Saturday, October 31, 2015

18 Celebrities On Their HBCU Days

Bryan Steffy / Getty

What do Lionel Richie, Spike Lee, and Sean "Diddy" Combs have in common? All three entertainment icons are Oscar winners (check out Diddy's 2011 documentary, Undefeated), and all three started out as undergrads at historically black colleges or universities.

HBCUs, as they're commonly known, are rich in black history and seminaries for future stars. Empire's Taraji P. Henson, Black-ish's Anthony Anderson, and The Game's Wendy Raquel Robinson were classmates in Howard University's drama department, where legendary actors like Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee served as mentors.

BuzzFeed News asked some of the most talented and successful people in the entertainment industry why an HBCU was the only choice for them, and heard the campus stories that set the course for their storied careers.

Sean "Diddy" Combs
Rapper, producer, actor, mogul, inventor of the remix
Howard University

It was important for me to go to a school where I would be exposed to new things, and meet new people. But I also wanted to be part of a community that understood my life experience. Howard offered all of that, and more.

I still remember my first day at Howard. I walked up the hill, past the Quad, through the main gate. I made my way to the Yard and my mind was blown! Growing up, I rarely traveled outside of New York. I had never heard so many different accents. I had never seen so many different types of people.

It was my Howard professors who supported my decision to take a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and work at Uptown MCA Records under the legendary Andre Harrell. The lessons I learned while on campus, and the connections that I made, are part of my life and career every day.

And Howard became my family. It gave me a second home. When I couldn't afford a place to live, it was my Howard friends who let me sleep on their floors. It was my Howard family who looked out for me when I didn't have any money for food. When I started my career in music, many of the people I met at Howard — like Harve Pierre — came with me on my journey.

Anthony Anderson
Actor (Black-ish, The Departed)
Howard University

Howard University was the only college I applied to, because of the history of their fine arts department. The likes of Debbie Allen and Phylicia Rashad and Roberta Flack had come through those doors.

I go back and I meet students and I go to homecoming. I talk about how great it is, and I'm like, well, you know, there was never really a better time at Howard than when I was there.

I understand that every generation has their time, or whatnot, but we had Puff, we had Ananda Lewis we had AJ Calloway, we had myself, Wendy Raquel Robinson, we had Wendy Davis, we had Carl Anthony Payne, we had Marlon Wayans, we had the group Shai — Taraji P. Henson! And I say, "You look at all the people that I have named, and how we've become successful in our own fields, in our own right. Just imagine all of that creative energy on the yard at the same time. The hype that you're feeling right now isn't the same as what it was once when we were students there."

And then they understand, they say, "OK, you may have a point. You may have a point. But, you know, Howard's fly as hell right now."

David Banner
Rapper, producer (Lil Wayne), and actor (The Butler)
Southern University

I never planned on being Student Government Association president. Two things that I don't trust are preachers and politicians. Both of those positions are designed for regular people to rise to the occasion. As soon as you get done with it, you go back to being a butcher or whatever you were in society. I don't like that you now have professional preachers and professional politicians. Whenever you have a constituency that pays you, you can never be for the people.

But being Southern's SGA president taught me something. It showed me that you can do something right. That was the first time in my life that I did something all the way right and didn't cut any corners, taking advantage of the position. I didn't take no money, I actually wasn't even sexually active with any woman on campus while I was SGA president. (I did go over to Louisiana State University, though!) I didn't want anything. I worked every day for eight hours a day in the office. It gave me a microcosm of what my life was going to be, because I was a star on that campus, for the most part.

Kevork Djansezian / Getty Images

Wanda Sykes
Actor and comedian (The Wanda Sykes Show, Curb Your Enthusiasm)
Hampton University

My brother went to Norfolk State, my father went to Virginia State. I knew I wanted to go to a historically black college, and so I said, "You know, I should go to the best, the real HU!" Though at that time it was the Hampton Institute.

My aunt Dolores, she was teaching there, so I was familiar with the school. I was going away to college, but I was still in familiar territory.

Really, I was just like, OK, I have to go to college. I should make it as fun as possible!

Loni Love
Actor and comedian (co-host, The Real)
Prairie View A&M

I spent like a half a semester at Western Michigan University, and I just felt lost. I didn't understand college because nobody in my family had gone to college. I just didn't understand the whole process. I felt alone. I was in a room with a whole bunch of people that didn't look like me, and being a girl from the projects, that was a culture shock. Everybody around me was not African-American.

I ended up getting a job at General Motors — I had a friend who was an engineer and he said, "Well, why don't you try a historically black college?" I didn't know anything about it. I ended up finding a college that graduated the most engineers, and that happened to be Prairie View A&M University.

I was broke, so I was up in a bar one night and they were like, "Well, whoever can tell the best story will get 50 bucks." I needed the 50 bucks and I got up and I just told a story, just made it up, and that's what made me realize people get paid to tell stories. I kind of always said that was my introduction into stand-up.

I became a member of Delta Sigma Theta sorority, and I did a sorority event called "The Wanda Winfrey Show." Oprah Winfrey was just starting to ramp up, and I played her sister, Wanda. My talk show addressed the issues that affected the campus; it really became a hit.

Jamie Mccarthy / Getty Images

Stephen A. Smith
Sports journalist and television personality (ESPN2's First Take)
Winston-Salem State University

I was in a critical persuasive writing class, and the professor for the class was the editorial page editor for the Winston-Salem Journal. He read an essay of mine and said, "You are a natural born sports writer. Let's go out to lunch." He took me straight to the Winston-Salem Journal and introduced me to the sports editor, who hired me on the spot as a clerk.

My career just essentially went from there. The guys that I worked with on the copydesk were all white, and they were absolutely fantastic to me. They treated me like family and literally taught me the business: how to write, how to go about pursuing a story.

One day the sports editor, Terry Oberle, asked me to write a feature about Wake Forest soccer, which was ranked No. 3 in the nation. I had never watched a game of soccer in my life. I walked up to the coach and I said to him, "I know nothing about soccer whatsoever, but I want to be a sports writer. Is there anything you can do to help me?" ... He called the whole team over, and he said, "Give him complete, unadulterated access to the next three days. Whatever he wants, give it to him." The coach taught me the game of soccer … over the next three days. I wrote a two-page feature and the sports desk ran it in the Sunday paper. Terry called me into his office that Monday and said, "Congratulations, you're the new lead writer for the Wake Forest soccer team."

DJ Premier
DJ and producer (Gang Starr, Nas, Jay Z, Notorious B.I.G.)
Prairie View A&M

My dad was a biology professor on campus and a dean, so I was always at Prairie View A&M. I was actually doing parties on campus before I started going to Prairie View. And I had all the latest records. People would be like, "Man, he has everything." We didn't have CDs back then. There was no such thing. It was all vinyl.

We did big parties at the Newman Center — it's not there anymore. That started to transcend to step shows. Back then, they were called stomp shows. One thing led to another and all of the sudden the Kappas are calling me to do a party, the Ques are calling me to do a party, the Alphas are calling me to do a party, AKAs are calling me to do a party, the Sigma Gamma Rhos are calling me to do a party, the Wisconsin Sleepers are calling me to do a party. It just kept going.

The stuff you see in Drumline with the bands playing all the funky stuff and doing all the ill drum patterns, Prairie View has been doing that, even back when I was in junior high. As a kid, it was amazing to see a black marching band get down. It was normal to see that, and I felt like there was no other place to go but Prairie View.

My dad said he wanted to see us be as on point as any other race. He wanted us to be at a high level. That was always the Prairie View motto: producing productive people. That carried into me being a producer and a businessman. I didn't graduate because I stepped out to see if I could get my music career off the ground. It was totally my instincts and my belief in myself that made me say, if I get a shot at it, I'm going to go do it.

Jason Merritt / Getty

Lionel Richie
Legendary top-selling soul singer, songwriter, and musician; father of Nicole
Tuskegee University

I was born and raised on Tuskegee University's campus. It was probably one of the greatest things that ever happened to me in my life. All of the things that black America stands for today were actually built into my growing up. It was a part of the lesson plan.

It was one of the greatest decisions I ever made to return to Tuskegee and attend the university. Going to that school gave me the confidence of basically knowing who I am and where I am in this great big world that we live in.

I think the part that I loved the most was who came through Tuskegee at that time. We had some of the greatest leaders and controversial subjects of our time. From Malcolm X to Martin Luther King to H. Rap Brown to Stokely Carmichael to Odetta to Hugh Masekela, the Temptations to James Brown and every other wonderful artist. It was just a cultural mecca. I should say James Baldwin! Dick Gregory.

It was just one of those wonderful times in history when everyone would come through. Not to mention the fact that I was born and raised in and around the Tuskegee Airmen. The community and the environment — it just raised me. It raised me to who I am today.

Rickey Smiley
Comedian (The Rickey Smiley Show, Dish Nation, Rickey Smiley for Real)
Alabama State University

You go to a black college, you're really going to learn a lot about your culture. You're going to have an appreciation for the people that came before you because those professors are not going to let you forget what you came from. At some schools you might be just a number, but I know at Alabama State, and different HBCUs, teachers know you by name, and you have a relationship with these teachers.

I absolutely love Alabama State. But I love Alabama A&M as well, even though Alabama A&M is our main competition, because A&M was the first college to put me up on stage and pay me to perform.

They would book me for homecoming. I would jump in my '77 Cutlass and drive over to Huntsville with some friends. I remember my first check. I got maybe $400. I'll never forget it. That was a lot — that was like four grand now. Talking about '89, '90, $400 is like four grand. You can do a lot with that!

When I couldn't afford a place to live, it was my Howard friends who let me sleep on their floors. — Diddy

Wendy Raquel Robinson
Actor (The Steve Harvey Show, The Game)
Howard

There was a college counselor who came to my high school and was recruiting for several schools. He asked me what I wanted to do, and I told him that I wanted to act. I wanted to dance, I wanted to sing. And he was like, "Who is your favorite artist?" Right off the top of my head was Debbie Allen. And he was like, "Debbie Allen went to Howard. Have you ever heard about Howard?" And I had never even heard of Howard University, but I knew who Debbie was and she was always — she was, and still is — my role model. I put all my effort into going there.

At Howard, there was a passion for what we were doing. We didn't have all of the bells and the whistles and the state-of-the-art technology. We were forced to really, like, hang that lighting instrument with a shoestring and some bubblegum and just make the best of it. When you don't have everything, you have to work even harder and you appreciate it.

The class sizes were so small. That's one thing that I love about HBCUs. You're not just a number. You are a person. You're individualized, you're not a number in this massive roll call of students that are on campus. We all had relationships with our professors, in addition to each other. We knew our professors.

Andrew H. Walker / Getty Images

Spike Lee
Director (School Daze, Do the Right Thing, three Denzel Washington films in the '90s)
Morehouse College

My father went to Morehouse, my grandfather went to Morehouse, my mother went to Spelman, and my grandmother went to Spelman. I took a class at Clark with my film professor Dr. Eichelberger, who is still there teaching at Clark AU. He's the one that really said that I should try to pursue filmmaking.

School Daze, very simply, is my four years at Morehouse and the impact of the homecoming weekend. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I remember the man directing the coronation my senior year and that was a big success that left me with confidence. Those coronations at Morehouse, they're like Broadway productions!

Not just Morehouse, but I think black colleges are very essential to our education of young black minds. Being black in this country is never going to get old. There's an understanding, a nurturing at HBCUs, that you might not get elsewhere.

Kenya Barris
Showrunner and screenwriter (Black-ish)
Clark Atlanta University

I picked Clark Atlanta University because of Spike Lee. Lee actually went to Morehouse, but his mentor was a guy named Dr. Eichelberger who was a teacher at Clark. Morehouse doesn't have a film program, so kids would come over there. I'm basically doing what I'm doing because of Spike Lee. I think — for a lot of people my age — he was the first time I saw a dude do something that felt like he had a voice that I could relate to, but at the same time, crossed over and spoke to a lot of other different people. It felt like a genuine voice, and when he did School Daze and showed black colleges, I was like, oh my god, I want that experience. I'm from L.A., and coming from here, we had nothing like that.

LaTanya Richardson Jackson
Tony-nominated actor (A Raisin in the Sun, Sleepless in Seattle), met husband Samuel L. Jackson, a Morehouse alum, in college
Spelman College

I think Spelman chose me. I'm from Atlanta, and I knew I was going to be a theater major. One of my schoolteachers — Georgia Allen, she was a great actress — put on children's theater at Spelman, so I was always in something. When applications came for colleges, Dr. Baldwin Burroughs, who was the head of the drama department there, said, "You filled out your application?" And I said, "Oh, do I have to? I'm here!" "No, you still have to apply."

I was in school in '68 into the '70s. We were part of a very political faction, the post–civil rights generation. I was very conscious thanks to people who graduated from the school — like Marian Wright, who is my mentor and dear friend. But what was my responsibility, and what we considered part of a contract that you sort of have with Spelman, as a graduate, was that I would choose to change the world and want to do something about it. It was a very rich experience for me, one that I don't think I could have had on any other campus, because I saw every day that I went there who was in charge of me — and they were African-Americans.

Kevin Winter / Getty Images

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51 Clothing Organization Tips That Are Downright Life-Changing

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How To Be A Genderqueer Feminist

Charlotte Gomez / BuzzFeed

I've never felt quite like a woman, but I've never wanted to be a man, either. For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to be something in between. To quote Ruby Rose: I called myself a girl, but only because my options were limited. I always assumed that everyone felt that way.

I discovered my mistake one day in junior school, when a few of the girls in my class were chatting about what boys they fancied. I wasn't often invited to participate in these sorts of secret female chats. Even back then, there was something odd about me, a strangeness that was partly about identity but also about the fact that I wore shapeless black smocks, rarely brushed my hair, and tended to jump when anyone spoke to me.

I couldn't think of anything to say that would be both interesting and true. So I mentioned that I often felt like I was a gay boy in a girl's body. Just like everyone else, right?

I could tell from their faces that this was not right. It was very, very wrong.

This was a time before Tumblr, when very few teenagers were talking about being genderqueer or transmasculine. The women I'd heard of who were allowed to dress and talk and behave like boys were all lesbians. I often wished I was a lesbian. But I almost always fancied boys, and if you fancied boys, you had to behave like a girl. And behaving like a girl was the one subject, apart from sports, that I always failed.

It was around this time that I first read second-wave feminist Germaine Greer. She seemed to explain fundamental truths that every other adult in my small universe of school, home, and the library seemed equally anxious to ignore, and it helped that there were also dirty jokes. I clung to The Female Eunuch with the zeal of a convert and the obsession of a prepubescent nerd. I wrote Greer a letter with my very favorite pens and almost imploded with excitement when she wrote back, on a postcard that had koalas on it. I resolved right then and there that one day I would be a feminist and a writer just like her.

According to Greer, liberation meant understanding that whatever you were in life, you were a woman first. Her writing helped me understand how society saw me — and every other female person I'd ever met. We were not human beings first: We were just girls. Looking back, though, that militant insistence on womanhood before everything is part of the reason it's taken me a decade to admit that, in addition to being a feminist, I'm genderqueer. That I'm here to fight for women's rights, that I play for the girls' team, but I have never felt like much of a woman at all.

I grew up on second-wave feminism, but that didn't stop me starving myself.

I was anorexic for large parts of my childhood and for many complex, painful, altogether common reasons, of which gender dysphoria was just one. I felt trapped by the femaleness of my body, by my growing breasts and curves. Not eating made my periods stop. It made my breasts disappear. On the downside, it also turned me into a manic, suicidal mess, forced me to drop out of school, and traumatized my entire family.

At 17, I wound up in the hospital, in an acute eating disorders ward, where I stayed for six months.

The window in my hospital room did not open more than a crack. Just wide enough to sniff a ration of fresh air before I got weighed in the morning. I turned up with all my curves starved away, with my hair cropped close to the bones of my skull, androgynous as a skeleton, insisting that people call me not Laura, but Laurie — a boy's name in England. I was too unwell to be pleased that I finally looked as genderless as I felt. At that point, I just wanted to die. Mostly of shame.

Long story short: I didn't die. I got better. But not before I let some well-meaning medical professionals bully me back onto the right side of the gender binary.

Psychiatric orthodoxy tends to lag behind social norms, and doctors are very busy people. So it's not their fault that, less than 20 years after homosexuality was removed from the official list of mental disorders, the doctors treating me took one look at my short hair and baggy clothes and feminist posters and decided that I was a repressed homosexual and coming out as gay would magically make me start eating again.

Like I said, they were trying.

There was only one problem. I wasn't gay. I was sure about that. I was bisexual, and I was very much hoping that one day when I wasn't quite so weird and sad I'd be able to test the theory in practice. It took a long time to persuade the doctors of that. I can't remember how, and I'm not sure I want to. I think diagrams may have been involved. It was a very dark time.

I was too unwell to enjoy looking as genderless as I felt.

Anyway. Eventually they gave up trying to make me come out and decided to make me go back in. If you weren't a lesbian, the route to good mental health was to "accept your femininity." You needed to grow your hair and wear dresses and stop being so angry all the time. You needed to accept the gender and sex you had been assigned, along with all the unspoken rules of behavior involved. You needed to get a steady boyfriend and smile nicely and work hard. I repeat: These people didn't mean to do me or anyone else lasting psychological damage. Just like every other institution through the centuries that has tried to force queer and deviant people to be normal for their own good, they truly were trying to help.

For five years, I struggled to recover. I tried hard to be a good girl. I tried to stick to the dresses, the makeup, the not being quite so strange and cross and curious all the time. For five years, I shoved my queerness deep, deep down into a private, frightened place where it only emerged in exceptional circumstances, like a bottle of cheap vodka, or a showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, or both. But being a good girl didn't work out very well, so I cut the difference, cut my hair short, and went back to being an angry feminist.

And feminism saved my life. I got better. I wrote, and I had adventures, and I returned to politics, and I made friends. I left the trauma of the hospital far behind me and tried to cover up my past with skirts and makeup.

Today, I'm a feminist and a writer, but I no longer valorize Germaine Greer so blindly. For one thing, Greer is one of many feminists, some of them well-respected, who believe transgender people are dangerous to the movement. Their argument is pretty simple. It boils down to the idea that trans people reinforce binary thinking about gender when they choose to join the other team instead of challenging what it means to be a man or a woman. Greer has called trans women a "ghastly parody" of femaleness.

Greer's comments about trans women exemplify the generational strife between second-wave feminists who sought to expand the definition of "woman" and the younger feminists who are looking for new gender categories altogether. This tension has been cruel to trans women, who have been cast as men trying to infiltrate women's spaces. But it's alienating to all corners of the LGBT community.

By the time I was well enough to consider swapping the skirts for cargo pants, changing my pronouns and the way I walked through the world, I'd become well-known as, among other things, a feminist writer.

At 24, I wrote columns about abortion rights and sexual liberation, and books about how to live and love under capitalist patriarchy. In response, young women wrote to me on a regular basis telling me that my work helped inspire them to live more freely in their femaleness. They admired me because I was a "strong woman." Would I be betraying those girls if I admitted that half the time, I didn't feel like a woman at all?

So I hoarded up my excuses for not coming out. I carefully described myself as "a person with cis privilege" rather than "a cis person" when the conversation came up. I decided that the daily emotional overheads of being a feminist writer on the internet were enough for now.

And I waited.

Over the past few years, more and more of my friends and comrades have come out as trans. I've been privileged to be part of a strong and supportive queer community, and it has helped that a great many of my close friends are both trans and feminist. For them, there doesn't seem to be a problem with fighting for gender equality while fighting transphobia — which sometimes, sadly, means that they're also fighting feminists.

Many of the critiques of trans politics from feminists through the decades have been openly bigoted, the sort of self-justifying theories that let people feel OK about driving other, more vulnerable people out of their jobs, outing them to their families and welfare advisers, and putting them in danger.

Buried under the bullshit, though, are some reasonable critiques. One is that people who claim a trans identity are only doing so because gender roles are so restrictive and oppressive in the first place. Sadly, many trans people are forced to play into tired gender stereotypes in order to "prove" their identity to everyone from strangers to medical gatekeepers — not long ago, one friend of mine was queried at a gender clinic because she showed up to her appointment in baggy jeans, which was evidence of her "lack of commitment" to life as a woman. I repeat: Even trousers are political.

I regret that there wasn't more language, dialogue, and support for trans and genderqueer kids when I was a teenager and needed it most. I regret that by the time I had found that community and that language, I was too traumatized by hospital, by prejudice, and by the daily pressures of living and working in a frenzied, wearily misogynist media landscape to take advantage of the freedoms on offer. I regret the fear that kept me from coming out for so many years.

Would I betray the girls who looked up to me if I admitted that I didn't feel like a woman at all?

When I say I regret those things, I mean that I try not to think about them too much, because the knowledge of how different things could have been if I'd known as a teenager that I wasn't alone, the thought of how else I might have lived and loved and dated if I'd had the words and the community I have now just a little sooner, opens cold fingers of longing somewhere in my stomach and squeezes tight. But when they let go, I'm also glad.

The journey I took as I came to terms with my own identity — the journey that will continue as long as I live — all of that has led me to where I am now.

More than anything, I'm excited. I'm excited to see how life is going to be different for the queer, trans, and even cis kids too, growing up in a world that has more language for gender variance. I'm excited to find out what sort of lives they will lead, from the genderqueer activists in the audience at my last reading to the barista with the orange mohawk who handed me the cup of tea I'm clutching for dear life as I write alone in this café, trying to believe that writing this piece is something other than gross self-indulgence.

The barista is wearing two name badges. One says their name; the other one says, in thick chalk capitals, I am not a girl. My pronouns are They/Them.

So here it is. I consider "woman" to be a made-up category, an intangible, constantly changing idea with as many different definitions as there are cultures on Earth. You could say the same thing about "justice" or "money" or "democracy" — these are made-up ideas, stories we tell ourselves about the shape of our lives, and yet they are ideas with enormous real-world consequences. Saying that gender is fluid doesn't mean that we have to ignore sexism. In fact, it's the opposite.

Of course gender norms play into the trans experience. How can they not? But being trans or genderqueer, even for cis-passing people like me, is not about playing into those norms. It's about about throwing them out. Some "radical" feminists argue that trans and genderqueer people actually shore up the gender binary by seeking to cross or straddle it rather than setting it on fire. To which I'd say: It is also possible to jump over a burning building.

In fact, watch me.

Only when we recognize that "manhood" and "womanhood" are made-up categories, invented to control human beings and violently imposed, can we truly understand the nature of sexism, of misogyny, of the way we are all worked over by gender in the end.

Coming out is an individual journey, but it is a collective weapon. Questioning gender — whether that means straddling the gender binary, crossing it, or breaking down its assumptions wherever you happen to stand — is an essential part of the feminism that has sustained me through two decades of personal and political struggle. In the end, feminists and the LGBT community have this in common: We're all gender traitors. We have broken the rules of good behavior assigned to us at birth, and we have all suffered for it.

But here's one big way I differ from a lot of my genderqueer friends: I still identify, politically, as a woman. My identity is more complex than simply female or male, but as long as women's reproductive freedom is under assault, sex is also a political category, and politically, I'm still on the girls' team.

I don't think that everyone who was dumped into the "female" category at birth has a duty to identify as a woman, politically or otherwise. Because identity policing, if you'll indulge me in a moment of high theoretical language, is fucked up and bullshit. This is just how it happens to work for me.

We're all gender traitors.

In a perfect world, perhaps I'd be telling a different story. I'm never going to be able to say for sure whether in that perfect world, that world without sexism and gender oppression, that world without violence or abuse, where kittens dance on rainbows and nobody has ever heard of Donald Trump, I would feel the need to call myself genderqueer. My hunch is that I would; and all I've got for you is that hunch, along with a stack of feminist theory books and a pretty nice collection of flat caps.

I am a woman, politically, because that's how people see me and that's how the state treats me. And sometimes I'm also a boy. Gender is something I perform, when I put on my binder or paint my nails. When I walk down the street. When I talk to my boss. When I kiss my partner in their makeup and high heels.

I don't want to see a world without gender. I want to see a world where gender is not oppressive or enforced, where there are as many ways to express and perform and relate to your own identity as there are people on Earth. I want a world where gender is not painful, but joyful.

But until then, we've got this one. And for as long as we all have to navigate a gender binary that's fundamentally broken and a sex class system that seeks to break us, I'm happy to be a gender traitor.

I'm a genderqueer woman, and a feminist. My preferred pronouns are "she" or "they." I believe we're on our way to a better world. And you can call me Laurie.

Friday, October 30, 2015

Thinking About Getting Dessert? You Deserve It!

BuzzFeed Yellow / Via youtube.com

If We Actually Commented Honestly On Facebook

"No one cares."

When a couple shares some interesting engagement photos:

When a couple shares some interesting engagement photos:

Kirsten King / Pablo Valdivia / BuzzFeed

But you actually mean:

But you actually mean:

Pablo Valdivia / Kirsten King / BuzzFeed

When someone shares something "motivational":

When someone shares something "motivational":

Pablo Valdivia / Kirsten King / BuzzFeed / Via toughmotivation.com

But you actually mean:

But you actually mean:

Pablo Valdivia / Kirsten King / BuzzFeed / Via toughmotivation.com


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Thursday, October 29, 2015

8 Ways To Style Your Hair For The Gym That Are Actually Awesome

Can't tell if I'm sweating from the gym or from these men, tbh.

Lauren Zaser / Justine Zwiebel / Via BuzzFeed Life

When you make it through an entire gym sesh, you feel like you can take on the damn world.

When you make it through an entire gym sesh, you feel like you can take on the damn world.

"Look at how much I didn't die!" —Anyone who actually gets to the end of a CrossFit workout

A&M Records / Via youtube.com

And then you look in the mirror and your hair is like, "LOL you ain't going nowhere."

And then you look in the mirror and your hair is like, "LOL you ain't going nowhere."

Going to work or basically anywhere in public afterward usually means you end up with a sweaty pile on top of your head.

Augusta Falletta / BuzzFeed / Via Kathyclark777 / Getty Images

So these hot dudes are going to show you ideas for how to style your hair for your workout and also afterwards when it's wet (either from a shower or you know, your sweat).

So these hot dudes are going to show you ideas for how to style your hair for your workout and also afterwards when it's wet (either from a shower or you know, your sweat).

We enlisted Jeff Chastain, celebrity hairstylist and owner of PARLOR hair salon in New York City, for help. Chastain happens to be a v. buff gentleman who understands the importance of both a good workout and good hair.

Lauren Zaser / Via BuzzFeed Life


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16 Times "This Is England '90" Made You Feel All The Feelings

Raise your hand if you will never get over this series. (Raises hand).

This Is England, Shane Meadows' epic four-part series following a group of friends in Northern England across nearly ten years, just ended.

This Is England, Shane Meadows' epic four-part series following a group of friends in Northern England across nearly ten years, just ended.

Channel 4

If you're not familiar with the series, start with This Is England, which takes place in 1983. Then follow it up with This Is England '86, This Is England '88, and finally This Is England '90.

Here, this is the full length version of This Is England. Watch it. IT IS AMAZING AND WONDERFUL.

youtube.com

Once you're all caught up, you can read the rest of this post about all the major ~emotional moments~ in This Is England '90. And then prepare to sob.

Once you're all caught up, you can read the rest of this post about all the major ~emotional moments~ in This Is England '90. And then prepare to sob.

Channel 4

When Shaun tries to get back together with Smell and she shuts him down.

When Shaun tries to get back together with Smell and she shuts him down.

Channel 4


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We Tried The Sexy Donald Trump Costume And It Was A Disaster

"I look like a girl scout!"

BuzzFeed Yellow / Via youtube.com

Every Day I Want To Quit Social Media

Today is the day I finally leave social media.

I feel I've outstayed my welcome. I don't have anything else to say. The feeling has grown in the weeks leading up to this point; I've seen my social media activity plummet in popularity. When you're online every day, valuing each post's health as a measure of your own literary career, you begin to lose sight of yourself.

It has worn me down to the point of panic, exhaustion — it's why I should have left by now. It's why today is it. I've made it to this point; just do it. The effort put in outweighs the end result, and it's really become a problem; if I'm feeling the way I'm feeling, there may no longer be anything meaningful. It could be that I'm only hurting myself.

I wake up staring at my phone. I fall asleep to the glow of the very same screen. I think about whether leaving social media would make any difference. It probably won't, and yet I can't bear to look away.

I always have at least a handful of tweets and posts ready days, sometimes weeks, ahead of when I plan to use them. It keeps me calm, assured that I will always have something meaningful to say, or at the very least, something funny, clever, clickworthy. I never want to be caught off guard. I never want to be left speechless.

Every night, at approximately 10 p.m., I end up back where I started: my desk. I frequently fall asleep there, just as often waking up in the middle of the night, mid-sentence, without any understanding of where the night went. I skim a list of to-dos, all of them dealing with projects for Civil Coping Mechanisms, Electric Literature, a script or two. Toss in a novel and at least a few submissions and you'll get the typical roundup — a little typesetting in InDesign, a few press releases to draft, a banner to design, a writing session to fit in somewhere — this is a typical night and I am already overwhelmed. I feel that horrible wave of exhaustion from having been up since 6 a.m., and I almost leave the desk for the bed. A few sips of coffee and before long the caffeine kicks in and I can keep going.

I double-click on InDesign and watch the spinning wheel and static Adobe startup screen as it slowly loads. My attention wavers, the cursor moving toward a familiar tab with a blue bird on it. Only while the program loads, I tell myself, and I begin scrolling through the feed, feeling the urge to catch up. When I get the prompt asking me if the current fonts are installed, I'm suddenly too busy to bother, and click cancel. I turn my attention to Facebook, seeking a more immediate response. There's work, but I trick myself into thinking it can wait.

I skim the newsfeeds, liking and commenting as I see fit. Maybe a few shares — nothing wrong with one or two before noon. It's early but never too early to share some content.

I watch as someone I know posts something not only clever but also completely on-point. I feel naked, concerned — anxious. It bothers me. I like it and comment, which is the right thing to do; all the while, I envy it because I don't have anything better to say. I don't have anything at all.

I really just want to have something meaningful to say.

I notice that the person I'm chatting with posts about what we're talking about, quoting and tagging me. What do you do in this instance? I like, make a noncommittal remark, and sit there watching as others do the same. I watch as the post gets upwards of 50 likes in 15 minutes. I'm envious and I don't know why. I want that kind of response. Or a better response.

I really just want to have something meaningful to say. It takes me more time than I'd ever be willing to admit to write a post. And still, I hesitate, second-guessing every word choice. Meanwhile, my friend has turned his post into a 60-likes-or-more conversation piece, the "conversation piece" part not the result of the number of likes, but of the 80-plus comment thread that continues to grow.

Co-workers walk by my cubicle, asking if I'd like to go to lunch. I do my best to politely decline while, in the back of my mind, I'm attempting some kind of grand, not-at-all-vain-or-self-obsessed social media epitaph. I've seen it happen before: people bowing out of their social media presences with grace. Some don't even care and just go silent. How? But I sit here watching the online world move forward without me, feeling ridiculous for thinking that my participation (or not) could somehow move mountains.

I am forever judging myself by my social media performance.

My mixture of self-loathing and shame consumes my lunch hour. I'm neither interested in nor deserving of any food; my attention is purely on writing a farewell that will make sense to friends and followers. I begin researching how to back up my accounts. I don't know why really, but I search on the off chance that maybe, just maybe, I won't be able to stay away.

I don't find the information I'm looking for. Desperately, I click back to the tab with the newsfeed. I notice that I don't have as many notifications at this hour as I should have, and I begin to tense up, my heart beating faster. I am forever judging myself by my social media performance.

I return to an idea that has been in my mind for weeks, if not months: relevancy. Who has it? Does anyone actually ever have it? If you have it, how long can you maintain it? I'm not quite sure if I've ever had any sort of relevancy, but at this precise moment, it doesn't feel like that matters. Like I matter.

This need to matter, to count, to be relevant is what drives me to do all I've been doing to gain notice in the first place. And we all want to be recognized as clever or witty. It's what leads me to posting this next thing impulsively — to earn just a handful of likes. My post is ignored on Twitter. I shouldn't have posted at all. This is it, I tell myself, my last post.

We all want to be recognized as clever or witty.

This isn't the first time a tweet has failed, impressions near nil. In fact, I've had so many duds that I almost always have a mini panic attack whenever they don't measure up. The standard for a successful piece of content is a sliding scale. It used to be two dozen likes, a handful of favorites, maybe a retweet. Once you start getting that, you strive to improve the analytics. Soon nothing is good enough.

My post is still fresh, but it doesn't have a lot of immediate likes; the tweet doesn't get any attention. I delete both post and tweet. I make sure to copy/paste what it was into a Word document for investigation.

I revise the post. I tweet out the same. I'm frantically clicking between tabs, looking for some kind of change, some burst of data. I find it on Twitter, 150 or so views, no engagements. Without investigating the tweet itself, I delete it and turn my attention to Facebook. I feel pressure on my forehead increasing, radiating heat moving from the very peak of my forehead to the top of my head. I start to feel dizzy. Another migraine, I figure. But I'm too busy deleting the Facebook post to bother doing anything about it. I'm too busy funneling my time, energy, and waking life into the version of me that has begun to live online.

As I start to breathe heavily, there's the thought that maybe I can be replaced. By whom? Someone clever, capable of becoming a better literary citizen, a better editor of a press, a better dispenser of motivational tweets. At what cost? Maybe time, maybe energy. All I know is that I can't bear to be in this cubicle anymore. I wait until no one is around to sneak into a nearby empty bathroom. I take the far stall, closest to the wall, and I sit down on the toilet, making sure to tuck my knees into my chest, legs invisible under the partition, creating the illusion that no one is in this particular stall.

I smell that same mixture of bleach and excrement that exists in most, if not all, public restrooms. I can't breathe. I can't get past the fact that I couldn't crack the current post; I think about relevancy. I think about what I actually have to say, in a meaningful sense — and I come up empty. I stare at the stall walls, listening to someone walking in, using the urinal, and leaving without any notice of me. And why am I hiding? The smell begins to make me gag. It's not until I'm dry-heaving into the toilet, knees on the cool tile of the restroom, that I realize I'm having a panic attack.

The panic attack makes me afraid to touch my laptop. I fear that either I've posted something self-destructive or I've completely lost relevancy. Maybe both. Add a third: My internet presence doesn't exist, every post, tweet, and picture undone — made into the sort of material conjured from nightmares. And then something rational, for perspective: Why does this matter so much to me?

Back in the cubicle, I've managed to compose myself. Still, there's the lingering question: What am I trying to say? That browser tab is still there. I haven't closed it like all the others. I feel like a failure. I should be done with social media. In the back of my head, I hear the same thing — hey, just do it, it's not like anyone will care. And I believe it. I still believe it. Seriously, why would it matter?

It's over, I tell myself — admit that I'm like so many others who burned out, losing sight of whatever it was that got them here in the first place. I almost feel relieved; I can exhale. I can go now.

I linger for another half hour. Mostly, I spend my time on YouTube watching video game walkthroughs, the only thing that seems to keep me calm. At some point I notice the Facebook tab flashing, meaning that someone has messaged me. I look and it's a dear friend of mine whom I've never met face-to-face, and yet we're closer than I am with some of my offline friends.

Whenever one of us needed someone to talk to, we were there for each other. I was there. He was there. He messaged me, asking for advice. Turns out, he was going through a crisis, one involving the possible choice to end his writing career. I almost don't look, fearing that these messages will keep me online. And they do — he's the reason I'm still here. I stick around because of the community, the support that really does exist behind the overflow of information.

So what if I'm not relevant; so what if my social media presence fades over time? If it's costing me so much anxiety and exhaustion, there must be a reason beyond relevancy.

I needed that message. I needed him to message me more than he needed me to message him back.

I ended up on social media for a reason, and though the reason escapes me during moments of sheer panic and anxiety, I take part, no matter what — the pursuit of relevancy, or, in the strictest sense of the term, validation, is an imperative that exists as a key part of humankind's quest for meaning. Self-definition has become intertwined with social media. We are all here for each other.

I wake up staring at my phone. I fall asleep to the glow of the very same screen.

***

Michael Seidlinger is the author of several books, including The Strangest, a modern retelling of Albert Camus's The Stranger. He is publisher-in-chief of Civil Coping Mechanisms, an indie press specializing in innovative fiction, nonfiction, and poetry as well as the book reviews editor at Electric Literature.

To learn more about The Strangest, out now from O/R Books, click here.

O/R Books

What Should My Son Be For Halloween?

My son chose a scary Halloween costume, but I told him no. I want to give him an alternative choice so he can go trick-or-treating. Can you please help?

Yesterday my son, Webster, told me what he wanted to be for Halloween.

Yesterday my son, Webster, told me what he wanted to be for Halloween.

This is my boy!!

Thinkstock

He really likes that evil character from the Harry Potter movies, Ron. I don't think that's appropriate.

He really likes that evil character from the Harry Potter movies, Ron. I don't think that's appropriate.

I don't know much about Ron, but I saw him on TV when my son was trying to order Harry Potter on pay-per-view. I just don't think it's nice to show up at someone's door asking for candy when you're dressed as a mean, bad character!

Warner Bros. / Via movie-screencaps.com

I don't like ghosts or draculas, either. They're too tasteless and macabre for me. Why can't everyone just dress nicely?

Here's my first idea: I know he likes Harry Potter, so how about a fun magician instead?

Here's my first idea: I know he likes Harry Potter, so how about a fun magician instead?

Thinkstock


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11 Things That Will Definitely Happen When Donald Trump Is President

According to Donald Trump, probably.

President Trump would return outsourced jobs to the U.S. through the power of smart negotiation.

President Trump would return outsourced jobs to the U.S. through the power of smart negotiation.

Mark Wilson / Matthew Busch / Getty Images / LA Times / Tom Phillips / BuzzFeed

He'd also get to the bottom of Obama's birth certificate mystery once and for all.

He'd also get to the bottom of Obama's birth certificate mystery once and for all.

Saul Loeb / AFP / Getty Images / Tom Phillips / BuzzFeed

Millions of Americans would be inspired to "Trump their look".

Millions of Americans would be inspired to "Trump their look".

vogue.com.au / Hannah Jewell / Jamie Jones / BuzzFeed

He'd sort out the Middle East with his stellar negotiation skills.

He'd sort out the Middle East with his stellar negotiation skills.

Mark Ralston / AFP / Getty Images / NYT Mag / Tom Phillips / BuzzFeed


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Wednesday, October 28, 2015