Natural

Last December

A seed was sown

A journey began

A new life started

As tiny Zella grew from plum to mango to watermelon then out

Another growth coincided

Changing me from the outside in

I remember the day

Two months short of my 13^th birthday

My mum, aunt and godmother

Gathered busily in the bathroom

Reading box instructions intently

It was my time

My coming of age:

My first relaxer.

 

For those not versed in afro-politics

And wondering why so much fuss

What the big deal is

Relaxers take those tight, dark, young girl curls

And stretch them into

Straight “big woman” tresses

I looked in the mirrored eyes of straight haired me

And I felt beautiful

Gone, now, were the days of sitting betweenmy mother or grandmothers legs

With comb tugging and pulling resistant curls in intricate plaits

I was now in control

And would have hair like all my other lighter-skinned friends

Who wash and go’d in the mornings

Dutifully I did my time in the hairdresser's seat

The 2, 3, 4 hour process

Of white thick cream

Waiting for the burn

But letting it soak in some more

so that it was super straight

And although I had

bad reactions

burns and bumps

patches that didn’t grow

and awful breakage that robbed half the back of my head of growth

like a dog returning to its vomit

so was my foolishness in going back

For me

It was the only way to be pretty

Sold a lie by

Beyonce

Oprah

Janet

Tyra

That to fit into culture

I had to tame my mane

I took out the essence of my hair

And lost more of the essence of myself

As pregnancy hormones dictates

I gave up the “creamy crack”

Letting the natural roots grow out

And as my baby grew inside of me

And I excitedly wondered about the beautiful curls

that would no doubt come

I looked at my straightened ends

And wondered if I’d ever be able to look them in the eye

How would I encourage them to be natural

To love their own body

To be comfortable in their own skin

To marvel at their God-given wonder

If I was suppressing my own?

When precious babe was revealed as precious girl

Faced with the female perils

Of low self esteem and insecurity

I realised that if I wanted her to be confident in just who she was

Born just perfect

Then I needed to show her me

Just the way I was born

Just perfect

There is this wonder

With afro hair

And its curls and twist

Braids and locks

That makes it unique

And daily I now embrace

And so it grows

The afro puff

The 4c curls

My old hidden now rediscovered healthy mane

Surprisingly more upkeep

Surprisingly educating

Surprisingly freeing

Are

When you look in the mirror at home,

You are fine and happy with what you see.

The problem is when you step outside of the home.

That's where the mirrors reflect something else.

Something other.

Gathered in a room of girls,

Silently competing,

"Fine and Happy" suddenly isn't cutting it.

That skirt you thought was fetch,

Their eyes squint at it, but then smile up at you betrayingly.

You look down,

And its newfound ugliness pierces through you.

And yet again,

That ugly deceiver rears its head

Oh no,

Not envy.

We are aware of envy's danger, it's hold, it's wrath.

We are wise to envy's game and the lies of the grass being greener.

So it sends, instead, the coy and looming face of its partner:

Comparison.

I remember the night,

Months previously,

As I did my far too regular trawl of Facebook,

I saw a mother describe how her bundle had finally cracked it and was getting to sleep at 6:30pm and sleeping through the night.

The words grabbed me.

My sane brain left, and my over achieving mind took over.

It started off being happy and pleased knowing the rest a mother needs,

The difficult season the early days of babies are,

And the relief her soul must feel.

Then like a snake it winded cunningly down another dark path,

One where I, once again, questioned my mothering skills:

"Why cant I get my child to sleep?!"

"What am I doing wrong?!"

"'Am I not a good mother?!"

The path weaves further, leading to an ugly pit:

"Why isn't Zella like that child?!"

That's where comparison grabs you,

To that place where even those you love,

Those most close,

most vulnerable,

Risk being attacked.

If I play that evil game,

With my precious babe at just 4 months young,

Then where will I be in 4 years or 14?!

How bruised and damaged will her self-esteem be??

For isn't the root cause of the too-skinny

Too-fat

Too-stressed

Too-overworked

Too-drugged up

Too-overachieving

Lying naked and stripped at the feet of comparison??

The saddest thing of all,

The true travesty of the situation,

Is that comparison steals your joy.

Steals your now.

Steals the things of beauty,

Laid before you in this moment.

At present, my favourite thing about Zella is the way she is with people.

Long did I imagine, hope and pray for a child who would not just be ok with others,

But revel in the wonder and fun of new people.

As our dear friend came over and sat on our sofa Sunday night

Zella played with her face

Smiled brightly

Burped responsively

Cuddled tightly

And brought more joy to an individual than I ever thought she could as such a young thing.

And as we travelled across the Atlantic

She took her spirit of woo

Of charm

Of love

At the airport check in desk

Sweet smiles to the security guards

Passengers apprehensive about her small life and potential cries

Were enveloped into her grin and giggles

And as each friend in Texas called her name

She reached arms swung wide open

Almost falling into their embrace

To stroke their face and nuzzle close

If I stand in the place of looking at others side-by-side to her,

I miss seeing her as she sits, just as she is, on her own, as her own individual.

I cannot and will not compare myself to another.

And I most certainly cannot and will not compare my child,

my kin, my babe, fruit of my womb,

To any other.

I will not buy into that silent lie,

That breeds bacteria of discontent.

She, just the way she is,

Like husband, just the way he is,

Like me, just the way I am,

Is more than enough.

Just right.

Complete.

These words will I speak into her,

Over her,

Through her,

With her.

"Zella, you are fine and happy, just the way you are."

CV

Who are you?

What have you done?

What have you achieved?

What characteristics do you model?

What box would you put yourself into?

Thus begins the writing of my Resume

My Curriculum Vitae

One to Two pages of

Words

Describing

Me.

The five years on Pais and elaborate experience

The youth groups worked with

Educational achievements at Keele and Cheney

Progression through the ranks of Dorothy Perkins

Summer camps, mentoring, dance classes

All

On one to two pages of

Words

Describing

What I have done

How do I portray myself?

Motivated?

Hard-working?

Proficient?

Team Player?

Time Manager?

Organised?

Trite and clichéd word after word

On one to two pages

Of adjectives

Describing

Who I am.

Who I am?

On one to two pages?

26 years crammed into two slices of A4

longer letters written to grandma

bigger emails sent in passing to friends

but yet

this is what you give me

for my words

to describe

me.

Angst and stress

Over prepositions and tenses

Am I writing it well enough?

They will judge me as an English student

Am I fully explaining but

Keeping it short

On my one to two pages

Describing

little old me

I have to be honest

Toot my own horn

And lay it out straight

I can’t be confined

To your little mind

Wrapping itself around

One to two pages

I am more

than one to two pages

and even if you get me for interview there
and I sit business-dressed

with a little bit of stylish flair

and we talk for an hour and then you say

yes or

no

I still can’t be confined

To that little bit of time

For I am worth more than one to two minutes

Of talk of pretence

So I have money to pay my rent

And you say yes and hire me

And I work tirelessly

For several years

Before going back to get another degree

Or I move back along

To pick a different path

At the end of it all

The words you will say

Are still not enough to describe

Who I am

You are more than a CV two pages of word

You are more than an interview, two hours of talk

You are more than your job, two years in the making

You are more

You are more

You are more

You will always be more than the job that you have

You will always be more than a yes or a no

You will always be more than an advert in newsprint

So we’ll jump through the hoops

And we’ll say the right things

And we’ll talk a good talk

Have them nodding their heads

And we’ll sometimes feel failed

As if we aren’t enough

Come home from hard days

Thinking it’s just too tough

And feel in a box, in a bind

Misunderstood

Not gotten, not appreciated

Not fully

Who you are.

Because who you are is a person

Intricately made

Worked on, expanded,

Day after day

Father knit you, and made you,

Worked tirelessly

To produce the very best

You or me.

Part time or full

Contracted or temporary

Job centre trawler or permanent lawyer

We are more

Than the titles

We are more than the pages

Don’t find your worth in those places

Or the wages you are paid

Don’t find your worth in their affirmation

Or the commission you have gained

Don’t find your worth in the failures

In the painful traipse across town

For you are more

You are more

You

Are

More.