Sand, Stones and Kinky Hair

Words Do Hurt

The old adage, “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm me” is as untrue as the belief that clicking our heels together three times will magically transport us home from any destination in the world.

The saying is, in fact, a fairy tale — a lie even. Words do hurt. And every young person that has been made privy to that phrase was a part of an elaborate scheme to divide the reality of sleepless nights and anxiety from the fantasy of kissing boo boos to make the pain go away.

When I was in Kindergarten, I played in the sandbox with my favorite green sand pale. Out of nowhere, I felt cool, gritty and heavy sand fiercely flow from my head to my criss-crossed bowed legs. One of my classmates thought it would be funny to dump his sand pale all over me.

Hysterical laughter ensued as I tried to figure out what just happened. I was just enjoying my recess in the sandbox without a care in the world. And I was looking forward to savoring my warm glazed donut and carton of milk after my play time.

“Look at her hair. It’s dirty AND nappy.”

Laughter echoed in my ears like a perfectly in-tuned chorus as if they were rehearsing before the school bell rang. With my head hanging low, I made my way back into the classroom.

I remember my Caucasian teacher trying to brush the sand out of my hair to no avail. Finally, and perhaps mercifully, I was sent home to my foster mom. My teacher was not trained on how to maintain a black girl’s hair.

“How did this happen?” my foster mother asked. In my 5-year-old mind, I couldn’t wrap my head around what occurred either.

Life before foster care is a blur to me. I have flashes of memory of being cold, hungry and transported to different locations in the middle of the night. Eventually, I was taken away from my home and never returned. I stayed in foster care until I aged-out at 18.

My foster mom was also Caucasian, but she knew exactly what to do with the catastrophe of my filthy hair. She was a hair dresser and had a little shop in the basement. As she rinsed my kinky locks, the warm water mixed with my tears. She told me not to let what other kids say hurt me. “Remember honey, sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will never harm you.” She neatly platted my freshly washed, sand-free hair. I was dry and clean, but, as I lay in bed that night, my pillow became salty and wet from the constant flow of my tears.

For me, being called names was more hurtful than the actual act of being sullied by playground soil. Because I attended a K-12 school, that incident followed me throughout my school years. I was 17 and still experiencing the backlash of the playground debacle. It didn’t even matter that my foster mom put a perm in my hair when I was 14. I begged her to do it, by the way. I was tired of having kinky hair. I thought I looked pretty good, but some of those same kids that tormented me wouldn’t let me think otherwise.

In an effort to protect the innocence of youth, the mom brigade (consisting of bio and foster moms) has constructed a matrix of bright and sunny days making Mr. Dark Cloud go into hiding. Mr. Dark Cloud is the big bad bully who we can ignore if he says anything mean.

If your bully picks on your shoes or your outfit for the day, you can just stick your fingers in your ears and scream “La la la. I can’t hear you.” Close your eyes. When you open them, he’ll be gone — right?

Ha.

The war on bullying has changed over time — and understandably so. We’re living in an era when you can harass people you hardly know without revealing your own identity. You can make up a name and even upload another person’s picture to torment anyone in the world. How about that for technology? Catfish isn’t just something you smother in hot sauce and eat with grits.

Thankfully, my resiliency as a foster kid has helped me bounce back from years of having to act like I was rubber and my bullies were glue.

To this day, the memory of being called nappy and dirty by a myriad of kids is as clear as seeing my toes in crystal ocean water. So even though Mr. Cloud is married with a bunch of baby clouds and doesn’t think of me at all, the thought of him crosses my mind from time to time.

Fortunately, the recollection of my foster mom’s love and effort to shield me from the harsh reality of life, (even though what she said about sticks and stones wasn’t true) resounds in a mightier way.

Now my hair is 100% natural (no perm), I LOVE the beach. I’m pretty happy to be nappy. Take that Mr. Dark Cloud.