Oppression of self expression

Another yellow note was placed on my desk. Ms. Penla stares at me in disgust, and every time I look back, she quickly turns away. I flip open the paper to yet another hallway pass to the principals office immediately. I pack my bag, and slowly creep out of the classroom after the test. My feet drag behind me through the halls. I arrive to the front of the school, and sluggishly sink into a chair right outside the doors of the principal’s room. I can feel the  whole office staring at me, almost trying to guilt me for what I did. I didn’t feel guilty, but my head swarms with its thoughts. I start fumbling with my pen. This is the second time I am called to the principal’s office within this year alone. I’m not a bad person for doing this, am I? I feel my hands get clammy as I toss the pen from side to side, only slightly lifting my head to look at the clock. How do I tell them this isn’t my fault? How to I persuade them to see my side of the story? It’s hard to look for a solution for something you don’t feel was your fault. My legs shake as my head overflows with questions. I can feel my heart skip beats as I hear him approach the tinted doorway. The door unlocks, and a tall, fair man comes out. 

“Miss Taylor?”

As I detach myself from the chair, I clutch onto my bag, feeling every inch of my face turn a draw rouge. It’s as if I feel everyone watching me, wondering what student crime I had committed. My mother will kill me if she learns That I am in trouble yet again. 

“Do you know why you’re here, Miss Taylor?”

I nod in submission. I know it’s best to just agree with everything in which he has to get of his chest, but still I feel myself fume on the inside. If I could only tell him. I don’t feel guilty, but should I? Is what I did really that wrong in the face of all other school problems?

“Then you know why you have been considered a distraction in your classes. I have told both your parents, and they are now waiting outside. Let’s bring them in.”

My heart drops as my gaze drops on the door opening. There she stands; my mother, skin as rich as coffee, standing tall. How can someone be so beautiful, and yet so terrorizing? It’s important to see when she leaves her work. It almost never happens unless it’s something of utter importance. My stomach was tied in knots thinking about that. With her brows furrowed, she sits in the chair next to mine, glancing at me. I don’t dare to look up.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Darton. I’m sorry to pull you away from your work, but your daughter has been deemed a distraction due to her hair. Until it is taken care of, she will not be allowed back in school.”

I could feel a lump in my throat as my eyes water. This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have put my hair down, I should’ve just kept it up, I should’ve listened.

“I’m sorry, mom, I didn’t mean to-“

I heard my mother laugh beside me. It was a long, forced laugh as if she just heard the best joke ever. In shock, I turn to meet her gaze, and she smiles at me. She stood up, and as fast as she smiled, her face twisted into an emotion only I could describe as anger. She wasn’t mad at me; she was mad for me.

“You have pulled me away from my work as a business woman, just to tell me that the way my daughter is wearing her hair is a distraction? Her hair is a representation of our long string of black culture, and to hell if you find it offensive. You teach these kids that it’s alright to punch another kid, yet shame another for their natural hair? She doesn’t have the long golden locks that these other girls have, but I’ll tell you this; we will never be returning to a school where the oppression of self expression is acceptable. I hope one day, some day, you can understand. Come on, Taylor, let’s go home.”

And just as fast as I came in, clutching onto my bag, I had come out, this time holding the hand of a woman who I saw as my hero. I looked around the office in which lied outside the principal’s own. The people who stared at me in disbelief did not dare to make eye contact with my mother, but how i could here them whisper. How could she be so proud, so brave, so certain that what she said was right? 

“Mom, I’m so sorry this is all my fault. I-“

I feel the tears trickle down my cheeks as she turns on the car. She turns to me and wipes my tears away with her own hands.

“Baby, that school principal doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Your hair is beautiful, and if people find it ‘distracting’, well then you just have to stand your ground, ok? You did nothing wrong. And I can’t promise you you’ll never be treated like that again, but I can promise you that if you fight for what you believe in, then you’ll see less of it. So be brave, baby.”

I watched as we drove away from that school. I watched as the times I got called to the principals office for my looks were left in the dust, and as my will to fight lighted up once again. From that day on, I knew I wanted to be just like my mother. A business woman who started her own small company, a activist when it came to what she believed in, and most importantly, my mother, who fought for me no matter the circumstances. I wore my hair in its coily, natural form, every day from then on,promising myself one thing; I’ll stand up for the justice of self expression.