III.

I have not permed or pressed my hair in over four years. To some this is an incredible feat. Black women whipped into submission often tell me they wish they could go natural, but they just can’t. I give them a sideways yet concerned look and simply ask, “why not?” To these white-washed Black women I ask why can't we be ourselves? Why can we not showcase with pride what genetics dictates and millions of years of evolution intended? Why must we subject ourselves to chemical burns and sewn-in weaves in hopes of attaining a standard of beauty that was never meant for us? Why do we want to be so much like them, when they would never in a million years choose to be like us?

She hears my tone of disapproval. She now believes that I am judging her. She feels guilty because she knows I am right. My words of empowerment and Black Love resonate deep within her, but she is scared. “Because I need a job,” she replies through sucked teeth. I guess afros are unprofessional. Blackness has no place in the corporate world. Negroes are not hirable. Maybe if I dress, talk, and act more like a white woman I could have a career in this capitalist society. But American capitalism was built on the backs of my ancestors. Trade and industry made possible exclusively through slavery. So where do I fit in, with my nappy ass hair, the proud descendant of a slave, trying to find employment in this Lily White World? 

It’s funny, the Black woman’s hair conundrum. White men always love my hair! And the white man is the one who determines the company’s payroll. Maybe if I let him finger my locks he won’t think them so 'dreadful'. And that’s really all he wants... to finger me. He doesn’t really believe me capable of high performance in the work place, that’s why he pays me only a fourth of his dollar. Rather he enjoys looking at my curvy shape in a business suit. He envisions stripping off the blazer and blouse and digging his teeth into my neck and breasts. He uses sex as a tool for control. He forcibly thinned our bloodlines with recessive alleles and Europe's fire sperm, creating half-bloods, quadroons, and octoon, until all you needed was one drop of blood to be considered Black. 

Now he places a ceiling of glass above me and calls me Jezebel. He dresses me in provocative costumes and orders me to dance in trashy music videos while rappers throw dollar bills and drink expensive liquor. Not far from ordering me to do a jig for the winter holidays to entertain White guests at the Big House, or to shuck and jive in Blackface during in the early days of television and Vaudeville. Not far from the Jennifer Jacksons, Jackie Browns, or Karrine Steffans. He doesn’t understand why he likes my body though. He just knows he wants to own it again. He feels entitled, and longs for the days of his Great Great Great Grandfather, when a Black woman’s private parts were purchased along with her labor for a lifetime. 

II.

I read Roots. I read Beloved. Goddamn it, I read The Autobiography of Frederick Douglas! Doesn’t that make me Black enough? As an African-American we always feel the need to prove that we are enough. I’m smart enough. I’m pretty enough. I’m cool enough. I have worth. My life has value beyond what a bidder would pay for my Great Great Great Grandmother on an auction block. We come from a great line of humans as possessions. Even the quest for freedom is the search for ownership. Can I purchase my own life please? Can my body, mind, and soul actually be mine? Is the cost of liberation now equal to what you paid for my bondage?

Life is hard enough already. Imagine being beaten for disobeying, or deciding to follow my own path. It wasn’t all that long ago. I’m actually not convinced that the slaves were ever freed. I study Lincoln and the Civil War and the Civil Rights era, and somehow all these historical figures just seem like puppets in a show meant to appease the masses. Feed them soma stories to tame their beasts. Make them believe that things have changed because now we have a Black president. But he’s a Magic Negro, and I, a house slave. My brothers on the corner, super brolic and hella ra ra, selling dope, busting caps, and making jack moves are field slaves. They taught me how to read. Let’s see what cute little Phyllis Wheatley will do. She couldn’t possibly start a revolution. We have only taught her double-think. She has no words to express her true feelings. The only language she knows is that of the Oppressor.

The slaves gather and talk of mobilization. They talk of retaliation and insurgencies and injustice, and sometimes with a particularly passionate leader or particularly hysterical followers, an action is made: a march on Washington, a massacre at Harper’s Ferry, an Underground Railroad that leads to so-called freedom. But these rabble-rousers are taken care of, executed, misrepresented in historical accounts, and unreachable to future generations which seek their guidance. This must have been planned. Here Intelligent Design seems the more likely cause than evolution. Systems of oppression do not speciate by way of random mutation and natural selection, do they? Was there a precedent for this? Was there an ancestral form of slavery that continued to change over time, becoming more and more unique in its pathogenicity? How virulent the history of one man owning another man. It makes the recently freed men want to own things: cars, clothes, jewels, women, various status symbols that say nothing except “you’se a nigga.”

My older cousin said, “anyone can max out a card. Bitch you got a $3,000 purse, but do you have $3,000?” The answer is no. We do not have anything of value. We do not own land or property. We do not have control over our own food production. We barely have control over our own minds when we watch television... and I’m still waiting on my 40 acres and a mule. 

I.

I live in an era where identity is digital. The Mark of the Beast is not a tattoo or chip, but rather the credit card I extend from my right hand to cover all financial transactions. Smart mobile telephones sync all social networks, messaging systems, and electronic mail, though the call functions are seldom utilized. Engineers develop methods to link brainwaves and computer function so as to robotize the human mind. Post-Humanism lingers in the not-too-distant future. Those who can afford it seem to welcome the blending of man and machine. Banking is all online and purely theoretical; most personal computers are portable and generally smaller than a student’s 3-ring binder and so memories are saved to the software. This is why I purchase records.

I began my vinyl collection in high school. I bought John Denver and Simon and Garfunkel records for $1, although I wasn’t really a fan. Now I spend $20 on albums such as Dark Side of the Moon and Here Comes the Bullocks. When we were young I associated records primarily with marijuana. Southern California stoners played the tunes of their parent’s Flower Power glory days. And because I usually had the munchies I ate it up. Back then I fell into the music, sinking head first into the melodies, harmonies, tempo, and bass of a record. Now I just fall for its tangibility. I can hold the music in my hands rather than clicking a button to play the mp3. Wiping the dust off a record is now so retro. The records are antiques. The past is steadily slipping away from us. And even what was pertinent 30 years ago is becoming a mystery. 

The past is forgotten, and it doesn’t seem to be a problem. Maybe that’s why we are repeating ourselves. I keep looking backwards like the Sankofa bird, but I have no insight into what is/was truth. The textbooks I read have obvious bias and set agendas. The movies I watch are funded by entertainment companies whose priority is profit. The news, the radio, the internet blogs; oh who can trust the media? I should ask my elders. I wanted to ask my Grandmother, but I am hesitant to pick up the phone. Why are we afraid to speak? A friend of mine tells me that really we just don’t want to listen. Talking, like a two-way street, is just too uncomfortable. So we say, “just text me,” or “hit me on facebook.” But Grandma can’t tell me the stories of her Jim Crow past through wall posts and text messages. We need to sit down and talk, push through the inconvenience and discomfort, with knees folded, buttocks to the Earth, to remember who we are.