we've come so far...

I sit, twisting my hair, typing and thinking. My hair, a loose connection to a past I'll never truly know, and I'm just realizing trying to capture. 200 years ago, I imagine some great-ancestor of mine, slowly, painfully, tiredly twisting her hair in an ancient bedtime ritual. To not twist, meaning a mixture of harsh sunlight, sweat & dirt creating a tangled bedtime mixture impossible to comb. To twist, creating pretty black coils, occasionally let down for the enjoyment of some fleeting husband-lover. I think, "would she let it down briefly for him to touch, and redo it before she went to bed? or take it down and leave it all night long, his small treasure, and put it back up in the morning?"

Funny, how all things come full circle. Here I sit, slave to none except a demanding lifestyle, twisting my hair as she did. Am I freer than she? Hahahaha...let me quit my job, and relinquish these material possessions and see. Sometimes I have a Black Panther Moment, think to myself that my colleagues and I are little better than a bunch of house niggas, debating intellectually about "protecting company assets" and "retaining your stock" and "showing the company your loyatly"...how silly. We're arguing about making contributions to the "right" organizations, creating the "proper" political affiliations, making sure that we work "long & hard" so that our "efforts are appreciated". I have a much better understanding of why the Panthers resented the bourgeoisie so much. They stole the movement's fire, took the momentum out of it, with their placating words about "working within the system". The system still oppresses us, and yet we still feed the corporate machine, with our manipulations, machinations, scheming, and political correctness. We still try so hard to assimilate, that we convince ourselves that our mere presence is enough to change the way things are.

My hair's only half twisted now, more typing than twisting, ha. Back to my original train, I still wonder about that connection. Would I, could I have survived? Sunrise, fielding and picking, shoveling and sweating. No sense of stability, hope no more than to hold onto your family, husband-lover, children only until they got big enough to be work-worthy? We clung to each other then, cleaved onto our soulmate, and held on for dear, precious life, because that was the little solace we had. Now, I cleave onto my cellphone, and hope Mr. Loverman calls. I wonder what our ancestors think about that?

And my sisters, lawd. I know that some, most maybe, think of me as little more than a pickaninny. A throwback to the early 1900's, to when we couldn't keep our hair straight, or only those who could afford it did. Before Madame Walker, and The Lye. I picture myself there, and see the connection again...the reactions I get now, the stares, the chatter. Lawd, they rarely wait until I can get outta earshot. It used to bother me. Now, only occasionally. I think it sad mostly, for most assume that I can't afford straight (not true), can't afford weave (also not true), or care so little about my appearance that I'm willing to settle for, well this. That, which is more untrue than most. I have moments when I love my hair, and moments when I don't want to be bothered with it. But rarely a moment when I want it straight. And for those moments, I have a straightening comb, and Mrs. Lillian's phone numbers (oh she will ole skool fry, dye & lay to the side, don't play).

3/4 twisted, and my thoughts are returning to the present. I didn't change my hair to make a political statement. I just wanted to get rid of the perm, to let my hair grow. So did concsiousness creep up on me? Or am I still the same shallow, materialistic chick I ever was, wrapped up in a naptural, concsious shell? Who knows? I just know I have about 5 twists to go...