The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl by Issa Rae

floor. Monique, Lakira, and the rest of my sophomore peers watched as Maurice moved behind me and Trina’s nasally vocals serenaded us. I had to back up all the talk I had spewed in the last two weeks, and so I stiffly bent my knees, booty popped (or “back-popped,” if I’m being honest), and swayed to the best of my ability. I heard laughter and general aloofness.
    Determined to make an impression, I swung my braids back and dropped to the floor on all fours, arching my back in the literal bad-bitch position. My hands on the ground, pumping my butt to the beat, I heard the cheers, the gasps, and the laughter behind me. And then came the flash of cameras. My heart stopped. The flashes could only mean one thing—someone was going to capture this moment and share it with others to further humiliate me beyond this evening. Because what could be more humiliating than feeling compelled to get on all fours just to gain social credibility?
    When the song was over, I got up, ashamed and mortified on the inside and yet boastful on the outside, as Maurice moved his humping elsewhere. Monique approached me dying of laughter. “I got that shit on camera, HAHAHAHA!”
    I don’t remember how long we stayed at the party, because I kept replaying that moment over and over again, wishing I could be teleported to the future when all was forgotten.
    I was so afraid of what was to come. Relieved the party was over and that the truth was finally out there, I still had to deal with the consequences the following Monday. I started to think of the excuses I could give.
    Maybe I could blame their inevitable lack of appreciation of my dance moves on cultural differences. “That’s how we dance in Senegal. I was trying to put you on game,” I could snap with much ’tude.
    Or perhaps I could blame my moves on dizziness. “Y’all know I suffer from vertigo. That’s why I had to get low.”
    I practiced my “take me seriously” face in the mirror as I prepared for school.
    But when I got to class, my fears were never realized. Instead of being called out for not being able to dance, I became known as “that smart girl who dropped it to the floor at Lakira’s party.” People who went to the party only talked about how much fun they’d had, leaving people who hadn’t made it to regret missing it. Not only had I made a huge deal about how my dancing would affect my social reputation, but I had also neglected to realize that a lot of my fellow students weren’t even invited. My invite automatically made me cool! My moves didn’t kill my rep; if anything, my antics only served to briefly boost Lakira’s popularity as an excellent party thrower. All order was restored. I had paid my dues and completed my black-girl rite of passage. Recognizing this, and the anxiety this whole ordeal had caused me, I decided I never had to attend another high school dance party ever again. Not even prom. Now, whenever I’m peer pressured to show off my moves, I politely bow out, “I don’t fit the stereotype.”
----
    4    Black people of all shapes, sizes, and personalities value the moisturizing product known as body lotion. Lotioning alleviates ashiness. To be “ashy” is to be unkempt. Lotioning is the very least one can do to be socially presentable and physically acceptable. Cocoa butter, shea butter, and aloe vera are black-people essentials; some treat the moisturizing process as a meditative ritual. Some use only as much as necessary to cover the ashiest areas (knuckles, elbows, and knees). But all understand its importance.

Hair Hierarchy
    I t took me a while to embrace my natural hair. Sure, it helps that natural hair is in now, but even before natural hair was all that, I had, after years of struggle, learned to appreciate the autonomous locks that rest atop my head.
    I didn’t always have a grievance with my hair. When I was younger, our love-hate relationship was 70/30, in favor of love. Hate entered the picture only when my