Race and Running... A Question of Diversity?

This morning I read a post from another mother runner which noted the general lack of diversity in the running community. These women travel to races and expos all over the country and, overall, have viewed a very white field.

I have to be honest. With my transracial family, I consider myself to be pretty observant about diversity. Sometimes I worry I'm over-vigilant. But this post came at me out of left field. I had not really thought about it with regards to running. Yet, once I did, my mind flashed immediately to the few races I've run. Other than Detroit, they were very, well, white. And even Detroit... I would be curious about the racial breakdown between the 5k, half marathon and marathon.

Then I thought about S's cross country team. CC is hugely popular at her school. There are approximately 70 kids on the team. She is the only girl of color. There is one Indian boy.  

Why?

 What barriers exist and how do we break them down?

On one hand, running is a very inexpensive form of fitness. A good pair of shoes and you're off. Arguably there are more basics (a supportive bra for one!) but shoes are key. But not cheap. Is this cost a factor? Some other unavailability?

I hope it's not a feeling of exclusion. Generally speaking, I have found runners as a group to be welcoming and compassionate, supportive regardless of your pace. But what kinds of exclusions may be happening, even unintentionally?

If I, someone who often has race on her mind, completely missed the lack of diversity... What else am I missing?

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. "

~Martin Luther King Jr.~

Hair cuts CAN hurt...

Awhile back, I wrote about Hana’s big hair cut this summer.   She is still enjoying her short curls and, although our battles haven’t entirely disappeared, overall things are much smoother in the hair department (no pun intended).

However, I wanted to share my story of Hana’s haircut.  It wasn't quite so happy...

Since Hana came home we have used the same salon for her trims.  Most of the stylists are black, as is most of the clientele. It was important to me to have her hair taken care of by someone with experience with hair like hers.  Our preferred stylist was actually a white mother of black children. She has always been great with Hana – gentle, no pulling, and patient. Unfortunately, when I called to book an appointment with her, I found that she no longer worked for this salon. :( This made me a little nervous, but having no way to contact her, I pressed forth with the salon, asking for another stylist who liked working with children.  Of course the woman who answered the phone insisted she did (although I had my doubts, I did not argue).  I told this stylist what we had planned – that Hana wanted her hair cut very short.  I also said I would wash and condition her hair before bringing her in.  

I should have listened to my gut.  Upon arriving, I just knew it would not go well.  The stylist eyed me up suspiciously.  She asked if we were there for a trim.  No, I reminded her, Hana wanted it cut short, a pixie cut. She simply stared at me and then began arguing how I just couldn’t do that.  I told her that was what Hana wanted.  Then she ignored me and turned to Hana, asking her how old she was and did she understand what we were talking about?  Hana was nervous but did make it clear that she wanted her hair cut.

Then the stylist (I use that word loosely now) began hacking at Hana’s hair without another word.  I thought she would put it into a pony tail and cut that, but she just began taking large hunks off, very quickly.  My eyes actually teared up.  I think it was a combination of this woman’s attitude and actually seeing her beautiful hair fall to the floor.  I knew there was no going back and I was nervous.  I wanted to step in and say something, but I did not want to make Hana nervous.

And she just kept hacking, shorter and shorter.   She never stopped to clarify what length we wanted (or anything else).  She just chopped it, got it wet and put some gel on it.  She was extremely rude to me and barely polite to Hana. The stylist next to us had been very doubtful about the cut at the beginning, but at least made an effort to smile at Hana, telling her how cute she was with her short hair.  I was thankful Hana could focus on this nice woman.

Finally, it was over.  There were so many words on the tip of my tongue, and so many thoughts racing through my head.  I was so hurt – for Hana, for me.  I was angry. I couldn’t believe we had been treated so rudely, all because I – some white lady – was allowing my 8 year old to cut her hair. I wanted to scream at her, “I’m not lazy. I know how to braid, how to care for it. I know what to do. I would do it!  This is what she wants!”    

But, for once, I kept my mouth shut.  

I looked at her face.  Hana hadn’t noticed this woman’s sour attitude at all. She was excited. She felt beautiful! She was beautiful.

I refused to take that feeling away from her. I paid the woman and left.  For days I debated about going back to the salon, or calling her and telling her what I thought of her terrible work and attitude (seriously, it was awful – I had to trim Hana’s hair myself at home because some parts were so uneven).  In the end, I did neither.  I am not sure if I was afraid or just needed to let go.  Unfortunately, there is a not-so-small part of me that regrets not telling her off.

So, anyone know a good stylist? We’re in the market. 

Let's Talk About Hair...

That can be such a “4 letter word” (if you know what I mean…).  How many of us did not spend our teenage years fussing with this or that?  And bangs? Don’t get me started…

But, at the end of the day, it’s just, well, hair right?

Not for everyone.

Let me back up a bit. 

Over three years ago, Abi and Hana joined our family.  Abi came home with a freshly shaved head.  Hana, fortunately, had managed to escape the razor’s wrath, but still suffered very dry, damaged and broken locs.  She had bald patches and different lengths. 

It took weeks, months, years.  Investment of hours into learning, combing, braiding.  Investment of money into products.  And simply time. Time for her head to heal.  And she did, little by little.  Her beautiful curls began to shine, tightly woven into intricate braids.  I was so proud of my growing skills.

And she was lovely.  And terribly, terribly unhappy.

Abi’s hair began to grow as well.  His thick curls came in fast and furious. That boy can grow hair so quickly.  And he loved it.  Oh, how he loved it!  Even at age 4, he would carefully comb out his curls in front of the mirror, patting his little ‘fro, his “big fluffy,” as he called it for a time. (To get a better idea, check out this video we posted awhile back here) 

And it grew. And grew.  And became more and more unmanageable.  I was barely keeping afloat keeping Hana’s hair in braids, I couldn’t fathom adding Abi’s head to my workload.  So, periodically, we buzzed it down.  

I will never forget the first time we did this. It was summer and it seemed like the perfect time – a nice, cool short cut for the hot months.  Abi didn’t seem to mind until it was finished.  He took one look at his close crop and burst into tears.  He cried forlornly in his bed for a long time.  Although he has never articulated his “hair issues” I suspect the shorter cuts take him back to mass shaves at the orphanage.  Shaves that were quick and sloppy and often resulted in cuts to his head.  Shaves that took a piece of his dignity and caused pain.  As a result, even years later, hair cuts are met with trepidation by all of us.  We’ve tried going to a barber and just trimming it down rather than shaving. It doesn’t seem to matter.  Any way we cut it seems to depress him. So much so that he wants to wear a hat or hood in public, sure that everyone is looking at him.

So jealous of Hana, with her long, tight curls and beautiful braids.

And Hana was… well, completely miserable.  Braids were our only option because the alternative was daily hair battles.  Braids allowed us at least a week or two between the fights.  Nearly every comb out, every part brought tears.  She has a very sensitive head and no desire for anything at all on our head.  She had no interest or incentive to sit for hours while I braided intricate designs or added beads. She grew to tolerate it and, at times, it offered us some nice bonding time. However, the majority of the time, it caused a hurt head and hurt hearts, with both of us in tears and/or very angry.

It. Was. Awful.

So why? Why did we continue on this way?  Why didn’t I seek alternative solutions? 

Pride, I think.  At the core, I was proud of Hana’s beautiful hair and what I did to take care of it.  I was proud that I invested the time and effort into learning to care for it and carrying through on maintaining it.  I was proud to have  visual marker of my fitness to care for my brown children.  Because everyone’s looking right? Everyone’s looking at the hair?  Can that white lady handle it?  Yes, I could and there was the proof!

One day this summer, after much thought and consideration, I just decided that enough was enough.  It’s not my hair. It’s Hana’s. And no matter how much time I spend on it or what I do to it, she hates it. She hates every moment of taking care of it and it does not make her feel beautiful.  Why should my pride keep my daughter in such an uncomfortable position?

So, Mark and I agreed that we should let her cut it. All of it.  And we did. 

The smile on her face when she looked in the mirror.  The hug she gave me after.  Oh, it was incredible.  She felt beautiful that day.

Unfortunately, I left the salon with a pit in my stomach, feeling judged and lacking… but that's another post entirely.