You Are Invited To Relinquish Control
Total exposure, on land and at sea
I feel different today. A freshman in college, in a salon, I sense my foreignness reflect in the contortions of this blonde woman’s face as she tries with a great deal of effort to manage my hair. My mother stands by and offers suggestions. The hairdresser nods, but she doesn’t understand. She can’t fathom why this dark wad of what should be hair won’t behave and straighten. I could see her gears turning. She was using the hottest straightening tool they owned, and nothing was happening. How odd.
At first I was amused. I walked into a room full of people, none of whom resembled the person I was used to seeing in the mirror. I’d thought, “It will be fun to see these hairdressers make an attempt at doing my hair.” A social experiment or something.
My amusement fades quickly. The woman trying her best to work with my hair whispers to another worker. By this time, everyone in the shop knows that “different” is present. I see the other patrons in the room glancing at me out of the sides of their eyes. My reflection seems distorted in the mirror. I recoil.
I know the onlookers mean no harm. At least, I hope so. But they are definitely part of the problem. They are the enemy. Or are they? I wonder whether they would rather have “different” go away, to stop grating against the nice and neat world they prefer to perceive.
Where amusement once sat, anger emerges. How can this woman refer to herself as a professional hair stylist and not know how to do all types of hair? Should I just get up and leave? Why is my hair so nappy, so kinked and coiled? Why do I even need my hair done? It’s fine the way it is in its natural state. I’m just going to leave. My anger grows like a giant wave, swelling before crashing on the shore—and then, all at once, my anger turns into embarrassment.
My face runs hot. Maybe it will be enough heat to completely disintegrate me. Poof. I’d be invisible. No more eyes darting my way. My ears tingle, and I could feel a lump forming in the back of my throat. I’m embarrassed to be different. I’m embarrassed by my hair. I’m embarrassed by my skin. I’m embarrassed for being Black.
I’m backed into a corner, suffocating. I look around and motion for my mother to come closer. She is standing behind me, beside the hairdresser. I say “please, let’s go.” She throws a confused look. I repeat myself: “please, let’s go.” I struggle to get the words out. I fear I’ll burst into tears.
I pull away from the hairdresser, get up from my seat, and leave an incoherent apology about being an inconvenience trailing behind me. I’m apologizing for being different. I’m apologizing for existing.
My mother pays the woman, though I’m leaving with a head full of hair resembling that of a clown. I can feel my mom’s stare, as she tries to decipher all that was going on in my head. She can tell I’m bothered, but to what extent, I do not think she knows. At that moment, self-hate sprouts within me. It sets up camp.
I was raised in church—a “pew baby.” Dynamic and vibrant choir choruses, stained glass windows, blue jean skirts, and prayer meetings in Detroit filled my childhood. Church was our home away from home, and the congregants were our extended family.
If a church service went too long, and you intended to attend the next service, rather than go home, there were two separate lounges, one for men, the other for women. You could change your clothes, take a nap on the couches, or watch TV. I remember the afternoons, curled up on the carpet with a pillow listening to the women of the church discuss that morning’s sermon, or laugh about the growing hole that had appeared in someone’s tights.
During the summer, a friend and I would plot to ensure we had our sleepover time. After asking permission from her mom, I’d smuggle her into the backseat of my family’s vehicle without a word. My mother would turn around to see her smiling face in the backseat and, privy to our schemes, would simply inquire what day she had to be back home. We were a community. We cared for each other.
I talked to God in the privacy of my room, on my knees at church, and at our family Saturday prayers. I talked to Him about the little and big things, the safety of my friends, my yearning to wear glasses just like my dad.
In college, I made a conscious decision to stop going to church all together. I was eighteen and I had just moved out of my parents’ house. I was used to attending church, but I wasn’t sure why I needed it. I threw myself into unhealthy relationships, used my body as a pawn. I denied what I determined to be useless traditions of modesty and chasteness and just had “fun.” On the cusp of adulthood, I partied late, experienced many firsts. Drinks flowed and music blared at dimly lit house parties. I danced until I dropped.
One night, the party had waned, and I made my way to my dorm. The street was quiet and barren. I walked toward the opposite side of campus. There were only a few cars parked on the street and the trees swayed in the gentle breeze. I didn’t resemble the person I used to be.
I isolated myself. In my dorm room, I prayed that I would find community. Then, one rainy evening while studying for a test, a stranger shared a study room with me. She invited me to a bible group.
By day I worked and attended class. By night I played praise music and listened to the bible. I intentionally avoided the people with whom I’d spent late fruitless nights. During my time of prayer and meditation, sometimes on my knees, other times curled up in bed, I wrote a list of specific attributes and characteristics I wanted in a mate, then asked God for them. I journaled about my desire to travel, to be a writer.
I had fewer friends, but I had a better understanding of who I was, who I wasn’t, and the potential of who I could become. I enrolled in a study abroad program, secured financing, and then headed for a five-month voyage around the world, on a ship.
The vastness of the sea makes you feel small. Cultivating a new and temporary community takes effort. At the mercy of nature and all its forces, you are invited to relinquish control.
I’d been nervous to live for five months in a small space with a complete stranger. But Hailey was quirky, energetic, and kind. She had long brown hair and she looked like a Disney princess. We spent late nights watching movies and talking. Christians from different backgrounds, we challenged each other on scriptural interpretation—what it meant to “be saved,” or the virtues of modesty. One Saturday, we woke up late and missed breakfast. From our room, we sang hymns we both knew and grew up with.
Between ports, we studied world music, local foods, history, and literature. Weekends, I watched classics like Casablanca, did a CrossFit or yoga routine on the deck at sunset or sunrise. Other times, I sat in a lounge chair or at a table, writing and staring out at the water.
The small Black community on the ship grew close. I operated as I always had, connecting and finding security with those who looked like me, while venturing out toward those who shared my humor and faith. Hailey and I became friends with a small group of girls. Amid homestays on land, we would often grab a bite, enjoying the pizza, hamburgers, salads, the occasional wine.
We existed on a ship in our own microcosm, a little world that allowed me to see and redefine how I fit in into the bigger one. I realized the importance of a simple hug. Growing up in an affectionate family, I never knew how much I needed physical contact. But then, for a few days, I felt “off” and isolated. I hugged a girl who hated hugs, yet embraced mine. In small revealing glimpses, I saw myself.
Journaling along the way, I came to treasure the differences that make this world our home. How the world is large, yet how humanity connects us all. We each experience joy, embarrassment, sadness, and even hate. I came to see how every person has two perspectives on themselves. One, based on the viewpoints of those around us. The other, based on the way in which we see ourselves.
On the last major leg of the journey, I kept with a sailors’ tradition. It was “Neptune Day,” which dictated that I shave my head bald after crossing the equator. Classes were canceled, replaced with food, music and silly rituals, like jumping in the pool and swimming across it after having supposed fish guts poured over you. Many of the boys on the ship gladly shaved their head, but only a handful of the girls did. Hailey declined, but documented my experience with glee.
A crowd of onlookers surrounded me. As each loc fell from my head, I gained freedom. I didn’t realize until that moment how much of my identity I held in my hair. The invisible veil over my insecurities lifted. With a bald, cold, exposed head, and what felt like nothing else to hide behind, all I had to offer those around me was me. All I had to offer was my life experiences, my chocolate skin, a quirky free-spirited personality, my love for the Lord. I had to rest in that truth. I had to breathe it in, and exhale it. ▩