Freestyle Post 100 Percent About My Feels

Well, it is Sunday Morning and I am not even half done with my homework. And my research? Ha! I have not even touched that and I am supposed to give my PI and Post Doc Mentor a report on Monday Night. I just half-assed my statistics homework because I am so tired of being burned out from that class. Actually, I am tired and burned out already. And yes, I know what you are thinking, the imposter syndrome is bullshit. But you don't understand. I feel tremendous pressure. I feel intense pressure to get really good grades this semester (because they will build my case for seeking teaching certification). I feel immense pressure to help my undergraduate mentees out of the research study from hell that is partially caused by folly of being too damn trusting of other people. I love each and every one of the undergraduate research assistants and I hope that their road to graduate school and professional school is a lot more traveled than mine. I feel immense pressure to show my PI that he was not on drugs when he decided to groom me to become his doctoral student. I feel immense pressure to give 2000 percent to my organizations that I am affiliated with because I want to give back, I want to network, and I want to remind myself how to get a long in a world without academia. Quiet as is kept, as my father likes to say, I may not be successful in obtaining a tenure track position when I graduate in 3-4 years (please god, let it be closer to 3.5). So, I have to network for other opportunities in health care, non-profit and government sector. It sucks but I have to be real. One day I have to go back to paying those student loans on the reg. Just saying. I feel immense pressure to be pretty and perfect and always smiling. I find that my "coming-out" as an unapologetically black woman has distressed by melanin-challenged fiance. What do I mean by that? I mean that I no longer put up with bullshit, I no longer put up with racism, sexism, homophobia, or transphobia. I am a goddamn carebear, ladies and germs. I have finally absolved myself of years and years of self-hatred and finally in my late twenties I am coming to find out who I really am, what I am willing to tolerate, what I am willing to fight for, and who I would gladly take a bullet for. Turns out, my meek, introverted limp ponytail wearing shell of a person was the disguise I invented until I was sure of my own true potential. That meek shell helped me get a long with everyone. I was always about pleasing the people around, never trying to challenge or make waves. And, life is funny because that meek shell was who I had to be in order to survive my transient period working in retail and entry level corporate hell. Fast forward today, I proudly post crazy cosplay pictures of myself on the internet, I drag friends of friends for their ignorance while I sip my cup of green tea, I sometimes cosplay in the middle of the week simply because it is Tuesday. I give the middle finger to disgusting perverts who dare to fuck me with their eyes. My parents who are very bitterly divorced agree on something for the first time: "What the hell has gotten into our daughter? ". And to that, I laugh and I laugh. My father may not realize but his compliment on radical writing while on the phone with me touched me to my core in the very best way. He very well may have started the process of us not only being cordial but maybe even allowing us to get to know one another for who we really are. My father like most parents is concerned that my social media presence will get me in trouble. But guess what Daddy, there was always an angry Black Woman living inside of me. She was like a sleeping dragon and 2016 was the final poke in her eye that stirred her to go on a rampage. She is out for blood. Period. And dear Mother, who likely worries too much about appearances and what others think of her. I censor myself heavily on social media. You do not even know. If I posted every single time someone pissed me off due to their ignorance or treatment of me, it would make your head spin. I held myself back from complaining that someone in a very high position at the university I attend decided it was okay to touch my hair and pat my back. I wanted to slap her and say "Get your fucking hands off of me. I am not your exotic negress baby doll. I am a grown ass woman with the right to decide who gets to touch me and how. This ain't 1849 or even 1959. But you see? I did not say anything. I let it go. But believe me, if I had the power to, I would have told her off so fast that she would be stunned into silence.  Having little power sucks monkey balls, but I promise myself that one day I will have the power to make a difference. One day I will have the power to help influence matters to promote and sustain a better human condition. I hope to goddess I do not fail out of this semester. But to be perfectly honest I procrastinate because my mind is everywhere. I am saddened by this world we live in. I am saddened that it continues to resemble a police state more and more. I am upset that my middle sister has been terribly unlucky in the romance and dating department. I am upset that my youngest sister gets treated like Cinderella and when she is not working around the house, she is lonely and neglected. I fear for my brothers as young black men, they are already being targeted. I keep having nightmares about receiving that phone call that something bad happened. And then I would have to seriously consider how I could survive in prison. Because they may as well make my bunk. If something happens to my siblings, if something happens to my blood, I am going be on the 11 o clock news with my nasty mugshot splashed all over twitter, huffington post etc and then I am going to prison. As the kids say, I have no chill. My parents though they mean well... I had this shit in me all along. I only pretended to be the meek and docile one. I shut up about a great many things because i was so concerned with others turning away from me. Now that this concern is eroding away fast (thanks to cosplay and having a leadership/mentoring role) I am no longer a doormat. Oh what the fuck am I even talking about right now. oh right, this world is such bullshit. I am still going back and forth in my head about getting my tubes tied. There are some days I wish that I will never have the opportunity to bring children into this world. The city I live in, though smack dab in the middle of the south is actually quite liberal, blue, and welcoming of diversity. However, there are small remaining factions of bigots (like my pissant shitstain cretin of a neighbor) who keeps citing "our excessive noise "read: I fucking don't like niggers and nigger-lovers living above me as grounds for his own neighborhood watch style retaliation. And sure, they are mostly laughable until they decide to really try you, then they get annoying, then they try to threaten you, then you have panic attacks, nightmares, sleepless nights and shaking hands. All great stuff, let me tell you. I honestly think that my voice is not powerful. I can't really be reaching that many people, but then I post shit and people I haven't talked to since the 3rd grade feel they have to make commentary about my life and decide how I should feel about the shit I post. Piss the fuck off. Have sympathy for me sure, but do not fucking tell me how I should feel or what should offend me. I have my own fucking brain, and most days my logical faculties are highly in tact. But simply put, the one or two people who may read this, I am so tired from playing all of the games, for having to do so much more to settle for so much less. I hate that I have to watch my appearance, I hate that I have to be accountable for how men feel about how I choose to dress myself. I hate when people do not know what boxes to put me in. I don't really fit into any box. I am just me. I just try to do the best that I can do and hope that people don't think I a m stupid, a disappointment or a waste of space. The end. I think I can finally go to sleep now.

Detangling The Roots of Black Hair: From Self-Hatred to Self-Acceptance

Fun fact: I have kept diaries/journals since I was seven years old. Although most of my entries from age 7 -9 would say things like " I had a good day. Or, "Today was a bad day",  I do remember writing a short story about hair woes and my overwhelming lust for this magical potion called "The Relaxer". I believed that having a relaxer would turn me from ugly to pretty. I believed that having a relaxer would make me pretty like my Christie (friend of Barbie) and Teen Nikki ( friend of Barbie's sister Skipper).  Or, at the very least would make me pretty like my mom and my older cousins Jill and Jessica with their pin straight hair. I hated being teased and taunted by my classmates who called me Tri-Horns (My mother and father would style my extremely thick hair in these three thick braids with neon bright hair balls and brightly colored poodle barrettes). Some classmates also made me fun of me for spending recess by myself reading books. Although reading was my favorite pastime, it was more than that. When I read, I could be anyone I wanted to be. I could do anything I wanted to do including have super straight long black hair like the late great Aalyiah. My mother finally consented to get my hair relaxed about a week before my First Communion.  I was raised Catholic but for now, I consider myself agnostic. I remember the hair appointment took quite literally, from morning to evening. The process was long, painful, and actually, disgusting. The relaxer itself smelled of old eggs and my father's dirty yard cleaning socks. But before I could gag, I would have to scream because once the chemicals worked their way through my roots I felt an intense sharp pain. I felt as though someone dumped my hair into a boiling pot of water. "Beauty is pain" my mother quipped from over the old copy of Essence her stylist had given her to read. And do not even get me started about the 2-3 hours I was made to sit perfectly still under the hair dryer..... Fast forward to my first look at myself in the mirror after the torture had finally ended. I stood in the salon restroom for a few good minutes. At long last, I had beautiful hair. At long last I was beautiful. Gone were the ugly thick braids, in their place were long luxurious locks that cascaded all the way down my back. All of sudden, my eyes were pretty, my smile was pretty. Everything about me was pretty! It was intoxicating. "Honey, please get your hands out of your hair, you'll muss it up." my mother gently scolded. But I was not listening. I was the most beautiful girl in the whole universe and on Monday, my entire class would see this. "Wow, your hair! Your hair is so pretty.  I didn't know you were so pretty." I drank all of those stupid boy classmates' starstruck compliments like a someone who found an oasis after wandering the desert for weeks. I found myself excelling more in classes. I found myself reaching out to make more friends. It would be a couple more years before I learned about the scientific method, but I already concluded that "beauty=power".  But unfortunately, "All Magic Comes With A Price".  Having beautiful "White-Girl" straight hair meant that every Sunday before the First Day of School was spent locked in the hair salon from morning to night. It also meant having to sit out when my cousins and friends spent all afternoon swimming. It meant resisting the urge to scratch the hell out of my hair when the residual relaxer material made really annoying scabs in my head.  But hey,  these were small prices to pay for being beautiful, for having older Black Women smile at you and say "Oh, you have good hair, Miss Thing. You blessed!" When I was young, I thought that relaxed hair was supposed to take away all of my self-esteem problems, all of my worries about being accepted by peers were supposed to be alleviated. Oh how naive I was....in actuality, kids just found different ways to make fun of me. No longer was I called Trihorns, instead I was called Oreo or later on in high school "That Really White Black Girl"... "If I close my eyes, I could actually pretend you are not Black. How funny would that be?" And, you better believe my sibling rivalry with my younger sister intensified once her own hair received the magic potion. Not only was she already perfect and the better kid from my perspective, but now she too had beautiful straight hair..... Oh fun. Twenty years later, I thank the universe for my hair being resilient, because I put it through the ninth circle of hell by the time I became responsible for it in college. I had my ex-best friend cut my hair into bangs, I went for weeks without washing it because I just didn't want to deal. Most days, I just stuck it in a sad pony-tail and went about my business. It was only when I had my new fresh relaxer, every 6- 8 weeks that I felt renewed and beautiful. I used to purposely plan my relaxers close to my birthday, dating anniversaries and holidays. That was often a great source of emotional and financial stress. Relaxers on average cost me 70-90 bucks. Nevertheless, I went above and beyond to get my fix from that "creamy crack". I would do anything to feel beautiful again. We now to turn to my hair and state of mind in the present day. It is time to start over. I have put my hair through hell and every abuse imaginable. I know that having natural hair will come with its own set of woes, but I feel that going back to having natural hair may restore that smile of a happy 6 1/2 year old little girl who was just happy for life and who she was in that tiny moment. Hair care takes lots of love, lots of time and lots of patience. But beyond starting over with my hair, having "The Big Chop" will mean the culmination of owning my identity as a Black Woman. It will be saying fuck you to all of the Eurocentric beauty ideals that I desperately coveted for much of my life, It will be saying fuck you to previously saying fuck you to my original form and all of my essence. It will be saying "fuck you" to all of the expectations  placed on black women's appearance from the hair on their head to the curves of their bodies. And let me make something clear to Black ladies who want to keep rocking their relaxers. I do not disparage your choices one bit. I got chemical relaxers for all of the wrong reasons.  I believe that Black Women can wear their hair however they want, so long as they love themselves and treasure what is underneath their hair. :) I feel fortunate to have forged friendships and made experiences with other Black Women (my former Belly Dance Instructor turned older sister-figure/mentor, my cosplay sisters and more recently, my research mentor). And, my choice to join the braid train,  #Team Natural (laughs), has been met with so much enthusiasm, especially,  from my younger sisters. In truth it has been an extra special way to bond with them. I haven't set the  date for The Big Chop officially, but best believe it will happen by Thanksgiving. And yes, for cosplay and everyday, I may still wear wigs. But the difference is that wigs will now act as accessories, same as a studded belt or a bright baby blue hair bow. I can rock a 20s bob on Monday, Anime Pigtails, on Tuesday and shit, how about Mermaid Green hair on Wednesday. It will not matter because when I am home, writing research papers, drafting grant proposals or curling up to watch Netflix with my better-half, it will be just me, my own hair and the undeniable truth that I am enough and I was always enough. I always was brilliant, I was always beautiful, and I was always deserving of love just the way I am. The way this crazy thing called the Universe made me.