When I was a little girl, my mother had no idea what to do with my hair. I only remember her watering my hair down and combing it through and at one point taking me to get it thinned out. As a teen, I hated my hair. I burned it straight, cut it all off and bleached it. I remember feeling like an outsider within my mother’s side of the family. I remember feeling hurt and confused because of the jokes that were made and things that were said about how unmanageable it was. So, when the time came for me to have my daughter, I knew that I wanted to educate her about her curly hair, and most importantly, for her to love herself, completely and fearlessly. I stopped flat ironing my hair and wearing straight clip-in extensions. Instead, I chopped all of my hair off, as short as Halle Berry, and started all over, learning to manage each and every curl (well, mostly).
This poem was inspired by that journey of embracing my roots, especially those on my head.
My mother says
that when she first held me
in her arms,
she said to herself,
Que feita, not because
I was a child with a head full of hair,
but because I had fine wisps all over,
which would torment me before
I grew to live with this
thicker hair of mine,
handed down from the Amerindian and Caribbean seeds
my father planted inside my mother.
My future was set up for the endless talks
that would surface regarding this hair,
making a statement in every family photograph.
“And her — whose is she?”
“she looks black.”
& for weddings and parties,
my hair caused a concern.
I closed my eyes imagining
perfect strands of silk
hanging down my back
like those of my cousins,
only to find my hair styled
in a coiled bun at the top of my head.
Strand by strand it grew:
my individuality lost between
looking like a Cruz
& knowing only my Cortez bloodline.
Until my brother and I,
exhausted from attempting to answer,
the question
“what are you?”
hopped on a plane nearly 30 years later,
nerves and all,
smiling when we landed in San Pedro
& hugged our Tia Karina for the first time.
On that day, we added new faces to our family tree,
the missing puzzle piece, we agreed.
They looked just like us —
my cousins sporting beaded cornrows
& afro puffs
& I,
lost in the translation of my curls,
finally,
understanding,
where
I came from.
-Jeannette Cruz
Mommy Finger, Baby Finger 
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