ROOTS

Struggling to comb my hair, I tug at my roots. I find strands curled around my brush, on the floor, woven between knuckles, clinging to a sweater days later. They'd held on though I'd forgotten them as they left my scalp. Sometimes I look to myself in the mirror - that one stubborn lump of butter in the melting pot, the drop that's spattered out and burnt to the coil of the stove. It's difficult to be sure of where you come from when all you have are bits and pieces, hints and jokes, no one in the family ever stayed in one place.

The roots in my hair plunge out from every direction they please, as did my family. From Mongolia to Africa, Romania to Lebanon, Armenia to France, Switzerland, Germany, even disappearing to Egypt, Australia. They refused to conform to any straight lines or single colors, and so here I am with my hair, and with my skin, my colorless eyes, my Afro-French nose.

There's a pride that comes with always following the muddy paths of my hair, a wanderer. Our roots define us until the day we get up, get out, and discover new ground to call home, for a while.