A friend of mine and I got into a heated debate last week. It started because he forgot many things that I told him many times before. One of my pet peeves is having to repeat myself so I flashed on him and told him his memory sucks and to go get that checked. And then it dawned on me that I had this same situation with my mom a few years ago...and we found out that she had a thyroid issue that resulted from soy consumption. After she eliminated soy from her diet, her memory drastically improved. I remembered that he had been complaining about having "the itis" after eating, which is definitely a symptom of a soy allergy. So I calmed down and told him that this memory loss could be because of a soy allergy. This morning, he asked me about my mom's situation. Click here for some of my email reply. (Shortened link: http://bit.ly/o0QN2)
The most important thing to take away from this is that soy allergies include so many symptoms that vary from person to person because it depends on how the soy affects the thyroid. The thyroid determines how hormones function in the body and, like fingerprints & DNA, the issues are very individualized b/c all of us have different hormone levels.
“In a world filled with hate, we must still dare to hope. In a world filled with anger, we must still dare to comfort. In a world filled with despair, we must still dare to dream. And in a world filled with distrust, we must still dare to believe.” - Michael Jackson
Today, I'm celebrating Michael Jackson's 51st birthday by indulging in my love of music. :)
"Someone needs to do something with those girls' heads."
My stepmother's heavy look of disapproval as we watched the Obamas work a crowd on the campaign trail last year is imprinted so clearly in my mind, it's as if her words were uttered yesterday. Her comment immediately took me back to being a 12 year-old sitting on a chair in the middle of the living room hearing her mutter curses under her breath while she tried to "do something" with my natural hair. I inwardly praised my stubborn curls for their righteous protests, for being able to say what I could not: "I will not be tamed!!" (Like its owner, my head of hair responds much better to gentle stroking rather than force.)
My dad was my first hair stylist. He'd slick my baby curls down with vaseline, hair grease, spit (just kidding), etc. (only to watch the curls spring back in place) or try to pick them out into an afro with his blackpower-fisted afro comb (only to watch the picked-out curls droop). When I turned 5, my hair hit its first major growth spurt to fall to my shoulders. That's when my mom took over haircare duties by cornrowing and putting beads at the ends to keep the curlicue ends from unraveling...
Just as my hair changed over the years, so did my first hair stylist...It's ironic to me that my dad chose two women as his life mates that represent extreme opposites of "beauty" on the "consciousness" spectrum...and those choices definitely reflected his mindset at the times that he made them.
My stepmother represents the stereotypical southern woman: traditional, well-mannered, family-oriented, and concerned with upward mobility (aka "keeping up with the Jones' " ). She's a caramel-skinned woman with relaxed hair who grew up believing straighter is better, more professional even. She is hyper-aware of what "others" think.
On the other hand, my mom is an atypical southern woman: non-traditional, politically progressive and philosophically multi-cultural, and couldn't care less what "others" think. She not an "earth mama". She's just herself, a toffee-colored woman who has always worn her hair natural: straightened last week, curly/afro'd this week, and braided next week. Not because her peers were singing "Say It Loud, I'm Black & I'm Proud", but because she's easily bored. She migrated from the south because she couldn't stand the homogenized thinking. She knew there was something better out there for her...a place that spoke to her soul. And that place is Northern California. More specifically, the Bay Area. My father, who is also southern-raised, followed my mom to California because he was politically and spiritually radical (eventually converting from Christianity to Islam in the early 80's) looking for like-minded people on a mission to change the world. And that mindset was reflected in his choice of my mom as a wife. At the time.
They enrolled me in a school created and run by a group of former Stanford University students who were all leftovers from the "Young, Gifted & Black" movements of the 60's/70's. They wore their hair in various ways - from braids to short afros to locs - but all defiantly natural as a socio-political statement. Meanwhile, I was natural because my curly-haired mom was natural and her multi-textured hair mom was natural and her straight-haired mom was natural and so on...and none of us knew anything about relaxers (aka "creamy crack"). She was making no political statements with my hair; it was all about doing what she knew, convenience and choice with her.
My mom's philosophy about my hair reflected her parenting philosophy: She gave me the choice to express myself however I wanted as long as I wasn't hurting anyone. I wore what I wanted as long as my clothes were ironed. I ate what I wanted as long as it was a healthy balance. Etc. So she left me natural because I never asked to be anything else. She empowered me to make my own personal statement to the world; not as a reflection of her, but as a reflection of ME. It's one of the greatest gifts she has given me and I'm forever thankful to her.
When I left the Pan-African school at the age of 10 and entered public schools for the first time at 11 years old, I immediately began to realize that my natural hair was making a statement for me before I opened my mouth. I was different. Not just "new girl" different. But radically, paradigm-breaking different. My look did not match any category. White, Asian, and Latino boys simply saw black girl and everything that represents to them. But black boys...oh the black boys were confused about whether or not they found me socially acceptable enough to have a crush on me. My black beauty scorecard is as follows: I'm light-skinned (+10pts) with long (+10pts), thick (+/- 5pts), unkinky but curly (+/- 5pts) hair = "she's cute but what will my boys think if I say I like her?"
In other words, I wasn't a slam-dunk trophy girlfriend. They had to actually think and discuss as a group to determine whether or not they like me. Holding my hand in the hallways definitely made a social statement...Some thought I was beautiful (to the point of stalking), while others ridiculed me. They would tease me in front of their friends and then ask me to be their girlfriend when we were alone. In a way, those that could only appreciate me privately did me a favor by revealing their backwards-thinking to me before I fell for them. Black girls wondered why I "wasted" my long hair by not relaxing it...and then hated that their crushes liked me. White and Asian girls begged to learn how to braid in my hair. A pariah to some; an exotic barbie doll to others.
All the while, I maintained my natural hair because of tradition. That's what I knew. My hair reflects my multi-racial DNA: My roots (aka "baby hair", "kitchen", etc) are Irish. My crown is West African and gets progressively Native American down the strand. The ritual of washing my hair, oiling it just right, braiding it to air-dry overnight, waking up in the morning to find a completely different texture on my head...was a taxing, but familiar routine.
For 17 years, I wore my hair natural...until I visited Florida during the summer for a freshman orientation program at Florida A&M University. Off and on throughout my teen years, I attended schools in GA so I was familiar with the concept of humidity and what it can do to my natural hair: expand it into a huge, thick puff ball (especially after I discovered the miracle that is the blow-dryer) that was too relaxed to be an afro but too curly to be considered "good hair". But my hair and I were not prepared for the Florida humidity. One word: Mufasa. My hair puffed up so much that even my baggiest, floppiest mid-90's hats couldn't contain it. (Why was I even trying to contain it?)
Even though I wore my hair natural, I straightened it from time to time...and in the non-humid weather of California, my hair would "act right". Laying down like "good hair" is supposed to...not making any waves (literally and figuratively). But Florida brought out the fiesty undercurrent of my hair...the part of me that refused to lay down and shut up. One look at my Mufasa hair and anyone would (correctly) see the part of me that knows black is beautiful, that I am not the typical brainwashed product of the American public educational system. Straightened hair allowed me to "pass" as assimilated but my humidified hair revealed my true mentality. And made the statement loud and clear before my lips could. And for the first time in my life as a "natural" girl, I was ashamed. Not of my race, but that my "secret" was exposed: I am not like you, typical black girl. I'm different. Very different.
So at the end of the summer orientation program, I returned to CA and immediately bought a relaxer kit. I knew nothing about relaxing hair but followed all of the instructions to work the "creamy crack" into my virgin hair. I'm still surprised it didn't all fall out (I started with Mild)...My mom, who knew even less than I did about tamed hair, helped me. When I washed out the gunk and felt my new, well-behaved silky-straight hair...I had mixed feelings. On one hand, I missed my thick, curly hair that I would wound around my fingers when bored, try different braiding styles on, etc. I missed the variety of wearing it straight one day and curly the next...but I also loved the fact that this new, tamed hair took me less than an hour to wash, dry and style. So, as always, convenience won out with me. When my mom saw how quick it was for me to style my hair, she also considered going the relaxed route. But I told her not to...her hair is curly but nowhere near as thick as mine so it really isn't a hassle to style. Plus, we still didn't know if my hair would fall out b/c we had heard a few horror stories about my former elementary schoolmates crossing over from natural to relaxed.
That was 12 years and approximately 36 beauty salon visits ago.
I am genetically, culturally and intellectually diverse. Yes, my "relaxed" hair makes a statement. But those that try to summarize me by looking at my hair are in for a rude awakening. Because I am not my hair.
What's your definition of "good hair"? What is the function of hair? Does your hair speak for you? If so, what is it saying? Don't have time to leave a comment? Check the one-click reaction box below. :)
[Interesting side-note: I did a google-search on the terms "black hair styles" to find a picture for this entry. The first "natural" black hairstyle appears on page 3....That's deep.]
The beginning of my hair journey...
Baldy at 7 mos.
3 years-old with fuzz
6 yrs. old with my fancy french-rolled cornrows (click and scroll to the right to see the back)
I stayed cornrowed-up until about 13 years-old when I took over hair-care duty. Then it was whatever semi-braided style I could think of and ponytail/bangs combo.
My parents in all their natural, summer tan glory :)
My maternal grandmother - the woman who started the multi-textured hair trend by marrying a dark-skinned man with kinky hair, having children with "good hair" and cutting it off instead of learning how to braid it. :-/ (On my dad's side, the women's hair is shortish, thick and/or kinky.)
"Good Hair", Chris Rock's documentary on the symbolism of black women's hair, opens this October. Go see it! And then reflect.
Tyra Banks Show -"What is Good Hair?"
My natural hair is very similar to the woman's hair on the left. Mufasa! :) Except when I was natural, my hair was longer than hers (my first haircut/trim was at 17 years old). What people don't realize is that this grade of hair looks "manageable" as is but try to comb it or braid it and the hair takes on a life of its own. Much thicker than it appears...
I'm in love with Western astrology. Of all the -ologies that I've studied (anthropology, sociology, psychology, personalogy, etc), astrology is the one that shines the most light on how people (and the universe) works. The more I learn about myself and others through studying our full horoscopes (beyond the Sun signs), the more astrology speaks to me.
A fellow lover of (Western) astrology recently opened the door to Chinese astrology and pushed me through by telling me "you're a sheep". The symbolism of me being this meek, dull-headed creature immediately turned me off, but my friend told me the sheep also goes by goat (hey, I like to chew on curtains too!) to pry my closed mind back open long enough to take in some new info. I still don't understand how Chinese astrology works beyond star signs, but this description of "me" is more accurate than the typical description of my Sun sign Cancer (minus viewing the rest of my chart)...
I found it interesting that the Chinese star sign manages to cut right through to the heart/essence of what I normally feel uncomfortable showing people:
The GOAT
Creative, Artistic, Considerate, Generous, Easygoing, Sensitive, A Worrier .
Goats are dreamers -- creative spirits always in need of more time to explore their inner selves.
They are most comfortable while being deep within themselves. To be happy, the Goat's mind must be free to roam where it pleases. Goats are naturally artistic and inventive. They are not pursuers of material wealth and rely on their imaginations to enrich their lives. However, Goats can be very generous to those they love.
Goats often do not fare well in romantic liaisons. They are very high-strung and tend to feel insecure. They are worriers. To quell their uncertainties, Goats need to feel loved and admired at all times. Goats are extremely sensitive and will fret over the most trifling things. Conflict within a relationship will make Goats retreat further into their minds or physically remove themselves from the scene. When love is going well for them, Goats can be quite demanding of their partner. The happy Goat does not just take, but loves to give to its lover too. Goats who learn to control their worries can be quite happy. Once they know their friends and family will be waiting for them when they return from their inner journeys, Goats can be very happy.
Ideal Jobs Include:
Actor, Painter, Musician, Landscape Gardener, Television Presenter, Dancer, Escort, Investor, Shareholder.
(Jara note: Isn't an "escort" just a fancy (and legal) way of saying prostitute?? So my new bumper sticker will say: "For a good time...PAY ME!!" lol)
What's your zodiac sign? (Don't know your zodiac sign? Click here and scroll to the bottom to find out.) Do you feel that the description of your zodiac sign accurately reflects who you are as a person? Why/why not?
What's your Chinese sign? Don't know it? Find your birth year on the chart below to find out your Chinese star sign.
Wanna learn more about Western astrology? See the chart below. Ask me! Or take an online tutorial here.
Ever feel lonely around a group of friends? Last night, I hung out with friends that I've known for 10+ years and it dawned on me that we have very little in common now. The glue that once held our friendships together is no longer as sticky or strong...just when I need real friendship the most.
Anyway, those thoughts inspired the following poems...
"Moody"
Living in darkness Flashlight in my pocket... With no charge They have light bulbs In their hands... But our wattage doesn't match Frustrated fingers pressed against walls Sliding, seeking... Desperate to find the on switch Bringing sweet relief of light Rewarding my opened eyes... With a clear vision of the room... In my 12th house.
If you're wondering "What in the world is she talking about?" or "wow, I wonder how I can own 12 houses", click on the link below so we're on the same mental page. :) The 12 Houses You can share your thoughts by either clicking on a reaction box or commenting below.
So I'm at an organizing meeting for healthcare reform and noticing that there's not much complaining going on. Instead, we're ACTING on our anger. It feels empowering to be DOING something instead of just SAYING something. Don't get it twisted: I enjoy a good rant session as much as the next complainer. It's a good way to de-stress and unclog my mental and emotional drains. However, after my rant is over, a solution must follow or else the complaints over the same problem will just build up again...because the problem will surely still exist if I do nothing to solve it. That's my (new) philosophy.
In general, how do you react to problems? What strategies have been most/least successful?
If you agree that it's time to do some productive bitching, join in the fight to get better healthcare/health insurance for all Americans: Health Care Action Center
If you don't care about healthcare reform, but feel passionately about some other cause, then FIGHT FOR IT. Put some action behind your bitching...unless you're just hating other people. Then stay at home & bitch.
Born from freedom, dignity, dreams denied
Without it, status quo veers off track
In abundance, heavy weight on the back
Holding us hostage with invisible bars intact
On display, justifies injustice
In hiding, drills holes through the soul
With the heat of a thousand suns,
Becomes more powerful than guns
With enough energy to build nations...
Or tear down universal creations
Distorted to epic proportions
In heightened imaginations
Feared as much as death, so it must be...
Contained, blamed, re-framed & named:
BLACK ANGER
Hope springs eternal
As some would say
Others know Hope is a fair-weather friend
Gone tomorrow but here today
The armor of the faithful
The fear of the faithless
Past letdowns turn into present doubts
That become Hope's future stress test
Cynicism, Hope's evil twin, strikes again
After meeting Conceit, a new best friend
Together, they hit up the Amen Corners
Preaching to choirs about how trusting Hope will end
They befriend Idealism with persuasive words
Promises of being a security blanket
That provides warmth against the storm
Of disappointment created by that fickle bitch Hope...
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