Queenies, Fades & Blunts: Zine

15/12/2014 04:57

15/12/2014 04:57

15/12/2014 04:57

Born out a desire to form an international exchange between progressive and innovative creatives, The Lonely Londoners crossed the Atlantic this summer of 2014 for a residency in Kings County. Curating a production of film and artwork from these local artists of color, we invite you to indulge in these abstract ideas of un/safe cultural spaces, herstories and hair stories, beautification and how these processes are experienced socially, culturally and politically.

The named artists own all works unless stated otherwise. Š

topless on hands and knees in a dimly lit brooklyn bat hroom window cracked to let in cool air laced with weed this is me at my most vulnerable scratching my scalp under a cracked faucet and picking my brain salvation from all of the build-up as it runs down the drain deliverance from the worst itch two shampoos still cannot cleanse me their suds don’t burn away the things i’ve seen queen helene deep conditioner can turn everything but my tongue soft

Apart from my very rude and prompt period, every other coming-of-age thing happened later than my peers. I got my first phone at the age of 16 (“you don’t need a phone - be home in 15 minutes or I’m calling the police”), epilated (not even shaved!) at the age of 15 and finally, finally, at the age of 17 on a ferry from Calais to Dover my mother showed mercy on me and bought me a Chanel pencil eyeliner.

I don’t come from a rich family so I realised the importance of makeup when my mother, who always loved tomboys and hated heels (a trait she would pass onto me), picked out the eyeliner with the double C’s. “Only the best goes on your face”. 'The best' being some Nazi side-chick’s brand, but I digress.

Why eyeliner? Shit, because I’m Middle Eastern. It’s our staple, right after kebab and the inability to understand the concept of pranks. I didn’t even buy any other makeup until two years later. Walking around like some brown Ashlee Simpson (pre nose job) – two huge outlined bug eyes and that was it. Just my eyes and my scene-as-fuck fringe. That eyeliner found mascara, mascara found blusher, the blusher found concealer, the concealer met foundation and it was happily ever after.

Makeup is a very personal thing to me, as I believe it is to many other women. Before I start my day, before I decide to leave the house, I will put on makeup. Sometimes it is a little, sometimes it is a lot. Before I figured out what suited me, it was a lot every day.

Now it depends on who I am meeting, what mood I’m in, the function I’m going to and the outfit I’m wearing.

My face is my pride and joy. It is a healthy mix between both of my parents. I have my mother’s eye and face shape, my father’s dimples and nose, and was blessed with excellent skin from both of them. Like most immigrant children, I spent most of my adolescence wishing I was white. I grew older and realised that white girls just wanted my eyebrows, my lashes, my clear skin, my hair. This was when I quit playing.

.

You see, beautifying yourself is a very particular thing for women of colour. In a world where the ideal beauty does not look like us, we have to cope. Some of us cope by trying to look like that. Like her. Others cope by ignoring her even when she keeps being picked over them. But you better believe we cope, and makeup helps. Our melanin glows with bronzer, our eyes drown your weak excuses in their blackness, our lips become the dark red colour of our fury and my God...we flourish. We flourish and we intimidate. Our faces look like art, and the so-called 'ideal' blinks back at us with mediocrity.

It’s as simple as this. When I put on my mascara and eyeliner, I’m paying homage to my ancestors. Our women have been side-eyeing and scowling at inadequacy with heavily lined eyes for centuries and I don’t plan on stopping any time soon. Back then, they would use kohl and galena. Now, I use Dior. When I put on my makeup I am at peace. I am calm. I feel put together. It is my ritual that I have with myself and my ancestors alone in my room. No one can ever belittle that or tell me that I’m doing it because I’m insecure. No one.

And when I cry, as the tears stream down my face, I weep like many have wept before me. My cheeks become stained with ink; my eyes cry black salt water. These are the battle wounds of women that you get to see. The soft, heartbreaking silence as we look at ourselves in the bathroom mirror, before we wash our faces. Before we wake up the next day and somehow muster the energy to apply our armour on again. This is our ritual.

We are scolded for putting on too much makeup by men who congratulate the 'natural' look and try and exacerbate competition between woman. There is nothing to do but laugh at their petulance. Unfortunately, there is no makeup remover strong enough that can wipe away the cheap patriarchy that has caked itself into every pore of their being. They don't get that our makeup is not for them. It never will be, and it never really was. It's for something they will never have the honour of understanding.

“Aay-aay, aay-aay, What’s the matter with your Afro, nee-ger-ro?

That stuff don’t even grow!

Afro Sheen, Vaseline, That stuff don’t do a thing!”

— 1970s schoolyard chant sung to the tune of “Come and Get Your Love” by Redbone I always wanted an Afro. A big, fat, giant Stevie-Wonder-and-The-Jacksons-back-in-the-day ’fro. What I got were perms and presses that kept my hair a freaky, spiky four inches at the top, and a stunted, stupid two inches in the back. Now, this was in the late 1970s, people. This was before the Anita Baker/Salt-N-Pepa asymmetrical haircut 1980s. (Those mixed long-and-short dos saved a lot of sisters’ heads from Hair Breakage Purgatory.) This was also before THE CURL.

“Get yourself a Jheri Curl!

Are you scared? Well, don’t be!”

—Early 1980s schoolyard chant/taunt When I was 12, the most recent round of perming had lay waste to what little hair I had, so my mother had my head shaved down to an inch. I looked like my younger brother’s twin. Months later, a hairdresser girlfriend of my uncle offered to do my sister’s and my hair for free. So one day I walked into a beauty show with my hair still drawn up to where it looked like it was barely long enough to pull a pick through — and, four hours later, I walked out with this beautiful bush of shiny and perfect fat curls. The Care Free Curl! It grew my hair! It was a miracle!

I was a curl junkie from that moment on. Through my teenage years, whenever I could get a hold of 30 to 40 dollars, or get someone else to pay 30 to 40 dollars, or get somebody to do my hair without asking for 30 to 40 dollars, I got a curl. The conditions I’ve just named under which I could get a curl didn’t always exist, so in my teens I was forced to go back and forth between the curl (HAIR!) and a straight perm (no hair.). By my early twenties, conditions were a little more stable, and I was able to keep a curl in my head for three years straight. The hair in the back of my head grew to cover my neck and brush my shoulders. I bought stick combs, banana clips, multicolored plastic fasteners shaped like triangles and squares, to twist and tie my hair into cutesy pulled-back wonders. My cheeks were spotted with pimples from the petroleum-based activators and moisturizers my hair drank up daily. But that was OK. The more I washed my hair, the more the perfect curls became wild frizz, but that was OK. I had hair!

I discovered short spots as I was doing my hair one day. I showed my head to some acquaintances later that day, and they confirmed it — my hair was breaking off! Yet, it still seemed impossible. Three years of Care Free Curls and Wave Nouveaus were too much.

“My mama and your mama were sittin’ in a ditch, My mama called your mama a bald-headed —” — A ’70s schoolyard rhyme I cut the scary curl out of my hair in the early 1990s. At that time, the Afrocentric resurgence was on, and I took full advantage. Headscarves and kufi caps became an indispensable and — to this day — permanent part of my wardrobe. Under the head coverings, I kept my struggle to figure out what to do with my newly nappy hair literally under wraps. As it grew a couple of inches, I would braid it into plaits, but that was a lot of time and fuss. Combing my coiling, springy stuff was just a time-consuming pain in the butt, along with people on the street eying my covered head and constantly asking me, “Is you a Muz-lim?”

A sister-friend of mine who was going through the same (sing to tune of the O’Jays’ “Now That We’ve Found Love” ) “Now that you’ve gone nappy, what are you gonna do with it?” dilemma told me that for the second time in her life she was going to try to “lock it up.” I knew of a few role models for hair locking — Marley and Whoopi, of course; the late actor Rosalind Cash; comedian Dr. Bertice Berry — but I didn’t have a clue about what made your hair do “that thing.” My friend offered to photocopy a one-page article on locking out of Essence magazine for me so I could find out. The article was essentially a hair-locking recipe, complete with ingredients like nettle, rosemary and sage for a home-brewed hair tonic tea. I decided to give it a try.

The reactions I got that first year of locking my hair were real interesting:

“I’d like to do my hair like yours, but I’m scared I’d lose job opportunities.”

“When you go out to look for a job, you’re going to have to wear a wig.”

“Your hair ugly!”

A lot of the time, I still hid my head under hats and wraps, especially for dress occasions and, I’m afraid, job interviews. As the years went by, I learned more about locking and how to maintain my hair, and I learned more about my hair. The more I washed and separated and groomed my locks, the more I became willing to obey the wishes of my hair, to listen to it as it told me what it wanted to do.

Over the years, as my hair has started trailing down my back, I’ve started receiving a new set of interesting reactions: “Is that all your hair?”

“I wasn’t sure if that was your real hair.”

“Oh, that’s your hair. I thought you was just another bald-headed sister!”

(Now, if I were going to buy my hair, I would have it bone straight and down to my butt! But I digress.)

The knowledge about my hair, myself and other people that I’ve acquired through the long process of hair locking has been invaluable. Having hair long enough to cover my back is pretty good, too! However, when I’m 60, to mark the next stage in my life, I’m cutting all my hair off. I don’t care what will be in style then—I’m growing into my life as an elder with a big, fat gray Afro!

“Feel it! Feel it!

The Afros’ in the house, the Afros’ in the house!”

—“Feel It” by the Afros, an early 1990s novelty rap hit

A time has not yet been, when my I was defined solely by me.

From playground gasps and confused stares, to boy or girl? and 'you can't go in there'.

My I's been hemmed in, sewed and stitched - a patchwork of preconceptions and expectations projected.

And like the seam of this ill fitting dress, the thread of myself starts to unravel now, to reveal at last the chaos of contradictions and exquisite patterns, before hidden.

Hidden, before was how my eyes learned to exist. Self and sight, yet unearthed still underfed.

Forbidden gaze never stretch beyond shameful thoughts, and too my selves lay untended to, a self-inflicted drought - knotted and barbed desire turning in and onto a deafening silence.

Metaphors mixed like the jumble of incoherent adolescent angst, no tidy conclusion, just a step in one of many directions.

Clinton, Mississippi is one of the four towns deemed a safer alternative to live outside of the capitol of the state, Jackson, or Jack Town as we called it in our manmade rap songs about our city. Jackson went ghost ever since the population became blacker and the streets more raggedy. The whites quickly moved out, taking their money with them but gentrifying what they could in a desperate need to inhabit a space where they didn’t have to be frightened at the sight of a hooded black figure at night. But Clinton was where I grew up, a little Black, quietly queer child, right on the outskirts of the capitol limits. It had a distinct quietude to it found within the fabric of social interaction and the way that things just remained the same. I experience the pangs of maturation, hard and steady, on Wernston Street in the Sarah Dickey Division. Despite the bullet holes in the STOP sign at the entrance, the neighborhood was caring and filled with kids to play with. A sense of wonder drove my mind to seek constant adventure in the mundane. Other neighbors and I ventured day and night down the pot-hole filled streets, and we found secrets that no one knew about. There was an abandoned baseball field down the street from my home that we frequented. The girls would be in one corner near a small swamp combing and parting their hair, while the boys played around with a semi-inflated soccer ball.

It was the place where we could hide from the outside world.

Ever since I could remember, I have had a love/hate relationship with my hair and its care. My cousin would always visit our house on Wernston and give me one of his “clean” cuts. My head became a practice ground for his budding talent. My mother would force me to sit on the porch so no hair would be on the floor in the house. I would scream and cry when it was time for a haircut, and my line would always be fucked up beyond recognition. I was also frightened by an oldwives tale concerning hair: if a bird picked up our hair outside and made a nest with it, the owner of that hair would have migraines for days. I hated that I was made into a weeping spectacle for the whole neighborhood to witness. My mama didn't accept anything but that "church boy" cut, the one that was low and even all over, no fade, no deviation.

So, naturally, growing into my late teens and early adulthood, I conflated having a fresh cut to my self-worth. I would be hella upset when my hair was even a little fuzzy because I knew that the fresh cut brought me closer to the Lord, made me Sunday school sharp.

When I finally made it to the barber on my own, I would hate the long wait that I endured.

Sitting for hours and hours, watching some busted ass movie from the 90's, my phone just about dead because I’ve been on it so long. Not to mention, the hyper-masculine environment my queer little soul had to bear. I had to "man up" every time I went to the shop, and pretend that I was macking on ladies every week just so I could be involved in the macho convo that dominated the every interaction. If it wasn’t about sex and women, barbers would serve as side-preachers, who would only talk about King Jesus and all of his mucho glory. This is the complex fabric of Mississippi.

I didn't go to my current barber, Michelle, until I was in my undergraduate program in Clinton. Despite my prior experience in barbershop experiences, I was pretty hopeful to try a barber who was a woman. I had heard from a college friend that she was pretty cool, and she had her customers looking right. I was tired of spending the gas money it took to drive way to another city just to get a haircut, so I went to Michelle’s shop a few minutes from campus right across from the bowling alley. Women barbers are somewhat rare here; usually if women own hair styling shops, it would be for doing hair, not cutting hair.

When I walked in, I read a sign above the spot Michelle was cutting hair that read "Shut up and let me do my magic!" I liked the place already. There were a few dudes hanging around her, laughing and talking as she finished a cut. After a short wait, I was next in line. Michelle did me up all nice and clean, and she suggested that I should grow my hair out because "men should have hair." Those words were such a foreign, almost sinful, concept to me. I was so accustomed to the holy low cut, the boxed in trim, the casket ready look, I had never considered growing my hair out.

Michelle’s became my regular spot, and our barber-customer relationship grew into a friendship. When she was comfortable enough, she came out to me one day when it was just her and one of her friends in the shop. When she told me she only fucked with girls, I jumped up in my seat, and said "Me too! Well, you know. I'm gay, too!" She pinched my cheeks and told me that she already knew because I had beautiful eyes, and she could sense the feminine energy from me. That revelation coming from an adult who was comfortable in their own sexuality meant the world to me, especially since I had only recently come out as queer to all of my family and friends. I had finally found a barbershop where I didn't have to operating under a fake masculine persona to be socially included, and it was relieving. I went to Michelle's every chance I got. She showed the women she was chasing after, and I would show her my current thirst traps. Once she invited to her crib for drinks and blunts, and I didn't want to leave. She had that fire, too! I wasn't on the planet after we were done.

Although Michelle identified as queer, the men of the area didn't seem to care. She was one of the best barbers in town, so people just respect her skills. Her barber shop became a safe space for me to express my voice without fear. Once I discussed the possibility of locking my hair, and one unnecessary dude chimed in, saying "Man, yo pussy game gone go down if you get dreads. Females like a fresh cut." I had a did-this-busted-nigga-just-talk-to-me face on, and Michelle lightened up the atmosphere by saying, "Well, you don't have to worry about that! My man Chris can work any look!" We all laughed it off and carried on. Michelle's place was a unique one: She is a Black butch lesbian woman operating in a career that is, in regards to workers and customers alike, saturated by men.

But she holds her ground, with the silkiest hair I've ever seen, and does it better than any barber in the city. This queer barbershop helped me find my place in self-presentation and bomb ass hair styles.

queers are not a specific group of people. we are all queer. if you are a womyn or femme person in a society dominated by masculinity, you are queer. if you are a person of color in a society that worships whiteness, you are queer. if you are poor in a world that privileges those who hoard wealth, you are queer. if you are disabled in a world where only the able-bodied are meant to survive, you are queer. if you are cis, in a world that annihilates trans* bodies and spirits by the millisecond, you are queer. if you identify as anything other than ‘heterosexual’, or enjoy sex for ANY other reason than reproduction, or have ever—even for a moment—found beauty or felt desire for any gender other than your own, you are queer. at its most basic meaning, queer is to think beyond conventional understanding of our world and see nuance in between the fixed binaries. to stand firmly in our queerness means acknowledging ourselves as a speck in the spectrum between the points marked 'male' or 'female', 'straight' or ‘gay’, and so forth. our individual queerness is based upon the way—as oppressed peoples—we make it through a world that by "virtue" of birth, is stacked against us, that tells us our very existence is wrong. because we are already cast out as weak, undesirable, odd, or even evil, it takes non-conventional [read: queer] ways to navigate the world through as femme, as a person of color, as the impoverished, as disabled, as trans*, et cetera. the moment we stop aspiring towards the normative standard, and celebrate our queerness, we are participating in REVOLUTION. the path to revolution is as simple as drawing on (1) our own personal life experiences, and (2) our potential to expand and further experience life, to find wherever we lie in that vast middle-ground. by recognizing our infinite nuances and intersections then UNITING to fight against all of

It often happened like this. He stood staring at the foggy mirror in the bathroom, steam hanging above him, droplets dancing down his back. He bit his lip. He was nervous, but intent on following through this time. His afro was now more of a mane and stood a foot from his head. He’d been struggling with the idea of trying to look more clean-cut as the scruff grew thicker on his face, matching his hair’s coarseness. Believe it or not, his mom loved his hair. She just didn’t have a clue what to do with it; she felt powerless as a middle-aged white woman charged with raising her black son. This was the kind of thing his father used to handle, but with him no longer around she had to make everything work with a roll of metaphorical duct tape as she raised the budding replica of her husband.

He wiped the mirror with his hand and continued staring. He could try to get rid of the hair himself, he contemplated, but him using a razor would be like giving kids scissors and encouraging them to run around the house – it wouldn’t end well. He’d never gone to a barbershop and always felt like he was missing something since his father always explained it was considered a rite of passage for every black man.

“Are you ready, yet?” his mom called. “Not yet. I’ll be out in a sec.” There was a knock on the bathroom door. “You know, if you’re having second thoughts, we can check around to see if the barbershop will be open tomorrow.” “I know. I should probably do it today though. My friend said the barbershops are less crowded on Saturday mornings. On Sundays, everyone wants to squeeze in a haircut before going to school the next day.”

“Are you sure it’s the same thing?” she queried. “I mean, you’re not getting a haircut, you’re getting your first shave. I’m sure that isn’t the same thing. Maybe they have different lines for different services.” He opened the bathroom door. He was struggling to dry his hair and tighten the other towel around his waist. She grabbed the extra towel from the closet and turned him around as she worked her way from the back of his head to the front.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he muttered. “I’ve only walked past the barbershop. I’ve never gone in. And, I’m not sure if I want to keep the fro. ” “Well think about it some more. You can always ask the barber what he thinks. Do you think I should go with you? I could be there for support since it’s your first time. Do you think they’d mind?”

“No, they probably wouldn’t.” She smiled. “Okay, I’ll get my coat when I finish helping you dry your hair.” “But, I don’t think you should.” “Why not?” Her face formed a caring question mark.

“It would be weird. Only little kids have their mothers in the barbershop with them and, from what I’m told, even their moms leave and come back.” “Point taken.” She laughed. “You sure you don’t want me to go because you think I’ll embarrass you?” “I’m sure. There’s no way you could embarrass me, unless you wore those bell bottoms you showed me. You know the ones you used to wear in high school with the glitter and butterflies?” He chuckled as she play slapped him in the head “I’ll have you know they are one of a kind and they still look good on me.” “They are one of a kind alright. I think you’re the only person that ever bought them.” He joked. “All set. I think you can let the rest air dry. You have everything you need? Do you need any extra money? Do you remember where the barbershop is?”

“I have everything. And, I believe it’s on Habersham and Lexington.” “Have you driven there before? Maybe I should follow you there just to make sure you don’t get lost.” He smiled warmly and kissed her on the forehead. “I know, I know. Stop worrying.” He chuckled as he walked to his room. She was more nervous than he was and it was his first time. “Well, let me fix you something quick to eat. Is your hair still wet?” She tested it with her fingers, parting to the roots.

“Yeah, it’s pretty wet. While you eat, it should be dry.” Forty-five minutes, two omelets, and three glasses of orange juice later, his hair was dry. “I’m headed out. I’ll see you soon!” He grabbed the keys and headed for the door. “Okay, honey. I can’t wait to see you shaved. Have you decided whether or not you wanted to cut your hair or ask them to do anything with it?” She was excited like a little kid on Christmas, hoping to open the heaviest boxes first. “I’m still deciding. I’ll surprise you.”

XX Even though he’d used the bathroom before he left, his stomach still leapt hurdles. He’d walked past the barbershop a million times, but never had the guts to go in. He didn’t know why. It could be the guys out front that resembled body guards with tattoos, weed, and locs. It could be the younger guys that were athletes, handsome and girded with charm. How do people approach barbers, he wondered.

Is there a secret handshake he should be aware of? He chuckled. He knew the answers to his own questions and refused to turn around. He was curious and it was time to be bold. He parked and took a deep breath as he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper with Husani scribbled in crooked font.

He convinced himself his hands were shaking but that the paper trembled on its own. He hopped out of the car, smashing the paper into his back pocket. The guys with tattoos towered over a large portion of the sidewalk. They nodded and he nodded back, eyes cast to the ground.

A group of kids rushed out of the door. He held it open for the three women that followed. They smiled and whispered, “Don’t break no hearts.” He blushed and walked in. In the waiting room, a group of kids stared at an old TV hanging in the corner of the room. The oldest of them nodded at him and motioned for him to follow the pool of light spilling into the hallway. He followed the laughter and the aroma of sweet oils.

“That’s not what I heard! You let Shaina come up in here doing whatever and you know that’s your baby. He cutting his kid’s head and don’t even know. I don’t know why you don’t see it.” “He don’t wanna know as long as she don’t come asking for child support.” Two of the guys slapped hands and the room shook with laughter. I just outside of the door wondering if this was a good idea or not. Maybe I could come back another time. Tomorrow could be better since it sounds like they are busy, he told himself. He tried to give himself credit for at least walking into the barbershop, but it wasn’t enough to assuage the growing pit in his stomach. He turned around.

“What’s up man? Here for a cut?” A bald, muscular guy asked as he slid between him and the door. He was confident and spoke with his chest. “Yes. A shave and a shape-up, per chance?” He stuttered. The barber smiled.

“Oh, I’m looking for Husani. My friend told me I should see him.” “Let me see if he’s coming in today.” The barber said, throwing the towel over his shoulder. “Yo, T! When is Sani getting in? Is he coming in today?” “I’m not sure. I think he has the day off. Aye, man, what are you trying to get done?” “A shave and a shape up.” “Oh okay. You new?” “Yeah. My friend said I should meet him.”

“I mean, you could get your hair cut here by one of the other barbers, if you wanted. Wait, did you ring him and tell him you were coming by?” “Ring him?” “Yeah, call him. Did you call him?”

“Oh, no. I don’t have his number.” “That’s cool. Ring him, Rico.” He yelled to the barber with the towel. Rico picked up the cordless phone, dialed the number and handed it to him. “If he doesn’t pick up, leave a message with your number. He might be on the court.” I took the phone and listened to it ring. I assumed it would go to voicemail, but he picked up. He had a deep voice and an accent. “Hello?” he asked. “Hello. Can I speak to Husani?” “Yeah. What’s up?” Something rustled in the background and then there was silence. “Hi. Braxton, a friend of mine, told me I should see you about getting my first shave and potentially a shape up. I have a pretty long fro.” “Braxton?

Is that a guy or a girl?” “It’s a guy.” I cupped the receiver. He spoke softly, and I wanted to make sure he heard me clearly. He thought out loud, repeating the name a few times.

“Oh, I know who you’re talking about. Cool. So were you trying to get a cut now? Where are you?” “Yes. I’m at the barbershop and the guys told me to call you. If you’re busy, it’s cool. I can just come back another time. I didn’t know I should have called.” “Hmm...,” he made a clicking sound with his teeth. “No, I think I got a little time. How about you come through?” “Come through where?”

“You can come over my house. I’m actually off today, but I don’t mind cutting your hair since someone referred you. I just don’t want to come to the shop because if I did then I’d never get out of there.” He laughed. “Okay. I can do that. Where should I go?”

“I’m on Crawford Road and Bushel Avenue. If you’re at the shop right now, it’s like a 10 minute drive. Just make a left when you get off of the highway heading toward the center of town and then make a right at Empire Estates. I’m in unit 5D. Give me a buzz when you get here.” “Okay. I think I can remember that.”

“Great, man. I’ll see you soon.” “Okay. See you soon.”

XXX The 10-minute drive turned into 45 minutes as he was turned around by boulevards that turned into streets, then into drives, and back into boulevards. He quickly realized the directions that easily flowed from the other end of the receiver knew the area more than he did. He had to get out and ask directions at three different gas stations before he found out the reason he kept getting lost was because they recently renamed a street after the former mayor – Crawford Road was now Drexel Street. Once he realized the error, he hopped into his car, took a deep breath, and made a right, arriving at Empire Estates in less than four minutes.

Apartments that had seen better days littered the street he’d turned onto as pot holes forced him to drive slowly. Peering glances and nods from boys on the corner posted near bus stops and girls with babies on their hips made him feel like a foreigner in a third world country. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands secretly hoping the area would magically become more familiar. Empire Estates wasn’t one complex, but a number of different complexes ranging from tall beige buildings that resembled a precarious stack of cardboard boxes, to mini duplexes with bars on the windows, shabby lawns, and concrete playgrounds. A ball hit the side of his car making him jump. The assailant flashed a gummy smile as he hid behind his older sister who looked about eight years old. She sucked on a tri- colored ice pop and then saluted him with her red tongue, front silver tooth, her middle finger shooting up like a rocket.

“5D” He whispered to himself. He pushed harder on the gas pedal and later pulled into the driveway of a brick building with blue wooden stairs and banisters. Before the anxiety could finish gnawing at him, he hopped out of the car and walked upstairs to the second floor. He opened the screen door. As he knocked, he heard commotion down the street and a police car siren in the background.

“Aye, hold up. Gimme a sec.” A voice yelled from the other side. He could hear a chair being dragged across the floor followed by more shuffling and dragging feet. The door flew upon and he was greeted by the smell of sweet incense and a tall guy in basketball shorts with a tattooed torso and house slippers. “What’s up?” he sang with his head cocked to the side.

“Hey. Does Husani live here?” He stammered. “The only one.” He smiled. “Come on in. I was starting to think you were going to stand me up.” “No, I just got a little lost. I’m sorry.” “No biggie, man. At least you made it. This place is a little in the cut, if you know what I mean. So, I forgot it could be a little confusing. I take it you’re not from around here.” “Not really.” He started to say where he lived, but decided not to. “What’s your name man? I don’t think you gave it on the phone.” “Jake.” “Oh okay. Nice to meet you Jake.” “Nice to meet you too.” “Well you made it just in time. I was about to head to the courts for a minute. You play?” “Play what?”

“Ball.” “No, I don’t.” “Oh okay. You got a little height on you. For a second I thought you might have a mean lay up.” He laughed. “Make yourself at home,” he pointed to a powder blue sofa with a couple of magazines stacked on top of one another. With the pages dog-eared and riddled with scorch marks, they added a little character to the sofa that looked almost new. “You want anything to drink or eat, man?” Husani asked. “No, thank you.” He heard him chuckle in the kitchen, but didn’t know why. “So where are you from? I’m sure I wouldn’t be the only person if I said you definitely ain’t from around here.” He smirked. “I live on the North Side.” Jake let his voice trail off, hoping that would be the end of the questions. “Where about?” He brought in a pitcher of purple Kool-Aid, licking his lips. “Over by Dorchester Drive.” “Damn.... You ballin’ like that, huh?” Jake blushed.

He started to feel bad. If that’s how Husani felt when he told him about Dorchester, Jake could only imagine how he would react if he actually found out that he lived near Temple Grove. He hated lying, but he just went with it – for consistency’s sake, he told himself. “It’s cool man. So tell me something....” Husani grinned, “What’s good? What you tryna’ do?” Jake looked confused. “What kind of cut did you want?” He repeated, the smile never leaving his face. He was getting a kick out of confusing him. It was just too easy. Most guys in his neighborhood lost their innocence a long time ago, but to see it in front of him was like laying wet concrete and telling him he couldn’t write his initials.

“To be honest, I don’t really know.” “Okay, well maybe we can figure something out together.” He got up and went into the kitchen. Jake’s palms were still sweaty, but his leg had finally settled down. When he first sunk into the couch, his ankle was jumping a mile a minute. He’d never been this far across town before and every time he tried to trace his way back in his head, he’d forget after only a few turns. He exhaled deeply and hung his head in his hands. He didn’t feel like he knew anything, which is exactly what he was afraid of. “What’s going on, man? You over there sighin’ like you dealin’ with the world’s problems,” Husani joked. “So spill it. What’s got you so hype and tense?” “What do you mean?” “What do you mean what do I mean?” There were those teeth again. He licked his lips and lay back, taking a long swig of Kool-Aid with his eyes still locked on Jake. “Look at me and look at you. You notice anything different?” Jake looked at Husani. He was deep into the seat with his right foot propped on the wooden coffee table, legs cocked open and a wet moustache of Kool-Aid. Despite what Jake’s mother would have described as horrible posture, he was glowing with confidence; like he knew something that no one else did. He looked at himself, sitting up-right, legs closed; one hand gripping his car keys and the fingers of the other clasped around his left knee cap. He felt silly in comparison to Husani. He wasn’t sure if it was the earring or tattoos he lacked or maybe the six pack and the cuts on the side of his waist that alluded to bigger happenings below the loosely hanging shorts. But, he didn’t know what or how to change so he lied. “No. What’s different?” “Well for one, you can’t be comfortable with your legs that close together. And who do you know sits that straight up? You look like a rocket that’s about to shoot through the ceilin’. “ He didn’t want to be reminded of how out of touch he was with himself or people that looked just like him. The thoughts rushed over him as his palms became moist and his mouth dry. He remembered lying in bed at night listening to his mother and father fight about how her grandmother treated him. He’d say she never supported them getting married and that he expected her to change now that they had a kid. She’d cry in her mother’s defense but then explode saying it was really him who was insecure about who he was and that he should just suck it up and be a man. She never heard it when her grandmother would refer to him and his father as “that” and “them.” He did, though.

“Here, take a sip.” Husani handed him a small dark brown cup. Jake looked up at him as if it were a trick. “What? Stop looking at it and take a sip before I drink both of ours.” He laughed.

Jake could see he had an identical cup in his left hand. He took it and held it as he watched Husani lean back into the couch. “What is it?” Jake asked.

“What do you think?” He smelled the cup. It was sharp and sweet. “This smells like alcohol.” “Well, you must have been a blood-hound in another life.” He chuckled. Jake smirked. “Of course it is.

What did you think it was? I’d already offered you some Kool-Aid, but you didn’t want it.” “I’m not 21.” “Neither am I.” Jake was surprised. He didn’t know many people his age that look or acted like Husani.

He stared at him wondering whether or not he was telling the truth. “You don’t look like you believe me.” He piped. “Huh?” “Alright. If you don’t believe me, it’s cool. But, I’m gonna need to see your I.D.” He got up and walked over to Jake. He looked up at him waiting for the joke to pass and for him to start laughing. He didn’t.

“Are you serious?” Jake asked. “Yeah, I am. Let me see your I.D.” He held out his hand. “Why?” “So I can make sure you’re not 21.” Jake looked confused, but after a few minutes rummaged through his back pocket to pull out his I.D. He handed it to Husani wary of his next move. “October 1988. Looks like you weren’t lying.” He studied his I.D. “So I guess that means you’re really not 50.” “Who?” “The cops.” “Why would I be?” “I don’t know. It didn’t make sense to me either. But there had to be some kind of reason why you’re black but you don’t look, act, or talk like any black person I know.” Jake looked down. “Aye, don’t sweat it. It’s cool. Nothing wrong with that, just wanted to make sure you weren’t tryna get me caught up or something.” “So you gonna join me or what? You know it is rude around these parts to make a person drink alone. You know that right?” He smiled. Jake smelled the cup again. The closest he’d ever come to alcohol was when he would steal a swig or two of his mother’s wine or champagne. He’d always chuckle because the bubbles felt funny. One time his father let him drink a beer, but he didn’t like the taste so he gave it back. “Okay.” “Cool.” Jake lifted it to his lips. “Aye, aye, aye...” Husani interrupted. “Whatchu doin?”

“I’m drinking it like you asked me to.” “Naw, you’re not supposed to do it like that. We gotta drink to something, you know, like a toast.” This time Jake chuckled. “What? Oh now you makin’ fun of me now, huh?” “No,” he hid his smile. “So what do you want to drink to?” “I don’t know. You’re the guest so you do the honors.” “To new beginnings...” He raised his glass. “Lame.” “Huh?” Jake asked.

“Why did you say that?” “Because that’s something that lame ass parents would say. I’m not drinkin’ to that. Toast to something else.” “Umm... Okay.” Jake searched for something else.

“Cheers to chillin!” Jake said. “Lame!” They both shouted in unison. They laughed. Even Jake thought that toast sounded weird. “Okay,” Jake corrected, “Give me one last try.” He put his car keys beside him and leaned off of the cushion a little more. “You ready for this one?” He asked gleefully. “This one is going to blow your mind.” “Oh really?” Husani asked grinning. “Okay. Here goes: Cheers... to... trying...everything...twice!” Jake finished with a big smile. “I’ll drink to that.” Husani agreed. Jake hadn’t realized it, but he was starting to enjoy himself and it didn’t have anything to do with the drink in his hand. It felt nice to be around someone that was different.

When he hung around his friends in his neighborhood, he always thought he had to tone himself down or talk about things that didn’t interest him. They never challenged him, said they didn’t like something he said, or even made fun of him. It wasn’t because they didn’t want to. It was because their parents told them to make nice with the only black boy in their neighborhood.

In a world where diversity was a notch on one’s belt, being able to say you had a black friend made others feel they were much more evolved than their grandparents and great grandparents that taught them to tie a noose. But now he didn’t think about any of that.

Instead, he laughed at the fears that held him back from doing this for so many years. “You decided yet?” Husani asked.

“What? Don’t tell me you want me to think of another toast. That was the best I had.” “Naw, I know you’re tapped out on the toast department. I’m talking about this,” he patted his fro. “Oh. I don’t know. Maybe I should just cut all of it off. That would make it a lot easier for you wouldn’t it?” Jake queried. “It ain’t about that. It’s about what you want. Tell me what you want and I can make it happen.” “Well, how long have you been cutting hair?” “A long time man.” “Okay, well suggest something. I’m at a loss. I’ve had this fro for the past two years and I just don’t know what to do with it. And this,” he rubbed the facial hair that was beginning to grow in thick, “I don’t even know where to start.” “I think I got an idea on what I can do with your hair. And you don’t really have much facial hair. We can handle that with a liner. Don’t be so quick to rush to shave. Once you start, you can’t go back.” “So what do you want to do?” “Whatever you want me to do.” He grinned. Jake looked down at the empty glass. It was his second one and the room was getting warmer. Husani stood up and walked over to him. Looking down at Jake, he smiled again and touched his fro. There was a softness in his eyes that Jake had never seen before. It was as if he could see something that Jake couldn’t and he liked it. “Relax...” he said, “I’m just checking you out . . . seeing what I have to work with.” His hand gradually sunk into his fro as his fingers searched for his scalp. He added his second hand when he found what he was looking for, rubbing different areas of Jake’s head. At the front. Around the temples. Behind the ears. Jake squirmed in his seat fighting his heavy eyelids. He wanted him to stop and to keep going. The conflicting thoughts hung heavy, creeping down his right leg. He heard Husani ask him something, but wasn’t sure what he said. He kept his eyes closed as he kept massaging.

“Did you hear me?” Husani repeated. “Huh?” Jake asked, jumping out of the trance and pulling his head back. “I said what did you wash your hair with?” “Soap?” “Yeah, I can tell. Does your scalp itch like crazy?” “Yeah. A lot sometimes. I try to put some stuff in it that my mom bought from the store, but it only works for a little while.” “Yeah, soap dries out your scalp. But it’s cool. I got something for you. Follow me.” Jake followed him down the hall. Husani had a funny sway to his walk – Jake had never really seen it before. He resisted the urge to mimic him. He knew he could never be that smooth with little effort. Husani leaned into a nearby room and closed the door, but kept moving. He reached into a cupboard and pulled out a towel.

A few more steps and he turned on the light in the bathroom. The room smelled like honey and lavender, but with additional spices. lt reminded him of his father. He secretly took a deep breath and felt at home. “I’m gonna give you a quick wash. I got a few oils to top it off when I’m done and you shouldn’t worry about your scalp itchin’ anymore.” Jake nodded.

He was used to washing his hair in the shower but wasn’t sure if that’s what Husani was about to ask him to do. He opened the mirror and pulled out small bottles of oils and a dark brown liquid. Jake watched him unsure of what he should do. “Cool. I’m ready. Need some help?”

“With what?” “Your shirt. Go ahead and take it off so it won’t get too wet.” Jake got nervous.

He didn’t feel comfortable taking off his shirt. He would ask for him to take off his shirt first, but it was already off and the request would’ve sounded weird. He didn’t want to, but he did. He pulled in his sleeves and then pulled the shirt over his head. The room was a little cooler than he thought. He got goose bumps for a minute or two but then adjusted. He tried not to look at Husani.

Jake had no idea what to do next. “Alright. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, but we can make it work. Lean over this way.” Husani touched the small of Jake’s back to move him closer to the sink. Jake shivered. As the water warmed up, Husani cracked a joke and they both laughed, nervously staring at each other. Jake was a little more athletically built than his composure let on, which impressed Husani. He would make a killer b-ball player, he thought, and then chuckled. “Alright, let’s bend you over,” Husan suggested coolly. Jake lowered himself beneath the faucet. His back started to ache. When he relaxed a bit and allowed his but to poke out, the pain went away. He closed his eyes as the water poured over him. Husani lathered his hair and massaged his scalp. Jake tensed as he felt him hovering, their hairs grazing, but never touching. The darkness intensified everything. He smelled the mint and it tingled on his scalp as the warm water rushed over his neck, ears, and face. He fought the urge to open his eyes and shut them tighter. “You okay under there?” Husani checked. “I think so.” “Cool. Keep them eyes closed. This stuff stings like shit if it gets in your eyes.” He chuckled and lathered Jake’s fro. He scrubbed and squeezed, rinsing and turning his head. Jake’s hands clenched the sides of the sink.

He hated being in the dark, not knowing what was going on. He felt Husani almost touching, but it tickled. As he leaned and pulled back, leaned and pulled back, he felt him. Husani leaned again.

His stomach touched Jake’s side and then his back. He firmly gripped his wet hair and massaged his scalp. Jake grew. He tried to angle to hide himself, but his reflex relaxed his left eye and suds crept in. He felt the sting and then the burn. “Shit...Shhh.....” Jake winced pulling up his head. “Gimme a towel, it’s in my eye, hurry!”

“Damn... I said don’t open your eyes.” “Shut up and gimme a towel. I didn’t mean to.” Jake grabbed around almost pushing Husani out of the way. He was becoming frantic. He felt it seep deeper and continue to burn. “Aye, chill out. I gotchu. It’s right here. Quit whining, it doesn’t hurt that bad.” “My damn eye feels like it’s about to fall out of my head. Don’t tell me it doesn’t hurt.” He grimaced. It was dark. He was scared and only felt the pain intensify. He regretted all of it and wanted to go home. He was afraid to open his eyes and risk more pain so he shut it tighter, in vain. “You buggin’. Stop squirming and come here.” Husani stepped closer and grabbed his wrists, which were furiously rubbing his eyes.

“Gimme your hands. The more you panic the worse it’ll get. Just breathe and let me handle it.”

Husani explained. He leaned closer and grabbed Jake’s lower neck and the side of his face.

“Lower your hands.” “It burns.” Jake replied. “Aye, I can’t help if you won’t listen. Trust me. I said I gotchu.” He lowered one of Jake’s clenched fists with his right hand. Both eyes were still shut.

Husani lifted a cold washcloth and placed it over his eyes and held it. The cool touch made Jake flinch, but it slowly caused the burning to subside. Jake reached up in relief, holding the rag, not realizing he was holding Husani’s hands. They stood silently until the pain was gone. Neither of them moved for a few minutes. “You good?” Husani asked. Jake nodded. “You wanna try and open your eyes now?”

He nodded again. Husani lowered the washcloth. Jake kept his eyes closed but winced as he opened them. It was a little blurry, but he could see and the burning had stopped. Husani grinned like a catfish. Jake smirked and looked down at the cloth, folding it in his hands. “Thanks.” “You’re welcome.” They stood awkwardly as the silence screamed between them.

XXX “I should prolly go get cleaned up. You got me all wet,” Husani said. Jake tried not to notice the print bulging through the partially drenched shorts. “I can wash out the rest of this while you change your clothes if you want.” “You sure I can trust you not drown yourself or get any more soap in your eyes?” Husani laughed. “Yeah, I think I can manage.” Jake returned a weak smile Husani nodded and slipped out of the bathroom as Jake turned the nobs on the sink. Before putting his head under the water, he reached for the conditioner on top of the toilet and placed it on the sink. He took a deep breath. He wanted to ignore what had just happened, but it was hard to ignore something he couldn’t describe or define. Before being consumed by more questions, he submerged his head beneath the flowing warmth and listened as the water rushed over his ears, muffling his thoughts. He rinsed out the remaining shampoo and then rubbed the conditioner in, still hovering over the sink. It smelled like lemons, honey, and peppermint. He took another deep breath as it started to tingle. “Don’t forget to let the conditioner sit for about 5 minutes,” Husani yelled from his room.

After five minutes, he began rinsing his hair. “Aye,” Husani said from behind him, “When you get done, I’ll be ready for you in the front room.” “Okay. Be there in a minute.” Jake walked down the narrow hall to the living room, steadying the towel wrapped around his head. He saw Husani sitting on the sofa with a comb and two small jars of what looked like grease or a creamy substance. “See you made it out alive.” “Yeah.” “Good.” Husani patted between his legs at the bottom of the sofa, “take a seat.” Jake paused for a moment. He’d never sat between a guy’s legs before. But, it didn’t look like he had much of a choice in the matter. He slowly walked over and sat down paying close attention not to accidentally brush against Husani’s legs or lean back too far. He removed the towel and slowly patted his hair before applying oil. Jake was restricted in his movements and wouldn’t lean back far enough.

“Aye, just relax – it’s not that serious.” “Huh?” “I said relax. You’re as stiff as a board.” “Oh.. .” He tried to relax by not sitting as straight and leaning back. His shoulders grazed Husani’s knees, but he didn’t know whether to reposition himself or to stay put. Since he didn’t say anything, he considered it okay. Husani pulled him further back. Jake wanted to recoil when he felt his skin come in contact with Husan’s legs, but, after a few moments, he forgot about it. “Check this out,” Husani dropped a small card in his lap. Jake picked it up and chuckled. It was Husani’s I.D. “Look at that. We’re the same age and your birthday is a few days after mine.” “Yup! Gotta save the best for last.” Jake scoffed, “Whateva! I don’t know about that.”

“Oh I forgot to ask you a question,” Jake said.

“Well maybe I can remember to give you an answer.” “Does your name mean anything?” “Yeah, it does. It’s Egyptian for handsome. But, I know you knew that already.” “Huh?” “I mean, can you blame my mom for telling the truth? I’m pretty easy on the eyes – you can admit it.” They chuckled uneasily. “Ha... there you go again.” Jake replied.

“It’s funny.” Jake began, but stopped. “What’s funny?” “I don’t know. When I was younger, I used to wish I was similar to a guy like you. I always felt I was different and no one around me could understand.” “Hmmm...” Husani replied while greasing a new section of his hair. “Well, let me take a guess. One of your parents is white, you’re raised on the good side of town, and until recently you’ve never done any of this before. Actually, this may be your first ‘black barber’ experience.” Jake was embarrassed. Was it really that easy to pick up on all of that about him?

Did the guys in the barbershop know this? He asked himself. “Aye, before you start baggin’ on yourself, I think I may be one of the only people that knew that.” “How’d you know?” “I’m the same. My pops is white and my moms is Black and Egyptian. When they were going steady, which wasn’t often, I was raised over in Temple Grove, which is how I knew you were lying when you said you stayed in Dorchester. I actually think I may have run into you as a kid a few times, but you were always kickin’ it with the white kids.” “Wait. You used to stay in Temple Grove? Then...” He stopped himself again.

“Then, how did I end up here in the projects?” He finished Jake’s sentence. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” “Naw, it’s okay man. It ain’t nothing I’m ashamed of. My pops died when I was 12 and, since they weren’t married, his fam basically stripped her of the money he left her in the will. I don’t think they ever really accepted her or me. She moved out here to stay with her fam until she got on her feet. And, I guess you can say this became home.” “So, it wasn’t weird coming out here?” “Naw man. It may sound crazy, but I liked it better here. I always wondered what made my mom so different. Regardless of where she went, she always held her head high and she never compromised. So, when we moved here, I got it. She always says God don’t make mistakes. I mean, I’m not super religious, but since moving out of there, I never felt the need to change who I was or regret how I looked since movin.” “So, you plan on staying here?” “Naw. My mom actually moved to one of the new subdivision over there near Highway 17.

I’m still helping her get situated. She let me keep this place for whenever I wanted to be back on this side of town.” Why would anyone want to be back on this side of town, Jake wondered. He struggled to see the appeal in anything that was around him. He actually thought it was depressing. “I bet you wonder why I would even want to come back here.” Husani finished as if he’d read his mind. “But, I don’t know, it’s all about how you look at it. When I first came here, I felt the same way you do: This place looks like shit and feels hella dangerous. But, the longer I lived here, I realized I was the one that was afraid. I was afraid I couldn’t relate with anyone and that they’d reject me and it would be worse than where we were coming from. Man, to be honest, I used to have nightmares of being cornered and people beating me and my mom to death.”

Jake drummed his fingers on his right knee cap. He chuckled because although the dream sounded ludicrous, he was pretty sure he would have the same one if his family had to move out here. “See what scares people who aren’t from here is that it’s almost as if people can see right through you, like they don’t trust you. And, that’s kind of true. But it doesn’t make any of them any more dangerous than the people in Temple Grove. They don’t have much, but they do the best with what they have. They are also willing to protect the little they do have because they are so used to people taking from them. But, what helped me the most and why I keep coming back to visit is that the people here are brave. They are brave enough to be who they are – the good, the bad, and the ugly – and they don’t beat around the bush. If they think you are wrong, they’ll tell you. They speak their mind because it’s almost like that’s the only thing people haven’t been able to take away from them. And, you may feel differently, but I kind of needed that. Don’t get me wrong, it ain’t all songs and roses around here. It can be grimy and shit can get real foul around these parts. But, people protect you and accept you quicker than you’d ever expect and before you know it, you look up and you have a family you never knew you had.”

“I never thought of it like that.” “Yeah man. It’s kinda crazy. But, I think dudes like us need it. You can’t be anything worth being if you don’t know who you are.” “That’s true.” Jake’s mind swirled with more questions. “So, why did you become a barber?” “Well, do you want the truth or do you want a lie?” “The truth of course.” “It scared me shitless as a kid, but it was something that all of us had to go through. It’s where I learned to be a man and, eventually, where I felt the most comfortable. It also didn’t hurt that I had skills and could cut. Regardless of what I got going on or how much money I have, I try to work there at least two days a week. It keeps me grounded.” Jake was curious and wanted to know more.

Everything had changed for him, from his posture to the way he sat. He wasn’t sure what was happening or if it was necessarily a good or a bad thing. All he knew was that it was different, which is all he’d been hoping for since his father left and never looked back. I didn’t miss out after all, he whispered to himself.

“So, you stayin’ for a bite to eat?” Husani asked. “Yeah, that would be cool.” He leaned back. They secretly held on to their smiles and released a gate of questions as Husani continued to braid his hair.

African woman let down your hair, send nubian secrets toward my ear. sweet songs of promised heaven gates, and strength despite our fallen mates.

Our woven locks do intertwine, the remnants of a loose grapevine.

The memories of vicious stares, and I don’t cares, she has no ears.

No sense, no brain apparently, a walking stone anomaly.

They may have eyes but cannot see, this cherubim in front of me.

African woman why do you cry, barren fields, them nations die.

Brothers now your enemies, scarred from western victories.

Our dignities must frame our arms, shape our smiles, conceal our frowns.

Home is rich in natural splendour, not confined to manmade grandeur.

African woman lend me your ear, that gold thread’s snapped beyond repair.

Do something to call it home, to waterfalls and ocean foam.

Your afro is a silent chant, which whispers don’t be what you can’t.

For this is you and this is me, all fragments of Ma’s beauty.

Embrace your kinks wholeheartedly, all types and textures, let them see.

Your fist should curl and grace the air.

Our pick is firm propped in our hair.

Your braids are winding messages of sad identity stresses.

The struggles of our ancestors, and shackling of our sisters.

Each loop a song written by hand, the stories within every strand.

Indoctrinating brown women those told to change to be like them, but warriors put up a fight, along this pathway see the light.

You’re mother’s pride just as you are, sweet ebony empress, African Ma.

The Black barbershops are microcosmic swaths of our larger society. Hyper masculine posturing, spewing of misogynistic views, and homophobic rhetoric are not unique or synonymous to “the shop”. However, I posit that these behaviors and attitudes that are often noted are simply a reflection of our society’s normalization of derisive and obscured perceptions of what it looks like to be a man. Inasmuch, such is the case that these barbershops are only offshoots of the environments they are a staple in.

To recall my youthful experiences in barbershops, I must note that the visits often stoked some of my worst anxieties. Even though the visits were sometimes infrequent, the barbershop never felt like a safe space and it was certainly not the place to express myself as queer. It has never been stated outright that being gay was not tolerated or that “if I knew you were gay I wouldn’t cut your hair”. The prevalent attitudes of some shops are disseminated more subtly. It is as you are waiting your turn and the conversation veers off to something about “gay ass niggas”. Or while you sit in the barber’s chair and the music thumping from the speakers have overtly homophobic lyrics and no one switches the song. These are the times when you know. You know that in this shop, if you were to be outed you would no longer be considered brethren. But not every shop is the same and not every barber is a homophobe. In between the conversations about women, the debates about sports and hip hop, these conversations do not always slip into homophobic diatribes. It is the unsettling game of roulette one must play to identify these safe spaces that keep many queer men of color away from the barber’s chair. It this sobering reality that keeps many choosing to dress up in their best boy drag and adorn their best male postured performance. Some simply choose to “pass”, which may give the awful impression that you are in collusion with the homophobia and sit by idly while epithets are thrown about.

I enter the barbershop with a different carriage than I did in my youth. I no longer cower in my skin, not wanting to be identified as other. Not as a punk, a fag, or something worse. But now I own every multifaceted piece of me, including my otherness, my queer sexuality. The courage I found to live my life as an out gay man was not born out of barbershop experiences, but the decision to be out informs how I live my life daily. I create safe spaces where ever I go. Be it the block or the barbershop I refuse to have my humanity diminished to engender someone else’s comfort. If that means coming out to my barber so be it. If it means taking my capital and spending it elsewhere I will do it.

And for the last few years my nephew gets his haircut at the barbershops that I frequent. It would be a disservice to his young and impressionable psyche to have him stewing in an environment thick with misogyny and homophobia. And I would be remissed to sit by silently and allow it to take place.

My most sensitive spot is the nape.

It is where the hair meets the neck, And the ocean meets the land.

Some folks would slide their hands down the back of my neck and pretend to get stuck.

Others would claim something much crueler, and accuse my kinks of hurting them.

Y’know they were Paper bag testing me Subliminally asking me how close I am to whiteness Punishing me because my naps reminded them of where the ocean meets the land, and my nape was the Middle passage.

My nape is my most African part.

It is my most vulnerable spot, it is erotic too.

It’s where I place my blackness, And when they told me to tuck it, to gel it down, and perm it.

It ruptured my world. making me conscious about all of these places in which my African lives.

My nose, my eyes, & my skin.

How could this nappy-headed boy from out the projects be the apple of America’s obsession?

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Jay Z / Shiny Suit Theory Jesus Christ had dreads so shake ‘em.

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E-40 / Tell Me When To Go

Dreads hang on designer everything.

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2 Chainz / Fedz Watching

Al B Sure nigga with the hair all wavy.

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Kanye West / Drive Slow

Niggas used to wear rags on they head when it fried up / That’s when we were lied to, buying hair products.

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NAS, Doo-Rag

People talk so much shit about me in Barbershops they forget to get their haircut.

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Kanye West / Everything I Am

Hot like the perm on the back of your neck / Left it in too long now ya got Cabbage Patch silky.

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Outkast / Morris Brown Money get longer, pretty nigga pin your hair up.

-

A$AP Rocky, Wassup

Looking Trinidadian, Japanese and Indian / Got Malaysian, got that yaki, that wavy Brazilian.

-

Nicki Minaj / Flawless (Remix)

Pull your hair 'til its straight, you look half Indian.

-

Slum Village / Closer

I want a girl with extensions in her hair, bamboo earrings, at least two pairs.

- LL Cool J, Around The Way Girl

The Market Downstairs Andrea was not a Vodun mambo like her mother Gislene a mulatto from Okap who only served Erzulie-Freda. Freda took one look at Andrea, shook her dyed blonde curls, and said through pursed lips: “Not even a gréf.” But Ezrulie-Dantor saw through the molasses skin and tough hair. Andrea had Dessalines’ blood coursing through her veins she whispered in the child’s ear Andrea came from a line of

tortured artists, righteous assassins, suicidal visionaries, mad magicians, atrophic lovers, pious prostitutes, drunk Poles, pansexual Persians, blue-eyed Dahomeans, woman-child sorceresses, sadist preachers, apologetic rapists, effeminate rebel leaders, vampy mambos, and courageous drag queens.

And further down Andrea’s line

a romantic savant. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ “Nana! Ann ale!” Andrea yelled from the bottom of the staircase as her fingers were tugging on the ribbon of her cardigan. The red cardigan that Rachel bought for her was irritating her yet it was the warmest piece of clothing Andrea had for the October chill. Of all colors, why red?

Andrea knew that she shouldn’t be surprised by her daughter’s choice. Years of being in Paris made Rachel believe she was a fashion expert. Red would look good on her Andrea imagined Rachel picking up the cardigan in Macys. Mmcheewwwww! Andrea didn’t know what was worse. The red cardigan or Sulaina being late.

“I’m coming grandma! Just cleaning up!” her granddaughter cried from the 3rd floor apartment.

“Bullshit!” 50 years of living in Brooklyn, Andrea only spoke English to curse and for strangers.

She had native fluency but swore to Legba at a ceremony that her grandchildren would only hear Kreyòl in the house. They would be Haitian American Haitians. They would speak Kreyòl, honor their elders, and become doctors and lawyers. However, that oath came with little success.

“Is it cold outside?”

A vengeful smile etched on Andrea’s lips. “Li cho deyò!” Andrea finally succeeded in pulling the ribbon out. She smoothed out the loose red threads and reminded herself to put a brooch over the hole.

Sulaina flew down the stairs with ripped jeans, black Converses, a nautical striped shirt and a flowing orange scarf. Her hair was in an afro with dyed bronze tips and her almond brown eyes were accented with bronze makeup.

Pride began to swell but deflated when she looked at how Sulaina’s stomach spilled over her jeans and her hips were wider since leaving for graduate school. At least she’s not a tomboy anymore she thought as she opened the brown apartment door. The October wind went right through Sulaina, forcing her to retreat back to their red brick brownstone home.

“Grandma!” Sulaina complained as Andrea was making her way to the street corner. Andrea buttoned her cardigan and made her way to the crosswalk. At least Rachel got a warm ugly cardigan.

She heard Sulaina groan and close the door behind her. “Crazy lady! Wait for me!”

The nerve of that girl! “Mache pi vit!” Andrea didn’t even slow down for her. The 82- year-old woman took pride in her firm legs and sharp memory. The few friends she does have back in Port-Au-Prince were losing their minds. They couldn’t even remember that “thing” that passed in January that took the little left she had back in Haiti. She remembers seeing the palace broken on CNN with the sobbing Rachel on her lap, whispering “It should have been broken long time ago.”

Andrea kept her long strides, taking in pride in her strong legs and wrinkled free molasses skin.

Her only concern with age were her eyes. Sulaina joked that Haitian women’s eyes held only stories of heartache from corrupt politicians, men who cheat, and children who leave. Andrea’s hazel eyes were deep and blurred. When one stared through them, her blue-green glaucoma rings grabbed one’s attention but one couldn’t go no further through her guarded gaze.

Songs fused into one another once she stopped at the crosswalk of Beverly and New York Avenue. Children walked in pairs singing an old Patois song as they headed to John Steptoe’s Elementary School. Soca blared through the speakers in front of the Trinidadians yearly yard sale. A young man began fixing his car with Haitian kompa thundering down the street. Each sound did not try to outshine the other, just melting into a familiar melody Andrea was so used to.

Sulaina caught up to her, panting heavily by the old woman’s side.

“You look like a sweet grandma.” Sulaina smiled as she took her grandmother’s hand. Andrea tried to free her hand from her granddaughter but that only made Sulaina hold it tighter.

Andrea pursed her lips and cursed underneath her breath, only etching Sulaina’s sly smile wider on her face.

“I love you too Grandma!” Sulaina squeezed her hand and placed her head on the old woman’s shoulder. “Where are we going?”

“Marché en Bas.” The children finally crossed the street but had to wait at the red light on the corner of Beverly and New York Avenue. Andrea left Sulaina’s hand grow lifeless in her own. Andrea knew that Sulaina would not meet her eyes, only fixated on past terrors. “Why that store?”

“Èske ou pè?” her gaze taunted Sulaina to meet her eyes. Sulaina’s hand slipped from Andrea’s grasp and she could feel her granddaughter retreat back into her terrified childhood. Her father wet with rum and sweat, lighting the living room carpet on fire, and attempting to bless a young Sulaina through the sword of Ogoun. Andrea had to call two neighbors to knock down the door. They held the crazed man down, Andrea put out the fire as best she could, and the female loa Ezrulie Dantor holding a terrified Sulaina close to her bosom underneath the bed.

“No,” Sulaina’s brown eyes met hers with a growing fury. “I’m not scared.” Andrea didn’t attempt to comfort her. She didn’t know how. Andrea only knew how to tease out Sulaina’s catharsis since her own pain seemed so buried in the blood soaked soil of Hispaniola.

But Dantor’s fury was blazing behind Sulaina’s eyes, tearing down Andrea’s guard. “It’s for Tonton Jacques, isn’t it?”

Sulaina’s gaze took the breath out of Andrea but she remained stoic. Sulaina has her greatgrandmother’s clairvoyance. That dark night of drunken black magic awakened Sulaina’s fascination and fear for Vodun. The silver man on the crosswalk screen appeared and Andrea was already half way across the street.

“Why didn’t you just say so?!” Sulaina yelled out trying to keep pace.

Nostrand Avenue was approaching, Sulaina was trying to catch up, and Andrea was trying to escape disharmonious chorus of people screaming and gunfire.

Andrea’s Guide to Walking Nostrand Avenue: •

Never get ANYTHING from the Dominican bodega. Racist fat pigs! (grandma, you need caramel for your blood sugar!)

•

The high school dropouts that sell weed for Zoe Pound, the Haitian mafia. Don’t make eye contact. They see Sulaina and begin to whistle and talk to her. Hold her hand and walk faster.

• •

Play bolette (Grandma, isn’t that STILL illegal?)

Hold your breath while passing YoYo Fritaille. The cooks can’t cook for shit yet have a line of white folks folks craving for more “authentic food.” White folks don’t know any better especially with the new fascination with moving to Brooklyn. Don’t be surprised if their culinary grade is still pending on the front window.

•

Ignore the ramblings of the old Haitian men talking politics in front of Lelo’s music store.

Aristide a good president?! Hah! They obviously didn’t see the burned bodies in Martissant 3 years ago. Bullshit politics. They notice Sulaina and sing old love songs. Pull Sulaina closer to you.

•

Wonder if Sulaina should go to the Chinaman and do your laundry. (Will you pay me?)

Silently nod your head and promise revenge.

•

Pull Sulaina back when she wants to walk on red! What is wrong with this girl?! (There are no cars!)

• •

Send Sulaina to get you a mint inside the Arab store on Cortelyou Road.

Pretend that you don’t see Vivian and Patrick Telfort. Shit! They said hi to you. Talk to them about the store back in Port-Au-Prince, your children, your grandchildren. They remember Sulaina. Let Sulaina talk about herself. (Yes I’m studying.. ) Vivian touches Sulaina’s hair and wishes her daughter’s hair was as “soft” as hers. You and Sulaina both bite your tongues. Congratulate them and walk along. (I wanted to punch her.)

•

Buy Café Bustelo from the Koreans on Clarendon Road. Sulaina left her wallet at the apartment and asks you to buy her Haitian mangos. Enact your revenge and say no.

(You mean old woman!)

•

Another Dominican bodega with old Haitian men trying to get younger women. You see “Gerard” and he heads inside the store. It is the usual between the two. America offered escape and a new identity for the tonton macoute. Yet you are that constant reminder of the past. You were the market woman who sold him his usual Cocoa Cola and condoms.

•

END-- Marché en Bas

The storefront remained the same after opening in 1968. The store was a fading yellow with wooden statues to keep bad spirits away, beaded bottles dedicated to various loas, colored scarves for his loa nation, Catholic saints, and bottles of herbal medicines and oils cluttered in the window display. Although it sold the necessities for a usual Vodou ceremony, the store was also notorious in supplying items for those who also used black magic. Michel, the gregarious store owner, was a member of secret sorcerous Makaya society. The infamous society that once try to oust Duvalier. Naming the store “the market downstairs” firmly placed a tongue in cheek for the political Duvalier exile. Life for Haitians on Nostrand was all about blurring the lines between reality and magic after fleeing Duvalier decades ago.

The yellow store front with the fading blue letters hypnotized Andrea, finally stirring something within her that she hadn’t felt in years. C’mon little black pig...the stench of blood and feces filled her nostrils and the harmony of gunfire rang louder in her ears.. Say perejil.

“Grandma...you ok?” Sulaina grasped her grandmother’s shoulder, waking her from her trance.

The color was drained from her face and Andrea took deep breaths but her gaze still remained guarded.

“Ouvè pòt la pou nou ka ale!”

She wasn’t made from Andrea’s mold so Sulaina didn’t utter a smart remark or push further.

She did as told and pushed the door open for Andrea and stepped inside the manufactured realm Michel created to celebrate all loas. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Why did you do that to her? Simbi asked as Dantor followed Andrea and Sulaina inside the store. Dantor wore a red sari today with gold flowers stitched to the bodice. She had a buxom figure that she was proud of. Her hair was braided in two messy French braids and her eyes were the color of amber. The two scars on her cheek didn’t hinder Dantor’s beauty.

It was just Simbi and a few other lower serpent loas with Michel today in the store. Usually Dantor would find a few rowdy Ghedes playing with the items in the occult store. Or at least see Legba sleeping outside the store today with his peasant hat covering his face from the sun. But the store was only housing blue-silver magic that created peace and tranquility. Simbi’s silver-blue body lounged lazily on the shelf with the Kongo drums.

Andrea was beginning to forget Jacques, Dantor said. It was hard for Dantor to execute such a horrific memory lapse for Andrea. The goddess couldn’t forget that fateful day as her servants begged for mercy from the terrors of Trujillo. Dantor saw the blood turn the murky brown river into a black abyss. She helped the Ghedes drag the bodies to the Haitian shore. Dantor wailed and tore her hair out for the thousands of dead men women and children dead from Trujillo’s genocide. She had to watch Andrea cradle Jacques’ mutilated body in her thin brown arms in the water.

Now the woman thinks it was me who did that to her, Simbi yawned. He slithered across the wall to follow Dantor and Sulaina. The girl was looking at the different beaded drapos hanging up by the wall. An eager ouanga left his friends to play a prank on Sulaina. Simbi didn’t have rule over the imps but Dantor shot the imp one vengeful look before he scurried back to his friends.

Simbi’s crystal blue eyes studied Sulaina. I remember her father— He thought he was a houngan, Dantor said. Don’t they all? Dantor smiled. Simbi, the sarcastic water snake, was the only loa that sparred with Dantor with witty verbal skill. I want Sulaina to see her father. She can’t go on living as if he doesn’t exist, Dantor said as she massaged Sulaina’s scalp. She loved Sulaina’s thick soft hair. Gislene was strong in Sulaina. She had her great-grandmother’s joviality and soft hair. Sulaina turned around when Andrea beckoned her to meet Michel behind the cashier.

Well don’t do what you did to Andrea, Simbi decided to coil around Dantor’s neck. He wasn’t as big as Damballah but his lithe long body still draped to the floor. What Sulaina went through was traumatic as well, Simbi nuzzled Dantor’s scared cheek.

Dantor remained silent. Despite Sulaina having clairvoyance, she didn’t have Andrea’s endurance.

Dantor knew that if Sulaina relived that horrible night she would go mad. Gislene went mad after Dantor forced her to confront her rapist. Andrea nearly went mad after the death of Jacques. The problem with women who straddled between the spirit and human worlds was the threadbare boundary of chaos. But the goddess gave the two women enough time to heal.

Every day, Dantor had to watch them go on life without acknowledging the pain that shaped them into warriors that they were today.

Michel gave Andrea her black plastic bag and joked that he had to see Andrea once again before he turned completely senile. Andrea ushered Sulaina towards the door and waved goodbye to him. Dantor petted and kissed Simbi before she placed him back on his shelf.

Goodbye Simbi, Dantor said as she followed the two women out the door. Andrea hated walking Nostrand heading home and made a turn on Avenue D. Dantor followed them in her usual slow steps.

Come back to visit me again, my dear. Simbi yawned and closed his eyes for his daily afternoon nap. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ That night Andrea and Sulaina wore all white dresses and tied their hair with white scarves. On the concrete floor, Andrea set up a small table with a man’s black and white portrait. On the floor, a gold cone shaped kettle was burning a jasmine incense Michel created just for Andrea. The Black Madonna candle was lit right next to his portrait with an unopened bottle of Barbancourt right beside it. The man wore a dark suit and had an oval face with his close hair cut. His right eye focused on them while his lazy eye shifted to the left. Andrea set a bowl of African violets ablaze and sang worthy songs of remembrance and life after death. Andrea chanted the psalms in Kreyòl, with Sulaina bowing her head next to her and holding Andrea’s hand. Andrea stopped singing, forcing herself not to let a tear stroll down her cheek. Andrea decided to break her oath with Legba to honor her obligation to Ezrulie-Dantor.

“My mother took Jacques in before I was born. She needed help around the house and she predicted her death by the time I was 5. By then he found steady work in Dominican Republic on a sugar plantation. I stayed home because I was too young to even do domestic work. I cooked and cleaned the house. We thought that Trujillo’s anti-Black campaign was just for the cities, not for the countryside or slums by the border. His soldiers would pick and choose who to send back to Haiti somehow people found ways to come back. We thought that they were just...”

Andrea didn’t have to say anything else. The gory past began to blur Andrea’s eyesight and Sulaina was able to see where her grandmother’s pain began...

Jacques held Andrea close to him as they waded behind the grass in the river. The river was crowded with floating bodies. The waist deep river was dark with blood and ligaments of the dead. Dominican soldiers teased for Haitians to come out and play with them, singing lullaby songs of pickannines playing in the water. Jacques kept Andrea low, trying to find a way for them to make it to the other side before a solider caught them. They needed to make it home. Before he could even calm Andrea’s fears away, Jacques’ good eye noticed a tall lithe solider come his way.

With his shit-colored uniform was dark with blood, curly blonde hair mated before his glittering blue eyes, he locked eyes with Jacques. He smiled at him, making kissing noises as if Jacques was a dog to play with. His beauty and calm disturbed Andrea.

His beauty disturbed Andrea, making her body shake. Jacques kept his eyes on the incoming enemy and whispered, “You’ll be just fine, Andrea but you’re going to have to be strong.”

“No Ju-ju!” Please!” Andrea saw the angel come closer to them. Jacques squeezed her close, wishing he could give her an assuring look without setting off the solider of Andrea’s presence. He glanced at the floating body in front of him and whispered safe journey to the lost soul so it would hopefully save Andrea’s life.

“Stay low. Use this as a cover to float to the other side. Remember. Slow movements.”

The idea of using the dead frightened Andrea more than death itself. She wrapped her arms around his hips, refusing to let death take him from her. “Ju-ju! Please!”

“Be good. Take a deep breath for me, ok?” he placed a kiss on her forehead. She whimpered but took a huge breath before submerging herself into the murky maroon colored water.

“I see you...” the solider sang with his rifle aimed right at Jacques chest. Jacques steadily stood up with his hands above his head. Jacques felt the water serpent loa Simbi carry Andrea on his back with the dead body floating far from him.

“Now what’s a darkie like you doing in the river at this hour? The border is closed.” He still maintained his melodic voice. He pushed the tip of AK-47 to Jacques’ chest and kept his malicious blue eyes steady on Jacques.

“Now you can save yourself from this pain, darkie.” They both heard his comrade put a bullet between a toddler’s eyes. “Just say perejil.”

Jacques was counting seconds in his head, timing Andrea how long it would take to reach the Haitian shore. Their lessons at nightfall honed her legs and breath. She should be safe from the vicinity as long as she wasn’t caught by a sniper gunman. He could see Erzulie-Dantor standing right behind the solider, her hand stretched to him to finally join Gislene. Please look after her...

C’mon little black pig. Say perejil. Do you want me to help you pronounce it. .?

I remember swimming far out without stopping Andrea’s voice became louder as the solider cocked his gun.

Aww the black pig doesn’t want to say a word. Such a pity..

“I barely slept once I waited on shore with mourning loved ones. We watched for two days of dead bodies falling into the water. When the Haitian officials finally stepped in on the last day, I found his body...the solider riddled his body with bullets.. .” Andrea’s knees buckled underneath her and she shouted. “Ju-ju your eye! Your eye!”

The two knelt side by side in front of Jacques’ photo. Andrea’s body shuddered with long wails and her forehead touched the cold concrete. Years of anguish shook her body. Sulaina closed her eyes, letting the tears stroll down her face. Her grandmother’s powerful admission made Sulaina envision her meeting with her father at Bellevue hospital tomorrow. How his cracked smile and broad hands would attempt to build back their deteriorated relationship.

The candles blew out from a peculiar wind. The hot aura that engulfed Sulaina when her father went mad began to waver. Frightened, Sulaina placed her hands on her grandmother’s frozen body. “C’mon Grandma. Let’s go back inside.”

Andrea slowly lifted her head and frowned at the altar. Her blue-green dark eyes stared right through Sulaina, as if they were meeting for the first time.

“Ki moun ou ye?”

Glossary of Terms Damballah – the rainbow serpent loa. Seen as the ancestral link to West Africa in Vodou. Bolette – a numbers game that has the same rules as the lotto. Ezrulie-Dantor – the loa of women, motherhood, and children. Erzulie-Freda – the coquettish loa of sensuality.

Ghede – a loud and boisterous clan of loas that bury and lead the dead. Grimelle – an individual with light skin. Gréf – dark skin individual with long straight hair Houngan – vodou priest Makaya – a certain sect of Vodou that serves Simbi and all its different manifestations. Mambo – female priestess Loa – spirits in Vodou religion. They are seen as intermediaries between humans and God. Perejil – the Spanish term for parsley. The term was used during the Haitian massacre in October 1937 to test Haitians and those who were dark skinned if they could roll their Rs. In Haitian Kreyòl, there is no rolling of the R in the alphabet.

Simbi – the water-snake loa. He is usually associated with magic, dark and white magic.

Tonton Macoute – Francois “Papa Doc” Duvalier’s paramilitary force in Haiti. Known for their brutality against the masses and Papa Doc’s opponents. Tonton Macoute is Uncle Gunnysack in Kreyòl and refers to a bogeyman that steals children in his gunnysack.