The Act of Being Raised

I was raised sitting between dark brown legs. 

I sat between the legs of familiar and unfamiliar people, letting them pull my hair left and right, leaving my neck and shoulders in a constant ache. 

When I was a kid, hair day meant hair day. 

As I sat in my bumblebee-themed room, playing pretend with my Black Barbie dolls that I got for Christmas, I heard the creaking of the floorboards and a firm knock on the door. Soon after, I heard my mother's voice ring just behind the door. “Come on, let’s get ready to go.” 

I let the afro-haired Barbie dolls slip through purple nail-polished fingers, leaving them scattered across the floor. Some were stuck in a starfish position, while others were left on their sides. There they lay, for hours on end, until I was able to put them back into their default positions.

***

I was raised hearing the same phrase over and over again. 

“Girl, you got a whole lot of hair! Who do you get that from? Your Mama or your Daddy?” 

As I sat between her legs, scrunching my face each time I felt the volcanic-like heat from the hot comb, my mom laughed and said,

“She gets it from her Auntie on her Dad’s side. None of this is from me!” 

A roar of laughter echoed throughout the lower part of my Auntie's house. This small interaction made me smile to myself, making me forget the pulsing pain coming from my scalp, until I felt the heat of the hot comb pressed against my neck again, snapping me back into reality. 

“Ow!” 

“Does it hurt that bad? Sorry, I’ll be more careful,” my aunt would say.

“You know she’s tender-headed, right? She’ll cry and scream for hours.” 

“Right, right, I almost forgot. Hey, while I do this, you want something to eat?” 

That sentence was music to my ears. I would nod my head frantically, causing the black wide-tooth comb to fall right down into my lap, making a soft wack as it hit my thighs. As she got up from the couch, I allowed myself a sigh of relief. For a few minutes, I was free. 

When she came back, she handed me a paper plate filled with fried chicken, mac and cheese, green beans, and a roll of bread. As I munched on my lunch, the stiffness in my legs and the throbbing of my scalp almost disappeared. 

***

When I was a kid, I grew to detest hair days. I only ever thought about the world of pain that I’d be in. Every month, the phrase “Why me?” came to my mind. Why couldn’t I be like my other friends (my white friends) who could easily put up their hair into a neat ponytail in a few seconds and be done with it? 

That question would haunt my life for years to come. 

Back then, I thought hair day was all about pain, but now I realize it was more than a whole lot of tears and eating baked macaroni and cheese. It was about sitting in a space that was filled with love. It was about allowing my aunt, my mother, and me to relax for a few hours. In this space, they were allowed to be themselves. In a world that kept them constantly in check, our hair days were a much-needed sanctuary. 

As I sat between their legs, I heard the tough conversations that my mom had with other women. Sometimes I overheard these conversations as my hair was being scrubbed and scrubbed in the black circular wash bowl. I would hear the phrases, “You're right about that girl,” and “God bless his soul,” followed by hums of agreement as water was sprayed across my face, making me close my eyes. 

As I sat between their legs, I was surrounded by love. Love for each other. Love of our hair. Love for R&B, and love for comedy movies.

***

Sometimes I wish that being Black came with a handbook. It would be titled like this: A Black Girl’s Guide to Basic Survival.

Nobody prepares you for the spontaneous cookouts, the sheep herding of cousins, and the number of purple beads that you would come to lose. No one prepares you for hearing the phrases, “My, how big you’ve gotten,” and, “You is almost as tall as me,” and, “You still saying your nightly prayers?” 

The truth is, a handbook about being Black wouldn’t just be one book. It would be a series of volumes spilling out centuries of lore. It would speak of the laughter from your sisters, show you the unspoken rules that have been passed down through side-eyes, and it would remind you that every Black woman, whether you know her or not, is cheering you on—from nearby or from far away—wherever you are in life. 

***

I was raised listening to Sirius XM’s Heart & Soul. 

I knew that station so well that whenever a familiar song came on, I’d sing it softly to myself. That always opened up the floor to my parents’ teasing: “Whatchu know about this song, huh? Who is this?” I’d cover my face with my hands and say, “I don’t know… It’s just that this station is on ALL the time. By my ripe age of thirteen, I’d have to know some songs.” My dad would laugh heartily, turn the dial up, and tap his fingers on the black steering wheel. 

Years later, I realized that they weren’t just asking who sang the song. They were asking if I understood where it came from. They were asking if I could hear our story in the saxophone that was flowing sonorously in the background, or in the way the singer's voice would climb an octave higher. 

They were asking if I knew where I came from. 

***

Summers were spent crawling under parked cars, trying to get the basketball out from the bottom. They were spent holding empty spaghetti sauce jars and using them to catch fireflies. Summers were spent running up and down the black asphalt, chasing the ice cream truck that rolled down our block only once in a blue moon. Summers smelled of cigar smoke drifting from my dad and uncles as they sat in the garage drinking beer, laughing, and reminiscing about the old days. 

As I grew older, I longed for the smell of cigar smoke, my dad’s cologne, and wished that I had one more chance to experience the thrill of rummaging through an icebox for those red, white, and blue popsicles. 

***

I was raised with a pair of eyes watching me all the time.

Those eyes would be from the old lady with the cane down the street, who always smelled of peppermint patties, or they would be the next-door neighbor with girls the same age as me. Or it could be the middle-aged man who always sat on his porch stairs, handing out plastic-wrapped slices of American cheese to all the neighborhood kids. If you were lucky enough, sometimes you’d get a second slice of cheese, hiding it to make sure none of the other kids knew you had an extra one. 

***

I was raised learning how to think on the spot. 

Sometimes you’d run into people you’d only met once when you were a baby and have no recollection of, and all of a sudden, you're forced into a conversation with them. 

“Kennedy, say hi to your auntie,” my mom would say in a “you best be on your best behavior” kind of voice.

“Oh, my goodness, look at you! Turn around for me.”

A pause. 

“You look just like your daddy, do you know that?” 

An awkward smile would come across my face. 

“Ha, ya, I get that a lot,” I would say, pressing my red Puma sneakers into the gravel of the driveway. 

“Do you remember me? I’m your auntie! I saw you when you was just a baby. And my, have you grown!” 

This would leave me with one of two choices: 

Option one: Pretend I remembered her (even though that would be a straight-up lie). 

Option two: Smile and say, “It’s so nice to see you again! My mom always talks about you!” (This allowed them to start catching up while I quietly slipped off into my room.)

I always chose the second option.

***

I was raised by a village.

A village of young, middle, and old Black folks. I was raised eating heaps of watermelon and turkey sandwiches. I was raised being asked, “You got McDonald's money?” I was raised sitting between the legs of the aunties who always made my hair look fire and beautiful.

When I was a kid, my dad would always say, “You is Black and that’s a beautiful thing.” I never quite knew what that meant. I mean, sure, I was always the best dressed and my edges were always laid, but I thought I was missing something. 

Now I know. 

Every jar of fireflies, every “Do you remember me?,” every bead lost on the floor—it’s all part of who I am.

“You is Black and that’s a wonderful thing, my dear.”

And I will never forget that. 

Kennedy Olivia Bagley-Fortner is a senior at Mount Holyoke College, double majoring in English and East Asian Studies. When she's not on the tennis court with friends or spending time with her dog, she writes about anything that captures her curiosity.