Braids

Last night she braided my hair. Swinging like DNA molecules, they were her creation. Not mine.
Her thoughts, her energy all twisted in my braids, secured by ribbons at the ends, never to
escape.

The silver gilded mirror now reflects her pursed lips intent upon her task. My braids are undone
creating skimpy ripples down my hair. DNA yields to the soft bristles of the brush. Her
grandmother's brush. Soft blond bristles gently tease apart last night's creation and recreate
today's. Blue ribbons now cascade down as they hold in place her ideals of today.

As the wind rushes inland, it ushers in the foamy waves and sways the coconut trees to and fro,
changing those ideals to the sway of the coconut trees.

I look down at my crisp white uniform that conceals a white camisole. Everything must be white.
They assume all of us are pure.

The schoolyard has no garden, its ground stark in hardened beige. Wisps of sand fly. The sounds
of girl talk fill the air. Noisy gaggle of birds. Seesaws squeak and swing-chains groan under the
weight of rich well-fed bundles of white. Chains never have a choice.

Five more minutes to the bell and I have received my traditional welcome: exile from my
classmates.
Not friends. My classmates' secrets are too expensive for me. I know this by the way they look at
me with narrowed eyes as they whisper into each other's ears that gleam with red-gold earrings.
Little girls can narrow their eyes. Little girls in white can narrow their eyes.