I would later discover that Florence Kate Upton, a cartoonist, created the frightful figure known as a golliwog (or golliwogg, or even just golly) in the late nineteenth century. It was designed to be a type of rag doll and found popularity in various parts of the world, despite being clearly rooted in blackface minstrel tradition. It appeared in children’s books in the late nineteenth century, usually depicted as a type of rag doll. It was reproduced, both by commercial and hobby toymakers, as a children’s soft toy called the “golliwog” and had great popularity in the Southern United States, the UK, South Africa, and Australia into the 1970s. The doll is characterized by jet black skin, eyes rimmed in white, exaggerated red lips, and frizzy hair, based on the blackface minstrel tradition. Since the twentieth century, the word has been considered a racial slur against Black people.80
Of course that had happened to me—yet another reason to hate the golliwog! The first time, I was bewildered, scared, and sad. I was playing with a group of my friends in the playground of our South London primary school. Our games of choice were typically jacks, hopscotch, Cat’s Cradle, and marbles. That was more than enough to keep us busy, along with the occasional game of Kiss Chase, which was one of my personal favorites. But the one day I remember, the game took a turn for the worse. The boys were chasing me and my group of friends. We were the five-year-old children of immigrants from all over the world—Jamaica, Africa, Sri Lanka, and Pakistan. But they weren’t chasing us to give us a peck on the cheek when they caught us. They were chasing us and calling us golliwogs. We ran screaming. This game was not fun. I was horrified. Later, I remember thinking about what had happened and asking myself questions to try to understand. Did they think we looked like golliwogs? I knew we didn’t. So, why had they said that? My young mind imagined what had happened and replayed it over and over again, trying to find meaning. I couldn’t.
Contrasting the disturbing appearance of the golliwog, Barbie—with her slender body, full breasts, small hips, and dainty hands and feet—appealed to my aesthetic sense. Her physical attributes embodied the beauty standard I found myself drawn to, a standard far removed from the racialized caricature the golliwog represented. Her teeth were perfectly white, with a cute pointy nose and thin pink lips—not big, red, and obnoxious ones like that awful Black doll. My cousin had one, and I was deathly afraid of it. Its face angered me, even though I wasn’t sure why.
Barbie, on the other hand, made me feel happy. Her world of endless possibilities and beautiful clothes filled me with delight, a stark contrast to the fear I felt toward the golliwog. She had multiple changes of clothes and shoes, the dream house, and, of course, Ken, the perfect boyfriend. I loved her. And I wanted her to love me back. So I took care of her by changing her outfits and driving her across the living room floor in her pink car. She had places to go and people to see. Her days were full of shopping sprees and parties with cool friends. I meticulously brushed her hair for date night, adorning it with a little clip that matched her dress and tiny heels.
I wanted my coily kinks to be mid-back as well, but…shrinkage. I begged my mother constantly to straighten my hair. But she ignored my pleas, and only agreed on special occasions like Christmas and my birthday. I was five the first time my mom straightened my hair with a metal hot comb. I distinctly remember the sizzle as it was wrapped into a damp cloth on the kitchen counter after being heated on the small gas stove in our tiny kitchen. The warmth on the back of my neck intensified my fear of being burned as she slowly and meticulously pulled the comb through my resistant curls. The unforgiving, tightly aligned teeth of the comb gnawed at the roots near my scalp, releasing a sigh when my hair finally relinquished its willful disobedience. It relaxed because there was no fighting this. It was finally happening.
As scared as I was of the hot steam, I wanted this more than anything else at that moment. Narrow shoulders raised, I flinched at each hot breath on the back of my neck. But I dared not make a sound. My mother had already warned me that jumping could mean a burn. She also had little patience for little hands attempting to feel the progress she was making. A quick rap on the knuckles with her comb sent my hands right back into my lap. I willed myself to just relax, and I twirled my fingers around each other. I wiggled my toes gently. I thought about how I would feel when I was finally allowed to gaze into the mirror to witness the miraculous transformation. I would do anything to take my mind off this hour of pain because it would bring me at least a week of pleasure.
When my mother finally laid down her tools, my previously stubborn coils had surrendered to the heat. In place of the familiar tight curls, a sleek, straight curtain of hair flowed down my back. It wasn’t quite mid-back length, but that was okay. I still dashed as fast as I could to see myself in the mirror. “I love my hair!” Swinging my slick hair around my shoulders was such a welcome reprieve from the thick braids tied with ribbons I usually wore on each side of my head. This was what I wanted every day, but my mother warned me again before I could even open my mouth to ask. She only agreed to the arduous process for special engagements. I would have to be satisfied with that, or nothing at all.
The week of pleasure would be cut short in its tracks if I ran too much on the playground to get it all messy and sweaty. It meant I couldn’t get it wet in the bath, which meant no playing with toys and splashing with my siblings. My mother gave me an extra-large silk scarf to wear from her priceless nightstand, which also contained other treasures like pantyhose and bras that I was too young to wear but wanted to touch just to experience how they felt against my palm. Instead, I would need to be content with running my fingers back and forth across the knot in the scarf to ensure it was secure for the night. I would need my newly straightened hair to be protected from my very worn, moisture-depriving cotton pillowcase.
As the years rolled on, the process of managing my hair evolved. Entering adulthood, my hair routine took on a more potent edge—every few weeks I repeated the process with chemical relaxers, each time with a fresh fear of painful chemical burns on my scalp, making my heart race. But as soon as I entered college, I began the ritual of relaxing my hair. When I was a teenager, my mother was adamant about me not getting a chemical relaxer. She had instead opted for the kinder, gentler Jheri Curl, an alternative that unfortunately made me the object of jokes during high school and middle school. Bottles of activator needed to be kept on hand to keep my curls nice and moist. My classmates called it “Jheri Curl Juice.” But I ignored that. I had to be sure not to rest my hair on any surface for too long. A greasy headprint would indicate I had been there. How embarrassing! And besides, I often reminded my classmates that this was actually a “Leisure Curl,” not the obnoxious Jheri Curl. This Wave Nouveau was much looser in curl pattern than the coiffed afro worn by the likes of “gangster rappers” such as Straight Outta Compton’s NWA. I was trying to emulate the refined, professional women I saw in magazines, not portray the image of a West Coast Gang Banger, as the Jheri Curl was often stereotyped. Couldn’t they understand that?
And since my mother didn’t approve of my “ladylike” obsession with needing straight hair, I waited until I entered college to go from curly to straight. I scraped together any money I could save to get my hair done every six weeks. Most of us couldn’t afford top-shelf relaxers like Mizani, so we opted for the cheapest brand, called Bantu. It was notoriously strong, and the horror stories of scabs on scalps were enough evidence for us that it worked exactly as it was supposed to. That new growth needed to be bone-straight, just like the rest of our hair! In the days leading up to my appointment, my friends had warned me against scratching my scalp. Doing so could be detrimental because it left the pores of the scalp vulnerable to the white, strong, pungent chemicals that were slathered on the unruly new growth. But none of that could happen unless you could sit through thirty minutes of your scalp feeling like it was on fire, no matter how much petroleum gel had been used to protect it. When the hairdresser at the salon asked if it was burning, we dared not say yes for fear that she would wash out the chemicals too soon. That meant we would waste the forty dollars it cost to undergo this arduous process. The thought was unbearable! With burning eyes and a burning scalp, I tapped my toes on the salon floor, attempting to distract myself from the pain. But we waited and counted down the time until those thirty minutes were up. There was a sigh of relief as cool water touched our tortured scalps. There was a small smile as we felt gentle fingers and shampoo scrubbing the chemicals from our new growth. It was no match for Bantu! It had melted away to meet the relaxed hair that we willed to grow to that coveted mid-back length.
To ensure I had enough coins for my beauty routine and fashion needs, I resorted to a diet of Ramen noodles and three-dollar pizzas from the local pizza place. This allowed me to get my hair done, my nails filled with acrylic, my toes pedicured, and even buy a budget-busting outfit from Forever 21 at the only mall near the University of Florida campus. I was ready for the weekend! Fraternity parties were our main outlet for fun. So, outfits and shoes were selected and laid on the bed hours ahead of time. Cute skirts, tiny midriff tops, and stiletto heels were modeled, so we could vote on a group consensus of the vibe for the night. It was going to be a long one as well!
An hour before it was time to strut across campus, my roommates and I jostled for position in front of the mirror to plaster on lipstick and black eyeliner, wondering how it was possible that we had all been color matched for NC45 at the mall’s MAC counter despite our various skin tones of caramel, copper, bronze, and mocha. Fashion Fair was too heavy and caked our faces like smiling masks. Maybelline and CoverGirl makeup never had colors that matched either. So, NC45 for all it was!
Nonetheless, the final step was placing the multiple curling irons we had all collected on the dorm room desk and plugging them into the surge protector. Some were ceramic. Others were gold-plated. Some could crimp. And of course, we had at least one flat iron among the various barrel sizes. The one common denominator was that they could all get our hair bone-straight. We carefully applied Ampro Pro Styl Marcel Wax. That was a must-have and definitely not to be skimped on. Baby hairs needed to be laid to the Gods. Let’s Jam Edge Control Gel made that wish come true and was not to be spared either. We slathered it on and meticulously shaped our curls, adhering them to our foreheads and sculpting them like artists with our worn toothbrushes set aside specifically for this task.
Given the steamy atmosphere of the gym, a common venue for frat parties, our hairstyles needed to be resilient. We knew the heat and humidity would put our carefully crafted looks to the test. Our five-dollar entrance fee was hard-earned from our Ramen noodle diets. And for our troubles, we would dance with wild abandon to the sweet sounds of 2 Live Crew, 69 Boyz, and Sir Mix-A-Lot. The beat dropped and bass rattled the windows as we forgot for a moment all of the preparation we had put into our ladylike appearance that didn’t quite match our gyrating hips, dancing in the dark. “Baby got back,” we chanted as we looked back at it.
We scattered outside in embarrassment when the last song came to an end, and we saw faces that matched the sweaty bodies we had been grinding against all night. The overhead fluorescent lights brought us back to the reality of the dingy gym. We erupted into laughter, playfully pointing at the state of each other’s hair, our faces caught in the harsh, unforgiving fluorescence, glistening like morning dew. Despite our meticulous preparation, we always stumbled outside with fluffy halos of hair billowing like crowns of dandelion wishes coming true around our heads. We marched defiantly into the cool night air, back to the dorms, with our heels clutched in our damp palms. This process would be repeated every weekend—the battle against our hair. Our hair always won. It was undefeated.
Reflecting on these memories now brings to mind a question I was asked on a podcast a few months ago—a question that left me speechless and a little sad. The host asked a panel of Black women who work in social justice and advocacy when the last time was that we felt truly beautiful. The question, I believe, left us all in a state of shock. It was something I had never really thought about before, much less been asked about. Though I had always understood, on an intellectual level, the sentiment that “Black is Beautiful,” I found myself struggling to provide an easy, straightforward answer to this question. But as I searched my memory and waited for the other panelists to respond, I started to feel a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. One by one, each of us admitted we couldn’t think of a particular time. Ever. I answered honestly as well. “I don’t know. I can’t think of a time that I remember.”
According to historians at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture, toys offer opportunities to reiterate children’s inclusion or “otherness” in a society that has traditionally viewed Blacks as second-class citizens. Prior to the 1950s, dolls that were anthropologically correct in their depiction of African Americans were nonexistent or not widely marketed. The media, including the toy industry, was rife with negative, exaggerated depictions of Black individuals—caricatures that emphasized stereotypes and minimized our beauty.
These depictions deemphasized the beauty and humanity of Black people. Understanding the cultural, social, and practical significance of dolls, it is important to consider how a lack of positive representation can have an adverse impact on children’s self-esteem, confidence, and perception. Through dolls, children can learn about their self-worth and roles within society, as confirmed in the Clark study of Black children’s racial perceptions. The Clarks’ Supreme Court testimony contributed to the outcome of the Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka case, which led to the desegregation of American schools.81
In the 1940s, psychologists Kenneth and Mamie Clark designed and conducted a series of experiments known colloquially as “the doll tests” to study the psychological effects of segregation on African American children.
The Clarks used four dolls, identical except for color, to test children’s racial perceptions. Their subjects, Black children between the ages of three and seven, were asked a series of questions and asked to identify both the race of the dolls and which color doll they preferred. They asked the children to choose between a white doll and—because, at the time, no brown dolls were available—a white doll painted brown. The children overwhelmingly preferred the white doll and assigned positive characteristics to it. From their research, the Clarks concluded that the effects of prejudice, discrimination, and segregation were insidious, creating feelings of inferiority among African American children and causing profound damage to their self-esteem.82
Later researchers hypothesized and tested the significant impact of children not seeing positive images that look like them to determine whether Black children also have a bias toward whiteness. In 2010, renowned child psychologist Margaret Beale Spencer, a leading voice in the field of child development and a professor at the University of Chicago, was brought on board as a consultant by CNN. Her expertise proved invaluable. Spencer’s test aimed to recreate the landmark Doll Test from the 1940s, conducted by the Clarks.
In the new study, Spencer’s researchers asked the younger children a series of questions and had them answer by pointing to one of five cartoon pictures that varied in skin color from light to dark. The older children were asked the same questions using the same cartoon pictures, and were then asked a series of questions about a color bar chart that showed light to dark skin tones.
The tests unveiled a stark truth: white children, as a whole, showed a high degree of what researchers call “white bias.” They associated the color of their own skin with positive attributes and darker skin tones with negative ones, highlighting the pervasive nature of racial biases in our society. Spencer said even Black children, as a whole, have some bias toward whiteness, but far less than white children.83
Even if we don’t fully understand what is happening around us, our brains process stimuli. When these stimuli don’t align with our self-image, it affects how we think about ourselves and our place in the world. It can have a profound effect on your identity at your very core, in the deepest recesses you didn’t even think existed. Not seeing ourselves reflected in the environments we inhabit leads to a disconnect from our existence, which creates an otherworldly experience, like being a stranger in town. We are always on the outskirts of conversations and societal relationships outside of our friends and loved ones, without the ability to catch up because to do so would take too long. The task appears insurmountable and evolves into a lifelong challenge that begins with the physical but, in its impact, affects the mental so much more.
The same homogenous archetypes of beauty, typically favoring Eurocentric features, have dominated the narrative of how Blackness is perceived within this construct. Black women have often been stereotyped as less attractive, less desirable, and less worthwhile in society’s hierarchy of beauty. In this system, the closer one’s physical features are to the construct of whiteness, the higher their perceived beauty. Conversely, Blackness has been unjustly placed at the bottom of this ladder, devalued, and dismissed. Blackness, seen as an invalid construct, is often placed at the very bottom of this beauty hierarchy, as if we’ve not even stepped onto the ladder’s first rung, its top disappearing into the stormy clouds above.
For American women of African ancestry, the enduring scars of American slavery add a complex layer to the societal burdens they bear, from systemic racism to economic inequities. Mainstream beauty industries have traditionally marginalized Black women’s attributes, often branding them as masculine or undesirable. For example, curvy body types and fuller lips, common among many Black women, were long overlooked until popularized by predominantly white celebrities, reflecting how European aesthetics are often considered the standard of beauty in America.84 Even within the Black community, a bias toward lighter complexions can yield societal advantages. For instance, studies have shown that individuals with lighter skin often attain higher levels of educational and occupational success.85 Black women’s hair is policed: Looser curls and straightened hair are celebrated,86 whereas afros and traditionally Black hairstyles have resulted in academic and professional dismissals.
DC blogger Cashawn Thompson launched the empowering hashtag #BlackGirlMagic in response to a problematic Psychology Today article, sparking a nationwide movement that celebrates and affirms Black women’s beauty and achievements. The hashtag ignited a nationwide empowerment movement, providing a platform for the celebration and recognition of Black women’s achievements. It served as an uplifting counter-narrative to mainstream depictions, affirming the beauty of Black women in a world that often fails to do so.
An article from the International Journal of Women’s Dermatology discusses research into the #BlackGirlMagic movement. The study investigates the movement’s impact on Black women’s self-esteem. A survey was administered to 134 young Black women on Instagram. The majority of participants identified as having Fitzpatrick skin types IV or V and/or classified their hair texture type as 4C or 4B (kinky/coily curls).
Users were asked about the perceived impact of the hashtag on their self-esteem. 82 percent of participants reported experiencing discrimination because of their race. Many participants reported at one point wishing that they did not have features attributable to their race: 78 percent had thought this about their hair texture, 64 percent about their skin complexion, and 60 percent about their facial features (wishes for smaller lips and noses were a resounding response to this question). In addition, 82 percent believed that the #BlackGirlMagic social media movement had had an impact on their self-esteem, with 69 percent of those participants reporting improved self-esteem after hashtag interaction.
Psychology studies have confirmed the association between the internalization of social media beauty standards and unhappiness with one’s appearance.87 Understanding the depth of this issue requires us to delve into its roots, complex as they may be. Unpacking the origins of these harmful beauty standards is crucial, as they deeply affect self-acceptance and self-esteem. It strikes at the heart of the ancestral cultural importance of notions of beauty and what they mean in relation to healthy self-acceptance and a correspondingly high level of self-esteem. First, we need to understand the origin of the false narrative: a lack of desirability. This narrative has distorted a rich history of reverence for attractiveness within the African diaspora.
The philosophy of beauty is an evolving discourse in African philosophy. This does not imply that there was no African conception of beauty. Rather, African philosophers are now beginning to earnestly have more than a passing and non-technical interest in the reality of the beautiful. In the context of African cultures, the concept of beauty is indeed unique. In many African cultures, beauty is often closely associated with femininity. Some of the male participants in a sociological field study by Arden Haselmann in Senegal associated beauty with women. African conceptualizations of beauty are in feminine terms, and perhaps every usage of the word “beauty” or “beautiful” is usually constructed to celebrate womanhood or feminine spirit.88
In Africa, beauty connotes a celebration of worth, value, and quality; it’s not just about physical attractiveness, but also the essence of a person’s character and their societal contributions. Hence, the concept of beauty in Africa is quite broad and varies from one cultural community to another. However, as Vimbai Matiza rightly observes, the concept of beauty in Africa tends to speak of the external and internal qualities of a person or object. Moreover, the concept of beauty in Africa bears some moral intonations beyond teleos, which historians identify as the ancient Greek term for an end, fulfillment, completion, goal, or aim.
For example, Matiza notes that in the language of Shona in Zimbabwe, the word kunaka (beauty) denotes well-groomed character and physical attractiveness. In Annang of Nigeria, the word ntuen-akpo is used metaphorically to refer to a woman who only has physical attractiveness, but lacks good manners. Ntuen-akpo is a type of attractive pepper that can hurt the tongue when tasted or eaten. A woman described as ntuen-akpo might find that despite her physical attractiveness, her lack of good manners may hinder her from being fully valued or desired in her community.
Another defining characteristic of beauty in African philosophy is its functional aspect—beauty is not merely aesthetic but also has a role to play in society. Matiza confirms that in an African context, “beauty is not for the sake of being beautiful.” According to him, beauty has a social character; rather than being individualistic, it is communal. Matiza argues that “from an African perspective, the concept of beauty has to have a purpose, which it fulfills.”89 Beauty must serve to communicate values, norms, morals, and purpose. Beauty must edify the community.
In his research on Sudanese beauty concepts, Baqie Muhammad concluded that “beauty encompasses ‘good behavior, skills, knowledge, and dress, in addition to physical features.’ ”90 There cannot be beauty for its own sake; beauty must be intended to serve society.
Matiza argues that the notion of beauty cannot center solely on the individual. Without considering its effects on the community, it is un-African in nature. He maintains that beauty in an African context implies working together. In other words, beauty must be a reflection of the interconnectedness that characterizes African societies. It’s not just about individual aesthetics, but also about contributing positively to the community.91
Polycarp Ikuenobe argues that in African societies, the measure of beauty—whether it be in a person or an object—is how much it improves harmony and order within the community. The beauty of a person or thing should be participatory and interconnected rather than individualistic, and it should be meaningful only in the context of the acceptable standards of the community. Ikuenobe notes that if a person’s action is seen as “fostering or leading to disharmony in nature, community, and reality, then it is considered bad or ugly.”92
The Ubuntu dictum states: I am because we are. What this means is that a person’s beauty should communicate universality. To this extent, the concept of beauty in Africa is objective in that it communicates a communal standard, but it is also subjective in that the standard of beauty is different from community to community. I am beautiful because my community members affirm my beauty as such, but outside my community, the affirmed beauty may be disavowed. What is considered beautiful is meaningful only to the people in that context.
The general concept for Afrocentric relational theory is “I am because we are.” This means people, objects, phenomena, and concepts do not exist alone, individuated, or isolated. Rather, they exist in relation to other people, objects, phenomena, and concepts. An Igbo proverb articulates this notion as Ife kwulu, ife akwudebeya, suggesting that no entity exists in isolation—when one thing stands, another stands alongside it, emphasizing interconnectedness.93
