Who Teaches Black Girls To Speak Up?

In 2003, my elementary school housed 5th grade in trailers outside.

OutKast was dominating the charts and those raised in DeKalb County during the early 2000s know that the Krunk movement was at its peak.

My science teacher had been out for a few weeks and returned to restless students and stacks of papers. In the midst of the chaos, a worksheet was handed out. Somehow, I was skipped over and never received an initial copy. The next day, when my science teacher was collecting assignments, I didn’t have one to turn in.

At the time, the only thing I really could focus on and wear with radiance were my academic accomplishments. I wasn’t a star athlete, child prodigy, or even skinny. I loved learning, and better yet, I loved being good at learning and the game of school. It was my untouchable, unquestionable thing about me.

I waited in line with other students who had an issue to resolve with the teacher. The science teacher ran some extra copies and nearly poked a hole through the paper writing the words, “2nd Copy” over the whole thing.

I took the paper home and my mom –– being an educator and a PhD candidate in Elementary and Early Childhood Education at the time (she’s a full professor now, purr) –– checked the worksheets I had to do. She saw “2nd Copy” and asked me what it was about.

I told her the story and she seemed hurt that her baby didn’t speak up for herself. A strange and fearful feeling any guardian of a Black girl must feel.

My mom wrote a note back and I showed it to my science teacher. It was handled in the grade book.

In 2016, during my first year of graduate school, an elderly person I was working with told me, “Oh, you’re a fat one.”

I told my supervisor who asked me what I said in response.

“Nothing,” I told her, forgetting about the trailers of my elementary school.

She wanted me to say something to set a boundary and to let the client know that what they said wasn’t acceptable. I didn’t say anything and I couldn’t explain why.

In 2021, I moved to Houston with a fresh trim and color from my stylist of nearly 20 years.

I let it grow out and found a braider who was clutch. But, as the months flew by, I noticed that my hair wasn’t healthy, and I was in desperate need of a trim. I also wanted to bring my blonde highlights to my new growth. I went on a search and found someone who had great reviews and was close by. I scheduled a consultation and a regular appointment.

Over the phone, I mistakenly told the stylist I wanted a root touchup and that I had grown out my blonde but wanted it back. What I actually meant was that I wanted highlights.

The bleach processed evenly and after the stylist rinsed my hair out they asked me to take a look in the mirror to see if that’s the color I wanted. I gasped, and chuckled because of course this would happen to me.

I told her it wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for but, I’d roll with it.

“You let me sit here and color your entire head and didn’t say nothing,” the stylist repeated in disbelief and disappointment.

I got home. I cried. I hated it.

I hated that I didn’t speak up and say, “Can I show you a picture of what I mean?”

The little me that didn’t speak up about that “2nd Copy” note on my worksheet and the graduate student who didn’t say anything to being called “fat” by a client showed up to that appointment, and unintentional blonde “me” was now walking out of the salon.

Self-advocacy, for me is a dual-sided journey right now. It’s something that I’ve struggled with throughout my life, and the consequences of not having a masterful grasp on it are… seen and appreciated.

Cheers to speaking up for little Randy in this moment and being blonde, for now.

Want to read more of Cherranda’s work? You can find her thoughts here and here.