I was privileged to join a Black Womxn writing group a couple weeks ago. The icebreaker was a question around whether you use hair grease or hair oil. I immediately panicked and phoned a friend.
My hair journey is one of the things that was taken from me because of transracial adoption. When I met my genetic mother, I realized that I had also been robbed of very valuable lessons about face powder instead of liquid base makeup. When I visited my genetic mother for the first time, she showed me how to choose the right face powder to match my winter and summer skin. I also learned that my oily skin is hereditary and which sponges to use to blot my face. It never occurred to me that my skin was inherited nor that there were remedies. I also learned where on my body the "actual" color of my skin could be found.
And then there was the moment my poor genetic mother realized she had an ashy child and grandchild. We learned about skin lotion, lipstick color, and the special ways to deal with elbows and ankles. Oh, and then there were the lessons about grits and pork. My genetic mother just kept saying, "why don't you know any of this?" ... insert side-eye and a bitch-please here.
Everything I have learned about hair, skin and body care has occurred in my adulthood. The lessons of skin powder and Vaseline occurred at 51. I often feel stupid and racially unwritten in these moments, but I want to know the information, so I endure it. In these moments there is much teasing, also cultural as I understand it, and I try to roll with it. But, unless you are a displaced person - racially and familially, you really have no idea how unkind these exchanges can be. It isn't funny. My lack of hair grease expertise is a symptom of deep trauma and resulting wounds that won't seem to heal.
My students, that I was hired to help understand white hegemonic structures in college, were my first teachers around how to be black. They would ask me questions like "where are you from" and "who raised you". One of my favorite students used to say, "why are you like this". I remember one of my favorite humans, Bianca, subtly rubbing lotion into my arms in the student center. I always thought it was oddly intimate. Now I know, it was terribly necessary.
This is something that astounds me every time it comes up. How could I go through an entire life, and no-one ever taught me to take care of the basic tenets of me; of my black womanhood ... my hair, my skin, my spirit? No one thought to teach me how to care for deeper matters of health that are specific to black women either - high blood pressure, diabetes, nor the depression that continues to threaten to kill me.
The adopters and the white community I was raised in told me consistently and erroneously that my race didn't matter. That mantra almost killed me and my children. While, for many white people, this feels like an overture of acceptance; it is nothing less than racial undoing - racial death. I heard my son tell my girlfriend yesterday "yeah, mom wouldn't let us be black". And I am absolutely certain he is telling the truth.
Like so many other black people, I was told that my natural hair was unprofessional, unsightly, intentionally provoking, and a cry for help. Looking back in my case, it was a literal cry for help. Oh, that lopsided afro, over processed broken hair, the dry and damaged cliff bangs. I see the lack of beloved community and maternal love. Having raised two daughters and now granddaughters, the love and care I put into doing their hair came naturally. I am grateful for that. Some of the things we inherit are truly phenomenal and resistant to erasure.
No-one taught me to take care of me. My black woman arrived here quite accidentally. I often feel like she appeared all by herself. I do know that decades of black womxn have passed through my life, and each given me a little piece of them. I often put my black woman on a shelf because I don’t understand her. I don’t understand her blackness. I don’t understand her woman-ness. And she doesn't ever seem to reflect the amazing black womxn that I have access to. As the white folx who have managed to remain in my life start to evolve; they have become intentional about finding ways to tell me they see my black woman. It is both awesome and heartbreaking because I will never be the kind of exceptional black woman that we commercialize in the United States. I need a line of ashy, confused, mismatched, hair messed up black girl greeting cards for real. Perhaps a candle that smells like deep and lovely...
When the writing prompt was given, the friend I reached out to was kind and explained all things hair grease and hair oil. She sent me pictures. She told me the most beautiful stories about her childhood and the feel of the hands that did her hair, the smells of the oil and the hot comb; and the pain when her mother hit that kitchen (had to look that one up because I was too embarrassed to ask one more question). Again, I was so grateful. And ... it stoked the fire of abandonment and anger that I experience around my genetic grandmother and mother and elevated my level of resistant hate for my adoptives.
When my friend was done sharing these wisdoms and stories, she asked me what the "ever-loving hell" I have been doing with my scalp. Um. Nothing. How can I take care of something I didn't know needed to be taken care of? The shame and embarrassment I feel in these moments are debilitating. I want someone to be responsible for this and so many other things. I often feel like there is no path that takes me far enough back to reclaim the things that would allow me to walk in my skin with pride.
The reality, my intimate reality, is that until September 2020 - I hadn’t even seen a black woman that looked like me. I hadn’t seen any woman that looked like me. Now having my genetic mother, grandmother, aunt, and paternal sister available; I get to have some sense of what my health history is, why my skin color keeps changing with age (I am baffled), of who I look like, and how I might wear this body well. I might still have a chance to love my black woman and I might even be able to do a little bit of healing for my black girl.
Up until this point, when asked what my health history is, I would just say - adopted. That was the answer when I had my stroke/blood clot in 2018. There was no family history at all. None. If the adoptives, had it, they never gave it to me. When I would ask about family history, and then ultimately when I asked for my originating paperwork (like a puppy or a horse); I was told that they had lost it. I have no legal way to replace that paperwork. When I met my genetic mother, I found out she had the same blood clot and stroke. Had I had access to her or medical history, it would have saved me 200 days of excruciating pain.
People are quick to say “get over it” … right … get over being adopted ... stop being angry. Be grateful you had parents at all. A lot of kids aren't so lucky. One of my close friends says to me often that, "nobody owes you shit". What those who have the privilege of access to, retention of, relationship with their genealogical realities don’t understand is … when that connection to self is stripped away, all that is left IS being adopted. Adopted is all that I am.
Think about it: What is your name? I don’t know. I have this fake name that I have been forced to use my entire life. I have no idea what my name-name is. Worse, since entering reunion, I have found that I had no name - I have never had a name. For four months, I had no name at all - baby girl - that is what my original birth certificate said on it. I have no legal right to my genealogical family names. I am adopted.
I have no pictures of my genetic mother pregnant with me. I have no pictures of me before 4 months save one from the orphanage. We are pretty sure the baby in the picture is not me. And my adoptives lost that picture so it doesn't even matter. I have no first pictures in the hospital. I have no first pictures with genetic relatives who looked like me. There were no "oh she has your eyes and her dad's nose" until now. And now, I don't have the capacity to perform any of those rituals. We do know that I don't have my maternal family’s good hair. Sigh.
I have now bought every possible product for the care of loc'd black hair. My girlfriend told me to put everything down and leave target immediately. I did not. I cannot use any of these products on my actual hair, by the way, because I still don't understand its texture. I have a very dry scalp ... but it is not flaky ... so maybe it isn't dry. I could do this ridiculousness all day long. So, I have a cabinet of black makeup that I love, lipstick that fits my skin color (or is it skin tone) perfectly, and every hair care product ever created for black hair. *This is the way I live*
I have a growing community of transracial adoptees of all different races who have affirmed this hair/skin phenomena as a consistent characteristic for us - especially when our adoptives are white united states folx. We hold each other in this space because it is so unique to us that it is hard to articulate to others. What seems clear is that the pain comes from being minoritized in our family, minoritized in our community and minoritized in ourselves. We are strange-strangers ... even to ourselves.
More soon ...
Baby Girl
