August 06, 2008
The Black Hair Taboo
So there I was, standing in TJ's office at the end of a Friday afternoon, not expecting to have a completely surreal experience. We were discussing our plans for the weekend, when TJ led me down a path of interracial taboo.
TJ is black. And yes, I'm going to say black instead of "African-American" because TJ is not from Africa. She's from Tennessee. I, in case you're new, am white. My family is from northern Europe, but I am from Illinois.
Having been born and raised in my particular suburb, I didn't know a lot of black people growing up. There were two mixed-race kids one block over, but they were adopted by a white couple, and they weren't in my grade. The first black person I ever interacted with was my junior high music teacher, Miss Street. And I worshipped her.
After junior high, it wasn't until my first job at Pizza Hut that I met more black people. In fact, I worked with TWO of them. From the city. Oh, they thought I was a trip. I was their little mascot, and they began my training in the "food service industry," a career that led to an interesting education, indeed.
Years later, when I was a secretary, I worked with another black woman. And her hair fascinated me. One month, she'd have a full-on Beyonce weave. The next, a complicated pattern of braids that turned her scalp into a work of art. I wanted so very badly to have a girly conversation with her about her hair, but I was warned -- "Black people hate it when white people ask about their hair."
Damn. Foiled.
Since then, black people -- and indeed, people of many hues -- have become a regular part of my world. And I like it. I don't feel like a naive, over-priviledged, suburban brat anymore. And I've had some really great conversations about the Big, Bad Topic of RACE.
But I've never broken The Hair Rule. I will go so far as to compliment a particularly fabulous hairstyle, but even then, I imagine I can feel the wearer bristle, so I quickly change the subject.
Never in my wildest dreams did I dare think that a black woman -- freely and of her own volition -- would TELL ME all about her HAIR!!! Holy shit! Was she trying to get me into trouble?! What if the other black people found out?! They'd take away her Black Card!
There she was, talking about her plans to take all her braids out, and she'd probably pay someone to do it this time, even 'though she's cheap, because she always ends up crying.
And there I was, staring like a deer in headlights. Shit, shit, shit! What do I do? Does she... did she forget that I'm white? Well, I am a pretty good dancer...
She's going to get it rebraided one more time, to let it grow out another inch. Some of it is her real hair, and some of it is synthetic. And then she's just going to ditch the braids and have her natural hair, which is the texture of cotton.
I SWEAR TO GOD! SHE SAID ALL THIS TO ME! ALL THIS AND MORE!!!
I'm pretty sure this makes me an honorary black person. What do you think? You think they'll give me a Black Card?
Comments
girl, you are practically urban, now.
Posted by: heather at August 6, 2008 05:13 PM
I worked with a black woman a long time ago that came into work with her hair did all the time. I ALWAYS asked her about it, because one time she came in with a little crop of curls on top of her head and I told her it looked like a gift wrap decoration you buy at the store...
Posted by: Stacey at July 13, 2010 07:24 PM