On Being Nappy in Elementary School

Sixth grade with the year you were supposed to ask mom for a relaxer;
The year to trade afro picks with butterfly clips;
To let new straight hair fall in ribbons over the glittery plastic.

Sixth grade was the year to start patting your hair when it itched,
To carry combs in your pencil case,
The year the word “nappy” bruised like a punch on the playground.

I remember the year I was the only one who still  had ki'chens
The only one with braids and beads and tin foil tips.

I bought a cheap butterfly clip at the corner store one day;
Tugged my dark cotton blossom into a twist and pinned it down like a fight.
It did not fall in ribbons.
It did not stay down as easily as self esteem
As easily as a broken spirit.

Sixth grade was the year I begged my mom for a relaxer.
The only year I cried during the burning.
I will always remember that first burning.

I walked into school school that Monday,
my scalp a mess of concealed scabs
And dark limp strands grazing my shoulders.
I thought I had won.
I thought a head of straight hair would keep the bullies at bay,
like a repellent.

Sixth grade was the year I learned how wrong I was; how naive.
I wish I could have seen the beauty in my nappy hair.
Admire the way it stood up for itself
the way I could not.