Hair

I know it’s been forever since I posted last…sorry.  Been busy.  I could bore you with all the things we’ve been doing, about how much we have going on, all that, but really, we’re not any more busy than you are, so I won’t insult you by trying to insist that we are.  To be honest, that’s why I haven’t written in a while.  Not necessarily because I’m trying to wrap up grad school (which…Committee Chair willing…I should be done in May), but because I don’t want this blog to become some forced mundane chore.  If it does, it’ll read as such, and that’s as boring to read as it is to write.  And as time goes on and stories build up, it’s like a junk drawer that needs to be cleaned out.  I know it needs to be done, but I don’t know where to start, so I just shove more crap in it and jam it shut.  Stories from the holidays are in that drawer.  Funny little snapshots of the kids’ life are in there too.  But really, do you want to watch someone clean out their junk drawer?  My guess is no.  So I won’t subject you to that exercise.  I mean, I can’t even get the damn thing open…it’s caught on bulky bit of hilarity.  I’d have to work my hand in and push it down to even wriggle the drawer loose. So I’m just going to promise myself that I won’t start another junk drawer.  I’ll try get myself organized and put things away as they come.  We’ll see how that goes.

What sparked me to sit down and write this entry, even though it’s getting late and it’ll upset my morning routine (which if you’ve been reading this blog, you know how important routines are to me), is a little bit on the same thread as the post “The Continuing Education of a White Foster Dad.”  This is not, however, some over-arching observation about race.  I will not pontificate on how “we” should feel about such things.  This is just a personal experience with no merit of general application to everyone.  But due to our unique situation, I doubt it is something many people have experienced, so I hope you find it interesting.

And not like watching someone clean out their junk drawer.

Today, like every Wednesday this semester, I picked the girls up from school as Amy teaches a late afternoon class.  I walked into the school cafeteria where the girls have their after-school daycare to find one of them diligently coloring a picture while the other played one of those rhyming hand-clap games with her friend.  When they saw me come in, they both jumped up, yelled “Daddy!”, and ran to me as fast as they could.  Their foreheads knocked the wind out of me as they collided with my belly (glad they’re getting taller, because my man parts were taking a beating).  I hugged them and told them to get their stuff so we could go.  They did so slowly, meandering about, talking to other kids, giving hugs to their friends, etc, until they finally came to the door with their coats and backpacks. 

In the car, I asked Mo how she had done on her multiplication test for sixes.  She rattled them off faster than I could remember them myself (I’ve never been that good at multiplication tables) and she reminded me that the test wasn’t until Friday, but she was ready.  I felt a little warmth of pride in my chest at that.  We’ve been working with her on multiplication for a while now, prodding her to make flashcards and what not so she could ace these tests, even though she moaned and sulked at the kitchen table while doing them. 

“Are you glad we made you study those flash cards?” I asked.  She sighed, responded with a drawn out “yeeeeeees,” and then giggled. 

This weekend we’re building a model volcano for her science class.  Third grade is where the rubber meets the road, man.

As we’re driving, Shay asked what we were having for dinner.  As it is Wednesday and Amy isn’t home until later, dinner is at my discretion.  Amy had already planned out a meal, so I told them I was going to make this chicken pot pie casserole thing that we have on occasion.  The part they love about this meal is the fact that we use flattened crescent rolls for the top crust, and we always have a little left in the tube to make little desert rolls with chocolate in the middle.  Problem was, we didn’t have any chocolate at home. 

“Let’s stop by the dollar store and get some on the way home!” cried Mo. 

“Fine,” I sighed. 

A few blocks later I pulled into the Dollar General.

As we walk through the automatic doors, we see a candy island no more than four feet in front of us.  We walk to it.  The girls grab a Hershey’s bar with almonds in it.  I tell them they want the regular chocolate bar, not the one with almonds.  They agree and grab the plain milk chocolate bar. 

I turn directly to my left, and there’s an African American checkout clerk staring at us.  We walk up to the counter and I hand her the bar.  She looks down at the girls, who are grinning their gap-toothed grins, and she smiles back at them.  She says, “Aw, look at you girls!  You all gettin’ some chocolate?  You all sure are pretty!”

And then, in the same breath, she glances at me sideways and says something Amy and I hear all…the…time.

“You gotta fix their hair though.”

God damn it.

I quickly look down at the girls, who’ve now quit moving all around and just stood frozen, looking back at me with their eyes wide and their mouths open.  She ignores the uncomfortable silence and says, “I’m a hairstylist.  You know, for black people.  And I can help you with their hair.”

Then she reaches down and palms my child’s head, squishing her hair and feeling it.

“Yeah, I can fix that.”

It’s no secret that African American hair is very different from Caucasian hair.  Our learning curve has had to be steep when it comes to that.  At first, we were wiiiiide open to suggestions.  Last summer, when I took the girls down to San Antonio for our foster parent agency’s annual Texas Round Up, we went to Six Flags.  Shay and I were in line for a roller coaster (again, if you’ve been reading these posts, you know why I was in line with only Shay and not Mo, who was with some other people in the kiddie part of the park) behind a couple of twenty-something black girls.  They were funny, stylish, and really interested in Shay.  They talked to her and joked with her.  They noticed her tee shirt which read, “A World for Children,” (which was advertised at the front of the park as a foster agency), saw me and put two and two together.  They overheard me tell Shay that no, she couldn’t go to the pool when we got back to the hotel, because we had somewhere to go immediately following the park (a friend’s wedding…the trip was a two-fer) because I didn’t want to spend another two hours getting a brush through her hair.  Upon hearing this, the two twenty-something’s spun around and started talking to me about products, oils, treatments, etc, that would help.  And I was really, really appreciative.  Because Shay’s hair is the thickest thing you’ve ever seen, and it was getting out of control.  We simply had no idea how to treat it correctly. 

Since that first conversation, I’ve had numerous unsolicited encounters like this, and they are getting less and less charming.  Over Christmas, Amy had an obviously agitated woman approach her at a Kansas City mall and start dressing her down about how “terrible” the girls’ hair looked. 

In front of the girls.

 Apparently the woman was a former foster kid who had been raised by people who didn’t know how to treat African American hair.  She had seen our girls and felt that she just had to say something. 

I’m surprised Amy stayed as calm as she did and didn’t come back with a fresh pair of scratched-out eyeballs in her pockets.

After the conversation, Mo said, “I don’t know why she said our hair looked so bad.  That was rude.  I think it looks fine!  You’re doing a good job, Mom!”

A week or two later, when the girls’ were being evaluated by a couple of therapists as part of the adoption process, Amy spoke privately with one of them.  She told one of the therapists about these frequent encounters.

“We’re doing the best we can, and I don’t think the girls’ hair looks that bad.  I mean it’s always fixed nice when they go to school, but when they come home, it’s all over the place because they’ve been playing!  Their hair has come a long way since they have come to live with us.”

The therapist smiled and said, “Hair is something a person can talk about in public.  When people comment on their hair, it’s really about something else.  And listen…you don’t have to explain yourself to anyone.  Those girls are loved, safe, and going to school.  If hair is their biggest problem, then they’re doing okay.”

Amy and I thought about that a while.  Why were we so sensitive when a black person commented on the girls’ hair?  Why couldn’t we just shrug it off?  I think the answer to that is kinda obvious.

It isn’t about the hair.

We were worried about how we were being judged by black people when they saw us with the girls, even if we didn’t really realize it. 

Like we were walking into some country club with bar coupons.

But as true as this feeling is, it’s more than that.  It isn’t even about how we are perceived by the African American community.  We don’t expect to get a “club card.” 

We were (and to some extent, are) far more nervous about how the girls will feel amongst other black girls who have been raised in African American homes since birth.

Will they always feel bad about “their hair?” 

That’s why my blood began to boil as I saw this woman run her fingers over Shay’s scalp.  Because I knew what she was thinking, and I knew how she was making Shay feel.  Like only someone of her own color could understand…

…her “hair.”

“I do cornrows, braids, all that stuff,” she said, pulling her hand away.

I gathered myself, smiled, and said, “The girls don’t like the tight braids.  We’ve asked them and they said no.”

“Well,” she said, “I do other stuff too.  I can make them look pretty if you want.  Here’s my info.  I can do their hair every two weeks.  That’s what they need.” She proceeded to write out her info on a receipt.  She referenced herself on the receipt as, “A.K.A. Shugga Momma.”

Nope.

Through clenched teeth I said “thanks” and put the receipt in my pocket.  She eyed the kids again, smiled, looked at me and said,

“Thanks for taking such good care of them.”

I know what she meant.  She didn’t mean it the way it sounded, and she didn’t know the history between me and Amy and the girls.  She was probably actually trying to be nice.  I know that.  But the undertones were there, ones she didn’t even know she was projecting.  For all she knew I was some white guy that was part of Big Brothers Big Sisters and was spending some awkward, obligatory time with the girls.  But it was pejorative.  Like she was patting me on the head and saying, “Aww, isn’t this cute, a white guy trying to play Daddy with some black kids.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I said, thanks for taking such good care of them.”

Again, I knew her heart was in the right place even if her perceptions were not.

I took a breath, said, “They aren’t on loan or something.  I’m not babysitting.  These are my children.  Of course I’m taking good care of them.”  I said it with a little exasperated laugh, so it didn’t come out as harsh as it sounds, but I heard the blood in my ears rushing and I’ll bet she did too.  She didn’t say anything else, just smiled, and then told me to call her for a hair appointment.

Back in the car, the girls asked me why I was so quiet.  I told them that it wasn’t anything, just that I loved them and wanted them to be happy.  “Do you kids want your hair styled every two weeks?” I asked.  “Would that be better?”  The silence from the back seat was palpable.

“Yes,” said Shay in a meek voice. 

“Okay then.  We’ll do that.  But not from ‘Shugga Momma,’ okay?  We’ll find something.”

“Yaaay!”

Back at home, I cooked that pot pie thingy along with the chocolate crescent rolls.  Then Mo and I went through the sevens on her multiplication tables.

And damn it, she knows them.  Regardless of her hair. 

Because we give a shit.

So not to end this on such a serious note, the other weekend I saw Shay sitting in the living room alone, talking to someone.

“Who are you talking to?” I asked.

“My shadow.  His name is Yoki-man.  He follows me around and I talk to him.”

For those of you who know me well, you probably understand how freaked I got.

“Oh, God, Shay, don’t talk to your shadow.  That’s so weird…ugh…”

“Yoki-man, do you like Daddy?”

Silence.

Then she giggled.  “But why not?”

“Aaah!  Shay!  Stop it!  That’s so scary you have no idea!”

Shouldn’t have said that, because she spent the next few hours waiting for me to walk in on her talking to “Yoki-man.”  Just trying to scare me.  I swear to God, this kid is demented.  Mo rolled her eyes at her, looked at me and said,

“She’s just trying to freak you out.”

Well, it worked.