Jul 15

Jul 15 We're Mad Now: Why Social Media Activism Matters

I was standing at the bathroom sink with my Lysol spray bottle in my hand when I first found out about the Zimmerman verdict. If I’d been cleaning instead of procrastinating on my Twitter timeline, I might have delayed the sick, sinking feeling I experienced when I learned that Zimmerman was found not guilty on all charges. I might have delayed the way my hands shook as I read the tweets of outrage and disbelief. I might have delayed the chill that overtook my body as I saw Zimmerman smile when his attorneys congratulated him. But even if I’d stayed in the bathroom and scrubbed my sink until my hands turned raw, there was no way I could have avoided the news – George Zimmerman, the man who killed a young black kid, not much older than my little brother, was walking free. My heart bled (and still does) for the family of Trayvon Martin.

My immediate reaction was to call my mother, and she listened very quietly as I ranted and raved. Then I took to Twitter to rant and rave some more. I could barely contain my hurt and my anger, and the sympathetic tweets of my counterparts, white, black and otherwise were like fuel to a fire that burned in the pit of my soul. Another black life, gone down the drain, and not a soul was going to suffer for it. How could we not be mad? How could we not be hurt?

Jun 28

Jun 28 It's Not For Them: Why Your White Friend Shouldn't be Saying Nigga

SweetTee

Hashtag Black

I honestly expected the most ignorant thing to come out of Instagram’s new video feature to be twerk videos and 15 second sex tapes. Silly me. I give this generation too much credit. Yesterday, as I was scrolling down my timeline, I came across a video captioned, “Give em permission to use nigga” with a screen shot of a white dude. Oh? Again, because I like to hope for the best, I clicked on the video with my fingers crossed that I wouldn’t hear this white guy casually drop the “n-word” for the amusement of his black friends. I’m such a silly optimist. Of course the white dude said nigga, and of course his black friend laughed uproariously. I sat there trying to figure out why the hell it was so amusing. I’m still at a loss. What I’m not confused about, are my feelings toward the word: I don’t like it.

Jun 18

Jun 18 Get your Hands Off my Fro! Why you Absolutely, Positively Cannot Touch my Hair

SweetTee

Hashtag Black

ecently, I read an article on Twitter about a group of black women who organized an event in which they stood on the street and allowed strangers to touch their hair. Their purpose was to educate people about the diversity, texture and care of black hair. While I’m all for education, especially on topics where ignorance is prevalent, my immediate reaction was, “Oh, hell no! You can’t touch my fro.”

Now before you start making all those jokes about stereotypical black women and their hair issues, let me make them for you. I am the girl who spends hours dealing with her hair; I’m the girl who has far more products than she uses; and I’m the girl who will give you a piece of her mind if you put your hand in her hair uninvited. When it comes to my hair, I am the epitome of stereotypical black chick, and I’m not sorry. Here’s why.