There’s nothing cooler than a well-dressed man sitting on a stoop in Bedstuy.

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A recent trip to the Wendy Williams show forced me to admit that I’m a black girl who CAN’T DANCE.  So, I’m freeing myself of cultural stereotypes…well kinda.

The first time I realized I might be rhythmically challenged was a day after my wedding in 2010. As my husband and I made plans for our grand event, he insisted we do something creative for our first dance—something that showcased us as Nigerian Americans. So we slow danced to Teddy Pendergrass’ classic tune, “My latest, greatest, inspiration.” I put my editing skills to work and plugged in the sound of a record scratching midway through the song. It was the perfect way to fool our guests into thinking the DJ did something wrong. A few seconds later, a downhome Nigerian Fuji song came on. My husband who was raised in Nigeria started to get down like I’ve never seen before. I thought I did okay until the next morning when my elder cousin weighed in on our routine. “You can’t dance,” she said to me through a heavy Nigerian accent. My ego was a bit crushed but I brushed it off and blamed my lackluster performance on my heavy wedding dress. As the days went by other family members complimented my husband on his dance skills. I playfully scolded him for stealing his bride’s shine, but I never let myself believe I couldn’t dance.

Then last month I went to watch a live taping of the Wendy Williams show with Sarah, my white French co-worker. I was pleasantly surprised by how lively the studio was before the actual taping started. It was like being at a semi-tamed bachelorette party at 9am in the morning.

As we waited for Wendy to make her entrance, her DJ announced that he had freebies to give away. Among the list were an exotic trip, cash, and more. Sarah and I jumped up shouting “over here, pick me, pick me!” We were both selected and asked to join several other ladies on stage.

After a few minutes Sarah realized that we were picked to be free entertainment as the audience waited for Wendy to emerge from backstage. “I hope they don’t make us dance. I can’t dance,” she said. “Just be free,” I told her in an attempt to calm her nerves. The MC went down the line of ladies. We were asked to introduce ourselves first. Then the DJ dropped the beat of the song he randomly selected for us individually. The next several minutes consisted of booty popping, chest pumping, and hip rolling. When it was finally Sarah’s turn she was still a bit nervous, but she walked up to the MC with confidence. She introduced herself. Soon after, the DJ pumped a 90s jam for her. Sarah let loose, threw her jacket off, and proceeded to dance on the MC. The crowd cheered. I was stunned by her performance.

Then it was my turn. Though Sarah was a hard act to follow, there was no turning back. I felt my nerves kick in immediately. I introduced myself to the crowd then stepped away from the MC.

My first mistake, I started dancing before the music started. It was like an outer body experience. I felt like I was in an episode of the Awkward Black Girl. When my song finally came on I cringed a bit inside. “Dutty Whine”—a reggae song? Lord knows I can’t Dutty whine. If the DJ gave me a 90s track like, “This is how we do it,” I could at least do a little head and shoulder bop here and there. Instead I shook my body weirdly and got no reaction from the crowd. I gyrated—the silence was death. Then I proceeded to twist my head back and forth in an effort to actually dutty whine (I laugh as I type this. It was that bad). My final move to get a rise from the crowd, I turned around and tried my best to do a little booty pop. Then the music stopped abruptly as if the DJ was putting me out of my misery. The MC barely spoke two words to me. The room was deathly quiet. I felt like running home.

When the spectacle was over, the crowd chose finalist through cheers. Sarah, my white French co-worker, was chosen as one of the top three. Her prize: A T-Shirt stamped with Wendy Williams’ catch phrase, “How you doin’.’” It was clear then that the extravagant giveaways the DJ promised were simply a ploy to get us to volunteer. I walked back to my seat hoping everyone in the room had forgotten my pitiful solo.

So I’m fully aware now—I’m a black girl with little rhythm. Blasphemy right? As the cultural stereotype goes, black people are supposed to know how to dance. Yet I’m the Carlton to your Fresh Prince, the Solange to your Beyonce, and the…well you get the point.  For a woman like me born in America to African parents and raised in Miami, Florida, the land of booty music, the expectations for rhythm are probably even higher. I guess for years, I’ve gotten by with a little head bopping and shoulder bouncing, but when it comes time to actually execute a sequence of movement my black card should be revoked.

That’s the thing about cultural stereotypes: it’s easy to think something is wrong if we don’t fit the mold. When I realized that, I was able to let go of the humiliation. It made me think of the things that I’m actually good at like writing, and taking photos, and shooting video. To me there’s nothing sexier than a woman who knows her way around a camera. But, if I’m being honest with myself, I know this epiphany was necessary after what happened at the Wendy show. I’m now certain that self-inflicted public humiliation will teach you to stick to your day job.

Disclaimer: I love Solange, so no shade.

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Slim jeans and high tops.  Gritty and effortlessly cool.

I loved how this group of guys showcased their individuality, though they are part owners of a fashion design company.

I spotted her shoes from across the street.  Nice.

Her over-sized football jersey and lace up boots reminded me of Mary J Blige’s video for “Real Love,” though MJB and her dancers rocked baseball jerseys.  I loved his laid back monochromatic look.  They are so Soho.

I ran into Dapper Lou on Prince and Broadway.  From the sleek bike to his colorful floral shirt, he’s got cool on lock.

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Kenyan socialite Vera Sidika, before and after skin bleaching

“Not all African women believe black is beautiful. And that’s ok.”

When I first read that headline for an opinion piece written by Nigerian journalist, Sede Alonge for the UK Telegraph, I was ready to take to my laptop to write a heated retort.

Alonge wrote her piece in response to the backlash Kenyan model and socialite Vera Sidika received after she revealed her new look. The once brown beauty admitted that she underwent rigorous procedures to bleach her skin to a near ghost-like fair complexion. In Alonge’s op-ed regarding the matter, she argues that it’s okay for some black women to feel their blackness isn’t beautiful and that white people are also guilty for skin transformations such as tanning.

According to Alonge:

Yes, black is beautiful, but so also is white, brown, yellow and the many shades in between.

When white people use tanning lotions, solariums and other methods to darken their skin, it is treated as par for the course and other white people don’t feel the need to remind them that “white is beautiful”. In fact, such a statement would likely be regarded as racist by members of other races. Yes, I understand that there was a specific historical context in the US and elsewhere which, at the time, necessitated the use of the “black is beautiful” slogan in order to boost black people’s sense of self-worth and identity, but this is 2014 and we should have gotten beyond that by now. Or are self-affirming slogans going to be needed by black people forever?

People’s desire to have a particular skin tone, be it a darker or lighter one, stems from them wanting to be more attractive and sometimes for others to take notice. And more often than not, in the case of an individual who has undergone skin lightening here in Africa, it works. The critics might be unwilling to concede this publicly, but the harsh truth is that in Africa, lighter skinned girls do get more attention and are more appreciated than darker skinned women.
 

After reading Alonge’s words, I wanted to inform her that skin tanning simply doesn’t hold the same weight as colorism—a deep issue within the black community laden with racial baggage. I believe it’s the very reason bleaching agents are being sold like hot cakes among black women, especially in Africa.  In Nigeria alone, 77% of women reportedly use skin lightening products according to the World Health Organization.  Furthermore, even in 2014 white women are considered the standard of beauty in the western world regardless of how pale or tan they are.  Therefore “self-affirming slogans” like “black is beautiful” will endure.

I also wanted to address Vera Sidika’s transformation. But as I constructed the story in my head, I realized that many of the things I wanted to say have been said time and again: That black is indeed beautiful; That we should love ourselves; That colonialism and slavery are at the root of why we’ve been conditioned to believe we are not beautiful; That a rejection of your God-given black skin is an obvious form of self-hatred; That a rejection of your dark skin is a rejection of me and women who look like me; That when women change their complexions they are indirectly telling young girls who are dark skinned that they aren’t good enough. We’ve heard it all before. We’ve read such articles; we’ve watched the documentaries.

Plainly stated, when an adult seeks to attain to a certain aesthetic, there’s likely no changing that person’s mind, and they have that right. In that regard, I agree with Alonge. So why, I asked myself, should I waste my time writing a preachy response regarding a personal decision? Maybe, instead, what I should feel is compassion for a person who changed their appearance in such a way. Afterall, it’s not easy for women to navigate in a society that puts so much weight on beauty.

The over emphasis on outer appearance makes me recall an interview Britain based Nigerian author Helen Oyeyemi did with NPR some time ago. The young novelist who’s been deemed a literary prodigy admitted that she considers herself ugly but interesting. My initial reaction was shock, but eventually I realized how important and liberating her declaration must have been. She was able to detach herself from the thing that holds many women hostage and get on with the business of being intelligent and dynamic. That courage was likely the motivation she used to write her first novel before she graduated from high school. By the time she was 19, she signed a two-book deal reportedly worth $1 million. Not many grown women boast that level of accomplishment in their chosen field.

As a mother of a young black girl, I know my purpose is to show her that she is indeed good enough—not simply because of her looks or her complexion, but because she is a divine being worthy of all that is good. I will do my job in this regard.

So rather than write preachy responses, I will work to showcase all that makes little black girls and black women beautiful regardless of their appearance. It’s one of the reasons I chose to focus on people of color for this blog. I wanted to document the fact that we are here and we deserve to be celebrated, because many of us are proud of who we are and we express that pride through all forms of unique style.

So I will no longer seek to berate a grown woman about how she feels about her blackness. There are books available if people want to know their history. There are magazines and websites that celebrate who we are. There are organizations that seek to spread the overall message. If by now responsible adults don’t know black is beautiful, there’s not much else to say to change their minds. For those of us who are aware of our greatness, let’s focus on celebrating ourselves in the presence of young black people. Instead of simply telling black youth they are beautiful, let’s begin to show them exactly why they should love who they are, aesthetic and all.

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Stephanie accentuated her all black look with a stone washed denim jacket.  I love how a print of Bob Marley’s Rolling Stone cover is pinned to the back.

Cool.

The mix of hues in her braids and the style itself really stood out.

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The annual Brooklyn Hip Hop Festival went down this past Saturday in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.  This year Jay Electronica and Raekwon were the main attractions.  Jay Z also showed up for a special guest performance with his artist Jay Electronica.

I attended the event to get a few snapshots of what people wore.  Check out my coverage below.

Her statement earrings were super cool. She actually designed them herself by rolling up tear sheets from fashion magazines.

I loved his frames and hat.

…cool sneakers.

I loved her accessories.  This MCM clutch is everything!

Yes to these cage sandals.

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I ran into this gentleman at Columbus Circle.  It was a hot day, yet he commanded attention in all black.

Simple accessories.

Fearless style.

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Despite Midtown’s reputation as a mostly “tourist-y” area void of style, I’ve been fortunate to run into people with cool fashion sense.

When I saw Milton on the corner of 5th avenue and 35th street, I first noticed his wooden beads.  I loved how the orange tassels stood out against his Star Trek T-Shirt.

Loretta, who I saw on 34th and 6th, walked with pure confidence in this vibrant wax print dress.

Milton and Loretta…

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I love how a nice bow tie makes a simple look stand out.

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