When i think about my locks, alot comes to mind.
Like back lot ways when I was a wee me.
I remember, believing that "dreadlocks" were God sent...that some people were born to have their hair tangle and be comb resistant like yardies' are, to the point where well, it just bunches up.I believed that. But like a mole, big on a face, locks were condemned even then
"It isnt everything that he made, that is beautiful, you know."
You know?
Let me tell you,I knew a person who had what I believed to be dreadlocks that were God sent.He had them till his parents decided that if they were to cut it, God would get a hint. Somehow, they may've been right because at 20, his hair isnt locked anymore.The dreads never made it back.
So why was it that when I got here, left backhome for the "lighter sands",I got to meet this one Jamaican sista...who laughed at me and said;
"You're so silly. Dreds arent natural, no one is ever born with them, they are grown".
Grown?! Since when?!
And being a teenager, I believed. How dare I not? After all, she must know.She was Jamaican. And you' d always hear about those "dreadlock" folks...the ones taken aboard as slaves...the damaged ones...who didnt quite make it....uncivilized they are...with long dreadlocks...that they just...would not cut.
I often wonder...what makes them so different from us?
Now. If you're like me, you're probably guessing that this is about hair.
But I'll be honest with you, I myself, am not so sure.
Though today, I do find myself remembering why I dared to revert back to dreads.
I got tired, you know...of being made to feel unpretty. By myself. By my people. By their people. By humans.
It gets to a point where you realize that although you maybe ugly, you are exhausted, trying to be pretty. You get comfortable within the background, close to the floor, somewhere in the corner. You dare to care. I dont know if its some wealth of boldness...courage... lack of confidence? What it is, I do not know. But I do know, I did get there; that point where I just could not care less.
I remember my(?) old hair...Ohhhh It flowed! Oh so it flowed. ......And when the wind blew, I loved that it'd attempt to chase it. And when I'd click clack it down the hall I loved that it bounced.
And boys?
White men saw me.And I didnt see the nigger reflection in their eyes.
And black men saw me. And likewise, I looked like I was sophisticated. Exotic. Something that was not of here, I was exotic.
Oh black men saw me! And I didnt see the nigger reflection in their eyes.
Long flowy hair. Especially in its darkest forms.
Thin! Bone straight! Curly and Full! I'd pay a hundred dollars for two packs of-
-Glamorous.
Because I wanted that.
And since it was said to be the best human hair brand i made sure i'd get my-
-Sensationel.
Because I wanted that.
That look...the one everyone sought after. I wanted that. And I had it.
But ironically, the remedy failed me. I'd always felt Beautifully unreal. And ever so inadequate.
Somehow, I could never get it right. But even then, it was safer than having my naps out in the wind.
So...
"baby, dont touch ma hair".
"Dont you know you never touch a black woman's hair?"
"Sugar, dont pull my hair"
Insecurities filled my pores...my follicles felt loose and I'd be scared it just might come off or better yet, he just might feel my tracks.
You'd often hear of girls getting their weaves pulled out in fights and that was the worst sh*t that could happen.I laugh i laugh at the irony of it all! First, it was that we competed to have the best white hair. Then it was shameful to have it revealed to the world that your hair was fake white hair.
Who in God's name are we fooling?We confuse the black folks. We confuse the white folks. No one seems to know what real is anymore! So much so that one said to me the other day as she pointed to my locks...
"Is your hair real?". I muttered her words under my breath as I tried to make sense of it all.
"Look at this lost girl asking me if MY hair is real, goodness gracious"! What have we done?
And if you were to have natural hair, you'd be seen as a black girl...because normal black girls dont have black hair...right? So you must be Afrocentric to keep your hair.
So! If i decide to be me. It must be because I am pro black (Yes I am. And yes you're wrong).
The whole situation is disheartening.
So now I am locked. And like the saying goes,... "and loving it".
Most people do not ask me why I chose it.I guess because
they already know.But for the ones who do,I say
"Look at the world.Now, look at me.No. Take a good look at this world. Now, look at me."
I am locked for a silent revolution.Within me, there is a drive to make right what can never be resolved.I can never touch a child's question, hold it, detangle it and set it right.So the non verbalized communications within her that questions why her mother's shiny hair comes off at night to reveal what looks more like hers, and then responds with some hope of someday, being able to rock some weave, will forever escape me.Far too deep to be noted.Far too late to be informed.
I am locked for a beauty that is undermined.That lies in my curls and stands like ma locks.That reminds me that I had almost forgotten the beauty in nature's individuality.And that long after many sleeps, I can someday look in the mirror and truly believe this beauty. That isnt only within. But out here too. Right there, staring me in the face, superior to my head. I owe it to these locks, owe it too myself to be proud.
I am locked, to stand as a question.To the reason why we often choose to bow.Where most black folks are said to be in debt And poverty seems to be knocking us out cold, some would still choose to buy Prada brand hair...than to go to work without.I am asking this question in hopes that someday, maybe we will see. That together,
we do stand taller.
Most people do not ask me why I chose it.I guess because they already know.
But for the ones who do,I say
"Look at the world.Look at me.Take a good look at this world.Now. Look at my locks."
- written, March, 2009
