The Place Between Our Mother’s Legs
In recent culture news, we’ve talked a lot about safe places and spaces for Black women—the lack thereof, the ones that already guard us, and the places yet to be labeled our Gethsemane. But what if you thought back? Go deep within your childhood. I can think of a warm place. I can think of a regal place. A place guarded by rat-tail combs and ribbons. A place that once departed from, I was guided by rows and twists. A place where I could stand beside the sun with clouds in my hair. Yes, you remember this place. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it has made us into the women that we are today.
How long have you stepped away from your throne? How long have you been seen without your regalia? How long have you believed that what was meant to protect you was a weapon formed against you? How long, how long, how long? A beauty salon used to be safe for me—until I saw more of my hair on the floor than on my head. It wasn’t even cut out. It was mistreated, mismanaged and unloved—by someone who was not my mother.
At the age of 22, I still call out to my mother for help with my hair. “Mama, can you do two braids for me? How do your hands feel today? I need you to part the back for me. How does this look? Can you oil my scalp? If I twist the back, can you braid the front?”
Her frail and itchy hands are still royal to this day because nobody can braid like my mama. I’ve never learned how to. Why would I when I have mama?
I might catch my mama on a good day every now and then and get my hair braided like only she can do. But by myself, on any regular day for the last two or three years, I’ve ornamented myself with twists. When I have the patience, I occasionally tell the sun to move over—my puffs are back again. By the time I am ready to go back to twists, the parts are long gone. Sometimes I dread the day of plowing cotton. It hurts—then I am back safe again.
I want to dare you to think not only about the Black women in need of a safe space, but the Black children exploring for one too. I don’t know about you, but I felt safe and beautiful getting my hair done as a little girl. I was Black, I was beaded and I was worthy. I no longer wear the beads but I am now in charge of the crown. I am still worthy. I love my twists, but I miss my mama’s braids. I have yet to find another safe place for my hair. The safe spaces that we can create and polish for the existing brown children and the ones on their way, are the same seats that we rose from. This is the place where your child should first realize that they are a king or queen. Their throne—now the place between our legs.
Where is somewhere that you can be safe with all of your Blackness?
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Born in Rocky Mount, North Carolina, Sienna Morgan is a fresh name in authorship, but her name is positively here to stay. As Sienna sojourns the literary world, publications such as Colorism Healing [2018 and 2020 Editor’s Pick Winner/ 2021 Writing Contest Guest Judge], Harness Magazine and The Black Explorer Magazine, are places that her pieces call home. Through descriptive prose, with an admonishing, tactful and scripture-esque voice, she is sure to captivate. Topics such as colorism, bullying, faith and mental health, are at the heart of her work. Sienna’s words offer hope, inclusion and implores every reader to self-reflect.