In fourth grade, I wore my hair out like a giant puffball, the strands stretching out past my shoulders. While walking through the halls and sitting in class, I knew that my choice to wear my hair out was a disruption to others. The girls had to ask questions. Oh my god, it’s so big! Can you even sleep? Wow, can I touch it? It looks so soft like sheep’s wool. I let them, watching their dirty hands tangle my sculpted hair. Shame flooded my body with every touch. I was an exhibit, my hair being the main attraction. It’s only later that I realized that the admiration from those who don’t understand is the same as the hatred from those who do. 

I now sit at the back of a shaky bus. My original hairstyle mangled and my pride slightly shot. A boy sits with me. He’s Black like me. He smiles and compliments my hair. A few seconds later, I see small white balls falling from my scalp. The boy next to me laughs and shouts four horrifying words.

“Look! She has lice!”

I gasped, feeling up in my head and seeing more and more balls drop from my scalp. Where could these have come from? I don’t have lice. I couldn’t. It was only then that I saw the little baggie of crushed-up Styrofoam. I look at the boy, horrified. I thought he liked my hair. The laughter didn’t stop until I walked off the bus. So when I walked off that bus, into my house sobbing, I vowed never to wear my hair out again. 

Looking back on that day, I realized there was one thing in common throughout every experience. I was not allowed to take up space. With every ounce of self-expression, the need for others to erase it grows. And I allowed them to. I allowed my joy to go into hiding. It wouldn’t matter how much I wanted to feel the wind flowing through my curls. I tamed it, shoved it up into a tangled mess.

Once I reached high school, I was consistently sat in the back of the class behind the tall, rowdy boys. It irritated me but their height was something they couldn’t change. While I was in the back, I realized that I could wear my hair as big as I wanted because it wouldn’t inconvenience anyone. But the boys in front of me didn’t care if they inconvenienced anyone with their height. So why should I care if my hair is an inconvenience to you? Their height is something they couldn’t change. Neither is my hair. Neither is my Blackness. So that year, I started to take up space. I wore my hair loudly, making as many people feel threatened by it as possible. And it was me. With a smile plastered across my yearbook picture, I found my joy.

watercolor

such a difficult medium,

it flows and floats wherever it pleases,

it does not fall into the constraints of my 

clean lines.

it splashes, and splatters, and smudges without fail.

it does not listen to my brush-fueled

command.

it warps my canvas,

imperfection permeates the skin,

stains the table,

rages on despite my desperate attempts to 

stop it.

watercolor

does what is expected,

it stays within the constraints that water sets for it.

it does not move in a way that is not graceful,

it doesn’t bloom unless plunged into a beaded droplet.

it doesn’t thin unless made 

watery,

doesn’t streak tears unless 

left alone,

doesn’t weather unless 

overworked,

does not move unless 

prompted.

i am watercolor—though I am not that gentle shade of 

blush.

i am muddied up,

slighted by remnants of black

and i am

unwanted.

i ruin your paper, and perhaps your painting.

a perfect 

white

photo.

but doesn’t the blush do the same?

doesn’t blush have to come from an

insatiable red,

to be able to saturate your page at all?

and you can pretend

that you don’t feel the

unmistakable influence of

brown, but to sway the

color in the right direction

you must use me up—and my tin is nearing empty

and overused,

drowning in forceful remembrance—

white on watercolor

 has no

effect.

so really, what you mean when you say

that i am a difficult

medium

is that

i won’t contort, and thin myself out

so you’ll leave 

me to rot in your 

prejudiced,

disapproval.