Fear and Loathing in Suburban Virginia: A Writer's War with Words

We negotiated at first. The talks were peaceful if also one-sided. The ideas and words came, but I refused them audience, ignored their demands for freedom until they became too loud, mocking me every time I started reading another piece of bad fiction or went to a bizarre open mic night. “You can do that Cinder.” “Why aren’t you published Cinder?” “Why aren’t you even attempting Cinder?” “Why don’t you get up there and read; you’ve got the poem in your purse?” As a gesture of good will, I would compose a few paragraphs or lines of verse here and there. I even started a novel after a failed love affair—I had six chapters.

They were appeased at first and left me alone for a bit. Then things went back to normal. We engaged in quite the struggle as I’ve been developing and honing a talent for resisting writing for some time. How, as an English teacher, a composition instructor, can I deny the power of writing and not engage in it as often as I can? How can I tell my students to just “do it” when I cannot follow my own advice? “Carve out time for you and your thoughts” I’d preach. “Write a little bit each day,” I’d encourage. “By living, experiencing, and observing life you create content” I’d say at the beginning of each semester. “Tell your stories,” I demanded sincerely and with conviction; “They are worthy.” About literature and daily or monthly publications, I’d advise “Read critically but also with an open mind to broaden your horizon and add depth to your perspective. The more you read the better your writing will become.” I chanted these words to every group of students like mantras. Yet, I wouldn’t do that which I knew would work. Why, you ask? Fear, I believe, and ambivalence. It is not fear of success as some would suggest, you know, those who say that we are more afraid of success than failure. That is not where I live. I live in fear of failure, of being proven a fraud. I need validation of my “good-ness” or at least “okay-ness” as a writer. If I do not do this well, then how can I even teach? How can I still so enthusiastically extol the merit of learning to write beautifully, with heart, with passion when I, gatekeeper of this discipline, cannot bear to open a new Word document?

I wish I didn’t have this ambivalence toward the craft of writing; but I do. I am so in love with words, and I want to be loved by them too. I want them to come into me and move through me, baptizing me in its power. I want to want to write. I want to feel good about this process; I feel I must. Yet I don’t, and in the don’t “ness” of it all, I am still miserable, and my love turns to hate, not apathy though. I cannot give up reading, I cannot not light up when I talk about literature and words and meaning. I feel the calling of the words and am compelled to do that which isn’t happening, to tell some truths. I lie away awake at night knowing that I’ve managed to get through another day without telling a truth, a story, without a cathartic release. On some level in some deep place I believe that writing is who I am, and by not doing what I am, I am living life in denial, a purgatory of ordinary. And everyday of not writing adds more time to my sentence in limbo. Time that I swore I didn’t have.

The truth is I do have time to write even though for years that was my fall back excuse. I had a litany of them: I’m a single mom with no support system. I’m going to school full time and working full time. Then it was I am working full time and have parental responsibilities. Then as a teacher I have too much grading and committee work and parental responsibilities, and what about church? Though the reasons were real, I had the time. I had about two to three hours a day that I spent vegetating in front of Law and Order (Criminal Intent, Special Victims Unite, and the original), CSI (Miami, Las Vegas, and New York), Primetime specials about all sundry types of predators and criminals. I had and still do have time, despite the other responsibilities in my life. Writing takes a back seat.

This seven years’ war has had its reprieves and ceasefires. There have been times when I’ve written consistently for a few weeks at a time, when the muses won, when I surrendered to the process because the bombardment of ideas were deafening. Those moments felt like life, like being a writer and writing was what I was meant to be and do. Rejections, though, leave wounds that are slow to heal. So I’ve been gun shy, hiding in the brushes launching stealthy gorilla attacks: sleeping until noon on the days I do not teach early morning classes, digitally recording episodes of the most inane shows to fill up weekends, going to the worst movies just to distract myself. In this battle against writing—a freedom fighter, so to speak, a rebel against my own deepest desire—I self sabotaged. Because it isn’t about publishing it is about release; it is about my own sanity.

To be good at not only teaching writing but living writing, to be heard, to liberate the stories in my head, where they so painfully exist, refugees from a higher plane is what I aim to do. They, the wonderfully satirical anecdotes, the longer pieces of prose and fiction (but not novels of course—a short story will do), and the thought provoking treatises; they live so actively, yet confined, in my brain matter. I cannot and refuse to let another die there, plunked in the mass grave on the periphery of my conscious mind, undiscovered by the world and forgotten by me, their reticent liberator. So I sit today after teaching my students about literary comparisons and causal analysis, and I do what I have them do every week: write consciously and with a purpose—for me that purpose is to survive.

The One

It was the summer of 2004 when I was introduced to him. I don’t remember what I was wearing or even what I was doing. And it wasn’t love at first sight. In fact, I was more than a little skeptical. He seemed too good to be true: Handsome, smart, personable, down to earth, and confident without being arrogant. “Is this guy real?” I asked. It was too soon to tell. So I watched him, this stranger to me, navigate and transform the space, the very air around him. I was intrigued, hooked. I needed to know more, so I felt him out, did my research. I read everything he wrote, listened to each and every speech he gave, searched for pictures of him and his family. In a word, I cyber-stalked him. Everything seemed fine, better than fine—he was, dare I say, close to political perfection in a human kind of way. But I was hesitant, afraid of getting hurt again, of being disappointed again. However, the more I learned about him, the more dirt I tried to find to discredit him, the surer I became that he was the ONE, the one that I had been waiting for all of my grown up life. I was quietly optimistic. But how do I know, you ask? How do I know that he is what he seems to be? Is anyone really who they seem to be? I don’t know, but I am assured everyday by his candor, his life and professional experience, his intelligence and credentials, his vision, and, most importantly, his fearlessness that he is the one, a leader for a new generation, a force to be reckoned with.

Before I can give my time, energy, or heart to any man, I need to feel like he will tell me the truth about himself, even if it’s ugly. Barack Obama told me and the world the truth about himself in Dreams of My Father. When I heard the Illinois state senator and candidate for the U.S. senate give the most compelling speech in recent history at the democratic convention in 2004, I didn’t know anything about him. I heard he wrote an autobiography at the behest of a publisher after being elected the editor of the Harvard Law Review, a post that had never been held by an African American before. I was curious. I read the book and was struck by the honesty with which he told his life story up until the point of publication. Obama told the truth about himself. He disclosed his angst and confusion about being bi-racial, his anger at racism and social apathy, his recreational use of alcohol and drugs, his apathy toward his father, his search for meaning and god. He told the reader his story, and not the sugar coated version, and I respected him for it, even if it now becomes media fodder.

So the truth is a wonderful, powerful thing, and Barack Obama told the truth of who he was and from whence he came. His life story, which is hardly over, is one that compels homage. Here is a man who grew up in an environment where very few people looked like him or knew how to teach him the intricacies of existing as a person of color in America. And while he struggled to find his way and an identity, he did so. Here is a man who had no pedigree to speak of, in a country where donations buy entrance into prep and law schools and politics. There was no silver spoon in his hand, no trust fund to finance his education or gap year. Yet, he excelled. And while he could have had a career in law or corporate America, he chose to work tirelessly at the grassroots level in the south side of Chicago to improve the living conditions, educational and economic opportunities and future prospects of its citizens. That past work in community organization and action inspires my reverence for Obama. The fact that he lived among the people, saw the needs, and worked to change their lot in life inspires my reverence for him. He did not spend his entire adult life grooming a political career; however, he knew that there was only so much change he could accomplish from outside of the system. He knew that good intentions and vision would not only not be enough to change the south side, it certainly would not be enough to change the world. Obama furthered his education to be able to better position himself to bring about the change he wanted to see. I hold such dedication to change in high esteem.

While his humble beginnings and intellect continue to move me, his innate hopefulness, sense of what is right, and willingness to sacrifice astound me. Obama constantly demonstrates his belief in the humanity of all people—even those unlike him, even those who hate him, even those who seem to not see the humanity in themselves. Part of his platform is to use diplomacy first, despite diplomacy’s unpopularity in the last decade. He harkens back to the days of walking softly and carrying a big stick, instead of the contemporary mindset of trodding heavily and shooting enormous guns. He stands up for what he believes in and is willing to tell hard truths at risk to himself. He did not bow down to extremist responses to the terrorist attacks of September 11th. He saw early, when people were afraid to appear unpatriotic, that invading Iraq was not only not in the best interest of national security, but probably a long term quagmire with dire consequences for U.S interests. He believes in and advocates diplomacy and building relationships, not responding unilaterally to countries who do not share our values or beliefs. He spoke about the racial divide and misunderstanding that still runs deep throughout the country at a time when people want to believe that “black people should just get over it.” He refuses to pander to the masses by attempting to sell them policies that sound good, but are merely sound bites and not helpful like summer gas tax holidays or mandatory health care plans. He sacrificed friendships and affiliations with people who had positions the general white public could not fathom and did not understand because in their history America has always been the beautiful. But he told them what they did not want to hear or admit anyway. I adore that about him.

Finally, Obama may not be fearless, but he must certainly be respected for his bravery. Even though we are in living in the 21st century of our lord and almost 150 years after the end of slavery, he risks his life by running for the office of the presidency and being seriously considered by the people in this country and abroad. His legitimacy and success make him a target. But he perseveres anyway, and for that, I admire him. He is like a fireman who runs into a burning building to save an occupant at little thought to the risk to himself. He is running to the office of the presidency to save the people from policies that are good for corporations but not the people who work in them. He is running into the office of the presidency to save the court from justices that would turn back 50 years of progress. Obama is running for the presidency to save the office of the presidency from itself, and for that too, I admire him.

So…I revere him. I respect him. I admire him. And while I am in awe of him, I don’t expect everyone or anyone else to share my opinions. I respect the right of each person to lay out his or her own parameters and yard sticks and platform issues by which to measure a political candidate. I did my research, my homework, my own thorough investigations of the men and women running for the highest public office in the land. So while I, and others like me, are dismissed and called naïve dreamers for supporting a long shot, we know that we know a secret: dreamers and idealists are the people who brought about all of the positive changes this country has seen.

Literature and Film--A Critical Essay

Non Whiney Student
English 112-01
Ms. Cooper

24 Apr. 2008

Imitation of Life

Do any of the Star Wars movies, The Matrix trilogy, or Saw I, II, or III contain lessons about life? Do they imitate life? They probably don’t. But, just maybe, maybe they can. Sometimes, like a rose, a movie is just a movie, made to horrify us, make us laugh, or simply open up our minds to previously unimaginable possibilities. However, film, like all art, including literature, can have a deeper purpose: to broaden our understanding of the world around us or to broaden our understanding of a people who are seemingly foreign to us. The previous statements are both the beauty and the danger of film. What we may realize, once we are gifted with exposure, is that people all around the world have souls, spirits, desires, and hopes and dreams. While they may not have voices to express who they truly are, art does it for them. Just as great books give us insight in to ourselves and the human condition, so too can a great film. The danger of film is that it can also be used to stereotype or caricature those whom we don’t know, and thus a false or inaccurate depiction becomes fact. Caricaturing and stereotyping do not occur in Jewish filmmaker Ra'anan Alexandrowicz’s film Masso’ot James Be’eretz Hakodesh or James’ Journey to Jerusalem. Through the main character’s journey and exploits, the viewer of James’ Journey to Jerusalem sees the corruption rife in “the promised land” here represented by Jerusalem, but a symbol for all Western, developed nations.

When the film opens, we meet the main character James, who embarks on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem and is stopped in Tel Aviv. The religiously devout James, like many immigrants, has high hopes for the almost mythical place of his imaginings. Alexandrowicz asserts that his title character, “represents the development of the Israeli dream, how we came with very idealistic and pure dreams… [and] sort of los[t] [our] way” (Bear). In James’ mind the people in Israel must be imbued with high moral character, goodness, and kindness just by virtue of being Jewish. It is, after all, the “promised land” spoken of in the bible. In Jerusalem, the “chosen people” dwell. However, what he finds in Tel Aviv is not different from the reality of real immigrants-- legal or non status. His initial idealism is dashed. Even though James has a passport and is a legitimate visitor, he is detained in Tel Aviv and denied a visa.

The viewer is given a glimpse of the reality of Africans in Israel. While James is legally permitted to be in the country, he is stereotyped as an illegal because of his color. When it is proven that he is not illegal, it does not matter. Because of the amount of African refugees and illegal immigrants in Israel, government leaders cracked down on those they believed to be breaking the law. According to the Jerusalem Post, “Africans caught trying to enter Israel illegally [would] be deported to Egypt on the spot” (Frenkel). Problems arise, however, when corrupt local officials detain legal visitors and immigrants for their own purposes. Though this issue of local corruption may not be pervasive, the filmmaker acknowledges that “In Israel if you don’t get a visa, you might get deported. And someone might bail you out and give you a permit to work. Legally, the situation is possible. How common it is, I have to say I didn’t check” (Bear). What the film demonstrates, but the filmmaker doesn’t acknowledge, is that the person who bails you out temporarily “owns” you until you can repay him for the bail money he spent. The situation James finds himself in is not unique. Even in the United States and Europe, immigrants find themselves being taken advantage of by greedy businessmen who finance their trips into a country only to have them work off the cost by doing degrading, menial, and illegal work.

We next see the exploitation of newcomers in James’ Journey to Jerusalem and how that exploitation is rampant and imitates reality. When James is unlawfully detained, a business man (Shimi) bails him out—not out of the goodness of his heart, but so that he can add him to the number of illegals he hires out “as construction workers and housecleaners, holding onto their passports and paying them in cash and humiliation” (Scott). James finds himself living in a crowded “prison-like hostel” (Bear) with others who are like him but who have been a part of Israel’s illegal economic system for much longer. His bunk mates have already lost whatever naïveté they once had. These men, James included, represent the thousands of Africans who, as The Chicago Tribune reports, live in “foul-smelling, windowless” spaces either beneath apartments or in attics in bad areas where as many as “100 migrants sleep side by side on wall–to-wall mattresses” (Greenberg). This was not James’ promised land. This was more like Gomorrah (the biblical city destroyed by god for its evil ways), and like the people of Gomorrah, James is turned away from his religion and values.

Then the viewer sees the innocent James that we meet early in the film giving way to an acculturated James. The more time he spends in Israel amongst the Israelis, the more he becomes like them. Of course James’ interactions are only with those who have money and who are exploiting men like him. Theirs are the values he adopts. He loses focus of his purpose, which is his pilgrimage to Jerusalem . He is enthralled with the trappings of Western life and amenities, such as high rise shopping malls, cell phones, and expensive clothes and gadgets. Alexandrowicz posits that “James in the story comes from this place that is the furthest you can go from Western society” (Bear). Alexandrowicz does this so that the viewer can see the drastic affect Israel has on him. Accordingly, James is from a place “where people still live a very different life… a life that is less influenced by these strong forces of materialism that have infested our social behavior to a great extent” (Bear). When he falls in love with the material goods of Israel, he furthers his alienation from who he used to be. Consequently, “James’ material ascent, fueled by the glittering consumer goods displayed in the high-rise shopping mall…is also his spiritual fall. He forgets Jerusalem” (Scott).

The new “Israeli” James becomes an “overseer”—to use the term loosely. He gains the trust of Shimi and becomes the proxy exploiter, the boss. When James becomes a real exploiter and not just a proxy by brokering his own deals and cutting out his boss, his transformation is complete. Does a “James” really exist in Israel? Of course, we only have to look at our own society to see how the values of the dominant culture become the values of its citizens—legal or illegal. While adapting is not bad, remembering who one is is also crucial. The film only gives a small snippet into the life of one African man who is charmed by the wonders of the West; while he is not indicative of all Africans or immigrants in “industrialized” nations, he does exist.

Less we believe that there is no hope in “Gomorrah,” the filmmaker shows James coming almost full circle. He does not arrive at the place where he began because he has gained knowledge along the way. He is no longer the gullible, naïve man who arrived in Tel Aviv with just a small amount of provisions and an abiding faith in the goodness of people. At the end of the film, in a moment of epiphany, he sees who the people around him really are, what he has become, and what he is to the Jewish community. While his earlier view of Israelis as “holy” people was thwarted long ago, he still exalted them, emulated their ways, and became like them. To the larger Jewish community though, no matter how much money he accrued, how well he spoke the language, how many other Africans he had working for him, he was still a “frayer,” a sucker—one to be used and scapegoated if needed. When he sees himself going too far for financial gain, he stops himself. Though he is wise in the ways of the world he inhabits, he rejects it. James shows the audience that while survival might depend upon knowing the tricks and rules of the games, we certainly don’t have to play the game to survive. The moment of his realization can be hoped for in the immigrant population of any nation.

Does Israel harken to other countries to “Give me your tired, your poor…your huddled masses”? It probably doesn’t, but the masses come any way, driven by the promise of a new life, a better life. And what do they get in return for their optimism, their naiveté, their drive? They get the accouterments of success: material goods. What they rarely get is full acceptance. Because of racism, generalizations, stereotypes and the irrational belief that there is only one way to be a “citizen” of a culture, to look like a citizen of a culture, to speak and live like a citizen of a culture immigrants are often forced to give up a large part of who they are. And, even if they are not forced, they do it anyway. They become Israeli, English, French, or American—but the question is “At what price?”

Works Cited

Bear, Liza. “Ra’anan Alexandrowicz’s ‘James’ Journey to Jerusalem’; An Israeli Movie with Soul.” IndieWire. 4 Apr. 2004. 26 Apr. 2008. www.indiewire.com/people/people_040304james.html .

Frenkel, Sheera C. “African Refugees to be Deported at Point of Arrival.” The Jerusalem Post 24, Mar. 2008. Lexis Nexus. NVCC Lib., Sterling, VA 24 Apr. 2008. http://www.lexisnexis.com .

Greenberg, Joel. “Israel Grapples with Migrants from Africa: Olmert Orders Quick Deportations; Rights Groups Argue for Asylum Screenings.” Chicago Tribune 2 Apr. 2008: 10+. ProQuest. NVCC Lib., Sterling, VA. 24 Apr. 2008. .

James’ Journey to Jerusalem. Dir. Ra’anan Alexandrowicz. Perf. Siyabonge Shibe, Salim Daw, Arie Elias. Lama Productions, 2004.

Scott, A.O. “Film Review; For One Earnest Pilgrim, No Land of Milk and Honey.” The New York Times 5 Mar. 2004. 24 Apr. 2008. .

The Hair Up There (Narration Essay)

A child of the eighties, I’ve seen a lot of fads come and go—acid wash jeans, big belts with names embossed on the buckle, leg warmers for non-dancers, lip gloss, and big hair. Who could forget eighties hair—or seventies hair for that matter? For black woman, hair has long been an enigma wrapped in a riddle. Who knows when the battle was first waged. Hair has always been our pride and glory and the cause of sleepless nights and humiliation—whether upswept, or long and flowing, short and kinky, we obsess over it almost as much as we do our weight, our skin, our wardrobes.

When I was a little, probably that age when I was most impressionable, growing up in a family of women with hair hanging down past their shoulders, I was nicknamed Kojak. If you saw the television show’s star Telly Savalas’ bald head, bald before Michael Jordan made bald hot, you would know my angst. And of course, I was also a little girl. I was too young to recall when people actually using the name. But I didn’t have to guess why. I know-- such cruelty. But it was supposed to be funny. The little cute baby or toddler, that you just had to get her ears pierced and keep her in pink so that the world would know she was a girl. And ohhh how my mother and grandmother and aunts tried, as much as they could, to get that uncooperative hair to grow. They’d sit and ponder what thing: tonic, hair dress or food, scalp conditioner, lotion, heating cap, compress, (torture) they could use to convince my shy hair to come out of the shell that was my scalp. If it was advertised “Guaranteed to make hair grow,” it graced our bathroom shelf. And so eventually I had just enough to put into a little afro puff. It didn’t hit me or them until later that we all could have just gone with the flow, the natural evolution of hair. It will grow or it won’t, but for most girls it will be what it will be and all you can do is eat right and not put stress on it. So not only was I was the only girl in the family whose hair wasn’t flowing and blowing, I was also “blessed” with a shade that was sandy brown. But my mother, never one to succumb to failure, tried. However, the will of my hair was stronger than her will to overcome it. Plus there was her ineptitude at using the straightening come, so my hair, the little I had, never blew in the wind or fell back into place.

Lucky for me, during that time, my cousin married a beautiful girl named Lilly Mae. And Lilly Mae could work magic with hair—not with a straightening comb but with her fingers. Every Sunday, we’d sit in the kitchen when it was cool and on the porch when it was warm and while she talked to my mother, I would sit between her legs on a pillow or foot stool and have her braid the hair that was either ahead of its time or well behind. Every Sunday, she somehow managed to catch strands and work them into braids. They weren’t long and flowing, but they worked. Eventually, my hair became thicker, if not long, and pretty soft. Those were the days before weaves and extensions worked its way into the consciousness of Kingstree, South Carolina. And when she braided my hair, I would look in the mirror and be proud. Before long, the anemic afro puffs that graced my head were replaced with designs and braids and colored or wooden beads, and I too would have hair that moved—heck , that even made noise when I walked into the room. I felt cute. Just like my cousins with their long hair. Their mothers, seeing the magic Lilly Mae worked on my hair wanted their daughters’ hair braided too. Which she did. It became an event. Every Sunday afternoon, we’d take turns getting our hair washed having our manes turned into creative reflections of Lilly Mae’s hand. Sometimes we, the Cooper girls would have matching does. Our mother’s loved the beehive. Lilly Mae would start at the back and would braid one long cornrow around and around our heads. It was kind of reminiscent of a road twinning around a mountain. And at the top of our hair was one plait. That was the late seventies and early eighties. Right up until her divorce from our cousin. I think the Mothers were more hurt that they’d now have to take reign of our “does.”

So alas, the glory days ended. The Mother’s discovered Dark and Lovely and Jerri Curls. Chemicals came into the equation. And we were smitten. Chemicals that were guaranteed to make our hair straight, and thick, and healthy “looking.” Hair that wouldn’t take hours to untangle after washing. Our mothers could not resist the hype for long. Their friends scoffed when they saw the curling irons and straightening combs sitting on their perches by the stove. “Girl, I know you not gone sit all day on a Saturday straightening hair. That’s chile’s hair is too thick and long.” Of course this wasn’t said about me—yet. But one by one, the Mothers relented, experimenting on each daughter and cousin’s hair, until none could remember the natural texture of their locks. We wanted hair, not unlike white girls. We didn’t want blonde—yet, but we wanted to go swimming without having our hair turn toward our scalp-resisting the comb, brush, pick, etc. We wanted to get in the pool and come out with our hair essentially the same length as before we got in it. We wanted curls, tight and loose. We wanted to be able to shake our hair and have it move—bounce back into place without the straightening comb scars as reminders of the price we had to pay to look cute. Was that too much to ask? We soon got our answer.

I watched my cousins forsake natural and even the straightening come for chemically straightened or curled hair. Again there was that hair divide—and I stood on the other side—with my braids. Then with a little coercing my mother gave in. She gave me my first home relaxer. Of course it didn’t come out the way I imagined. My hair still seemed too thick and too kinky. It turns out she didn’t let it stay on my hair long enough. No one, not one of my cousins warned me that that stuff I was putting on my hair could burn just as bad as a hot comb. No one knew once you started with the relaxer or curly perm, you’d have to commit to retouches every four to six weeks. Who knew? We all seemed to miss that meeting. And what were the consequences of not getting a fresh supply of chemicals to saturate your mane? Breakage, thinning, etc. And what no one else bothered to say either was that too much would cause the same damage and make the hair brittle and chemically dependent—so to speak. A nasty little never ending cycle. And by the mid to late eighties—I had just about everything—straightening comb, relaxer, curly perm. If it was out I tried it.

Then it came. Late. But better late than never. Extensions added to your braids. And weaves sewed into braids or glued in. I tried those too. And it was a little reminiscent to sitting on the porch having Lilly Mae work her magic. However, her magic was essentially free. She massaged your scalp and asked if the braids were too tight. She cared. Extensions (back then) started at $50 bucks, and that didn’t include the hair, or whatever synthetic material they used. Plus, it could take up to 10 hours. Plus, it hurt. Your scalp was pulled so tight that you essentially had a semi-permanent smile and eyes that looked almost closed—almost Asian in appearance. But it seemed worth it, those 10 hours and that initial pain because you wouldn’t have to worry about your hair for months. Just get up and go.

Then came the moment when you had to take those braids out. In the shower, as you worked your way through knotted, matted tangles o hair, each time you’d swear that this was the last time. If you were lucky, you only loss a bit of your hair in the wash and comb-out session. If you weren’t you may have had serious damage, especially to those edges--around the hairline—permanent hair loss is not unknown.


I think all black girls have that period where they want to experiment. And most of us want the hair that we weren’t born with and maybe weren’t meant to have. So we internalize the negativity of something that most time is out of our control. Sure, I massacred my bangs trying to make them even, and I burned my scalp and clog drains with damaged hair because for us, black women, maybe for all women the hair is an extension of what it is to be a woman. Drilled into our psyche is the belief that beauty is important and beautiful hair is a part of that. Men want hair they can touch and run their fingers through, and nuzzle their noses in and that cascade over their face. At least that’s what we sometimes believe. And sure it could be true—for some. Maybe more than that, we want the hair that women admire and envy and praise. We want the hair that makes it on the cover of vogue even if we have the faces and bodies that won’t. With that knowledge, we straighten, we buy, we color. And somehow our pride and self-esteem and self worth become intertwined somewhere down the road.

But at least the crisis is over for me. At least for now. After years of nursing chemically fried hair, I’ve let go and as my grandmother says let god. College was an awakening of sorts for me; I met sistas who had it together, and they disavowed the straight long hair thing. No silky synthetic compromised their Afro-centric tresses; no Crème of Nature camouflaged their roots or edges. They were real and beautiful and courageous. And I thought if they can do it, why can’t I? So I did. I went to a barber shop and with a room full of supportive brothers, I freed myself from the chemical bondage I had subjected myself to for over fifteen year. With about a inch of hair evenly cut, I walked out the shop with a stylish mini-fro determined to decide for myself what was beautiful and not follow crowds of women to the beauty salons only to wait for hours and come out with temporary fixes and cure-alls. For over five years it has been to be naturally me, me and my twists or me and my spiral ringlets, or me and my braids (done by professionals), or me in my big healthy afro puff. And even we –women with nappy hair like me and broad noses like me and skin the color of coffee like me and full lips like me—who look like they could be my cousin or sister are on the covers of Vogue. When little sisters are caught in the grocery line staring into the glazed over eyes of anorexic models maybe they wont’ obsess about being blonde and blue eyed. Of course the obsession may now move to big breasts and long legs. One step at a time.

This I Believe

I believe in the divinity of words. I believe that language is imbued with the mysterious, and I have made it my life to worship it. I was blessed to discover my first love early. It was in Mrs. O’Brien’s fifth grade class. I couldn’t wait for story time. And though I wasn’t a fan of The Wind in the Willows, the age appropriate book we spent most of the year on, in the humid, lazy days of Carolina summers, my love and devotion blossomed, starting with my mother’s condensed Reader’s Digest books. And then, I became smitten with all things Judy Blume, Beverly Cleary, Mildred Taylor, and later Alice Walker and Toni Morrison.

Today, that devotion remains, and I believe, more than anything, that my purpose is cultivating the love or at least the appreciation for the majesty of language to my students. I take the charge seriously. I have taught English for the past eight years to, at times, less than enthusiastic audiences. But I teach it anyway, like an evangelist charged with spreading the gospel and converting the masses, I teach. Not everyday with vim and vigor, but with the knowledge that language and words matter.

As any good disciple, everyday I marvel at the power, the beauty, and even the cacophony of words and the art of writing. With words we can, as Gandhi extolled, “be the change we want in the world.” We can name evil and define good—and it will be so.

Well crafted language has the power to compel us as did Paine when he asserted that his was the time that “tried men’s souls and as did Thoreau who decried to his reader in “Civil Disobedience to “Let your life be a counter friction to stop the machine.” Sam Cooke harkened that a “Change [was] going to come” and Bob Dylan declared that we would find it “Blowing in the Wind.” And if we are to believe Mantra meditation, Hindi and ancient Sanskrit, then all the troubles we seek to ameliorate can be found by invoking the sacred syllable: Om, and all suffering results from the denial of one truth: Soham. I am that/ I am divine—“Ah to be human!” and to be god.

These forms of our own creation twirl and move through the world, through the atmosphere, through the universe and remain forever with their own weight, mass, and life, giving birth to more ideas and actions. Words, depending on the dogma of your beliefs, were arias that sung us into existence. And while we ask our politicians, our leaders to move beyond lofty speeches and pretty words, I believe that those same politicians must begin like African griots, like Native American wise men, like street corner preachers, like rhetoricians of antiquity with the ability to enlighten our spirits with their thoughts translated in words, transformed into meaning, and transubstantiated into change.

The Beginning of the Middle of Black Literature

According to Professors Henry Louis Gates and Nelly Y. McKay, general editors of The Norton Anthology of African American Literature, “the engendering impulse of African American Literature is resistance to human tyranny. The sustaining spirit of African American Literature is dedication to human dignity” (151).


African American literature and, even art, can be divided into two—again—overlapping categories: traditional literature and art—which is mainstream conventional forms such as poetry, short stories, autobiographies, novels; and the vernacular, which refers the body of art that includes church songs, blues, ballads, sermons, stories, hip hop that are part of the oral, not primarily the literate tradition of black expression. Generally speaking it is the art that is “in-group” secretive, defensive and aggressive/ produced for circulation within the African-American community.


To understand the art and literature of any group, one must understand and be fluent in the language with which it is discussed.
The following terms are provided to aid in your analysis of early African American writings.

Chattel slavery is a type of slavery defined as the absolute legal ownership of a person or persons, including the legal right to buy and sell them. Chattel slaves are forced to live life as they are instructed by their owners. They are not held responsible for their actions; however, the product of the slaves’ labor is the legal property of their owner as well.

Slave (bondage) narrative-- narratives of slavery (enslavement) recounting the personal experiences of ante-bellum African Americans who escaped from slavery and found their way to safety in the north. This form of writing was an essential part of the anti-slavery movement, and drew on biblical allusions and imagery.

Authenticating document—text such as letters of reference attesting to the character and reliability of the slave narrator himself or herself by a white person which is often appended to the work—of the black person

Amanuensis—one who is employed to take dictation. Some oral bondage narratives were transcribed into written works

Homiletics—sermon writing; the art of preaching

Once the vocabulary is understood and learned, one must attempt to answer the following questions? Is America where African American culture and literature began? What is the relevance of understanding the beginning of the middle of black literature and culture?

Beyond the African American Big Ten

African American history, literature, and culture are really American, African, European history that we have not figured out what to do with or where to place. It as if a group of people long ago decided that they would systematically deny entry of African American contribution into the historical record or the literary canon. Of course we have the "Big Ten" of African Americans that most students learn about, but their knowledge of even those ten are superficial at best. If we ask a random sampling of 100 college students or grads to name as many African American historical or literary figures from before the twentieth century, I would safely say that they could not name more than ten. If we asked for ten African American contributors to the Civil Rights Movement beyond Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X, they would be hard pressed. Why is this?

It has become the status quo to relegate extensive examination of people of color into separate departments and programs, housed in the dark corners of humanities and liberal art studies. This separate but equal treatment of black/multicultural studies should still indeed be seen as progress. However, these programs come too late in a student's academic life, if at all. This separation becomes negative when it is the only place one can learn about the significance of people of color and their role in the building and shaping of the world we live in today. How can educators, historians, and social anthropologists approach African American studies in a way that is not piecemeal but that fits into the framework of the broader areas of studies in other fields? Couldn't philosophy scholars integrate discussions about the influence of North Africa in their discourse and studies about western philosophy since the Greeks studied there? Couldn't music educators include Ghanaian drumming into their works on classical music? Could historians discuss, in more depth, the contributions of blacks, in America's "founding" or development?

Of course there will always be a branch of studies dedicated to ethnic and multicultural studies, that does not mean that those studies that are not hyphenated should be whitewashed. We must make sure that the contributions of people of color are not relegated to specialized courses only. We must get beyond the “Big Ten” list of African Americans studied year after year in school systems and college campuses across the country. We must also put into context the role of imperialism, colonization, racism, slavery in World history in a way that has not yet been done in liberal education curricula.

As we consider how this new curricula will look, we need to examine what we are already doing. Who are included in the Big Ten of African Americans Studied before the 20th century? Can we find 10 of us in any history or literature book?