Evil Twin TheoryFriday, May 16, 2003
Iterations on a theme: Ethnic Hair Fantasies, Human Worth, and Genius
So I was surfing around yesterday or perhaps the day before and I came across this site (Rent-A-Negro) at first of course as the author/artist no doubt intended I was a little offended, then upon reading further a bit mystified.
The author claims to have been prompted to produce the site because she was constantly being pointed out as the token black person in her social circle. She lives somewhere in the northwest where apparently there are very few black folks at all and the ones there are, like her, are something of a commodity. The author having grown tired of people wanting to touch her hair (oh my what a novel experience to be able to touch a black girl's hair) and comparing to a handful of media divas because she is young and attractive and apparently has nice dread locks or something.
I think I lack the social context to really understand the author’s pain. Where I live black folk are pretty common. In fact I've always lived in places where black and Asian and Hispanic and so folk are pretty common. Let me assure you, while I don't consider myself a racist, the novelty of diversity has worn off. Now visualize a Beneton ad and you'll get a pretty good picture of what my life is like, except my peer group is older and far less attractive, or at least not uniformly and blandly attractive.
So my first thoughts upon looking over her site was, "Hey, this is like 20 years too late." But as I have said she seems to move in rarified social circles where there are few black folks and she as an artist is enamored with racial and gender struggles so I’m sure the site is edgy and relevant in her world. I just missed the point. Also it the author seems to group all of us white folk (Why do I have to be lumped in with the stupid, ignorant, and insensitive crowd all the time? I want to sit with the kool kids) into one basket --another issue for me. The same thing happened, and still happens, with the women's movement and with the struggle for equality for all minorities. My point is that none of these culture or gender groups are monolithic. They’re not even really rational or naturally occurring groups, of course, but socially constructed demarcations. Lines drawn in the sand so that we all can make judgments about who is inside and who is outside our little circle. Whatever.
I’m pretty comfortable making judgments (seemingly, though I know that I don’t possess a privilege perspective, that I’m just a short sighted and ego centric as anyone and here’s a little secret, just as prone to pre-judge-ice as anyone) on my own terms. In short I think the artist could benefit greatly from renting someone like me (maybe we could even date, though I believe she has a female life partner but that doesn’t seem novel to me either). Don’t however look for me to open a rent-a-liberal-educated-southern-cracker site anytime soon. Somehow I think the joke would be lost on most people just as the rent a Negro site is lost on me.
I will confess that after reading through her site and looking into her other artistic endeavors I might like to touch her hair too, but I’m not paying for the privilege. I’ll let her touch mine back. I’ve been told by certain black girls (stretching all the way back to Althea Foreman in the fourth grade and, closer to adulthood, to my hopefully penultimate GF) that I have nice hair. Althea used to ruffle my Dutch boy haircut every morning when she walked passed my desk. As I remember she had some fascination with ‘white boy hair.’ I recall being embarrassed at the time, though not offended. I never thought of charging Althea for it though.
As for the theme, sometime last year I stumbled on the human for sale site and registered my surprise at my estimated worth. Here we have an independent effort to set a price on a human being. So there is the tie in.
As long as we are on the subject of hair and I have the author of the rent a Negro site for bringing this to my attention there is in fact a girl closer to home whose hair I’d like to touch. I won’t ask her though, chiefly because we work together and I am in a committed relationship with someone else. Two very good reasons I think. But I’d really like to touch it. It might even have something to do with race. She is a Hispanic woman. She has these clots of long black hair pull back in a loose ponytail. Her hair is not quite straight but certainly not curly. To make matters worse (or better as the case may be) she always smells really good. Faintly of soap and perfume and she is always really sweet (in a comradely work buddy kind of way) to me. So while she is discussing this project or that or just doing the office gossip thing I am fantasizing about touching her dark Hispanic hair . . . rats. Thanks a lot Negro for rent lady. Way to blow my concentration and to make me feel adolescent, embarrassed, and guilty all at the same time. I mean no harm though. I wouldn’t ever really touch her hair on purpose, though conceivably I could accidentally brush my hand against it if I were to walk behind her when she was seated and if w sat side by said looking at some project I can often smell it. But I won’t confess any of this to her or anyone else and, gentle readers let me assure you, I certainly won’t touch it
Moving right along I took an I.Q. test yesterday ( another effort to quantify human worth in readily comparable terms) While I don’t really trust the results of the test (the web site that set it up is interested in selling it mind enhancing products, so everyone who takes the test ideally should be smart but not too smart) I did have some fun fantasizing about what the results meant to me.
Here is the thing. After you take the test you got a score and a description of what various IQ scores might mean. The description of my score said that I was a near genius, not quite smart enough to be a real genius (DUH!), but just smart enough to appear to be a genius to most other people. That’s a powerful thought. I appear to be a genius to most other people.
So here comes the fantasy. The other day I was climbing up the stairs of the arts and letters building with a back pack laden with student papers on my shoulder, a cup of coffee in one hand, and a stack of dreck (a notebook, some correspondence and some academic junk mail) in the other. Because it was between classes the stairs were crowded. Of course, what happens is I drop some of the dreck out of my hand and when I lean down to pick it up the backpack slides of my shoulder down onto my elbow causing me considerable pain and more importantly throwing me off balance. This resulted in my dumping coffee unto the papers and stuff I’d dropped onto the floor. Now I have both hands full, a backpack ripping my arm off and I’m spilling coffee on my stuff in the middle of a crowded stairwell. There is nothing I can do but set down my cup and drop the stuff I was carry to readjust my backpack. All of this while students, faculty and staff flow around me, attempting to avoid the mess I’d made on the floor. Was I embarrassed? Well of course I was. At the time I assumed all those witnesses must think I was a dork or worse some character in a madcap comedy. Not so. They all assumed I was a genius. They were wrong of course, but there on the stairwell a little drama played out. “Look at that poor genius” they all must have thought. He might be able to solve all of the world’s ills but He lacks the life skills to climb the stairs without incident.
It probably happens all the time but I’m too self involved to notice. Think of it I doing the evening commute home. I make a bad move in traffic nearly causing a multi vehicle pile up. I’m embarrassed and won’t make eye contact with any of the drivers (probably with families and young children who demand upon them) but instead of being frightened or mad or whatever they really are thinking. . “There goes a genius’
So I was surfing around yesterday or perhaps the day before and I came across this site (Rent-A-Negro) at first of course as the author/artist no doubt intended I was a little offended, then upon reading further a bit mystified.
The author claims to have been prompted to produce the site because she was constantly being pointed out as the token black person in her social circle. She lives somewhere in the northwest where apparently there are very few black folks at all and the ones there are, like her, are something of a commodity. The author having grown tired of people wanting to touch her hair (oh my what a novel experience to be able to touch a black girl's hair) and comparing to a handful of media divas because she is young and attractive and apparently has nice dread locks or something.
I think I lack the social context to really understand the author’s pain. Where I live black folk are pretty common. In fact I've always lived in places where black and Asian and Hispanic and so folk are pretty common. Let me assure you, while I don't consider myself a racist, the novelty of diversity has worn off. Now visualize a Beneton ad and you'll get a pretty good picture of what my life is like, except my peer group is older and far less attractive, or at least not uniformly and blandly attractive.
So my first thoughts upon looking over her site was, "Hey, this is like 20 years too late." But as I have said she seems to move in rarified social circles where there are few black folks and she as an artist is enamored with racial and gender struggles so I’m sure the site is edgy and relevant in her world. I just missed the point. Also it the author seems to group all of us white folk (Why do I have to be lumped in with the stupid, ignorant, and insensitive crowd all the time? I want to sit with the kool kids) into one basket --another issue for me. The same thing happened, and still happens, with the women's movement and with the struggle for equality for all minorities. My point is that none of these culture or gender groups are monolithic. They’re not even really rational or naturally occurring groups, of course, but socially constructed demarcations. Lines drawn in the sand so that we all can make judgments about who is inside and who is outside our little circle. Whatever.
I’m pretty comfortable making judgments (seemingly, though I know that I don’t possess a privilege perspective, that I’m just a short sighted and ego centric as anyone and here’s a little secret, just as prone to pre-judge-ice as anyone) on my own terms. In short I think the artist could benefit greatly from renting someone like me (maybe we could even date, though I believe she has a female life partner but that doesn’t seem novel to me either). Don’t however look for me to open a rent-a-liberal-educated-southern-cracker site anytime soon. Somehow I think the joke would be lost on most people just as the rent a Negro site is lost on me.
I will confess that after reading through her site and looking into her other artistic endeavors I might like to touch her hair too, but I’m not paying for the privilege. I’ll let her touch mine back. I’ve been told by certain black girls (stretching all the way back to Althea Foreman in the fourth grade and, closer to adulthood, to my hopefully penultimate GF) that I have nice hair. Althea used to ruffle my Dutch boy haircut every morning when she walked passed my desk. As I remember she had some fascination with ‘white boy hair.’ I recall being embarrassed at the time, though not offended. I never thought of charging Althea for it though.
As for the theme, sometime last year I stumbled on the human for sale site and registered my surprise at my estimated worth. Here we have an independent effort to set a price on a human being. So there is the tie in.
As long as we are on the subject of hair and I have the author of the rent a Negro site for bringing this to my attention there is in fact a girl closer to home whose hair I’d like to touch. I won’t ask her though, chiefly because we work together and I am in a committed relationship with someone else. Two very good reasons I think. But I’d really like to touch it. It might even have something to do with race. She is a Hispanic woman. She has these clots of long black hair pull back in a loose ponytail. Her hair is not quite straight but certainly not curly. To make matters worse (or better as the case may be) she always smells really good. Faintly of soap and perfume and she is always really sweet (in a comradely work buddy kind of way) to me. So while she is discussing this project or that or just doing the office gossip thing I am fantasizing about touching her dark Hispanic hair . . . rats. Thanks a lot Negro for rent lady. Way to blow my concentration and to make me feel adolescent, embarrassed, and guilty all at the same time. I mean no harm though. I wouldn’t ever really touch her hair on purpose, though conceivably I could accidentally brush my hand against it if I were to walk behind her when she was seated and if w sat side by said looking at some project I can often smell it. But I won’t confess any of this to her or anyone else and, gentle readers let me assure you, I certainly won’t touch it
Moving right along I took an I.Q. test yesterday ( another effort to quantify human worth in readily comparable terms) While I don’t really trust the results of the test (the web site that set it up is interested in selling it mind enhancing products, so everyone who takes the test ideally should be smart but not too smart) I did have some fun fantasizing about what the results meant to me.
Here is the thing. After you take the test you got a score and a description of what various IQ scores might mean. The description of my score said that I was a near genius, not quite smart enough to be a real genius (DUH!), but just smart enough to appear to be a genius to most other people. That’s a powerful thought. I appear to be a genius to most other people.
So here comes the fantasy. The other day I was climbing up the stairs of the arts and letters building with a back pack laden with student papers on my shoulder, a cup of coffee in one hand, and a stack of dreck (a notebook, some correspondence and some academic junk mail) in the other. Because it was between classes the stairs were crowded. Of course, what happens is I drop some of the dreck out of my hand and when I lean down to pick it up the backpack slides of my shoulder down onto my elbow causing me considerable pain and more importantly throwing me off balance. This resulted in my dumping coffee unto the papers and stuff I’d dropped onto the floor. Now I have both hands full, a backpack ripping my arm off and I’m spilling coffee on my stuff in the middle of a crowded stairwell. There is nothing I can do but set down my cup and drop the stuff I was carry to readjust my backpack. All of this while students, faculty and staff flow around me, attempting to avoid the mess I’d made on the floor. Was I embarrassed? Well of course I was. At the time I assumed all those witnesses must think I was a dork or worse some character in a madcap comedy. Not so. They all assumed I was a genius. They were wrong of course, but there on the stairwell a little drama played out. “Look at that poor genius” they all must have thought. He might be able to solve all of the world’s ills but He lacks the life skills to climb the stairs without incident.
It probably happens all the time but I’m too self involved to notice. Think of it I doing the evening commute home. I make a bad move in traffic nearly causing a multi vehicle pile up. I’m embarrassed and won’t make eye contact with any of the drivers (probably with families and young children who demand upon them) but instead of being frightened or mad or whatever they really are thinking. . “There goes a genius’
