I heard about Chris Rock’s documentary, Good Hair,  several weeks back and have been looking forward to its release on October 9.  Besides being funny as hell, it provides women (not just black women) another opportunity to have the “hair discussion.”

Check out the trailer:

I spent most of my life fighting with my hair.  Early on, the message was clear that  a black girl’s hair in it’s natural state was “bad.”  I remember many a weekend sitting in the kitchen having my hair straightened by a metal comb that my mother heated up on the gas stove.  And many black women can tell you stories of burned ears, necks or foreheads.  I think putting a hot comb near a child would be considered abuse if we were thinking straight.

But we are not.  We only want GOOD HAIR.

“Good” hair means STRAIGHT hair.  Hair that we can flip like the white girls.  And we will pay lots of money and endure hours of discomfort to “fit in and be “acceptable.”

I could share lots of hair horror stories.  But I won’t.  See, I made the decision in 2004 to go “natural.”  After starting coaching school, I realized that if I were going to teach others about leading a more authentic life, I’d better take a closer look at the places I wasn’t.

I already knew that I was out of alignment with my job.  I planned on quitting after my 40th birthday in 2005 because I couldn’t imagine spending the 2nd half of my life in such misery.

But the hair thing surprised me.  I know now that straightening my hair represented a rejection of some part of me.  I was conditioned to believe it was unacceptable because it wasn’t like “theirs”.  Even with a beautiful braided style, I was once pulled aside at work by a white female manager who told me it was “unprofessional because it was too ethnic.”  (Think angry black woman with fist pumping in the air.  That’s what she saw.)

Hmmm…

Yes, even white folks are more comfortable when your hair is straight and more like theirs.  Fascinating.

But the time had come for me to accept it, so I went to work one morning with relaxed, shoulder-length hair and came back from lunch with a teenie-weenie afro.  I had about 1 inch of hair left on my head.

Talk about drastic.

Thinking about the looks I got still makes me laugh.  Some people were supportive, but most freaked out.  Oh, they tried to be “cool” but you could tell they were clearly uncomfortable.

You wanna know what was really cool to me?

The more uncomfortable people were, the more I knew I had done the right thing.  That felt GREAT.

As time went on, however, I would become increasingly dissatisfied with my hair.  Not because it was natural, but because my natural hair has 3 different textures and makes styling it more of a challenge.  I have done some really fun stuff with it, but for the most part, it’s been more work than I thought it would be.

So, I’m going to make a change.

I don’t know if I going to relax it again or go back to my teenie-weenie afro.  But what I do know is that I’m lazy and simply don’t want hair that I have to do much work for.  I am crystal clear that whatever I do, I am doing for ME.

Not for some man.

Not to make white people more comfortable.

Not to make black people more comfortable.

And not so I can feel better about myself because I “fixed” my so-called nappy hair.

At the end of the day, as my girl, India.Arie sings, “I am NOT my hair” ,”good” or otherwise…

And knowing that is absolutely priceless.

It feels good to be me.

When my mother died in March 2000, she was at the beginning of her 4th term as the mayor of my hometown.  As you may imagine, we had tons and tons of flowers sent to the funeral home. (The funny thing about that was how my mother actually felt about flowers for the dead.  What’s the point?)

In any case, we also received several plants, 2 of which I brought home.  Both were sent from dear friends in Florida and were actually warm weather plants.  Their survival in the midwest, much less in my home, were far from guaranteed.

One plant lasted about 3 years before it died, but the other, is still with me.  A few months after I left my corporate job, I walked passed her and heard, “Astrid”.  I looked around and no one else was in the room.  I remembered that I had been wanting to give the plant a name since it had survived over 5 years with me.  Now, I guess I had it.

“Astrid” talks to me.  She tells me when she needs water or needs to be moved.  She has survived 4 moves, one move was strapped in the back seat of our jeep as we moved in, then out of NYC.  Astrid has become part of the family.

This last move has been challenging for her.  Her branches spread out quite a bit and all the doors in this house are narrow.  She lost several branches when we moved in, not to mention the trama of a move in January.   I was so worried about her that I moved her into my small office,  hoping that love would heal her.

Spring came and we got ants. (Please don’t get me started on all the reasons I hate this house!).  The ants got onto Astrid and since they were coming in thru a hole in the windowsill, I thought moving her would be the best.

After a few weeks in the new location upstairs, there were no more ants.  As the weeks progressed, however, Astrid never seemed to change.  No new leaves were sprouting and the one that did turned black before it unfurled.

It was like she was in limbo–she was not dying, but she wasn’t thriving, either.

Finally, one morning about a month ago, I went to check on her.  I could tell she was hurting.  I asked,“what do you need?” “Water-3 bottles, please.”  So, I filled up those 3 bottles and dumped them in.  “3 more, please”.  So I did.

I thought it would be enough, but then I heard, “2 more.”  I thought it was crazy. But I knew I had to follow through.

After I began pouring the final 2 bottles, I was not prepared for what happened next.

Water began pouring out of the bottom of the container like a sink overflowing.  As I turned to run out of the room for a towel, I saw hundreds and hundreds of ants crawling out of the other side of the container.  So many, that I couldn’t even tell the color of the container.  I was horrified.

Needless to say, I had to destroy the ants and then clean up the 1000s of bodies lying around the container.  I got so creeped out by the sight, I had to take a couple of Benadryls to calm my nerves.  I had the heebie-jeebies for 2 days.

Astrid, however, breathed a sigh of relief.  I went out of town for a week and came home to 5 new sprouts and more color than I seen in months.  She was, again, thriving.

I share this story for 2 reasons:

1) Sometimes you are going to be asked by your wisdom to do something that doesn’t make sense.  Pouring more water into my plant seemed pointless.  But there was a bigger reason to do so.  Had I known ahead of time that I would have to deal with 1000s of ants, I may have let her die.  Trust that you are being directed for something good.  Always.

2) I have learned on this journey, that many things that happen to us are metaphors.  Nothing is random.  While I believe that sometimes a book, is a just a book, I think that those things that rattle us in some way, whether it’s creepy ants or a bad day in the office, have a deeper message.  We simply need to ask, “what am I meant to glean from this?”

For me, I have discovered that I needed to take a look at what’s choking my root system.  While I may no longer feel that I am dying, I am a long way from thriving.  I’ve been in limbo for months and just like the flood that Astrid asked for, I need to flood my system with the light of inquiry.

I’ve uncovered some interesting stuff so far.  I’ll keep you posted.

So what’s choking you?

Earlier today, my best friend was relating a story about a doctor friend of her sister’s who was having trouble finding ammo for hunting season.  Turns out, ammo is hard to come by in some parts of Oregon, ’cause folks have taken to stockin’ up to defend their homes and property from the takeover that President Obama is planning for white folks.

Seriously.

It  got me to thinking about white folks (white men in particular) and their fears about black folks, (black men specifically), and what that may have to do with all this talk about Obama hating white folks and starting up his own version of Hitler’s SS.

For decades, the media has portrayed black men in a less than favorable light.  As far back as the early 1900’s, the media portrayed black men as something to fear.  Joel Shock writes in his essay,  Desperate Deeds, Desperate Men: Gender, Race, and Rape in Silent Feature Films, 1915-1927:

Many of the top-grossing feature films spanning from 1915-1927 utilized rape as a device for defining manhood and thereby establishing power relationships. The images of rape in these silent films idealized the power of respectable white men over the men and women of other classes and races and subordinated the women from their own social station. These movies constructed white men as heroes and guardians of morality and civilization, white women as frail but morally superior figures, and African-American and immigrant men and women as uncontrollable sexual deviants who threatened civilization. These films reflected the fears of the white middle class that massive immigration, waves of black migration to the North, and the increasingly public role of women were irrevocably changing American society and threatening the power of the traditional dominant group in the United States: white middle- and upper-class men.

He sums up what I believe we’ve been seeing during his campaign and young presidency.  The real problem with a black man in the white house is that many feel that “the power of the traditional dominant group in the United States: white middle- and upper-class men” is at stake.

Hmmm…

I guess I would be angry if I thought centuries of being the oppressor was coming to an end.

(As shocked as my elderly black relatives were to see the election of the 1st black president, I guess the shock was even greater for a white middle or upper class man. )

With the “impossible” upon us, a black man in the white house, what can any self-respecting, card-carrying NRA’er with strong family values do?  Why, arm themselves.

DUH.

People are scared, I get that.  9/11 created a different reality and the previous administration along with the media did everything they could to keep Americans in fear.  After 7 years of that, the economy collapses (Lehman went bankrupt?  IMPOSSIBLE!) and THEN the improble election of a bi-racial president?  I’ll be damned. No wonder folks are acting like idiots.

And President Obama makes a great target for all that fear.  After all, blacks are something to be feared.  But a black person in power?  We are in trouble for sure.

While I recognize that not everything is about race,   I wish people would really just admit to what their real fear is:  If black people (or women, or any other oppressed group) gain significant power, they will do to us, what we have done to them.

But to get there, people would have to examine how their own issues about race are affecting their judgment.  But that would take some thinking and hell, they can just listen to Glenn Bleck or Rush Limbaugh to be told what to think.

Besides, haven’t you heard?  We live in a post-racial society.  Slavery (and all that other stuff) was a long time ago.  Just get over it..

In the meantime,  I think I’ll go cash in on this craziness and go sell my ammo on eBay.

Enjoyed the 2 part Whitney Houston interview on Oprah.  All I can say is, “Sistah..I know exactly what you mean.”

I Didn’t Know My Own Strength – Whitney Houston

“There comes a time when you have to stand up and shout:  This is me damn it! I look the way I look, think the way I think, feel the way I feel, love the way I love! I am a whole complex package. Take me… or leave me. Accept me – or walk away! Do not try to make me feel like less of a person, just because I don’t fit your idea of who I should be and don’t try to change me to fit your mold. If I need to change, I alone will make that decision.

When you are strong enough to love yourself 100%, good and bad – you will be amazed at the opportunities that life presents you.”

Copyright © 2000 Stacey Charter

Today I took the bold step of hiring a writing coach and committing to finishing my 1st book by the end of the year.  I’m excited and quite frankly have grown sick and damn tired of playing small.  How do people go on year after year pretending to be something that they are NOT?

I’m loud, opinionated, passionate, angry, funny, kind, sensitive and highly intuitive.  I am who I am, people.  F*** YOU if you can’t take it.

I no longer require or desire your approval.  As the song goes, “It’s MY Life.”

I want more people to get pissed off enough at mediocrity to live bigger, BOLDER lives.  Yes, people are not going to like you.  Friends, even family will try to hold you back or simply walk away.

You can survive it.  Trust me.  Been there.  Done that.

Deep inside you is a dream that you’ve buried for a long time.  Afraid to bring it out into the light, because someone or lots of “someones” told you that you weren’t good enough, smart enough, or that your dream was not realistic.  Their discouragement had no end.

And you listened.

Took the easy route.  Called it being “practical.

Whatever.

Piss on ‘em.  It’s YOUR TIME.

If not now, when?

Over the next several weeks, I’ll be sharing my journey into the book writing process and giving you glimpses into my new coaching program, My Life, By Design, that I will be launching in January 2010.  I’m committing myself and my company to the personal and economic empowerment of women through creative expression.

I believe that life is a creative process and the life of your dreams is one that you consciously design.

I can’t accept another woman hiding behind fear of rejection, failure, success or believing the lie that she is not worthy of her heart’s desire.

It’s never to late to love yourself enough to create an extraordinary life.

Join me.

Here’s to you AND me!