[Lace Watkins]

Those of you who know me know I am…er…oh, let’s just call a thing a thing!

I’m bald! Or, more accurately, bald-ing.

Or bald-ish.

All y’all know that because of alopecia I wear wigs, and sometimes also (off camera) wraps, and turbans, and caps, and scarves, and hats.

Not to hide. It’s pretty evident that I am well on my way to being a total chrome dome, and the wigs I wear are apparent to even the casual observer. And for those few who don’t know, I am always the first to tell.

My baldness is one of the first things I encounter, and confront, each and every morning. It’s the last thing I face as I ready myself for bed. It’s a constant.

These last weeks, I have been thinking a lot about my head. My head space; my headaches, my leaky eyes, but also I have been thinking about what is seen, and not seen; the tension of revealing vs. concealing; persona vs. person; disclosure vs. suppression.

Covert vs. overt.

I think about this as I consider which head covering to wear with my outfit for the day (or several outfits for Video Days). Hats and caps for working outside. Turbans and wraps for around the house. Wigs for cameras.

I think about the many coverings I wear here at Lace on Race. Wigs for zoom coachings and consults. Turbans and wraps as I research and write. Scarves sometimes, to fend off the breeze in the mornings as I sit outside with my first mug of something; sometimes coffee, sometimes tea, but always steaming, and contemplate the day.

Sometimes I wear nothing at all, as I rub the soft fuzz, the last hardy stalwarts of my biohair, as I contemplate Lace on Race, all of us as a community, and also, for those who have allowed yourselves to be seen, vulnerable and fragile fuzz and scarring and all, each of you individually.

Sometimes, I eschew the scarf, or the cap, or the wrap, and, in my mind, meet you as close to naked as I can. I imagine all of you by the orange tree. I use my fictive imagination to imagine which cup on the shelf suited you best; whether you preferred coffee or tea. Will you sit on the chair, or on the blanket spread out on the grass? Will we mouth pleasantries, or are we ready to talk about the hard things? Are we ready to sit in deep silence, in the liminal spaces, and speak to each other wordlessly, meeting each other in ways words sometimes simply cannot?

These days, when I take off my head covering to meet you all collectively and individually, you will see bandages and scars. Some of the scars are from alopecia, but some of them are more metaphorical than actual.

These weeks have been hard. Blows have definitely landed. The blood has been (mostly) wiped up with stinging alcohol and cotton pads; the dressings have been changed. But the marks and contusions are still purple and tender.

Will we talk about them; you and me under the orange tree? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe you might consider it rude to talk about my black eye and the gash in my forehead. Maybe you will wonder why my words sound garbled between my swollen lips. Maybe you will mistake my bruises for blush, and speak of my beauty while ignoring my talismans of pain.

But maybe you won’t. Maybe we will talk about my face, contorted and distorted, but still me; maybe we will talk about healing; maybe you will even offer balm that takes away the sting.

Or maybe I will continue to hold you as you expect, give instruction and encouragement and exhortation despite my lumpy head and markened face. Maybe you will finish your coffee, or your tea, leaving your cup unrinsed and leave me under the tree. Or maybe not. Maybe you will take the cups into the kitchen with me, help me fold the blanket, and put another kettle on to boil, measuring coffee grounds and tea leaves with me as we, together, wait for the next weary walker and serve them with our very best.

Maybe you will tenderly replace the scarf or turban or wrap onto my head, choosing to serve as you have (hopefully) been served by me, winding it gently, ever so gently, wincing alongside me when you (inevitably) hit a lump or a scar, and I involuntarily moan.

Maybe you will look me in the eye as we stand here in my kitchen. Maybe, before you leave, you reassure of return, and you reach into your pocket.

And there it will be. A mug containing a sachet of tea. For me. For Me! The water you boiled was for me! What a gift. A flavor I have never tasted before, made up of your own story and tears and life and love and service and Hesed. That’s it! That’s the fragrance!

Hesed.

This is the Lace on Race Early April Ask.

Discussion

[Julia Tayler]

Crossposted on Facebook

This is beautiful! I really hope to sit under the orange tree some day! Tea and listening. ❤️

[Kelsi Watters]

Crossposted

I am… beyond words. I am here to walk with you, to hold as well as to be held, to stand with you in the vulnerability and the liminal spaces. Thank you for showing us how to walk with Hesed.

[Rebecca McClinton]

Eloquent. Sobering. Loving. Convicting. I see and feel in your words the eye to eye you describe here, Lace. The vulnerability, love, accountability, presence, all through relationship. You lead us by your example. It’s an honor to walk with you here. I will continue to work to be a strong back on which you and other people of color can stand reliably through relationship together.

[Emily Holzknecht]

I am learning from Lace, from the posts, from the example other walkers set of what to do and what not to do, how to hold and serve and love. If there were a group of us under the orange tree, I would look for what is not being done, where there are gaps in what other walkers are doing and saying to find where my hands and my words and my back are most useful. And while I am holding and loving and serving I would keep watching the others so I can keep learning from their wisdom as to how they hold and love and serve. And I must do these things in our virtual spaces too.

[Jessie Lee]

Your words are a gift of conviction. I hear your gentle, pained call for accountability. I’m using my fictive imagination to think of the vulnerability in sharing this with us after you showed up naked and battered in the coliseum, and our collective response was to gawk (lurk and consume silently) and accuse you of not living up to your/our community’s ethos. You did live up to it, and your bruises are evidence of its cost. Reflecting again on these events of the last months, I’m struck by our audacity and collective denial of your humanity.
“Maybe you will mistake my bruises for blush, and speak of my beauty while ignoring my talismans of pain.” This. These words landed and are sticking, helping me to get my head around the harm of buying into the strong Black woman trope. Just when I think I’ve finally rooted it out, I see another weed of the same variety that’s been growing nearby. I think, “of course Lace isn’t superwoman and of course this is devastating to her” while I compliment you on your composure and the depth of your values, your blush that is actually a bruise. You don’t need my compliments, you need me to offer tea and salve and just be with you. Complimenting you on your strength and resilience but in different words, is still buying into the sbw trope and layering harm on top of harm. It’s averting my gaze and withholding my touch because your pain and injury make ME uncomfortable, so instead of sitting with you in those liminal spaces, I’m slowly backing away. Now that I can look down and see that my feet are moving in the wrong direction, I can course correct.

[Julie Helwege]

You’re words are so beautiful – your essence captured in such a powerfully vulnerable way. I’m humbled and inspired by your leadership and voice.

The wear, tear and violence of these last few months, the betrayal of your friends and abandonment and silence of our community you love so deeply – I see you, your wounds and your pain. I’ve brought you some meat for that eye and CBD oil for your bruises, and I’ll tenderly treat your bruises and scars.

You’ve really moved me, leaky tears, and shook me in my bones, Lace.

Holding you so tenderly right now and loving you hard.

[Clare Steward]

“I have been thinking about what is seen, and not seen; the tension of revealing vs. concealing; persona vs. person; disclosure vs. suppression.”

As time marches on and we continue to walk together and cleave together I hope to see you better and hold you better. I hope the tension dissipates and we can sit together in comfortable silence or in deep discussion or working side-by-side in your kitchen with you feeling at ease and feeling safe

• This reply was modified 3 years, 6 months ago by  Clare Steward.

[Jen Scaggs]

Beautiful writing! I hope that I can live out service to others with Hesed as you have.

[Christina Sonas]

I want to be part of a strong core cohort at Lace on Race who always, always offer you a gentle touch, a healing salve, a soft scarf, a hot cuppa, when you return from an engagement that drew blood, sweat, or tears.

I am struck by all the “maybe”s in this essay. This is a society that takes a skilled, confident person, and because she is a Black woman surrounded by white women, demands that her skill and her confidence take a backseat to whether or not she can convince and cajole them.

More than 150 years since Emancipation, white supremacy still demands of Black people all the same behaviors and sacrifices.

[Danielle Holcombe]

**crossposted**

When I read this and think about your bruises, I think about Holly.

I think about how I responded in that situation, as one who had what I thought was a genuine and deepening relationship with Holly – for quite a few months already. And also having a deep and abiding relationship with you.

I did speak up at the earliest opportunity I saw, but as I add this picture (what you wrote above) to the narrative I’m remembering in my head, I start to see myself standing near you, but with my back to you.

I was focused out. I was looking for harm coming your way from a defensive stance but it doesn’t appear that I was looking AT YOU.

I saw the blows she struck, and they were fierce.

How often am I so focused on the behavior of the one being violent though, to the point of missing the very important action of hesed – tending wounds or offering to simply abide with the wounded? To sit with, to serve, to learn about, and to love.

I often struggle with knowing where to rest my gaze. Now I’m thinking that it isn’t that I don’t know where. I rest my gaze where it is comfortable or “natural” for me. And since I know that my compass is out of alignment due to white supremacy, I need to be oh so intentional with my focus.

Thank you for a beautiful invitation to deeper relationship, and for showing us all how that is done.

I look so very forward to the day we have tea together dearest Lace. And in the meantime, I will continue my walk with you right here. Offering my time, my talents, and my resources in service to our North Star.

[Shara Cody]

You demonstrate vulnerability and Hesed in sharing your pain and struggles and so many of us don’t meet you eye to eye or under the tree in it including me. These months have been incredibly hard on you and as you continue to recover, I need to not only clean my own cups but serve you and others as you’ve demonstrated and guided me in so many times.

Will I consider it rude to ask you about your scars and bruises? I find it hard to ask you about them, a little easier if you bring it up, but I’m still not good at staying in the car with someone else’s pain. I might change the subject to your achievements using toxic positivity to avoid seeing you eye to eye. I see how doing this demands I be the one served and comforted and is not relationship. I’m working on changing this behavior but I still don’t take enough opportunities. I do this with people I know better than with people I don’t know but I need to be able to do it with anyone to help create a safer world for BIPOC. I have to remember to focus on the Other instead of on me and on listening in all interactions.

*cross posted*

[Author]

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