GRIEF Poem: Assimilation, by Emma Woodard

My hair was long and thick and coarse.
It sat in braids.
It stayed restrained.
It stayed down and made itself small.

It was thinned.
It was straightened for length,
perfumed,
colored.
*No—not that color!*

There are wrong colors?
Iron out my kinks,
tear the knots from the source.
Never fix—
simply change,
and change,
and alter.

A half step closer with a small root job,
a touch-up.
Make me look better.
Make me look pretty.
Make me acceptable,
passable,
palatable.

Shape me, gel me down,
stay in the place you need me to be in.

I wish I knew how I let it all get so long.
I know, I know—
I did it wrong.

Again, it’s a cut,
a prod,
a dye,
a curl—
not those curls—soft waves!
Whiter brighter curls.

Strip the dull locks to bring the light,
wear colors to tint the water in your eyes.
The green is not yours.
That brown and tan not either.

Be whiter.
Be brighter.
Be straighter.
Be nicer.
Be more ladylike.

Speak when spoken to;
let social graces bury your screams for comfort.