The Black Millennials: The New Revolutionaries Fighting the War on Our Heads

            Hair. Black Women. Say those words, and you will open a conversation the size of the universe. The truth of the matter is that we black women have always had a love-hate relationship with our hair. I know I have. This relationship was passed down from our mothers (bless their hearts) who received it from their mothers. I harbor no animosity or ill feelings about what they did. After all, they did their best to fit in and assimilate in a society to survive. Maybe they did it because they simply did not know how to care for their natural hair, and they felt they had more options by straightening it.  However, it is undeniable that there is a natural black hair movement happening right now.  

More and more, little by little, I see 20-somethings and 30-somethings wearing their natural hair. In schools, I see children of those Millennials wearing their natural hair. Puffs, braids, and twists abound among the students in elementary and high schools, and I love it.  It looks like freedom to me. Freedom from hot combs, dangerous chemicals, and too-tight braids. I have seen kindergarten children with extensions, and it saddens me because it puts the child at risk for hair loss, negates the love of her natural hair, and prevents her from getting to know it. Extensions, weaves, and relaxers offer versatility; however, they bind us in a never-ending cycle of debt and psychological prison. I know. I have spent thousands of dollars on relaxers since I was 14-years-old. My three daughters are prime examples of those stuck in this cycle.

One of my biggest regrets is allowing my then 13-year-old to get micro braids when she was a freshman in high school. She is now in her twenties, and is so dependent on OPH (other people’s hair) that she is uncomfortable without it. Ever. Unfortunately, sisters emulate each other, and now her two younger sisters are stuck in the same cycle. The good news is that we are having conversations about natural hair. Even better news is that I am the first in our family to go natural. It’s been nearly six months since I relaxed my hair – this from a person who faithfully relaxed every 6-8 weeks for decades. 

Does this mean I will not straighten my hair with a flat iron? Well, not yet, but I’m working on it. It does mean that I will no longer put the dangerous chemicals of a relaxer in my hair. Color? That’s another story – not quite ready to go gray yet. If it had not been for the influence of the natural black millennials, I would not have the courage to step out of the cycle. So, to you, I say, Thank you! 

Photo courtesy of Smiley Joy, my youngest daughter      

How A Television Series From Childhood Makes Me Wish We Could Take A Baby-Step Backwards

I have a confession:  I record and watch The Waltons.  There.  I said it.  I know the face you’re making.  When I made that statement to a few family members, they responded with contorted faces as if they had just sucked a lemon.  But hear me out.  Our demoralized, over-sexualized, over-exposed, violent and indecent programming is the norm today, and sometimes, it gets to be too much.  So, I take a break from it.  (Hey, I didn't say I never watch it!)  Don't get me wrong.  I appreciate innovation, but our over-sensationalized, technology-inundated world has done more to separate us than bring us together.  A home with too many televisions can actually pull a family apart, and everyone, including the baby, is playing with a smartphone.   

I never watched the show when I was a child.  Back then, I thought it was boring, unrealistic, and I turned the channel as soon as I heard the theme music.  Besides, "How can I relate to a show about some farmers with seven kids?" I thought.  But the show was much, much more than that.  We could make our family unit tighter and heal a lot of society’s ills that plague us today if we could just implement a few of the key ingredients from the show. Aside from being spiritual, they:

§  worked together to train and correct the children.

§  were openly affectionate toward each other.

§  genuinely cared about and helped their neighbors.

§  supported and encouraged the children’s talents and gifts.  

§  didn’t dictate to the children, but encourage them to be themselves.

§  used discipline (which was some type of chore) immediately.

§  spent quality time together.

§  did everything they could to make each other happy.

My family could be closer, too, but we do manage to make breakfast together on most weekends.  Afterwards, in the midst of the mess we’ve made, we share jokes and stories.  So, what will you do to bring your family closer?

So go ahead.  I double-dog dare you to watch just one episode.

God Can Talk To You, Too.

            The following is a story of faith, or what I like to call, “A God Story.”  For those of you who know God’s character and can recognize the Holy Spirit when He is talking to you, this story will resonate with you, and you’ll nod your head in agreement.  If you are not sure about how or whether or not God talks to you, the following will help you believe.   

            If you read a couple posts ago, you know about my situation with my beloved Hyundai Santa Fe that was totaled in an accident.  The good news is that my daughters who were in the SUV walked away.  The flip side of that situation is that I am driving a 1996 vehicle.  Let’s just say that it gets me from points A to B to C and back again.  But one day, I got a letter in the mail that I would typically consider junk.  But “something” told me to open it.   

            The letter was from the dealership that sold me the Santa Fe.  It was holding a raffle to win a 2014 Hyundai Elantra, and the flyer said if I came into the showroom with my pre-selected number and it matched the number on the prize car, I’d win it!  It claimed I had a one in 10,000 chance of winning.  Plus, the first 100 people would receive a $5 Starbucks gift card.  Well, people who won the Lottery had worse odds than that.  I had enough faith to realize that the same God who parted the Red Sea could give me a new car.  So, I grabbed my middle daughter who was out of school, and off we went. 

            As we were driving along, she asked me what kind of car it was.  I reached into the back seat and gave her the flyer with my raffle number on it.  When she looked up from the flyer we saw something amazing in front of us:  the very car with the same color as the car in the flyer and a bumper sticker that read, “Believe.”  Now, whether or not I won the car doesn't matter.  What mattered was that I received a message, and I know He will eventually answer my prayers in His own time.  Was the flyer just a marketing strategy to get folks into the showroom?  Probably.  Was the “something” that told me not to throw it away the Holy Spirit?  Definitely.  As we later sipped our Vanilla Bean Frappuccinos, we couldn’t stop talking about the car we saw in traffic.  So, if you want the Holy Spirit to talk to you, ask, trust and believe!

It's Prom Time. Everything Will Be Just Fine Anyway!

            Ah…the first prom.  I remember it clearly.  We began in March searching for the perfect dress, the perfect shoes and the perfect clutch.  Along with hair, makeup, nails and pedicure, I knew the dress was only the beginning.  That was the first time I shopped for a prom, and it wasn’t even my own. 

            Five years ago as I stood in line with daughter number one and her sisters a half hour before the boutique opened, I could feel the excitement trickle through the voices of all the girls in line.  The wind was chilly, but there we stood, shivering in our lightweight jackets, thinking our clothing would bring the warm weather.  Then the announcement came.

            “Listen, everybody!” A female’s voice boomed.  We couldn’t see, so we craned our necks over the heads of the other girls in the line. 

            “When you get into the store, please stay inside the front area for important instructions.”  What? Instructions? To buy a dress?  What was she talking about? That just added to the nervous excitement everyone was already feeling.  Then the doors opened.

            Huddled in the front of the store, we heard another voice that sounded more like a drill sergeant.

            “Okay, ladies.  You are to start with three dresses.  Once you find your three dresses, you are to let one of our associates know and they will escort you to a fitting room.  If you do not see the dress in your size or color, don’t worry.  We have plenty of dresses in the back, so I’m sure we can find it or a similar dress you’re going to love.”  And then, almost like the shot of a gun at the races, the girls were off.  But my little group didn’t get far.

            A dress called to my daughter and me at the same time.  It was nothing short of perfect.  It had a fitted bustier at the top and was all flowy and cinderella-ish at the bottom.  She was truly a princess.  Fast-forward to present day.

            I found myself yet again in the line to hear the same words.  Only this time it’s for daughter number two.  There will be no princess look for her.  For my daughters are like morning, noon and night.  So she picked three dresses.  Then another three dresses.  Then they brought some dresses from the back.  Then they brought some dresses from even farther in the back.  Then I think they shipped some dresses from another country.  No luck.  We left.

            We went to two more boutiques several miles away.  Then my daughter began to get frustrated.  I could tell because her eyes got misty, and she was on the verge of getting angry.  I regrouped us by taking the girls to get something to eat. 

            “Hey,” I said, "Let’s go back and try once more.  After all, they did say we could always come again.”

            I saw a glimmer of hope in my daughter’s eyes.  So we went back.  And she picked a dress she tried on in the first group of three dresses.  Now as she stands in her room wearing the perfect shoes with her glamorous, fitted, halter-style dress, all I can think is beautiful.  All I can think is red carpet.  In three more years, we’ll be standing in that line yet again looking for the perfect dress for daughter number three.  I hope a dress calls.  But if not, I’m sure we will pick the right one.  The only question is which dress will be lucky enough to win?