A friend of mine challenged me to finish reading the president's memoir, Dreams From My Father, a book I've owned since late 2007. At the time, I had only read the first 60-something pages. (I got bogged down in the first section of the book, "Origins," which I thought dragged along in certain parts.) That was less than a week ago.
Today, I'm on page 232 -- almost halfway done. And as if you need to hear it from me, it's a good book. After I pushed myself to make it to "Chicago," the second section of Obama's narrative, I became hooked -- turning each page to see the connections between his life and my own, scribbling annotations across the margins, searching for truth, wisdom, knowledge, motivation.
Heck, even poetry.
Last weekend, comedian Chris Rock released a new film, Good Hair, a movie which explores black women's hairstyles. Rock said that he was inspired to make the film after his daughter made a comment about "good hair," suggesting that her own hair was "not good enough," so to speak.
Since the film's release -- and let me add that I have yet to see the film myself-- several black women have expressed their discontent with Rock.
He's airing out folks' dirty laundry, they say.
Again, I haven't seen the film, so I am not qualified to make any judgments on the matter. However, while reading the president's memoir, I happened upon an excerpt that I thought dealt broadly with the same subject Rock attempts to address in his new film, a subject Rock has addressed throughout his career: black images.
Below is the aforementioned excerpt from Dreams in which Obama speaks on this same, very delicate subject.
And fat shout to my friend, Ramon Bentley -- I'm always up for a good challenge!
One day just before Christmas, I asked Ruby to stop by my office so I could give her a present for Kyle. I was on the phone when she walked in, and out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw something different about her, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. Only after I had hung up and she turned toward me did I realize that her eyes, normally a warm, dark brown that matched the color of her skin, had turned an opaque shade of blue, as if someone had glued plastic buttons over her irises. She asked me if something was wrong.
“What did you do to your eyes?”
“Oh, these.” Ruby shook her head and laughed. “They’re just contacts, Barack. The company I work for makes cosmetic lenses, and I get them at a discount. You like them?”
“Your eyes looked just fine the way they were.”
“It’s just for fun,” she said, looking down. “Something different, you know.”
I stood there, not knowing what to say. Finally I remembered Kyle’s gift and handed it to her. “For Kyle,” I said. “A book on airplanes…I thought he might like it.”
Ruby nodded and put the book inside her purse. “That’s nice of you, Barack. I’m sure he will.” Then, abruptly, she stood up and straightened her skirt. “Well, I better get going,” she said, and hurried out the door.
For the rest of the day and into the next, I thought about Ruby’s eyes. I had handled the moment badly, I told myself, made her feel ashamed for a small vanity in a life that could afford few vanities. I realized that a part of me expected her and the other leaders to possess some sort of immunity from the onslaught of images that feed every American’s insecurities—the slender models in the fashion magazines, the square-jawed men in fast cars—images to which I myself was vulnerable and from which I had sought protection. When I mentioned the incident to a black woman friend of mine, she stated the issue more bluntly.
“What are you surprised about?” my friend said impatiently. “That black people still hate themselves?”
No, I told her, it wasn’t exactly surprise that I was feeling. Since my first frightening discovery of bleaching creams in Life magazine, I’d become familiar with the lexicon of color consciousness within the black community—good hair, bad hair; thick lips or thin; if you’re light, you’re all right, if you’re black, get back. In college, the politics of black fashion, and the questions of self-esteem that fashion signified, had been a frequent, if delicate, topic of conversation for black students, especially among the women, who would smile bitterly at the sight of the militant brother who always seemed to be dating light-skinned girls—and tongue-lash any black man who was foolish enough to make a remark about black women’s hairstyles.
Mostly I had kept quiet when these subjects were broached, privately measuring my own degree of infection. But I noticed that such conversations rarely took place in large groups, and never in front of whites. Later, I would realize that the position of most black students in predominately white colleges was already too tenuous, our identities too scrambled, to admit to ourselves that our black pride remained incomplete. And to admit our doubt and confusion to whites, to open up our psyches to general examination by those who had caused so much of the damage in the first place, seemed ludicrous, itself an expression of self-hatred—for there seemed no reason to expect that whites would look at our private struggles as a mirror into their own souls, rather than yet more evidence of black pathology.
It was in observing that division, I think, between what we talked about privately and what we addressed publicly, that I’d learned not to put too much stock in those who trumpeted black self-esteem as a cure for all our ills, whether substance abuse or teen pregnancy or black-on-black crime.
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