On June 7, 2019, the Outdoor Recreation Center of Wendell in North Carolina posted the private pool club’s summer hours and rules. At first glance, these expectations are all reasonable. But hidden among the regulations was the following: "no baggy pants, no dread-locks/weaves/extensions or revealing clothing will be permitted or you will be asked to leave."
Within a week, the rule was shared widely across social media and drew a sizable amount of criticism. To some, it’s worth noting that the club owners, a white couple, issued an apology of sorts, saying they didn’t know that dreadlocks weren’t false hair. Still, they stood by their ban on extensions.
This news was infuriating, but a clear reminder of why I'm wary of public and private dress codes and bans that disproportionately impact black youth, including 3-year-old boys with long plaits, like my son. Our family shouldn’t be stereotyped, excluded, and banned based on our hairstyles. And while more states are passing anti-discrimination policies, we’re constantly being reminded there’s always a work-around for racism.
Our household contains a seemingly oxymoronic set of aesthetics. My husband is a black man who chose to give up his freedom to dress how he wants for the opportunity to participate in the military. It was a family tradition as well as an opportunity to use his knowledge of computers for something larger. It was also a way for us to leave poverty and start a family.
Before leaving for basic training, he had a head full of beautiful dark curls. Cutting them off was the last step when it was time to go. Our son is a 3-year-old with long plaits that he loves to shake while saying, “Dad, look at my hair!” Other times, he wears cornrows. Unbraided, his hair falls near to the middle of his back. On rare occasions, or when I’m too tired to restyle his hair immediately after washing, his afro is allowed to soar. His curls are a mix of mine and my husband’s textures, with my color and his brilliant shine.
The act of styling black hair is grounded in cultural customs, resistance, and even politics, and the last decade has represented the most recent of revolutions for black hair.
Many black Americans are embracing their natural texture for the first time. American customs and occasional policies, like the 18th-century Tignon Laws which required black women and Creole-descendant women to keep their hair covered in public spaces, have long suggested that black hair was an “ethnic” deviation from normal or white hair, and regularly failed to meet the standards of professionalism. Black hair challenges perceptions of “normal” and has regularly been connected to one’s spiritual beliefs (as dreadlocks often are) or resistance (like the Afro in the 1970s).
The history of shaming black hair continues. Every few years we hear of cases like that of Chastity Jones, who had a job offer rescinded after she refused to cut the dreadlocks that were deemed a violation to standards of professionalism.
When black people wear their natural hair, it’s politicized regardless of intention. The perception of black hair cost black people like Jones employment opportunities. In contrast, white people have the freedom to appropriate and depoliticize black hair at their convenience (think Miley Cyrus’s dreadlock extensions and Justin Bieber’s cornrows and dreadlocks).
It seems as long as the wearer isn’t black, it’s “just a hairstyle.” The problem appears to be blackness itself, and not the extractable aspects of black culture. Anti-blackness starts before many black children have learned that they are different from white kids and other children of color who are in closer proximity to whiteness. And stories like that of Dravon Ames and his fiancee, Iesha Harper, who were berated and held at gunpoint by law enforcement on May 29 because their 4-year-old allegedly stole a doll from their local dollar store, show the freedom I’m fighting for is surface-level at best.
Black children are treated as pending criminals, not only by law enforcement but also by the court of public opinion, from the start. Often, their first offense is living authentically, as we’ve seen from the police calls on black people like Lolade Siyonbola, who was sleeping in her Yale University common room. It extends into adulthood for people like Karle Robinson, who was detained and held at gunpoint for simply moving into his new home.
The pool rules are just one of many times over the last few years that “color-blind” racist policies, or regulations that don’t mention race specifically but are known to have a disproportionate impact on people of color, were passed by self-proclaimed non-racists.
As a black mother, I can’t help but wonder how many white individuals and institutions that ban dreadlocks and extensions can differentiate between black hair enough to know my sons’ plaits aren’t dreads or made with fake hair. Plaits are just three intertwined pieces of hair, often called “braids” by white people, while dreadlocks are generally more permanent and created by allowing the natural pattern of black hair to coil around itself.
But white ignorance of black hair isn’t the point. What we can’t overlook here is how white standards of dress, behavior, and expression have historically been used to deny black children opportunities. A similar phenomenon is present when the same educational institutions tasked with educating our children about the world around us use their power to pass policies that coincidentally determine black hairstyles, bodies, and behaviors as unacceptable. Those policies can also wreck black self-esteem.
A quick Google search will reveal many tales of black girls having their hair banned or even cut, like 7-year-old Lamya Cammon, whose teacher cut off her hair and threw it in the trash because she was playing with it. It’s not uncommon to see harsh consequences from these events, like the 15-year-old twins Deanna and Mya Scot, who were threatened with detention and suspension, removed from school sports teams, and told they couldn’t attend prom due to their box braid extensions. Black hair is deeply politicized and the connection between the politics of black hair and the school-to-prison pipeline is undeniable.
Black hair is criticized from birth. It’s often the first of encounter black youth have with the expectation to assimilate into whiteness. Failing to present oneself in a way that prioritizes European beauty standards is to choose a life of scrutiny.
A racist policy is enough to transform a black child who’s just living into a “loiterer” experiencing a run-in with the local police. The black men who were arrested last year at a Philadelphia Starbucks, a well-known hangout spot, while awaiting a colleague’s arrival, also come to mind. These policies show us institutional racism and more passive forms of racism at work, while reminding us that the experiences of black people are controlled by white expectations.
There are some aspects of parenting that can only be understood by black parents like myself, and one of the realest aspects of black parenthood is knowing that the way I choose to style my son’s hair can be weaponized as an excuse to limit his future. Raising black children in a “post-racial society” that elected Trump is painful. There’s so much he doesn’t understand about the world at age three, but so many occurrences, like a recent incident at a middle school in which students posted flyers with homophobic and racist messages, remind me it’s only a matter of time. Hate gets closer every day, and I’m not sure of the best way to prepare him for it.
That expectation easily transforms into an ultimatum, and our willingness to conform often determines our worthiness. That unspoken ultimatum says you will conform or you will suffer.
Take a moment to reflect on the lack of resources reported by black models like Tyra Banks, who nearly lost her first modeling opportunity after the white hairstylist on set didn’t know how to style black hair. That was decades ago, but things haven’t improved. Earlier this year, 22-year-old Nigerian-American model Oliva Anakwe expressed frustration with the lack of resources for black models along with the pressure for black stylists to know how to style all hairstyles, while white stylists aren’t held to the same standard.
White standards of dress also have emotional, financial, and mental consequences for black Americans. The owners of that North Carolina pool club conjured the same sorts of discriminatory policies that have enabled white people to find a back door into practicing racial discrimination since the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which ended public segregation and job discrimination related to race and several other identity factors. To suggest that the pool rules didn’t have racist intent is idiotic at best, and a bold-faced lie at worst.
Allowing my son to grow his hair shouldn’t be another strike on his potential for success. My son’s sense of self is more important than abiding by the rules that accompany white supremacy.
A. Rochaun Meadows-Fernandez is a diversity content specialist whose work can be read in The Washington Post, InStyle, The Guardian, and other places. Follow her on Facebook and Twitter.
This post was written through our Daily Kos freelance program.