by Vivek Shraya
MORE PRAISE FOR GOD LOVES HAIR:
“A book for all ages, this will be especially welcomed by contemporary genderqueer youth and twenty somethings, who will see themselves in these vividly realized pages.” —Booklist (starred review)
“A rich and powerful exploration of gender, sexuality, religion, race, and the desire to fit in.” —Quill & Quire (starred review)
“Shraya’s stripped-down prose has documentary force, and Neufeld’s illustrations, with their intersecting planes of translucent color and their linoleum block-style images, add humor and bite. It’s an important addition to the library of coming-out literature.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Running the emotional spectrum from shame to pleasure and acceptance, Shraya offers a refreshing window into the intimate struggles of youth.” —Kirkus Reviews
GOD LOVES HAIR
TENTH ANNIVERSARY
EDITION
Vivek Shraya
Foreword by Cherie Dimaline
Illustrations by Juliana Neufeld
GOD LOVES HAIR
Copyright ©2010 by Vivek Shraya
New edition copyright © 2020 by Vivek Shraya
Foreword copyright © 2020 by Cherie Dimaline
Illustrations copyright © 2020 Juliana Neufeld
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any part by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or in the case of photocopying in Canada, a licence from Access Copyright.
ARSENAL PULP PRESS
Suite 202–211 East Georgia St.
Vancouver, BC V6A 1Z6
Canada
arsenalpulp.com
The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for its publishing program, and the Government of Canada, and the Government of British Columbia (through the Book Publishing Tax Credit Program), for its publishing activities.
Arsenal Pulp Press acknowledges the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səl̓ilwətaɁɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations, custodians of the traditional, ancestral, and unceded territories where our office is located. We pay respect to their histories, traditions, and continuous living cultures and commit to accountability, respectful relations, and friendship.
Edited by Katherine Friesen and Maureen Hynes
Original book design by Michelle Campos Castillo
Printed and bound in Canada
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: God loves hair / Vivek Shraya ; foreword by Cherie Dimaline ; illustrations by Juliana Neufeld.
Names: Shraya, Vivek, 1981– author. | Dimaline, Cherie, 1975– writer of foreword. | Neufeld, Juliana, 1982– illustrator.
Description: Tenth anniversary edition | Short stories.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200210254 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200210343 | ISBN 9781551528137 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781551528144 (HTML)
Classification: LCC PS8637.H73 G63 2020 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23
For the boy who was almost lost.
CONTENTS
FOREWORD PREFACE GOD LOVES HAIR BED HUMPER LIPSTICK DRESS UP SRIDEVI PERVERT DEAR VISHNU GIRLS ARE MOTHERS AND SISTERS ES EE EX THE COLOUR PURPLE GARDEN HOSE GIRLS ARE DANGEROUS GAYLORD! BUBBLE BUTT MOUSTACHE GIRLS GET PREGNANT SUNDAYS GOD LIVES IN INDIA DIRTY THOUGHTS SUICIDE JEANS EYEBROWS GOD IS HALF MAN HALF WOMAN
FOREWORD
It has been ten years since Vivek Shraya published her groundbreaking and innovative book God Loves Hair. It is as relevant, necessary, and remarkable now as it was when she first refused refusal and ensured other brown, queer, struggling kids would find a home in these pages.
Filling the curves of every letter in each word after carefully curated word, Shraya manages to give us the entirety of her early universe in the succinct poetic language that has cemented her place in our literary landscape, a place that enjoys the full view afforded to those who have climbed to the top. In fact, she has gone beyond us, but as is her way, she waits patiently for us to catch up, beckoning us to follow along a path only she can discern but from which it is impossible to wander. I can hear her aunties’ bangles and smell her mother’s perfume as she waves us on.
God Loves Hair is the book every child should know exists, that every person should read—but not too fast, though that compulsion is almost impossible to resist. It is one of those rare offerings that circles many issues—from bullying to shame, self-preservation to family history—all from inside the very eye of the storm that is adolescence.
Reading God Loves Hair is a gift that challenges as it soothes, bringing the two extremes to the reader within the rhythm of a hymn. Both Shraya’s generous style and sharp precision are captured in every note, in each line.
They say loving yourself is an act of rebellion, so then the small, beautiful stories in this collection become a manifesto to that movement—self-love at all costs, under any weight. From the pleasant ache of the minute change found in tweezing to the shattering, deep understanding discoverable in the earthly presence of God, this book takes us through the expansive geography of devotion to an evergrowing self.
God is my first love.
God is my first best friend.
God is my first broken heart.
Only a unique and powerful voice, speaking from the depth of watching ancestors, can lead us through beauty while paying equal mind to the shadows it casts. We are awestruck by the young protagonist’s close relationship with a higher power, and at the same time bear witness while he changes after gym class, making his body as small as he can in the corner of the locker room. We ache to feel the kind of peace that descends when the AUM unravels on Sundays like a dropped spool of ribbon, and quake at the burn and tightness of being physically attacked in school hallways.
How can such extremes coexist in one life? And how could they possibly quiet down long enough for Shraya to hear the words that would hold them? This is the magic of Vivek Shraya. She has found a way to hold all the antithetical facets of life in the simple geometry of letters made into words, then crafted into stories that sing and weep and honour and celebrate, all at the same time. And then she goes even further, enabling us to join her in the songs made equally of mourning and defiance. Even if she is, always, just a little bit ahead of us. After all, isn’t that
the job of a storyteller, of a true artist? To break the ground and smooth the path so that, no matter how many shadows fall in the way, we are always aware of the beauty, the achingly generous and enormously powerful beauty, just up ahead.
Vivek, I would follow you anywhere. Chi miigwetch for singing us home, every single time.
CHERIE DIMALINE
December 9, 2019
PREFACE
Art has been my greatest teacher. Although my work is frequently categorized as being “about identity” (as opposed to work by non-brown, non-queer artists, which is … “identity free”), often the opposite is true: the art I make shapes, and even creates, my identity. This is especially true of God Loves Hair. Back when I first self-published the book in 2010, I identified as male. I dedicated the book to “the boy who was almost lost.” Some readers have generously interpreted the book as a trans narrative, but when I wrote it, I had no idea that it was a ship sailing me towards Transgender Island. The art was ahead of me. It’s almost like I felt that I could convey something about myself on the page before I could express it as a being.
Similarly, my foray into books was actually intended to be a one-off. Writing God Loves Hair was a coping strategy when I was heartbroken by the static state of my music career. The joke my friends tell about
God Loves Hair is that I wrote a few lines in my closet (literally—my closet did double duty as my office) and “came out,” announcing: “I’ve written a book!” The audacity of this declaration was amusing coming from someone with no formal experience as a writer, and with no prior ambitions of being a writer. But the process of writing the book, and then reading from it across North America and India, revealed to me that my voice could do more than sing—it could tell stories.
Looking back, I have so much admiration for my twenty-eight-year-old self, for the way he channelled his grief, driving full throttle into the unknown, into something new. For taking a creative risk. May I always have this courage.
The innocence of creating “the first” in any medium is precious. When I wrote God Loves Hair, I wasn’t dreaming of lists, of awards, of being picked by Heather. I didn’t know what the barometers of success were. Consequently, I wrote from a place of wonder, free from the constraints of the pop song format, free from industry or audience pressure. Perhaps this is why when I read God Loves Hair now, there is very little I would change, almost nothing I regret—unlike a lot of the art I have made. Perhaps this is why I find myself jumping from medium to medium, perpetually trying to re-create the elusive innocence of that first.
After chasing a record deal for most of my twenties, I felt my agency was restored by self-publishing two editions of God Loves Hair (2010 and 2012). I learned that I didn’t need the support of an institution to connect with audiences. Instead, I became my own institution. I learned first-hand how to be a publisher, a publicist, and a booking agent. This experience was invaluable when Arsenal Pulp Press published the third edition of the book, in 2014—not only because I did not expect to simply hand off the book to a publisher who would then do all the heavy lifting, but also because I was now able to enter a relationship with an institution with an understanding of my own value. Instead of being an overly demanding or subservient novice, I could work with my publisher as a team.
Although the book’s dedication remains unchanged (I’m a purist), I find myself thinking about who else has been almost lost. In the past ten years writers Leslie Feinberg and Toni Morrison, and actress Sridevi, have died—but their legacies radiate. Feinberg’s Stone Butch Blues and Morrison’s The Bluest Eye were the two books that inspired me to write this one, which features a story inspired by and named after Sridevi. I am grateful to these humans, who ensured that the girl in me was not lost either.
VIVEK SHRAYA
August 30, 2019
GOD LOVES HAIR
My mother grows up in a big house in Ceylon with wide balconies and open windows. Her mother tells her that she is the sunlight. She is loved.
But she is a girl.
From the instant a girl is born, her parents worry. How will we keep her safe? How will we make sure that she is educated enough, worthy enough for a husband? How will we afford to pay for her wedding, her dowry? My mother is part of a collective of four daughters, each one representing a series of burdens. She has a brother too, but his presence in the home is light or at least one the family is happy to bear and even display proudly. He is his parents’ greatest achievement, the assurance that the family name will live on. No one worries about him. He is a man, he can stand on his own two feet.
My mom does her best to lessen her weight, combing the knots out of her younger sister’s hair, fetching water from the well. Her fluency in French and actress-like beauty also guarantee that she won’t have too much trouble receiving a proposal from a doctor, engineer, or lawyer when she’s ready. But when her father unexpectedly dies, every day that she and her sisters remain unwed is another day their mom, now a single parent of five, spends in distress. The pressure is on my mother and marry wise is replaced by marry fast. She finds that she is no longer as attractive to potential suitors because the absence of a father suggests the absence of a dowry. You should have just married the neurosurgeon who came to see you last month. He was from a rich family, he would have been good to you. Then I would have one less daughter to worry about. She silently promises to herself that she will marry the next suitor who knocks on her door. The lucky beneficiary of this promise is the man from Canada with the thick sideburns, the multicoloured tie, and only a Master’s degree. My dad. They meet, are engaged, and then married in the span of ten days.
When the time comes to have children of her own, my mother is unwavering about her desire to have sons. Two healthy sons. So she does what any determined Hindu would do: she barters with God. If You grant me two healthy sons, I vow to give them their first haircuts at the Temple of Seven Hills in Tirupathi, India. It is believed that the hair on your head is what makes you beautiful. Shaving it off pleases God because it means you have chosen Him over your appearance.
My mother is pregnant. I am a basketball. As her tiny body expands, her prayers intensify. Let him be a boy. Let him look just like his father. Let him live. Every other firstborn in her family has died through miscarriage or stillbirth. She is comforted every time I kick.
I am born the day after Valentine’s Day. My mother examines me closely. I have a penis. No missing toe or spare finger. She is overjoyed and cries: God is great! Like most Indian babies, I have a full head of jet-black hair. It grows fast and long, testing my mom’s resolve. But true to her word, no scissors or razor come near my head. My parents decide it would be best for their wallet if they try to make another baby boy right away. This would save them from having to go to India twice to fulfill my mother’s end of the bargain. In the interim, my hair is managed into several mini-pigtails and eventually into one long, thin ponytail.
My, what a cute baby girl you have! Your daughter is so pretty! How old is she? She looks just like her dad. What’s her name? She has such chubby cheeks!
My first haircut is in Tirupathi, next to my baby brother, just as my mother prophesized. I cry as the barber pours warm water over my newly shaven head, the small cuts, made by his severe grip and his old razor, burning. God is happy. I am two years old.
BED HUMPER
Say your prayers. I dread this moment. Having to look up at the creased picture, ripped from an old calendar, hanging on my wall. He sees me.
It’s Lord Venkateshwara. He is the Scary God, faceless except for his teeth, who steals your hair if you are bad. I whisper a sloka and then climb into bed, turning my face to the opposite wall.
I listen for silence. When it’s safe, I roll onto my stomach, squeeze my worn-out baby blanket, and quietly push my body up and down against the bed.
The next morning, I touch my head. Hair still there. I know it’s wrong. No one has told me so, but I know it is. It has to be. It feels good. I don’t even know what it’s called, but I know it’s wrong. One day when my brother walks in on me, I tell him I am exercising.
I know that if I want something from God, I will have to forsake “it.” Dear God, if I get a Ninja Turtle blimp for Christmas, I promise not to do “it” for three weeks. I break my promise. Soon after, a night exercise ends in what feels like a short burst of pee but almost from a different place. My hands are tingling. I turn on my night lamp for a closer look down there. White goop. I broke it! God is punishing me!
I seek comfort from my mom. She is sitting on her bed, sewing a button onto her sweater. I stand by the door.
Moooom, I have a prooooblem … The other day … um … I … woke up … and there was this white liquid coming out of my private part. Is that normal?
She looks at me. I step back.
Yes. That’s normal.
I pause and then turn around before she changes her mind.
LIPSTICK
The sky is a promising blue but the empty house is all mine. My mother and her younger sister are drinking chai on the front porch. My five-year-old mind races through all my favourite things to do, deciding how best to use this extraordinary time and space. I think about eating the Play-Doh kept in the craft corner of the basement or maybe sucking the vanilla pudding out of the tin cups that I
am not strong enough to fully open. Then I picture my mother’s makeup case.
It is unguarded!
This is my chance to know her secrets, access her powers. I rush up the stairs, almost tripping into her washroom, and tear open her magic kit. I am blinded. All the bright colours are dazzling. But I am greedy for the colours that hide, the glossy surprises caged within lipstick shells. They call to me. One by one, I remove their lids, twist the blushing sticks to the top, smear my face like oil on canvas. Then I smash the lids back on, completely crushing the lipsticks.
My mother and aunt come inside to find lipstick casualties strewn across the washroom floor and my stained face, beaming and proud. My aunt spanks me until I am blue in the bum. Some of the lipsticks were hers.
DRESS UP
My brother and I live in a Lego world, building amusement out of unsuspecting materials. Couch pillows become forts, quilts become flower-patterned wings, and his headboard becomes a stage for puppet shows. We have also discovered a secret cave under his bed, perfect for hiding in, which is particularly useful when mom yells from downstairs: Fold the laundry! But the change I love most happens when we play dress up. We wear each other’s clothes. His are smaller and tighter than my own. I like the feeling of the fabric choking my body. It’s like being touched all over.
I like dressing up at school too. Whenever there is a school play, I beg for the girl roles. Girls get to have long, flowing hair, some days French-braided, other days curled. They get to show off shiny earrings and delicate bracelets. And girls get to wear actual colours. Like popsicle pink and poppy red. Why should they have all the fun? It’s pretty easy convincing everyone that it would be funnier for a boy to play a girl, my pre-pubescent high-pitched voice an asset, but secretly I just want the chance to put on my mother’s velvet emerald-coloured dress. It too is small and tight, with a life of its own. I step into the dress and close my eyes. I let her Estée Lauder scent envelop me and feel her like a current of electricity, both warm and fierce. I become her. I am beautiful.