Embracing natural hair and learning to love myself

On (the) edge: Differences can complicate the first year transition

For most of us, the beginning of the year has come and gone. Add/Drop period is over. Exams have started. The warmth of summer is beginning to pass and the cold creeps in at night. The excitement of a new year has faded but, for first years, the transition has just begun.
Any Bowdoin student, no matter their background or connection to the school, must go through a period of transition upon arriving as a first year. All of us awkwardly made small talk while uncomfortably lying on the floor of Farley Field House. Many of us sat nervously through class on that first Thursday in anticipation of our first Pub Night. Many more of us returned to our first year bricks confused about the nightmare we had just witnessed. Some students find their place on campus immediately; others feel lost for the entirety of their first year. The transition into college is rarely a completely smooth ride. However, the transition is often harder and more prolonged for those who do not fit the norm.
Though Bowdoin strives to be an accepting and inclusive environment for its students, the availability of resources does not always equal a comfortable environment. At Bowdoin, students of color can easily find safe spaces, whether at 30 College Street (our multicultural house), the Russwurm African American Center, or within a number of student organizations. These are indeed fantastic spaces wherein students of color can gather, but a first-year student of color cannot stay inside the four walls of their safe space twenty-four hours a day. The existence of the African American Society will not protect a new black student from being called the n-word in the “safety” of their dorm. The Deans of Multicultural Life are a few of my favorite people on campus, but they are not standing in Baxter’s basement on Saturday nights to stop entitled white boys from telling first-year black girls that they “have never hooked up with a black girl before," disgustingly insinuating that tonight might finally be the night. Yes, Bowdoin funds a Latin American Student Organization, but that does not keep people from fetishizing girls with words such as “spicy” or hurling “Wait, so, what are you?” towards a student after hearing them speak Spanish while on the phone with their parents.
This experience is often shared by first-year students who are marginalized for reasons besides skin color. The Resource Center for Sexual and Gender Diversity provides an extremely welcoming and affirming place for students who identify as non-straight or non-cisgender, as well as allies. The Center actually has special programming specifically for first-year students to ensure that they are supported as they adjust to this new place. Kate Stern, the Director of the Center, is an on-campus mother figure to a tremendous number of Bowdoin students—myself included. Though these wonderful places and people exist, students cannot live in that safety bubble at all hours. The existence of the Resource Center will certainly soothe—but can never squash—the fear of coming out to your first-year floor. The Bowdoin Queer Straight Alliance can (and I hope, does) make first years feel as if Bowdoin is where they belong, but that feeling might quickly flee as they experience the heteronormativity of Bowdoin’s hook-up culture.
In no way do I mean to undermine the transition experiences of all Bowdoin students. Let me be clear: I do not believe that the transition is automatically easier for white, straight students. White, straight students are not a homogenous group. We all come from different places, experienced different upbringings, and harbor different stories. However, for students whose differences are as visible as skin color, or as painful to hide as sexuality or gender identity, there are negative experiences that have been shared again and again, year after year, that complicate the transition exponentially.
To the first years whose transitions have been rocky due to differences (whether it be a difference in race, sexuality, gender identity, or simply a lack of comfort): you are in good company. Do not feel that you shouldn’t feel this way simply because Bowdoin is left-leaning or because safe spaces exist. Your feelings are valid and your experience is real. Furthermore, your current feelings of anxiety are normal and will likely fade as you find your place here. Most importantly, there are a number of upperclass students who have been where you are and are using their experiences to educate the community and shift the campus culture. This is me extending my hand in solidarity. We are with you.
To all students: I encourage you to explore the resources available to you. Check out different multicultural groups regardless of your own race and make the effort to understand the issues plaguing different people. Visit our Resource Center and listen to students’ experiences. You could be negatively impacting the experience of another student without knowing it. Luckily, the information on how not to do so is about a five minute walk from your bed.

On (the) edge: Discontinuing the Jefferson Davis Award opens dialogue and allows for progress

However, what the writer of the Yak failed to recognize is the grave difference between addressing the dark past and idling in it. There is an inexhaustible disparity between discussing a man whose actions and values do not align with the contemporary values of the College and giving out an award in his honor. The discontinuation of the Jefferson Davis Award is not an affront on history nor is it a means of sweeping Bowdoin’s dirty secrets under the rug. I knew little of this award, or the history of Davis’ connection to Bowdoin, before this week. Its existence did nothing to foster discussion; however, its removal has. How honoring a man who once referred to enslaved Africans as “our inferior, fitted expressly for servitude” could serve as anything other than a slap in the face to students of color is beyond me. I firmly believe that, in discontinuing this award, Bowdoin “addressed its dark past” in the most direct way possible.

On (the) edge

Embracing natural hair and learning to love myself

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

Adira Polite

Columnist

October 16, 2015

Yes, you can touch my hair. If you ask.
But, before you put your hands on my head, understand that my hair has a history. My first trip to the infamous black hair salon was at the age of four. I remember hair stylists raising my chair to its highest level because I was too short for them to reach my head. Hours were spent in the hair salon once a week and, from age four to 14, the routine never changed—shampoo, blow dry, straighten. At least two hours were spent under the mercy of the torture device known as the hot comb. Trips to the hair salon were so regular that my natural hair was essentially a stranger. The only time I spent with that familiar stranger was the half hour period between shampoo and straighten. On every Saturday afternoon, I willingly allowed my naturally wild and poofy curls and coils to be transformed into the flat monotony of someone else.

In the eighth grade, the desire for straight hair was so fervid that I convinced my mom to let me get a perm. A perm, in the world of black hair, chemically straightens your hair—permanently. The hair stylist essentially massages chemicals onto your hair, waits 20 minutes, then washes it out. I left the salon after my first treatment more confident and prideful than I had ever been; no longer would a humid Tennessee day return my hair to its natural state. The texture of my hair was forever changed. I finally had the long, silky, tangle-free hair that I considered beautiful.

The excitement of these new treatments came to a screeching halt a few weeks later, when my touch-up stylist left the chemicals on my scalp for too long. With tears running down my face, I told the stylist that it felt as if my head was on fire. After numerous wash-outs and no decrease in pain level, it became clear that the damage was done. Upon inspection, I found my scalp, ears and hairline covered in chemical burns. I had to chop my hair off and begin anew. Despite my new short ‘do, I was still determined to have straight hair; so, I returned to my old wash, blow dry, straighten routine.

The summer before I left Tennessee for Maine, one of my best friends convinced me to get a weave. She praised the ease that weaves allow and noted that I would no longer have to put effort into straightening my hair. I got a weave about a week before leaving home and hated it within a few weeks. For one, it was heavy. Its weight heightened the artificiality of its presence, making me constantly feel as if I was trying to be someone that I was not. I consistently received compliments; however, I always felt as if I couldn’t take pride in something that was not really mine. The turning point came around early November of that first semester, mostly due to readings assigned in my first year seminar, “Racism”. The more I learned about systemic racism and the media—issues that were never discussed in my high school—the more I began to question why I so badly desired straight hair. It’s certainly not rocket science. America is stuck on a Eurocentric standard of beauty and my Southern, mostly white, all-girls preparatory school was no exception to that.

I had the weave removed over Thanksgiving Break but continued to straighten until the next spring. While home for Spring Break, I cut off my heat-damaged ends and finally began to love my natural hair. For me, natural hair is not only an expression of self-acceptance, but also one of black pride. Black people, especially women, have been labeled subhuman, ugly and undesirable for centuries. Black women’s bodies were considered the property of white men when contact between the races first occurred—unfortunately, not much has changed since. In finally accepting my hair and all of its blackness, I am giving the middle finger to the notion that beauty means whiteness. I am not saying that wearing a weave equals self-hate or a lack of self-acceptance; many of the most socially aware and self-loving people I know wear weaves and I fully respect that choice. Personally, however, my weave made me recognize how damaged the relationship between myself and my hair was, and that the cause of that damage was largely due to the warped beauty standards of my environment.

I understand that, especially on an elite college campus in Maine, my hair is out of the ordinary. It’s fluffy, coily and soft to the touch. It’s black hair. I understand the desire to touch my hair. But I am not your pet. I am not your property. People seem shocked when I slap their hands away from my head, but I can’t understand why. Would you randomly stroke the hair of a random blonde girl that you don’t know? I doubt it. Do you think that it’s socially acceptable to touch me without permission simply because my hair is different than yours, or because it’s “exotic” enough that I must understand? I once asked a boy why he thought he could touch me without my permission and he replied matter-of-factly, “It looks cool. I figured you were used to it.” I already know that I’m in the minority, and I’m well aware of the fact that I’m different. When I feel someone’s hands on my head without permission and hear the reactive coos and “woahs”, I quickly remember why I used to subject myself to the pain of heat and chemicals in order to achieve anonymity. Touching my hair without permission, no matter how well-intentioned, is othering. I’ve had countless discussions with other black women about how objectifying and alienating these experiences can be.

Contrary to my current tone, I am not a spiteful person. If you ask to touch my hair, I will most likely say yes. Let’s be real, having your hair stroked feels even better than drinking seven Lime-a-Ritas. However, if you touch me without asking, don’t be shocked or offended when I slap your hand away. It’s not personal, but what you’re doing certainly is.

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