For Black Girls Like Me

by Mariama J. Lockington

  “Who’s he?” Melody asks.

  “No—” I start to say but before I can finish Huck jumps in.

  “Billie Holiday is a SHE. And a very famous blues and jazz singer from the 1940s. I saw a play about her in New York last summer.”

  “Yes.” Mr. John chimes in. “We can listen to some of her songs later. But now it’s time to move on. Thanks for sharing everyone.”

  After introductions Mr. John starts the lesson of the day. The group has been learning about the Civil Rights Movement. About Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X. About segregation in the South. Lunch counter sit-ins. Bus boycotts and marches. I’ve been reading all about the Civil Rights Movement in my book. In fact I’ve been writing and illustrating a whole magazine about the Little Rock Nine Emmett Till Martin Luther King Jr. and so on. I look around the room at the other kids who seem to be in awe or shock or disbelief. Don’t they know their American history?

  “Dumping boiling coffee on people is not a very Christian thing to do.” Carl can’t contain himself any longer.

  “Yeah.” Emma chimes in. “Couldn’t they just let the colored people eat at the lunch counter?”

  “I think you mean African American.” Mr. John corrects her. “We don’t call them colored anymore. It’s just not correct.”

  I hope nobody can tell that my ears are prickling hot. I can’t help it. I look around the room at all the eager faces. I feel like throwing up. I just want to yell I AM THEM even though I’m worried they don’t see me that way.

  And then I catch Huck’s eyes. He smiles. And just like that. I soften. Huck looks at me as if we already know one another. Like he is studying my face. Memorizing it for later.

  Tangled

  Mama means to be gentle but she’s ripping apart my locs just like she pulls up weeds in the backyard: rough and fast. Ever since I can remember it’s been this way. Mama with her YouTube tutorials and tubs full of different creams conditioners oils hair ties pins hooks and headbands all meant for taming natural hair. And me sitting on the floor in front of her trying not to cry.

  “Makeda. Sit still. You’re squirming too much. I know I can get this right.”

  But I can’t stop squirming today. We are in the sunroom. It’s late morning. I am tender-headed. Always have been. And any little pull or snag sends a sharp pain down my neck and into my back.

  But ever since I was called the N-word. I’ve been tearing out the locs at the back of my neck. It hurts but I can’t stop. And until Mama starts making her way across my scalp today. Separating the locs that have grown together and twisting my new growth. I don’t realize how bad it’s gotten. Not until I hear Mama gasp.

  “What have you done?!” She asks shoving my head forward and running her fingers along the back of my patchy head. “You’ve made a mess of your beautiful hair.”

  “I dunno.” I say biting my lip.

  We are silent. Mama covers her hands with grease and rubs it as best she can into my baby hairs and patchiness. Her hands feel like spiders. Crawling all over me.

  “Stop!” I say. Scooting away from her hands. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I want it off.”

  “We can take a break.”

  “No. I just don’t want this anymore.” I say. Lifting my uneven locs up. I feel tears pooling in my eyes. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. How do I tell Mama that what I really don’t want is her hands in my hair. It always hurts. She tries but it hurts. The whole reason I have locs in the first place is because she told me it was the easiest way to keep my hair nice. “Low maintenance.” She’d said. So she started my hair in locs when I was seven. And I’ve worn it that way ever since.

  But when Eve was younger and before I had locs Mama used to do our hair on the same day. I’d watch Mama brush Eve’s thick straight hair so easily. Then watch her create two perfectly even tight French braids identical to hers before sending Eve off on her way. When it was my turn Mama would pull and fight and try to braid my curly hair the same way but it never came out as smooth as Eve’s. It was always uneven. Bits of hairs escaped and stuck out in odd places. And sometimes. When she was really frustrated. Mama would mutter: “I just don’t understand why it has to be so difficult.” And it always felt like she was talking about me. I am difficult.

  “Oh. I see.” Mama is quiet now. “Well.” She says after a long pause. “You’re old enough to decide what you want.”

  “I want something new. A change. And I want to go to a black hair salon. Like the one Lena gets to go to every week.” I say before I can stop myself.

  To my surprise Mama doesn’t protest even though she looks like she might cry. “Ok.” She says. “But let’s see if we can find a natural hair salon. I won’t have you burning your hair off with chemicals like Lena.”

  An hour later we jump in the van. We drive across town and pull up in front of a low building with a hot pink window decal that reads STORMY’S NATURAL HAIR & LOCS. Through the glass windows I see at least three black women sitting in chairs. Talking and reading magazines.

  “Maybe they don’t have time for me?” I say. All of a sudden not sure I belong here with my patchy hair and ashy elbows. And my white mama.

  “Nonsense.” Mama says getting out of the car. “I called. They said they had room for you today.”

  We walk inside and the bells on the door tinkle. All eyes turn to us and conversation stops. A black woman with the most beautiful locs I’ve ever seen walks over. They are thin and dyed a burgundy red with different gold beads in them. They hang regal and neat down past her shoulders. She looks like an actual queen. A goddess. I bite my tongue to keep from gasping.

  “Can I help you?” She says. Looking at me with a small smile that disappears when she meets eyes with Mama.

  “Yes. Uh. We’re looking for Stormy. I called ahead about my daughter?”

  “Your daughter?” Stormy startles looking down at me again. This time with a softer smile. “Oh yes. Your daughter. Well I’m Stormy. Welcome to my shop. What’s your name baby girl?” She says putting her arm around my shoulders and leading me to her chair in front of the mirrors.

  “This is Makeda.” Mama answers. Following behind us.

  “Hi.” I squeak as I settle into the worn black leather chair that smells like cocoa butter and sweat. “Keda. I’m Keda.”

  “Ok well now Keda. What can I do for you?” Stormy is already running her hands through my hair. She pulls my messy locs up into a thick bunch and clucks her tongue when she sees the patchy area at the back of my head. In the mirrors. I see Stormy catch eyes with one of the other women in the salon who raises her eyebrow as if to say: What on earth?! I feel my body heating from within. My ears hot hot hot.

  “I want a buzz cut.” I say. When I find my words again. But they are the wrong words.

  “A what?” Stormy laughs a little and then stops herself. “Baby girl. You mean you want me to give you the chop? You want me to cut off all this length you been working on?”

  “Um. Yeah. The chop. I want the chop. I want short hair. Something I can do myself.”

  Stormy shakes her head. And looks at Mama who is standing so close to me I can feel her breath on my right ear. “And this is ok with you?”

  “It’s her choice.” Mama says. Looking slightly defeated. “I told her as long as it’s a natural style and as long as she can use natural products it’s fine by me. I won’t have her burning her hair straight like some black women. It’s just so sad. Natural hair is so beautiful. Why try to conform to some white ideal of beauty? And your locs are so lovely. You must understand—”

  “Well that’s not really how it works.” Stormy cuts Mama off midsentence. “We don’t ‘burn our hair off.’” Then I watch Stormy take a sharp breath to stop herself from saying more. She points Mama across the room. “Why don’t you have a seat over there in our waiting area. I’ll take it from here.”

  Mama’s cheeks flare. But she goes quiet and slides into a chair across the room. When she’s out of earshot S
tormy comes around the front of the chair and leans over to look into my eyes.

  “Ok then.” Stormy continues. “How short do you want it? You want a tapered cut? A TWA? A fade into mohawk? A fauxhawk? A twistout? Do you want to be able to finger-curl it into a short look? Tell me. I got you.”

  As she lists off style after style my tongue goes numb. I had no idea there were so many options.

  “I just know I don’t want locs anymore.” I manage.

  Stormy smiles and shakes her head. “Ok baby girl. Let’s look at some pictures. Maybe that will help.”

  After we scroll through some pictures of black actresses on Stormy’s iPad I decide on a TWA—a “Teeny Weeny Afro.” Kinda like Lupita Nyong’o!

  “Good choice.” Stormy assures me. “You won’t even be able to tell about this.” She says motioning to the patches where I pulled my locs out. “I’ll give you a little fade in the back so it looks like it’s supposed to be this way but we’ll blend it up on the side so you can still have some length.”

  I close my eyes as my locs fall onto the floor around me like fallen tree branches. I feel the weight come off and sigh with relief. After “the chop” Stormy leads me to the sinks. Then she massages my newly shorn head with peppermint shampoo until it tingles like Christmas. Before I leave Stormy gives me a bag full of natural products to use on my new hair and skin. Some she makes on her own at the shop.

  “You come back now.” She calls as we head out. “In about two weeks. And I’ll even you out. Make sure to keep it conditioned too.” And I know she’s talking to me.

  On the way home I can’t stop looking at my TWA in the mirror. I’m not bald. But my curls are tight and close to my scalp with a little more length on the top than on the side and in the back. The back is smooth and even when I run my hand over it.

  “Very chic.” Mama says. “I think I like it. It will just take some getting used to.”

  “Thanks.” I say. Beaming.

  “You kinda look like a little boy.” Eve says when she sees my hair later that evening.

  “She looks like an African princess!” Mama corrects sharply. “Why don’t we pick you out some pretty earrings at the mall this week?”

  But I don’t care if I look like a boy or an African princess. I don’t care about the mall or earrings either. “Just leave me alone.” I say to Eve as I head to my room. And when I get there I look at myself in the closet mirrors and say: This is me.

  Later that night I get on the computer and upload a picture of my new hair. Then I type a post:

  posted May 12th

  QUESTIONS I HAVE FOR BLACK GIRLS (WITH HAIR) LIKE ME

  Who decides what kind of hair is beautiful?

  Do you ever just want to tell your mom: “White lady stop! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

  Do you remember the first black woman to ever wash your hair?

  What did it feel like? Did it hurt?

  Or did it feel like home?

  Huckleberry Finn

  It’s been a little over one week since I cut my locs off and I love the way it feels. Every day I condition it and watch my little curls tighten and gleam. Mama never takes me to the mall to get earrings but that’s ok. I am still happy she let me cut it. I have plenty of earrings already and mostly I just like to wear my thin gold hoops. Lena’s only comment on the picture I uploaded is “QUEENLY.” So I think she likes it too. She hasn’t had much time for our blog this week.

  But today. I take extra care with my hair. My outfit. Homeschool group is at Mr. John’s house and that means Huck will be there. I look in the mirror now and wonder what the others will think.

  “It’s time to go girls!” Papa yells from the living room. He’s dropping us off before rehearsal and Mama will pick us up this afternoon. She’s still sleeping from what I can tell even though it’s almost ten. I take one more look in the mirror. I’m wearing jeans and a polka dot black and white shirt with ruffle sleeves. “Very chic.” I say before grabbing my jean jacket and running out the door.

  Huck’s house is also in the valley. About a ten-minute drive from ours. Instead of a lawn full of patchy grass the front yard is full of gravel paths big rocks and cactus. It’s also a one-story house but it’s made of white bricks instead of adobe.

  “Ok scoops.” Papa says as we pull up to the curb. “Mama will get you at four. Have fun!”

  Eve slams her door and heads inside. I give Papa a kiss on the cheek. “Bye.”

  “You look great!” He says squeezing my hand. “They’re gonna love your hair.”

  I feel my cheeks flare with heat and then stick out my tongue.

  Papa grins and drives off.

  When I get inside Mr. John is the only one there. “Hey Makeda! Look at you. New hair?”

  “Yeah.” I say. “Where is everyone?”

  “Out back. I thought we’d start with some games today. Everyone is full of energy. Go ahead. I’ll see you out there.”

  I drop my bag in the hallway. I smooth my shirt and head out back. Everyone is there. Vienna and Eve are whispering by a lawn chair. But the rest of the group is standing on a concrete patio playing four square.

  Before I can say “hi” Jesse sees me and screams: “WHOA. KEDA. WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR HAIR?”

  Alyse who has the ball drops it as everyone turns to look at me. My cheeks explode with heat. But instead of sticking out my tongue I hear myself say: “WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE JESSE?!”

  “Oh snap!” Amy says.

  “She trolled you for sure.” Vienna says coming up beside me. “She got it cut. So what? It’s her hair.”

  “It just looks so … short.” Jesse tries to recover.

  “Guys. Come on! Let’s keep playing.” Huck’s voice cuts Jesse off. “It’s just hair. I think it looks nice. Now can we please play?”

  With that Alyse calls out the category “COLORS” and throws the ball back into play. I stand in line waiting for my turn but my heart is pounding. I think it looks nice. Did he really say that?

  “Keda! You’re in.” Melody yells. And then I am in the game. Across from Huck who has the ball. He calls out the category “COUNTRIES IN CENTRAL AMERICA” and hits the ball into my square. “COSTA RICA.” I yell and slam it back into his. “PANAMA.” He yells and then hits it to his right into Carl’s square. “BRAZIL!” Carl screams and then slams it into my square.

  “You’re out!” I say. The ball rolling out of my square into the yard.

  “No I’m not!”

  “Yeah. You are. Brazil is not in Central America. It’s in South America.”

  “Yes it is!” Carl insists.

  “Dude. Keda’s right. You’re out.” Huck says running back to the game with the ball. “Come on. Let’s keep going.” And when he hands me back the ball. Our fingers touch for a second. And I tingle all over.

  And later that night. After four square. After our lesson for the day. After Huck gives us all a tour of his room which looks like the inside of a pirate ship. After Mama comes to get us. After dinner. After I take a shower and wash and condition my own hair. My new curls glisten. I stand in my room with all the windows open. I pull out the shea butter Stormy gave me. I lotion my neck. My shoulders. My elbows. My knees. Toes. I stand in front of the mirror and imagine my body as a continent. A map. I study this new map of my body. And I hum and hum with delight.

  Hot Springs

  On Memorial Day weekend Papa gets three days off of work just to spend with us. No rehearsals. No chamber recording sessions. Not one business meeting in preparation for the symphony’s upcoming international summer tour.

  “Just me and my girls!” He tells us at dinner on Friday night.

  “I’m a woman. Not a girl.” Mama corrects him.

  “Right right. Just me and my girls and my woman!” He says with a wink.

  “That’s worse! Daniel. You know I hate being called a woman like that. It’s so possessive. You don’t own me.”

  “What about ‘just me and my fine females�
��?” Eve says. Winking back at Papa.

  “Or. ‘Me and my smokin’ ladies’?” I say. And I watch as Mama finally cracks a smile.

  “Very funny.” She says. “Let’s just all be sexist pigs.”

  Early Saturday morning we pack up some food and hike to the hot springs in the Santa Fe National Forest. It’s a three-mile hike through the winding paths but the trees cover us with shade so it’s not too hot. Still. Mama makes us all wear dorky straw hats so we don’t burn our skin. As soon as we start walking Eve and I push them back so they hang around our necks by the drawstrings. Mama and Papa are ahead of us. Not only is Mama wearing a big straw hat but she is covered head to toe in a flowy white long sleeve shirt and pants that are supposed to protect her from the sun.

  “Mama looks like a beekeeper in that outfit.” Eve whispers.

  “I know. Or like she’s going on a safari.” I giggle.

  “Or like Colonel Sanders from KFC.”

  We both laugh hard. Mama and Papa stop to consult the map. And Eve and I grab handfuls of dried fruit and nuts from the snack bag to keep our energy up. We’ve never been to a hot spring before. But Mama and Papa promise us it will be worth it.

  “New Mexico has some of the finest hot springs in the whole world.” Papa says. We are about a mile away and resting by a large boulder. Mama passes around the water bottle and we all take big gulps from it.

  “Is it like a hot tub?” I ask.

  “Sort of.” Mama pants. Catching her breath. “It’s a natural pool of hot water that develops because of volcanic or geothermal heat in the earth below.”

  “Wait. Did you say volcanic?! Is this even safe?” Eve is paying attention now.

  “Yes. It’s perfectly safe. Don’t worry. You’ll see. But we should keep moving. We’ve only got a little bit left to go.” Papa picks up a stick from the path and waves it over his head. “This is the perfect walking stick!” He yells and then forges ahead stabbing it into the ground next to him as he powers on.

  “What is it with men and big sticks?” Mama jokes with us. “Just ignore him. I’ll bet he loses the stick by the end of today.”