My Hair Is Not a Secret
My hair is not a secret—not something to hide or lay down so others feel safe.
It has known fear. The kind passed down in hush-toned warnings:
“Don’t go out like that—people will talk.”
It has worn shame, pressed and burned, tamed until it forgot how to be wild.
“You’ll look prettier with it straight.”
It has chosen safety, not out of comfort, but to stay employable, acceptable, invisible.
“Don’t let them see too much of you.”
It has learned survival, like armor dressed in silk wraps and sewn-in silence.
We did what we had to.
It has been controlled—by policies, by stares, by hands that didn’t ask before they touched, and mouths that said, “Is that even real?”
It has lived through conditioning, not just in bottles, but in systems that made us believe being ourselves was
too much,
too loud,
too Black.
But no more. My hair is not a secret. It never was. It was just waiting—for me to remember.
So if my hair is not a secret, yours isn’t either. We are not alone in this unraveling. We are strands of the same root—pulled, pressed, plaited—but never broken.
Let us unlearn together. Let us comb through the lies, detangle the damage, oil our scalps with truth and twist liberation into every coil.
Let us show up—big, braided, blown out, buzzed down—however we come, come fully.
Let us see each other. Honor each kink, each loc, each part of us we once tried to press away.
Because our hair is not a secret. Our power is not a secret. We are not a secret.
We are here—and we are rising.
-❤️💚💛🖤-
🌹Poetry by RootedInRiot
Braided in defiance. Penned in pride.🌹