We Got Mad (Hair) Issues

Recently it occurred to me that I've been that I've been fairly silent on a topic about which I'm fairly passionate and that has considerable significance to Black love - Black hair. Or more specifically, our personal and cultural hang-ups about Black hair. Maybe my silence has to do with its potential explosiveness. Conversations about Black hair tend to devolve into a sort of war between two nations - those who wear their hair relaxed and those who wear it natural. It's a touchy topic. But fully loving ourselves also means loving our hair in its natural form.

That's an assertion that usually rubs relaxed heads the wrong way. Keep in mind that I don't think it's wrong to relax or straighten one's hair. My issue (really our issue) is that the vast majority of Black women have been straightening their hair for so long that we don't actually know what our real hair texture looks like. We are afraid of our natural hair texture. We don't want to see it and we don't want anyone else to see it. So collectively we spend billions of dollars each year on hair care products even though we are among the poorest group of people in the United States.

Imagine if every Black girlchild, around the age of 8 or 9, went to a plastic surgeon and had her skin lightened because she lived in a country in which light skin was considered beautiful and brought considerable advantages in terms of education, income, and marriage (Oh wait, it does.). And then for the rest of her life she avoided the sun and went back for regular "touch-ups" every six weeks to ensure that her skin stayed light. I suppose we could argue that doing such a thing has nothing to do with race-based beauty ideals. But we'd be lying to ourselves. The good news, though, is that it will be easier to lie to ourselves after several generations of Black women and girls have been doing it. Then we can pretend that it's just the way that things are done.

It's hard for a person to admit that she doesn't fully love and accept herself. It was hard for me. It still is. I've been natural for nearly 13 years now, after what seemed like a lifetime of conscious and unconscious hair self-hatred. Now, I'm working on getting over my body self-hatred (Seriously, do these two skinnies need to be sitting across from me eating cake while I sip on a skinny, sugar free, decaf misto?).

Whenever the conversation turns to natural hair, women with relaxed hair get defensive. Do me a favor and relax your defenses just long enough to ask yourself these questions (and don't worry - I've got something to say to women with natural hair too):

1. Do you know what your natural hair texture looks like? Most black women don't. At the slightest sign of kinks, we rush to the salon for a new application of the creamy crack. How can you claim to love you if you don't know what you looks like?
2. Do you know how to take care of your natural hair? That is, do you know how to style it, moisturize it, keep it healthy? Only in the past 10 years have natural hair care products become widely available. That's amazing in itself considering that beauty salons and beauty supply stores are among the businesses most likely to be found in Black neighborhoods. Of course, the irony is that most of these stores devote much of their floor space to selling hair - Malaysian, Indian, Asian, and European hair - to Black women. Apparently, relaxers are no longer strong enough to tame those natural kinks, coils, and curls. We've just resorted to wearing other people's hair.
3. Do you feel just as beautiful with natural hair as you do with relaxed hair? You should. After all, your natural hair is the hair with which you have been fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God. And as the church folk say, God don't make no junk.
4. Can you honestly afford the time and money that it takes to maintain your relaxed hair? This really should be the clincher. If you're putting your hair styles on credit or on layaway (or ignoring other obligations - including tithing - because of your hair), then you can't afford it! Now that's not to say that natural hair doesn't take work; if you want to wear anything other than a closely cropped fro, it's going to take some work. And the learning curve is steep in the first few months if you're learning how to take care of your own hair for the first time in your adult life. But overall, I've found it to be much less time consuming and costly.
5. Does your hair want to be relaxed? Not all Black hair is the same. Some people's hair does well with relaxers. But many of us have hair that just doesn't want to be fried, dyed, or laid to the side. For years I struggled to find the right relaxers and styling products that would make my hair stay straight for more than a few weeks (seriously, I once walked into a new stylist for a wash n' set and she told me I needed a touch-up. My response: "I just had one last week."). I finally realized that my hair was rebelling against the chemicals. It didn't stay straight because it wasn't meant to be straight.

I don't expect women to go out in droves and do the big chop. I just want us to be honest with ourselves about the reasons that Black women are the only group of people in the world who talk about wearing our hair in its "natural" state as if it's an abnormality. We have hair issues just like we have skin color issues.

By the way, for the naturalistas among us who have been reading this with a self-righteous smile on our faces, we have hair issues too. Many of us have made an idol out of natural hair. We act as though wearing our hair naturally automatically elevates us to a higher spiritual and emotional plane than our relaxed sisters. Please! Now, it's true that for many of us - including myself - the decision to go natural is part of a spiritual journey (I'll post another article about that shortly). But for a lot of folks, it's just a hairstyle, plain and simple. It doesn't denote self-love or the lack thereof; it's not a symbol of spiritual growth or political sensibilities. They do it because its convenient or in style. Sometimes they do it because they're flat broke and can't afford anything else.

So let's talk about hair. But let's drop the defensiveness, self-righteousness, and all the other stuff that impedes healthy, community-building dialogue. We've got enough issues without it.

A Long Hiatus

Yikes! Has it really been 8 months since my last post?! It's been a tough 8 months. Some medical and family issues have put this StrongBlackWoman on the sidelines. Against my chronic SBW tendencies, I've been forced to cut back. But that's the topic for another day. Fortunately, the receipt of a research leave grant means that I get to spend the next year writing. I'll be working on my book and reviving the blog.

The next post is coming up in just a few minutes.

For Colored Girls: Tyler Perry's Invitation to Lament

No bad news
No bad news
Don't you ever bring me no bad news
'Cause I'll make you an offer, child
That you cannot refuse
So don't nobody bring me no bad news

Those are the lyrics sung by Mabel King in her role as Evillene in The Wiz, the all-Black adaptation of L. Frank Baum's The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. The irony, of course, is that Evillene (the wicked witch of whom kids were actually afraid) was the epitome of bad news. So is it strange, then, that this song leaped into my head when I thought about the resistance of some Black men, particularly Black male pastors, toward seeing Tyler Perry's latest film, For Colored Girls?

Just to avoid misunderstanding, I am not labeling Black men or Black male pastors as the epitome of bad news for Black women (although some folks might, in the case of the latter). And I confess that I have leveled a fair share of criticism at Tyler Perry for his portrayals of African American women and African American romantic relationships. Earlier this year, in a post about Why Did I Get Married Too?, I wrote:

The essence of both Why Did I Get Married? films remains the same: Black romantic relationships are screwed up because: (1) there are a lot of no-count black men out there (i.e., the abusers, cheaters, etc.); and (2) black women are ball-busting bitches who don't know how to appreciate a good thing when they find it.

Of course, I'm not alone in my criticism. Tyler Perry is to the blogosphere what George W. Bush was to late-night comedians. He provides plenty of fuel for the self-righteous indignation of...well, just about everybody.

As a teenager, I cut my womanist/feminist teeth on Ntozake Shange's choreopoem, For colored girls who have considered suicide/When the rainbow is enuf. I've never seen the Broadway production, but the PBS film adaptation starring Lynn Whitfield and Alfre Woodard (as well as Shange herself) occupies a prominent place in my DVD collection. So I was more than skeptical when I learned that Perry had acquired the rights to Shange's work and would be writing, directing, and producing it. Yet I also remained hopeful that he would somehow avoid butchering Shange's elegant and heart-wrenching treatise on the lives and loves, struggles and triumphs of African American women. I wanted and needed Perry to do well with this film. And as the film's release date neared and some positive reviews came pouring in, I became even more hopeful.

Since the film's release, the feminist blogosphere has been afire with the criticisms of Perry's adaptation, which has been labeled as a weak and undeserving imitation of Shange's masterpiece. Other critics (read "probably White critics unfamiliar with Shange's work") have excoriated the film for its jumpy quality and lack of a cohesive storyline. Quite frankly, I disagree with all of them. Shange's work is a highly artistic, complex piece that defies easy categorization. Perry took a feminist choreopoem aimed at a 1970s theater audience and produced a 2010 film that was relevant, accessible, and profitable. That's not an easy undertaking. But he did it. And in my opinion, he did it well.

I was surprised by just how much I enjoyed the film. I went to see it with my colleague and fellow womanist theologian, Dr. Cheryl Kirk-Duggan. And I expected that we'd leave the film with a listful of complaints. Instead, we both walked out saying, "That was great!" But my delight met with another source of resistance: the individual boycotts of African American men who refused to see the film because of its assumed depictions of African American men as predators.

I heard the protests most frequently among male students and colleagues at the historically Black Baptist seminary at which I teach. At some level, I understand. After all, I am an African American woman, member of a racial-gender group whose images are routinely assassinated on the large and small screens. These days, a Black actress can hardly buy a job. But I digress...

I found a few ironies in the refusal of Black men who were leaders in the Christian church to watch the film. First, I doubt that many (any?) of them were basing their protest upon a careful reading of the original work. They were objecting to what they had "heard" about the film, not upon any concrete data. Second, it was the same stance which was articulated against The Color Purple in the 1980s and Waiting to Exhale in the 1990s. It seems that whenever a Black female writer's narrative of Black women's pain is adapted for film, some brothers turn into Evillene, mad at the possibility that someone might bring them some bad news. And as a consequence, the struggles of Black women's lives are silenced behind a wall of Black male denial. "Don't make brothers look bad" becomes a weapon of silence waged against African American women by Black patriarchy.

In the case of For Colored Girls, this is especially disheartening. For Colored Girls is an invitation into lament. It shatters the myth that Black women have transcended the burden of racism and provides a glimpse of the gendered forms of oppression that uniquely and/or disproportionately impact Black women in America: rape, incest, domestic violence, child abuse, HIV/AIDS, lack of social support, and problems in relationships of all kinds. In contrast to his prior work, Perry makes no attempt to wrap everything up in a nice, neat little bow at the end. The characters' lives and pain are unresolved. There is no prince in shining armor coming to save the day. There is no quick fix. As an audience, we are simply invited to sit alongside these women (as well as the men) and to hear their stories for two hours. To cry with them, to hold them in our hearts, to see ourselves in them, and to see them in ourselves and in the women we know.

The church could learn a valuable lesson from that. Perry's characters may be imagined, but they are also real. And they are in the church, sitting in the pews every Sunday morning, outfit tight and hair and makeup just right. They go to church, at least in part, hoping to receive a balm for their wounds, but also terrified of letting anyone see just how wounded they are. Perhaps they think that no one cares. Or maybe they don't want to be the ones to bring their pastors "no bad news."

Brothers - get your heads out of the sand. Go see the film. And if you're a pastor or minister, take a few women with you. And after the film, sit with them for a while. Hear their stories. Cry with them. Hold them in your hearts. See yourself in them and see them in the women that you love. Don't try to fix it. Don't let your black male ego raise its defenses. Just lament.

Speaking Out: An Ally Confesses

It has been eighteen days since Tyler Clementi reportedly killed himself. Clementi was a freshman at Rutgers University. He leapt to his death from the George Washington Bridge one day after his roommate and another Rutgers freshman secretly broadcast a live video stream of Clementi having sex with another male student. I cannot imagine the embarrassment of having one's sexual activity displayed for public consumption. It's a humiliation that would likely drive most of us into a deep depression. With the exception of the most brazen, most of us would worry that we could never again show ourselves in public. Just the thought is terrifying.

For Clementi, the shame must have been exponentially greater. Only one month into his first year of college, he may have feared the prospect of going through the next four years known on campus as "that guy." And in an era when social networking blends one's professional and personal existence for all the world to see, he may have worried how it would impact his future employment prospects. And then there's the fact that Clementi was not just engaged in sex; he was having sex with another man. If Clementi was closeted, I can imagine that he saw no other way to resolve his anguish than to end his life.

I feel my heart breaking each time that I think of Clementi and the many gay youth who commit suicide each year, and the many more who attempt to end their lives. As a Christian, I feel responsible for each loss of precious life. I feel responsible for every hateful look, word, or deed that drives my LGBT brothers and sisters to such despair, especially those acts of hatred lobbed at them by people who proclaim to be followers of the merciful and loving Christ.

I feel responsible because I once threw the insults. Raised in the South in a conservative Christian family and church, I believed that homosexuality was a sin worthy of eternal of damnation. Oh yeah, I also thought it was a trick of the white man designed to annihilate the descendants of Mother Africa (look, it was the resurgence of black nationalism, okay?). Like many of the people I knew (none of whom were gay or lesbian, conveniently), I thougth that homosexuality was learned behavior, a product of a sick society that was moving further and further away from God. And as long as I stayed around heterosexual, conservative Christians, there was no one to argue otherwise. I could and did join in the chorus of "God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" without witnessing the impact that the spiritual assault had upon the lives of homosexual men and women.

But living on a college campus made it impossible to keep the emotional distance necessary to maintain my ignorance. Away from the watchful eyes of their parents, same-gender-loving peers were much freer to express their affection publicly. So too were the Bible thumpers, the emotionally immature, and the sexually insecure (who often were the same people). After a few university-newspaper headline-mkaing incidents of heterosexist harrassment, it dawned on me: "Who in their right minds would choose this life?"

Gradually, I became convinced that sexual orientation, at least for the overwhelming majority of the population, was not a matter of conditioning or choice. It was innate and largely out of one's control. Still, I thought it was a deviancy, a biological mutation that could and should be cured, sort of like diabetes or nearsightedness. And while my resolve was weakening, I still thought it was sinful, just no more sinful than any other behavior that the Church doesn't like. I was a softer, gentler heterosexist. At least, I was until Susan and Gloria happened.

Susan and Gloria were clients in the substance abuse treatment program at which I worked part-time during my second year of graduate school. The program was intensive - six months in a residential facility with limited outside contact. The women were nearly all long-time drug users who had tried and failed in other treatment programs. Our program was often their last hope.

Susan and Gloria had entered the program within less than two weeks of each other and were in the final month of treatment. During their stay, they had become close. Really close. Now close friendships among the women were common, but this one was different. And everyone noticed. Other clients openly accused them of being lovers. They were adamant in their denial, but admitted that their love for one another had grown beyond friendship. "We don't know what we are," Gloria once said resignedly.

The staff was less confrontational. The general consensus seemed to be that if we ignored it, it would disappear. Maybe it was that head-in-the-sand mentality that prevailed during the women's last few weeks of treatment, when the the administration decided to issue twelve-hour passes to both on the same day so that they could begin searching for jobs and housing in preparation of their transition back into society.

I came to work the day after they had gone out on their passes. Panic was in the air. "They didn't come back," one of the women said softly. The normally boisterous group was quiet. For the entire day, they sat just outside my office, jumping expectedly every time a door opened or the phone rang. With this group, failing to show up after a day pass meant only one thing - relapse. And for women who had managed to accrue almost six months clean after decades of addiction, that was a fate akin to death.

Finally, with just two hours left on my shift, the pair returned. They explained that after registering Susan's daughter in school and finding Gloria a new apartment, they were overcome with excitement about their impending graduation. "We couldn't help it," Susan said, her eyes focused on the floor of my tiny office. "We did it."

"You did what?", I asked, praying that she would not say the dreaded R-word. "We were together," was all that she could muster. Guilt weighed heavy in her voice. "Together how?", I queried, putting to use the clinical skills I was learning in my psychology program. I knew exactly what she meant, but I wanted her to say it. Like everyone else, I had seen the love that had grown between the two women. I wanted them to own the moment in which they had consummated their love, rather than hiding behind ambiguities. "We made love," one finally said. Before I could utter the cliched "And how did you feel about that?", Susan continued, "Then we figured that since we're going to hell anyway, we might as well go all the way." And just like that, they went out, bought some crack, and threw away six months of hard recovery work.

As I delivered the director's decision that they were both ejected from the program, I wept with them. And I felt responsible. I knew that it was the rhetoric of folks like me that made them believe that their lovemaking was an unforgiveable sin, as opposed to an act of beauty. I knew that Susan and Gloria had confirmed what I was beginning to suspect for many of the program's clients - that their substance abuse was an attempt to mask their struggles over their sexual orientation. On that day, I realized that my position had to change. I made a conscious effort to get to know to stories of people who identify as gay and lesbian. As I heard their pain - the many ways that they tried to deny their sexuality, their unanswered prayers to God to "fix" them, their stories of depression, substance use, and suicidality - my heart opened up. So did my mind.

At some point, I realized that I could no longer consider homosexuality sinful. I could no more imagine God punishing someone for a sexuality that they could not change than I could imagine God sending someone to hell for being born blind or deaf. I became convinced that the real sin was the hurt inflicted by so-called "people of faith" unto our homosexual sisters and brothers.

It is a theological risk, to be sure. I am fully aware that I could be wrong. But I accept that risk, prayerful that if I am wrong, God will forgive my error as one born out of my desire to emulate Christ's love and compassion for the "least of these."

But it is not enough. In the fifteen years since saying goodbye to Gloria and Susan, I have been too invisible an ally, especially when revealing my stance would risk the rejection and condemnation of those who I hold most dear - my family. I have been silent too often when heterosexist comments have been made by people whom I love. And my silence may have made the Tyler Clementi's of the world feel that they are alone. Enough.

I am heterosexual. I am Christian. I am an LGBT ally. And I will be silent no longer.

Single Black Women: The Miner's Canary

Between me and the other world there is ever an unasked question: unasked by some through feelings of delicacy; by others through the difficulty of rightly framing it. All, nevertheless, flutter round it. They approach me in a half-hesitant sort of way, eye me curiously or compassionately, and then, instead of saying directly, How does it feel to be a problem?, they say, I know an excellent colored man in my town - W.E.B. DuBois, The Souls of Black Folk

How does it feel to be a problem? The question famously articulated by W.E.B. DuBois is well suited for single black women in 2010. There's been a lot of chatter this year about the seeming crisis of singlehood among African American women, especially well-educated, middle class African American women. The issue has been the focus of an ABC Nightline special, a Washington Post story, and countless blogs.

The latest entrant into the conversation is CNN's coverage of a debate sparked by author and relationship columnist, Deborah Cooper. Cooper recently wrote a post arguing that the black church is responsible for the low marriage rates among African American women. The crux of her argument is that the black church teaches women that the only suitable marriage partners are men who are "equally yoked," in other words, fellow Bible thumpers and avid churchgoers. Cooper thinks this is problematic since there are many more black men who do not attend church than those who do. Her solution: black women need to skip Sunday services and head instead to the local sports bar in their best go get 'em outfits.

On the face of it, it might seem like a decent argument. After all, Cooper is saying that women need to expand their notions of appropriate romantic partners. I'm not one to quibble over that point, given that most women's lists of desired attributes in a romantic partner are based more upon fantasy than reality - Disney movies, romantic comedies, and Harlequin romances.

Cooper overlooks the fact that religious identity and involvement are not arbitrary characteristics but are central to many people's sense of self. They form the core values and beliefs about who we are and how we related to other people. And while all forms of religious practice, including the beliefs and practices of black churches, have some problematic aspects, Cooper's criticism of patriarchy within the black church overlooks the ways in which black women find sustenance to cope with racism, sexism, and classism within the walls of the church. So admonishing women to loosen their religious ideals for the sake of marriage is short-sighted and irresponsible.

Still, that's not my main contention with Cooper's argument. I have the same issue with her column that I have with every article and television report on this topic: they are trite, specious, and unrevelatory.

Most of these discussions are based on a single, faulty assumption: black women's singleness is an abnormality. Often there's a second assumption: this abnormality is the result of some deficiency, most of which resides in black women themselves.

Maybe. But there's another phenomenon occurring that is repeatedly overlooked in these discussions: there is a pervasive cultural shift underway in America with respect to beliefs about and practices of marriage. The high rates of singleness among African American women are the proverbial canary in the coal mine. They are not an abnormality but rather a prediction of the direction in which the rest of the country is heading.

In societies stratified by systems such as race, class, and gender, those groups on the lowest rungs of the sociopolitical ladder are particularly vulnerable to social shifts. Lani Guinier and Gerald Torres say it well in their book, The Miner's Canary: Enlisting Race, Resisting Power, Transforming Democracy:

"Those who are racially marginalized are like the miner's canary: their distress is the first sign of a danger that threatens us all. It is easy enough to think that when we sacrifice this canary, the only harm is to communities of color. Yet others ignore problems that converge around racial minorities at their own peril, for these problems are symptoms warning us that we are all at risk."

When it comes to marriage in the United States, African Americans have been the miner's canary for a long time. According to Census reports, there has been a consistent decline in marriage across race and gender since 1950. While the decline has been more pronounced among African Americans, it is not unique.


Notice that rates of marriage among black Americans have always been lower than rates among white Americans. Also notice that rates of marriage among white Americans in 2009 were similar to the levels for black Americans in 1950. Perhaps in another sixty years, the percentage of white Americans who are married will be akin to the 2010 rates for black Americans.

There is, however, something interesting happening with African American women. Between 1950 and 1960, the percentage of women who never married were similar (and low) for blacks and whites. Likewise, black and white men had a similar likelihood of never being married. Since 1950, the chances of never marrying have increased for blacks and whites. However, the rates for blacks increased at a faster rate. And the percentage of black women who never married have risen so dramatically that they now approach the rates for black men.
Again though, notice that the chances of never marrying for white men and women in 2009 are actually slightly higher than black men and women's chances of doing likewise in 1950.

Marriage, in general, is on the decline in America. So if being single is a problem, it is the nation's problem.

So, how does it feel to be a problem?

Note: I have constructed these charts based upon a very brief (and not very scientific) analysis of Census data.

A 12-Step Program for Strong Black Women

If this were a 12-step meeting for StrongBlackWomen, I'd be saying, "Hi, my name is Chanequa and I'm a StrongBlackWoman. I have been in recovery for almost eight years now. But at most, I've probably only accrued a few days of being clean at once. I relapse constantly, maybe even daily. I don't know if I'll ever break free of this thing. But I'm here. And just for today, I will make at least one decision in favor of my physical, spiritual, emotional, and relational health. Just for today, I will try to let go of my need for control, to become aware of when I need help, and to ask for help when I need it. Just for today, I give myself permission to cry when I'm sad, to scream when I'm frustrated, to smile and laugh when I'm happy, and to dance like I've got wings when the Spirit moves me. Just for today, I will reject the mandate to be a StrongBlackWoman. Just for today, I will simply be."

Being a StrongBlackWoman is an addiction, a force of habit ingrained in many of us from childhood. Moreover, it is reinforced by our families, friends, co-workers, and churches - all those people who praise our strength and continuous self-sacrifice. And it's especially lauded and reinforced by those who benefit from our caretaking. Our healing, then, is not a one-time event, but rather a lifelong process. It seems appropriate, then, to develop a 12-step program for StrongBlackWomen. Here's my first attempt:

1. We admit that we are powerless over our compulsion to be strong — that our physical, spiritual, emotional, and relational health are suffering.

2. We acknowledge that we are not divine, that there is a Power greater than ourselves who can restore us to right relationship with ourselves and others.

3. We make a decision to turn our will and our lives, and those of the people we care for, over to the care and protection of the Divine.

4. We practice self-awareness, making a searching inventory of ourselves and our relationships.

5. We admit to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our compulsions and the traumas and fears that drive them.

6. We are ready to have the Holy One heal us.

7. We humbly ask the Almighty to remove our need for control and to nurture in us a commitment to self-care.

8. We make a list of all persons we have harmed and continue to harm through our excessive caretaking, and we become willing to make amends to them all.

9. We make direct amends to such people wherever possible by allowing them to assume responsibility for their own lives.

10. We continue to practice self-awareness and when we relapse, we promptly admit and correct it.

11. We seek through prayer, meditation, and journaling to nurture our connection with the Divine, praying for knowledge of Her will for our lives and for faith in Her protection and care.

12. We try to carry this message to the strong Black women in our lives and to embody these principles as an example to them and to the generations that follow us.

Reading and the Black-White Achievement Gap

Since childhood, I have been an avid reader. In elementary school, I almost failed fifth grade because of my love of reading. When the teacher gave the first worksheet of the day, I'd finish it as quickly as possible so that I could reach for the book that I had stashed in my desk. Every now and again, I'd look up to see what the rest of the class was doing. If they were still working, I kept reading. I always marveled at how long it took my classmates to complete a worksheet. It wasn't until the "D" appeared on my progress report that I realized that my peers had been moving on to new assignments while I was reading.

With a toddler around, I don't often have the luxury of becoming so engrossed in books that I'm oblivious to what's going on around me. But I am addicted to books in the way that some women are addicted to shoes. Give me a free minute and there's likely to be a book in my hand. When I leave the house - whether it's for a day of work or for extended travel - I often spend more time agonizing over which book(s) to take than what to wear. I swear I get a contact high when I walk into a bookstore.

So it's probably no surprise that I would really, really, really love to have one of the new e-readers on the market now. The idea of being able to carry thousands of books on one device is euphoria-inducing. And to be able to buy and instantly read a new book no matter where I am…OMG! Given the number of books that I have to buy for my classes and research each year, the comparatively low cost of e-books could mean a pretty significant savings. Well, in reality it'd just mean that I could buy more books for the same amount of money. Okay, but it'd definitely be less weight to carry around, which would help my chronic back pain. Not to mention it'd save on shelf space.

But every time I think about these miraculous devices, I experience a twinge of reluctance. There's just something about a physical book that can't be replaced. I tried to convince myself that I'd adjust to an e-reader over time, but I still couldn't imagine switching over to a virtual library.

A few days ago, I finally realized why a Kindle, Nook, or iPad could never replace physical books for me. It's because my library is not just for me. It's for my children.

For years, I've been trying to accumulate a library that includes books that I think all progressive families should own. There are certain books that I want to have sitting on the shelves so that my children might be compelled, in a moment of boredom or curiosity, to pick them up and read them. These include books like Alice Walker's The Color Purple, Carter G. Woodson's Miseducation of the Negro, W.E.B. DuBois' The Souls of Black Folk, Harriet Jacob's Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer's The Cost of Discipleship. Not to mention Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy, Lewis' Narnia series, and the entire Harry Potter series.

Last week, as I was writing in the journal that I'm keeping for my son, I felt compelled to list these books, and others, as required reading for him to be a thinking Black man (I'll post the list sometime soon). It turns out that I was making this list in the same week of publication of a study showing that the number of books that a family owns is a better predictor of children's academic success than the education, occupation, and socioeconomic status of the parents. Children who grow up in a home with 500 books complete an average of 3.2 years more schooling than children who grow up in homes without books. And the effect is even greater for children from the poorest families. For parents with only primary-school education, having as little as 25 books in the home means that children will complete 2 more years of schooling than their counterparts with no books. USA Today has a brief article on the study, which appears in full in the June 2010 issue of the journal, Research in Social Stratification and Mobility.

While the study didn't look at race, I can't help but to wonder about the impact that a family library can have on academic achievement among African American children. Studies like these often focus on poverty (and they should). However, there's a long line of research documenting a significant and persistent achievement gap between middle-class black and white children in America. As one researcher states, "the school performance of middle-class black children is closer to that of poor white children." By the age of 5, black children in middle-class homes own an average of 60 books; their white counterparts (i.e., children of parents with similar levels of income and education) have 100.

More than once, I have visited the homes of middle-class African American friends and family and have noted that there are few, if any, books in the household. In contrast, these homes are usually well-stocked with DVDs and state-of-the-art entertainment and gaming systems.

A few months ago, when I proudly posted a video of my then 20-month-old practicing his alphabet, a few family members asked what our secret was. Quite simply, we limit his television consumption and we read to him often. We take him to story hour at the library, buy at least two new books each month (at not quite two, he has at least 60 books), and have read a minimum of 4 books per day since infancy (the current average is 6-8 books per day). In fact, 99% of the time, if he brings a book to us, we will stop whatever we are doing and read it. Even if he brings 12 books in a row (which he likes to do), we read all of them. You might call us a child-reading-centered household.

Does it mean that he'll be smarter than other kids? No one can predict that. There are a ton of social factors out there waiting to influence him as he grows up. We may not be able to combat all of them. But hopefully, our attempts to raise a reader will give us a head start.