ChristianIa zidor

I Grieve

I grieve.

I grieve over being so close to sectioning things into categories, making them simpler, and letting them attempt to rule over my life. The way it attempts to infect my mind mirrors a global pandemic, seeing it try to penetrate itself at all levels of my consciousness.

I grieve over letting myself fall into the cycle of “isms,” being subconscious of the tone that appears in front of me.

I cry over my elementary and middle school self, a witness of two of the “isms.” 

The first: colorism.

I grieve over the thought of my bright, yet naive, nine-year-old brain with little to no frontal lobe development trying to come to terms with being categorized as “darkskin.” I watched in envy as my “brownskin” and “lightskin” counterparts were respected, treated better, more willing to be engaged with. I looked at myself in the mirror, attempting to find any way to make myself bloom as a new type of “skin.”

I grieve over the memory of, for a month straight, applying products I asked my mother to buy on my face because “They clear your skin!” “They make your skin glow!” “They make you look like Beyonce!” hiding the “skin lighting solution” message under my thumb.

I grieve over the memory of my mother telling me to stop placing Caro White lotion after my showers because “your face is becoming lighter than your body.”

I grieve over the thought of losing myself to the “ism,” defending myself over and over. 

“I’m not darkskin; I’m brownskin!”

“Mhm.”

I grieve over the fact that colorism once plagued my mind, permanently engraved in my thoughts. Knowing that the painful memories of attempting to change my skin tone ended up being futile, I instead embrace my tone, healing from the grief.

⚛︎

I continue to grieve again, over the second “ism.”

I continue to grieve over the loss of love over the kinkiness of my hair, the tight coils, the large afro after a comb detangles it, the takedown process of a protective style.

And, most importantly, its length.

I continue to grieve due to the jeering insults from my black peers, as they call me “bald headed.” However, my hair had a large puff sitting on top of it, mimicking a bush.

I continue to grieve over the mention of my hair being referred to as a “carpet,” a “tangled, knotty mess.”

I immensely grieve over the loss of my tangled, knotty mess when it’s placed under the notorious white chemical and becomes as straight as a horse’s tail.

I continue to grieve, heightened due to being tricked into it. Never told it was permanent, only informed when the white glob was already applied to my hair. A “texturizer” is what killed my coils, knots, and the ability to creatively think with my hair.

I continue to grieve over the damage to my hair and going through the “big chop,” cutting off dead, unhealthy parts of the hair.

I no longer grieve over the texturism. Instead, I receive compliments. 

“I love your short hair; it suits you.”

“The curls on your hair are so cute!”

However, as months go by, I grow to once again grieve over the texturism, as my hair grows out in many directions, like a compass spinning due to magnetic polarity. I understand that my hair will never stop being the subject of:

“Your hair is so hard to comb through. I put that thing in your hair but you cut your hair, so…” 

“Come with your hair blowdried. I can’t grip onto hair like yours.”

I no longer grieve over texturism. Once more, instead, I accept its glooming reign over my community and their thoughts, knowing the damage was irreversible.

⚛︎

I once again grieve over the “isms,” realizing that although they cannot be undone completely, the reduction of the “isms” would change my community for the better.

I stop grieving. 

I stop grieving over the victims who died from “isms,” colorism and texturism, who claim it doesn't exist. I know they’re in a better place:

Ignorance.