Oh! There you are perry! #itsperry #perrytheplatypus #agentp #phineasandferb #disney
These are all I want for my life #maryland #marylandflag #frederick #fredrockmurdaland #vans #presale #musthave
Chris Brown sitting down while Frank Ocean receives his award just to remind everyone in America’s he’s the absolute worst.
I’d like to think that when men and women dreadlock their hair, they twist their souls up into the locks. Have you ever seen an island mother lift up the bushel on her head and fan the back of her neck? I feel like it would make more sense knowing that she has a heavy ass sweaty ass soul up there weighing down on her noggin, you feel me? And if it’s colloquially accepted that it’s the dreadlocks that self-actualize a Rastafarian, then that could make more sense too. I mean, if your soul sits next to your brain, how can you not be at peace?
The reason I’m saying this is because I know a guy: well-kept locks, really smart, very kind, and a personality that would probably be better suited for the Harlem renaissance (but that might be irrelevant). Any who, he cut his locks off at the ripe age of 35 and hasn’t been the same since. He had a kid and claimed that it was time to let it go but I’m fairly positive that I saw him lose color as each lock fell to the floor; he went from a glorious Ghanaian soil skin to just plain brown… for a kid? And what’s to say this kid even deserved the repercussions of him shaving his head?
To me, his lack of locks made him lose himself. He lost claim to his identity, his identity as a well-established black male. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe the cosmos sucked away his right to his intelligence because he shaved his head. But I think he let go of something he embraced with everything he had, something as simple as a hairstyle, and from then on his fight to reclaim that identity made him sound ignorant and misguided and I don’t think I’m dealing with that concept very well.
If you know me, you know that I believe strongly that there is a coalition of gingers out there trying to reclaim their souls with singing, sincerity, and softheartedness (not that this needs clarification, but just in case you don’t know: red heads don’t have souls, they lose them as soon as it is publically recognized that they have red hair). But I’d also like to believe that there’s a coalition of nappy headed middle-aged men and women searching for small sections of their souls in their leftover jars of tea-tree and in the head wrap drawers until they have enough to earn back their names.
I’m still trying to decide whether or not it’s a commendable effort; whether or not I’m upset that so much can be reduced to how you choose to represent yourself or if I’m jealous that I don’t have anything that strong. I remember the very first day I found out I was colored, and to this day it is a still a dilemma I’m sorting out for myself and I wonder. Was it the beauty? Was it the thick strands draping in front of his eyes every day that reminded him that he was rooted somewhere? That told him that he didn’t grow from the bottom up but from the center and in every direction that bees hive pointed to? And how did he find it? When did he find it? Where can I twist my soul and find some guiding light leading me to not being so tragically colored?
I want to be a part of that. I want be a part of that movement, of that revolution. And I’ll do whatever it takes, I’ll spill ink on every inch of skin until I’m more than black. I’ll cut my hair, I’ll change my clothes, and kick punch and scream my way to enlightenment and it won’t know what it saw coming its way. And when I make it, when I’ve climbed to the top of my hill, when I’ve hurdled all of my obstacles, they’ll tell stories about me. The 21st century Renaissance man. And then I will never have to fight for my soul again.