Page 104 of The Black Flamingo

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Campus is full of white

guys with locs.

There’s something about it

that doesn’t feel right.

There’s something about it

that makes my locs not

feel right either,

even though I’m not white.

I don’t really know

what this hairstyle means

but it looks good on me,

shoulder-length and neat;

most white locs look a mess,

strands of straight hair

sticking out everywhere

and their roots coming undone.

I tend to my roots daily,

twist them with beeswax

to ensure they endure

wind, rain, and the shower.

I wash them weekly,

tighten them neatly

so they grow strong—

but do they belong?

It happens on campus

and when I go into the city.

Black people notice me.

We nod to acknowledge

each other, and sometimes

we smile. It’s odd to me

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