I’m 24 and yes, by now I know I have a problem. “Oh, but don’t we all?” everyone jokes as if it’s really brilliant. But not like this. A slippery chunk of life has slid on by, and still I am without an inkling of real knowledge about black
hairstyles. Some bus driver says, “You’re ‘black' in name, but you will never really know their struggles.” Their. It sticks. I’m left without a comeback (since I know it’s true). She’s all proud now and continues on, “Your life seems easier than most.” Gee, that is brilliant.
I’m not sure if I’m hurt or not. A brilliant professor told me once (her hair dyed black as licorice bites), “Sometimes, you know, in life, you’ll want to cry but can’t. Just so you know, the answer is to bite your thumb. That’s all.” My cluelessness, though? Soon, I’ll be without
a thumb, a life, a man to dine with. (Out of time.) I only care about hair now. Brilliant black scholar’s what I aim for. I spend all my leisure time these days researching black hair looks. I nod, I practice, hope I’ll know a twist-out when I see it. I watch Life
(the one with Eddie Murphy), plan a life where someday I’ll have cornrows, braids, without the insecurity. Should I — oh no, no flashcards. What’s the point of being brilliant if you wear white girl hair to Sam’s Club, lack inheritance and understanding? All
I know is this: it wouldn’t be right to call what happened to me abandonment. See, life can be too hard for us, including my black father, once-Marine, 6'2", without someone to speak to, even me. Not brilliant, but he could have helped me come to know
my hair, my blackness, self. Oh, well. Without some emptiness, what’s life? 24. “Brilliant. Accomplished.” All I know is what I don’t.