evitae.net

People keep confusing me with other students on campus this year. Today has to have been the third time. What was worse this time around, was her nonchalance about it. Sorry just doesn’t cut it for me. Ask me my name and use it in a sentence acknowledging your mistake. Maybe then I’ll believe your apology.

Now that I think about it, it’s probably the fault of karma. A couple of weeks ago, I confronted a girl in the dining hall because I thought she was this one trashy chick from Temple University. As embarrassing as it was to have confused a genuinely nice girl with one of the most unladylike females I’ve ever known, I stood there and talked to her until I knew who she was. It was then that I realized I’d had a class with her just last spring.

Embarrassment is a far easier a thing to deal with than pissing someone off. That girl had better hope we never have a class together. The sad truth of the matter is that we probably already have. As she went upstairs I heard her murmuring to her friend something about the two of us (being myself and the girl she had confused me with) “look[ing] alike anyway.” While I can see the resemblance, her refusal to hone up to her mistake is intolerable. She didn’t even wait until I was out of range to cough up that crap.

There’s a subtext of race here, which is probably why it offends me so much to begin with. For the longest time I had only ever heard it said that East Asians, regardless of their diverse cultural groups, are virtually indistinguishable, which is, obviously, bullshit. Yet, as I have gone through college, I have heard every other race make the same claim about others. It absolutely infuriates me that people could be so insensitive and blind to anyone that doesn’t fit in their own cultural group. Open your fucking eyes, people.

Of course, everything at the moment pisses me off. Having started my monthly red bag of fun yesterday, I am suffering from the worst hormonally charged mood swings that I have ever experienced. One moment I am apathetic, as per usual, and the next I am in tears, ready to punch somebody’s light’s out if they so much as bat an eye at me. There is no logical reasoning in my head. It is strictly impulse that breeds these ridiculous emotions.

Lately none of my symptoms have been typical. Whereas before I always knew it was coming by the distinct, dull pain in my lower back or the occasional subtle migraine, these days I never can tell. I guess it makes sense that as you get older and exposed to new environments and experiences, you can’t possibly ask your body to maintain a sense of consistency, but it would be nice. Sometimes I want the certainty of counting the days down on a calendar, but birth control is just another expense I do not care to take on at the moment. Looks like I’ll just have to stick with the crazies for now.

Today was pretty chill. I didn’t have class, so I spent some time doing my hair. I twisted my hair into Bantu knots, and the reactions on campus were pretty hilarious. Some people were awed and thought it was cool (”Can I touch it?”) while others seemed confused or uncomfortable, occasionally to the point where they didn’t even recognize me! I was pretty hesitant about going out with my hair dressed this way at first, especially since I hadn’t bothered to really make an attempt at any real neatness or symmetry with the style because I’m aiming for the waviness that occurs once they’re taken out, but then I realized I had no reason to be.

After taking some time absorbing the varying reactions on campus, I realized that my initial insecurity is an indication of the obscured self hatred that is so fused to my identity as an African American. I am fortunate to have parents who’ve taught me to have some sense of pride about my own natural beauty, an entity to be embraced independently of my race and color, but the media, being the powerful force that it is, seldom fails to get under a youth’s skin. I too have fallen victim to its brainwashing prowess, but in observing my sister’s recent behavior, I recognize that they have seeped deeper into her consciousness than my own.

Whereas many other Black mothers in our community had thrown up their hands and permed their children’s hair at early ages, our mother painstakingly maintained our thick, often unruly hair in its natural form from day one. It grew to be quite long, in fact my sister’s was always just slightly longer than mine. Our parents have always encouraged us to make our own decisions, so naturally, once we began high school, we started to experiment with our hair on our own. As I had gone away to school, I struggled with my hair a lot and it did suffer quite a bit of damage, but I kept with it and embraced the styles that best maintained its health.

Yet all it took was a year or so for my sister to destroy all of our mother’s hard work, dedication, and love. She began applying heat excessively and skipping meals, and over time, it began to fall out. What was worse was that she decided to entrust what was left of it to a friend when she finally thought to get a perm. Our mother was furious, and not so much about the fact that my sister wanted the perm in the first place, but because of the backhanded manner in which she had acquired it and the fact that years of effort were so adamantly unappreciated. Right down to her hair, my sister wanted too desperately to be someone else.

I definitely understand her struggle though. Society tells us that our natural hair, on top of our skin and other genetic features, is not beautiful. It’s not just White culture that feeds us this information either. Much of the media, be it music videos or magazines, tells us that if we hope to have any chance to be accepted as beautiful, we need not apply as we are. Yet through it all, none of the changes we make amount to much; we are still somehow inherently less attractive. I like to think that as time goes on, society and the media are improving in terms of their interpretations of beauty, but the damage often feels irreparable.

Of course I recognize that Black women are not the only ones who are at times self conscious about their hair and ultimately, their perception of their own beauty. I think if this battle is going to end for any of us, we’re going to have to make a shift towards a world unbound by superficiality. Though I prefer to be an optimist, I don’t really see that happening anytime soon. Even if the whole world should fall blind, I feel we would still discover ways to cage each other with as shallow a thing as appearance. I guess some part of our superficiality is instinctual, but I feel we harm each other by it far more than necessary.

Some days I feel the hair atop my head is like a crown of thorns. I wince when people reach to touch it, at times afraid that its texture and appearance may mean social exile. But on a good day I remember that it doesn’t really matter. I remember that as long as I am hygienic and neat about it, it has little bearing on my character. A crown is such, whether it is made of flesh or gold. Beauty is like a rose bush, stemming from within and blossoming outward, thorns and all. Ultimately its roots and the nutrients of the earth, its nurturer, will determine the sum of its beauty. Similarly, as tired as it sounds, true beauty comes from within.