My Bantu KNOTS AND ME
By: Olivia A. McPhaul
My bantu Knots and Me
I never liked hair pins. The black ones with the smoothed, bubbled ends that got caught on your strands when they got too old. The round endings were like the aglets on a shoestring, and when they fell off, there was no good use to the pins anymore. My mama knew that. She would open the pin with her front teeth and check the ends before she slid them in place against my scalp. You couldn’t find them in my hair if you tried, and, trust me, I tried.
“You better stop crying before I give you something to cry about.”
I heard those words every Sunday morning. Sometimes the phrase would be paired with a quick slap on the top of my hand with an orange, rat tail comb. I would sit cross-legged in between my mama’s legs and feel her press a bristle brush from my temples to the ends of my kinky curls at the crown of my sore head. Then she would grab the slicked hair and tighten a black rubber band around the bunch. I don’t know if I cried more when she would brush the knots out of my head or when she pulled my hair, my scalp, and my happiness into the ponytail. Either way, I would cry until the moment she slid the last hair pin into place. I would go to Sunday school feeling every snatched strand on my head, but I would leave smiling knowing I had the prettiest bantu knots in my class. My mama knew it, too. She would rest one hand on her hip and just look at me with a smirk. She would watch me look for four-leaf clovers after church, and I would look up and see her nodding in admiration of what she had created. My pretty bantu knots and me.
Every Sunday morning. That’s how it went every Sunday morning until my mama started getting tired. That’s what my daddy would tell me. Mama is tired. The ponytails started getting looser and my curls just weren’t getting slicked away by the bristle brush anymore. My edges looked more like frizzy cotton each morning I woke up; The little bantu knots in my head fell out one by one and left my hair to fall in ringlets down my back. She didn’t give me something to cry about anymore.
This Sunday morning, my mama didn’t come to my room and tickle my feet to wake me up.
“Come on, pumpkin. I’m going to get you ready for Sunday school this morning.”
My daddy held the rat tail comb in his hand as if it was actually a rodent that was going to bite him. He was already dressed in his brown church suit, but I could see the wrinkles on his collared shirt that my mama would normally press out. I didn’t want to say anything or ask him if mama was tired again, so I sat down on the ground next to my bed so he could do my hair. He didn’t sit down and pull me in between his legs like mama did. Instead, he crouched on his knees beside me with the comb still gripped in his hand. He pulled a group of hair pins out of his coat pocket. The ones with the missing round ends that didn’t have any good use. But daddy didn’t know that. For a long moment, I didn’t feel him working on my hair. So, I turned my head to his face, and there he sat staring at the orange comb. He stared for a few seconds, not knowing what to do or where to start, and then I watched my daddy’s face fall apart. I saw my daddy cry for the first time.
“It’s okay, I can help you, daddy,” I said. I reached up to wipe his tears, and I could feel the stubble on his jaw that was never there before. Mama always wanted him to grow out his beard.
“Don’t cry anymore, I will help you, daddy.” So, I wrapped my fingers around his hand with the comb and, together, we started detangling the first old bantu knot.
“You better stop crying before I give you something to cry about.”
I heard those words every Sunday morning. Sometimes the phrase would be paired with a quick slap on the top of my hand with an orange, rat tail comb. I would sit cross-legged in between my mama’s legs and feel her press a bristle brush from my temples to the ends of my kinky curls at the crown of my sore head. Then she would grab the slicked hair and tighten a black rubber band around the bunch. I don’t know if I cried more when she would brush the knots out of my head or when she pulled my hair, my scalp, and my happiness into the ponytail. Either way, I would cry until the moment she slid the last hair pin into place. I would go to Sunday school feeling every snatched strand on my head, but I would leave smiling knowing I had the prettiest bantu knots in my class. My mama knew it, too. She would rest one hand on her hip and just look at me with a smirk. She would watch me look for four-leaf clovers after church, and I would look up and see her nodding in admiration of what she had created. My pretty bantu knots and me.
Every Sunday morning. That’s how it went every Sunday morning until my mama started getting tired. That’s what my daddy would tell me. Mama is tired. The ponytails started getting looser and my curls just weren’t getting slicked away by the bristle brush anymore. My edges looked more like frizzy cotton each morning I woke up; The little bantu knots in my head fell out one by one and left my hair to fall in ringlets down my back. She didn’t give me something to cry about anymore.
This Sunday morning, my mama didn’t come to my room and tickle my feet to wake me up.
“Come on, pumpkin. I’m going to get you ready for Sunday school this morning.”
My daddy held the rat tail comb in his hand as if it was actually a rodent that was going to bite him. He was already dressed in his brown church suit, but I could see the wrinkles on his collared shirt that my mama would normally press out. I didn’t want to say anything or ask him if mama was tired again, so I sat down on the ground next to my bed so he could do my hair. He didn’t sit down and pull me in between his legs like mama did. Instead, he crouched on his knees beside me with the comb still gripped in his hand. He pulled a group of hair pins out of his coat pocket. The ones with the missing round ends that didn’t have any good use. But daddy didn’t know that. For a long moment, I didn’t feel him working on my hair. So, I turned my head to his face, and there he sat staring at the orange comb. He stared for a few seconds, not knowing what to do or where to start, and then I watched my daddy’s face fall apart. I saw my daddy cry for the first time.
“It’s okay, I can help you, daddy,” I said. I reached up to wipe his tears, and I could feel the stubble on his jaw that was never there before. Mama always wanted him to grow out his beard.
“Don’t cry anymore, I will help you, daddy.” So, I wrapped my fingers around his hand with the comb and, together, we started detangling the first old bantu knot.