I think we can all agree that the GOP legislative staffer's comments on Malia and Sasha Obama's dress and behavior at the latest turkey pardoning ceremony were inappropriate and offensive. What I've found interesting, however, is how the remarks have not even been acknowledged by President and Mrs. Obama (and yes, she's not "Michelle," she's "Mrs. Obama." She will be the First Lady or a former First Lady for the rest of her life. If you didn't call Mrs. Reagan "Nancy" or Barbara Bush "Barbara," you don't call Mrs. Obama "Michelle.").
"Ah," I thought to myself. "Social vaporization."
What is "social vaporization," you ask?
It's the refusal to dignify the offensive actions of a person and, in many cases, the ignorant person who acted, by ignoring them and their act. Social vaporization to its fullest effect is treating the person who offended you like they don't exist.
There are some segments of our society that have made social vaporization a high art form. Too often, when someone does something that offends us, we engage in social jiu jitsu -- we attempt to use that person's offensive conduct to harm them. We deride the offender's conduct in their presence, try to correct the conduct, or inflict the same conduct upon the offender. We also give the offender what they want: Attention.
That's just way too much energy. Social vaporization is so much more efficient. To see social vaporization at its best, you need to be around old money Southerners. Of all races. They socially vaporize people by politely ignoring the conduct, removing themselves from the offender's presence with a polite excuse ("Could you excuse me for a moment? I need to say hello to a dear friend of mine across the room."), and, depending on the magnitude of the transgression, never making themselves available to be of help to, or in the presence of, the offender. They stop taking the offender's calls. They decline social invitations from the offender. And they do so without expending as much energy as it takes to wipe their behinds.
I've had to socially vaporize people. One was a house guest who made inappropriate comments about one of my family members shortly after I had experienced a death in my family. Said house guest has never stepped foot in my home since. Vaporized. I don't even expend energy thinking about relenting and having this person in my home. I made my Whitney Houston-inspired "Hell to the no" decision years ago. Poof. Vaporized.
I, too, have been socially vaporized. A lovely lady was trying to groom me for membership in The Links. I didn't realize it at the time, and with my sense of Delta superiority, I didn't think it mattered. I didn't respond appropriately to her overtures, didn't make it a priority to attend the right events. She socially vaporized me. I deserved it. I was not ready for what she was offering. And I learned to respect The Links.
But old money Southerners? Talk about social vaporization. They socially vaporize people so well that the people who are vaporized don't even know they've been vaporized. The vaporized simply think that the vaporizers are just busy, going through a difficult time, or overwhelmed with family obligations. In fact, vaporized folks often create excuses for those who vaporize them because they can't imagine that they have been socially vaporized. The vaporizers treat the vaporizees politely when encountered, but that's about it. Vaporizers don't explain. That would be an unmerited expenditure of energy for people who don't deserve it.
Why socially vaporize someone? Because they're probably not going to change, you can't raise them (because we all know you can't raise grown people), and it would raise your blood pressure to be continually assaulted by their inappropriate or insensitive behavior.
So how do you decide whether to socially vaporize someone? Ask yourself the following questions:
1) How offended was I by what the offender did? If the answer is "extremely," then ask yourself:
2) Do we even have a relationship? If the answer is "no," vaporize them. If the answer is "yes," ask yourself:
3) Is this a relationship worth saving? If not, vaporize them.
Vaporizing someone is like forgiving someone. Forgiving someone is giving up the hope that the past will ever be different. Socially vaporizing someone is giving up the hope that the offending person will ever cease to offend you.
May the force of social vaporization always be with you.
Showing posts with label Sasha Obama. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sasha Obama. Show all posts
Malia's Hair is Off Limits! So is Sasha's!
I read a snippet of a New York Times article in which there was criticism of the hairstyle Malia Obama wore to Italy. Twists, to be precise. Said twists were criticized as not befitting someone representing the United States abroad.
Hold up. Slow your roll, America. You don't get a say in this. Neither Malia nor Sasha "chose" to represent the United States in any way, shape, or form. And their hair, and how they wear it, is off limits. Back the eff off.
I was hotter than a hornet reading this. The whole black woman's hair thing? That's personal with me. We black women have more than enough issues and neuroses about our hair and how we wear it. It is not open to debate within wider circles, especially when there's a child involved. The choices we have, other than wearing our hair in its natural state in twists, dreads, braids, cornrows or afros, are painful -- chemical relaxers, also called "creamy crack," and searing hot straightening combs. If Malia has chosen to forgo chemical or heat straightening for her natural locks, that's nobody's business but her's and her mama's.
As a child, I was what was (and probably still is) called "tender headed" -- I had an extremely sensitive scalp. And I don't have naturally straight hair like my mother and my maternal grandmother did. I have your average, nappy black hair. So imagine the terror my mother went through trying to comb the long, kinky hair of a crying, screaming child. She gave up. My first grade photo shows me with three huge lumps of uncombed hair on my head with a braid coming out of each. Making me scream just for vanity's sake was just too much for my mother to bear.
Finally, a friend of my mother's stepped up and straightened my hair with a hot comb, out of pity for me and my mother. After that, my mom would send me to her regularly, and then to another woman, because I would still cry and scream. As I got older, I took over the care of my hair, with one exception -- my mother would straighten my hair with a hot comb. Problem was, my mother had three other daughters who also had kinky hair. My mother ended up doing a lot of straightening until my older sisters got old enough and started going to their own hairdresser -- I assume that was because either they paid for it or my mom got to the point where she could afford to send them. My mom straightened my hair every other Sunday during my adolescence until I went off to college. And my hair was not short -- when washed and dried, it looked like a Chaka Khan 'fro. When straightened, it was down to my bra strap. It was a lot of work. And there was the occasional ear burn from a hot comb that slipped from my mother's tired hands. My mother should have won a place in heaven just for dealing with the kinky hair of four little black girls.
Ever since college, I have chemically straightened my hair with relaxers, and I hate it. I still have a sensitive scalp. Just last week, after avoiding my new stylist for six months, I went to get my hair "relaxed." There is absolutely nothing "relaxing" about getting your hair relaxed if you have a sensitive scalp. I always burn. Always. Given that chemical relaxers are a derivative of lye, the danger of a chemical burn is real. Ten seconds into the process, I knew my entire scalp would be engulfed in chemical pain, and it was. First, there was the unnatural coldness of the calcium hydroxide on my scalp, which then slowly turned to a searing chemical heat. None of this was my stylist's fault, since she's relatively new to me -- if you scratch your scalp or have a sensitive scalp, you are bound to burn unless you "base" your entire scalp first, and that's still no guarantee that you won't burn, at least not for me. It was a race to the sink to get that stuff of my scalp. Tears filled my eyes, and scabs later formed on my scalp where I burned, but my hair looked fly. Still does. But when I was getting it "relaxed," I swore at myself and to myself that I would put down the "creamy crack" forever. The daily ease of styling straightened hair, however, is addicting.
I would not ask any little black girl (or grown black woman, for that matter) to risk chemical burns or getting her ears burned with hot combs for vanity's sake. Straight hair for black girls should be a choice, not a dictate, and not some concession to national opinion as to the proper way for a young black girl to wear her hair. For anyone who hasn't endured chemical burns or heat burns to the scalp to pass judgment on Malia for wearing her hair in its natural state is plain and simply wrong. If I were her age, I wouldn't straighten my hair, either. I still have fantasies of getting dreads or just shaving it all off (it's now down to my bra strap yet again -- must have been the six months off without a relaxer), but BMNB has a thing for long hair and looks like a lost puppy every time I talk about changing it. Ah, the things we do for love.
So, America, you don't get a vote, a voice, or nary an opinion as to how Malia and Sasha wear their hair unless you're willing to take a straightening comb to your own hair or let some relaxer sit on your scalp until it burns. I hate to go there, but this black women's hair thing? As they used to say in the '90's, "It's a black thing, and you wouldn't understand."
Oh, and do NOT touch our hair without our permission. We HATE that.
Hold up. Slow your roll, America. You don't get a say in this. Neither Malia nor Sasha "chose" to represent the United States in any way, shape, or form. And their hair, and how they wear it, is off limits. Back the eff off.
I was hotter than a hornet reading this. The whole black woman's hair thing? That's personal with me. We black women have more than enough issues and neuroses about our hair and how we wear it. It is not open to debate within wider circles, especially when there's a child involved. The choices we have, other than wearing our hair in its natural state in twists, dreads, braids, cornrows or afros, are painful -- chemical relaxers, also called "creamy crack," and searing hot straightening combs. If Malia has chosen to forgo chemical or heat straightening for her natural locks, that's nobody's business but her's and her mama's.
As a child, I was what was (and probably still is) called "tender headed" -- I had an extremely sensitive scalp. And I don't have naturally straight hair like my mother and my maternal grandmother did. I have your average, nappy black hair. So imagine the terror my mother went through trying to comb the long, kinky hair of a crying, screaming child. She gave up. My first grade photo shows me with three huge lumps of uncombed hair on my head with a braid coming out of each. Making me scream just for vanity's sake was just too much for my mother to bear.
Finally, a friend of my mother's stepped up and straightened my hair with a hot comb, out of pity for me and my mother. After that, my mom would send me to her regularly, and then to another woman, because I would still cry and scream. As I got older, I took over the care of my hair, with one exception -- my mother would straighten my hair with a hot comb. Problem was, my mother had three other daughters who also had kinky hair. My mother ended up doing a lot of straightening until my older sisters got old enough and started going to their own hairdresser -- I assume that was because either they paid for it or my mom got to the point where she could afford to send them. My mom straightened my hair every other Sunday during my adolescence until I went off to college. And my hair was not short -- when washed and dried, it looked like a Chaka Khan 'fro. When straightened, it was down to my bra strap. It was a lot of work. And there was the occasional ear burn from a hot comb that slipped from my mother's tired hands. My mother should have won a place in heaven just for dealing with the kinky hair of four little black girls.
Ever since college, I have chemically straightened my hair with relaxers, and I hate it. I still have a sensitive scalp. Just last week, after avoiding my new stylist for six months, I went to get my hair "relaxed." There is absolutely nothing "relaxing" about getting your hair relaxed if you have a sensitive scalp. I always burn. Always. Given that chemical relaxers are a derivative of lye, the danger of a chemical burn is real. Ten seconds into the process, I knew my entire scalp would be engulfed in chemical pain, and it was. First, there was the unnatural coldness of the calcium hydroxide on my scalp, which then slowly turned to a searing chemical heat. None of this was my stylist's fault, since she's relatively new to me -- if you scratch your scalp or have a sensitive scalp, you are bound to burn unless you "base" your entire scalp first, and that's still no guarantee that you won't burn, at least not for me. It was a race to the sink to get that stuff of my scalp. Tears filled my eyes, and scabs later formed on my scalp where I burned, but my hair looked fly. Still does. But when I was getting it "relaxed," I swore at myself and to myself that I would put down the "creamy crack" forever. The daily ease of styling straightened hair, however, is addicting.
I would not ask any little black girl (or grown black woman, for that matter) to risk chemical burns or getting her ears burned with hot combs for vanity's sake. Straight hair for black girls should be a choice, not a dictate, and not some concession to national opinion as to the proper way for a young black girl to wear her hair. For anyone who hasn't endured chemical burns or heat burns to the scalp to pass judgment on Malia for wearing her hair in its natural state is plain and simply wrong. If I were her age, I wouldn't straighten my hair, either. I still have fantasies of getting dreads or just shaving it all off (it's now down to my bra strap yet again -- must have been the six months off without a relaxer), but BMNB has a thing for long hair and looks like a lost puppy every time I talk about changing it. Ah, the things we do for love.
So, America, you don't get a vote, a voice, or nary an opinion as to how Malia and Sasha wear their hair unless you're willing to take a straightening comb to your own hair or let some relaxer sit on your scalp until it burns. I hate to go there, but this black women's hair thing? As they used to say in the '90's, "It's a black thing, and you wouldn't understand."
Oh, and do NOT touch our hair without our permission. We HATE that.
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