On Race: Coming to Terms with My Kelsey Problem

Hi, my name is Kelsey! We haven't met, yet, or maybe we have. Maybe you've seen me at Starbucks ahead of you and ordering three skinny pumpkin spice lattes and two iced mocha decafs while pulling my wet hair into a messy low-pony on that day you were running late for your 8:00am conference call. Sorry about that, but I had to grab some caffeine courage for my office biotches, you know! Hey, and super sorry about the maj coffee spillage that happened when my friend texted me about her bangs emergency and I attempted to hold my iPhone to read the text and then tried to reply to the text while balancing those two coffee trays. I felt to Lena Dunham that day, you know? Oh, you don't know! Really?? She's on "Girls" on HBO! I can't believe you haven't seen it!! Well, gotta run - BYYYYYYYEEEEE!

OK, that never happened. This was a fictional conversation between a fictional character named "Kelsey" and, an unwitting player in her life's drama, a fictional character that I'll call "Shandra." It's kind've funny, but, like a "Law & Order" episode, this scene was ripped from the headlines of my life, and, perhaps the lives of others. My fictional "Kelsey" is based on the flesh and blood Kelseys I meet everyday. She is buoyant, forever smiling, chirpy, and full of pluck. She is well-coiffed, though she spends countless hours with her hands in her hair - whether pulling it back with the elastic band that she always wears on her wrist, tucking it behind her ear, or maniacally running her fingers through it and furiously scooping it all to one side or the other or straight back if she really wants to get nuts. Her nails are always buffed and polished, and when they're not, she calls attention to the fact and tells a ripping yarn about why they're not done that usually involves a weird weekend DIY project with her roommates or baking brownies. Yes, brownies - Kelseys love to bake brownies and eat brownies, though not too many. And when they are seen eating their homemade confections, the Kelsey will, undoubtedly, call attention to how massive her gut/butt is, though she's usually south of a US size 8. 

Are you rolling your eyes yet? Or, are you nodding in agreement? Maybe you're doing both, like me!

Kelseys in the workplace are especially difficult to navigate. They are hardcore people-pleasers. Need someone to manage the office birthday party celebrations? Kelsey's there, with her well worn Rachel Ray cookbook and its perfect birthday brownie recipe! Need someone to work late every night for a year without asking for overtime, a raise, or a promotion? Kesley will do it, and she'll do it with a smile. She'll even come in on weekends, wearing her favorite Ann Taylor jewel tone cardi, skinny jeans, ballet flat, and plain white JCrew t-shirt, along with her faux, oversized pearl stud earrings. And don't worry, she'll stop by Starbucks on her way in for coffees for the whole team. I mean, they have to have something decent to drink with the 4 dozen brownies she managed to bake in the hours between working until 10pm on Friday night and arriving at 9am on Saturday morning. 

Kelseys function best in groups where they can stand out, although they hate to call attention to themselves. After work, packs of Kelseys (or is it gaggles, or a murder, no, that's crows) go to the nearest watering hole where they drink shots and call their fellow Kelseys "biotches" at the top of their lungs while precariously balancing an overflowing pilsner glass as they navigate through the throngs of other Kelseys looking to get their drink on! Oh, and here's another note, Kelseys always like to get something "on" - get my laundry on, get my drink on, get my tan on, get my party on - maybe it's because a Kelsey is always "on", which is why after stopping at the bar, the Kelsey then heads to the gym for SoulCycle or some sort of fitness bootcamp. Kelseys like the camaraderie of group classes or team sports, although she'll run a half-marathon for a cause, so for all you trying desperately to recruit for the company kickball team look no further than the Kelsey in your own backyard.

So, what's my beef with the Kelseys? I guess I have to go back to my childhood and my first Kelsey. At the start of second grade, the parents made my sister and I switch to a school closer to home, which meant goodbye to the 35-minute morning commute and hello to a school down the street from us. The change of venue, though, also meant goodbye to the black teachers and classmates I'd grown to love and hello to a predominately white elementary school. All at once, I was a little, fat black girl with unreasonable hair (read: nappy), a shiny face (Grandma liked to Spackle Vaseline on my face EVERY morning), a strange smile (a gap between my front teeth which I proudly display now), and no fashion sense (c'mon, I was a fat kid in the 1970s!). And there were the Kelseys - with their cool Barbie dolls, strawberry lip gloss, perfect penmanship (complete with hearts over their "i"s), and Hello Kitty pencil cases. In the presence of the Kelseys, I felt lacking.

By undergrad, I knew how to deal in the Kelsey-rich environment of my small, southern, nearly 100% white college and I seemed to thrive. But, I could see some cracks beginning to form and the Kelsey-tolerance I thought I'd built up was starting to wane. The Kelseys were the ones going on dates, getting boyfriends and fraternity pins and engagement rings from the white boys on my campus. And me - well, when I wasn't being overlooked or mistaken for one of the dining hall or cleaning staff, I was the friend or the one those white boys wanted to take to bed, but not wed. I felt shame and anger,

After school, though, I learned that I was not alone. That there were others of us who've suffered the Kelsey Curse of feeling less than. In my first job after grad school, I tried to out-Kelsey the Kelseys, striving for perky and upbeat and positive. My white supervisors applauded me, but the black women in my office were divided with some giving me a lot of side-eye and others loving my can-do attitude, and hoping that we finally had a contender to fight the Kelsey scourge!! I was doing alright, and soon, I left for my dream job in radio, but, in a stunning twist, I found that what my new boss wanted me to BE a Kelsey. You see, somewhere I'd become confused, and had taken so much Kelsey into my bloodstream that people thought that I was a Kelsey. But, I'm not, and that's when I began to understand that my Kelsey problem was defining my life. I remember, at that time, going to a vocal coach who said that everyone who hosts their own radio or TV show has to find their voice - who they are, their point of view - and communicate that over the airwaves. It sounded so simple, unless you don't know who you are, and I didn't have a clue. 

I had only defined myself in relation to the Kelseys of the world, and now I am able to see that I am more than I thought. All of the shame and the anger and the longing to belong had become tiresome. I hate thinking about all of the time I lost in the clutches of the Kelsey haze, and even though I have some minor twinges, like when I'm watching "Top Chef" or "Food Network Star" and see another black woman contestant knocked off of her game by some fresh-faced Kelsey, I'm aware of how good life is. Not perfect, but so very good. Too good to be consumed with the cult of Kelsey. So play with your hair, drink your pumpkin-spice beverage, bake your brownies, Zumba your little heart out - I'm over it, Kelsey! 

The Big Chop: When a Haircut is More Than a Haircut

This past week, the world was rocked by news out of the British Royal Palace that the deliciously lovely brown locks of the Duchess of Cambridge were under assault by, of all people, her mother-in-law! And this coming shortly on the heels of another royal pig-pile, this one involving her grandmother-in-law, the Queen, and her decree regarding Kate's hemlines (below the knee, ducky). Judging by the outflow of social media angst and anger over the suggestion that the Duchess adopt a shorter, more mommy-friendly hair cut, you had to wonder about the larger issues at stake. Was this yet another instance of royal meddling, the likes of which had been endured by another beauty who dared marry into the Buckingham Palace set? Was this a punch to the throat to feminism or was it just another case of female competition? 

Hair, it appears, is a very touchy subject these days. There was the "Afro-magnifico" of New York Mayor Bill de Blasio's son, as well as the natural hair looks of the daughter de Blasio and the mayor's wife. And the case of an African-American local TV news personality who was fired for wearing her hair in a natural, nonchemically-straightened style. Even the occupants of the White House get unnecessary attention over all things follicled - with the First Lady and her blow-out and the First Daughters and their natural hair styles.

I've gone through my own hair battles all of my life - from press and curls, to Jerri Curls, back to press and curls, to cornrows, to individuals, to relaxers, and now, most recently, a close-cropped natural 'fro. Women in the know call this "the big chop" - the super-short haircut to get all of the chemicals out of the hair and to return it to its virgin (and in my case tightly curled) state. This wasn't the first time I'd ever had my hair cut short, so this wasn't the deep trauma that you see on a daytime talk show ambush makeover where the victim with hair down to her waist has her hair cut to chin length. But, this was the first time that I'd had a short haircut minus the chemical hair straightener. 

The day of the big chop, I walked out the salon and straight into the cold winter air. For the first time, I truly felt the cold wind whipping through my now substantially shorter hair! Over the next few weeks after the big chop, I did a slow roll-out of the new haircut to family, friends, clients, and I did my own internal focus group testing. Reaction among other black women has been consistently and sometimes overwhelmingly positive, depending on age. Young professionals in the under-30 age group thought my haircut was saucy and they loved how healthy my hair looked. My middle-aged group were a mixed bag, with some admiring my courage and others giving no reaction at all. Finally were the 55-plus group of black women, most of whom had already done their own big chop many years ago and who greeted me with words to the effect of, "isn't it nice to be free?" 

And then there were the other reactions. These weren't negative reactions in the sense of what the hell did you do/this is awful/will it grow back? Instead, it was as if Harry Potter had thrown his invisibility cloak over me. I passed undetected through the offices of several clients - I mean they saw me, but they failed to recognize me.  A couple of weeks ago, I was at the airport, on my way home from a five-day conference, and in the waiting area I saw a participant from that same conference. She and I have attended this conference for several years and we even shared a flight home after this same conference the year before. So when I said, "hello", I thought there would be some hint of recognition. There wasn't. When our flight landed, and we were all waiting to pick up our luggage, we were only a couple of feet apart, but still nothing. By the time I rolled my bags out to wait for my ride, this same woman came over to get into her idling black town car, mere inches from me, but still nothing.  Even Facebook and it's facial recognition software were vexed, asking me if I wanted to tag a photo of me with the name of another friend who also happens to be a black woman with short hair and glasses (sorry Cynthia!). 

I feel like I've disappeared, or have been reborn - I can't decide which. When my non-black friends first saw my hair, they all, to a person, noticed that I'd cut my hair. But, what they didn't know, and, perhaps, couldn't know, about this haircut was that its changes run deeper than the shortness of my hair. They couldn't know that these tightly-packed curls were a signal to all whom I meet that I am different and I love how I am different.  They couldn't know that my life prior to the big chop meant avoiding any activities which could do harm to my chemically relaxed hair; half-day marathon appointments at the hairdresser; a constant search for and acquisition of umbrellas; and, in my case, not learning how to swim until I was an adult and sporting cornrows! I am learning to be beautiful in a world where people tell me that I'm not beautiful because my hair is too nappy, my skin too dark, and my body too large. And before you roll your eyes and wonder whether I'm going to dare to "go there" with that old chestnut, "beauty's on the inside", that's not where this is heading. Sure, your inside should be beautiful, but we need to expand our notions of outward, visible beauty, as well, just as I am doing.

When I think about it, the hardest adjustment I've had to make has been recognizing that my chemically straightened hair wasn't helping me to fit in, but was helping me to hide out, to disappear myself into the easily acceptable. I am trying, now, only to be myself and to love all of who I am, even if that makes some people uncomfortable. 

The Swirl: What "Scandal" and Olivia Pope Say About Black Women and Interracial Relationships

This week, the cast of ABC's top-rated political drama, "Scandal", was on an all-out media blitz for the series' season finale. During one of the stops, to Bravo's Watch What Happens, actor Tony Goldwyn, who plays the role of hunky President "Fitz", was asked by host Andy Cohen what it's like to be lusted after by millions of middle-aged black women, to which Goldwyn responded with that easy Fitzian grin, "Exhausting."  In fact, over the course of numerous interviews about "Scandal", Goldwyn, as well as series lead Kerry Washington who stars as Washington "fixer" Olivia Pope, have all remarked about their surprise at the explosive reception of this show by television audiences. Black women, in particular, are drawn to the show, and have a particular kinship with Ms. Pope, who is a fearless, intelligent, articulate strong black woman who gets to also show her passion and her vulnerability. In a sea of neck-rolling, eye-rolling, weave-heavy reality TV "stars", the fact that Olivia Pope isn't the typical black woman we get to see on TV makes her even more special.

But even more curious to us black women is the smoldering and forbidden love relationship between Ms. Pope and President Fitz. That it's 2013 and the only consistent black/white romantic story lines we see on American TV are "The Jeffersons" reruns, and the newly-canceled ABC sitcom, "Happy Endings" might have something to do with it. Yet, I think there's something more to our fascination with black/white interracial romance in general, also dubbed, "the swirl", and Olivia Pope and Fitz in particular. One of the fiercest battles that black women have faced has been around standards of beauty. Does my kinky hair make me pretty or ugly?  Am I less desirable because of my darker skin or my thicker lips? To bring the analogy to the music world - am I a Beyonce or a Kelly Rowland? Enter Olivia Pope - rocking her fierce press and curl, brown skin and plush lips. And there, admiring her, loving her, is Fitz - a handsome white man who happens to be the President of the United States. Not since Sanaa Lathan and Simon Baker in the 2006 motion picture, "Something New", have we seen anything approaching a relationship like this between a black woman and a white man on film and TV.

In the annals of black/white interracial relationships, high profile black men and white women couplings have become almost the norm in professional sports, drawing knowing, frustrated sighs from black women. But when a white man chooses to date, and even marry, a black woman, then attention must be paid. Think about it this way: this man could have dated and married a white woman, whose attributes are seen as the standard for beauty in western civilization, but he chose a "sister"!!?? When it was revealed that Brad Pitt had once dated Robin Givhan, you would've thought that it was VE Day 1945 for black women. Here was a legitimate Hollywood heartthrob who had dated a black woman, had taken her out in public. Actor Robert De Niro - a certified A-lister - is the patron saint of black women with his gorgeous black wife, Grace Hightower, by his side. These relationships provide validation, but validation of what?

At the core of everyone is the need to feel loved for who you are. In the fictional President Fitz, we see a white man who loves a black woman for all of who she is, and not despite those things. Who loves this black woman more than he loves his white wife. And even though the crossing of this great racial chasm is rarely voiced by the characters on "Scandal", it permeates how the audience receives the show, and how a particular segment of the show see themselves in Olivia Pope's shoes.