Acceptance Anonymous

“Sit still!” my mom shouted at me in Igbo, as she continued to press the scalding flat iron to my scalp. I hung my head, watching as the puddle of tears in my lap grew larger, each additional tear rolling off my chubby ten-year-old cheek, darkening the light wash of my jeans. After taking a moment to recollect myself, I took a deep breath and sat up straight. It’s all going to be worth it, I repeated to myself.

Rewind to a couple of hours prior to this moment, a classmate asked me why “black people’s hair was always so nappy.” Usually, I would ignore remarks like those -- growing up in a 94.8% white community desensitizes you to microaggressions like that -- but that day, for whatever reason, those words happened to linger in the back of my mind. Immediately after coming home from school that afternoon, I begged my mom to straighten my hair. Ignoring her cries of “but your natural hair is so beautiful!” I continued to plead until, finally, she gave in. To many, that comment from my classmate may have seemed harmless, but this interaction, coupled with countless others, had a drastic impact on my perception of identity.

My desire to conform grew stronger than ever, as did the burning feelings of discontent towards my heritage. I...