Perhaps It’s More Than “Just Hair”

The Afro in Action

If you have seen Good Hair, Chris Rock’s humorous documentary detailing the struggle Black girls endure to straighten their kinky hair, you have been granted entree into an ongoing contention in Black America. The lengths  to which many of us will go in order to obtain the long, flowing silkiness of “good hair.”  Unlike a lot of Black women who choose not to straighten their hair, I have no real political perspective on sistahs who live by the weave and plan to die by the weave.  I do not consider my kinky cloud of hair visual proof of my racial pride or present it as some sign that I am able to love myself more than Black women who meticulously perm or weave their hair.  I will admit,though, choosing to walk the world with an afro feels defiant.  And I like that defiance.  However, I rarely think of my hair as anything other than an inconsequential component of my physical description.  Keturah:  5’4.  155 pounds.  Smooth, Caramel Skin.  Nappy ‘Fro.

The only time I think of my hair as its own seperate entity is when others make my ‘fro its own seperate entity.

And if you remember the segment in Good Hair when the audience is taken to India, the number one locale for the finest quality of “good hair” to which weave makers flock, you will probably not be too surprised that here in Kolkata, my kinky hair has become its own seperate entity.  Cindy has shared, “I LOVE walking behind you when we’re out.  The looks on people’s faces – especially the kids…” 

And what are these looks, you ask?

Well, they run the gambit.  From open-mouth gapes of awe to giggles and shy waves to literally large crowds of school children following me through the streets.  The looks are sometimes accompanied by words spattered in faltering English from school children and their parents alike.  “Are you from South Africa?”  “Your hair…how do you…your hair…I have not seen anything like that?”  “How do you comb it?”  “Why is it red?” “I want to touch it.”  “I want to take a picture with it.”

These minor riots my gigantic red afro have caused are no more than inconvienient pieces of street theater to me.  Another interruption on my journey to get to somewhere in a set amount of time which will prolong what I thought would be one quick, simple errand.  I, along with Cindy, find these riots comical.  I understand them; when I look out on the streets of Kolkata, I see no other head that remotely resembles mine.  For miles and miles, nothing but long, sleek black hair.  This morning I looked in the mirror and almost did a double take.  What the hell is that, I wanted to ask.  Little wonder the locals can not look away.

BUT…

It is days like yesterday when I find it difficult to laugh at the attention my hair gets.  When the gapes are not of awe, but of horror.  While crossing a foot bridge to get to an outdoor shopping mall, the requisite collection of school children spotted me and two of the other American teachers, Breanna and Audra.  Their eyes immediately go to my hair.  Because I am focused on getting to this mall and am worried about the other women in our group who have not appeared in the taxi that was supposed to be following ours, I do not pay much attention to the looks.  I assume, like always, they fall into the awe or extreme curiosity category.

“I think you are scaring them, Keturah,” Breanna notices.

Fear.

My naps are causing fear?

I turn around and catch the eye of the youngest girl among the group.  And I see it.  Before I smile and wave at her and she returns that kindness, I see it clearly in her eyes.  She is horrified.

And try as I might to focus on buying a few more kameezes, perhaps a bangle or two, I can not stop a recorded tape from playing in my head.  The voice on the tape belongs to one of the Black girls who I teach back in the U.S. “I do not take pictures unless I have a new weave.  I wish my mother would let me stay home when I take my weave out and haven’t had a chance to go to the salon to get my hair done.”  Also on that tape is another Black girl.  Her voice over is blunt.  “I absolutely hate my hair.”  And another: “Hair should be straight.  I don’t know why anyone would want their hair to look like yours and Ms. Lavonne’s.”

I do not want to hear these students.  I want to think of my hair as just an inconsequential component of my physical description, but in addition to the voices of my students, I am also remembering the conversation this morning I had with Aysha, an Indian-American teacher in the program. In her early 30s, Aysha’s  mother has been trying to marry her off for a number of years now.  “One day I overheard her on the phone talking to some guy she wanted to fix me up with,” Aysha rolled her eyes.  “He actually asked her what complexion I was and I heard her say I was ‘wheaty.’ Can you believe that shit?” 

Wheaty means she was on just the right side of brown.  And ran no risk of strolling further to the other side.  It is a question that Aysha’s mother and the mothers of her friends field all the time as they try to find potential suitors for their daughters.

On the foot bridge, the young girl’s look of fear dissolved the moment I smiled at her.  When I waved, she flashed a timid smile and greeted me as all Indian children greet pretty much every adult they encounter, scray or not.  “Hello, Ma’am.”  The moment was over and Audra, Breanna and I made our way to the mall, eventually meeting up with the rest of our group.

I have had little success silencing that tape of my students, though.  And I find myself unable to downplay the message that is sent when a woman of color’s complexion poses to be a potential deal breaker in a budding courtship.  I would like to hold on to the belief that my hair is only of interest here because it is so unique.  That the stares I get are not any different from the stares the other American teachers get as well.

The next time I cause a minor riot, I will fight harder to silence the tape of my students.  I will tell myself that the desire Indian men have for lighter skinned women is not a new phenomenon among cultures that have been colonized.  The “wheat” test is no different than the “brown paper bag” test.  I will remind myself that the gigantic red afro is not an expression of my racial pride or some trite political perspective.

I will not search the faces of the young, counting those that register trauma.

Solitude Re-examined

From the time I was in middle school, I knew I would be a traveler.  A wanderer. An explorer of sorts.  When I fantasized about my adult life, I never saw concrete careers.  I never visualized specific goals being acheived, hard and fast rules on the wheres, whos and whens of this grown up life.  The only aspect of my grown up life that materialized in my mind fully formed – a  healthy embryo carried out to term – was Keturah the wanderer, going from city to city.  Country to country.

When I think about those childhood fantasies I am struck by a truth that I never before saw as odd.  Maybe a bit unhealthy.  I always traveled alone in my girlhood fantasies.  I was in that city I saw in that movie where those people seemed to always be laughing and waxing poetic about this crazy world.  Unlike the people in the movie, though, my vision starred only me.  I was on that pretty tropical island I’d read about in some book, trying to drain juice from a coconut and finding myself terribly frustrated that after coconut #17, I still was thirsty and the sea water was too salty to drink so what the hell was I going to do.  The 12 year old me didn’t even consider adding the wise “guide” to direct me through this hurdle.  I never even imagined the requisite antagonist.  An enemy with whom I was forced to engage.  More telling, perhaps, the 12 year old me could not connect the fact that I was alone on that imaginary island to the reality that this minor detail was a key factor in why I had slaughtered so many coconuts, yet was still thirsty.  Bordering on dehydration.  For years, my “when I grow up” fairy tales played out in this manner.  Keturah.  Alone.

Why do I bring this up now?

Well, last summer I came to India.  Alone.  It was not the first time I had journeyed to a foreign country sans travel companions.  It was, however, the first time I FELT alone.   It was the first time I realized that, perhaps, my adventures abroad would be more meaningful, more exciting if they were experienced with co stars. 

This summer I am in India again, but not alone.  I am spending 5 weeks here with 9 other wanderers who have travelled the world both solo and with others.  It has only been two days since we have been in Kolkata, India, but already I have experienced this city on a much deeper level simply because I have experienced it with others.

Last summer, I aborted several outings because my appearance in a museum, an art gallery, a restaurant turned into THE BIGGEST EVENT SINCE THE BRITISH COLONIZED KOLKATA.  My gigantic red afro became an entity onto itself.  I found myself unsettled by this attention, confused and frustrated by my inability to decipher whether the attention was positive, negative or indifferent.  Although I found my time in Kolkata rewarding and deeply moving, I often felt isolated and found myself considering how odd it was to come half way across the world by myself.

This year, the gigantic red afro is still causing a stir.  However, there is someone else who is causing an even bigger stir than my crimson, kinky hair.  One of my collegues was born here in Kolkata, but she was adopted by her Irish parents when she was a month old and raised in Iowa as a guilt-ridden Catholic.  To hear Mari speak is to be taken back to that movie, Clueless, in which the white valley girl introduced the world to the infamous accent that would become the go to voice for imitating someone who was just not very bright.  When the 9 of us went shopping for appropriate clothes to wear in the classroom, people walked up to Mari and initiated conversation with her.  When she opened her mouth to respond to them, every single person looked confused and put off by what they heard.  “I think I have freaked this whole store out,” Mari laughed on the cab ride back to our hotel.  “As soon as I open my mouth, it’s like they don’t know how to deal with me.”  Mari is convinced that she has caused some families to shield their children from strange people like her.  Girls who LOOK soooo Indian (albeit, the American kind) but talk…well,  nothing like their uncles and cousins who moved away to the states!

When locals weren’t being bewildered by Mari’s odd way of talking, they were gawking at my ‘fro.  Same looks of wonderment as 2010.  Same whispers to friends.  Same stopping in tracks followed by prolonged “Hello, Mam…would you like to buy…”  The difference now?  I did not abort this outing. I did not feel anxiety in my belly and an intense urge to run back to my hotel and never come out.  I didn’t even notice the staring until one of my collegues pointed it out. “Wow, Keturah, they really can not stop staring at your hair.”  I laughed along with my travelling companion.  “Yeah, it’s a lot to process; it takes folks a while sometime.”

There have been no life-chaning epiphanies as of yet.  Just still, softly spoken murmurings.  Through group spottings of destinations after aimlessly roaming the streets of Kolkata in the middle of the day to never losing track of where I need to be because one of us is always standing guard, I have felt myself admit what 12 year old Keturah was unable to see.

Self-inflicted solitude is not always a sign of strength.  Quite often, it is the way of a coward.  A person who lacks the courage to connect.

So, a black girl with a gigantic, RED afro goes to India…

Some things happen.

The Big, RED ‘fro teaches some children.

The Big, RED ‘fro talks to some women.

The Big, RED ‘fro eats lots of korma, curry and naan.

The Big, RED ‘fro reports these  events to you.