From Then to Now
Black History Month isn’t what it used to be. But then again, neither are we.
By Kendra Hamilton
My cousin “Daphne”* is 13 going on 30, with all the accoutrements of the 21st century “fly girl” in training. She has the cell phone in the teddy bear case. The headphones that obviate any need to talk or relate to anyone but her peers. The designer nails. The hair extensions. The glitter-spangled nameplate accessories. The low-slung jeans and tight tops that show off a figure I’m torn between envying and wanting to throw a blanket around.
Of course, Daphne is still a child, even a brief conversation with her makes that unmistakably clear. It’s peppered with references to her favorite color (pink), her favorite singers (Beyoncé and Mary J. Blige) and movies she loves or wants to see.
Not so reassuring, though, are the references to her current obsessions — skin color and hair.
An acquaintance is too Black. So Black she’s blue, she says. When I tell her I don’t approve of such talk, she protests, “But my boyfriend is dark!”
