Being an African American in America is hard for some, but I’m blessed to have been shielded from the madness. I look different from those around me, causing me to grow and love all people. Why? Because it’s the right thing to do. Why? Because we’re all humans, and we all bleed red.  M&Ms all have chocolate in them, but look different on the outside. Do you refuse to eat the blue M&Ms? No, you eat by the hand-full because M&Ms are great; you don’t know what color you’re eating. I say this to say: Black History Month is here, and I am excited.

Black History Month is the time of the year where BET cranks out movies about Black Love, the History Channel makes documentaries about the abolition of slavery, and ABC’s David Muir references Harriet Tubman in one of his  “Good News of the Day” sections. But what does Black History mean to me? I’m glad you asked.

To me, Black History Month is about flexing my black beauty. It’s about wearing my best African attire to church and reading the Responsive Reading about African heros.  It’s about learning how I get to have the rights I have, and how people died for me to submit my ballot. It’s about loving me. But it hasn’t always been easy. I haven’t always flexed. Before the light, there is always darkness.

My darkness comes with attending public school. There hasn’t always been other kids with my skin color around me.  I remember growing up with my hair in twisties, being that was the best way to manage my hair. Being a little girl with my main focus on fun, I paid no mind.  However, when I got closer to middle school, I wanted to be more like my peers.

I wanted my hair straight. So, my mother took me to my Aunt Helen’s house to have my hair straightened with a hot comb. This is a metal comb, put on the eye of the stove, heated, then combed through my hair.  I had to have a lot of protective “hair grease” or “oil” put on my hair to keep it from burning. I remember Aunt Helen taking a section of hair, slathering the grease on it, then feeling the pull of the comb, hearing the sizzle of the grease, and seeing the smoke gather towards the kitchen light. We had to open a window so the smoke wouldn’t carry into the rest of the house.

Since my mother didn’t like the look of bone straight hair, I had my hair curled. Aunt Helen would put the curlers on the stove, let it heat, and if my mother had gone home to wait, she would pick up the curlers, grab it by one handle, and sling it around like a helicopter to cool it a tad... a fascinating but dangerous trick, being that grease would fly around and sting any exposed skin. Then she would clamp it to my hair and pull and pull and pull.  Then I would hear a little “click click click” of the curlers curling. At the end, my hair looked beautiful. I received compliments from my family and from church, some saying I looked like Shirley Temple. I liked it. I liked this feeling.

At night, I would have to put curlers in my hair to keep the curls from mashing in my sleep. My curls lasted for about a week. They were beautiful, but the grease got everywhere - on my pillow, on the couch cushions, on the window when I fell asleep in the car. I didn’t like this.  At school, some of the girls would lay on each other, a harmless move, but I kept my head up. One time I decided to take my hair down and fix it like I saw other girls do, and a girl behind me said, “Whoa, her hair stayed!” She and another girl talked about it for a while. This hurt me deep in my soul. I was still different. My hair was naturally kinky, so of course it wouldn’t lay completely down.

As I hit my pre-teen stage, a new rave came over African American hair. People were going “natural.” This was when you decided to stop putting heat on your hair and start wearing your natural hair. My mother was hesitant at first, but persistence is key my friends; persistence is key! We did our reasearch, and as I entered high school, I was going natural.

As I look back on it, what was I thinking? I was walking around with this huge ‘fro, probably the reason I was always seated in the back of class. I was confident though, and no one could talk me down, not even my parents. I soon found out I had skipped an important step: The Big Chop. This was when you cut off the heat damaged hair, to then wear the hair that came from the root. My hair became dead and unmanageable. It was to the extent that I went about a year refusing to look at myself in mirrors. I felt ugly. This was a dark place in my natural hair journey.

One day my mom threw an idea in the air, “Would you want to have your hair cut?” I was a little surprised, being that my mother would never let anyone cut my hair, but I needed a change; I needed to get out of my slump. And so we did it. I went to a barber shop, which is not the most comfortable place for a girl, and I got the dead hair cut.

At first I thought, “What have I done? Aunt Helen is going to kill me.”  I went home and styled it as best I could, and it turned out okay. Cute even. This was a good decision; yes it was. We went out, and once again, I was confident.  No one could talk me down, though, this time, I listened to my parents.

Now, I keep my hair cut short. Sometimes I let it grow out, but eventually I start to look like an unkempt old man, so I get it cut again. I like wearing my hair natural, and I know much more about my hair and how to care for it. I’ve learned not to care what people think of me or my hair or anything. I’m just trying to do what’s right, trying to live to be one hundred years old.  

This is why I love Black History Month. Nothing is better than learning about those who came before you, the struggles they faced, the opportunities they fought for me to have. It’s the time my mother makes sure to tell me to be grateful for everything I have, and my father takes the family to a Black History museum, and this year, “Black Panther” will be shown for free in the first seven days of the month at AMC theaters. This is why I must flex. My African American heros are why I must flex my Black Beauty.  

Wakanda Forever.  Amen.