I sat beside a white boy in a dead bar. Alone, he slurped beer, watched football. Hair yellow like an unpeeled onion, no signs of sun on his skin. A typical white boy. No match for me, yet, I started it, impressed him with what I knew white boys liked: Metallica, tits, Seinfeld. He was nice. Bored, I guess. We talked for a while. Both in our twenties, both southerners.  I desired his attention because he didn’t give it freely. He spoke anxiously. An awkward laugh followed every statement, every eyeball-dash at my cleavage, each concerned glance upward at the wild black kinks springing from my head, and then, each nervous scan behind him, around the room. His fear empowered me. * In fifth grade, I fought a white boy beside a stack of gym mats. He touched me down there. I looked like a China doll, my aunt said, fingering my jet hair. Sizzled-straight, it framed slender shoulders, stuck against my skin by hair grease and sweat. She favored me, they all favored me. Lighter than my cousins, my honey complexion drew their wrath. White Girl. Think you cute. Headaches from pulled hair. Arm scratches from fighting. I fought … Continue reading Why I Let Him Touch My Hair