As a child, I watched her spend hours with hot combs and chemical creams. I watched her wince. I watched her cry once when a particularly bad relaxer left bald spots. But still, she persisted. Because in her world, professionals didn’t wear braids. Mothers didn’t wear Afros. Respectability demanded straightness.
To understand what “going Black” meant for my mom, you have to understand what came before. My mother was born in 1965 in a small Southern town. She came of age in the 1970s and 80s, a time when the Black is Beautiful movement was gaining traction, but workplace and school policies still punished natural Black hair. She wore her first relaxer at twelve years old, burning her scalp in her aunt’s kitchen. watching my mom go black 2021
As her daughter—a lighter-skinned Black woman with looser curls—I had never faced the same level of scrutiny. I could straighten my hair or wear it curly without the same social penalty. But watching my mom go Black in 2021 taught me that Blackness is not a monolith. It is not political. It is not a statement. It is simply existence. As a child, I watched her spend hours