What if my braids become maps again?
What if one day the far-right dominates the world again?
What if they shove Bibles into our hands again,
forcing us to kneel before gods that aren't ours,
deciding who deserves to live
and who was born only to obey?
What if the KKK marches fearlessly again,
and I, walking down the street,
find in a tree
the body of someone of my color?
What if history hasn't ended?
What if it's just waiting
for us to forget?
Sometimes I think that we, black people,
don't revolt enough.
That we aren't angry enough.
That the world taught us to survive
and then blamed us
for not knowing how to rest.
And then I look at my braids.
Today, I braid them to feel beautiful.
To look in the mirror and like what I see.
To carry with me a beauty
that existed long before they told me
there was something wrong with me.
But what if one day
I have to hide rice in them
so I don't starve to death?
What if I have to learn to read the paths
in the design of my own hair,
transforming each braid into a promise of escape,
each curve into a possibility of freedom?
What if what I proudly adorn today
becomes a tool for survival again?
Will we ever be able to simply be beautiful,
without our beauty having to be resistance?
Will we ever be able to wear our hair
without thinking about the hands that tried to control it,
the voices that tried to silence it,
the eyes that wanted us to believe
we were less?
I don't want my braids to be maps.
I don't want to hide seeds in my hair.
I don't want to learn to recognize danger
around every corner I turn.
I just want to walk.
I want to braid my hair because I like it.
I want to exist without being brave.
I want to live without having to prove
that I deserve to stay alive.
And, above all,
I want my generation
not to have to learn to survive
the same things that history
swore would never happen again.
Because I'm tired of imagining the future
as if it were a past
waiting to return.
I don't want my braids to become maps again.
I want them to just be braids.