It Is Your Hair-Rite-Age To Know Your Heritage

Nappily ever after is the reason why I came. To feel the anguish and never deny you again. Through toils and snares. Anger and despair. I yearn to learn about your fate and faithfully, willingly, totally accept that you will always care. Carefree but bold. Carved by the craftsman who cannot die or grow old. But, are we really just wool and cotton as they painted us to be? It is long overdue to change the narrative and the narrator. Woolly but still cushiony like the clouds. You bounce up and down my shoulders letting me know of your whereabouts. I look in the mirror and I see your shine. You lifted the depression that has been painted on my face for quite some time. Dark and coarse or fine and kinky are words that have manifested within me. Every time I touch your swirly, fluffy, frizzy, porous, thick, poufy and springy form I teleport to the time my hair-rite-age was almost gone. Gone physically but retained mentally. You who so never abandoned me even though I've done it countless times to you. I promise that it was not my doing.

My hair is like cocoa. It may seem hard and unmanageable. Crack me open and you will be speechless. I am multi-layered and ready to be pressed. Not the creamy crack way though. I prefer to use the exotic and natural version that I have finally learned how to slay. My hair is magical and mysterious. Untamed at dawn and peaceful at dusk. Who knew that cocoa can make chocolate delight? Delightful to be a part of this journey. Learning about my mane never cease to amaze me. If you wanna be wild and free I cannot stop you. If you wanna be shy and sweet I will cuddle with you. The varied characteristics of me is mostly because of you. You raised me. Claimed me. Never disregarded me. You saved me. The mirrored walls were an illusion that played me like a violin. Threaded lightly so that I can never break the ceiling. Alternatively, I threaded through the peaks of the window and went where ever the wind blows. Now I can learn to accept me for dismantling the misguiding myths that fostered centuries of hate.

Behold the one true love. The one to exude grace and glory from up above. I have no resentment for the times you made me look and feel "ugly." You were never ugly my friend. It was the one-dimensional lens they viewed you through that fogged up their image of me and you. So fogged up are they to scrutinize you inside and out. Isn't it ironic that my hair is black and so too is my skin? They must think my hair is cocoa at the roots which magically produces chocolate at the length that submerges and creates this melanated skin.

Skin so smooth and skin so soft. The sun brightens up each time one of us walks out. Out the door and down the street, will I ever be able to stroll in peace? Peace or pieces? The latter is executed more so because we are uneven. Uneven in the way we look, talk, walk, the jobs we hold and the children we bare so they say. Baring children is a gift. Too bad we spoil that gift by anticipating the colour of their skin and the texture of their hair and vice versa. Texturism walked so colourism can run. They crept up on us when we aren’t aware so they can reflect on the reasons why they don’t want us around.  Children must be born knowing that they are enough. You must be capable of educating them on their history. Shaping, influencing and motivating. The self-esteem must be at a boiling point. Otherwise, oh those poor souls will always validate the biases that they will eventually encounter each and every day.

Every night I lay in bed a million thoughts flood my head. My head was pounding. The overthinking. Overanalyzing. Over synthesizing. Overestimating. The tongue is more powerful than any physical harm. Physical wounds are healed. But, how do we effectively heal from the negative connotations and underlying slurs that make up our everyday thoughts, pronouns, adjectives and verbs?

Gosh, no wonder my hair is falling out.  All this time I thought it was alopecia. Each time they mention something negative towards my hair or appearance, ten strands of hair are quickly evicted because I don’t have money in my pocket to spare. The pressure is too much to bear. No wonder I was bawled the day I was born. Eviction started in the womb at conception. My mother must have been in so much pain. I wished I could help her eject the hate before it weakened her weakened me. Was my birth a celebration of life or an eviction not nice? The only way to find out is by living contrite. Contrite in mind, body and soul. Oh, this world was so bitter and so cold. But when we allow our hair to escape its home because of what they say, we also lose a piece of our ancestral train. The train that has no end. The train of thought, philosophy, life history, anthropology, diversity and so much more. There is a story in each hair strand, indoctrinated by God in his image and likeness.

It is never okay to bash another because what makes us special is the fact that we do not look like each other. The world would be such a boring place. Creation exists in all that we do. Take time to understand what it is really telling you. Some like history and some like art, some even like mathematics and that's a fact. All these subjects are not subjected to one race or ethnicity. We all have passions and should always desire to be the light. That hope. That grace. The light that shines the way for the next one in line. The one who will receive the baton and continue the legacy that you have trademarked so we all can see.

Many of us think we are living when we are merely existing. Some are so numb it is equivalent to death. Inside sets the tone for what is presented on the outside. Be careful of what you consume. It can trigger an off-balance of the flow of energy. It creates a lack of unity. Just like the way our hair hugs each other, clumped together, never apart. May we visualise life with each other growing old but never asunder. Alas, you have finally learned. Accept this baton it is your hair-rite-age. Never neglect it or you will burn to learn.