Career Fair and Black Girl Hair

Every semester the night before career fair, I wash my hair.

Those of you who know me in person know that my hair and I have a love/hate relationship. I love it because it’s thick and a decent length and looks purdy when it’s all done up, but I also hate it because it’s thick and a decent length and takes at least an hour for me to blow dry (or close to 12 hours to air dry) and 2 hours to flat iron if I do it properly. As a result, I look a hot, disheveled mess unless I pay someone to do it for me or my sister’s in town and I can whine until she takes pity on me.

I’m also way too lazy to spend 3+ hours doing my hair. Way too lazy. So a few years ago, I started braiding my hair while it was wet and letting it dry overnight/into the morning and-or afternoon so that it’d be all wavy and curly and low maintenance. It lasts 3-5 days, and in the meantime I don’t have to touch a comb. It’s awesome. And great for weeks when I need a new relaxer/have a lot going on and can’t be worried about doing hair every day.

My mom suggested that I do that for career fair. “Just do some knots and let it dry,” she said. “It’ll be pretty.” And it would have been. I considered this, but eventually just blew it dry.

And then I got to career fair, and I ran into one of my sorors. We talked, inevitably got onto the hair conversation because it was raining and my once straight hair had poofed and I looked like a sheepdog, but the important/terrifying/horrible thing is that we had both come to same conclusion regarding our hair and job hunting.

We didn’t want to show up looking too ethnic.

I hate the word ethnic. To be frank, I think it’s a word that white people came up with to mean “things not pertaining to white people.” Don’t make that face at me. Visit the ethnic food section in your grocery store/Wal-Mart and see that it’s tamales and lo mein, not bratwurst. Go into the ethnic hair care section and see if you can find a curly perm kit. Aren’t all those pretty fabrics that are so popular in fashion right now collectively called “ethnic prints?” Go on. Look. I’ll wait.

That’s what I thought.

But this isn’t about whether or not I like the word ethnic. It’s about the fact that two 20something, college educated women that hadn’t spoken to one another since August ran into each other in September and in general conversation realized that we had come to the same conclusion.

If we were to stand any chance of landing an interview that day, we had to show up looking “less Black” or get dismissed by recruiters, and since we can’t change our skin or our faces we had to change our hair.

The War on Our Hair is one of the greatest and most well-known of all Black Girl Problems. It’s right up there with the War on Our Bodies, the War on Our Femininity, and the War on Our Virtue. We’ll probably end up talking about the other assaults on Black Womanhood later. Right now, we’re just going to focus on the fact that we are constantly told that the way our hair grows out of our head is wrong and damn near immoral. The word “nappy” comes to mind. Afro wigs exist as costume, non-Black people who have no business entering the Black hair conversation go out of their way to tell us that flat irons were invented so we didn’t have to look like runaway slaves, we’ve come up with this ridiculous, divisive system of ranking our own natural curl patterns (don’t get me started on that mess), and every Black girl that’s gone through school has had at least one ig’nant white girl put her hands in her hair (usually without asking) and exclaim, “Oh my God, it feels like mine!” or, “Ewww, now my fingers are greasy!” What the hell was it supposed to feel like? Concrete slab? It’s HAIR, and if you hadn’t stuck your fingers in it in the first place they wouldn’t have oil on them. Back. Up. Off. Me. Trick.

And all that is BEFORE you start working. I mean, look at us. Two 20something young women, still in college, have already learned how to make our hair work for us in the politics of professionalism. But why should we have to? Does my hair—even the looser curl that a braid out would give me—make you that uncomfortable? Why?

I am not Medusa. No one’s getting turned to stone. Calm down.

That Part of the Population

I had another post planned for today, but that’s just going to have to wait. Thank the guy that sat next to me in class today, because this is alllllll about him.

There are a number of reasons why I didn’t like Clemson. One of those reasons is that I don’t like the way that they (certain students and fans of the school) talk about other people. You can take “other people” to mean whatever you want—socioeconomic status, race, different fraternity/sorority; whatever. I still don’t like the way they talk.

Take the guy that sat next to me. He’s an older man, mid-to-late 40s; white guy, looks like he’ll probably vote for Mitt Romney (was that last part mean? My bad). While talking to the guy in front of me, he mentions one of his employees. This guy apparently has been working really hard, so he asked him to take a trip up to do some activity that they have in common on an upcoming weekend. Sounds like a cool dude, right? I thought so too.

Until he started talking about dude’s wife. Admittedly, the wife sounds a little cray-cray (jealous, possessive, etc.), but instead of saying, “That chick is cray-cray,” or, “She’s really controlling,” he says, “And then his redneck wife calls me[…] There’s always trouble out of that part of the population.”

To be honest, I was expecting him to call her a bitch. He didn’t, which is good because oh Lord I might have gotten kicked out of class. It could be argued that redneck is more acceptable than bitch because it’s like ghetto only without the Black connotation so it’s alright. But this bro, he didn’t mean the Larry the Cable Guy/Jeff Foxworthy type of redneck—you know, the kind it’s fun to laugh at on TV/in the mall/that you go to Wal-Mart after 10 o’clock at night or watch Honey Boo Boo to see. Judging by the way he said three words, he meant the kind that is gum underneath his shoe.

I know I already said she sounds insane. In all honesty I would avoid her at all costs (the description got worse after that). The problem here is that we’ve moved from talking about one individual to an entire group.

What exactly do you mean, that part of the population? Are you talking about the poor? Uneducated? The country, the simple-minded? People who drive Lexuses (Lexi?) instead of Acuras? What exactly is your criteria for “that part of the population?” Is there anything that may be on that list that’s not too shallow for a worm to drown in?

I didn’t think so.

The Uppity Northerner

I already know that at least one person is going to hate me for this post, but I’m going to do it anyway. Stacey, you know I love you.

If, like me, you were born-and-raised in the South and went to college here, you know at least one Uppity Northerner.

Y’all know what I’m talking about. The Uppity Northerner is that kid from anywhere further north than Richmond, Virginia or Kentucky that decided it’d be awesome to get out of New York City/Philadelphia/Boston/Newark/wherever and go to school “down there.” Once they got here, however, the South was no longer this mystical land alive with the sound of banjoes or whatever it is that they tell kids up North to make them curious about life below the Mason-Dixon (or a little lower than that, as we don’t really claim anyone from higher than Richmond). One day they just wake up and suddenly the South is hell on Earth: there’s nothing to do, our food is horrible, our accents are stupid, it’s too damn hot, and we move too slow.

Everyone knows an Uppity Northerner. If you don’t, chances are it’s you.

I was fortunate enough to only have to deal with two or three Uppity Northerners during undergrad, but of course I ran into one first thing during orientation. Orientation’s been a few weeks ago now, but because I’m so bourgie I never forget when people say ridiculous things that I know to be untrue. It just amuses me. Let’s take a few minutes to address some of few of my favorite Uppity Northerner claims that are so outrageously false I can’t help but to laugh at them.

“It’s been a real culture shock. I think I adjusted better to Spain than I’m adjusting to South Carolina.” It’s funny you should say that, because Spanish culture and Southern culture really aren’t all that different. We’re all outgoing, overly-friendly people that like to take naps in the middle of the day and eat lots of fried food and make our own liquor (probably in a bathtub). Sangria, anyone?

“My crazy racist neighbor—” That never leads to anything good (or true). Your neighbor is racist. Do not turn your crazy racist neighbor into all Southerners. Yes, there are racist Southerners, but I will point out that I experienced more racism in 2 months of living in Cincinatti than in 22 years of living in Greenville. This got to be funny after I realized that a lot of Northerners don’t think that they (or their neighbors) are capable of being racist for no other reason but that they’re from the North. Bless them.

“-scoff- You guys don’t have traffic.” In cities not the size of Detroit or New York City, complete stand stills do not happen. Just because it doesn’t take us 2 hours to go a block and a half does not mean we don’t have traffic. Any time I have to wait for a stop light to turn three times before I finally make it through, I am in traffic. This is funny because some people are just that petty. Why are we even arguing over this? It’s TRAFFIC.

“I moved here for the experience.” I mean, I guess that in a sense every new place you go is a new experience, but why do people always make us sound like Disneyland? If we are Disneyland, can I be a princess? I really want to be a princess.

“There are no [insert specific nationality] people here!” Yes there are. You’re just not looking hard enough. It’s diverse ‘round here. I always get a giggle out of this one because you see more diversity in Greenville in a day than I did in two months of living in Cincinatti. And Maryland. And Europe.

And last, but certainly not least, my absolute favorite:

“Do you know what [Southerners] say about the Civil War? They still call it The War of Northern Aggression.”

What? Is this a thing? Fellow Southerners, tell me: is this a thing? Twenty-two years I’ve lived in the South and never once have I heard “The War of Northern Aggression.” Know who I hear that from? Uppity Northerners telling other non-Southerners that actual Southerners still call it “The War of Northern Aggression.” If anything, it was The War of Southern Aggression. We are not as nice as we pretend to be.

Making fun of Uppity Northerners is really the only way I can keep from punching them in the face. Well, that and knowing lots of random facts that can refute most of the points they raise. Why can’t people just know what they’re talking about before they open their mouths? Is that too much to ask?

Don’t answer that.

Name Calling

I have a serious issue about not pronouncing people’s names right, or at least about not even trying to pronounce people’s names right. As a result, I started not liking one of my professors on day 1.

This is what happened.

You all know the drill for the first day of the school. Right before whoever’s in charge calls roll, they make some self-deprecating joke about how they’re awful at pronunciation and please forgive them if they butcher your name. My name always gets butchered even though it’s really simple and looks exactly the way it sounds.

But I don’t not like this guy because he mispronounced my name. I don’t like him because of the names he didn’t even try on.

He went down the roll, calling people’s names and not doing such a bad job of getting it right. And then he just stopped.

“Oh no,” he groaned. “Here we go.” And then he stammered out the name of the first of several students from China and Taiwan.

If you’ve ever had class with international students, you know that a lot of them come prepared with English names. The student whose name he hacked to bits gave her English name, let’s say it was Sarah, and our professor breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh thank goodness,” he says. “That is so much better! Really, thank you for that.” It didn’t stop there. The profuse thanks continued on for two more minutes. It was awkward.

And then he did it again. And again. And again. And again. Every time he got to one of the other students from China and Taiwan he groaned, and when given their English names he lauded them for uncomfortably long amounts of time.

But when he arrived at “Megan,” he said, “Okay, I want to get this right. Is it Meh-gan or ME-gan? I once had a girl in class that was emphatic about being her name being ME-gan, so which do you prefer? I want to get this right. I mean she was serious about it; it was ME-gan, not Meh-gan.”

This continued for several minutes.

What the hell? Lili, Zhou, and Zhang (those aren’t their names, but are close to them) have to change their names but you can spend 10 minutes debating whether it’s Meh-gan or ME-ghan? Do I even have to explain what this scenario implies about this man? Am I the only person here that sees the borderline xenophobic nature of his actions? Isn’t taking someone’s name the first step in taking their identity?

Beware, Lili, Zhou, and Zhang: you are now Toby and it only gets worse from there.

(Anyone who gets the reference is awesome.)

You will never hear me say this again

I’m starting to think that not living on campus with all the other kids is going to suck.

Background story: I hated living in Clemson/Central. It was horrible. The university is the town and that doesn’t do you much good when you don’t like the university to begin with. It was way too country even for my decidedly southern tastes: when you, like me, are without a vehicle and the nearest mall is 20+ minutes away and all the frat parties are in Anderson along with said mall you’re in for a miserable 4 years.

Yes, the easiest solution to that problem is to make friends with cars but don’t act like y’all don’t know I didn’t make many friends in college (and to the few I had, I was rather expendable). There. I said it. Are you happy now?

That aside, I was pretty stoked when I figured out that the MBA program was in Greenville. It’s right downtown, and it’s exactly 11 minutes from my driveway to the parking garage so I didn’t have to deal with all the crap I begrudgingly dealt with in undergrad (and am still bitter over). Plus, at the time I thought that all my friends from high school that I still keep in touch with were coming home after graduation like I was. Who needs to make new friends when your old friends are 15 minutes up the highway? Not me.

And then I figured out that I’m the only one staying here. Everyone else is teaching English overseas or going to grad school out of state or getting jobs and moving to DC/LA (I’m looking at you, Nina and Stacey). All of my other friends who are in Clemson for grad school are residing in Orange Hell because the MBA program is the only one in Greenville. In short, I have two of my besties from middle school and my mother.

This was not the plan.

So now I have to actually put in the effort to meeting people in the graduate program, only I’m not so sure that’s going to work for several reasons. Reason #1: they’re all older than me and some of them are married. Reason #2: I think I missed out on the “clique forming” part of orientation. Reason #3: I am painfully shy. Don’t make that face. I really am. The prospect of talking to strangers in a purely social setting terrifies me. In my head I coach myself before I say hello. It’s that bad. Social butterfly, I am not (until you get to know me). Reason #4: I can’t really join clubs. Explanation to #4 is below.

All of the clubs except for the MBASA (Master of Business Administration Student Association) are headquartered on Clemson’s campus. The clubs I was in in undergrad are on campus, Greek life is all on campus (for people my age), and so is everything else that I could possibly do with other people who are relatively where I am in life. Here’s an example: I recently learned via email that there’s a Black Graduate Student Union. There’s also a Black Student Union for undergrads, but I didn’t know it existed until I was a senior. “Awesome,” I thought as I read the email. “I can meet other (Black) grad students (because there are so few others in my classes)!”

And then I saw the time and place of the first meeting. 5 PM. On campus. Do you know what I’m doing at 5 PM? I’m picking my mother up from work. I don’t have a car of my own and I have to get to school somehow, so I take her to work in the mornings and use her car to go to class. If class ends at 4:45, her job is 20 minutes from home/class and it takes about 45 minutes for me to get to Clemson, what is the earliest time I could arrive at said meeting?

If you guessed 6:05 PM at the very earliest, you’d pretty much be right.

It’s almost the same story with the MBASA. Meetings are in Greenville, which is nice, but they’re at 5 PM. I’m doomed, I tell you. Doomed. Someone get me lots of cats and a musty old house.

Right about now would be a pretty good time to be living with mass transit (God bless the CAT bus) and other Clemson students.

You have no idea how much that pains me to admit.

And I will never, ever say it again.