Discontinuing the Jefferson Davis Award opens dialogue and allows for progress

On (the) edge: Embracing natural hair and learning to love myself

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.

On (the) edge: Cultural appropriation: why they're not 'just clothes'

This past Thursday, members of Bowdoin’s sailing team held a "gangster" themed party. The team’s party, and its theme, became public knowledge upon their entrance into Super Snack. The team’s attire included baggy pants, jerseys, gold chains and 80’s style LL Cool J hats. One member of the team had his hair braided into cornrows.
I am naturally tempted to embark on a furious rant, but I have decided to instead rein in my frustration and attempt to offer generosity. To those who do not yet understand why the sailing team’s party theme is unacceptable: I am perplexed by you, but I do not resent you. In the aftermath of this incident, however, you need to learn.
Cultural appropriation, in the context of this column, refers to the adoption of one culture’s aspects by members of another culture. An example of this would be if I, an African-American, wore a Native American headdress as part of a costume for Halloween. Though I happen to be part Native American, I do not identify with this culture and know little to nothing about the meaning behind the headdress. By donning this headdress, I would be taking part of Native American culture and turning it into a trendy, meaningless costume. My actions would misrepresent Native American culture and would draw upon stereotypes in doing so. Unfortunately, my good intentions would probably not console an offended party goer who sees a distorted replica of their culture worn as a costume.
If this situation seems uncomfortable, one can only imagine the friction that arises when power dynamics come into play. If my wearing a Native American headress would justifiably disturb someone who identifies with that culture, how must marginalized groups feel when members of the dominant culture “costume” the culture of the people who have been systematically oppressed by that same dominant culture? That is exactly what happened when a team of mostly white students left their dorms dressed as gangsters.
I’ve heard a number of justifications for the sailing team’s party theme. Some say that the event should not upset Bowdoin’s black population because they weren’t mocking us—it was just a costume. Others say the student donning cornrows was dressed as Riff Raff, a white rapper. Proponents of this justification claim that the incident cannot count as cultural appropriation if the imitated figure is white. Furthermore, some students have fully discounted the issue of cultural appropriation as a whole. Unfortunately for these defenders, all of these views are shortsighted.
The Riff Raff justification is nothing short of comical, as Riff Raff is essentially the physical embodiment of cultural appropriation. The worldwide controversy surrounding Iggy Azalea, a white performer who is continuously accused of appropriating black culture, could easily apply to Riff Raff. The argument that this student’s cornrows are justified by Riff Raff’s race is moot. Let me be direct: cornrows are not just a hairstyle. Cornrows, braids, twists—they are not just hairstyles. The earliest depiction of African cornrow braiding dates back to 500 B.C. Intricate hair designs have long been an integral part of African culture and that tradition came to America on the slave ships. These hairstyles have served as a means of maintaining the often kinky, coily texture of black hair. Not only are these hairstyles a part of black culture, but they are also a source of discrimination. Many workplaces ban these hairstyles and some even ban Afro-textured hair as a whole. They are not just hairstyles and they are most certainly not costume accessories.
As for the sailing team’s intentions, I know that they were not mocking the black members of this community; no black person on this campus fulfills the stereotypes that costumes such as theirs uphold. However, whether the involved members of this team realized it or not, their theme directly took negative stereotypes of the black race and made them into a costume. The appearance and dress of black men and women has been both scrutinized and debased for centuries. Furthermore, in countless cases, their dress has been used to justify death.
In fact, one of the most dangerous black stereotypes is that of the “thug.” A quick Google search of this word returns photos of angry-looking black men, many with cornrows, holding guns, money and gold. This trope has resulted in society’s continuous distrust of the black man—a distrust that has become an expected, and even accepted, part of black men’s experiences in America. A black boy, such as Trayvon Martin, cannot even walk home with his life intact because his “gangster clothing” (i.e. hoodie and brown skin) signified his criminal intent. Members of the dominant culture cannot try on these stereotypes for fun then stand idly by while these same harmful stereotypes end lives.
To the Bowdoin community: stop mocking the members of the community who are upset by the sailing team’s actions. Jokes about how Halloween is the cultural appropriation of goth/magical/satanic culture are not funny, and I have a very broad sense of humor. These “jokes” simply reveal a lack of understanding of the afflictions of people who are not like yourself. You do not have to be a student of color, queer, low-income, disabled, or a member of any other marginalized group in order to put your own experience aside for five minutes to try to understand the experiences of others.
I am disappointed for the multitude of prospective students of color who witnessed the Super Snack debacle. If offered admission to Bowdoin, many will likely choose to take their talent and intellect elsewhere. I am frustrated for the black first years whose first semesters have been tainted by such a level of disrespect. My anguish is not only directed towards the sailing team, but towards the community at large. The jokes and eyerolls hurled at those upset by this incident have made me question what I usually consider to be a compassionate community. Those pursuing a liberal arts education supposedly do so because they seek to understand. Sadly, that is the opposite of what I have witnessed on campus this week.

On (the) edge

Discontinuing the Jefferson Davis Award opens dialogue and allows for progress

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

October 22, 2015

As many now know, the Board of Trustees voted last weekend to discontinue the government and legal studies department’s Jefferson Davis Award. As stated in an Orient article released earlier this week, the discontinuation of the award was prompted by newly-inaugurated President Rose. This award, granted annually by the government department, served to honor a student who demonstrated proficiency in the study of constitutional law. The award was created in 1972, when it was endowed by the United Daughters of the Confederacy, an organization founded by and for female descendants of Confederate soldiers.

Not only did this organization endow this award, but it was also named in honor of the man who served as the President of the Confederate States of America during the American Civil War. Davis worked as a cabinet member under Franklin Pierce—fourteenth president of the United States, anti-abolitionist and member of the Bowdoin Class of 1824—and received an honorary degree from the College in 1848.

Davis’ connection to Bowdoin cannot be denied but honoring this man does more harm than good. I found out about the discontinuation of the award while walking back to my room after lab. My otherwise monotonous afternoon was immediately filled with emotion. As a black student, I felt as if this administrative decision had been made in my defense. I shared the news with my mom, discussed it with a few friends from home, then forgot about it for the night.

The next day, I made the mistake of checking Yik Yak. I read a number of comments that frustrated me, but one stood out among the rest. “I don’t dig the whitewashing of our history,” the anonymous comment reads. “We should own our relationship to the USA’s darker past and use it as a cause to reflect on our relationship to the imperfect present.” This comment is legitimate in numerous ways: America desperately needs to address its dark past and present in order to achieve progress. This is true in the context of Bowdoin as well, whether it involves something that we want to celebrate or something that’s difficult to discuss. In fact, the connections that are difficult to face are the ones on which we should focus. Political correctness is a hot topic today; a significant amount of friction persists regarding where the line between political correctness and censorship lies. Though I am a firm believer in “safe spaces” and do believe that sensitivity to the emotions of others is what makes Bowdoin what it is, I also desperately want people to begin discussing the undiscussed.

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.

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