Apparently, to be a proud black woman who is not ‘self-hating on herself’, my hair should be as natural as God made it and remain so until He and I meet to discuss the matter. (Which, frankly, would be preferable to picking over my many sins while on His earth.)

So said an interesting dissertation in the HMS HerMelness HQ postbag last week.

And it is interesting since the subject of black women and their hair has always raged and it will ever be thus. What remains interesting to me, though, is these dye-in-the-wool declarations we are supposed to follow sheep-like if we’re not to be pelted with a tub of hair relaxer as we walk down the street.

And if you have no idea why this is even a subject, there is a thing in the black community, still and historically, about good hair being hair that is typically long and smooth, or short and smooth, or softly curly but, above all, hair that is not overly kinky and which doesn’t tangle or matt. You may also hear matted hair colloquially referred to as ‘nappy’ hair or short hair as ‘picky’ hair.

Since all our choices have a basis in history, you may also be interested to know that this good hair debate stemmed from slavery, where a black slave was more likely to be treated better if they had lighter skin and…you guessed it…good hair.

Below an enlightening extract from Ayana Byrd and Lori Tharps’ book “Hair Story: Untangling the roots of black hair in America.” 

Now that we’re all caught up, please make it stop.

It’s all good hair. Even those without hair, it’s still all good.

Let us not continue to promulgate that which was an abberation in the first place. How we choose to wear our hair (afro, straight, kinky, bleached blonde, braids, weaved, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera – or bald) is no basis upon which to decide whether a black woman is Black and Proud – or whether a woman is anything based upon her personal style.

It is presumptuous.

We shouldn’t presume to know the mind of another based solely on external indicators. Unless of course they’re wearing a live chicken on their head when state of mind might be guessed at. But on second thoughts, Nah! Each to his own. You rock that live chicken, girl!

And to my new fan of this morning – “Who had never followed a black blogger before and wasn’t disappointed,” – believe me, there’s time. However, you know, I’m going to choose to untangle the compliment in that hair-raising sentence and comb out the rest.

But, Psst: Don’t say that again to any other black bloggers you happen across – non-disappointed or not. Get a friend to explain why.

MISs Make It Stop!

I’ve had a Solomon-like task today because, albeit I haven’t had to cut any babies in half, both my daughters are celebrating milestones on this Sunday 19^th May 2013.

My youngest daughter, Morgan, is 18 years old today (Yaay!) and my oldest daughter, Tess, graduates from college today in the United States (Yaay!).

The dilemma was that it is now the custom on each of my children’s milestone birthdays for me to write a post in honour of that fact. It never occurred to me that birthdays might clash with other milestones where my words are really the only gift I want to, well, gift.

Then I remembered two things. The relationship these two girls have forged together – through some tough times; and the man these two girls have in common…their father.

God, Bronson was proud of his girls and he would have floated on air today with happiness – and probably why I cannot get away from his aura on this milestone day.

And maybe that’s only fitting and right because he would not have differentiated. He would have found a way, uh huh Solomon-like, to be in two places at the same time to honour both his girls. It was then easy seeing this dilemma through his eyes. Because what I feel for my daughters have him and the same words in common.

Tess and Morgan, to say I am proud of the two of you is weak and trite. I am awed by the two of you.

And awed by the journey you have both navigated to find each other especially in the absence of your father.

Becoming a blended family is never easy – as you both proved at times – and two Daddy’s Girls vying for the same space makes it even more difficult. But you both came to understand that the first man in your life loved you both the same where that was the right thing to do, and differently as your two personalities and needs demanded it.

Even on the occasions you felt that he may not have been there when most needed, he always was. Tessie, you now know how devastated your father was the two of you did not live in the same country during some of those formative years when it matters most to a developing girl. Morgan, your father did not act ‘out of character’ when he met your first boyfriend on a very formal footing – something you have never forgotten. He did his job.

Girls, your father put in the work necessary to show the two of you his depth of feeling, love and respect.

This is the basis of the message I want you to remember today as you now forge into the world as young adult women. Of the men you meet, query whether they put in the work necessary to earn your respect. The simple work of listening to you so you know you are heard. That you are loved.

My daughters, I am awed by your beauty, in and out; your strength in making sure this family stays blended; and I am heart achingly full of my brave girls this Sunday 19^th May 2013.

Happy 18^th birthday, Morgan.

Happy graduation day, Tessie.

I love you both, and trust that Daddy is looking down on his three girls today and how far we’ve come.

My love today and always. Mx

I had forgotten that written assignment of nearly 35 years ago, scribbled out in a too hot and stuffy English classroom.

I found it today when going through some things. Moving house can throw up things like that.

Albeit I don’t resent getting older, I do marvel at where the time has gone. Even with pictures, my children find it hard to believe I had the same joys, sentiments and angst they now live through.

A secretive child, I would rarely let those around me in on my real feelings. Nope. Down that road there be monsters and the ability for people to hurt me. Best keep them away with a smart mouth and a tough demeanour.

Except that one day in a too hot and stuffy English classroom.

My English teacher, Mr Eisen, had played us the Simon & Garfunkel track ‘I Am A Rock,’ in class and talked about isolating and building walls around our feelings. An uncomfortable subject for me, then.

Said discomfort, an even smarter mouth that afternoon to disguise the discomfort, and a secret crush on Mr Eisen combined to see us all in detention a few hours later after school.

And I was puzzled why the man persisted in trying to get me to ‘open up’. The usual fare of 100 lines or copying out of some illegible tome was what I was used to when put in solitary confinement.

But no.

This detention was an insistent Mr Eisen with his persistent question of “What do you want, Melinda?”

Just that.

Over and sodding over again.

“What do you want, Melinda?” 

In temper, and with tears streaming down my face, I eventually grab my pen in fury and stab out my answer in that too hot and stuffy English classroom.

I want the power to live in non-judgemental space.

I want the power to make mistakes and not always be defined by them.

I want the power to explore all choices before making that choice one.

I want the power to make decisions about me without always using someone else’s script.

I want the power to accomplish great things and the tools to accomplish them.

I want the power to dream and not have my dreams laughed at.

I want the power to be strong enough to be weak with others.

I want the power to love who I love and to love openly.

I want the power to control my own life even if I don’t yet do it ‘effectively’.

I want the power to make my life happy.

I want the power to like me.

“Okay, then,” he said after reading the tear stained sheet I threw at him.

I often wonder where Mr Eisen is now.

Melinda

I’ve resisted adding to the noise of the proven and alleged sexual outings of major and minor celebrities in the wake of the Jimmy Savile debacle. Mainly because I cannot seem to get past a very unenlightening and inarticulate ‘OMG! Really? That guy from Coronation Street as well?!’

Anyone can say that. It need not be me.

But I did take pause in a recent conversation when someone said, ‘Sure, it’s not right, but young girls always come on to celebrities and make damn sure they don’t look under age.’

Hmmm…

For sure, the conversation didn’t decline into a crude ‘If they dress like that…and do that…and go there…what do they expect,’ but, again, I felt paused.

And certainly, young people can make some dumb-ass decisions.

I made some dumb-ass decisions growing up, one of which was to be flattered and taken out by an older man at the tender age of You Idiotic Fool. It didn’t last long and I didn’t get myself into anything too compromising. However, being alone in a fast moving car with someone old enough and big enough to overpower you doesn’t have to be compromising to be very ill advised.

For a very long time, I felt guilty and sullied by the experience, believing complete culpability was mine when accused of being a tease. (‘A tease,’ being the Universal Certificate version of what was actually said.)

Until I came to understand years later:

That is why we need the adults to be adults in any given situation.

This is not to negate teaching children and young adults personal responsbility or to absolve them of the Action = Consequence equation.

However, with a few accepted exceptions, we adults know better. We know the consequences of impulse and acting out beyond our years. We know the likely outcome of most situations.

With that knowledge, we should be looking out for the young and the ways of the young…not taking advantage.

And as a celebrity you fall into one of two camps. You either play on your notoriety, believing the rules don’t apply to you, or you safeguard yourself and those vulnerable to the lure of celebrity.

In the latter camp you understand that just because they come to you willingly, that doesn’t make them any less your potential victim.

MISs Make It Stop!

Doing the rounds again at the moment is the question ‘What are the five things you couldn’t live without?’

However, one is not allowed to include things like food, water or oxygen – which is funny because without those things it don’t much matter what else is on the list cos’ you’re dead, innit.

My simple mind at work again.

But we never do keep it simple do we? We get all educated and erudite when asked this sort of question. Like ‘Pick three people from history you’d invite to dinner,’ will rarely garner the answer ‘The Three Stooges.’

And my natural go-to answer, for instance, when asked what I would think of saving first in a fire is…my laptop. That thing has years of intellectual property on it and would be damned expensive to replace. No point using precious oxygen to save teens built like full grown goats. Dead weight that would get us all killed. However, my laptop would fit very nicely into a lightweight but durable laptop tote – and the story of how I saved it instead of the kids would bring me a £million book deal with which to dull the pain.

I jest.

Of course I would look to save the kids, but I would also think about saving my laptop, but let’s not upset anyone (the kids) about the order in which that might happen.

So, back to five things I couldn’t live without today, since time also has a way of partially claiming our list. I’m thinking colostomy bags and replacement hips here.

1. Family – especially if that family is your parents cos’, again, without that egg and sperm we couldn’t be here debating the question.

2. Friends – when your family by blood can’t stand you, it is imperative to find a group of people who choose to be with you despite your obvious flaws.

3. Writing – another way of saying my laptop.

4. The Arts – admiring and submerging ourselves in talent of all forms helps us to grow and to understand how pitifully wanting we are in comparison. It is also great fun striving to reach a modicum of that awesomeness.

5. My children – the best part of me, and a reminder that I did indeed achieve something truly awesome during my time on this earth.

HMS HerMelness Speaks

Pre-change, we think we know for certain the things we will miss when they are gone or no longer readily accessible.

When I lived full-time in the countryside, a horsey friend of mine, Sue, was forever trying to get me interested in her four legged friends. They’re okay, but I’ve never really understood the fascination with the beasts.

She gets that and we have a good laugh on the occasions she does try to educate me some more. (Yawn.)

Part of my apathy, or fear I guess, could be down to a childhood experience.

This was where I fell asleep on the sofa late one night and awoke not to the usual hissing of the TV, protesting for having been left so long unattended, but some sort of carnage involving a fire, mad horses and some dude poking their eyes out. Yep, that would make me pretty mad.

I came to understand later that the programme was probably a rendition of something called ‘Equus’.

And you know that state we sometimes reach between sleep and wake – where we can’t tell what’s real and what may be a dream? Well I’ve been in that state ever since where horses are concerned, convinced one of them may try and poke my eyes out. In a horse vs. human eye poking contest I don’t fancy my chances much. They have four hands to work with after all!

So you get that I’m not a horsey person.

And when walking or cycling in the country it is nigh impossible to complete any designated circuit without having to give way to a couple of them and their riders lest the poor things get upset and kick my head in.

I found it a nuisance on the many occasions I was in the ‘zone’.

But now that I am within city zones, I miss the regal nod of the horses and their riders as they thank me for paving their way.

Something to think about now I negotiate crazed pedestrians, bizarrely parked cars and excitable mutts as I go about my early morning lurches.

Don’t laugh, but I miss the horses.

Melinda

Is it irrational to want to move house – move stuff – in an orderly fashion? You know, so the house still looks nice in the process?

The accepted norm appears to be to detonate one room before its contents are hand grenaded into another room which too explodes before blasting the combined chaos into the hall. Chaos one must step over, trip over and swear over before the whole of the shit is moved to the front door to meet other shit which never quite made it through the front door.

I’ve been saying ‘shit’ a lot.

I miss Bronnie.

He would have known my OCD-lunatic-tendencies for order and lists. Yes, I said lists. Folk are actually achieving things without first writing them down then ticking them off.

What sort of madness is that?

I’m sure I read somewhere that no task can be considered achieved unless it first appeared on a list. Sure of it.

Bronnie would have understood my need for A Plan, a plan fortified with lists. He would have understood the absolute necessity of making me believe that things were being done in a structured way. Being done my way.

The man knew enough to lie.

To sneak around back.

To get things done in a disorganised but covert manner.

What’s happened to those honest, good old fashioned values?

But for all my organisational mojo, I have spectacularly managed to end the night in one house (let’s call it Country Mouse house) while all my sleepwear and every stitch of underwear I own has ended up in City Mouse house.

I’d laugh except I can’t seem to find my Laughing Face at the moment. I wonder what box it was packed in?

Ah, here it is in the box labelled ‘silverware’.

Madness I tell you. Madness.

HMS HerMelness Speaks