Sipping once. Sipping twice. Sipping chicken soup with rice.

A Life of Black Hair

I have been aware of my hair all my life. As a child, each morning I sat on the floor between my mother’s knees as she calmly oiled and plaited my hair until I learned to do the ancient skill myself. In junior high school I wore my hair tightly pulled back into a short pony tail. During humid days the pony tail was a puff. In high school, during the age of Aquarius and Black Power, my father would not allow me to wear an Afro. He never gave a reason. After graduation I wore my Afro large and proud. As a teenager with “good hair,” I wasn’t allowed to use the hot comb on my hair as my older sisters did. I would sit in the kitchen watching the hot comb sizzle through their hair as they laughed and talked. As an adult I went to the hairdresser to have a burning lye mixture applied to straighten my hair. My father raved about the results. My mother’s face was fixed in a scorn. I was confused. During my second visit to the hairdresser my scalp was burned so badly I developed weeping sores. I had to cut my hair off. My mother lectured me about using chemicals on my hair as she put healing ointment on my scalp each day. I returned to my afro. During the Disco years I cut my hair to half an inch in length. The sweat and smoke from dancing every night meant my hair needed to be washed daily. This was too difficult with longer hair. I continued to wear my hair short for most of my life despite feeling guilty as a black woman about cutting it. During the times I let my hair grow out I relaxed it myself. I didn’t trust a hairdresser to do it after my earlier experience. I also didn’t want all the blackness taken out of my hair. Straightening my hair made me feel uncomfortable, as if I am trying to not be black. I thought I should keep it natural. I believed then as I do now that when I become comfortable with my choice for my hair, I would be at peace with myself as a black woman. Now I am growing my hair out because it is so thin in places. If I cut it short I look like an almost bald headed old man. I grow it out to hide the baldness. When brushing my hair I remember sitting with my mother as she brushed my hair. It’s a lovely memory.

Old Age Life

Am one of the younger residents at this senior housing building. Lately I’ve been watching some of the other residents. Some sit in the common area talking most of the day. Others sit outside smoking when weather permits. They seem to stay here all day with no company other than the other residents. What happened to making plans, studying, going somewhere? What happened to dreaming? Is this what old age is for them, just waiting to die? When I reach my 80’s I’ll still have a long list of living to do. I’m going out of here kicking and screaming. There is too much yet to accomplish and experience. Every step of life is for living and I plan to live it until the last second.

Women's wear and children's hair

I fail to understand the attacks on the burqini. It is acceptable for men and women to go to the beaches almost naked but there is a problem for women who want to cover up. Explain this to me. While you are at it, explain why men are concerned with women’s clothing. What do they have to do with what women wear? I would prefer to wear the burqini, though not for religious reasons. I don’t want to walk around with everything showing. Men need to mind their own business. This brings up another issue. Why are Black school children being attacked about their hair? Schools are coming up with the most ridiculous rules about how they may and may not wear their hair. It is an attack on blackness. I read a post on facebook about a boy being told he has to get his hair cut before going to school despite the fact that he wore it the same way last year. His hair is very nicely and modestly styled, I don’t see a problem. What are people so worked up about? What happened to acceptance of all cultures? I tried to figure it but got a headache. It’s all too stupid.

Buddhism

I chant Nam myoho renge kayo to bring out my highest potential and to become happy regardless of the circumstances I am in. Mary Nelson

Me

I was born like this I had no choice I was born with the gift Of a golden voice. Leonard Cohen

Night Passions

We spent the day together drinking sodas, going for walks, and listening to favorite songs on records. We had not touched even though I wanted to run my fingers across her bare shoulders. But I did not know how to touch a woman. As a refreshing breeze rustled the trees around the porch, she took me in her arms, pressing her body against mine. The rules I learned about love crumbled around me. While resting in her arms I declared if a woman loving a woman was wrong, I would be wrong all my life. With my hand resting lightly in her’s, I followed her into the bedroom. Even though I had been loved by men, I was like a virgin, frightened, excited, and trusting. I was a flower blooming, unfolding each petal with care as her hands explored my body. The softness of her touch frees my mind from fear, allowing me to enjoy being with her. I marveled at the smallness of her body and the smoothness of her dark brown skin. Her body was smaller than mine and our height almost equal. Her lips on mine was a shared soft touch. Her small firm breasts were exciting to caress. We slept in each other’s arms, waking before dawn to explore, caress, and love again. I didn’t want to think of the morning hour that would separate us. The love society taught was wrong became right on that hot August night. I had loved and been loved by a woman. The memory of her touch would come to many years causing my heart to soften as my body trembles.