Braids

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Why I Won't Wear Braids Around White People

I have curly hair.

Yeah, I'm a mix, a "breed", sort of a fringe indian, not even quite half & half but one of your urban blends, white/indian/black, difficult to peg. People are always asking me if I'm Greek.

To accompany my hair I have a big nose with a high bridge, high cheekbones, deep brown eyes, adobe skin, thick lips, freckles. I'm what they like to call "exotic", which means white guys hit on me for a thrill. Racially indeterminate, I could pass for about anything and choose not to. I embrace my racial ambiguity because it protects me from the kind of ignorant commentary that comes when I do something that highlights my predominantly indian features, namely, wear my hair in braids. When my hair is loose it surrounds my head, a nimbus, my own staticky black storm cloud. Pulled tightly  to the sides of my head and trained downward into braids, suddenly my previously mysterious features come together and people go "Ah! Of course!" and immediately call me Squanto.

I don't (usually) braid my hair to look more indian. I braid my hair because it's an easy, comfortable style that stays put for three days (or until I wash my hair) and mitigates the otherwise always-imminent danger of entangling small birds and other wildlife in my voluminous mane. I think part of the problem is that when people see two glossy black braids dangling at the sides of my head, the Hollywood image of the Old Western indian comes to mind. The obvious solution for me would be to braid my hair in a single thick plait in back, but I've just never managed to learn that particular trick. It seems, when I attempt it, to require the flexibility of a contortionist and the stamina of Atlas.

Last time I braided my hair at work, I heard, in addition to "Squanto", two references to Sacajawea and several to the newly popular (thanks, Disney) Pocahontas. Yes, I realize these are the grounds for a racial harrassment lawsuit, but these words came from people who are really very decent, if unoriginal. I couldn't sue them. I like them. I couldn't even respond with the unpleasant bluntness the situation called for. I merely smiled stupidly while vowing to never wear my hair like this in public again. Yet, when invited to meet a friend of a friend, who sported some moniker like "Raindance Moonwolf" and claimed to have herself a Hopi medicine man for a spirit guide, I deliberately broke out the braids and threw in some turquoise beads to boot. Suddenly I was a Scary Real Indian, not the kind of girl she could throw around her pretend Medicine powers at. Poor little thing didn't say more than two words to me and shortly thereafter changed her name back to Cindy, or whatever it was to begin with.

Squanto, Sacajawea and Pocahontas don't deserve the disrespect of being equated with a hairstyle, and I suppose that avoiding the issue doesn't do anything to correct the problem. However, for the time being, I've decided that the braids will only come out when I'm around people who won't unknowingly disparage my relatives with dopey tomohawk references. Am I a coward? maybe so. When cowardice protects my dignity and allows me to use my energy toward real change in other situations, I think I'm OK with it. On the other hand, me using my braid power to cow the blatant misrepresentation of things Indian is in a way a misrepresentation in itself. I have ambivalent feelings about this. I'm no more nor less indian when I wear my hair in braids, and I wonder why people seem quieter around me, less chatty, sometimes more submissive and sometimes less respectful. What does it mean that they treat me differently when they perceive me as more indian? Is it racism or humility? And WHY humility, if that's what it is? I sometimes embarrass myself with these questions, because I don't want to be a race or an element in racial issues. I just want to be ME, young sassy urban momma to my baby, wife to my man, reliable but sometimes defiant employee, good friend, sister, daughter, girl with big hair who walks to the bus stop every morning at seven, gardener, neighbor, tinkerer-with-computers, me.

But race is in everybody's face, literally, and my ancestors are queuing up behind me "tsk-tsk"ing me if I don't stop sometimes to wonder what the deal is and how I can make it better. So I keep on wondering, and if in the meantime I mostly keep my hair loose, who, really, can blame me?