jim might've been Random Black Guy.

I do think that teachers, white or black, should be able to use the N-word as part of instructional discussion, but I think it might get abused and we’ll be back to where we started.  I have said before that I think we should not be so quick to erase things in our past.  Slavery, racism, segregation, these things really happened in our history.  They will never go away.  We should use the actions of our past to create better actions for the future.  Pretending these things didn’t happen is a disservice to everyone.  Trying to erase the N-word out of books that were written during slavery is ridiculous.  That was the way things were, but it doesn’t mean that is the way things are today or the way things have to be tomorrow.  I don’t condone it as correct; I am just simply saying that is how life was back then.

I also think that black people need to get it together.  Either the word is offensive to you or not, no matter who it is coming from.  If you want to use the word with each other or in music, then don’t get mad if white people say it to you.  If you don’t want a white person to degrade you then don’t allow its usage in any aspect of your life.  If you now “own” the word, then you can’t be upset if a white teacher wants to use it in his classroom.  If you say you own something that means it is yours and it cannot hurt you anymore.  That is just the way I look at it.

If we stopped using the N-word, many rappers might actually have to use a dictionary.

For me personally I do not use the word and will not allow anyone, black or white, to refer to me as such.  I try not to listen to music that glorifies the word.  It’s just not a part of my life.  I don’t own the word.  It is something that is there but not for my use or interest.

I don’t really know what happened in that man’s classroom.  If he was really having a genuine and true discussion with his students and they were actively engaged, then I don’t see the problem.  But if he was in there harassing them, degrading them then, yes, he deserved to be suspended out of his school.  To be quite honest, this confusion over the use of the word is really the problem.  It’s either acceptable or it isn’t, no matter who it is coming from, black or white.

I think we as a people, black and white, need to come to some sort of consensus on this thing because quite frankly, I am really quite tired of this discussion

The Afronista Rants #21: You’re American, Get Over It

I think I have written about this before, this weird desire of ours to label everything. In honour of black history month (I guess), there was an article on Yahoo about how some blacks in America preferred not to be called African-American. Even though I count myself in their numbers, I no longer get annoyed when some white person (or even another black person) refers to me as African-American. I figure they’re confused, I’m confused, we’re all confused, so let’s just call the whole thing off.

He's wondering why they don't have Anglo-Scots-Dutch-German-Russian-Irish-American History Month.

After slavery and the Civil Rights movement, black people are like, what the hell are we? White people are like, what do we call them without sounding all racist? Quite obviously you’re only allowed to use n-word if you’re not black, but they don’t have that option on those little forms at the Census Bureau. Even though the National Association for the Advancement of Coloured People uses the term “coloured,” I’d be a little bit miffed if someone referred to me as coloured. That sounds a little too 1963 for me. One woman said that the term “African-American” made it sound like all black people are descended from slaves. I think I agree with this a little bit. Some people agree that it just sounds too ridiculous in these efforts to be as politically correct as possible.

I have disliked the term African-American for a number of reasons. First, most white people do not refer to themselves as European-American. They’re not even white-American. They’re either white, or American. So why can’t I be either black or American? Secondly, Africa refers to a very large place with dozens of countries and ethnicities. Many people going around calling themselves African-American don’t even know what part of Africa their ancestors came from. Lastly, not all brown people (coloured people, black people, whatever) are African. One of my BFFs is Haitian and Jamaican. She is just as brown as I am but I would not call her African-American since her family is from the Caribbean. Referring to her as black makes more sense because she actually is.

Worf is a proud Klingon-American

I also ask myself what to do black people in England or France, or other European countries call themselves. Are they African-British, African-French? Idris Elba is British, but Denzel Washington is African-American. Do you see the distinction?

Some say that we refer to ourselves as white and black to distinguish one from another, but then I ask this question: in countries where almost everyone looks the same, how do they distinguish themselves? For example, police in America are quick to ask, “Was the suspect white or black?” What do the police in Japan ask, since 99% of the population looks the same (as far as skin tone, hair colour, eye colour, etc.).

I'll take Negro for $2000, Alex.

I have known many African people who have come to America and they do not refer to themselves as African-American. They are quick to identify precisely what country they came from (Nigerian, Kenyan, Ethiopian, etc). Most get offended if you mistake them for some other country or just try to lump them all into one group. I think it’s because they actually know where they came from.

I also have a problem that some American “African-Americans” don’t have any real desire to go to Africa or know anything about it other than what they show in the media. How can you claim something you’re not even interested in?

Read the article here.

The Afronista Rants #20: Dear Former Master

Usually when you read about the slave era, it is a depressing endeavour.  It is a part of history that needs to be studied so that we don’t make the same mistakes in future, but it can be awfully glum.  There are lots of stories about the mistreatment of people, the separation of families, the hardships.  Even stories about the white people who tried to help black slaves are morose, because a lot of them just didn’t end well.  I will admit there are some stories that are actually uplifting, stories of hope in the face of such grim times, but most of the time it’s just sad.

But then there are stories like this one.  A letter from a freed slave to his former master has been discovered.  The former master, Colonel P.H. Anderson had recently asked his runaway slave Jourdan Anderson to return.  After Jourdan had run away, he gained his freedom and this was his response to Col. Anderson.

Sir: I got your letter, and was glad to find that you had not forgotten Jourdon, and that you wanted me to come back and live with you again, promising to do better for me than anybody else can. I have often felt uneasy about you. I thought the Yankees would have hung you long before this, for harboring Rebs they found at your house.  Although you shot at me twice before I left you, I did not want to hear of your being hurt, and am glad you are still living.  I would have gone back to see you all when I was working in the Nashville Hospital, but one of the neighbors told me that Henry intended to shoot me if he ever got a chance.

After Jourdan left, Col. Anderson had to pick all the cotton himself.

Translation:  Sir, I am so surprised that you remembered me, since you owned hundreds of slaves.  I guess the one that got away will always stick in your memory.  I can’t imagine why you think I would come back to work for you since I am now a free man.  Who would want to work for free when they can get paid?  Also, you tried to shoot me, so what makes me think you won’t try to shoot me as soon as I come back?  I thought the Yankees would have hung your sorry ass anyway.

I want to know particularly what the good chance is you propose to give me. I am doing tolerably well here. I get twenty-five dollars a month, with victuals and clothing; have a comfortable home for my wife and children.  The children go to school and are learning well.  Now if you will write and say what wages you will give me, I will be better able to decide whether it would be to my advantage to move back again.

Translation:  I want to know more about this job you say you have for me.  I hope you realize that we’re not interested in working in the cotton fields anymore.  Right now I am getting an honest salary with benefits.  My kids even go to school, something you would not let us do, purposely trying to keep us uneducated and dumb.  So please, tell me more about this supposed job.  If it doesn’t pay more than what I am getting now, don’t bother writing back.

As to my freedom, which you say I can have, there is nothing to be gained on that score, as I got my free papers in 1864.  My wife says she would be afraid to go back without some proof that you were disposed to treat us justly and kindly; and we have concluded to test your sincerity by asking you to send us our wages for the time we served you. This will make us forget and forgive old scores, and rely on your justice and friendship in the future. I served you faithfully for thirty-two years, and my wife twenty years. At twenty-five dollars a month for me, and two dollars a week for my wife, our earnings would amount to eleven thousand six hundred and eighty dollars. Add to this the interest for the time our wages have been kept back, and deduct what you paid for our clothing, and three doctor’s visits to me, and the balance will show what we are in justice entitled to. Please send the money by Adams’s Express, in care of V. Winters, Esq., Dayton, Ohio. If you fail to pay us for faithful labors in the past, we can have little faith in your promises in the future. We trust the good Maker has opened your eyes to the wrongs which you and your fathers have done to me and my fathers, in making us toil for you for generations without recompense. Here I draw my wages every Saturday night; but in Tennessee there was never any pay-day for the negroes any more than for the horses and cows. Surely there will be a day of reckoning for those who defraud the laborer of his hire.

Back wages owed to Jourdan after calculating for inflation and interest.

Translation:   Thanks for offering me my freedom, but it’s a day late and a dollar short.  I already got my free papers, no thanks to you.  But if you really want to make good on this offer, you can pay me and my wife for our back wages.  We slaved for you for a total of 52 years between us, so that comes to about $11,680 you owe us, minus clothing and the doctor’s visits and not including interest.  If you really want us to come back, then send the money to our attorney (yes, we have an attorney).  All those years we worked for you and you didn’t give us anything, now you want us to come back.  You can either pay us a reasonable rate or hire some white people to do your yard work, and you know they will charge you three times what I am asking for.  If you don’t want to pay, that’s fine.  You will probably rot in hell anyway.

In answering this letter, please state if there would be any safety for my daughters, who are now grown up, and both good-looking girls. You know how it was with my poor sisters. I would rather stay here and starve—and die, if it come to that—than have my girls brought to shame by the violence and wickedness of their young masters. You will also please state if there has been any schools opened for the colored children in your neighborhood. The great desire of my life now is to give my children an education, and have them form virtuous habits.  Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting at me.

The kids send their love.

Translation:  If are truly being sincere, please let me know if it will be safe for my kids.  Your sons raped my sisters, bringing on them such shame and humiliation that I would rather die than have my daughters suffer the same fate.  Also, let me know if there are any good charter schools in the area.  We are educated now and won’t take to being held back by the likes of you.  And say hey to your friend.  Thank him for taking that pistol away from you while you were shooting at me.  If it weren’t for him, I might not be leading this fabulous life I have now.  We’re doing so well, I am not sure how you could really help us.  So yeah, thanks anyway and have a nice life.

Col. Anderson is confused why no one wants to work in his fields anymore.

I thought this was absolutely hilarious.  A guy after my own heart; you know I am fond of writing carefully worded letters that insult people that are too stupid to realize they are being insulted.  And it was all so polite.

Of course, there are some nay-sayers that do not believe this is a real letter.  For the record, Jourdan Anderson did not read and write (because his master wouldn’t let him learn).  He had the letter dictated by an attorney.

I did excerpt this letter in the interest of time, but you can read the whole letter for yourself.

Incidentally, historians have not found Col. Anderson’s response, but I’m sure it went something like this:

Dear Jourdan,

You uppity n….!!

The Afronista Rants #19: x(white teachers) + y(black students) + z(slavery) = how many problems?

Let’s do a math problem, guys.

Let’s take x white teachers plus y black students plus z inappropriate slavery questions and figure out how many problems will result.

In order to figure out this problem, let’s examine some facts.

So, a group of nine teachers at an elementary school in Georgia decided that it would be a really awesome idea to correlate their students’ coursework in Social Studies with their math homework.  In theory, this sounds like a great idea.

But what if your child, black, white or Chinese, came home with a math problem like these:

Each tree has 56 oranges.  If 8 slaves picked them equally, how many oranges did each slave pick?

If Frederick gets two beatings a day, how many beatings will he get in one week?

I know that I have a warped sense of humour, but when I first read this article I started laughing.  It’s so embarrassing that it’s funny.  If my kid came home with this sort of nonsense, his answers would be something like this:

Q.  If Frederick gets two beatings a day, how many beatings will he get in one week?

A.  None, because Frederick will shoot his master and join the Underground Railroad.

But seriously, the teachers at this school really ought to be ashamed of themselves.  Let met caveat by saying that I do not know the true racial makeup of the teachers nor do I know the racial makeup of the students with this math homework.  Given the location this incident occurred, I will say the teachers were probably mostly white and the students were mostly white with a good helping of black kids.  It’s so ridiculous that only white teachers would come up with this sort of crap, and if by some unlikely chance that there were black teachers involved, it just makes the whole thing even more laughable.

There are plenty of ways to teach students about slavery, but this is a little bit over the top.  I am all for not pretending that slavery didn’t happen.  What amazes me about this situation is that no one sat down to think if it might offend someone.  I do not believe that every white person is racist.  I bet none of these teachers are racists (if they are all white).  It just didn’t occur to them how idiotic this situation is.  And that’s what’s so scary, how people just don’t think.  Nobody ever stops to think how other people might feel about a certain situation.

The NAACP wants the teachers fired.  Everyone always wants to dole out the maximum punishment, but as offensive as this is, I don’t think the teachers should be fired.  I think they should attend some serious sensitivity training.  They should also have to do some role reversal where they get to walk in other people’s shoes for a little while, to see how it feels to always be the butt of someone’s joke.  I doubt these teachers are racist, just thoughtless.

So, now that we’ve had time to consider the above question, you will discover that there is no solution.  So here’s a new question:

9 teachers send out 5 resumes a day for 5 days. What is the maximum amount of rejection letters that can be written in response?

The Afronista Rants #18: Black People Eat Different Food!!!

Here I am again, trolling CNN and I come across an article “My First Thanksgiving with White People.”  I wanted so bad not to click on the article, but it’s kinda like a train wreck:  you have to look.  So it’s written by a black man who visits his (white) partner’s family for the holidays.  He compares their Thanksgiving spread with his family’s spread and at first, is a little bit disappointed.  Later he discovers that white people prepare their food with just as much love as black people do.  And they all lived happily ever after. 

I don’t know who this man is, but he is hailed in journalism circles.  I do occasionally read his articles, even though I cannot recall to mind the last one I read.  At any rate, we’re not talking about his journalism abilities.  We’re talking about his perpetuation of race and racism in this country.

“My First Thanksgiving with White People.”  ???  Seriously?  I mean, seriously.  If a white person were to write an article, “My First Thanksgiving with Black People,” it would be seen as inflammatory and racist.  The news website would be blasted for allowing such a divisive article.   Black interest groups would call for a boycott.  The news website would have to issue an apology, stating racism wasn’t the intention of the article.  They were trying to bring cultural awareness.  Whatever.  See how silly it all becomes when you have to resort to describing anything by race?

If it can’t work both ways, it can’t work at all.  I am not white but I am so offended that CNN would allow this title.  It’s not the article, per se.  It’s just the title that is so wrong.  If this guy wants to talk about the first time he had Thanksgiving outside of his close friends and family, that’s perfectly fine.  If he wants to wonder why other people don’t put paprika on the top of their potato salad, I’m okay with that.  I wonder why anybody would eat potato salad period at Thanksgiving.  I’d never heard of that.  To me, potato salad is outdoor food, something you eat at barbecues.  It’s different, but is it white?  Is it black?  No, it’s just certain family’s traditions. 

I think racism will persist in this country because we are always too focused on race.  I think it is very important to have pride in one’s history, but we are a nation honed in on race:  black history month, Asian history month, Hispanic history month.  Why don’t white people get white history month?  Because all the coloured folk would rise up, foaming at the mouth that all the other days of the year are “white history month” and we are being forced to celebrate the likes of KKK or whatever else.  Once again, if it can’t work both ways, it can’t work at all.

I understand that we began these different history months to bring awareness that other people beside white people in this country exist.  If the educational system focused on a well-rounded history of all the people that contributed to this country then we would not need to have whatever-colour history month, and we would not have ignorant articles “My First Thanksgiving with White People.”  You are not a native American newly discovering white people for the first time in your life.  You know that different cultures eat different things.  Who would assume that what you eat in your house is the same as what anybody else eats at their house?  Really? 

You’ve never watched Thanksgiving TV specials and seen people eating dried up turkey, cranberry sauce and green bean casserole?  You know you do not eat that in your house, so, wonder of wonders, people must be different.  I wish the article had been more of an exploration of what various people consider to be traditional Thanksgiving cooking.  He could have talked about the differences of his family and his partner’s family.  He wanted to note that he is in an interracial relationship and that’s awesome, but he placed such emphasis on his white partner’s family, almost alienating them and making them seem weird, when really they are just different than what he was used to.

I am a black person and I invite you to my house for Thanksgiving.  You will not find a turkey or neck bones soaking in collard greens.  You definitely won’t find any potato salad, with or without paprika on top.  Yes, we do have the macaroni and cheese, but we prefer hot rolls over corn bread.  Instead of collard greens, we have spinach.  Cornish hens, fried rice, maybe some kind of stir fry and definitely some fried turkey wings.  Sweet potato pies are good, but pecan is better.  If I wasn’t deployed, I might have put some tofu burgers on the menu.  I don’t know if that’s black, white, weird, or whatever.  I just know that it’s what we put on our table at Thanksgiving.

I have one friend who puts sauerkraut on her table and a different friend has oxtails.  I guess we don’t fit into this guy’s neat little labels of black and white.  It’s cultural differences, and they are wonderful and when I am invited to other people’s homes for holiday dinners  I would never think to expect that their food would be the same as mine.  And then I wouldn’t return from their house and say, “Hey guys, I just had my first Thanksgiving with [whatever colour] people!  What an experience!”

The whole thing was just so lame.

The Afronista Rants #17: Uh, Oh, Black People Running!

I randomly started running last June.  I had a vague idea that I liked running ever since basic training but the concept of running for fun (as opposed to fitness and health) was bizarre to me.  After doing a couple of races with the Lunkheads, I decided that I really liked it and I wanted to get better at it.

Months later, I have now invested in my new sport.  I have purchased fancy running clothes, expensive running shoes, and all the gadgets to help me keep track of my progress.  The bottom line is that when I get out on the street for a little joggy-jog, I look like someone who runs.  Just like everyone else.

So how come when I go running, I elicit strange reactions?  What are you talking about, you ask?

Last week, I went for a run around Centennial Park.  It’s this place in Howard County with a man-made lake surrounded by a 2.6 mile long paved trail.  The trail is conducive to jogging, walking and biking.  There are many people out here jogging, walking and biking.  There are no shops and businesses.  There are no residential areas along the trail.  There are no cars.  It is strictly for jogging, walking and biking.  I am out there jogging, like the other hundred people out there, on a fine spring afternoon.

I am wearing running clothes:  my fancy new lycra pants and wick-away top, with these brand-spanking-new expensive ass running shoes.  I got my headphones on and I got this fancy, cool watch that keeps track of calories burned.  I am out there getting my exercise on….like everybody else.

If you don’t know proper trail etiquette, let me tell you real quick.  If you are running, you pass on the left.  If you’re walking, you stay to the right.  If you hear a bike behind you, you move quickly to the right so the biker can pass.  Very simple.  It seems to be an unspoken rule wherever I go.  So, I’m out there running, feeling all good and there is an older white lady walking way up ahead of me.  She is walking kind of slow, but this trail, it is quite wide.  Wide enough for several runners or walkers to stand abreast.  It is not a little narrow passageway.

So, I’m running and this white lady is in front of me and as I get closer, she heard me.  She started to move over to the right but then she turned around and the look on her face as she saw me approach.  She gasped.  Gasped.  This deep breath, like it was gonna be her death gasp, or something.  And she jumped off the trail into the grassy area, backed up into a tree, clutching at its bark as if it would save her from unseen terror.  She was in sheer and utter fright.  She was so scary looking that I got scared and I turned around to look behind me.  I was afraid that she had seen a gigantic black bear running after me.  (Not that I think there are any bears in this part of Maryland).  But seriously, her reaction was so dramatic that I thought something was truly happening.

Nobody was behind me.  Nothing was behind me.  There was only me, a black girl wearing running clothes,  running on a trail that is designed for running.

As I passed this woman, I was completely baffled.  She stared hard after me.  I could not figure out what her problem was.  Was she in shock that I was running?  Why?  I had no idea.  It wasn’t until a mile later that it dawned on me.

I am a black person running after a white person.  Oh, I must be about to rob her, because that must be the only reason a black person is running.  Wait a minute.  There are several reasons a black person is running.  We’re either running from the law, running to rob someone or running to get some chicken.  How did I forget that?  Black people do not dress up in fancy running clothes and then go for a run on a trail that is designed for running.  Only white people do that…. and skinny Asian women.  For a black person to do something like that, there must be some ulterior motive.

I must have spent all these hundreds of dollars on fancy running gear so I can case the running trails looking for white women to rob, because white people always go running with their riches hidden in their pockets.

As this occurred to me, I was so dumbfounded that I actually slowed down to a walk.  The white lady was way behind me and I could no longer see her, but if I had, I might have run back up to her and punched her in the face.  I can’t run for fun?  I can’t run to get my health on?

It is truly amazing what goes through people’s minds.  I mean, you should have seen this lady’s face.  She was scared to death, like the Ghost of Christmas Past had just come up on her.  If she had been carrying a purse, she would have clutched it to her chest.  This lady was so scared she was about to jump up in the damn tree, all because she saw a black person running up on her.

And you can’t say that maybe I just startled her or something.  No, this is a place that is designed for physical activity.  It’s a loop and there were literally hundreds of other people out there running, walking and biking.  Did she jump out of her skin when the two white women who had passed me, caught up to her?  No, she didn’t.  It was only until I came up did she almost have a damn heart attack.

That is okay, lady.  I don’t want your diamonds or pearls.  I just want to get my physical fitness on.  I am out here like all the white people, working on my cardiovascular system.  I am not here for your purse (that is probably under the seat in the car, since nobody runs with a purse).  I am not here to rob or molest you.  I just want to jog, like everybody else.

In case you did not know, black people do run… and it’s not always from the law.  So please get over yourself.

The Afronista Rants #16: Negro Mountain!

This morning my co-worker asked me if I would like to take a vacation with him.  Knowing that he was joking, I said, “Yeah, sure, where we going?”  He says, “Negro Mountain.”  I thought he was joking so I busted out laughing.  Where the hell is Negro Mountain?  Why is a mountain named Negro?  Are you even serious?

Turns out, he was quite serious.  There truly is a place called Negro Mountain, and it’s right here on the MD/PA border.  As with most anything, there’s a story behind the naming of Negro Mountain.  After doing some investigation, I have discovered that nobody can actually agree on precisely why the mountain is named Negro Mountain.  There’s urban rural legend about a slave (or a freeman, in another version) named Nemesis.  In some tales, his name is Goliath, indicating that he is big… and black.  Somehow, they are always big and black.  No slave is ever described as normal sized.  Anyway, Nemesis (or Goliath) was travelling with some white people when they were attacked by Native Americans.  He was killed defending his white masters, and Massa decided to name the mountain after him.  There’s also a story about Nemesis being in the military during the French-Indian War.  He was killed during a battle and his commander named the mountain after him because of his bravery.

So, whether he was Nemesis or Goliath, a free man or a slave, in the military or just passing through, there’s a slight problem with all of the stories:  They all say they named the mountain after him.  Only they didn’t.  Either his name was Nemesis or Goliath… or Jim Bob or Takahashi… his name wasn’t Negro.  I imagine that in those days he was probably referred to as negro, and several other degrading terms, but that wasn’t his name.  So the mountain wasn’t named after him, or anybody for that matter.  Why didn’t they name the mountain Nemesis Mountain or Mt. Goliath?  Why Negro, though?  It’s just a little weird.

At any rate, some lawmakers have decided that it’s just too stupid to have a mountain named Negro and there’s some legislation pending to change the name.  As much as I am annoyed that whoever named the mountain decided to call it Negro, I think it should stand.  There’s a lot of reasons for this.  One, if this is the urban rural legend, than that’s the story of how it “really” happened.  You can’t go back into the past and change it.  Two, as much as we all hate to look back on that awful time of slavery (whites and blacks), once again, you can’t go back into the past and change it.  Whether we like it or not, it’s part of our history.  We need to learn from it and move on.  Black folk were referred to as Negro, nigger, blackie, coloured, etc and that’s just how it is.  I ain’t saying it’s right or wrong, or condoning or condemning.  It is simply the way things were.  Third, I want them to keep the name Negro Mountain as a reminder of our more foolish days.  It’s very easy to pretend things did not happen.  You cannot change history simply by renaming the mountain to something else.  I also think there’s a limit on political correctness.  After all the NAACP is for coloured people but if a white person called a black person coloured, there’d be a fight.

If Negro Mountain is renamed, then we will forget the story that is associated with its outrageous name.  I know some of us black folk are very delicate and we are easily offended, but I think we should just be happy that we have something named for one of our own.  Nemesis, Goliath, Negro, whoever you were, thanks for your bravery and for giving us something to talk about.

Lawmakers did try to change the name back in the 1990s to Black Hero Mountain, but it failed.

To be fair, there is also a Polish Mountain in Maryland that these legislators would also like to be renamed.  It is believed that Polish Mountain was probably Polished Mountain and then somewhere along the way the name got lost.

But what about the White Mountains?  Is it an innocent name?  Or something more sinister?  Something to think about.

The Afronista Rants #15: It’s Just Hair!

For some strange reason I joined some Facebook group called “Black Girl with Long Hair.”  I’m not sure why I joined because I don’t like joining Facebook groups, but I think my initial motivation may have been to get hair care tips. I’m really into proper hair upkeep and having the healthiest hair possible.  I’ve always had an issue with breakage and split ends , but since I joined this group and this other forum (Long Hair Care Forum) I found last year, I’ve really discovered some new techniques to combat this problem I’ve always had.

So, anyway, since joining these hair care forums, I’ve discovered something else.  There seems to be a huge division between black women who have natural hair and black women who have permed hair.  I didn’t even know it was that serious.  In my personal life, I don’t really know that many women who are natural.  My mother is natural.  My sister is permed.  Most of my aunts are permed, and only go natural when they chop all their hair off to “start over.”  My three friends who are natural are only natural because they cut their hair down all the way to the quick but as soon their hair starts growing again, they perm it.  Everybody else I know is permed.

Apparently there is this huge debate on what is best for black women:  permed or natural.  On these hair care forums, all the natural women are talking about how being natural is healthiest, it’s the most beautiful and it’s what God intended us to be.  The natural women are like Nazis, turning their nose up at women are addicted to “creamy crack.”  All the permed women who desire to become natural, talk about things like “the journey” they are on to become natural, kicking the addiction to “creamy crack,” their self image and how others will perceive them if they decide to become natural.  Permed women on these forums talk about others’ acceptance and rejection of their preferred hair style.

Last night, while goofing off on Facebook, I came across an article about the “intolerance” of women who are natural.  I think now we’re just taking things a bit too far.  Is it really that serious?  Here, all along I thought it was just hair, something that we funk around with in the mirror to make ourselves look more attractive to the opposite sex.  I did not know it was such a reflection of one’s inner soul.  I did not know it was a political statement.  I did not know it was a defining characteristic of black women.

I’m natural because I’ve always been natural and I’m lazy.  When I was a child, my mother permed my hair occasionally but I used to whine and cry when it was time for me to get touch ups.  I did not like the weird burning sensation.  I hated the smell.  Instead of getting my hair washed I wanted to sit around and watch cartoons.  My mother gave up on me and concentrated on my sister who did not seem to mind as much as I did.  My sister and I do have different grains of hair, but we both have very long, very thick hair that would take my mother an hour or more to braid every Sunday night.  Since my sister seemed to like getting permed, that would give my mother plenty of time to chase me around the house, whoop me and force me to sit down so I could get my hair braided for school.  All through middle school and high school, I wore my hair braided because it was easiest and I didn’t have to deal with anybody poking around in my sensitive head.

My mother did keep our hair neat, but she did not know much about hair care.  She permed my sister’s hair and greased us down with Blue Magic, so much that we looked like pieces of chicken frying underneath the hot tropical sun on the island we grew up on.  When I went to college, it was suggested by a friend that I should perm my hair but I balked at how expensive the salon was.  I was a broke college student and this charlatan in a muumuu wanted $49.95 so she could slap some goop on my head to make my hair straight.  I told my friend that I didn’t feel the need to have my hair straight.  “What’s the difference?  It looks okay the way it is.”  I was still wearing my hair in braids but when I picked the braids out, I would just walk around with my hair all over the place, looking crazy.  Because I was such a brat growing up, I never learned how to take care of my own hair.  I don’t know how to braid.  I couldn’t even wash it properly until well into my 20s.  Sad, but true.  My friend said, “Well, at least moisturise the crap,” and handed me a bottle of Pink Oil Moisturizer.  I switched from grease to pink goop and thought I was doing something.

I wouldn’t get my hair pressed.  I didn’t want to blow dry my hair after washing it.  I didn’t want to spend $50 getting a perm.  I didn’t want to try and perm it myself because I …. just didn’t want to.  I didn’t want to do anything but get up and go on my way and that’s why I’m natural.  I’m not black power.  I’m not making a statement.  I don’t think anything about my hair except that it looks fine the way it is.

So when I read about black women taking a journey to switch from permed to natural, I wonder, “What journey is this?”  Is it really that serious that you have to psych yourself up mentally just to switch your hairstyle?  So you no longer like straight hair.  Now you want curly hair.  What is the big deal?  Get curly hair if that’s what you want to do.  A woman on Facebook told me that the journey came from going against what society thinks is beautiful.

*blank stare*

…going against what society thinks is beautiful. Well, in case you didn’t get the memo, whether a black woman’s hair is straight or permed, society doesn’t really think she’s beautiful.  You don’t see very many black women, permed or natural on magazine covers.  Okay, yeah, Halle Berry every time she makes a new movie and Oprah whenever she gains more weight, but that’s pretty much it.  What society are you talking about?  Black society?  Hmm, I guess.  From reading these forums I do see that permed women are awful defensive about their straight hair.  I guess they see that curly kinky hair is unprofessional, unbecoming, un-whatever.  But to the black women who want to have natural hair, do you really take other people’s opinion into that much consideration whenever you decide to do something?  Were you on a journey when you decided to stop wearing the J. Lo boot?  Are you on a journey when you decide to put on that hot pink Wet’n'Wild lip gloss?  Whenever you wake up in the morning and put on some outrageous outfit, are you on a journey?

When I get dressed in the morning, I don’t think about anything except is this shirt going to hide my belly fat and are these shoes going to hurt my feet, despite how insanely cute they are.  I don’t think about any political statements I might be making.  If I have a meeting, I take the time to actually comb my hair.  I don’t run to the flat iron to appear more… whatever it is you’re supposed to appear when you have straight hair.

For the women who perm their hair, do you really, really in your heart of hearts feel more acceptable in society?  Most of the time, people can’t even get past your skin colour.  You can be assured that they haven’t given a thought to your hair.  Racists don’t exclude you because you have thin, flat hair.  I’m not even sure where anybody got that idea.  Yeah, I’m aware that historically, black women permed their hair to make them appear more white, but news flash, your black ass skin is a dead giveaway, forget about your hair.

I guess I just don’t get it.  I guess it’s because I grew up in all white neighbourhoods and people seem to treat me however they want to treat me because they want to and not because of my hairstyle.  I guess it’s because I really don’t give a damn about anybody’s opinion on what I should look like.  I guess it’s because I’m not trying to define myself by outward trappings.  What if you were bald, what would you be then?  Nothing?

My personal opinions on permed and natural hair is that there are advantages and disadvantages to both.  Perming seems counterproductive to good hair health.  Some girls look great with flat, straight hair.  They have the facial features and shape to pull it off.  But some women who perm their hair don’t take proper care of it.  Pouring chemicals on your head without a true knowledge of what you’re doing is damaging.  That’s a disadvantage.

The disadvantage of natural hair is that it also takes proper care to manage it.  You can’t just walk around like bed head all day.  You need to trim it, comb it, for God’s sake to make it look presentable.  If you’re like me and you don’t know how to braid or what type of brush to use, you could end up looking like a big ole mess.  That’s a disadvantage.  Natural women need to realise that just because you’re natural, doesn’t mean you’re automatically healthy.  I’ve seen plenty of natural girls walking around with broke off edges, split ends and dry matted hair.  Not cute!

I think whatever you decide to do to your hair, make sure it’s in the best health it can be. Maintain it.  Wear it.  Love it.  Be happy with it.  If you want to have permed hair, perm your hair.  Perm it until it falls out.  If you want to have natural hair, keep it natural and walk around like bed head all day.  If you want extensions, get extensions.  If you want to wear wigs, wear wigs.  Do what you want!  Do what makes you feel happy so when you look in the mirror you are pleased with the result.  Stop being overly concerned about what other people think of you.  Stop trying to decide if you fit into society’s idea of beauty, because if you really wanted to be society’s “beautiful” you need to lose about 100 pounds (no matter how big or small you currently are), slap on several layers of make up and walk around in pointy-toed heels and miniskirts and only then will you be beautiful according to society.

How you wear your hair is not a definition of your inner self.  If your hair is not healthy (permed or not), you do not have good hair.  You are not better than anybody because you have natural hair.  You are not more acceptable because you have permed hair.  There is no journey when changing hairstyles.  Hair is not to be debated.  Permed women are not Israeli and natural women are not Palestinian.  Hair is not the Gaza Strip.

It’s just hair!

The Afronista Rants #14: Sorry, Niggers

Not that I listen to the Dr. Laura Schlessinger Show, or that I’ve even heard of her in the first place, but I just happened to be trolling CNN when I came across an article about her giving a public apology for using the word “nigger” in her show several times.  Now the black community is about to crucify this white woman over her poor selection of words.  Al Sharpton, King of the Black Folk, described the incident as “despicable.”  The Guilty White are embarrassed and apologetic.  The Black Masses are up in arms.

Me?  I’m just shaking my head.  I’m not really upset with Dr. Laura Schlessinger, whoever the hell she is.  She’s just imitating what she hears in the streets everyday, more than likely.  Or maybe she really does feel all black people are just a bunch of niggers.  Who knows?  Since many of us refer to each other as “nigger” how is she able to determine which of us is a nigger and which one of us isn’t?  Everyday black people, not all but many, call each other nigger like it’s nothing.  You hear it in rap music all day long.  Black people come up to each other and greet each other, “What’s up, my nigger,” all the time.  So what is the problem if Dr. Laura Schlessinger tosses it about a few times in her radio talk show?  She is just another confused white woman, trying to figure out what to call us:  black, African-American or nigger?

Is it because black people feel like they somehow have ownership of this word?  Is it that mentality where it was once so offensive and so demeaning, that we’ll just now take the word over and give it a whole new twist?  I was once told that there was a fundamental difference between the word “nigger” and “nigga.”  When I hear rap music and black people greeting each other with this word, they are saying “nigga” not “nigger,” according to this guy who felt the need to enlighten me.  Nigger is that bad word you aren’t supposed to use.  Nigga is something else entirely.  That doesn’t make much sense to me, but if black people want to go on that, then who am I to say anything against it?  *eyeroll*  What the hell do I know?

All of this began when Dr. Schlessinger received a phone call from a black woman who was married to a white man.  The black woman said she loved her husband but she was tired of his family saying what she considered to be racist things about her.  The woman gave a few examples and Dr. Schlessinger said she didn’t find anything particularly racist about what the family was supposedly saying.  Then the black woman asked about the usage of the word “nigger,” to which Dr. Schlessinger replied,

“black guys use it all the time. Turn on HBO, listen to a black comic, and all you hear is nigger, nigger, nigger.”

The caller (the black woman) became upset that Dr. Schlessinger continued to use the word several more times and the two ended up in an argument.  Dr. Schlessinger then told the woman that if she was so hypersensitive she should not have married outside her race.

Had this been me I would have been more annoyed that she castigated me on marrying outside my race.  I would not have been upset by the constant use of the word nigger, because she is correct in some aspects.  Many black rappers, black comedians, and black people in general use the word like it’s nothing.  I’m sure, as I outlined above, that their reasons are different, but it’s still a usage of a word that many people find derogatory.  I’m not just talking about the Educated Black or the Guilty White, most people just don’t want to hear the word because they are reminded of a time that we’d all just rather forget.  It’s a senseless word, no matter how you use it.  Dr. Schlessinger shouldn’t use it and neither should Jay-Z or Chris Rock or the kid up on the block.

If you don’t want anybody to call you a nigger, don’t let anybody call you a nigger.  Don’t promote the usage of the word.  I know it would be a stretch to get people to stop buying rap music that contains the word “nigger,” but if you want to get upset by it, get upset by all usage of the word.  Don’t just jump on white people when they use the word.  I would feel foolish if I told a white person not to call me nigger when I let my friends call me nigger or ride around in the car with music shouting, “nigger, nigger, nigger,” all day long.  The first thing this white person is going to say is, “Well, you let your friends call you nigger.”  What am I supposed to say in response, “They are my friends, so it’s okay?”  No, it’s not okay.  I’m not a nigger, so you can’t call me one and neither can my friends.  You can’t punch me in the face and neither can any of my friends.

If you want to try to play the argument that there is a difference between nigga and nigger then you are just stupid and there’s no coming back from that.  I am not a nigga or nigger or any other deviation of the word.  Snoop Dogg can’t call me one.  My sister can’t call me one.  My best friend can’t call me one.  And neither can Dr. Laura Schlessinger.

We don’t have ownership of the word like we think we do.  We sound ignorant and foolish as we stand up on the corner with the “nigger” this, “nigger” that.  I know this does not apply to most of the black population, just a few suckers who got rope-a-doped into thinking they are owed something.  Every time you use the word or condone usage of the word in any shape or form you are just knocking yourself back a decade or two.

I tell my little cousin all the time that he needs to treat himself like he wants other people to treat him.  If you treat yourself like an asshole other people are going to treat you like an asshole.  If you treat yourself like a nigger then other people will treat you like a nigger.

The Afronista Rants #13: Why Are You Shouting?

I mentioned before that I sometimes have serious identity issues when I’m in public areas with other black people.  Because of who I am, how I was raised and my ethnic background, I don’t really consider myself a black person.  Not like a black person because my skin is black (actually, it’s brown) but when I say black, I mean, like black American people.  I don’t consider myself in that fashion for many reasons.  A co-worker of mine said he didn’t see me as a black person either.  He said I was international, and I kind of like that.  If I had to have a label, I guess I’ll go with international.  I damn sure don’t want to be called African-American, or any other hyphenated anything.  I’d like to just be called American, but whatever.  I’m not here to talk about all that.  I’m here to talk about why I wish I sometimes wish I was anything other than brown-skinned when in public with other brown-skinned folks.

So, Friday afternoon, the kid and I decide to take a stroll through the new neighbourhood.  About two blocks away is a quaint little street with mom and pop shops, so we headed over there and found a Middle Eastern cafe-slash-pizza parlour.  We stopped in to order some slices and there we were, enjoying a pizza with halal meat and it was nice and cosy.  There were other patrons in the restaurant and it was all nice–until two black women and two black children came into the restaurant.

Now, this is not a large place.  There are about four tables total in the place.  It looks like a carry-out (I guess it is, actually).  My point is that it’s not some huge ass restaurant with a bustling crew that you have to shout to be heard because there’s so much background noise.

First black woman in EXTREMELY loud voice:  What kinda milkshake ya’ll want?

Small black kid in SCREAMING loud outdoor voice:  OOOH, THEY GOT COOKIES’N'CREAM!!

First black woman still in super loud voice:  They got … uhm… cookies’n'cream, mango, pineapple, peanut butter….
She proceeds to read the entire list of the milkshakes (there are about 15-20 flavours) in this voice that is unnaturally loud, almost deafening, like she is conducting an auction on an airplane tarmac with 747s taking off above her head and some battleships in the background practising gun rounds–oh, and a marching band is out there too.  That’s how loud she’s talking.  The other patrons are staring at her like, “Shut the fuck up!”  The cashier guy is trying to get her attention, but since she’s pretty much screaming, she can’t hear him as he politely says, “Ma’am, you should try the peanut butter, it’s our best flavour.”  The only reason I heard him is because I was standing right next to him getting some napkins.

Both kids:  COOKIES’N'CREAM… COOKIES’N'CREAM.  I want cookies’n'cream.  Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  MOM!!! MOM!!!! I want cookies’n'cream.  MOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!

Both the kids are dancing around the woman, grabbing on her clothes and screaming at the top of their lungs.  The kids are approximately 8 and 5 years old.  Too old to be acting like assholes.  There was a deaf kid already in the restaurant with his father.  (I know he’s deaf because he makes deaf people sounds and they were speaking to each other in sign language.)  Perhaps the kid had partial hearing, or what, but he was staring at the two boys like they were lunatics.  They were making so much noise that even the damn deaf kid wanted them to shut the hell up.

Second black lady, also in ridiculously loud voice:  I HEARD YOU.  YA’LL BE QUIET.  BE QUIET.  LEMME LOOK AT THE LIST.

Her voice was louder than the first woman and the two kid’s combined.

Second black lady:  Do y’all have cookies’n'cream?

Forget about the fact that when the first woman started reading the menu, she said cookies’n'cream because it’s the first flavour on the menu.  I’m sorry, she must not have been shouting loud enough to be heard.

First black lady:  Y’all finna share dees, cuz I ain’t finna buy no two milkshakes.  [still shouting]

Kids:  NO, WE DON’T WANT TO SHARE.  No, mom!  Mom.  Mom.  Mom!!!  MOM!!  MOM!  MOM!! MOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Erique is staring at me like… oh my God and I’m trying to eat without standing up and screaming, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” cuz you know I will and then be just as ghetto as they were.  *sighs*

They order their milkshakes and then for a few minutes while they are waiting for the milkshakes to be done, they are kind of quiet and the restaurant is somewhat normal.  Then the milkshakes are finished and the man calls their numer.  First black lady gets up to get the milkshakes.  The kids are about a foot and a half from her and she SHOUTS… I can’t even describe how loud her voice was.  I wish I could voice record for you because she was even louder than when she first came into the restaurant and it was so loud that it was almost hilarious, if it wasn’t so goddamn disturbing.  She actually startled me.  The pizza was hot and I was trying to get it in my mouth without spilling hot ass cheese all over my face and then she starts shouting.

First black lady:  HERE Y’ALL GO!!! GET THESE HERE MILKSHAKES CUZ I AIN’T FINNA MAKE NO DINNER!!!

I thought they were going to leave once they got their milkshakes, but they didn’t.  They sat down and proceeded to have a loud, super hysterical conversation.  Then to make it even more ghetto.

Second black lady:  EXCUSE ME!  EXCUSE ME!!!

I couldn’t figure out who she was talking to.  She was screaming at the cashier guy who had gone away from the counter to restock the little soda refrigerators.

The man turns around.  “Yes, ma’am, how can I help you?’

Second black lady:  Y’ALL AIN’T GOT NO AIR CONDITION UP IN HERE.  IT’S HOT!!!!!!!!!!!

There was no air conditioning inside the restaurant.  Like I said, the place is a carry-out.  I don’t think they really intend for people to sit down and have a fine dining experience.  It was hot in the place.  In fact, even though it was scorching hot on Friday afternoon, it was actually cooler outside.  I understand it was hot, but if they didn’t have the air conditioning on that entire day, what makes you think that suddenly they’re going to have some air conditioner?  Just for you.

The man smiles and shakes his head.  I thought he was extremely polite and nice.  He did not get annoyed once at all that carrying on.  I would have been like, “Get the hell out my restaurant,” which of course, would explain why I don’t own anything.

First black lady:  IT’S NO AIR CONDITION IN HERE?  IT’S HOT.  IT’S HOT.  I’M MELTING.  I’M FINNA DIE.

So I’m thinking, well, all you guys ordered was milkshakes, why don’t you leave and go home where you have “air condition” (as opposed to air conditioning) so you can stop damn complaining in that loud ass voice of yours.

Meanwhile, the oldest kid had jumped up onto the window ledging and was perched over my table where Erique and I are eating.  He is staring down at us while we eat.  I swear, any second he was going to ask for a slice of pizza.  Look, you guys know how I feel about unruly children.  I do not hesitate to discipline children I find to be out of control.  I’ll never put my hands on another person’s child but I will tell them about themselves.  If you don’t like that, control your kids.

So he is there dangling over our food, just staring at the plate.  Since none of the kids appears to be abused or malnourished in anyway, I’m going to assume that they do eat and he is not staring at us because he’s been starved for the past three days.  No, he was staring at us because he is an ill-mannered little brat.  I kept waiting for the two women to call him back over there and when they didn’t, I said, “Can I help you with something?”

Do you mind?  More staring.

Excuse me, we are trying to enjoy our dinner.  More staring.

He just stared at me then back at the pizza, and Erique was like, “Can you please go away?”  The kid is nearly sitting at the table with us just staring.   At this point, I had this sudden wish that it was legal to beat other people’s children.  When he made no move, I said, “Go back over to your trashy mother and stare at her, because nobody wants you over here.”  He looked shocked that I said that and then he got up and ran off.

Usually, I brace myself for a confrontation because kids usually tell their parents what I said to them and then some ghetto mammy comes over and tries to “tell me about myself” and then I have to remind her that she and her family are a cancer on the ballsack of America.  But the kid didn’t say anything, but he didn’t stare at us anymore.

I know a lot of parents are like, “Oh my God… oh my God, if she had said that to my child….”  Everybody gets all upset, but then if you have rude, unruly children, why do you defend their behaviour and then get upset if someone tries to correct it?  If you taught your children properly, somebody like me wouldn’t have to speak to them at all.  But I guess I’m just crazy.

Anyway, really, this could have been any race of people.  It’s not to say that all black people are despicable in public, but there is an awful large percentage of black people who, when in groups, talk unnecessarily loud like they’re inside a wind tunnel next to some jet engines and a set of full-on club speakers blaring booty bass.  It’s annoying and excessive, and when I see that I want to sink into the floorboards so that people don’t associate us together.

I was in Wal-Mart one time and there were three black women in the line in front of me, carrying on a ridiculously loud conversation even though they were standing right next to each other.  They start to make their purchases and the cashier asks me if I’m with them.  Hell, no, I’m not.

We don’t all know each other and we don’t all stand around screaming and laughing like lunatics.