WE WEAR THE CROWNS

If you haven't heard of Mallory Merk, it's probably a good thing. 
By Alexis Haynie (Writer)

The twitter-verse was all a buzz when a random white girl posted pictures wearing her hair in box braids. So what's the fuss? She isn't the first and she won't be the last. But when the offense that many black women and girls expressed was met with a slew of backlash--I felt the need to respond. The two main attacks were:

If black girls can wear blond weave, then white girls can wear braids.

and

It’s not about race, it’s just how she chose to express herself. She looks cute!

Basically, an "innocent" white girl was under "attack" and the masses flocked to save her. *overlydramaticeyeroll*

 

I chose to respond with poetry, because there's really no room for logic when it comes to white supremacy.

 

We Wear The Crowns

I cannot remember if my mother’s fingers ever ran through my hair as a child

There were no tender tugs at my tresses. No soothing scratching of my scalp. 

No bo-bo snaps against my skull. No sink baptisms. 

My mother was no kitchen beautician—she outsourced.

All I can remember is being surrounded for hours… and screaming.

Never being able to handle the excruciating pain of the intricate twisting of the sacrificial or manufactured hair into mine

Crying and screaming and pleading for my mother--who never showed up to save me.

My mother, who had indeed subjected me to the agonizing sorcery of

Three African women hunched over me, hair weaving witches, who chant sharply at me

Be Still Child! Don’t Move Your Head! Hush!

The ends of my braids burning like incense, melting like candle wax, and stiffening like corpses.

The Girl Screams Like She’s Dying!

They would tell my mother upon her arrival and ban me from ever returning.

I had been kicked out of more hair salons by the time I was 10

Than the number of times my classmates called my mother ghetto when they saw pictures of me

At 5, box braids cut perfectly into a bob, framing my smile, head tilted slightly

Because the added hair added pounds, weighing me down

And yet, I never flittered around more free and happy than when I saw my hair in the mirror after one of those salon sessions

That is until 15

When I had finally saved up enough money to buy my own weave and picked out the perfect shade—Red

Not just any red. The glossy kind they spray on sports cars. The shade of red that they make all the best flavors of candy with. Sweet and Shiny, but Fierce and Intense like fresh blood. I was ready.

I found the most wicked weaving witch around and sat awarkdly on the floor, listenting to her stories, feeling her delicate hands swiftly twist the strands into place

That it is until my father came home and roughly wrapped his fingers around my half finished braids

Snatched me up and asked me who did I think I was and where did I think I was going with that ghetto ass shit in my head.

Funny how I had never questioned this before-- who I was or where I could go

But it was clear that I couldn’t get far with my candy red micros so I settled for brown

The kind of brown close enough to blonde so it wasn’t boring but close enough to black that I could get away with it

and so I let the witch cast her spell

She laced magic into my locs, rendering me invincible

That is until I posted pictures to show my friends at 19 and they called me ratchet

I laughed uneasily in agreement. I mean, I was young and dumb.

That was a whole lotta hair on my big ol' head but I thought I was cute. 

I used to think that ratchet was cute--but I learned better. You can’t be both.

So I taught myself.

By 20 I had mastered the ways of the witches. How to manipulate time and space and hair

To force the elements to behave and the stars to align with only the strength in my fingertips

There is magic written in my fingerprints and so I learned to read the ancient enchantments of my ancestors

And tapped into their divinity 

One braid. To circle my head like a crown. To distinguish me as royalty

But my coworkers mistook me for a slave.

My crown spun of golden wool for one of thistle and thorn

I laughed along with their scorn

As a King laughs along with the court fool

What did they know about ruling? About royalty?

They called me a Princess when I laced silken weave into my scalp

Fawned over the sprawling spirals

All the while oblivious to the history twirling through the braids beneath 

Circling my skull like the crowns of a long line of Black Queens.

They called me Rapunzel—as if anyone could grip these sleek strands without slipping

But what do they know?

What do you know white girl?

Of the ways of the witches? Their curses, their spells, their stakes, their flames, their burning flesh, burning scalps, burning tresses?

Of the scorn of the fools? The ramifications of ridicule. Caricature. Minstrelsy.

Of styles used for protection? That you mistake simply for expression.

Of the crown? That shines like a beacon but is mistaken for a target.

The crown that attracts bullets, shots--violence disguised as jokes, appropriation masquerading as appreciation

What do you know about value? About worth?

Our magic is nontransferable.

It flows through our veins and it seeps through our skin.

They burn us for it. They hang us for it. They shoot us for it.

They slice our bodies open trying to get to the magic inside…

Tell me white girl,

Do you think that you will be strong enough to wear the crown forever?

If not, then please put it down.

Because you have the option to.

We, do not.

ALEXIS HAYNIE is a college student, writer, and feminist, from Arlington, Tx who moved to NYC in search of a word. She hopes to spend her entire life looking for it. 
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Comments

[Annissa Omran]

This piece is absolutely fantastic.