Stop Fishing for Self-Hatred in the Name “Sharkeisha”

The original beat down queen, Sheneneh.

About two weeks ago, I heard about an epic beat down of a fight between a girl named Sharkeisha and another one named Shamichael. One day, I will explain thoroughly why I cannot abide World Star Hip-Hop; but suffice it to say that since I refuse to frequent that site, I haven’t seen the Sharkeisha video.

I know nothing of fights. I have never been in one and I see no reason to start now. So this post isn’t about the merits of not getting stole on. I’m not going on in the alleged stupid reason (a boy) why one girl set another up. This isn’t even really about Sharkeisha, the girl–this is about Sharkeisha’s name.

In the many places as I have read about the fight, someone invariably comments: With a name like Sharkeishathis was inevitable for her. 

Record ssssscratch. What?! Where do I begin?

If black people lost every reason in the world to hate themselves, they would still find one more obscure thing and pick it to death. Make no mistake, Sharkeisha is a black name. It is not unpronounceable, nor is it awkwardly spelled. But black people all over the Internet have been making Shark jokes, obtusely insinuating that the etymology derives from the fish and not the construction of Shar + keisha. Hardee-har; it’s more clever than biting.

I have a black name, plucked from its native Yoruban context and given to me in the heat of Houston, Texas. People stumble and trip over the two syllables in “dara” as if they have never heard of “Lara Croft, Tomb Raider.” And yet, because it does not follow the conventions of many other black girl names, my name garners considerably less shade.

Black mothers name their children by the caress of beloved syllables, creating names native to their tongues. They (we) employ both reason and rhyme. If you are unaware of the conventions, here are some.

Prefix: Sha, La, Ta, Ka, Ma, Na, Da, Shon;
Suffix: Keisha, Nisha, Nessa, Rella, Shawn, Nille, Rice.

Sha’Condria Sibley nails it in her ode to big black girl names. 

Are these names originally European? No. But they are American, as native to this country as blues and jazz. So, why, then do we prize Michelle (French) and Zoe (Greek), over LaShawn? Because we say that LaShawn is ghetto (and we hate the poor). Any inference we attribute to a name tells more about our own biases than about the actual person bearing the name.

So when I hear that Sharkeisha’s name is ghetto, that her mother should’ve known better than to name her daughter that, that Sharkeisha will never get a job with that name, that the only thing Sharkeisha could’ve done after being named such is wind up on World Star…I see red. Or rather, black. I see black people once again attempting to distance themselves from the “worst” of us out of embarrassment. We like to pretend that our names are the barriers of entry from “good jobs,” but in truth, the socioeconomic status into which we are born has more bearing on our upward mobility.

Sharkeisha’s name did not predict that fight for her. Sharkeisha’s educational environment, parentage, and socioeconomic status did. Her name, like mine, is something that she will have to choose to live up to. It grieves me that the world expects her to live down to her name when they don’t even know the meaning of it. Pick a meaning of Keisha/ Kezia from the Internet: of the cassia tree, favorite, beautiful. Even if Sharkeisha meant nothing at all–because, let’s face it, many people choose names based on sounds they like–it would still be a valid name.

I fail to understand why black people must constantly defend things that are uniquely ours, as if even our very names lack the right to exist.

To put it baldly, assimilation into the mainstream culture of naming in America will not advance us farther than actually fixing the racist thought that makes assimilation a matter of survival. “Tyrone” receives the same ghetto label as “Tarik,” despite its Irish origin. We make names black by using them, and we cannot win a war waged against blackness by pretending our names will save us.

I will cede the argument that some black names are wildly imaginative. But if America can learn how to say Schwarzenegger, Schwarzkopf, and Hoomanawanui correctly because money dictates that we must, then surely, we can stop pretending that D’Brickashaw is a Martian name.

Upbraid Sharkeisha because she’s a confused, combative child who needs much guidance to overcome her brush with infamy. But fishing in her name for tenets to support our own self-hatred makes us the real sharks, not her.

Praise White Jesus + White Women: Notes on Kanye’s Yeezus Tour

E. All of the above

Prelude: Is Kanye a puddle or an ocean? 

I am a Kanye West fan. I once thought that Kanye West’s classic “Jesus Walks” meant that he would become hip-hop’s savior from all the ills that kept me from loving it in totality. I now understand that hip-hop itself will never be a vehicle for its own salvation. Once I stopped looking for martyrdom from Ye, I liked him better.

That is not to say that Kanye is an entirely likable figure. There are two ways of reading him: superficially and critically. By superficial, I literally mean a surface view of him without delving into the why’s, how’s or the racial implications of anything he utters. Kanye West is obnoxious and brilliant and funny if you take that approach. His anger management issues make him easy fodder for ridicule. His opinion of himself leaves the rest of us little room to praise him without sounding like yes-men.

But studying Kanye further, I see a wounded black man striving to articulate his American experience through the limited lenses of hip-hop and fashion, and whose efforts at transcendence are often stymied.

I saw the interview with Sway. And although the punchline “YOU AIN’T GOT THE ANSWERS, SWAY!” will likely go down as the phrase of 2013, I heard Ye.

He is acutely conscious of his fame and infamy, causing him to employ godhood as trope throughout much of is music. Still, he knows how human he is. For a man who aimed to get rich since he started in the industry, to find himself rich and still not all-powerful because of racism and classism must be confounding. And yet, Ye is blind to his own privilege as a rich black man; he seeks to enter artistic institutions built to keep him out but frames that experience in terms of chattel slavery.

Kanye deserves both looks at his life–the surface and the profound–because even griots need levity in their lives. He can neither be this weighty symbol of black America’s New Slaves nor a tritely dismissed petulant rap star, but all the above.

It is armed with this framework that I went to see his Yeezus Tour, with Kendrick Lamar as opening act. Admittedly, I am more a fan of his first four albums than the most recent ones. The tickets were free, won from a local radio station; no way was I not going. I live blogged my thoughts throughout the show until i got too crunk to type. My explanations are in brackets.

Kendrick Lamar - Øyafestivalen 2013
Kendrick Lamar – (Photo credit: NRK P3)

Act I: Kendrick Lamar, the King of New York 

Kendrick Lamar reps Compton so hard. It’s amazing how place defines and shapes us as people. 

All the times I blast my music in the car, it’s not because I have horrible hearing (although I do). It’s because I’m trying to recreate a concert in my vehicle. There’s few feelings better than that of bass rumbling under my booty.

Kendrick Lamar is a quick spitting poet. 

It takes approximately 13 minutes to get used to the weed smoke. Makes all the lights a lovely hazy color though.

I defy anyone to tell me that black men don’t express their feelings. Few rap songs are as poignant as “Promise that You Will Sing About Me.”

Act II: Yeezus Saves…the Best for Last
I did not love the first set. The 
Yeezus album and 808s and Heartbreak are not my favorites.

Angel iconography again? #Yeezus complex indeed.

But when the beat to Lamborghini Mercy dropped? HEEEEEY!

12 white women wearing sheer nude suits and thongs.
[One of the women might have been a light skinned black woman, but from my vantage point, they looked white. These 12 dancers were initially dressed in angel robes, then spent the majority of the show (in)visibly naked.]

Gorilla suited beast crawling up a glacier.
[Kanye used a dancer in a gorilla suit to symbolize how the public tends to view him as a brute.]

Donda West
Donda West (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Donda West lives in her baby boy.
[Kanye had so much to say about his beloved mother. I have long thought, since the release of 808s and Heartbreak, that much of Kanye’s public displays were offshoots of his pain about his mother’s death. He said about Donda:

“She minored in English but wanted to be an actress. Dad was a professor teaching at CAU and must’ve swept her off her feet.”

“My mom had a PhD. She was the first black woman faculty at Chicago University.”

Act III: Kanye Takes off the Mask

Kanye had on a black, diamond-crusted ski mask during the majority of the show. Then, during an encounter with “White Jesus,” after which he properly quipped, “Thank you, White Jesus,” Ye ripped the mask off. He was funny and candid and performed his older hits. 

“I love Autotune. Thank God for Autotune. If you was 14 years old and you was in high school and you couldn’t talk to a girl, don’t you just wish you had Autotune? Don’t you wish the whole world had Autotune?” He sang this. With Autotune. -_-

“I would sing in the shower and I would think that s**t sounded great and and it sounded TERRIBLE. But that was before Autotune.”

“If Louis Vuitton tried to sell what they sell without the rappers pubbing they s**t, it would be like me singing without Autotune.”

“I tricked y’all into thinking I was a rapper but I’m really Picasso. I tricked y’all on the radio with my good a** raps. I’m an artist.”

“I want to keep it safe as possible. I’m really emotionally hurt when people talk s**t on the Internet. I’ve decided tonight in Atlanta, the place where I was born, I’m not gon’ say nothing.”

“How many people in here hate your boss? How many people in here is a boss and you hate your motherf****n’ employees?”

“I been turning up too much as of late. Who got the answers?”

Postlude:
I can now say that I am, in truth, a former Kanye West fan, living in the golden age of his past self, before he lost Donda, before he became the self-referential figure of Yeezus and stopped being relatable to me. But I respect his growth as an artist and as a man. The concert was impressive.

On My First Time Being Racially Profiled

Trayvon Martin Protest - Sanford
Trayvon Martin Protest – Sanford (Photo credit: werthmedia)

This story is alternatively titled, That One Time I Almost Fought a Racist Grandma. She was taller than me, but I think I could’ve taken her.

Thanksgiving dinner saw my little family take a drive down I-20 to see relatives in Columbia, South Carolina. There is little to do in Columbia outside of shopping and wearing USC Gamecocks tee shirts while shopping. So the family went shopping.

Our aunt took us to Columbia’s historic downtown, a charming Main Street with faded shops and white tent flea markets. We visited Mast General Store and I nearly bought seven pounds of candy from the dozens of barrels packed with Chico Sticks, Coca Cola gummies, licorice, Fun Dip, and other old school favorites. The thought of a dentist’s bill made me chill on the sweets.

The store fronts along the street were dusty but artfully decorated. One men’s clothing store displayed a pimptastic zebra-print men’s dress shoe. It came with a matching belt, so we HAD to go inside. The room was tiny, no bigger than 600 square feet, crammed with racks of suits with pinstripes of which only Steve Harvey would approve. A middle-aged man and a tiny elderly woman wearing a Christmas sweater greeted us. We all exchanged hellos.

I should pause here to describe who “we” were. “We” were the only black people in the room. We were six deep, split evenly with tall males and short females. Africa manifests itself strongly in my husband’s family, in skin colored richly like fertile soil and dense, coily hair that lends itself to the manes of locs worn by my husband and his cousin. One of the men wore a gray sweatshirt hoodie and windbreaker pants. One of the cousins, the one with locs, is built like a running back, because, well, he is one. My afro bloomed wild and happy as usual.

Funny how you never categorize all the ways you might seem threatening to another person until someone treats you like you actually threatened them.

Only a Pimp Named Slickback could pull this off in real life. And he isn't even real.
Only a Pimp Named Slickback could pull this off in real life. And he isn’t even real.

We headed to the back of the store where we marveled at what appeared to be Bishop Don Magic Juan’s armoire. Gators, snakes, and eelskin, oh my! And…manta ray skin shoes? Oh. Yes. I lightly grazed a steel-toed wingtip, feeling the coolness of metal against my finger. “Handle with care,” a septuagenarian voice wound itself around my hand, and I snapped to attention. I didn’t recall picking anything up. Syrupy smile on her face, Grandma stood no less than five feet away from us, talons gripping the clothing rack for dear life. The younger man also minding the store was still near the counter, busy doing storekeeper stuff. Her eyes never wavered from us. I hadn’t even realized she was stalking us.

I wondered aloud, quite loudly, if those eelskin shoes were actually worth $490.00. Grandma stayed fixed on her perch. Staring. Smiling. So I figured, when in Columbia, do as the potentially racist do: I pointedly turned my head and stared. Unsmiling.

It turns out there is little variation in the land of pimp wear, so we left before my staring contest could become epic. A cousin’s stride was a little too brisk for Grandma; she warned, ” Walk slowly, please.” Nobody was running.

My baby girl had lost a shoe in the back of the store. I went back in to get and Grandma followed me all the way to the end wall. When I picked up the shoe, she motioned for me to walk on the opposite side of the aisle of raggedy Iceberg Slim reject suits. I looked her right in the face and stalked out the way I came in.

True to Southern hospitality, she wished us a good day as we filed out. I had lost all my home training and let the cat hold my tongue before I started something foolish with it.

I don’t know why Grandma felt the need to watch us looking at her gaudy footwear and argyle printed fedoras. But I know it angered me.

I have never been so closely and blatantly studied in a store. But this is America, after all. And if black people can be followed and unjustly arrested in a New York Barney’s, then why not a country-bama closet in deep South Carolina?

There is a need, a yearning, really, to put a name to this sticky tarred feeling I cannot dissolve from my gut. I want to call it racism, profiling, something familiar and comforting to explain the unexplainable. This is why I took stock of our “negatives”: dark skin, too many black people at one time, dreadlocks, maleness, muscles, afros, hoodies. What made us worthy? In the end, it doesn’t matter. You will always resemble a criminal if that’s what people have deluded themselves into seeing when they stare at you.

Friday Feel-Good Tune: “Olé Olé” by Lakol

Haitian group Lakol

A few years ago, when I still lived in Florida, I was at a party where the DJ put this song on and magic happened. Every single man in the room stopped posting on the wall and grabbed the nearest girl. Someone whisked me off the coach and laughter trailed behind me. Our feet floated, lifted by the rollicking rhythm of Lakol’s 1992 hit, “Olé Olé.”

For the Haitians surrounding me, this song was old school, a reminder of a golden age of Kompa music. That house party in 2006 was the first time I’d ever heard it. I adored the song instantly. It’s been on my list of favorite Haitian songs ever since. Even if you can’t understand the Kreyol words, you can understand that the melody wants you to throw your hands in the air and be happy right along with it.

So if you’re not at work, do me a favor and dance for the rest of cubicle nation.

Happy Friday, folks! (p.s. apologies for the pixelated vid; clear old music videos are hard to come across!)

A Woman Ponders Her Fat Rolls on Thanksgiving Eve

Mmm... hot cloverleaf rolls
Mmm… hot cloverleaf rolls (Photo credit: jeffreyw)

Dear Fat Rolls:

It seems only right that I would acknowledge you on the day before your holiday. I am conscious of your presence with every rise and fall of my breath. Yours is a landscape I view often, but never admire. Jill Scott once said that there is power in these rolling hills, but in you, my fat rolls, I have only found shame and defeat. I cannot eat my way out of this feeling.

It is a cruel joke that we women call you cute, appetizing things to disguise our misgivings about your existence. It is not fat, but a muffin top bulging over the constricting wrap of denim fabric. We peel jeans off slowly like the delicious prelude to eating a cupcake. We call them love handles, when love often has nothing to do with it. Even the less flattering word, rolls, conjures up that sweet King’s Hawaiian bread; I should invite someone to spread butter on me and nibble. But I do not feel appetizing, I feel lumpy, like poorly beaten gravy poured over chunky mashed potatoes.

Homemade Dinner Rolls
Bread is the stuffing of gods. (Photo credit: dmachiavello)

I pinch myself where I am thick and yeasty. Take forefinger and thumb, grab flesh and tug to see what new terrain you have spawned on me. I hope for pregnancy and PMS in the same bloated moment. Some days, I wonder why I am holding my tummy in when there is no one but us. And I realize that I am uncomfortable with the swell of the hills on my body, so much so that I cannot be myself with myself. This, then, is the battle of the bulge: self-acceptance.

I can chart your growth like the menu for a tailgate. Rounder left flank? Gotta be those buy one-get one free Klondike bars. The soft fold on my belly when I sit up is all potato chips and salsa. The jiggle in my thighs is frozen pizza, and that lump of back cushion is a double Checkerburger with cheese.

And tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I will no doubt add curves to my body where hills were once plains. But I am thankful for this body, as imperfect as it is. It has carried me 31 years and it carried a baby for 10 months. It deserves more respect than I afford it.

Although I have claimed myself to reject society’s standards of beauty, fat rolls, you challenge me to walk upright even knowing I am pudgy. Loving yourself is easy when you fit in; this roundness places me squarely outside my comfort zone. I am forced to ask myself, Why did you maniacally eat healthy when pregnant and nursing, but abandon veggies after weaning the baby? I cannot forget to baby my own body while mothering.

Fat rolls, you are my overflow, the softness pillowing my walk through life; funny how cushion is deemed beneficial everywhere except on bodies.

I can’t go ruining Thanksgiving apologizing for each bite. Everyone knows that eating sweet potato pie with a dollop of recriminations causes indigestion. I promise, right after this holiday, I can and will do better. Exercise, healthy eating, appropriate bed times that allow for more than four hours of sleep.

But more importantly, I will butter my fat rolls. I will tell them they look delicious whether they swell or shrink. I will nibble away at my own shameful habits and bloated expectations about what my body, this body, should look like. Because the only thing that truly feels unattractive on a woman’s body is her own shame.

P.S. And if anyone would pshaw your existence on me, I caution them to read my defense of petite women’s body issues.

in love and war,
dara