Nigerian-American Blogger Antonia Opiah,
The Woman Behind
‘You Can Touch My Hair,’
on the Reaction to the Exhibit
Reaction to the exhibition was stealth, to say the least. On one hand were women who welcomed such an exhibit and the opportunity to openly talk about people’s curiosity with black women’s hair. On the other were women who balked at the idea of putting blaxk women on display. Was the exhibition recreating what Sarah Bartmaan had to experience?
We reached out to Antonia to find out more about her intentions with the exhibit, how she feels about the negative the backlash, and whether the politics of hair were ever a major issue in her own NIgerian upbringing.
AfriPOP!: What’s your takeaway from the exhibit?
Antonia Opiah: I was really pleased with it to be honest. I think what I expected to happen, happened. The event was called “You Can Touch My Hair” but that was an entry point to a discussion that I wanted to have and I figured that there’s no way that that kind of interaction can happen without there being some kind of conversation. My hope was that, yes we’ll let these people touch our models’ hair and our models will engage them. They’re also gonna have the opportunity to learn why people are curious about our hair or find it to be a novelty. That’s what I was looking to figure out.
I read a few article about the exhibit online. Some people rooted the issue in the history of the black and white relationship in America and white ownership. That’s a valid area to ground this in but I tend to play devil’s advocate because I get asked the question and a lot of the people that I answer to seem to be coming from a genuine place of curiosity. I don’t want to disregard that. If curiosity is in fact the case, why are you curious? Is it something that you’re not exposed to? We’re out here touting America as this place of freedom but are we really as intermingled as we think we are? And what are the consequences of us not being intermingled? To me, “can I touch your hair?” is an implication of that lack of interaction that’s not happening across different cultures.
Let’s go back to what made you want to do a public exhibit on this issue.
Two reasons: the first being that I’ve been asked that question a lot in my life and I know the weight that it holds. I know that I’ve felt offended by it so I wanted to see if we can draw a parallel between a literal display and the question. A lot of people saw that parallel. So everyone that got angry about it, they saw that parallel, but the people I wanted to illustrate that parallel to were the people that were “curious.” The second reason was I know in my life any time that I’ve grated my teeth and engaged in a conversation with someone about my hair, I know that I’ve always come out of it feeling really good about myself because I enjoy talking about my hair. My hair is something that I’m proud of and something that I think is beautiful . I suspected that by having this platform to have that kind of interaction, those types of positive conversations could come out of it.
Were you surprised by the people who showed up to say, “You cannot touch my hair”?
I was surprised at the overall negative backlash. I didn’t see it coming because maybe I’m naïve. To me, I saw this as a kumbaya moment and I knew my intent. But everyone else didn’t know my intent, which was that this was less about touching, and more about having a conversation. People who were on the outside looking in just saw the signs. They just saw the images on Instagram and they saw the hashtag and reacted to that. The images they saw drew too much of a parallel between a certain part of our black history that’s pretty disturbing. I don’t blame them for their reaction; I just didn’t anticipate. I did anticipate a certain level of discomfort but I thought that would come from the people who actually were at the exhibit. The same things that people are saying now, about how the exhibit puts you on display and that you shouldn’t have to explain anything about who you are—these are all things I’ve said to myself. Over the past two years I was inadvertently made the black hair ambassador at work because I change my hair so often. And I didn’t necessarily feel like explaining why my hair is a fro this week when I had a different style last week. It’s intense to walk into a room where everyone’s gawking at you and saying things about your hair. And so, the sentiment that was expressed, is a sentiment that I’ve expressed so I’m not surprised to hear it.
Where does this become a race issue? It feels like the conversation is framed in such a way that it’s only white people that ever ask to touch black women’s hair?
The challenge of You Can Touch My Hair was for those people who have put other people on the spotlight with their curiosity. What actually ended up happening, which probably ends up happening in real life, is that more black women were the ones doing the touching and asking the questions. I think what that indicates is that is kind of what I feel which is that black hair is special. I think Michaela Angela Davis said it best when she said, “Black hair is magic.” We can do all kinds of things with it. The reason my site and thousands of other sites exist is because there are so many discussions to be had around black hair. There’s so much to learn about black hair, which is why so many people, even black women, have a lot of questions about it. That’s something that we have to acknowledge across the board.
Why only have black models out there? To broaden it couldn’t there have been women of other races? We wear weaves made from Indian hair. Obviously we’re intrigued by that hair.
Because I know the black experience and what I was trying to do was recreate an encounter that I have every day; that I know other women have every day. Everyone was mad that this exhibit, but it goes on every time that question is asked. I know what the question means to black women. And I know that for us, hair is not just hair. It has a lot of implications and history even though it’s a superficial element of our being.
Tell me about growing up in a Nigerian household and the issue of hair.
It wasn’t talked about but it was something that was always done. My mom used to plait my hair into really intricate styles. I wasn’t even aware that that was something not normal until I came to America. I think I was like 9 years old and someone was like, ‘Oh, let me look at your hair. Let me see the patters.’ Doing our hair was a part of our culture—we didn’t really think about it. We moved around a lot and I think my awareness of my hair was dependent on where I was. I remember we were in boarding school in Switzerland and my hair was in plaits. They get old after a while so I took them out and I think somehow my hair was combed up and one of the girls in the dorm came out and looked at my hair and started laughing. She pulled me out for everyone to see. We were literally put on display, but I think I was too young for that to really have an effect on me. I remember feeling different, that’s for sure.
Have you always loved your hair?
Yes, certainly. I’ve been natural for a few years now and with this natural hair renaissance I want to know my hair more. I grew up with certain misconceptions about my hair and I suspect that other women did too. I grew up with my hair being relaxed all the time so now this natural hair is something new to me—I have to research it, I even watch Youtube videos. I feel like I’m starting a new relationship with it which is weird because it’s something that grows out of my head and it shouldn’t be new, but it is because of the larger history of black people in America and what we’ve been told about what’s good and what’s bad.
So what next?
I’m happy with the discussion that happened. I would have liked to see more non-blacks participate because what ended up happening is that it got so reactionary especially to the imagery and the notion of it as a petting zoo. People who were there got to understand why this is such a hot topic, but I would have liked for more non-blacks to participate.
As in the people coming to touch the hair?
Yeah. Just even to listen. You can see that in videos that are coming out of the event—there was just more talking than there was touching. One of the protestors said this conversation has nothing to do with them. That’s one of the statements I disagree with. The fact that I am being asked this question and that the question does put people on display is a result of people not knowing the weight of that question.
Will there be more “You Can Touch My Hair” exhibits?
We’ve gotten a lot of requests surprisingly, despite all the backlash, with people asking us to bring it to their town. I think what will happen next will be an online discussion. Even though the people that were against the event were the most vocal, there are people who don’t mind people touching their hair or having that conversation. I’d like to put those people in a forum together and further talk about this discussion. We’re also going to be putting together a film conveying what we learned, what we explored, and the conversations that we had at the event—the good and the bad.
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11. JUNE 2013 · 20:04
No, You May Not Touch My Hair:
Or Why Antonia Opiah’s
Public Art Exhibit Misses the Mark
By Arianna Marie Conerly Coleman
Antonia Opiah’s “You Can Touch My Hair” public art exhibit features Black women in Union Square, New York City, holding signs that read, “You Can Touch My Hair.” On the surface, this serves to open up dialog about Black coils/kinks/curls/loc(k)s. At the surface level, it is about Black women asserting bodily autonomy and allowing others to touch their hair. At a deeper level, this is a troubling case of an African-descended person further facilitating symbolic violence against Black bodies by proffering Black bodies to a (presumably) White gaze.
In her Huffington Post piece, in which she defends her exhibit, she writes:
Los Angelista attributed the phenomenon to “racial superiority and privilege.” A 2011 CNN article quotes blogger Renee Martin who reasons, “it’s about ownership of black bodies more than it has to actually do with hair.” I found all that a bit extreme and likely written out of the anger and shock of their encounters. So I decided to talk to some of my white friends about the matter.”
All too eager to dismiss the lived experiences and valid anger of Black women rejecting unconsented touching of their hair and bodies, Opiah turns to her white friends and center their opinions. Never mind that discussions of consent that do not address the power imbalances that necessitate consent are incomplete. No, get a white friend’s opinion on whether touching Black women’s hair is permissible. This focus elides the fact that Black bodies are indeed treated as ‘public property.’ From the auction block to the human zoos (also known as “ethnological expositions” or “Negro Villages”- the last of which was closed in 1959- not so long ago), Black bodies have historically been offered up to the intrusive Gaze and touch of white audiences.
Notably, Opiah, a natural hair blogger, speaks and acts as a descendant of Nigerian immigrants to the United States, whose experiences varies greatly from descendants of enslaved Africans in the United States whose subjectivities have been more directly shaped by the legacies of enslavement and their continued status as “second-class citizens.” For descendants of enslaved Africans, the social ‘reality’ that our bodies are not considered our own, and that our self-possession is seen as deviance or decadence is made clear in the quotidian encounters in public spaces. Surveillance, unconsented touching and out-right policing serve to remind us of this ‘fact.’
Thing is, this is in a context where Black bodies- particularly Black women’s bodies- are deemed ‘public property’ and have been since the inception of this nation. As the “racialized Other,” Black people’s bodies are treated as deviant, criminal, hypersexual, and in a more benign sense, “curiosities.” This extends to our hair. What Opiah’s public art exhibit fails to apprehend is the very real entitlement that a white supremacist society feels toward Black- and particularly, gendered- bodies. Dialog need not be facilitated by furthering this entitlement at the intersection of revulsion and desire. Black bodies need not to serve as a junction point for ‘dialog.’ What good is this dialog, when those same bodies are denied the right to be heard? We need to dig deeper and consider the roots of this “curiosity.”
If you dig into historical and legal texts, you’ll find that law and customs codified this constructed difference. In French-occupied North America, laws were passed that required free Black women to wear headscarves, also known as the “tignon”to signify their lower status (pointing to the way in which Black women’s hair is also a signifier of class- the vestiges of which can be seen in contemporary racialized discourses of what constitutes a “ghetto” hairstyle). In the case of enslaved Black women, there are ample narratives recorded by formerly enslaved Blacks that document the ways in which their hair became a focal point in the policing and subjection of their bodies.
It is a violation of our bodies and a reinforcement of the social ‘fact’ that our Black bodies are not our own when others feel like they are entitled to touch our hair. And this entitlement speaks to a power imbalance. That is, white people are not seen as “other,” yet Black people- Black bodies- are treated as “other”- the criminal, menacing, hypersexual “Other” whose hair is “unprofessional” or simply “outlandish.” In practice, this plays out when Black employees in the United States have to sue for the right to wear their hair as it grows out of their head, and they find themselves without the protection of non-discrimination clauses based on race.
But does my experience as a “mzungu” or “obruni” in Africa compare to Blacks’ in America?
In no way does Africans touching white people’s hair equate to Black people being subjected to unwanted touching/prying/questioning about their hair/bodies in specifically US/Western/white-dominated contexts. In Africa- even in former settler colonies- white people a minority in numbers only, but here in the US (and in much of the “West”), Black folks are doubly the ‘minority.’ We are the ‘minority’ in numbers and in terms of structural inequalities which derive in part from a history of enslavement, subjection and abjection.
Nor does your ‘difference’ as a European-descended person or “other” on the continent of Africa signify second-class status. Likely, you command higher pay and receive better service in hotels, restaurants and other places of commerce. I’ve seen this first-hand in my visits to the continent, where concierges, wait staff and customer service employees deliberately ignored me and my Black skin in favor of white customers, assuming that they had more money and favor to offer than I did. Why? White supremacy and hegemony is a global phenomenon that manifests particularly in local contexts. It is, in part, a vestige of colonialism and an effect of neocolonialism or continued colonial relations (termed “coloniality” by Prof. Ramon Grosfuguel at U.C. Berkeley.)
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