It ain’t hurt that bad anyway.

By: Jasmyn R.G.

We know studied fingers to unravel these things like tangled Double Dutch ropes.

To uncoil it like a miss used slinky.

To undo disheveled lanyard like strands

only to sit for hours in-between thighs twitching with irritation.

We hiss while Our Mothers use that rat tail comb to chew through a nest of string,

then weave Our snake strands back together in beautiful braids.

She'll take special care raking through the barret box,

selecting just the right amount of colorful plastic clips to go at Our ends, creating a rainbow.

And when Our rain of tears has stopped

and the hours of lightning pain shooting through every last follicle is over,

She'll release us and say,

"Hush up that noise Girl. It ain't hurt that bad anyway".

Tonight,

We will wrap Our scarves tighter than Our cornrows’ grips to Our scalps.

We will breathe out in relief.

For tomorrow,

We will be the envy of the schoolyard.

Our new beads and multi-colored ballies will rumble like thunder

and roll to the beat of a never ending celebratory snare drum

as the Black Girls go marching into classrooms.

We will enter

collars pressed and edge controlled.

Flaunting bows of every shade in a Little Miss Melanin pageant show.

During recess,

the collision of Our palms will match the rhythm of Our booming bobbles

and playground songs.

Twist will bounce in time with the girl scout “turning all around like a submarine”

and beads will fall out of place and onto the hopscotch board.

This is how We celebrate!

Sometimes too loud!

Sometimes too

"Girl, can you lower your hair out my way?!”

All wild!

Kink!

Curl! and

Contained.

Sometimes too defiant.

Sometimes too

"No! You cannot touch my gravity-defying afro."

“I will shake my head and clack my beads to my heart’s content.”

All attitude, and

Black, and

Magic, and

Beautiful, and

every color flower dangling at the ends of Our vines.

This is where Our roots lie.

Down like newly trailed underground railroad tracks,

straight backs,

and the beginning of Our hairline.

Under Blue Magic, Ultra Sheen, and BB,

or constructed with a Black fist pick

and elbow grease.

We pass on the art of cartography disguised as cosmetology.

We have mapped Our way back home with a fine toothed comb and cramped joints.

We know studied fingers to unravel the mystery of Our lost past

and twist it deep into Our scalps.

We trace Our way back home by following lost beads.

Tonight

will grab Our dolls with great force,

even though We know they will not throw tantrums like We did.

We will set them between Our thighs for a steady post.

Backtrack down to the roots.

We will mimic moving Our fingers like untangling Double Dutch ropes,

Like uncoiling a misused slinky,

Like disheveling lanyard like strands.

Only to sit for hours practicing the retelling of Our story in the form of poetic justice plaits.

Pretending to hear the doll hiss in pain

and imagining that the rotation of her head was her

struggle for freedom.

And when We are finished rat tailing Our way through her nest of string

And weaving her snake strands into childish braids,

We will release her and say

"Hush up that noise Girl. It ain't hurt that bad anyway."