Friday Mornin' Platanos and Collard Greens - By Kori Clanton

I left behind the institutionalized halls of my college dorm room this morning in search of culture. Walking along the brick lines sidewalks headed to the Foggy Bottom metro stop, I hopped the blue line in need of a wash and set from Giovanni's; a small Dominican salon nestled amongst the culturally rich street of Adams Morgan. This salon attracts female students from all over the District who are trying to maintain the "flow" and the little cash they have in their wallets.

On Friday mornings I head to this place to reclaim my sanity and revitalize my tresses. Echoes of Spanish talk shows and afternoon novellas compete with the drone of dryers, each hovering over the head of a woman with gigantic rollers and a black net scarf securely holding them in place. Today, like most days the salon is full of women whose skin tones all reflect a common ancestry, but whose ethnicities are as varied as the restaurants that line the streets outside.

"Senorita!"

Sylvia, my middle-aged Dominican hair stylist, calls for my attention and directs me towards the sinks in the back of the salon. I can't help but feel simultaneously included and excluded at the recognition of her call. Our commonalities only reach so far, and our limited knowledge of each other's languages prevents us from sharing in a conversation of either.Yet, I accept this proverbial name and her warm smile as a welcoming sign of affection.

Earlier I waited in the gray chairs lined up against the front window of the shop and contemplated which magazine to read. A small but incredibly bright young girl sat beside me in her grandmother's arms chatting and laughing as if she were twice her age. Her grandmother, identifiably a black woman, exchanged laughter with bits of knowledge about everything from the construction taking place outside, to telling her how to sit like a "big girl" in the chair. I looked past the fairness of her girlish skin in comparison to her grandmother's dark brown hue, until Spanish words flowed with ease from her small lips. Grandma didn't quite catch on as her granddaughter proceeded to flip the script and teach her a word or two. I gave up fumbling through wrinkled pages of an old Vibe magazine wondering if this little girl was Black, Latina, or a combination of the two. Deep inside I questioned why it even mattered to me. I heard her scream out "Mommy!" as a tall Hispanic woman walked in her direction smiling with open arms. At once, it all seemed to make sense that she was a combination of both; child who bore the history and heritage of two minority groups.

Sitting there as a black woman, I understand the society that she will soon face. Would she grow up considering herself Black, Latina, or simply feel comfortable in being her? My thoughts occupied a realm she'd yet to consider. For now her age maintained her innocence in a society that will soon enough ask her to choose sides, check a 'box', and negotiate her place in the social construction that is, race... I walked away wishing she'd never have to. But reality often ignored our desires, existing within a mind of its own.