No. 42 & Our Winter Script Shop is Open!

💘 Dear Friends, Community, and Family,

A Quick Shop Stop

Before we dive in, I wanted to share a special opportunity. We've partnered with talented artists in our community who have generously offered exclusive discounts to Back of Book Scripts subscribers. Check out our shop section below to explore their work.

Sending All the Gratitude

I'm incredibly grateful for your continued support and interest in this newsletter. It's a space where I share my thoughts, ideas, and experiences, whether they're groundbreaking news or simply musings. Thank you for being here!

Taking A New Approach

Traditionally a newsletter will often follow a two-part structure: that nu nu news and outreaching to community, or community engagement. I've decided to adopt a version of this format for future issues (at least for now!) to keep things organized and focused.

Why, Back of Book?

The name "Back of Book Scripts" holds personal significance. It's a combination of my college professor's advice to put useful information in one’s “backpocket,” as well as my mother's (and now my own) habit of jotting down numbers, notes and all the things on the backs of envelopes, books, etc. These scribbles of import, or SOI for short, contain so many ranges of helpful notes and things to remember.

I'm committed to sharing valuable insights and my practices in writing with you all. However, I want to strike the right balance to avoid overwhelming you.

Stick with me friends, I am here for the journey and I trust that you journey with me forever far you can go.

Yours,

Nzingha

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ART X Keisha-Gaye Anderson

Spells for Living Oracle are available to this subscriber list at $35

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Keisha Gaye-Anderson is a Jamaican-born poet, writer, visual artist, and communications and marketing strategist based in Brooklyn, NY. Her debut poetry collection Gathering the Waters (Jamii Publishing 2014) was accepted into the Poets House Library and the National Library of Jamaica.

🫂 No. 42 - Hug Life

Honestly, I might have been running from another hair shop when I unexpectedly came upon Amy’s earlier this year. At the time that I found her, Aminatta, I wasn’t looking to get my hair done, but I said, “You know what, let me just check it out and get a number.” Knocking on the door of the subterranean location on Madison Avenue in East Harlem, I came inside, and we spoke while she braided hair.

She was dressed in a colorful gown with sleeves that flowered around thin arms. I said I would be back. From what I could see, it looked like a decent place to get your hair done. So, I started going to her from that point this past year, and her hands in my hair are like right. Styles on fleek, clean, parts symmetric, you know, even. Put together, like.

I like how she cares for the shop. With plants in the windows, a storing place for extensions, hair, and beads—which doubles as her office—the entire 700-square-feet space stays very much in order, including the restroom, which is not the case for even the best of salons.

The salon is inside-voice quiet while Amy and her two assistants do hair. For some, that silence would be a dealbreaker, sitting as we do for no less than three hours, but this I love. It could just be that she does not have a TV. But then I was thinking, she could definitely play the radio or music from her phone. Her shop is on volume low.

People come in to get knotless or Goddess braids, sitting for seven or eight hours, easy. Or, in my case, since I will not sit for that long, I’m in and out in less than three hours. That being said, the space has a meditative quality. You can settle yourself as the women wash, blow-dry, plait, braid, burn ends, bead—you can just get quiet. Go to sleep, why don’t you? Think through a thing or two. Me? I get work done, write these letters, you know, chill. Listen to music, chat a bit.

Amy communicates well. Like the other day, when she initially resisted starting on a special style that included using a sewing needle and thread to wrap the braids in a pinwheel. Or when she asked me about the U.S. elections—this, about two months ago. She was forecasting a loss for Harris, unconfident in the will of the U.S. populace to elect a woman, a Black woman, at that.

A few weeks back when I was at the shop, I wanted to give her a hug. I look forward to seeing her because ain’t it nice to go somewhere where people look forward to seeing you? At my last visit, she said, “I remember when you came here for the first time. You didn’t get your hair done then, but you said you were going to come back.” That brought a smile to my face.

And so, as I came into the shop, I literally wanted to wrap her in a good hug. I don’t know if I saw something in her eyes—a joy, yes, but also almost tears. I’ve been wondering about her daughter, who used to do my hair, and whose name I cannot remember. Every time I come, she says she will be back soon, that she is traveling. I detect a little sadness in Amy. From what? We could all venture a guess. I’m a bit sad these days myself, so who really knows? I wanted to go up and embrace her, this well-dressed lady who does my hair. I didn’t, though.

I gave my greetings and things like that, but I did not open my arms or bring my heart a little closer to hers. I went home wondering why. I didn’t want her to worry that I was getting close. But how less close can I get with her up in my hair for hours on end? I had wanted her to know I appreciated her. Amy is not the first hair braider I’ve wanted to hug. I’m thinking of Sylla, who is from Senegal, one of the best craftswomen of Black hair I know. Rather modest, but she speaks out when she needs to. I haven’t been back to Sylla because I like Amy’s shop better. The world is not all over the place in that piece—hair, combs, shoes asunder. Sylla is a worker within a shop. Amy has her own shop.

I guess I also didn’t want to appear weird, like I might have the other day at Barnes & Noble on the Upper West Side. After a few hours, I had a strange urge, as I got up to leave, to offer salutations to a late crew of readers, talkers, teachers, and friends I didn’t know! Yes, I had observed them pacing back and forth, eavesdropped on a conversation about working backstage on Broadway, had my fallen phone handed back to me. No, I didn’t know this crowd at the café-cum-community center, but yes, I wanted to say, in my mother’s deep voice, “And to all, a good night.” I managed to keep the farewell from forming in my throat, gathered my snack pack of hummus, napkins, and just went home.

After Mama, I imagine my older sister hugged me and my twin sister down. She, T.W., would have likely been the first to wind my hair in rows and tiny plaits. She, herself, a master braider of natural hair, and later, an expert in adding hair and braiding in extensions as early as the late ‘70s. For my twin sister and me, she wove our hair into French braids, which I love to this day, or she weaved our curls in cornrows going up into a ponytail—less a tail, though, than a crinkly cone atop our heads. I am sure my mother was next, and not first, because, blessed be her hands, Mama braided big chunks of hair—what we, in the community, called ‘dookie braids.’ Sis Ramona, Mama Nia, and Mama Chuike, these three brought love, technique, and creativity into our kinky curls.

Whoever else Mama happened upon who could maneuver their fingers around our Black girl hair, they, too, laid hands on our heads. As my older sister, my aunties, took my hair in their hands and left in it an intricate design, making me over, I can see why I presently desire to open my heart and hug Aminatta. One of these days, I’ll come into her shop and give her a big hug, and she’s going to say, “What? Nzingha… what is going on?” And she’ll hug me back.

Tagged under: hair, hugs, memory

But this hair, tho? 🤔