She had learned that silence was not the absence of something but a thing itself, textured and living and generous, asking nothing of her, and the porch was her proof.

I have spent most of my life wearing my hair in such a way that it drew attention away from my forehead. It was not until a DIY haircut gone wrong sent me to the barber that I had to reckon with what I had been doing and why.

Each time I cut my locs, I watched my hair grow back up and out the way natural black hair does, and each time I felt that same pull to tame it. I told myself both times that relocking was an act of pride. And part of that was true.