Everybody looks good in a black church.  Folks dress up and come out, everything ironed and polished.  Nails look shiny and colorful and hair is glossy and freshly done.  I appreciate the care that we give to our appearance.  I know that it is not a prerequisite to worshipping God in spirit and truth, but it does make me feel good to see us all dressed up.  It reminds me of church at home – Nigeria – where people dress up too.  So I sit in church every Sunday and enjoy the view.  But my eyes invariably shift to the heads in front of me.  My eyes go down one row and up another.  I try to calculate the percentage of women who “wear” their own hair.

These days, I am distracted by my hair calculations.  Why, I wonder, are there more black women with false hair than black women happy in their own hair?  I see long Pocahontas-like black hair, curly ringlets worthy of little Shirley Temple, short spiky bone-straight hair, horse-tail pony-tails – the variety is impressive.  But for me, they all say that we, as black women, are just not content with the hair we have.  The argument that we cannot do anything different with our hair does not hold water with me.  We can wear cornrows, afros, braids, afropuffs, dreadlocks, and we can even straighten and curl the hair we have (although this last option often takes one down a slippery road to baldness and then to wigs and weaves).  There seems to be some urgency out there that pushes us to cover our own hair up with synthetic adornments.  Are we chasing a secret fantasy?  In donning these wigs and weaves, what characteristics do we hope to portray?  Do we hope that people will suspect we have European blood somewhere in our family tree?  Have we bought into the global narrative that the beauty of other women is better than our own?  I only ask these questions because all the wigs and weaves out there are copies of European, Asian, and Latina women’s hair.  The texture of these wigs is never that of black folk.  If you see an afro wig out there, it is usually marketed to the Halloween crowd.

 And why is it that the East Asians (Chinese and Koreans) have the monopoly on this market? If you want to get the best variety of “hair”, you must find a beauty supply shop in a predominantly black neighborhood.  These shops are usually owned by Asians.  I know a black woman who tried to get into the market and could not compete with the Asians.  How did the Asians come to find out that black folk around the world would be ready to spend millions of dollars on this false hair stuff?  What does this tell them about the self-esteem of black women?  I sometimes wonder if they snigger when the black women come in stroking the sleek wigs and trying on pieces that look ridiculously unnatural. 

 And yes, this is a global market.  Shipments of wigs and weaves find their way from Asia to Africa too.  When I first started wearing my hair natural and then switched to locs, I got more grief from Africans than I did from Americans.  Recently, a Nigerian friend tossed her own long tresses and told me that if I was at home, they would have to send me to join a religious cult because my hairstyle is not worthy of a woman of high society.

 This hair issue is just a small part of a much bigger problem.  Last weekend, the 6 year-old daughter of some African friends of mine was watching “The Cheetah Girls” with my daughters.  She was excited about two of the three stars of the show.  When I asked her why she did not like the third character who is a black girl, this little African girl told me in a matter of fact way, “She is not pretty because she is not white.”  I rest my case.

I happened to catch the beginning of the Miss Universe pageant on television tonight.  My children glanced up at the screen when the contestants from Nigeria, Ghana, and Tanzania and some of the Caribbean islands were announced.  These were some lovely black girls who stood out amongst the 80 participants.    Then they introduced the judges and my heart sank.  Not one of the judges was black. But I thought, Hey, this is 2008. Maybe these judges think a little more broadly than back in the day. But then they announced the 15 finalists and I realized that things have not changed much.  The only African to make it into the top 15 was the South African girl, a lovely colored girl.  The other girl who had some black blood in her was Miss USA. Neither of these girls is dark-skinned.  So I am left rather frustrated, angry that not one of the darker-skinned girls made the short list. I caution myself against over-sensitivity.  Perhaps these particular black girls just weren’t smart or talented enough?  Perhaps - but let’s keep it real.  Looks are the most important element in these pageants.  I thought the black girls were beautiful.  But as they say, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”  None of the beholders - the judges - seem to value dark skin.  Many of the finalists were from Central and South America, home to thousands of people of African descent.  None of the beautiful Latina finalists was black.  Interesting.  So why is this called “Miss Universe” when the Universe is not represented in this competition?  This show is watched all over the world.  What message does this send to little girls with dark skin who do not have that long straight flowing hair.  This is not a new concern.  It is an old concern and it seems to be never-ending.  This just means that we must work harder, speak louder, to show our black daughters that although the universe says otherwise, they are indeed beautiful. 

I ran into a Kenyan couple last weekend at a party in Chicago.  I thought I was being gracious when I mentioned to them how excited they must be to see Barak Obama do so well in the US presidential primaries.  To my utter amazement, they eyed me suspiciously.  So I persisted, “You know, he is half Kenyan.”  They vehemently responded, “No.  He is American!”  “But his father was Kenyan,” I stammered.  They huffed and puffed, “Well, he would do well to forget about that and identify as simply an American.”  I was speechless! 

I had never come across Africans who were so unwilling to claim a successful son of their soil!  For instance, I’ve watched Nigerians puff their chests with pride at the mere mention of Seal, Sade, or Akeem Olajuwon, even though some of these international stars hardly acknowledge Nigeria as home.  I’m sure folks from Benin and Senegal are equally proud of actor Djimon Hounsou and R&B singer Akon respectively.  So this encounter with the Kenyans was astounding.  Obama is no mere sports figure or entertainer.  He’s running – rather well - for the most powerful job in the world.  Why did this Kenyan couple not jump for joy at my suggestion that he was sort of one of them?

The man must have seen the shocked look on my face because he finally said, “Well, you know his father was Luo.  Those Luos are claiming him.  If Obama was nothing, they would not want to have anything to do with him.”  He said this with a very slight smirk.  His wife nodded vigorously. 

I now understood and was saddened.  This couple is Kikuyu.  Over the past year, we have seen the deeply rooted tensions between the Luo and the Kikuyu come to the surface.  The hostilities are so strong now that this Kikuyu couple would rather erase Obama’s Kenyan-ness than concede that he has Luo blood.  I insisted that Obama was part Kenyan but they refused to budge.  In their minds, the fact that his father was Luo expunged his Kenyan identity.  This is a fundamental African problem.  Many of us see ourselves more in terms of ethnicity than in terms of nationality.  This does not have to be a bad thing.  It could be a thing of pride and purpose if we could neatly complement each other.  However, our visions are fragmented and our destinations are paved with bitterness and hostility.

As I struggled to reason with this Kikuyu couple, I realized that this was an argument that would only frustrate and depress me.  I finally shrugged and changed the topic.

A student of mine was wondering aloud one afternoon.  She wondered about the different rules and standards to which black and white folks had to live up to.  She says, for instance, that it is fine for black folks to say “I’m proud to be black” but when white folks say “I’m proud to be white” people get uncomfortable.  She says that whites seem racist when they proclaim pride in their heritage but when blacks do the same, they are considered regal and confident.  It seems that as we have crossed over to the new millennium, racial equality sometimes plays out in a rather imbalanced way.

All the talk of reverse-racism in the US means that we are always checking ourselves to see if we ourselves, so often the victims of racism, are free from that same sin.  For instance, often when I write, I have to be careful with using the word “black” to refer to people of African descent.  I always want to capitalize the “B”.  But whenever I use the word “white” I am never tempted to capitalize the “W”.  What does this say about me?  And when I remind myself that it seems unfair to say “Black” and “white”, another part of me says there is so much historical power in “Black” that we have earned the right to capitalize the B.  I remain uncomfortable though.  So, to solve the dilemma I usually just use lower case for both words.  Keep them equal, I tell myself.  But they are never equal. 

Recently, Republican congressman Geoff Davis had to apologize to Barack Obama for saying, “That boy’s finger does not need to be on the [nuclear] button.”  Of course the worst part of this statement is not “the button” but “the boy.”  What is more offensive is not the reference to Obama’s foreign policy abilities but the painful historical memories of referring to a black man as a boy.  Appalling.  Congressman Davis apologized profusely.  But here’s the flip side:  Last night I was watching HBO boxing with my husband.  In typical fashion, the weeks leading up to the fight were filled with trash talk from both fighters, which HBO gleefully aired.  Bernard Hopkins, a black man, said he would never let this “white boy” (Joe Calzaghe) beat him.  If Calzaghe had called Hopkins a “black boy” HBO would have had to edit that out, for sure.  They did not think twice when it was the other way round.  

So back to my student’s concern.  How healthy, really, are race relations when one group has earned the right to “Say it Loud, I’m Black and Proud” while the other group seems uncomfortable in their own acclamations of ethnic pride.  If all is well, and race has been erased, and we can stomp proudly into a free and equal American dream, why do we still tiptoe?

I’m often asked what I miss most about living in West Africa. I certainly miss the obvious things like family, friends, colleagues, school mates, the food, the music. The list could go on and would probably be the same for any immigrant who has left home and started a new life in a new home. But there is one more thing I miss dearly - the interpersonal connections that are so natural and basic to life in Africa.

Here in the US I go to my local Jewel grocery store and I am often tempted to chat with the cashier and negotiate the prices of the things I have put on the counter. Then I remind myself that the cashier does not know me, nor care about me as my rice seller in the market did at home. And certainly, this cashier has no say in the price of the food items that appear in my basket each week. Those prices are determined by an invisible coporate presence and controlled by mysterious global markets. I miss the way I used to be able to chat easily with market sellers who actually seemed to know me and my family.
Each morning in the suburban town where I live, I catch a bus to the train station. The same people sit in the same spots every weekday morning. Since this is a routine, I see the same faces every day. But for the most part, nobody says anything to anybody else. Eyes are blank, people stare straight ahead, as if meeting the eyes of someone else is a taboo. You mount the bus, hand the bus driver your card, and shuffle past familiar faces without so much as a “good morning.” In West Africa, you come into a space and you say good morning because, although you may not know these people personally, they are part of your community. It is polite to greet people and wish them well. It is expected. It is the “done thing.” So I wonder what would happen one morning if I got on the bus and paused before taking my seat. What would the reaction be if I stood there and said loudly, “Good morning, Y’all!”
Then the other day, as I was waiting for the train, a man in front of me shouted suddenly and broke into a sprint towards another cluster of people who were waiting for the train. It was only at that point that I noticed a man yards away who was standing very close to the tracks as the train was approaching. The “rescue-man” reached the man just as the train was approaching. I wondered why the other people closer to the man, who must have seen him leaning towards the tracks, did not pull him back. Again, they were minding their own business in the way that is supposedly modern. In Africa, someone would have interfered. They would have shouted and pulled him away noisily. I wanted to hug the man who had run from a distance to intervene because what he did was such a beautiful gesture in this environment.
This always bothers me because I wonder what “community” means in this context. Community means something very different in the US. A certain US politician loves the African proverb, “It takes a village to raise a child.” Although I grew up in an African town, the sense of “the village” was always around me. I see very few “villages” here. I’ve adjusted because that is what you do in a new environment. But I do miss the “village” aspect of Africa, that sense of community that seems so human.

For centuries, African Americans have searched for their roots in Africa. They wonder where exactly on the great continent they come from. Few are as lucky as Alex Haley to trace their “roots” to the Mandinka tribe in Gambia. These days, there is exciting news of DNA testing which will lead to the revelation of one’s African ethnic group. Henry Louis Gates has a series on PBS that traces the lineage of African American celebrities. Supposedly, finding out where you come from and your heritage, brings a valuable sense of strength and belonging.

But I wonder about the value of ethnicity for Africans. While there is great pride in knowing that one is Igbo, Hausa, Akan, Mende, Luo, or Kikuyu, there is also great pain too. My book club has just finished reading Chimamanda Adiche’s interesting novel, Half of a Yellow Sun, which revolves around the ethnic violence of the Biafran war in the late 1960s. The ladies in my suburban book club said they could not relate to the ethnic divisions. (I reminded them that this was similar to racial divisions here in the US, with which they should be familiar.) As an African, I can completely relate to ethnic tensions. I am reflecting on how ethnicity has been the source of so many tragedies across the continent.

On February 28, 2008, Raila Odinga and Mwai Kibaki finally signed an agreement that brought hope to the peace process in Kenya after the contested elections last year. Over a thousand people have died since then. Kibaki would hold on to his position as president but Odinga would be made prime minister. Kofi Anan brokered this lovely peace deal between these leaders of the two major ethnic groups. But I wish Anan would talk about peace to all the people, young and old, who were somehow plunged into a morass of ethnic pride and hostility. Even though Odinga urged Kenyans to “destroy the monster that is called ethnicity,” the ethnic groups have continued to perpetrate acts of violence against each other.

So I find it ironic that while Africans grapple with the problems of ethnicity, African Americans continue to reach for the hope that is ethnicity.

I find it extremely disturbing that Larry Elder has chosen to call his new book “Stupid Black Men”. I have not read the book. I skimmed through it while sipping a cup of tea in a bookstore. I suppose Elder is capitalizing on Michael Moore’s bestseller “Stupid White Men” (the same way Chris Rock seemed to use the popular “Everybody Loves Raymond” to title his sitcom “Everybody Hates Chris”). That is smart marketing, I guess.

So, I understand that Elder wants to sell books. Titles have to be sexy and eye-catching. Stupid Black Men” certainly makes you stop and pick it up. There is a big photo of Elder on the cover so this makes it seem even more interesting. Wow. A black man is calling other black men “stupid.” I’m sure the mainstream public is anxious to hear a confirmation of their perceptions about black men straight from the horse’s mouth. The editors and publishers at St. Martin’s Press must have thought they had a bestseller when they agreed to publish this book.

Elder states in his preface that “this book calls out black men and women, men and women of other races, the ‘empathetic’ liberal media, and Democratic party sympathizers for their racism-done-me-wrong statements and policy measures that maximize victimhood and minimize personal responsibility.” So, if the book is about how all the ethnicities in the mainstream should stop whining about racism, why not call it “Stupid People” or something more accurate? Why call it “Stupid Black Men”?

One of his chapters is titled, “Three Things that Need to be Said to Stupid Black People: Grow up, Grow up, Grow up.” In all the pages I skimmed, Elder seems to be saying that racism is a thing of the past and folks need to move on and stop complaining. I agree with the sentiment behind much of what Cosby has said in the past couple of years. But I also agree with the opposite side of the argument that says that we need to seriously consider the impact of history when we discuss the overall condition of African Americans today. When we look at the wars and the coups that constantly plague Africa, we should certainly point out the internal problems of corruption and bad leadership. But we must always remember how key historical events have played a vital role in contemporary problems – slavery, colonialism, globalization, and the oppressive policies of the international banking systems.

Perhaps Elder really wants to help people, but in my skimming, I find no reference to the past. People like to know that you are thinking widely about their experience before they take any directives you have to offer. I don’t know that any of the “stupid black men” and “stupid black people” he is referring to will be drawn in to happily read and take his advice.
I think, for all his good intentions, Elder wants to sell as many books as possible. Perhaps he will land on the bestseller list and lots of “unstupid” people will buy it. I did not.

The other day I stumbled upon the Tyra show on television. Her topic for the day was age and appearance. She paraded a number of women of varying ethnicities before the screen and asked her audience to guess how old they were from their appearance. To everyone’s delight and horror, the “specimens” were remarkably younger or older than they appeared. Of course, as is usual fare in any of these types of shows, there were super make-overs to make the women look older, younger, or more their age.

Towards the end of the show, Tyra announced triumphantly that she was 33 and she was thrilled to be black because “black don’t crack.” This elicited the usual laughs and nods of agreement from the black women in the audience. Then I began to wonder.

How do women who are not black feel when they hear this well-used adage? If “black don’t crack” (meaning darker skin stays unwrinkled for a very long time) the assumption is that other races do crack, right? As good as this adage sounds to the ears of a black woman, it probably does not sound good to others. So, in my sensitive way, I was wondering – is it not unfair to brag about this lovely attribute of black skin? Maybe we should not say this out loud so proudly, especially not on a nationally syndicated television show. Then I thought, how would I feel if, for instance, white women always said something like: “we are the fairest of them all.” I wouldn’t feel too good about that.

But then I realized that history, the media, and pop culture have systematically sent out the message that the fairer, the better. It seems like in most societies, the subliminal message has been that the fairest-complexioned of them all is indeed the fairest (loveliest) of them all. From glossy magazines to beauty pageants to subjective media lists like “Most Beautiful Women in the World” to deodorant that is “invisible” only for the fairest folks, the world has bought into and promoted this idea that generally, black is not the top of the beauty chain. James Brown’s anthem, “Say it loud, I’m Black and proud,” went against the grain, but was tightly embraced by black folks because it was a wonderful new empowering message in the world of pop culture.

So, I’m fine with Tyra saying “Black don’t crack” on her show, even though others may feel uncomfortable. It is a drop in the bucket that is overwhelmingly filled with global messages that laud other ethnicities as aesthetically superior to African ethnicity. Full disclosure: I am a dark-skinned woman.