She commented on my hair, how it was no longer straight, but acquiring that kinky, natural texture that we either love ferociously or feel annoyed with constantly as black women.
I said I thought it was fine. But also, that I was tired with people, with anyone commenting on my looks. One comment makes me believe there are other comments and things said that I am only unaware of because I am not there to hear them being said.
I said sometimes random strangers - random, aggressive, unknown men - on the street were the worst. I said that I often felt unsafe and that it was unfair to feel like this and unfair to expect that I should have to feel like this.
I casually mentioned something that happened to me.
“Well, were you dressed like that? In clothes like that?”
Clothes like that meant shorts and a blouse.
Clothes like that somehow excused the action.
Clothes like that somehow validated the situation.
Clothes like that meant I had to learn how to not be raped, and not expect to live in a world where others are told to not rape.
I started crying and then I heard, “If something had actually happened, you would have told us.”