**Y’all, it’s October. **
Which means the temperatures are dropping and the first cold winds are starting to blow. And somewhere in America right this second, a Black mother, a big sister, a nana, or an auntie is about to open a blue lidded gigantic jar of Vaseline like she is preparing to embalm a pharaoh. Because Black adults approach ‘greasing’ up children as if it is a sacred ancestral responsibility.
Somewhere in America right this second, a Black child just got out of the bathtub. And some adult is about to briskly dry them off as that family-size jar of industrial lubrication awaits on the edge of the sink. There will be no consent. Not one second of negotiation, or consideration of whether this precious godling actually wishes to spend the next eight hours feeling like a freshly buttered biscuit or a glazed ham about to be taken to the fellowship hall.
This baby girl or baby boy could try to run. But why? Where they g’on go? They’re naked, damp, overpowered. The odds are not in their favor. Submission is the only option.
Before the greasing begins, that child is standing there watching this adult aggressively plunge one, two, or maybe three fingers deep down into that enormous yellowish tinted jar of translucent goo. Uggh. Right now, that Black child is trying hard not to grimace as that wobbling glob of jelly dangles from the adult’s fingertip before they slap it into the palm of the other hand.
**SCHLUP-SCHLUP-SCHLUP! **
Ugh, that poor baby has to stand there, helpless, listening to that slow, wet, sticky sound of two grown hands rubbing together, warming up the Vaseline, hearing the grease get activated, spreading it from palm to palm, and getting ready to descend upon their defenseless, innocent little body. I remember that sound myself. It was like listening to somebody kneading raw chicken in a bowl of mayonnaise.
Can Y’all see this poor child who has surrendered it all to Black Jesus? Just standing there in their little undies with their shoulders slumped, arms hanging stiffly at their sides sides, lookin’ like a condemned prisoner awaiting the administration of a sentence. Because this child knows that their dignity is about to be liquefied.
The glistening hands are approaching, knowing knowing that in approximately four seconds they are about to be shiny AF and there ain’t shit they can could do about it. Elbows gettin’ it. Knees gettin’ it. Ankles gettin’ some. Shins, forehead, cheeks, and even them lips g’on get a generous coating. And all the while this precious godling’s face remains a masterpiece of silent disgust with their lips pressed into a resentful little line.
Don’t act like Y’all don’t remember these moments, and how every so often, you let out one of those long, theatrical sighs through your nostrils like steam from a malfunctioning radiator. And you knew that you betta not say a word because the grown-up has already warned you to stop all that huffing and puffing and was grumbling something about ashiness. You just had to hold your breath, curl your toes against the bathroom floor, spread your fingers apart in disgust, and be careful not to touch your freshly lubricated thighs just like some Black child in America is doing right this very second!
The adult commands: “Lift your arms.” “Turn around.” That adult is pretending like that slowly rotating child isn’t staring off into the middle distance, calculating how many minutes more of this ritual they have to endure. The adult could care less that the child’s spirit has temporarily departed their little body. Every instinct tells them to recoil, but they are a Black child in America and they know resistance will only prolong the greasing.
That Black child was once me. And it was you too. Don’t lie!
And when you heard the blue lid click back onto the jar, they’d say someshit like, *“There. Now you look nice.” *
Right now, some Black child in America is taking a deep breath and glancing down at their glistening little body with the exhausted resignation of somebody who has just survived a maritime oil spill.
This child hates the way they smell even though they don’t have the words to describe this special offense. Vaseline doesn’t smell quite like gasoline but it has a kind of faint, greasy, industrial odor that has absolutely no business being smeared near a child's face. Before writing this essay, I went to the pharmacy, opened up a jar, took and took a whiff to remind myself of the scent. Yep, smells like somebody melted a candle inside an auto shop and decided to market that goop as love.
I fucking hated Vaseline. Hated the smell. The texture. How it sat so thick and oppressive on my skin. I hated how my clothes stuck to my body all day long. I hated how every stray piece of lint within a eight-mile radius suddenly found me irresistible. I can still see the greasy fingerprints. My shiny-ass shiny forehead in school photos. I already had a big forehead, but when Vaseline was added, it looked like a newly discovered celestial body. That flash would hit my forehead and bounce back with enough force to temporarily blind the teachers and all the other kids waiting in line.
Then all the aunties would get your photo and be like, “Look at how healthy her skin looks!” They were so proud.
I can even remember the way freshly applied Vaseline made it impossible to scratch an itch without feeling like you were kneading biscuit dough. Oh, and don’t get me started on the horrors of getting into bed with greasy legs.
And god forbid you went outside and there was still some ashiness on you. Because in Black America, ashiness isn’t dermatological. It’s a character defect! An ungreased ankle can bring disgrace upon your family’s name and entire bloodline. The grown folk didn’t care if you got straight A’s, you could memorize all the books of the Bible in alphabetical order, solve for X, or whatever else. If somebody’s grandmother caught sight of one dusty kneecap, then that meant you wasn’t bein’ raised right.
“Come here, baby. You ashy.” Them five words right there could ruin your whole morning.
If you was sittin’ in church and your mama looked down and saw that little strip of skin between your sock and your pant leg looked gray, she acted like you’d brought shame upon seven generations and Booker T. Washington.
The Black adults from my childhood, and yours, believed in its powers of Vaseline to heal dry skin, chapped lips, cracked heels, and mysterious bumps with a religious conviction that rivaled their belief in Jesus. I swear, you could probably be limping into a Black woman’s kitchen with a missing arm and eyeball and she would holler, “Go get me that jar of Vaseline! Hurry up, now!”
Now, as a grown woman and a former foster child who ran away from home at age 12 and never looked back and never again touched Vaseline, I still believe there is research value in studying how Black folks use this stuff on their children and treat that blue-lidded jar like the fourth member of the Holy Trinity. Whole dissertations can be written on the ashy industrial complex or the childhood greasing ceremony. Legitimate thesis can be written about how generations of Black families created a whole moral code around how Black children were coated in enough petroleum jelly to survive atmospheric reentry.
And since my research is obsessed with the treatment of Black children historical and in our modern moment, I absolutely believe there’s a deep connection between Vaseline, ashiness, respectability, grooming, childhood discipline. Despite all my cheekiness and personal disdain for Vaseline, I know full well that this kind of grooming ritual demonstrates the extraordinary lengths Black parents go to ensure their children look properly cared for in a society that was always judging their parenting and their children’s bodies and behaviors.
I do find it fascinating that Vaseline was not handed down to Black folks from the kingdom of Kush, nor was it a holy moisturizer discovered somewhere along the Nile. This sacred substance locates its origin story in the Pennsylvania oil fields, in 1859 when a white chemist encountered petroleum residue accumulating on oil-drilling machinery and by the early 1870s turned it into lubrication for the skin.
Now, I can’t tell Y’all definitively anything about the history explaining when or how Vaseline became a sacred ritual in Black folks’ households. Some day when I get a little extra time I might flip through back issues of The Crisis, JET, Ebony, newspaper ads, and beauty columns so I can figure out just how we collectively decided that every Black child needed to be greased up like meat before leaving the house. But what I can tell you is that our people have likely been shining ever since the late 19th century.
**Sidenote: **As an historian, every cold season I try to imagine what it was like for my African ancestors who arrived on this land in the 17th century, looked down at their dry ankles, knees, and elbows during their first Chesapeake winter and wondered what the hell kind of climate they'd been dragged into.
Lissen, I know some of Y’all are gonna read this and be like, “Staceypants, why you gotta hate on Vaseline? There’s nothin’ wrong with Vaseline. It’s safe. It’s good for our skin.”
And you know what? Y’all are absolutely right. I know the research. And I know that all the experts and dermatologists have said cosmetic-grade petroleum jelly is highly refined and safe for children’s foreheads and such. The American Academy of Dermatology even recommends it for dry skin and certain childhood skin conditions and blah, blah, blah.
Listen, I DON’T CARE!!!
I’m a child advocate, and it is my duty to tell the truth from a child-centered perspective. And the truth is that millions of Black children all across America have been silently suffering under the tyranny of compulsory greasing.
Listen, I know that I’m right because there’s proof on the Internet that confirms every damn thing I’ve written in this essay. About six months ago, Vaseline released one of the most triggering ads called Love Hurts. In that ad, which was first released in Kenya, you see Black parents and grandparents forcibly rubbing petroleum jelly on the faces of babies, toddlers, adolescents who look like little hostages who are squirming, grimacing, and trying to escape the greasy hands.
And the nerve of the company to be out here packaging these “hurtful” global Black child rituals as a heartwarming celebration of intergenerational love with the slogan: “Some traditions aren’t passed down. They’re rubbed in.”
I don’t care what the dermatologists say. Sit down on the edge of child’s bed and ask them! Look at your godling standing their little undies with their eyes rolled back, lips pressed tight, body in full surrender. Ask the little Black child whose big forehead is reflecting enough sunlight to power a small nation somewhere in the Diaspora. Ask the child whose pajamas are permanently bonded to their thighs before you kiss their forehead goodnight.
Where are Black children’s voices in the medical literature and the ads and commercials? Where are the longitudinal studies on Black child autonomy and the psychosocial consequences of being basted against your will? For generations, Black adults have been controlling the narrative about the magic of Vaseline while the primary stakeholders have been too slippery to escape.
Well, I say ENOUGH! Somebody has to stand up for the children. Preferably somebody who can stand up without sliding across the damn bathroom floor. Stop greasing Black children in Vaseline. Give them babies some cocoa butter or shea butter to protect them against ashiness.
Now, before I log off, lemme just say that I know some white folks and other non-Black folks are gonna show up in my comments and be like, “Black people aren’t the only group that Vaseline grease their children. My mom did it to me too.”
M’kay.
Listen, I am not out here claiming to be the United Nations Ambassador for Childhood Greasing Rituals. I don’t know what kind of petroleum-based atrocities your mama and n’em rubbed and glazed on you. I wasn’t there. I’m just sharing what I personally have endured and witnessed among my people. So if your parents and community were/are out here subjecting children to lubrication rituals against their will, we can discuss forming an international coalition of survivors of compulsory childhood greasing, at later date of course. We can call it V.A.S.E.L.I.N.E., which stands for Victims Against Slathering, Excessive Lubrication, and Involuntary Naked Embalming.
Membership will be open to all races, ethnicities, and nationalities and you must be willing to share your testimony, school photos, and proof that your forehead reflected sunlight.
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