Applause
I am dating someone new, and with all the wonder and whimsy that brings, there is also all the old ick and insecurity that comes along with it as well. Yesterday I finished taking down my braids. I had only had them a week, but there was too much hair on my head and it was most uncomfortable. Plus, I think sometimes I wake up and just feel like a different person than I was the day before so shedding that skin is imperative. In either case, my braids were gone. I washed my hair and marveled at it shrinking slowly into that teeny weeny afro that is too short to truly be styled yet too long to just "go". My marvel turned to frustration. He texted, "Let me see".
I said okay before I thought about what was being asked of me. He was asking to SEE...ME! Fresh out of the shower, make-up free, in bad lighting. I snapped and deleted about 30 photos before I broke down into tears. Have I truly become the type of person who cannot be okay with who she is in her most raw form? Why is that version of me so rare that her very existence causes anxiety? The tears fell like rain. I licked the salty sadness off my lips , wiped my face and took a picture and hit send. The immediately told him how I felt sending the photo, he inquired about my discomfort. He affirmed, "you know how I feel about you, hair doesn't change that." It was comforting, a little too comforting. Why could I breathe better now knowing that he was okay with this me? Why did it take his affirmation?
***
A friend of mine messaged me this morning about "academic PTSD"--something I'd mentioned in a Facebook status earlier in the week. My mother asked me if I thought my PhD was worth it because whenever I talk about it, I seem to get "shell-shocked", her words. My friend who has also earned the credentials told me that not only was academic PTSD a thing, but it was a thing that resonated deeply in their post-grad experience.
Though I am largely open about most things via social media and various public forums, there are lots of topics that I discuss with tempered candor because I do not want to defend the position. However, after addressing our grief one piece did stand out as worthy to be shared. It's the piece about being Black in academia. Not Black in race, Black in culture, in spirit, in attitude; a Black Tao. I have often shared that one of my biggest regrets was not walking across the stage in a pair of Jordans. My mother told me once when I shared this regret, "Why? You don't have to prove you're Black. People can see that." "No," I told her solemnly, "They think I'm one of 'the good ones'."
On the other side of things, I look at the institution of higher education and am disgusted. It's a microcosm of society, ripe with all the oppression, injustice, patriarchy, misogyny, and for me misogynoir, ad infinitum. Yet, it is also (in theory) the environment where these things can be addressed, solutions can be found, and progress and innovation can be cultivated. Yet, because universities are no different than society at large, the cultural needle does not move fast enough even when policy changes because our acquisition of formal education does not excuse us from the human experience. I wrote to my friend:
Being successful in Higher Education--and earning my PhD--was and is very conflicting for me because in order to achieve, you have to become adept at assimilating and despite your best efforts you begin to internalize a culture of beliefs you never wanted or asked for. Its a sacrifice that you don't even realize you're making until you've made it.
And there's a sick sort of joy that makes White* people happy when you are educated, well-spoken, creative, articulate and congenial. Until, of course, you start to talk about race and other taboo off-color (HA!) topics of discussion like politics, sex, money or religion. The "*" because again, this is not about actual White people, this is about a mindset, a system of beliefs and values. We couch it in things like professionalism (racist, sexist, ableist, ageist). We ignore the hidden meanings behind these concepts because if we confront them we have to then own our part in upholding them and being compliant with a system of oppression.
I remember going on a job interview and having a student, a Black man, ask me whether or not I would ban rap from the Black Student Resource Center if I were its director. I said a quick and emphatic NO! He was displeased by my answer and his discomfort caused a visceral reaction for bystanders in the room. He sat more erect, posturing to make his point that rap lyrics perpetuate a culture where Black women are demeaned, degraded, and dehumanized. Black men are given limited goals and aspiration and painted into boxes where success is limited to physical, illegal or superfluous labor. I nodded, smiled, and agreed. And added, "Still it is part of our culture and part that we must embrace because it informs not only the Black community but also popular culture and why would we ban any story of the human experience because they all have value." His eyes narrowed and he got up to leave, pissed. I was not hired for that position, and while I do not know all the reasons, I know that moment of unease between two Black people witnessed by several non-Black people was one that upset the paradigm. Who did we think we were to represent dissenting perspectives on the Black experience?! How dare we show evidence of being dynamic and free-thinking human beings! i was proud of the moment. I could tell, however, that the other administrators were deeply uncomfortable. I remember going home wondering who they thought was "right" or "wrong" and then immediately wondered who they thought was more "Black."
***
Both of these moments made me realize how often we are called to perform. To be what someone else needs us to be. As children, it is often the implicit request of our care givers that shape our persona and as adults it becomes our loved ones, our jobs, or significant others and sometimes even our children. However, the truth is in any instance, if you are performing for an applause, you are missing it.
The reason I can say without doubt that my PhD was worth it is because it taught me how to honor the truest version of myself both in isolation and in community with others. Well, the degree itself did not teach me that, nor did the curriculum, but the process of earning the degree as someone who, I think, is divergent by nature, did teach me how to color enough inside the lines to pass the class even though I painted with nail polish, eye shadow, lip stick, and blood rather than acrylic. I wanted to do a documentary for my dissertation defense. I wanted to tell a story of growth and exploration around identity and I wanted the faces of the women in my study to be seen. The academy wanted a five-chapter dissertation with an introduction, literature review, methods section, findings and discussion. There really was not a middle ground, I suppose I could have compromised if I had been willing to delay my completion, but it was more important to me to finish. On the other side of done, I do not regret my decision so much as I think given the next opportunity to fight for my creative vision, I would fight. I want to believe that this is the growth edge I've reached.
In regards to my relationship, I assured him it was simply residual self-talk that gave me pause about my natural appearance. Sometimes I have to fight to see myself through uncolonized eyes. I have to stop wishing my kings were curls or my curls were waves and simply love them as they are. I want to be able to look at myself and no matter the filter, the wig, the shade of lipstick and tell myself YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL and I want to be able to hear it and believe it.
I want to continue to share and be open with people, allowing access to my story but not letting my story become about access. Every word I write should be because it NEEDED to be written and not because I need to pay a bill or reach some like count, share amount, or celebrity's repost. I want, more than anything, to rid myself of the desire to hear applause and simply live my life. Black and Educated without a filter or a fuck.