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Zoe Drullard

Ms. Gina Gomez

AP Seminar

9 October 2022

The Curls of My Identity

For Afro-Latinos, hair is a statement piece. Currently, there seems to be a new hair

identity movement every day: there are box braids made from square divisions in the hair,

cornrows braided flat against the scalp, and the list goes on. Women, in particular, can express

themselves freely with a hairstyle of their choice. Well: I now say that. Years back, I would not

have believed it if someone stated that out loud.

I come from a Dominican background, which means curly hair is a dominant trait. You

would expect a compliment from people about those beautiful curls. Anyone would love to have

naturally flowing curls. Being a toddler, I always hoped to get a compliment at least once, but

instead, I heard things along the lines of: “Esa nació con el pelo malo," or “por lo menos péinate

antes de salir.” These comments never affected me because my parents had always told me they

would always love my hair.

Then came preschool and primary school. This period of my childhood was not around

other Afro-Latinos. The entire class, except for me, was white. I was the one taken out of the rare

item sack just to stick out from the rest. At the time of the following experiences, I was five. For

a five-year-old, this was not the ideal place to grow up. A five-year-old would not expect to be

discriminated against each day. A five-year-old would not understand the levels of judgment

society has and can reach any given point.

Five-year-old me had always been this beam of light, and a big ball of hair, of course.

That was a staple part of my childhood. My parents had always said I should be proud of that

“ball of curly hair.” I usually felt confident whenever I went out with my mom and had the

signature afro hairstyle. For most of my childhood, my hair was always styled in its natural

shape; a ball with a colored ribbon or bow embellished around it. This kind of hairstyle was what

my parents called El Definidor de Identidad, or identity definer. This Again, made me feel very

confident about my hair.

Five-year-old me did not pay attention to other five-year-olds criticizing my hairstyle. It

had always been a part of who I was. It all started going haywire once teachers had a say.

Teachers, in primary school, came from white backgrounds. For them This meant that my

big ball of hair was “not appropriate” in their mindsets. Appropriate for them meant having your

hair slicked back, out of one’s face, with no flyaway sticking out. An afro clearly does not fit

into that standard. often got comments like “that’s not appropriate,” or “brush your hair before

going out at least,”. During classes, teachers would normal send me to the last row, so other

students could see. I had to obey since they were the authority during that time, but those actions

and comments were starting to sink in.

After some time, a nine-year-old me was being called to the principal’s office because I

had to deliver a letter to my mother. Confusion was the only feeling I had at the moment. Why

did I have to deliver a letter? What did I do to deserve a letter for home? Have I done something

as bad as to be reported to my mom?

I arrived home and handed the letter to her. As she read it, she made several facial

expressions. She looked confused at first, but as she read on, her face went from confused to

upset to mad, to confused again. All of this in a matter of seconds. I just stood there trying to
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decipher her facial expressions and the only thing she muttered was, “What is this?” The letter

read: “your daughter has recently come to school with a hairstyle that is not appropriate. We

highly encourage you to try to style her hair in a way that is appropriate and presentable. The

hairstyle she has been wearing has become a distraction to students and faculty members and

looks as though the hair is not treated correctly.” I definitely did not expect this at all. My head

was about to explode from all the thoughts I had at once. One the one hand, I was very confused

as to why the school had such a problem with my choice of hairstyle, and on the other hand I was

thinking if my hairstyle was actually bad.

This event in particular created the belief that “adults have the authority, they always

have answers, are always right and do things for our benefit.” These thoughts were forged from

the comments teachers made, being asked to sit in a corner alone, and that one letter. Being a

nine-year-old I couldn’t comprehend what all this meant. I didn’t understand these were acts of

discrimination; all I could think of was that these people know what they were doing. From that

same belief came another, that was also the effect of those authorities: “better to fit in than stand

out from the bunch and be an outsider.” Overall, both of these beliefs were engraved in my head

so deeply that it just made me think; Maybe fitting in wouldn’t be as bad. All of these thoughts

were the beginning of a more giant rabbit hole of thoughts.

But that rabbit hole didn’t take me down to Wonderland. Instead, It took me to a salon

chair every week for several hours, just to fit in with the bunch. A nine-year-old, with tears every

time she saw her hair being straightened, had to endure the pain of that process because teachers

had said so. I honestly was confused most of the time, because nine-year-olds should not be

forced to change for a faculty. My parents were not happy with that decision, but it was either
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straightening my hair, or having a nine-year-old suspended from school grounds until “My hair

was correctly taken care of”

The idea of trying to fit in was just a screwed-in component in my brain. There wasn’t a

single thing that could change my belief. It was just too deep that it had been one of the few

thoughts my nine-year-old brain was storing. This thought stayed on like a neon sign because for

any child, adults will always be the source of all answers, and they can’t do wrong.

Now in sixth grade, twelve-year-old me, with straightened hair, arrived at school ready

for the new year. I got to the classroom expecting the usual: everyone with the same red sweater

with no sign of color. That year I had seen the entire rainbow in a single room. Everyone had

something that stood out. On the one hand, we had girls with bracelets layered up; different

colored hoodies; and, what struck me the most, creative hairstyles. Hairstyles were by far the

most shocking element in the room. Many girls, especially those with long hair, had their hair

crimped, braided, beaded, and overall different from the typical blow-dried-to-the-tips style. This

certainly sparked a lot of confusion mixed with overthinking.

Why couldn't I have my hair as I wanted? How can others have freedom over what they

wore, and I couldn't? Do I really have to follow these standards?

Now with a spiral of thoughts around my head, I spent days searching for information

about my curly hair. The first thing that popped up made a drastic change in the way I thought

about my hair.

While looking up things, I had gotten into Pinterest and one phrase just stood out from

the rest. This quote I distinctly remember had a red background with white box letters. it said,

"I've always struggled to accept my hair as it differs from the rest of my family. But I've grown

to accept it and love it just as it is." This quote led to the next one that said: "My hair is my
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identity. The way I style it and the colors I have braided in express who I am. I love my hair even

when told it is not professional, my hair is part of me." The net surfing went on from there and

changed how I thought for so long.

Now, this twelve-year-old girl could see the world without the veil. Finally, I could

understand that having a different hairstyle was completely fine and that it was unique in many

ways.

From net surfing and the different hairstyles in the classroom; I now believe and highly

support that my hair is my way of defining my identity. I have to accept it no matter the

situation. Even if people say it is not the usual it is and will always be part of me.

After these experiences, I can say confidently that my hair will always be the one of my

trademarks. From that little girl with a big afro and a bow to the teenage girl who has many ways

to style her hair now. The way I feel now has been a journey, but I would not change those

events at all. My parents were right when they said everyone has an identity definer, and that

identity definer will forever be my precious ball of hair.