In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

FARAH GRIFFI N Farah Jasmine Griffin wa s born in Philadelphia on 23 February 1963 , and prepared fo r colleg e a t th e Baldwi n Schoo l fo r Girl s i n Bry n Mawr , Pennsylvania. A s a n undergraduat e sh e was a reporte r fo r th e Harvard Crimson and was also active in several black organizations. Sh e received her degree in 1985 with honors in History and Literature. Followin g a period as research associate for Judge A Leo n Higginbotham Jr. in Philadelphia, she embarked on a Ph.D. program in American Studies at Yale in the fall of 1986 . Sh e receive d a fellowshi p fro m th e America n Associatio n o f University Women to complete a dissertation on migration and urbanization in African-American cultur e and obtained her doctorate in 1992. On Hai r an d Harvar d Upon entering Holworth y 22 in the fall of 1981 , I wandered int o th e bathroom an d confronte d a big, old, white urinal . Thi s building was not erected with me in mind, I thought. So , after thre e weeks of daily confrontations wit h that contraption an d al l that it came to represen t for me, I left one institution of education and acculturation—Harvard , in search o f another—a n old-fashione d blac k hairshop. I found Lucielle's i n the not yet gentrified Sout h End. Whereve r I've travele d i n thi s country , I'v e bee n abl e t o fin d place s lik e this , where funk , jazz , rhyth m an d blue s o r gospe l emanat e fro m well equipped soun d systems, or old radios, and where next door there' s a fried chicken joint, on the corner a Chinese take-out place, and across the street a bar. Lucielle's wa s no different, bu t it was special because it was my first. Afte r thre e weeks at Harvard i t felt goo d to hear th e 476 Fatah Griffin heartfelt laughte r an d melodic voices o f black women. Th e plac e reminded m e ofm y grandmother's kitche n an d tha t was criterio n enough for me. Luciell e was a small honey-brown woman of about sixty years or so who coddled me, called me baby and fussed over"all that thick, beautiful hair on your head, Child!" Poor, black and female, I sought out black beauticians in search ofmy sanity for the next four years: me n and women, young, old, gay, straight, conservative, radical, even a few evangelists featured in this motley cre w tha t reaffirme dm y value a s a thinking , feeling , an d growing youn g woman . Throug h hour s o f pres s an d curl s (n o chemicals, thank you), cuts, trims, and braids I sat and prepared for another two weeks of Harvard. W e would talk about politics, sex, relationships and God. Afte r one of these sessions I always returned to Cambridge feeling relaxed and renewed. If hairshop s wer e place s wher e I establishe dm y equilibrium, Harvard was the place where it was again shattered. Fo r me this was both a triumph and a tragedy. Harvar d was a sea of contradictions. On the one hand, I sat in a lecture given by a noted historian who painted a portrait o f th e Ol d South , sentimenta l an d ful l o f littl e "playful pickaninnies" (those were his words); on th e other hand, I came to know and love"my professor" Nathan Huggins, who taught me t o begi n takin g mysel f seriousl y a s a n intellectua l an d t o b e committed to establishing African-American subject matter as material worthy of scholarly inquiry. In th e journa l entrie s I kep t fo rm y Histor y an d Literatur e sophomore tutorial I found myself engaged in a written debate with one ofmy tutors. I n response tomy frustration over the dearth of black authors on his syllabus, he wrote that he was forced by time to limit his selection to major American authors. "Henr y James,my dear, is major because people like you...

Share