#blkanderased

/napē/ Urban Dictionary defines Tightly coiled / curled unaltered hair. Coiled hair in its natural state. Found on people of African descent who do not chemically alter their hair texture.

Although most natural hair enthusiasts have taken back /napē/, one cannot ignore the connotation it holds when used to texture shame blk hair.

Through a colloquially dervived perspectives of

/napē/ is a demeaning term to blk folk who’s hair breaks socially constructed norms of beauty.

The natural hair movement resurfaced around 2010, more powerful than ever. With that, the natural hair ‘typing system’ surfaced along side with it. The hair typing system breaks down hair textures into different categories. From the straightest 1a to the tighest being 4c.

Translated to the creation to socialize people into the caterogies of /ɡo͝od/ vs /napē/.

Blk hair has always been liberating. When our ancestors were enslaved, the first thing dwights did was shave their heads. Their hair was powerful and revolutionary and once it was stripped it was easier to succumb to vulnerability.

Natural hair is a deviance. Natural hair is radical. Natural hair directly challenges beauty norms constructed to adhere to whiteness.

When you call my hair /napē/ you are demeaning the carefreeness our ancestors possessed.

When you call my hair /napē/ you are demeaning the black revolutionaries whose hair were statements.

When you call my hair /napē/ you are telling me that the closer my hair is to whiteness, the prettier it is. And the more it deviates, the

/napē[ier]/ it becomes.

Credit: MagicallyMelinated_ (Insta)

Nova Henry

Lavena Johnson

Cherica Adams

April Jace

Julia Martin

Jessica Hampton

Stephanie Goodloe

Janese Talton-Jackson

Kasandra Perkins

Mary Spears

Tiarah Poyau

Remember their names as we navigate though October.

Remember the black women

Remember the trans women/men/non binary

Remember the gay women/men/non binary

Remember the ones who’ve lost their lives at the hands of Domestic Violence, abuse, and hyper masculinity.

Being a natural black woman is wondering how to wear my hair for a job interview. Knowing what ‘professionalism’ is expected but also knowing there’s radicalness my Afro. Directly challenging the normalcies of what is expected. I shouldn’t have to police my hair and my agency because it could potentially hinder me getting hired. My hair shouldn’t have to be pulled back because it courser. My edges shouldn’t have to be laid. My existence and experiences as a black woman shouldn’t be a make or break deal for job opportunities.

My hair is art.

My hair is a radical.

My hair is eye catching.

My hair is professional.

One month ago, my cohort and I went to audit Dr. Richard Milner V’s lecture on “Disrupting Punitive Practices and Polices” at the annual AERA Brown lecture. Doing his lecture, he spoke of a term called “vicarious trauma.” Vicarious Trauma is defined by the American Counseling Association as “ the emotional residue of exposure that [people] have from working [or hearing] traumatic stories [from people] and become witnesses to the pain, fear, and terror that trauma survivors have endured.”

Dr. Milner spoke of this synonymously with interactions with law enforcement. Whilst driving, Dr. Milner attention was captivated by the blueberry strobe lights behind him. Nervously, he pulled over only for the cop to continue pass his vehicle. Most people would exhale a sigh of relief, knowing that they were not the intended target, right? Wrong. Dr. Milner expressed his feelings of fear, restless, and rippling anxiety as he began to ponder what if.

Vicarious Trauma is something I know all to well. Operating as a black woman in a *foreign* land, with $700 worth of expired tags, I drive in fear. but I drive because I have places to go. Yesterday, when I was turning into my driveway, I was halted and attention captivated by the blueberry strobe lights. I felt my heart simultaneously slow down and speed up, my hands battled between clammy and moist, my throat tightened, as I fought the tears forming in my eyes. It wasn’t about the fear of being cited a ticket, it was the fear of that being my last experience.

After being let off with a warning, everything should be turned back to normal—right? Wrong. My legs quaked, my hands shook, as I tried to gather the strength to walk into the house. I reached my door, closed the door, and lost everything I was holding in.

The relationship I have with law enforcement is permanently tainted by the blood shed of my people.