Black Hair Gon Gitcha

Issue #52 Keith’s SciFi Musings June 25, 2023

A few weeks ago, on June 8, the Michigan Legislature passed the CROWN Act, which basically is a law that allows Black people to look like Black people. Seriously. That’s what it boils down to; when you have to pass legislation permitting Black people to wear their hair the way their hair actually looks before a hot comb lands on it, then that is saying that a law is required to permit some people to be themselves.

So that’s bullshit. I mean, I’m glad the Michigan Legislature passed the legislation, and I’m glad Gov. Whitmer signed that legislation into law. Sure. But if, in 2023, we still have to get permission from white folks to be who we are? I mean…

Anyway, it all got me to thinking about this story I wrote a while back in Detroit Stories Quarterly called Dread. The title, as you may have noticed is a play on words; ‘dread’, as in dreadlocks, and dread, as in fear. Of dreadlocks and any and all forms of Black hair. Because Black folks acting like themselves is a powerful thing, and it is most definitely a threat to white supremacy.

Here’s a bit of Dread for you. If you like it, I hope you’ll consider picking up DSQ Vol. 3, the Winter 2019 / Spring 2020 issue where it’s located. Lot of other good stories in there too.

The Schoolyard Incident

My dreads weren’t always so aggressive. Matter of fact, I didn’t even know they were special until I was seven years old. That was when the ‘incident’ happened in school, and my parents had to sit me down and explain a few things to me about what to expect the rest of my life. I still remember the look on Mom’s face when she came to pick me up at the principal’s office.

Mom was what you would call a ‘full-sized  woman’ with a warm brown face; she rarely spoke unless she had to, but she always had this aura about her that let you know this was not a woman you wanted to fuck with unless you didn’t care what happened next.

But on that Friday morning at the principal’s office she looked more exhausted than anything else. I felt sorry for her, because I knew somehow this was all my fault—even though I had no idea how I could have prevented it.

I was as confused and terrified as everyone else, but then maybe not as scared as my teacher, Miss Cane. Or Tommy. I remember Tommy couldn’t stop screaming, even after Miss Cane started shaking him. When I walked over to say I was sorry—that I didn’t know how it had happened, that it had never happened before— Miss Cane just yelled for me not to come any closer.

“You’ve done enough you little freak!” she screamed, making me stumble backward a few steps.

As young as I was, I could hear more fear in that yell than anger. My own elementary school teacher was scared to death of me. Maybe I should have been proud of scaring her. I truly hated that woman.

As for Tommy—I didn’t even know Tommy’s last name. I wasn’t interested in knowing anything about him. He was short, fat, greasy, and specialized in being a bully—that was all I needed to know. Whenever we had recess on the playground, it was like Tommy got unleashed. None of the teachers ever paid any attention to what he did to the rest of us. They just let him run around and push, shove and kick the rest of us to his little fat heart’s delight. The one time I approached Miss Cane about Tommy’s behavior, she looked down at me disapprovingly before she wagged her finger in my face, cautioning me not to be a tattle-tail.

“But Miss Cane! He…”

“What did I just tell you, Mr. Frost!”

And for a slow procession of weeks and months, that was how recess went.

Until that one day…

It was late in the school year when you could feel winter starting to get restless wanting to take its turn. A couple of my friends and I were seeing who could kick the ball backwards over our head the farthest. Just being able to do this had already set us apart as being recognizably cooler than some of the other kids—like Tommy.

Anyway, I was busy focusing my concentration on kicking this white soccer ball so hard that it would wish no kid would ever kick it again. My friend James had just kicked the ball the farthest and I was determined to outkick him if it was the last thing I did. None of us had been paying any attention to Tommy, because why would we? But Tommy was on his way to changing all that as his rotundness bore down on us like an angry bowling ball set on exploding a bunch of hapless pins. James tried to warn me about the reckoning headed my way, but it was too late.

“Jack, look out!”

“Huh…?”

That was the last thing I said before Tommy suddenly appeared in the corner of my eye. I felt him crash into me, knocking the air out of my lungs and slamming my body into the dirt. As he landed on top of me, he started swinging at my head for no apparent reason other than that that he could. I drew myself up into a tight knot and started hollering for him to stop. For a while it seemed like the beating would go on forever.

Until it didn’t.

First there came a stinging sensation in my scalp

that kept getting hotter—then I heard the screaming, which sounded like it was coming from far, far away. What was such a big deal it could make Tommy stop swinging on me?

The screams got louder in a rush, and somehow I knew they had something to do with me. I pulled my hands away from my face and opened my eyes real slow. That was when I saw Tommy, all covered in bloody tears. I couldn’t make any sense of it, but he was all wrapped up in these thick black ropes, squeezing and tearing at him. He was writhing and kicking, his eyes all bugged out and wild. Looking back, I’m guessing it was denial, but at the time I couldn’t figure out the origin of those things that were squeezing him.

My eyes found James again but James turned and ran—and I mean he was running away fast. Most of the other kids were running away too, or just stood there dumbstruck, staring at Tommy writhing on the ground. Miss Cane and the other teachers in the yard were trying to order the kids back inside the building, but this was hard for them to enforce—they seemed afraid to take their eyes off of me. Miss Cane pointed with one of those long, bone-white fingers of hers and commanded me to stop what I was doing to Tommy. She tried to keep her voice stern, but it was cracking and shrill.

What did she mean, what I was doing to Tommy?

Meanwhile, two of the black ropes had pried open Tommy’s puckered little mouth and slithered down his throat. Several more had wrapped themselves around his body so tight that he couldn’t move. Miss Cain was still shouting for me to stop hurting Tommy.

But hadn’t she seen what happened? It was Tommy who had run across the playground to blindside me. It was Tommy who had knocked me over into the dirt and knocked the wind out of my lungs. Did she have any idea how much that hurt? Or did she just not care?

As I felt my anger toward Miss Cane intensify, the ropes seemed to lose interest in Tommy, slowly unwrapping themselves from around him. The black, hairy tentacles retracted from his throat, and he coughed and spluttered uncontrollably.

They were refocusing their attentions on Miss Cane.

“Oh my God…” she squeaked, as she backed away.

“What the hell are you?”