I am four years old.
But when I play this memory back, I realize that Ive misremembered.
It was not my mother braiding my hair, but my aunt.
Sonya Clark (American, born 1967),The Hair Craft Project: Hairstyles on Canvas, 2014, silk threads, beads, shells, and yarn on canvas, nine at 29 × 29 inches and two at 33 × 33 inches.
I think of braiding my own daughters hair, extending this web of connection.
Braids are an act of love and nurturing, of communion and connection.
Braids are also a sign of tribal affiliation.
A right of passage.
An embrace of Blackness.
A form of protest.
A celebration of culture.
An act of resistance.
A map to freedom.
A source of stigma.
A place to rest.
I think of all the ways in which braids are woven into the story of my life.
I am 16 years old.
Shes there again at the next appointment and the next.
As a toddler wearing twists with beads on the end.
A preschooler with an Afro puff and braided bangs.
A fourth-grader with box braids on her way to summer camp.
I am eight years old.
But where her skin color matches mine, the texture of her hair does not.
I am 22 years old.
I am 26 years old.
On a ski trip, I find myself hopelessly lost.
My fingers are numb, my map is disintegrating; I dont ask questions, just follow along.
A big group of Black skiers on an annual trip, theyve mistaken me for one of their own.
Thanks to my braids, I am part of their group.
I am 33 years old.
I am 20, 25, 35 years old.
Solidarity every time I compliment another woman with braids and every time she returns the compliment.
The strange and beautiful symmetry of seeing yourself in other people, of other people seeing themselves in you.
