Historical Perceptions of Black Bodies and Cleanliness: “Did You Put Any ‘Smell Good’ On You Today?”
“Eske’w mete santi bon?” my grandma would ask me almost every Sunday before church. This phrase, which translates to “Did you put any ‘smell good’ on you?,” is a question I have no doubt many young Haitian girls have heard before. I would begrudgingly say no, which prompted her to pull out a small light blue container that held a substance no Haitian girl was a stranger to-baby powder. To avoid breathing it in, I held my breath as she powdered my face and chest with the soft and fluffy applicator. She then sprayed us both down with perfume.
I hated powder. I hated perfume. And I hated being up at 7 a.m. on the weekend soaked in things that made me sneeze.
As a young girl, I had a really awkward relationship with my body. All I wanted to do was be a kid and play outside, but I grew up in an environment that forced me to be very aware of myself and my body. This meant the daily ritual of dousing myself in baby powder until I was in my pre-teens. Although the intended use of baby powder is to prevent diaper rash in infants, it is often used as a deodorizer on the neck, chest, underarms, and genitals in Black and Caribbean households.
As I entered my pre-teen years, the importance of smelling good and being clean became very clear. My body hair was coming in, underarm sweat was more of a thing, and pre-menstrual discharge (although I didn’t know what it was at the time) became a part of my daily life. If I didn’t wash frequently, lotion my skin, or douse myself in perfume and powder, someone would check me for it.
I’ll never forget one time after church when my best friend’s father told me I had an odor and that it was important for me to put on deodorant. I remember the absolute embarrassment I felt in that moment because not only did he say this in front of his daughters who were around my age, I actually WAS wearing deodorant. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole. It is crazy how before I knew it, I went from playing with Barbie dolls to my body offending an adult.
“…I went from playing with Barbie dolls to my body offending an adult.”
From then on, perfumes and powders became an even bigger staple in my life. Smelling good would signal to others that I was mature and could keep the odors of a growing body at bay. During an episode of Bodies, a podcast hosted by award-winning audio journalist Allison Behringer, interviewee Krystal Kim expressed a similar sentiment. She stated, “In our community, we would always see, like, older girls with powder on their necks and in their cleavage. So that was kind of like a statement, like, I’m clean. See, I have my powder on. And that kind of stuck with me.”
Similar to the experiences of many Afro-Caribbean and African American people, Krystal spoke about how baby powder played a major role in her life. During the interview, Krystal described her routine of using Johnson and Johnson’s (J&J) powder and deodorant. A routine that is played out in many Black households, as research conducted by Assistant Professor of Public Health, Colette Davis, Ph.D., found that the use of powder on the genitals is more prevalent amongst African American Women. But Krystal learned that this regimen might have played a role in her development of ovarian cancer. That may seem unbelievable, but according to Kathryn Lynne Terry, Sc.D., the use of baby powder on the genitals has been found to increase the risk of ovarian cancer by 24%.
“…I’m clean. See, I have my powder on.”
So, how did a potentially dangerous product become a cultural norm amongst Black women? In a video from a popular Instagram account called Know Your Caribbean, Fiona Compton discusses the theory of how some enslaved Black women in the Caribbean would wear baby powder to show their status as someone with close proximity to their “mistress”-the female owner of enslaved persons-and the mistress’s cosmetics.
In trying to learn more about this theory and the possible link between baby powder and slavery, I found myself in a body of literature describing how Black bodies have been perceived throughout centuries and how “olfactory discrimination” was used to further marginalize Black people. Olfactory discrimination is the attribution of an odor to a certain group of people to cover the biases that one group may feel towards another, as cultural historian and author Dr. Constance Classen, Ph.D., explains. For example, in 1846, a physician named W. E. Horner wrote an article published by the American Journal of the Medical Sciences titled “On the Odoriferous Glands of the Negro.” In this article, he used pseudoscience to state that there is a difference in the sweat glands of Black and White people. Specifically, Horner writes that, “it is well known in our country that the smell of negroes is particularly redolent from the axilla (armpit)…”
It is horrific to think that racist statements, like the one written by Dr. Horner, were allowed to be published in medical journals. Statements like these helped push the narrative that Black people were physiologically different than White people when, in reality, there is no genetic basis to smell, as Professor of History Mark Smith states. These racist ideologies were motivated by the desire to justify race-based slavery and segregation. In the 1850s, the growing population of mixed-raced enslaved persons posed an issue for slave owners. Since some mixed-race persons presented with lighter skin, it made it difficult to justify race-based slavery. As a result, the use of other senses besides sight came into play, writes Mary Mitchell, Ph.D., Associate Professor of History at the University of New Orleans. In addition to sight, smell became a method racist White people used to pinpoint race; hence, smell became a means to identify Blackness.
As this pseudoscience continued to get pushed, the deodorization and perfuming performed by African Americans became an important part of social acceptance, according to Michelle Ferranti, M.A., instructor of American history. Additionally, historian Suellen Hoy writes “For many recently emancipated African-Americans a clean and odor-free body signified personal progress and enterprise, and the hope for racial assimilation.” Although olfactory discrimination was established in the past, it is an idea that has been unconsciously integrated into present-day practices, from baby powder to twalet deba.
Twalet deba, a Haitian term to describe the process of vaginal cleansing or washing, was an important aspect of my hygiene practices. Twalet deba was a quick way to wash myself in the mornings before heading out to school. This practice takes place seated over a toilet, pouring a cup or small container of lukewarm water, and using a hand to wash the outside of the vagina. Much like the powder question, I was often asked, “Eske’w ou fe twalet deba ou?” which translates to “Did you wash your vagina?” I never questioned its importance or why we did it. I just thought of it as something you had to do. In my young mind, my thought process surrounding this practice was simply, “If you have a vagina, you have to clean it just like you do the rest of your body.”
The conversations around vaginal hygiene weren’t just limited to the home, however. It was also present in school when girls joked about not wanting to smell like a “fish market.” This message made its way into the songs and radio channels I listened to, conversations I overheard, shows I watched, and social media posts I read-“vaginas stink” and”a good vagina should smell like flowers or nothing at all.”Without realizing it, my practice of simply using water during twalet deba turned into frequent showers using highly fragranced soaps and feminine hygiene products well into my twenties.
But then, I started noticing the “fishy odor” I was taught to dread. I entered a stage of back-to-back bacterial vaginosis (BV) and yeast infections. “Was I not cleaning myself enough?” I questioned, “Does this mean I’m unclean?”
I came to learn that BV, a vaginal infection caused by an overgrowth of bacteria which can come with a “fishy odor,” isn’t caused by not cleaning yourself. I was baffled to learn from my gynecologists that my constant BV and yeast infections were probably because of my use of soaps. My immediate question was, “Well, what am I supposed to wash it with? Water?” The answer is “yes.” Yes, you can just wash with water. Even when washing with water, it should only be the labia, the folds of skin on the outside of the vagina, as the vagina can clean itself.
“Well, what am I supposed to wash it with? Water?” The answer is “yes.”
Practices such as vaginal douching, which is the process of washing the inside of the vagina with a liquid solution, is associated with developing BV, according to the Office on Women’s Health. Douching, as Ferranti writes, is a routine more likely practiced by African American women and may be performed to feel clean. However, douching has been shown to alter the vaginal flora, a collection of microorganisms naturally found in the vagina that help protect against external bacteria and prevent the growth of unwanted organisms. According to the Office of Women’s Health, vaginal flora also maintains the natural acidity of the vagina, which can help fight off infection or irritation. However, the practice of douching can upset this balance, leading to the overgrowth of microbes that can cause yeast infections or bacterial vaginosis. If an infection is present, douching can push microbes up into the reproductive tract, causing infections in the uterus, fallopian tubes, and ovaries and if left untreated, can lead to pelvic inflammatory disease, a condition that can be caused by untreated sexually transmitted infections. sexually-transmitted disease.
In an interview conducted by Chiu and Ferguson of the Washington Post, Fatima Daoud Yilmaz, an OB/GYN based in New York, reminds us that the female reproductive system is incredible. She states, “It contains its own ecosystem, a microbiome of healthy bacteria. It cleanses itself. It protects itself. It lubricates itself.” Yet, “there’s this unrealistic standard of what a vulva and vagina should smell like, look like, feel like.” Dr. Daoud Yilmaz goes on to say that, “It does all of this, and we expect it to not create some discharge? We expect it to not have a little bit of a smell that is normal and natural and healthy?”
As Ferranti writes, many women view their use of vaginal deodorants or products as ways to feel “fresh.” However, the disproportionate use of these products amongst Black women suggests a “complicated explanation.” Ferranti continues, explaining how the historical perspective of Black bodies has influenced “meticulous grooming” in Black communities. For example, along with the odor supposedly associated with Black bodies, Black women have also been subject to “allegations of hypersexuality and lasciviousness.” Additionally, Ferranti notes that vaginal douche products with names like ‘Pristeen’ and ‘Demure’ emphasize daintiness, freshness, and other words that signal the importance of “appearing and smelling sexually unavailable.”
For me, part of getting older meant unlearning the beliefs I held about my body and the scents it carried. Dr. Shari Lawson, an OB/GYN and an assistant professor at Johns Hopkins, says she often sees Black and Brown people who “had this idea of feminine hygiene handed down from the women in their lives-mothers, aunts, grandmothers,” which includes “making sure that everything is very clean, that there’s no odors associated with the vagina or the vulva.”
I think back to Krystal’s story and her early use of personal care products. At the age of 10, before one of her baseball practices, her mother sat her down to explain that women have odors that can be concealed by using baby powder. There was always a big, white bottle of J&J baby powder underneath the sink in the bathroom that she put onto her body and in her underwear almost every day since the talk with her mom. Decades later, when Krystal was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, she learned she did not fit the typical demographic of those who develop this cancer. Upon doing her own research and connecting with a lawyer, she became one of thousands of women with ovarian cancer who sued Johnson & Johnson. Many of the lawsuits have been successful and some are still ongoing.
The most common version of J&J’s baby powder contained talc, a natural mineral that can sometimes be found next to another mineral called asbestos. Asbestos, which is highly carcinogenic, has been linked to cancers such as mesothelioma and ovarian cancer. In an examination of J&J’s internal reports, news company Reuters found early mentions of contaminated products in 1957 and 1958. These reports describe contaminants in their talc-based products as “needle-like,” which is characteristic of asbestos. This investigation also found that from at least 1971, J&J’s powders tested for small amounts of asbestos.
In the 1970s, pediatricians began to warn of the dangers of infants inhaling talc-based products. In response, J&J geared their products towards adults, and by the mid-2000s, 91% of baby powder use was amongst adults, according to The Carlson Law Firm. J&J particularly targeted women of color through aggressive marketing strategies. These tactics included dropping off 100,000 sample bags at churches and salons in predominantly Black and Hispanic neighborhoods and even launching a radio campaign seeking to reach “curvy Southern women 18-49 largely skewing African American.” Because of efforts to capitalize off the cultural myths surrounding cleanliness and body odor in the Black community, many women were exposed to potentially dangerous products.
In a 2019 letter written by physician David Egilman, M.D., MPH, to the The Committee on Oversight and Reform of the US House of Representatives, he discusses the history of asbestos in talc. According to Dr. Egilman, after government and university laboratories began sounding the alarm on the presence of asbestos in talc-containing cosmetics, the FDA proposed a regulation in 1973 that would require companies to produce products that contained less than 0.01% of asbestos. Companies claimed that they had “zero tolerance” for asbestos in their products and rejected this proposal. The companies suggested that they could self-regulate instead. In response, the FDA withdrew this proposal. However, despite the self-held zero tolerance policy, test results from 1950 to 2019 revealed that talc-based cosmetic products were never actually asbestos free, as Dr. Egilman states. For example, John Fitzgerald, a geologist who has spent his career testing products for asbestos, found asbestos in makeup kits at stores that predominately cater to teenage girls.
Most recently, the Modernization of Cosmetics Regulation Act of 2022 (MoCRA) was passed by Congress, giving the FDA the authority to require testing for asbestos in talc-based products. However, as of the writing of this article, no such rules have been put in place.
Ultimately, the research and stories about feminine hygiene practices amongst Black women and girls underscore how complex and deeply ingrained these practices are in our society. Passed down through generations and paired with the narratives surrounding cleanliness and odor, seemingly innocent rituals like using baby powder or twalet deba can reveal layers of historical racism. Despite the complexities surrounding this topic, I believe there is room for empowerment. By questioning ingrained beliefs, advocating for accurate and healthy representations of body care, and demanding government regulations as well as transparency from companies about the safety of their products, we can begin to dismantle harmful ideologies and protect the health and well-being of ourselves and future generations. We should be able to embrace the beauty and resilience of our bodies without the constraints of societal expectations and harmful practices.