January 15, 2005

A little piece of history in my braids
by Liza Sabater

This one goes out to Marisol Mejil, a relative of mine who found me over the internets through the now infamous c u l t u r e k i t c h e n: Condoleezza Rice, a Sally Hemmings for the 21st Century. Marisol is working out a Mejil family tree and thanks to my blogging about sex, race and politics she found me. ¡Qué chévere!

I like my braids because they startle people. It brings them a smile. I guess because they don't expect to see an old, sagging woman with braids. Maybe I look goofy --and that's OK, people need to smile more in NYC and I am more than happy to provide comic relief. A long time ago I used to walk around in a perpetual sour-puss. Thought that would get me respects. It doesn't. It just brough me more of the pain and sorrow that, ironically, I thought I could avoid by looking tough. Thank my kids for the change. They've always brought a smile to people's faces. And so, I've learned to do the same.

Other times, though, people think I am either Native American, Southern India, or North African. When I went to New Mexico, I got the "come back to the tribe" come-on from many a Nations guys. Taxi drivers have started to talk to me in Arabic, Hindi, Urdu, and languages I had no idea even existed. It's sometimes scary but most of the time it's just funny.

Given that I have some Arawak (Caribbean First Nations) and Roma (more commonly known as Gypsy) ancestry, it's not a coincidence the braids have always been part of my history. The braids are a tradition of the Mejil women in my family. My grandma used to wear them and her mom too.

I loved it whenever I was with my dad's mom, Mama Ana. I loved it when she would let me braid her hair. Mine has never grown longer than shoulder length because it's curly (although not as gorgeously curly as Alizinha's). When I get an escovada by my Brazilian hairdresser, it gets all straight and goes all the way down to the middle of my back. Mama Ana's hair was straight and I could do anything with her hair. Then, we'd take turns. She would make braids on my hair; sometimes she would even lace ribbons in them.

My father always chuckled whenever he'd see my hair in braids. He'd say I reminded him of his grandmother, Juana Wenseslau, only taller ---much taller. And not only for the braids, mind you. Also for the fiesty attitude.

Juana became notorious in her hometown --and a "wronged" folk character-- after she killed a guy that attacked her. My father always talked about how she always wore men's socks and garters because she liked how they held her knives perfectly. She was a very small woman with chocolate skin, long black hair and hazel eyes; and infamous for being a smart ass. Beauty and a bad attitude made it a necessity to carry knives under her skirts for protection.

The part of the story my father relished most was how, when she was called into court for the attack, the judge thought the docket had a typo and called out for "Juan Wenseslau". He could not believe a woman had knived a guy that big. Even less after he saw her walk into chambers. Well, she was found not guilty of murder; but her name went down in infamy --sort of.

I thought this was only a "thing" in my father's childhood town but I found out later --through one of the early BBS' about Puerto Rico-- that when "old island folk" called you a "Juan Wenseslau", you were being called either a rogue or a wildman.

To this day, they can't get her name right.

My father died of dementia. In the end, I don't know if he ever knew it was me talking to him or his grandma. The only times he would not get agitated was whenever I came in with my braids. So I made it a point to braid my hair whenever I visited with him.

My trenzas are my own little way of remembering Juana, her daughter Mama Ana, and her grandson Quique. You could say I wear a little piece of history in my hair.

Posted by Liza Sabater in Life
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