In 1976, when I entered kindergarten at Webster Elementary in Maplewood, I quickly learned that my schoolmates were far more interested in the color of my skin than of my slightly gray tooth, and in touching the short Afro I sported. Every morning, Mom styled my hair with a black hair pick with metal teeth and a handle in the shape of a Black man’s fist, all balled up like he was about to punch somebody. Dad said that fist was the Black Power sign.
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On that first day, I needed all the Black power I could get, because I walked into the playroom, and the other kids rushed over to run their hands all over my head.
“Your hair doesn’t move! Why doesn’t it move?”
Then, one boy started rubbing my head really hard and fast. “Eww-wwww, what is that?” he yelled, pulling his hand away as if he’d touched a hot stove. “What’s this grease on my hands? Ick!”
I bit my tongue, and pop!—I punched that white boy right in the arm, turning the laughs of the three or four kids around me to tears. They promptly tattled on me to Mrs. Hansen.
She scolded me and said I should keep my hands to myself, but I felt that white boy deserved what he got. I had seen him around Maplewood before, riding bikes, and he had never asked me about my hair then. He waited until he got around all those other white boys to clown me in front of them. Because of my favorite TV shows, mainly Sanford and Son and Good Times, I thought to myself, “So, this is what ‘honkies’ are.”
We should be proud to be Black, but, according to many of the Black people around me, being Buckwheat Black was shameful.
And they kept at it. Every day, those kids reached for my head like I was an animal in a petting zoo or the “midget in a cage” I had seen for a dollar at the Minnesota State Fair. The Arabic-looking “pygmy” was about my height with an adult man’s face and a muscular build. He was locked in a large, chicken-wire cage, with a sign on the lower left corner that read: “Please Keep Your Hands Away from the Cage. He Bites!” At that age, I believed that man was from another species. That’s how some of my classmates saw me.
I’d arrive at school in the morning with a smile on my face, only to hear kids start to snicker, calling out, “Good morning, Buckwheat!” I hated that name because I had seen The Little Rascals. And I knew that Buckwheat was viewed by everyone around me as a nappy-headed, bug-eyed little Black boy who was usually the butt of the joke.
Every day, my mom used her strong hands and that ten-toothed hair pick made of steel to keep me from looking like Buckwheat. “Boy, you need to comb this hair, it is nappy!” she always said, prompting me to sit down on a kitchen chair so she could help me “get my hair right.” I knew if it didn’t have enough chemical-smelling spray, cream, or pomade in it, the kids back in St. Paul would start “cappin’” on me, which was the term my generation of Black kids in the Twin Cities used for what people my parents’ age called “playin’ the dozens.” “Cappin’” was a match of verbal warfare in which we’d humorously insult one another until someone gave up or was ready to fight. Every time I’d get around the older kids at church or in the neighborhoods of family members who lived in Rondo, somebody was always cappin’ on somebody for their hair being “so nappy that…” or their skin being “so Black that…” “Your head is so nappy that the barber has to pull out a chainsaw!” or “You’re Mama’s so Black, when she goes outside, the streetlights turn on!” and so on and so forth.
I listened as closely as I could, to refine my cappin’ skills. It was becoming clear that Buckwheat’s hair was the barometer for how nappy a kid’s hair should never get, and his skin was also a measuring stick. Kids whose skin was as dark as or close to Buckwheat’s shade were like sitting ducks in the cappin’ game. Being smack dab in the middle of light-skinned and dark-skinned, I knew that “so Black” jokes didn’t apply to me. But my coarse hair made me a sitting duck for “nappy headed” jokes.
Like so many other messages I got about my Blackness, those in the cappin’ sessions were at once clear and terribly confusing. Yes, we should be proud to be Black, but, according to many of the Black people around me, being Buckwheat Black was shameful. That declaration never felt right. I didn’t know which was worse—the Black kids who teased me when my hair was “too nappy” or the white kids who felt disgusted by the grease coating their palms after they’d touched my hair.
The product Mom used was called TCB Hair & Scalp Conditioner. It was a thick grease, like Vaseline, and it smelled remarkably similar, except more pungent. She put globs of that into my hair and then massaged it in.
As I grew older, Mom started putting a lye-containing relaxer in my hair every few months. She’d scrub it all in, and then I’d have to tell her when it started to burn. The older I got, the longer I waited to tell her. The longer the relaxer was in, the straighter, curlier, and wavier it made my hair, depending on the effect I was going for. Anything but nappy.
A few times, I waited so long that my head had scabs for a few days after the treatment. That’s how desperate I was for “good” hair like Cab Calloway’s and the dudes from the movie The Cotton Club. The pomade I used—Murray’s—came in an old can from the 1930s. I also tried Sportin’ Waves, which helped especially after “Ronnie, Bobby, Ricky, and Mike” of New Edition came along with their sought-after wavy cuts. During the mid-seventies, my Rondo friends and I battled constantly over who had “the best shag,” and then in the mid-eighties over who had “the smoothest waves” or the flyest Jheri Curl. Thank God, my parents never let me get a Jheri Curl.
From the city to the suburbs, Black men had to take extraordinary measures to maintain their hairstyles. On Brotherhood Breakfast Saturdays, Dad and I would rise early to visit Mr. Harper’s barbershop before heading to the pancake house. This meant waking up at 7 a.m. and embarking on a thirty-minute drive to St. Paul to secure our place in line. With Mr. Harper being one of the few Black barbers in Minnesota, patrons would line up with their cars, and the early birds would get served first. Anyone arriving after 9 a.m. could expect to spend their entire day waiting.
Mr. Harper’s shop was more than just a barbershop; it was a sanctuary for Black men. It was among the rare establishments in Minnesota skilled in crafting styles like the flattop or “box” haircuts, shags, Jheri Curls, waves, and perms. To be “fly,” those of us with coarser, tightly coiled hair had to let it burn. All this came later, of course. But even before kindergarten, I’d learned to despise the nappy-headed Afro that was my hair’s uncombed, natural condition.
I had moved into Maplewood carrying the pride of the King Center and everything I’d been taught there about Black being beautiful. Now, I was Buckwheat. And nobody, anywhere, saw beauty in him.
One axiom that’s often trotted out is that children come into the world pure, innocent, and colorblind and thus cannot possibly be racist. Anyone who believes that never met my classmates and teachers in kindergarten. Not a day went by without someone, often a teacher, having something to say about my brown skin or black hair, which was studied and dissected like holy writ. My name changed according to the day; it might be “Blacky” or “the Brown kid,” and all-too-often, “nigger.” Many kids, along with bus drivers and teachers, would high-five me or say, “Gimme five, bro.” All of it made me want to hit them—but not as much as I wanted them to like me.
Finally, on the bus ride home from school one day, I had the opportunity to make a friend. A white boy on the bus was carrying a nicely wrapped birthday gift. I wanted to see what was inside, thinking it might be a G.I. Joe.
“Hey, happy birthday,” I told him. “Why haven’t you opened your gift?” “Oh, it’s not my birthday. It’s Patrick’s. He’s having a birthday party, with games and everything. You wanna come?”
I was thrilled that this white kid was inviting me to a party where everybody was going to be. But would this Patrick kid be okay with a Black kid coming?
“That sounds cool, but I wasn’t invited. Won’t he be mad if I come?” I asked. “Don’t I need one of those invitation cards that moms send out?”
“No, you don’t need that. Just come with me. It’s just a few stops.” And sure enough, instead of waiting to get off at my stop and going home, I got off at that white boy’s stop, and we walked right into that party. Patrick’s mom opened the door. Seeing me, she got red-faced and confused.
“Hi! Can I help—”
Before she could say anything else, the other kid told her that I was on his bus and that he said I could come. I told her my name and apologized for not having a gift, since I hadn’t known I was coming.
“Okay,” she said, smiling. “Do you live around here? And do your parents know that you came to the party?”
“I live over on Hazel Street, but I wanted to come here and have ice cream.”
She laughed, and other mothers came over, trying to figure out exactly who I was. She grabbed the massive Northwestern Bell phone book off a shelf and told me to join the other children.
She pointed to a dark-wood-paneled living room off the kitchen, where a pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game was going on. I met the other kids, and they seemed cool, even though everybody knew I hadn’t been invited.
I had just finished my turn on the donkey game when I heard his mother on the phone, talking to my mom. “Oh, he just came right in and made himself at home. He’s all excited for the ice cream. He’s welcome to stay. We can make an extra spot—”
There was a pause, then, “Okay, well, I’ll have him ready to go. He’s right here with the kids.”
Then it hit me. My mom was coming to get me instead of waiting until the party was over. I had made a big mistake. As the kid’s mom talked, my body heat soared, my heart rate increased, and I felt a surge of what seemed to be a hot liquid spilling into my upper chest and up to my brain. I couldn’t lash out or flee, so I just froze and let the liquid flow like a stream through my head and every organ. Today, I know that what I perceived as liquids were “fight-or-flight” hormones flooding my body. Back then, I just called them poisons.
Mom walked in with a huge smile, introducing herself as Roberta Hawkins, not Bobby, as she was known in our family and by most Black people. Hearing her use her official “white people name,” I knew I was in trouble.
“I am so sorry that he invited himself to your son’s party,” Mom said, her mouth still stretched into a broad smile. “He knows better. I hope he hasn’t caused you too much trouble.”
“Oh no-o-o,” the white ladies said in unison, and Patrick’s mom said, “We love having him, but I figured you’d want to know where your kindergartner was, and now that I know you were wondering, I’m so glad I called.”
Mom looked over at me, rendering her best June Cleaver impersonation. “Lee-Lee, why did you come here? You know better than to invite yourself to somebody’s party. Say you’re sorry.”
I was so filled with dread that I could barely squeak out an apology.
Not a second after the car door slammed, she leaned in less than an inch from my face and pinched and twisted my skin. My baptism in “Black boy” fire had officially commenced, burning much fiercer than the spark of the whacking I’d gotten at the Rondo duplex when I was three.
I longed to live in a world where I would be invited to a party, where I wouldn’t have to just show up, and the mothers wouldn’t have to think twice about whether I lived in the neighborhood.
“Boy, don’t you EVER embarrass our family like that again! Don’t you know these white people don’t want you in their homes?” she said, speaking so sternly that some of her spit flew into my eye. “That boy didn’t invite you to that party! He doesn’t even know you, and you go waltzing in there like these white people want you there? And you had the nerve to ask those white people for ice cream? What are they going to think about us, with you begging for food? We have food! They’re going to spread this all over the neighborhood! Those white women are going to say, ‘Those niggers didn’t have food’! Don’t you know you’re a nigger to them? Are you stupid or something? You’re an embarrassment to this family, boy! Wait until I get you home!”
Then she slapped me, hard, across the face.
But I knew that was just the opening act. The main event was yet to come. Dad would be biting his tongue for sure.
But when he got home, he didn’t pull out his belt immediately. He grabbed me and shook me, hard, then put both hands on my shoulders, pressing down, with his thumbs digging into my neck. He launched into a screaming lecture, adding frightening dimensions that Mom hadn’t even brought up.
Then he unbuckled his belt and brought it down on my back. Hard. “Boy! Don’t you ever disappear like that!”
Whap! Whap! Whap!
“Don’t you know that you can disappear and never be seen again?
They’ll KILL you!”
Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap!
“Don’t [Whap!] you [Whap! Whap!] know that some of these white people [Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap!] will KILL you if you go into their homes! And then I won’t have a son! You’re not a kid!!!! [Whap!] You can’t be a kid!!!! [Whap! Whap!] Stop acting like a kid!!! [Whap! Whap! Whap!] You’re not a white kid! You’re Black, boy! Don’t you know you’re Black? You’re Black! And don’t you ever forget it!” [Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap!]
I was five years old.
He literally beat the child out of me. From that day forward, I would never be anybody’s baby, least of all my parents’.
Slowly, it began to register that being Black rarely meant freedom; instead, it meant there were strict rules to follow and my parents would belt-whip me every time I broke them. My job was to learn those Black-boy rules and be exceedingly careful, and if I stepped left or right instead of exactly on the line, a beating would ensue, and that beating would be all my fault, and deserved. I learned that day that my parents’ job was to whip me, to scare me into being afraid to ever go to another party without asking permission. I never doubted back then that they loved me, but I blamed myself for not being mature and wise enough to know better than to attend that party.
The severity of that birthday party beating and the derangement it unleashed in my parents was my first inkling of both subtle and major differences between my family and the white families in Maplewood. Scores of white families left their front doors unlocked, even while they slept, but my parents went ballistic if me and my sisters failed to lock ours behind us the minute we walked in the house. If we had ever left the door open, it wouldn’t have been white people killing us—it would have been our parents.
But I didn’t understand why Dad said I could have gotten kidnapped or killed at that birthday party. Yes, the kid’s mom was white like the scrunchy-faced women I’d seen on TV screaming at Dr. Martin Luther King and his fellow marchers from the side of the roads, but she seemed nice. All the mothers did, and they didn’t seem to mind if I wanted ice cream. Mom kept screaming that nobody wanted me there, but it had felt like they did. No one seemed like they wanted to kidnap or kill me. But my parents reacted as if I’d come this close to disappearing forever or getting stabbed forty times in the neck by a white soccer mom who would then throw my body into a dumpster.
I longed to live in a world where I would be invited to a party, where I wouldn’t have to just show up, and the mothers wouldn’t have to think twice about whether I lived in the neighborhood. A world where I could just call my mom and say, “I’m going to this party at this friend’s house, and I’ll be home soon,” and live just as freely as that white boy who’d invited me to the party without a formal invitation. I longed for a mom who wanted me to go to a birthday party and have a joy-filled time. But that day marked the beginning of my assumption that such an event would never happen.
I went back to being Buckwheat, the odd kid out, the one the moms saw and immediately knew didn’t fit in. And in the tradition of my father, I hid my anger in public and established my public persona as the happy, giggling Lee-Lee who found the good in even the worst situations. It wasn’t hard to find the good on that day: first, a white kid from school had invited me to a party, and second, nobody there had touched my hair.
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Excerpted from I Am Nobody’s Slave: How Uncovering My Family’s History Set Me Free by Lee Hawkins. Copyright © 2025. Reprinted with permission from Amistad Press, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
