It's snowing in Central New York this evening. Syracuse to be exact.
I know because I just ran out with the trash when something begged and begged me not to run back. My hair was uncovered, as black as the sky where the snow is falling from. I realized on the walk back to my apartment, some 50 feet away, that I'm just your average black chick. Despite what the profile pic may suggest with that hair, that wild and free hair. It was part of my Halloween costume. I went as a poet; for me, the hair fit. Not to mention I was coming well past due for a perm; the hair just kinked and curled by nature. But it's not my usual. I'm a roller wrap kinda girl. Always have been.
The point is that under my night-black, iron-pressed wig, I, your average, homegrown black chick, actually stopped in the snow. The snow. Snow hits like water, and I was taught well, hence why I ran to the dumpster.
But on the walk back, it came to me: running in the snow, as if I could run from it, dodge it in some superhuman way, is such a silly action and an even sillier idea. Why not walk? As a sista, I've been running from rain damn near my whole adult life. And I mean running for real, like an escape convict with other folks' eyes at every window and sirens in earshot. So crazy, right.
I stood in the snow for longer than a moment. Felt its flakes kiss the crown of my head, and even muscled the audacity to look up. To let the cold, white pieces of longevitiy kiss me, as a friend who is also a lover would. I smiled, embarassed and upset with myself that I had been running all this time just too proud to be your average black chick.
Silly me. As if beauty can be seen ducking and dodging and running from rain and its cousin, the snow. Silly me. Beauty is best seen when she is standing still.
I know because I just ran out with the trash when something begged and begged me not to run back. My hair was uncovered, as black as the sky where the snow is falling from. I realized on the walk back to my apartment, some 50 feet away, that I'm just your average black chick. Despite what the profile pic may suggest with that hair, that wild and free hair. It was part of my Halloween costume. I went as a poet; for me, the hair fit. Not to mention I was coming well past due for a perm; the hair just kinked and curled by nature. But it's not my usual. I'm a roller wrap kinda girl. Always have been.
The point is that under my night-black, iron-pressed wig, I, your average, homegrown black chick, actually stopped in the snow. The snow. Snow hits like water, and I was taught well, hence why I ran to the dumpster.
But on the walk back, it came to me: running in the snow, as if I could run from it, dodge it in some superhuman way, is such a silly action and an even sillier idea. Why not walk? As a sista, I've been running from rain damn near my whole adult life. And I mean running for real, like an escape convict with other folks' eyes at every window and sirens in earshot. So crazy, right.
I stood in the snow for longer than a moment. Felt its flakes kiss the crown of my head, and even muscled the audacity to look up. To let the cold, white pieces of longevitiy kiss me, as a friend who is also a lover would. I smiled, embarassed and upset with myself that I had been running all this time just too proud to be your average black chick.
Silly me. As if beauty can be seen ducking and dodging and running from rain and its cousin, the snow. Silly me. Beauty is best seen when she is standing still.
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