Corn rowing
...very Black
by Linda Williams
Staff writer
AprU, 1973 THE BLACK INK Page 7
Ex-con makes it
Bessie Macklin often watched
her mother comrow hair. She
never comrowed hair herself
until recently, nor did she wear
her own hair in the style. But
now the ophomore i om Rocky
Mount is consideisd somewhat
of an exper at the art. She did
four heads for the African
Cabaret, and has done as many
as five in one diy.
Cornroivs >re continuous
braids over thi heaa separated
by half-inch parts, worn by more
uKd more black womeri_and men
today. '3?''eral i'’t;;.cate designs
are used.
Cornrows are more
authentically African than the
loose Afro. Variations of the
style can be traced in African
tribes centuries back, whereas
the large loose bush is rarely
seen in the Africa of the past,
until the style became popular in
the United States.
The cornrow style came to
the United States with slavery,
and was worn almost exclusively
by young black girls until
recently. As a child, I remember
having my hair braided, as an
unpleasant experience, often
painful. Other black women also
remember the unpleasantness of
the process. Given this, I asked
Bessie why the style is so
popular with black women
today?
“Because it is African and
because cornrows are
convenient,” she answered.
“They stay in place for days, the
hair stays cleaner and it is easier
to keep the scalp oiled. Also the
hair grows faster and because it
is braided you don’t have the
problem of split ends,” she said.
Other qeustions came to
mind. Are corru'ows merely a
fad? And if not, will the style
replace the Afro?
“No 1 don’t think they are a
fad, and I think they are
complimentary to the Afro,”
said Bessie.
Janice MiUs, a junior from
ReidsvUle and Pam Williamson, a
sophomore also from Reidsville,
don’t think cornrows are a fad.
In relation to the Afro, Janice
said, “the Afro doesn’t mean
anything anymore, it is now a
fashion. Some girls wear the
bush because it goes well with a
particular dress . . . reasons like
that.”
But Janice and Pam both
agreed that the important thing
about cornrows is that they are
unique to black women. “)^ite
people can wear bushes, white
people wear dahshekis, say right
on and all that, but they can’t
wear cornrows,” Janice
explained. (It takes thick wirey
hair to hold cornrows in place.)
This is important, she
continued. “I think as blacks
move further away from white
norms by doing little things
different, they become more
aware of their blackness, and
establish a basis for a
movement.”
The symbolic implications are
vast. Cornrows can be seen as a
symbol of the uniqueness of a
people, a symbol of black
identity with Africa, or on a
more personal level, that is
cornrows allow the individual to
be unique. The individual is the
creator, whose choice of style,
or design, is limited only by her
imagination.
It is significant that older
blacks accept cornrows more
readily than the Afro. Perhaps
because the Afro came with an
atmosphere of revolution and
militancy, whereas cornrows
developed in a somewhat calmer
evolutionary atmosphere. An
evolutionary process that looked
at Africa for more genuine
cultural references. Or simply
because they can identify with
cornrows from their own
childhood experiences.
Evil
Looks like what drives me crazy
Don’t have no effect on you—
But I’m gonna keep on at it
Till it drives you crazy, too.
Life is so beautiful it hurts,
Life is so ugly it hurts.
And my feelings are so intense
They hurt.
Love is so beautiful it hurts,
Love is ugly it hurts,
And my feelings are so intense
They hurt.
May life and love get it together
and may my feelings
Be released
So we all will be on
An even keel.
-Val
by Gwen P. Harvey
Feature Editor
She extended a long, brown
arm to dump her cigarette ashes
into the nearby ashtray, licked
her full lips and then spoke with
a child-like softness. “I’m going
to make it this time. Too many
people are backing me. 1 can’t
let them down.”
The twenty-five year-old
parolee sat quietly on the sofa of
her newly-rented apartment and
slowly recounted her personal
journey through the correctional
halls of North Carolina.
Joyce _ Bryant (not her own
name) has been in and out of
training schools and prison since
the age of 13. She was the
“unruly,” boisterous young
offender who graduated from
petty larceny to the “big time”
when in 1970 she was tried,
sentenced and convicted for
being an accessory to murder.
Joyce witnessed her sister’s
slaying of a lover and afterwards
aided in the disposal of the
body.
She was sent to the Women’s
Correctional Center in Raleigh.
In 1971 she was released on
parole but violated that privilege
by running off to New Jersey. It
took the authorities 8 months to
find the young runaway and
speedily return her to the
Center. There ’Joyce remained
until January of 1972. By that
time Joyce had achieved the
status of “honor grade”: the
rank a prisoner achieves through
good conduct and adjustment to
prison life. Honor grade
prisoners are offered the
opportunity of work-release —
employment outside the
confines of the Center.
J oyce eagerly accepted
participation in a newly
organized program serving as an
adjunct to the Center-based
work-release program. She
returned to her native city of
Charlotte and became a resident
in the half-way house there. “It
was best for me to go to the
house,” Joyce said. “At that
time I was not ready to accept
outright parole. Work-release
We must
(Cont. from pg. 3)
not part of the solution, you are
the problem. We must survive,
and struggle is the only way!
AFTERNOTE;
As Chairman of the Black
Student Movement this past
year, I have witnessed the things
that I write about. There have
been times when 1 have seen my
brothers and sisters seemingly
together, for instance, the James
Cates Memorial, for which
“beautiful” will suffice for
description. At other times, total
disgust dominated my emotions,
for example, the Election
processes, which can only be
described as “unintelligible
delirium.”
As my term in office draws to
a close, 1 would like to thank the
Central Committee for their
many dedicated efforts to make
the BSM a working organization.
Though this past year was one of
was best for helping me get
adjusted.”
The half-way house is th
eprisoner’s bridge back into
normality. Ten work-release
residents and two staff
counselors inhabit a large,
rambling country home located
on the grounds of a YWCA in a
quiet section of the city. These
ex-prisoners share a life
dramatically different from the
one they left behind in Raleigh.
“It is like one big happy
family,” Joycf said with a
half-smile.
Each woman has a regular
week-day job plus a share in the
household chores and the
preparation of meals. At the end
of the work week the woman
receives $10 cash for her own
personal expenses with the
remainder being forwarded to
Raleigh. The state deducts $3.45
a day for room and board and
puts the rest in a trust fund
available to the woman when she
is released.
The residents of the house
have simple yet highly valued
privileges. What a thrill it is for a
woman who has been
incarcerated for several years to
find herself riding around the
city in the staff-driven station
wagon, going to movies
downtown, shopping at the
malls, and sometimes even
catching a city bus alone. “It’s
so much more convenient living
in the house,” Joyce asserted.
“In Raleigh you had to stay in
your own cell block. At the
house you could go upstairs to
your room, downstairs and
watch tv, or just in the
bathroom and be alone.”
Upon release to the house
Joyce began work in a
commercial spinning mill. She
was transported to and from
work by a staff member. Joyce
was readily befriended by her
co-workers but when queried
about her residence she
responded only that she lived at
the “Y.” “One day,” Joyce said
with a quiet laugh, “I wore one
of my sweaters from the Center
to work by mistake.” Blaring
blushing red across the collar
survive
great trial and error, massive
scandal, great criticism, and very
little praise, I feel somehow that
the storm has been weathered
and that the things we have done
as a collective body will in the
long run prove to be beneficial
and rewarding.
Whatever the future holds in
store for the BSM will hopefully
provide likewise, for things must
be as they may, and we must be
liberated. I have no regrets about
the past, nor will I resign myself
to be skeptical of the future.
Not to say that 1 am content
with the present situation-I
would never resign myself to the
lot of contentment either. 1 only
hope that I may have served
you, my brothers and sisters, to
the best of my ability, and that
we will continue to move
forward TOGETHER. To the
incoming officers of BSM, and
to all Black people involved.
Right On in the Struggle-We
must survive.
was Joyce’s stenciled prison
number. A few nearby workers
made note of it and Joyce
quickly announced: “1 am a
prisoner from Raleigh on
work-release here. That is that,.”
All tension quickly dissolved.
Joyce had to remain in the
house for 90 days before she was
entitled to her first week-end
home leave. “I couldn’t
understand at first being a hop,
skip and jump fron. home and
not being able to go,” the young
woman admitted.
Joyce’s face broke into an
infectious grin as the topic
turned to the matter of her
newly acquired “freedom.” On
Tuesday, April 4th of this year,
she walked out of the shelter of
the house to begin a new Life as a
parolee. In her hands she
clutched a “list of 15 'es” and
the trust fund checl. . n the
state.
She set out determinedly to
lead an independent and
responsible life. To make it all
on her own. “In Raleigh you had
to accept things as they came to
you. In the house you learned
more about compromise. On
parole, you can relax a Uttle
more but you still have a lot of
obligations.”
With the trust fund money
Joyce rented a neat Uttle
apartment not far from the mill
and began the gradual process of
furnishing it. “People have been
so good to me,” she said
bobbing her afro-coiffed head in
enthusiasm. She pointed to the
furry brown mats on the floor.
“Those were given to me by a
girl across the street. And I
wouldn’t have got this sofa we’re
sitting on if it hadn’t been for
Mrs. Royals” (one of the
counselors at the house).
Joyce sank back onto the sofa
and gazed about at her
handiwork. Gaudy posters
plastered on the beige walls. A
small but sturdy coffee table
ringed with circles left by wet
glasses. Soul music tinkled from
the transistor radio resting on
the arm of a well-worn easy
chair.
“I’m satisfied with the way
things are going.” A brief pause.
“By God, I’m out of prison and
I’m going to stay out.” She sat
up with a bolt and reached for
another cigarette.
Riot Rimes
No. 79
You got to be scared
Both ways
To know what 1 mean
And be where I’ve been—
Scared beating on the door
From the outside
And scared when they let you in.
Raymond Patterson
Riot Rimes
No. 49
After it was over, they came
And looked in, and said.
You poor people!
You are riot-torn!
There’s hardly a roof
Over your head!
—Like it ain’t been the same
Since the day 1 was bom.
Raymond Patterson