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at the parades, everyone
``` at the parades, everyone wants to touch my hair.
on the corner of st charles and marengo,
i am cold & smashed & puffy AF when two white women try to convince me that they love my hair
no they really really do they say because it is so black and thick and curly and soaking up all of the water in the damp air.
the mousy one says through an alabama drawl: gawd, you can do so much with it
and her blonde friend says: ya can't do a damn thing with mine, won't even hold a curl.
she runs away to grab another friend and says to her: stacey, isn't it even prettier than macy gray's? we just love her, don't we?
they circle me and ask: can we touch your hair?
and then, suddenly, just like my ancestors long ago, i am pulled apart
soft by pale hands from all directions.
—Skye Jackson ```
at the parades, everyone wants to touch my hair.
on the corner of st charles and marengo,
I am feeling cold, broken, and very puffy when two white women try to persuade me that they truly love my hair
no, they really, really do they say because it is so black, thick, and curly and absorbing all of the moisture in the damp air.
the timid one says with an Alabama accent: gosh, you can do so much with it
and her blonde friend says: you can't do anything with mine, it won't even hold a curl.
she runs off to get another friend and says to her: Stacey, isn't it even more beautiful than Macy Gray's? we just adore her, don't we?
they surround me and ask: can we touch your hair?
and then, suddenly, just like my ancestors long ago, I am pulled apart
soft by pale hands from all sides.
—Skye Jackson