Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul (16 page)

It was then that it occurred to me that “the blend” was strictly born of the
American
part of my culture, and perhaps there was something to experiencing this aspect of my
African
heritage. This was an
African
dance class, after all.

Almost as if my hips were willing me forward—I know now that it was my soul—I started to move into the middle. I moved slowly at first, afraid of what would happen when I abandoned my highly perfected ability to blend and discovered what it truly meant to be myself—to sparkle and shine like a brilliant diamond. What would those around me do and say as I stepped out and up? What would they think?

My heart kept beat with the drums, as my head, my thoughts and my fears were simply suspended. My consciousness was entirely in my body—in the way my feet met the earth, my braids jumped with my body, my hips moved seductively to the beat, my lungs took in the air and my brown skin glistened with beads of sweat. Over the frenzy of the drums, I heard my sister and brother dancers shouting their encouragement, yelling my name repeatedly. They whooped and hollered and clapped around me while watching my moves. Even though they surrounded me, forming the circle, I could feel them in the middle
with
me—smiling, laughing, pounding, stirring, planting, harvesting. They shared my joy, while I shared our ancestry.

I moved to the edge of the circle as the next dancer entered, I yelled her name and clapped my appreciation, encouraging her along with the other dancers. As the dance came to an end, I took note of how I felt. It was as if my consciousness just moved back into my head, and I needed to assess any damage I may have endured from this act of boldness. At one with the other dancers, all I felt was joy, power, beauty and strength. Ironically, expressing our individuality seemed to unify us.

That was many years ago, and I have since gone on to become an African dance teacher myself. Following in Ferne's footsteps, I instruct brothers and sisters of all cultures to find their inner beat and share their moves in the center of the circle.

I invite
you
to join us.

I'll turn you away from the mirrors and encourage you to look
inside
at how you
feel
instead of outside at how you
think
you
look
.

I'll grab your hand and call out loudly, “Eh, eh!” to let you know it is time to change. Smiling, I'll pull you and the other dancers into a circle, anticipating what is coming next. I'll move to the center and beckon you to join me, knowing you will never be the same.

“Come,” I'll say with my head held high and my hips moving to the beat. “Let your soul out! Show us your beautiful self! Come. Let us shine!”

You'll meet me in the middle—and that is where I'll
truly
meet you, too.

Yes, meet me in the middle and we'll dance. . . .

Connie Bennett

The Dreadful Story

I
've learned to take me for myself and to treat
myself with a great deal of love and a great deal
of respect 'cause I like me. . . . I think I'm kind
of cool.

Whoopi Goldberg

I vividly recall the first time my mama sat me in a tub to rinse that Ultra Sheen lye-based permanent-relaxer out of my head. “What'cha doin' to the child's head?!”Daddy asked.

“Her hair is too thick and nappy! This'll help me manage this mess!” Mama resolutely responded.

“She's too young for all that in her head!” Daddy pressed.

“No, I got my hair relaxed when I was even younger!” Mama tilted my head back under the tub faucet to rinse out the smelly, caustic gook.

“But—she's fine just like she is, and I. . . .”

“Well, it's too late now,” Mama said as she began my lye cleansing–deactivating shampoo. “And I'm the one who has to try to get through this child's long, thick head of hair every day!”

“You gonna do her sister's hair like that, too?” Daddy asked.

“No.” Mama lathered my hair. Her fingers stung into my tenderized, chemically softened scalp. I winced silently.

“Good!” Daddy sounded relieved.

“Well, her sister doesn't need it. She has good hair,”

Mama said matter-of-factly.

“Mama,” I whispered having just received the revelation regarding my naughty hair.

“Yes, baby?” Mama answered tenderly as she tilted me back into the cool stream of the tub faucet.

“Am I gonna have
good hair
now, too?” I asked, in search of something “good” out of the strange hair ritual I'd just endured.

“Yes, baby,” Mama assured me.

I smiled, squinting my eyes closed to ignore the burning, stinging pain that had been circling the edges of my right ear throughout the process.

The next day all the little girls in my kindergarten class wanted to touch my long silky braids. I felt so pretty . . . despite my scabbing, throbbing ear. My mother had neglected to put enough gel (grease, really) on my right ear before she began relaxing my hair. The lye had been left to sit directly on my ear, causing a nasty chemical burn. I didn't care though. My hair was being so “good.”

“Lisa Bartley,” my Afro-wearing teacher remarked with a tender smile, “Don't you look pretty today!”

“Thank you, Miss Jackson!” I gleamed.

About thirty years later, I got up one day and looked at the smiling black beauties on my box of Dark and Lovely permanent-relaxer. I looked past their smiles into their eyes, then into the mirror. Those who have known me for a number of years know that I have gone from color to color, style to style, and in and out and back again with my hair. I'm an artist at heart and my head has been a special kind of canvas of self-expression. I've always
loved
trying out different hairstyles. I have sported various relaxed styles, the infamous “flip,” braids, the “bone-straight” look, twists, and so on. I was, however, growing weary of the eternal process of trying to maintain so-called “good hair” status.

I began to dread having my hair done . . . when all of sudden it occurred to me, perhaps I
should
“dread” having my hair done! I tossed out my Dark and Lovely, turned up my Bob Marley
Legend
CD, grabbed my beeswax, and went to work on the first step of “locking” my hair. I began by sectioning it into individual single-strand twists of hair that I rolled into separate sections with sticky dollops of beeswax. I was so engaged in what I was doing that time passed quickly, even though it was six hours later when I smiled broadly at the results—a head full of dreads. Of course it would take another six weeks for them to really begin to tighten, get nappy and all “locked up,” but in the meantime, as I looked in the mirror, singing right along with Marley (for the hundredth time that day), I nodded my absolute approval.

The next day at work, people kept looking at my hair, but they didn't say much. I chuckled on the inside at their perplexed sideways glances. They were white, mostly middle-aged or older folks. They knew something looked different because I usually wore my hair in relaxed, silky little twists. At this point, my hair appeared basically the same as the twists but subtly different. Things really developed as my hair began to lock up. I could tell that they could not really figure it out. They would look, and some would even make awkward attempts to ask me about it, but I felt
free!
I felt even better than I had felt that first day at school after my first relaxer, and this time there were no burns. Imagine that! I had never been so happy with my hair, my skin and my nature—my authenticity. I felt like a queen . . . a God-crowned queen!

My hair has become my own personal study on culture, on human nature and sisterhood. On a regular basis, I have people of all races stop me and comment on my hair.

It's funny sometimes. I never anticipated this. White people don't know what to think—nor do they seem to care all that much. Black people have a more complex reaction. Many are pretty cool about it, even if they would never go “that far” with their own heads. Some are downright hostile. I think it makes them self-conscious or something, but that is their issue, not mine. Many people sport dreads these days, but obviously not so many that they have completely emerged from an enigmatic status.

Recently, I was walking into the grocery store and a sharp sista stopped and said, “GURRRRLLLLLLLLL! I just LOVE your hair! Now,
that
is truly beautiful!”

She was with her man, who was also sharp, and he smiled in agreement.

I said, “Why thank you, Sista! I LOVE your hair, too!”

Now as I look back upon the journey my hair has taken, it seems Daddy knew something about the beauty of African American women's hair that perhaps even we women didn't know—we are naturally beautiful, and we all already have
good hair
.We have the hair that the Creator chose to crown us with. That's good enough for me.

Lisa Bartley-Lacey

Gluttony to Glory

I
f you want to do better today than you did yesterday,
you simply must believe you deserve it.

Iyanla Vanzant

Growing up in the heart of the Midwest, I was always labeled the “fat kid”—the kid with fewer friends, the biggest clothes and always the last to get picked on a team during recess. In every child-oriented social surrounding, whether it was drill team or Brownie troops, I stood out. This had nothing to do with my being black, but everything to do with my corpulent dimension. Things were so out of hand that my family bestowed on me the derogatory nickname “pig” as a way to describe me and my excessive eating habits.

I was raised by my great-grandmother, who would break my sleep on Saturday mornings with the smells of crispy Southern fried chicken, fluffy homemade buttermilk biscuits, dark country gravy and butter-colored rice. This was just breakfast—imagine what dinner was like! You see, Grandma was what you call ol' school; she was not one for a bunch of mushy words, so cooking was one of her many ways of telling me she loved me. I adored this particular type of love, to the point where I allowed it to sculpt my life (and my figure), as if it were my god.

Grandma passed away by the time I reached high school. During my senior year I was weighing way over two hundred pounds and wearing a size twenty-four. I didn't give my size much thought during my last year of high school. I really thought things had turned around for me when the “Denzel Washington” of Central High asked me to the prom. I felt as if I had grown wings and was about to sit beside God on the throne. Unbeknownst to me, I had graduated from the fat kid to the “fat chick.”

These are the words he heard when he told our peers he was taking me to prom. As I sat at home waiting for him to pick me up, all dolled up and looking as fine as I possibly could look, I watched the clock and waited and waited.

With each passing moment my heart cracked a little more.

He stood me up, and my emotions were now aflame. It was then that I discovered how much food would ease my pain. With each bite I became numb. Every time I'd chew I'd feel comfort and relief. Food quickly became my best friend, my lover and a way to ease the pain. With each painful experience came a reason to binge. The need to binge would take over if I didn't get a promotion, if someone hurt my feelings, if I had a bad day at work, school, salon—it didn't matter. I would binge at such a high rate, my body would give it back, and I'd see my comfort go down the toilet. Food was something I was sure would never hurt me, so I thought. At the age of thirty I was weighing over three hundred pounds and rocking a size twenty-eight dress.

It was at that point that my best friend, Zelema, who is thirty years older than I, gave me the weight talk. She informed me that there had to be deeper issues that were causing me to eat. In the beginning I didn't want to hear it, because after high school I was sent to what people call a “fat farm,” with head shrinks and nurses roaming the floors. In other words, the Eating Disorder Unit at a local hospital. It hadn't worked then, and I didn't want to hear it now. But this was different. The words of wisdom and support were coming from someone who loved me and whom I loved. I pressured myself to stop and listen because she had been my umbrella during many storms and wouldn't lie to me. Zelema is president of a college and has that take-charge attitude, anyway, but she got me when she said, “I'll stick by you every ounce of the way.” I knew it wasn't going to be easy because I have the common, black woman's figure—the big hips, legs, breasts and butt . . . all there. All willing to stay!

Over the course of six years I've lost over one hundred pounds and gone down to a size fourteen. I got smaller by eating right, exercising and getting rid of the emotional pain. Though I had lost weight and was looking great, this didn't stop prom night from happening again eighteen years later. I was dumped again by another pretty boy who thought I was too fat, but he added a new twist; he called me ugly as well. Granted, I'm no supermodel, neither am I Medusa. I could feel my heart beating the power of a thousand African drums and my temperature rising to that same number. My big brown eyes were filled with water, and my light brown skin was the color of a beet. Zelema begged me not to resort to food as comfort, but eventually I did. Then the spirits of Mary and Martha came over me, and the weeping ended. I hit the gym harder and cut out even more fattening foods from my diet. I lost another twenty pounds. This enabled me to wear more appealing clothes; my cheekbones became Pikes Peak; my cocoa brown skin became flawless, without a blemish. Five months later, I ran into my second “prom date” in the ritzy part of town. The sight of me brought a hungry gleam to his eyes, and two rows of small pearls appeared across his freckled face. He wants me back; I can see and feel it. However, I won't be having that!