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Thursday June 21, 2018
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com MICHIGAN IN COLOR
When justice isn’t served
“It’s so thick I can’t get the
hair dryer through it.” My
hairdresser grits her teeth for
the fifth time as another piece
of her hair dryer breaks off in
my hair. So thick, not even the
best styling tools can make
its way through its roots. If
only I had my sister’s hair, that
allowed for combs and dryers
alike to slide through it without
having to worry about getting
stuck at the base of her neck.
The solution? Relaxing my hair
so it was easier to deal with.
My first relaxer burned. It
burned and it didn’t feel right;
the smell curdled my stomach
and every part of me screamed
internally, but my mother told
me it was the right thing to do.
It was right, I had to, it was too
much work for other people
to do my hair. So, there I was,
with the chemicals I could not
pronounce permeating and
burning my skin as I sat there
taking in the salon. Magazines
with dog-eared pages a little
too close to the edge of the
coffee table, the fan blowing to
keep the scent of burning hair
from being too strong for the
customers, and of course, the
sound of laughter that seems
to bounce off the walls of the
shop. My hairdresser nods at
me and I walk from the dryer
to the sink. The water cools my
scalp, and I close my eyes.
I am standing in the mirror;
my hair is straight as I run
my hands through it in my
bathroom when I get home.
Careful not to touch my scalp,
which still feels tender from
the perm, I pick up the comb
next to me and it slides through
my jet-black hair. Then I throw
on my uniform for school. I’ll
finally be like all of the other
kids at school.
There will be one more relaxer
in my life and after that, my hair
will start to break off, clumping
in chunks on my pillow, and
my scalp will itch continuously
until we realize that the perms
were, in fact, destroying my
hair.
For every Black girl, there
remains this battle between
her hair and society. Many of
us grow up thinking that the
hair growing from our scalps is
wrong. It doesn’t lie flat or grow
down, it grows up towards the
sky and its roots are thick and
untamed. So, much like our
mothers did to their hair, we
take chemicals and burn our
skin, close our eyes and flinch
when the hot comb gets too
close to our necks and stay still
in the chair while the hair dryer
yanks our hair out. Growing
up, every part of me knew that
this did not seem right. But I
didn’t say anything because my
“nappy” hair did not belong in
the world. It was meant to be
hidden and stay that way. Just
like when my ancestors hid
their natural hair to assimilate
into society on plantations by
using chemicals to burn their
scalp because it was what
the world told them to do to
survive.
After discovering my hair
did not like being chemically
straightened,
we
decided
hot combs and straighteners
were the best options. Driving
40 minutes to get my hair
straightened
every
three
weeks created less guilt within
me, but I still felt I was not
caring for my hair the way
it deserved. With time and
patience, my hair grew back
and although it was long, that
didn’t necessarily mean it was
healthy. So, after I graduated
from a high school filled with
nothing but Eurocentric-based
beauty standards, I decided to
give my hair what it deserved.
So, I wanted box braids.
“Box Braids?” My mother’s
mouth opens inquisitively as
her sunglasses are pulled down
to the rim of her nose. We’re
at the pool on my senior trip.
She hands me back my phone
displaying a girl with box
braids smiling at the camera.
She has no clue what they
are, and it shows. However, I
know what I want and if there
is one thing that has always
made me ambitious it’s my
determination. I was sick
and tired of seeing my heat-
damaged hair that limply fell at
my shoulders when I got out of
the pool or shower. My hair was
meant to be thick and untamed,
not limp and damaged. So I did
my research and I devised a
plan to give my hair what it
I pin my scarf around
my hair until it feels
secure. The night is still as
the call for prayer (athan)
sings through my phone
— I close my eyes and
take a deep breath of the
warm June air. I exhale to
the cadence of the athan,
renewing a sense of calm
and strength in my body
after a long day of fasting.
As I walked down the road
to my mosque, I reflect
on the feeling of security
underneath the crescent
moon of a Ramadan night.
I’m sure Nabra Has-
sanen felt the same.
The headlights of a car
zipping around the corner
interrupt my daze and I
pick up my pace in a small
panic, remembering the
heartbreak that occurred
almost a year ago.
Earlier
that
day,
I
came across a video of
Nabra Hassanen’s father
responding to questions
about the brutal murder
of his daughter. My heart
ached for him and I could
see my own father in his
cries. Last Ramadan, she
was killed by Darwin
Torres while walking to
her mosque after an early
morning suhoor (break-
fast) with her friends at
McDonald’s, a spot my
friends have frequented
at the brink of dawn dur-
ing our Ramadan nights.
That could’ve been any
of my friends leaving the
McDonald’s parking lot to
not return again. This cut
felt deep. It was personal.
It has been almost one
year since Nabra Has-
sanen’s father called for
justice in the name of
his
daughter,
believing
there is no doubt that she
was targeted because she
wears hijab.
Instead, the news was
quick to call it “road rage.”
Torres grabbed a bat from
his car and furiously beat
her face unrecognizable
and the news said it was
“it wasn’t about her.”
He ripped her hijab
off, carried her limp body
deep into the woods to
assault her, and the police
were quick to state it was
“not a hate crime.”
Sure,
it
could
have
been road rage — but it
also could have been the
same rage that prompted
an individual to set her
memorial ablaze.
This incident is far from
isolated. It reminded me
of years ago when bullets
ripped through the home
of three Muslims in North
Carolina: Deah, Yusor, and
Razan. Their execution-
style deaths were attrib-
uted to a parking dispute.
When you witness and
experience discrimination
firsthand, these terms of
prosecution begin to seem
naive.
This insidious hatred
doesn’t only target Mus-
lim
communities,
but
those marginalized across
the nation.
In order for a crime
to be classified as a hate
crime, it must show that
the crime clearly targets
an individual due to their
characteristics. However,
to be a minority in Ameri-
ca is to know that discrim-
ination does not need to be
overt or blatantly stated to
be felt. To be a minority in
America is to watch as the
brutal murders of people
who look like us are less-
ened
to
“coincidences”
and are abandoned in the
rule of law.
We know damn well it’s
no coincidence.
We feel ourselves, our
families, and our friends
in each name that quickly
passes through the ticker
at the bottom of the news
screen. How many lives
will our communities lose
to ignorance and hatred
that will be labeled as
else? Does America sweep
the targeting of individu-
als on the basis of religion,
race, and sexual identity
under the rug so we don’t
have to address the great-
er issue of toxic biases in
America? Why do we bury
hate under legal euphe-
misms instead of calling it
out as it is?
In a call of remem-
brance for Nabra and
justice
for
the
many
minorities that are tar-
geted on a daily basis in
America, I make a case for
the hate crime. There are
a number of reasons why
America is uncomfortable
labeling these offenses as
driven by hate. This dis-
comfort in itself is a sign
that we need to debate and
explore the semantics of
them more.
Legally, it is compli-
cated. Once it carries the
label of a hate crime, it
elevates a normal crime
to a more serious offense,
requiring greater atten-
tion from law enforce-
ment. Police often aren’t
trained on these matters
and there is no uniform
method to track and han-
dle these crimes.
Socially, it is a symbol.
Hate crimes say to crimi-
nals that bigotry will not
be permitted in this com-
munity, state or nation. To
communities targeted, it
says that they are heard,
respected and protected
by the rule of law.
This begs the question
— is there a reason why we
don’t take the extra steps
to make minority commu-
nities feel more safe and
welcome?
One
wrong
interac-
tion, one wrong person to
cross paths with — this
is all it takes. When sto-
ries of hate crimes air on
the news, they’re often
followed by my parent’s
“This is why we tell you to
be careful.” But, we both
understand that no matter
how careful I am, I can’t
control those around me.
I can’t control someone
who wants to meet my
beliefs with a bullet, who
sees my brother’s skin
color as a bulls-eye or who
wishes my friend’s hijab
were a noose. I’m afraid,
our
communities
are
afraid and it’s about time
our laws step up to protect
us.
By NARMEEN REHAM
MiC CONTRIBUTOR
PHOTO COURTESY OF NINA CEDRO
Thick, untamed and lovely: My hair
By LORNA BROWN
MiC EDITOR
Read more at
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