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.