Anger at 4 am
I awoke with a seething anger. As it usually happens, this rage was seated in the bottom of my belly. With the burning in my belly came the memory, wrapped with the anger. It was not a personal experience, but the experience of a young boy I’d never known, nor will ever know him personally. The memory came from a video I’d seen some years ago; a high school wrestler who had long dread locks. He was told at the beginning of a tournament he could not participate unless he cut his hair. The white female referee got a pair of scissors and chopped off his beautiful hair. The cutting remark which came to my mind was, ‘who are you fucking Delilah’? I was amazed at the venom in my mind/ it was years since I’ve experienced such fury. My venom ran into ‘what if he was a Rastafarian’? It is their religion to never cut their hair. I know I was there when the Rastafarians got started in Jamaica. What if he was s Sheikh; they also let their grow as long as it wants to. The indignity o