Chapter 2: Adjusting Ain’t Easy

Calley Anderson
Aug 25, 2017 · 1 min read

On days when I feel numb, I twist my hair. Feeling the ridges and spirals. Moisturizing them. Twisting and twirling them through my fingers. Testing their elasticity. It’s a special kind of healing for me. In this one act (equal parts self-care and vanity), I feel the depths and layers of ancestry within me. This is part of the legacy they passed on to me: loving the gifts we were endowed with by our creator. Our black bodies have been blessed with texture — from our tresses to our tongues, our melanin to our movement, our creativity to our creations. We are texture. How else would it continuously be felt throughout these centuries and generations?


That day was yesterday. I was (and still am) planted firmly in a city I’ve known for less than two weeks, have yet to (fully) get my bearings, and have no way to feed the craving to be within arm’s length of those I care most about. I am planted at a time of grieving: my wonderful uncle lost his battle with Multiple Myeloma as a nation lost its battle for a soul that dissipated with each “presidential” press conference. My feelings and I are isolated within a storm of activity, much of which occurs daily right outside the window of my new New York apartment. It is like there’s the world out there, which is never quiet, and then there’s the world in here that thrives on it. It’s hard to reconcile. I’m still learning.

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Calley Anderson

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