Celebrate Your Best Asset

Lately I’ve learned to make the old saying, “if you’ve got it flaunt it,” my rule of thumb when it comes to fashion and beauty. We all have that one thing that makes us feel beautiful, whether it be full lips, a toned frame, beautiful eyes, or a nice butt. For me, my best attributes are my legs.

I didn’t always fancy them. I remember being in middle school and wishing I were shorter.  I was taller than almost all the girls and a good amount of the guys. As a fashion lover it was even more difficult to accept my height since I loved the chunky square heels and high wedge sneakers trend from the 90s.

As I got older I began to appreciate them more. No matter if I’m wearing flats or 6-inch heels, my long, lean, cocoa brown limbs support my 5 foot 9 inch frame flawlessly. After I had my daughter, there were parts of me that I simply didn’t recognize, and that’s to be expected. But these legs stayed true to their usual form. So these days I celebrate them without reservation.

To highlight my legs in these photos, I opted for a vintage menswear blazer, short black leather shorts, a white button down shirt, and silver oxfords.

Don’t forget to play up your best asset.

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For me, fall is more than a season for deep colors and warm sweaters, it’s about welcoming possible life changes.

Fall is upon us, so you’ve probably dusted off all of your chunky sweaters, trench coats, and boots. If you’re tired of the traditional autumnal color palate you’ll be pleased to see how designers are offering lighter colors like misted yellow, cognac, aluminum, and mauve this year. And though fashion is about breaking rules, there’s something about the season that makes any lipstick lover trade in her bright pinks and nudes for deep plums, burgundy, and even black.

But fashion and beauty aside, I love the way fall feels; not just the weather, but that intangible sensation one gets when there’s a shift in the atmosphere.  For me the mild chill in the air coupled with the subtle gloom ushers in a sentiment of imminent change. Along with the changes in the color of nature and the hues we wear, fall sometimes hints to me that my life is about to transform. Just as winter brings on the need for hibernation and intimacy, and spring brings about awakening and cheer right before summer comes calling for social gatherings and exciting retreats, fall represents the acceptance of what life has in store. As soon as that first crisp day settles upon us I purposely go within to access that feeling.  It’s as though I’m probing the universe for answers on whether something life-altering will happen to me in the coming months. Fall is like my January 1st, though I never need a resolution.  I’ve come to accept the fact that any impending life transformation is not one I can predict or force through a fickle promise; change is inevitable whether good or challenging.

Last year when fall made its descent, my daughter had been in the hospital for over a month.  Born in August after just 25 weeks of pregnancy she was considered a micro preemie. She was tiny to say the least.   For the first few days after her birth, I was fine. I saw my sister go through the same thing years before with my nephew who was born the same way. I told myself I could get through it. But the day I went home from the hospital without her, I broke down. Day after day I was faced with the uncertainty of her future. All I could do is pray and trust that everything would work out fine.

By the time the chill in the air came that September, it was easier for me to accept the situation for what it was. I learned how to live in the moment. It was during the fall that I got a grip on patience and clarity. I knew she would be well—and that she was and still is.

The fall before my daughter was born I had the same feeling that change was upon me.  By the time spring came I found out I was going to be a mom.

This fall is no different.  I sense the feeling of imminent change.  So as I pull my season’s best looks from the old trunk in my closet, I embrace the idea of experiencing another major life shift.  I’m unclear on whether it could be personal or professional. I simply trust my own intuition and the season that, for me, has been the most telling.  There’s just something about fall.

Dear Autumn, bring me good news of great fortune in my days to come.

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“Less classically beautiful.” Those were the three words a New York Times reviewer used to describe Viola Davis, one of the most talented black actresses of our time. Davis who stars in ABC’s newest drama, “How To Get Away With Murder,” which premiered last night, plays a law professor who is smart, quick-witted, sexy, and strong. Despite Davis’ amazing performance, based on her looks, the New York Times seems to be baffled by the idea that she even got the role.

I woke up this morning and watched a clip of the interview Davis did on the View yesterday in which she addressed the New York Time’s irresponsible reference. To sum it up, Davis says:

“I’m glad that Shonda Rhimes saw me. That’s what makes her a visionary. That’s what makes her special. That’s why she’s iconic.”

“I think that beauty is subjective. I’ve heard that statement (less classically beautiful) my entire life, Being a dark-skinned Black woman. You hear it from the time you come out of the womb. And “classically not beautiful” is a fancy term of saying ugly, and denouncing you, and erasing you. Now, it worked when I was younger. It no longer works for me now.”

She continues,

It’s about teaching a culture how to treat you. Because at the end of the day, you define you.”

 

What more can be said after that? The New York Times article was yet another reminder of what so many black women face based on society’s bogus run-of-the-mill beauty standards. It’s an honor to have Viola Davis as our voice and representation.  It is my hope that Davis’ words will inspire young dark skinned girls who dare to dream of one day becoming an actress or pursue any other craft typically based on beauty. Let us all be aware that the lie we’ve been told about being “Less classically beautiful” will have little affect what we can achieve, so long as they define our own beauty.

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I hope you had an amazing Labor Day weekend!  I certainly did.  Instead of scouting for style sightings at the West Indian Day Parade, I decided to spend time with my family.  My husband and I took our sweet baby girl to the Brooklyn Bridge Park and we had a wonderful time.

Speaking of family, over the past couple of weeks my folks have been heavy on my mind.  Like many young fashion lovers, I always find myself looking to my parents’ old photos for style inspiration.  If you’re like me, you’ve discovered a bit of your identity in snapshots from your parents’ past.  I find myself studying their expressions wondering where they were mentally at the time, if they were content, and if they knew how stylish they were.

If you read my “I Am” page you know I’m the daughter of Nigerian immigrants.  This photo of my mother was taken at a studio in Lagos back in the 60s (the one above was taken some years later, also in Lagos).  I loved her floor length high neck dress.  Her bag was the perfect accessory.  This look would be a hit at Coachella.

This was also taken in Nigeria.

This photo of my mom and her old classmates is one of my favorite.  Though their threaded hair was considered a simple hairstyle in Nigeria, as a child raised in America their look was something to behold.   I also love how each woman showcases her own identity in subtle ways.  My mom, the woman who stands first from the right, looked simple and chic in a white T-shirt and high waist skirt.  I would wear that today.

My father, who stands first from the left, was a cool cat.  Before moving to Miami in the late 70s he schooled in Germany, Canada, and lived in the New York/New Jersey area for a while.  He passed away 9 years ago.

My dad (first row, third from left) took this group shot at a studio with several of his friends and a few family members.  If you notice, for many Nigerians, it was “cool” to look away from the camera when taking pictures.

Germany.  My dad stands first from the left wearing that cool collarless polo knit shirt, which I can picture wearing with a pleated skirt.  There they go again looking away from the camera, lol.

Canada.  My father’s sweater vest and button down made a cool preppy look, but check out that woman’s ‘fro!

I’d love to see your favorite old photos of your parents.  Post them on IG and share them with me @aishola.

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 It’s #ThrowBackThursday so I’m taking a look back on my hair journey.

In 2012, Dana Oliver, the Senior Beauty Editor of the Huffington Post commissioned me to write an essay about why I decided to wear my hair natural while working as a television reporter.  I was pleased to get the assignment since my career aspirations were the very reason I struggled with re-embracing my kinky hair after wearing it straight for a number of years.  As I stated in the piece, there aren’t many black women sporting their natural tresses on television.  So I wrote the story straight from the heart, leaving nothing out.  I didn’t expect all the feedback that came afterwards.  I was pleased to find out that it made the website’s front page of the beauty section.  I also received several emails and tweets from other women going through similar struggles, well wishes from people who understood, and some my favorite websites and news outlet re-posted my story.

As I take a look back at my hair journey for #ThrowBackThursday, I realize how much I’ve grown since I wrote that piece.  For starters, my career aspirations have evolved a great deal.  I’m no longer waiting to be discovered as “on-air talent” by a major news station.  I’ve made the decision to work towards cultivating a more diverse career path that honors all of my talents.  Also, I don’t see my hair as this external part of myself.  In other words, I’m not #teamnatural or “team” anything for that matter.  I’m simply me.

Here’s an exert:

For the second time in my life, I’ve chosen to wear my hair in its natural kinky state. It was an easy decision the first time. Back in 2001, I was going through a phase of finally embracing my round face, high cheekbones and mahogany complexion. Ridding myself of my straight, chemically-processed hair typically associated with society’s standard of beauty was a way of celebrating my newfound self-love. Plus, it helped that artists like Lauryn Hill and India Arie were proudly sporting their natural tresses at the time, making it a popular trend among black women. It became the “thing” to do.

But after five years of rocking Afros, twists and braids I started relaxing my hair again. I was comfortable with my kink, but tired of all the work it took to maintain it. So, I fell back into relaxers, bone straight bobs, flat irons, wigs and extensions.

Then late last year, it happened: My hair started falling out.

Read the full story and see a photo slide show of my hair journey HERE.

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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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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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Within the span of 15 years twerking went from an average hip-hop dance to the internet’s worst kept secret.   Twerking was reportedly introduced to United States in the early 90s by DJ Jubilee, who created the first recorded song using the word “twerk.” Since then it’s been popularized by the likes of New Orleans’ “Queen of Bounce,” Ms. Freedia. In the early 2000s artists like the Ying Yang Twins, Beyonce, and Ciara referenced it in their music and performances. But twerking remained a mere dance on the list of many within hip-hop culture. Things started to shift after Youtube became a playpen for camera thirsty Twerk enthusiasts.

Whether you warmed up to the provocative dance or not, there’s no question that it sparked a phenomenon in culture and fashion. Who could scroll through their Instagram feed without seeing someone wearing a T-Shirt referencing their support for twerking? Almost everyone was a twerk team captain.

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Bring Back Our Girls rally, Union Square

On April 14 Boko Haram, a Nigerian Islamic terrorist group, kidnapped over 200 girls from their school in the rural town of Chibok located in Borno State in Northern Nigeria. They reportedly planned to convert each of the girls into Muslims and sell them off as brides. Boko Haram later released video footage of some of the girls reciting Muslim prayers.

The incident sparked an outcry on social media, which resulted in the popular hashtag, #BringBackOurGirls. Protestors across the globe also took to the streets.

The organizers for one demonstration held last month in New York City asked female attendees to “rock a crown” (a head wrap), to show solidarity with the mothers of the young women who were violently stolen.

When I first saw the invitation to the rally, my emotions kicked into full gear for the young women of Chibok. I thought about how on-trend head wraps have become. A part of me wanted all of us to put our good fashion sense on pause. Did the mothers of these young women really need us to wear a gele or a turban to show solidarity? Clearly our headgear would be the furthest thing from their minds at such a trying time.

I went to the protest and snapped the photo above, among others. To date, I think it’s one of the best images I’ve taken since I began conceptualizing my idea for ScriptsandSightings.com. The ladies in the photo exude a sense of dignity, which I believe is a protest in and of itself. Their head wraps simply added to that power.

Then I remembered how other articles of clothing have been an important symbol for various protests and revolutions—particularly involving Africans and African Americans—throughout the years. Here are a few examples:

Huntsville Alabama—Blue Jeans Sunday

In the 1960s, African American residents in Huntsville, Alabama were not allowed to use restrooms at department stores or even try on clothes and shoes. Members of the city grew tired of the prejudice and decided to take action.

On Easter Sunday, April 21, 1962 African Americans were encouraged to wear blue jeans and denim skirts to church instead of fancy Easter clothing. The little known boycott— which was dubbed Blue Jeans Sunday—was designed to hit the merchants where it hurt: their profits. Easter was a time when stores in the area sold the most suits and dresses. After the boycott, it was estimated that those businesses lost nearly one million dollars that Easter weekend.   Three months later Huntsville merchants decided to end segregation in their establishments, making it the first integrated city in Alabama.

Keep in mind, wearing denim in the 1960s wasn’t the fashion statement that it is today. So I imagine, going to church on Easter Sunday in jeans was a real sacrifice for the people of Huntsville. It eventually paid off.

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