My Heart Will Go On....With a Floatation Device



See this doesn't happen if you drown!

I can't swim.

I am the epitome of the stereotypical black person refusing to learn how to navigate the water by flailing their arms like a windmill.

I really don't care if it's good cardio.

I just have an unnatural fear of the water. I don't think it can hold me. I think I will drown and it will not be the romantic kind of drowning as there was in the movie "Titanic."

There will be no hot guy saying precious and loving words.

There will be no James Cameron telling me to look more forlorn and tortured.

There will be no Celine Dion singing passionately about my demise.

There will just be me with my hair getting really messed up and probably no one to save me. This is what I think about any time I see a body of water.

I want to say I blame this on my father as he almost drowned me (unintentionally) on a family trip to Wisconsin when I was a young child.

Let me preface this story by saying I love my father. He is a good man and husband. He just wasn’t very good at keeping an eye on me so I would get lost in a store or slam my finger in a car door. But, as a child, you have to eventually learn that you can’t depend on everyone – not even family.

When my father was “teaching” me how to swim, he said to let him know when I wanted him to let me go. I responded by saying, “OK dad. Don’t let me go, yet.”

Readers, we can all guess what happens next so I won’t bore you with the near death experience details except to say that my glorious glimpse of heaven at the tender age of eleven involved mountains of cupcakes and no school.

I’ve never attempted to learn how to swim since that time.

I just use the old psychology trick of blaming a parent for my shortcomings as an adult. It’s an American thing to do – and most convenient.

Hair Today, Hair Tomorrow

A friend of mine complimented me on my hair this week. It was freshly done; dark and sleek. I knew I looked good. Then again I always believe this.

Curious, my friend asked if I think about wearing my newly relaxed tresses in their natural, kinky form. My diplomatic, soft answer was, "Hell no!"

She wasn't taken aback by the tone in which I answered, but laughed and asked why. Honestly, I had to actually think; delve deep down and wonder why I had such a strong answer to this question.

It's not because I'm ashamed by my hair's natural rough texture or its proclivity to kink up at the mere thought of any kind of rain or moisture.

I simply believe I look better like this. But is this my belief or one of a society that deems me prettier the longer and straighter my hair?

My mom came up in the time of the afros; black power fist combs entrenched and entangled in proudly nappy, dark black and brown manes.

I was raised in the era of  hot combs and Motions chemical relaxer. Long, luscious tresses flowing freely just like in those commercials with, well with white women.

I didn't see very many women of color on shampoo commercials when I was younger so my sense of beauty was somewhat shaped by European standards. I will admit that.

However, I also had my own ideals of African-American beauty and true pride in my appearance. I reveled in my darker skin and preferred my fuller lips. I loved my wider nose and shapelier form. I just didn't like my hair. Not because it was nappy and I was embarrassed. It was just really a pain to comb and style when it wasn't straight.

As a young girl from five to 10, it sometimes took three women to do my hair. My mom washed my hair; my Aunt Dee Dot straightened my hair with a hot comb; my Aunt Rochelle would French braid my hair.

When I was 11 and got my hair relaxed, it hurt like hell. It hurt like walking barefoot on hot coals while eating jalapeño peppers covered in hot sauce, but damn if I didn't look good afterwards. My first major lesson as a pre-teen girl: Beauty is pain.

I don't think anything is wrong with how one wears their hair. Like decisions about whether or not to watch reality television, it's a choice.

I choose to straighten for convenience. I'm not necessarily making a statement about my race and beliefs of maintaining some invisible ethnic code of morality.

A subject no matter how trivial to some can be given power purely off the importance placed behind it. My hair and what I do with it is my decision and no one else's.