Charles Waters - Can I Touch Your Hair?: Poems of Race, Mistakes, and Friendship

T Carolrhoda Books Minneapolis Can I Poems of Race, Mistakes, and Friendship Your Irene Latham & Charles Waters Illustrated by Sean Qualls & Selina Alko Hair ? T ouch Salvation for a race, nation, or class must come from within. A. Philip Randolph The only thing that will redeem mankind is cooperation. Bertrand Russell Contents The Poem Project When our teacher says, Pick a partner, my body freezes like a ship in ice. I want Patty Jean, but Madison has already looped arms with her. Within seconds, you-never-know-what- hes-going-to-say Charles is the only one left.

How many poems? someone asks. About what? Do they have to be true? Mrs. Vandenberg holds up her hand. Write about anything! Its not black and white. But it is.

Writing Partner Mrs. Writing Partner Mrs.

Vandenberg wants us to write poems? Finally, an easy project. Words fly off my pen onto the paper, like writing is my superpower. The rest of the time, my words are a curse. I open my mouth, and people run away. Now Im stuck with Irene? She hardly says anything. Plus shes white.

Her stringy, dishwater blond hair waves back and forth as she stutter-steps toward me. My stomach bottoms out. Hello, I say. Hi, she says. I surprise myself by smiling at hershe smells like a mix of perfume and soap. We stare at our sneakers before I ask, So, what do you want to write about? She shrugs.

I say, How about our shoes, hair? Then we can write about school and church? She takes a deep breath. Okay. I match it. Lets start there.

Shoes I want ruby shoes with heels to click me to another land or glass slippers to make a dancer out of me. But Mama says shoes should be sensible plain white or solid black to go with everything.

So thats what we buy. When I show Patty Jean, she gives me her rainbow socks and a pair of purple shoelaces. When I look down, I cant believe those feet belong to me.

Shopping with Dad Dad doesnt think shoes have anything to do with fashion. Shoes are like your complexion, he says. Theyre supposed to fit you perfectly.

Id rather get another pair of neon high-tops with tie-dye laces, like Ive seen on commercials. Maybe they make my feet hurt sometimes, and maybe they dont last as long, but at least I fit in with my classmates. Dad hands me a pair of low tops, no cool design, no bright color or dynamite laces. I tie them up, walk around. Wow, I say. This pair feels like Im wearing slippers.

Dad tells me, The decision is yours.

Hair Now my hair is long and straight a curtain I can hide behind. But once, when I was little, I begged for an Afro. So Mama cut my hair short as a boys and gave me a perm. I fluffed it with a pick big as it would go until my brothers laughed, called me a circus clown without the red nose. Strands On a random Tuesday on the bus, Dennis asks me, Can I touch your hair? He pats it before I can respond.

It feels like a sponge, he says. My fists clench, and my face gets hot. You need to learn to wait for an answer after asking permission, I tell him and pat his hair, hard . Oh, how about that? Your hair feels like a mop. I say.

Church At church we light candles and pray for those who are sick. Church At church we light candles and pray for those who are sick.

At church we sit stand kneel . We give thanks for food and warmth and family. At church the sun streams through our stained-glass Jesus, his arms thrown wide to welcome everyone. At church everyone is white.

Sunday Service Our Sunday service is like hitting a reset button, starting off the week with a new beginning. Theres men dressed in suits so sharp you could cut yourself by looking at them, theres women testifying in wide-brimmed, bow-tied hats called crowns .

Everyones brown arms are raised in devotion, except mine. If it says in the Bible that Jesus had hair like wool, eyes that were a flame of fire, and feet like brass as if they burned in a furnace, then why is everyone praising the straight-haired, blue-eyed white man I see looking down over all of us?

Beach Day Theres a pack of guys and girls, whose pearly skins have been baked into a bronzed hue, strolling past me. Each of them has hair woven into cornrows or twisted into dreadlocks. Some of their lips jut out like puffer fish. When I wave, they look at each other, begin snorting, laughing at my good manners. I feel a fury rising inside me, as if Im a tidal wave about to crash on land.

Im confused: why do people who want to look like me hate me so much?