I wore Bantu knots to school: The most embarrassing day of my life became an important part of who I am
My mom wrapped the rubber band around the last knot of my hair.
My scalp throbbed with tightness as I walked into the bathroom. In the mirror, there they were — about 20 squared puffs of perfectly parted hair.
“You sure you want to wear that to school tomorrow?” my mom asked. I was 13 and we had been stationed in Germany for the past five years because of my mom’s Army career.
Back in 2005, if you didn’t have cornrows or waves, you might as well not go to school.
“Yeah, nothing’s gonna happen,” I told her. “I’ll be all right.”
I went to sleep that night excited for the next day at school, thinking how cool I’d be with this different hairstyle. The ladies would want to be with me, and the fellas would want to be me … or so I thought.
Though I didn’t know it back then, the hairstyle I was rocking was my mother’s version of Bantu knots. The style is traditionally African and is used nowadays by women to get heatless curls.
My mom put the knots in my hair, making it easier to braid since I had very thick hair and suffered from shrinkage. I’d worn this style before, but only at home.
The next morning, I woke up with that same scalp tightness as the night before, walked to the mirror and I took off my durag. My excitement level dwindled. The second I stepped out of the door, that early-teenage anxiety hit.
What the hell am I doing?
I didn’t have enough time to take the knots out, so just pulled my beanie out of my jacket pocket and tugged it over my head. The knots made my head look bumpy, even with the hat.
One by one, other students joining me on my walk to school grilled me with the same question.
“Why is your head bumpy?”
“Just wait till we get to class,” I said with fake confidence. I knew if I just made it until the bell rang, I’d be spared humiliation.
My mom was born in Honduras. She and her four siblings moved to the U.S. in 1975. Back in her homeland, she got her hair braided “like once a year” because people in her village neither cared nor had time to do hair. When I was born, she was glad she’d had a boy. It meant she wouldn’t have to do hair. But I was a surprise: I was born with extremely thick hair that could break the toughest of combs.
Back in the early 2000s, at least where I was growing up, every young black kid wanted cornrows. Athletes had them, from Allen Iverson to Michael Vick. Rappers and singers had the braided designs in their hair. It was the cool thing at the time, especially if you had hangtime, or braids that went past your ear. That’s what I was going for.
I knew my cool points would skyrocket once I had cornrows.
I got to the courtyard. It was, at that point, a normal morning. Some of my friends were playing basketball on the left side of the yard while others socialized about petty classroom drama near the “seventh-grade” door on the right. I was just trying to make my way toward a bench and lie low until the bell rang.
“Yo, what’s up with your head?” friends and classmates kept asking.
“Man, nothing. Just wait till we get to class.”
I was so close to the bench I could feel it.
Then it happened — there’s always that one kid.
I felt the hand grasp the top of my beanie, then the cold air on my scalp.
Someone had yanked my hat off.
For a second, time froze. Every second after that crawled. From the way my black hat swung in that fool’s hands. To the widening of everyone’s eyes. To the slow-mo call that started it all.
“YOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
I don’t remember much, but I do remember I finally made it to the bench. There was no defense. There was no hiding. I had to just take it. It was every young teenager’s cliched nightmare. People were literally pointing and laughing.
The school I went to on base was diverse. I thought these kids would’ve been accepting, but nope. Black, white, Hispanic, Filipino, it didn’t matter. They were all laughing.
Some, who probably couldn’t see over the crowd, didn’t even know what they were laughing at. But they still laughed.
It probably lasted for about two minutes, but it felt like about 10 years.
Then the bell rang.
“You may wanna keep this on the rest of the day,” the hat thief said as he threw it back to me.
Walking to class, a mixture of anger, embarrassment and shame swirled within me. I’m not going to lie, I may have shed a few tears that day.
My mom told me recently in our weekly conversations that she remembers people wearing the knots or braids and cornrows a lot during the 1970s.
I guess our conversation triggered past braiding trauma for her. She told me she used to braid my uncle’s hair when they lived in Breukelen Houses, a public housing complex in Brooklyn.
“He was trying to fit in,” she told me. “That’s what everyone was wearing.”
Looks like this desire to fit in with the hair was a braided part of my family heritage, since I was trying to do the same thing. As my mom said, she only gave in to me because I had been getting on her nerves with my persistence about getting cornrows.
But why would she let me walk out the house like that? Well, she also let me walk out the house wearing 4XL T-shirts.
“I figured it was the stage you were figuring out who you were,” she said. “I just wanted you to figure out on your own that it’s not what you want.”
I wore the knots to school a second day to show I didn’t care what others thought. I undid them on day three and let my glorious Afro free.
I’ve had my share of bad hair days since:
Failed S-Curl activations.
Messy cornrows.
Mismanaged shape-ups.
I learned two things from the Bantu knot experience. One, I should’ve listened to my mom. Two, as a young black person, my hair would always have to be on point. It’s why I’ve had the same low cut since 2006.
I’m not going to go into the politics of hair and all that, but I will say after the incident, the maintenance of my hair was an important part of who I was socially and professionally.
My non-brown friends often ask why I get my hair cut every two weeks. To them, they don’t see a difference. Usually after I educate them and show them before and after photos, they see the light. The edges are sharper, more defined and as a result, I feel more confident and powerful.
The Bantu knot day also influenced one of my main hair rules. If your hair is long — say in Afro form or in locs — you must always have an edge up.
Nowadays, when I’m speaking to some of the folks I grew up with in Germany, they don’t hesitate to bring up that day.
“Are you ever going to bring the puff balls back?”
Of course not, but I’m glad I can laugh about it.
This story was written by Amir Vera for The Virginian-Pilot, it was published online in February 2017 and ran in the March 2, 2017, print edition of the paper. The story no longer shows up on the Pilot’s website or on a Google search, so Amir decided to republish.
Denise Watson and Elisabeth (Liz) Daugherty edited this story.
