For the second time in two weeks, I have lost a dreadlock. They fall silentely – small trees in the forest that grows atop my head. The losing is not a big deal – losing naturally is never as painful as when your dignity, your life is chipped away slowly, basically stolen. I have withdrawn from the Women Action and Media Conference because I felt chipped away at – and this my friends, is never acceptable – but we do accept it. Suffering in silence is not noble – infact it is cowardly. Me removing myself from a place where I felt my humanity was not respected has been a journey for me – but I did not lose a wink of sleep over my decision. I promise you I would have lost more than 40 weeks agonizing over what I lost if I attended the conference with feelings of resentment and anger resting in my belly.
I am still reeling from what I am learning from teaching. I think when you present your understanding of a truth – folks expect you to have them digest it without question. That is not my intention – oh, how I wish someone would write my wrong – pun intended! If I am incorrect about media representations and women of color – If I am incorrect about women needing to document their narratives as an empowerment tool – why is no one writing this or proving me wrong.
Does revolution equate to being alone – is there no solidarity in Boston amongst peoples who are economically, politically, and socially marginalized. I can not detect a response from the everyday to folks. My head is pounding from the dull roar of silence.
I recently attended a baby shower and someone verbally assaulted my city, Philadelphia – that place is dirty and grimy – the person sniffed. I explained quite simply Philly feeds my political spirit. I grew up with Mumia Abu Jamal peering at me from telephone booths and lamp posts. I beleived my sister, Sheila with her badass afro and light skin was Angela Davis. I saw myself reflected in Philadelphia’s dirty waters and I did not see restrictions but endless possibilities in muddy puddles.
Our mayor was black – the city council was black, my teacher’s were black and this made the world possible. To be black was not a hinderence because in the dirt and grime – there was raw beauty and I breathed it -ate – walked it and talked it. I saw Temple University perched in the middle of North Philly during the 80’s drug wars and in the midst of the war zone, there were black reporters who took me under their wings and showed me the other side of the game.
Every city should have this display of the good, bad and the ugly. Boston is tempered by the sins of good manners. Good Manners Cultivate silence and silence keeps motherfuckers in ghettos.
So, my dearest sister – please understand – who I am is largely because Philadelphia held my mothers hand as she pushed me into this world – Philadelphia is my home, my second mother and to insult her without knowlege of her is to rape her memory and all of us who come to you birthed indirectly by her concrete womb.
I have been keeping
my head
wrapped
tightly against the influences of
Bablyon
just since
a woman
pale
as soymilk
and
just as sincere
told
me
us folks do beautiful things with us hair
and I smiled – pulling my lips tightly across razor sharp teeth
we sure do some things I replied
the next morning
I purchased a length of cotton wide and long enough to wrap a baby
and I twisted it around my head
tucking stray dreadlocks into the folks of cloth
when I unwrapped my crown
the next evening
a long thin lock
jumped ship
another secret
recklessly
shed
Joyce Angela Jellison is the Author of Where Everything Fits Beautifullt, Black Apple and the Shhh…the secret language of black women (to be released this Spring) She is the director Write Out Loud:Transforming Our Lives Through Writing Our Truths -www.writeoutloud.synthasite.com
