Tasting Light

When I heard the news on the radio that the seventh FAN was murdered by police, I was staring into the bathroom mirror envisioning myself with a rose-petal-pink dandelion Afro. My phone buzzed against my thigh and there were two texts. One from Ryder and one from Desi. Ryder wanted to know if he could come through and talk. Desi’s message was a picture of two different tubes of pink hair dye in her brown manicured hand. I left Ryder’s text on read and responded to Desi’s with three cotton candy and two unicorn emojis.

I brought up the idea of cutting my hair a couple of weeks ago, after I told my folks I also didn’t feel my gender fit me. The thing is, I’ve had dreadlocs since I was a baby and my parents have them, too. Our locs signify our little tribe — all of our manes are each other’s pride in a trifecta kind of way. My hair thick and twisted into long, twirling cords by my father’s fingers. My locs was how I was known. “Amari with the dreads.” My dreads, able to wrap around me like a blanket, made me look like I was equally the child of my mother and father.

A feeling in a dream changed something for me, though. I had a dream last week that my hair was cut close and soft to my scalp. I was in a yard that felt like my grandma’s in Milwaukee, one of my favorite places in the world, but looked completely different. In the dream, I was looking at the sky and it looked like watery mirrors, and when I saw my reflection, I was my own self and no one else.

“So how did it feel like in the dream? Were you sad your hair was gone?” Desi asked me when we were talking on the phone the night after the dream. I was lying in my bed, under my covers, and imagining her on the other side of the line twirling her sea-colored braids between her fingers. I felt myself hold my breath, listening to her voice. We had begun calling each other instead of just texting about two months ago.

“Not really. But when I woke up, I felt my head and it was weird to feel my dreads still there, you know? I expected to feel the little chickadee fuzz head I had.”

“That would look fire, Amari. What color was it though? You know how dream colors look different from real-life colors?”

“Hmmm, how do I describe it?” I really thought about it. “You know the color of strawberry ice cream? But with strawberries you picked, churned by your favorite auntie.” I lay with my locs on my chest, watching them float with my inhalations.

“Can I help with your hair color? I wanna try and make it look strawberry for you. You gon’ look sexy.” My tummy dipped when she said that all casual, that I would look sexy. I closed my eyes and imagined my head in her lap and her hands in my hair.

“Amari, I got to go, honey,” my mom said, suddenly outside the bathroom door and pulling me out of my thoughts about Desi’s hands.

She whooshed in and landed on the toilet with the exhale of relief that comes when you been holding your pee a couple minutes too long. She was still in her work clothes from teaching. When she was done, she washed her hands next to me. She paused and looked at the both of us in the mirror, her locs on top of her head in a bun while mine hung long and lanky down my back.

“I bet you are going to have a cute little head,” she said, glancing at my locs with a wistful smile, then squeezed me to her. With a sigh, she started changing out of her work clothes to get into something more comfortable.

“Let me get on to my research. This whole Cha’Darius situation is already getting intense.”

“White folks acting like they the first ones ever to be Black and oppressed. Big ol’ crybabies,” my grandmother said with an irritated sigh, back when the whole outbreak first happened and the wealthy with their newly browned teenagers marched in the streets, demanding the government protect their rights. Not rights for Black or Brown people, mind you, but for FANS. They didn’t want to be profiled or harassed because of the color of their skin, because deep down they were white and still wanted to be treated as such.

The news of the police killing of another FAN caused a national frenzy that would be unavoidable in most houses, but especially mine, with my mom’s research and writing on the subject and its impact on Black people. Our living room became a situation room. My mom plopped down next to me with chips and guacamole for us to snack on. I was on the couch, drawing in my sketchbook some anime of myself with my new hair and comparing it to the countless ones I’d drawn of me with my locs.

My mom’s eyes were glued to the television as she set up her laptop, notebook, and pens to ready herself for all the notes she would be taking as the events unfolded that evening and in the weeks to come. My mom considers hours-long CNN binges on anything FAN-related as “academic research.” One of her research focuses is comparing how the media portrays the victims of a police homicide differently if they were a FAN or BBB.

On the television screen flashed a picture of a smiling dark brown man with gray eyes and a close-shaved head, his arm around a pretty brown-skinned Black woman. They were holding a light-skinned child carrying a stuffed pink flamingo.

Underneath, the screen said, “Police shoot unarmed man in front of his parents’ suburban home.” You had to look real close at the man to see that he was a FAN and not BBB. Some FANs were like that. I looked at the little boy in his arms, who looked like a perfect mixture of both of his parents, his tan skin being the only tell that one of his parents was not BBB.

FAN was slang that real Black folks, aka Black by Birth (BBB) folks, used to describe the group of people who got dark from Melanitis — a side effect of parental Moremipin use. FAN stood for “Fake Ass Negros,” which was also a way that we distinguished them from us, the BBBs or, as we young Black folks call ourselves, RANs (Real Ass Negros). White folks afflicted with Melanitis found the term FAN insensitive and derogatory. Black people found the term appropriate (and funny), especially given how white people were starting to experience the anxiety of how it feels to walk in the world with Black skin. One byproduct of the Melanitis plague was an increase in white fragility.

I looked at my phone and saw that Ryder already texted me three times since I checked an hour ago. I still didn’t want to deal with it. Some Black folks got that one white friend who got Melanitis and Ryder is mine. He always got anxious when a FAN was killed and wanted to talk about it. He would apologize for taking my time and say he didn’t wanna be a “typical white kid with Melanitis,” but then he would go on and on about his fears, about feeling paranoid and anxious because folks were treating him “negatively” for “no reason.” I would listen and then be feeling like . . . so what? I had experienced things like that since I was five years old.

Dealing with his fragile FAN feelings was becoming harder for me, to be honest. Watching him sulk and complain about his experience of “looking different,” as he calls his new brown-skindedness. How do you talk to someone who is sad and confused because they look more like you and misses being a regular degular ass white boy? The more melanated he gets, the less I feel like we get each other, which is ironic, I guess. And Ryder is from a “woke” liberal family, which is more annoying somehow.

Either way, I have a lot of figuring out right now with my own self. I ain’t even told Ryder about me feeling Desi. I started sketching an anime of Desi with her braids extending into a deep-sea scene full of coral. I’ve been wondering what Desi thinks of me. The anticipation of having her over and hooking my hair up is making me smile, and I can’t even help it. Over the last couple of weeks, we’ve become closer than I am with anyone else in our crew.

One day Desi called me out of the blue to ask what I use to twist my locs and if I keep a dream journal. It took me off guard, since people usually text and don’t really call me all like that . . . but when she called, it made me wanna tell her everything about me. And to be honest, I always thought Desi was dope. So after that call, that’s when I got to really know her and let her know me. After a while we was talking all the time.

My mama going off on the television brought me back to reality. “Of course this was gonna happen. This FAN was still walking around with the assumption of being trusted and protected like it was when he was a little white boy.” She dipped her chip in our pre-dinner guac and wrote some more notes.

The face of the victim, Chad “Cha’Darius” Anderson, was flashing on the screen again, both before Melanitis and after: as a white teen and then next as a grown “black” man. “Mmmmhmm. Same person, same soul, but one skin will protect him, while the other will get him killed,” my mom said. She realized that thought sounded deep and went quiet while she wrote it down.

The reporter began interviewing the same brown-skinned woman from the photo. She was stunned and blinking like she was still trying to focus on something in front of her face that she couldn’t quite make out. Under her face, it said, “Danitria Henry, fiancée of Chad ‘Cha’Darius’ Anderson.”

“I told Cha’Darius to stay inside today . . . Stop trying to get his parents to understand him and come to our wedding. He was so nervous, he was probably just trying to get the nerve and kept circling the block.” Her voice choked at the thought and she began to sob.

Danitria’s mother, Pam, stepped in. “I had a feeling, but he didn’t listen. I have told him, you can’t think like a white boy with the police, not how you look now . . .” Pam was talking as though he was still alive to hear her warning.

“Over and over again, I would tell him like I would tell my sons, when cops stop you, this is how you have to act. Do exactly as they say, no sudden movements, give them your license slowly . . .” Her mama said these instructions like she was explaining how to feed a rabid wolf without it gobbling your hand, knowing that it probably would anyway. Danitria stood by her mother, clearly still in shock. She had the kinda fake lashes that were dramatic, like a baby doll’s, thick and dark, but her eyes were far away and heavy.

“Cha’Darius was shot by an armed police officer who had been called by his family’s neighbors,” said the head reporter on the scene. “The officer shot him within twenty-five seconds of his arrival on the scene.”

My mom sighed and took a break from her notes to begin making dinner. She went to the kitchen and bent down to look inside the fridge. She filled my arms up with garlic, kale, sweet potato, and onions and motioned me off to start cutting. She leaned on the counter, eyes glued to the screen with full attention. My phone buzzed and it was from Ryder, again. It said, “Hey Amari, you gonna be home later?” I put my phone back in my pocket and went back to helping make dinner.

My mom teaches at the University of Minnesota and researches the safety, visibility, and civil rights of Black by Birth people since the Melanitis outbreak. Her main focus is on how Black people are experiencing and asserting sovereignty in their own Blackness. Especially because suddenly all of these privileged white people are beginning to become melanated in unpredictable ways and gentrifying Blackness.

“Look at this kid Chad, ahem . . . ‘Cha’Darius,’ from the rich suburbs,” my mom said as she joined me in prepping the vegetables for a moment. “I bet he and his family were estranged, like most of these FANs who decide to leave the white world behind. The Dolezal effect is what they are calling it, which I find an annoying term, even if it somewhat fits the phenomenon. They probably didn’t understand why he would rather live as a ‘black’ man than attempt any fairness retention procedure.” She stopped chopping and went to grab a bottle of wine.

“Being Black is the new black for some of these FANs,” I said, and it was. For as many FANs who were mortified by their browned skin, others got Kardashian with it and treated it like the newest accessory or status symbol.

“Being Black is all fun and games until someone gets they ass shot by police,” my mom said with a shrug.

Many of them tried everything to stay pale-faced. Pasty and bright concealers and foundations that made them look like they were literal clowns doing white face. A whole line of “fairness retention” cosmetics was invented in the pursuit of keeping one’s whiteness. A lot of the products were either really toxic or scams sold on Amazon and used in thirsty desperation. It became common to see white kids from the suburbs rubbing on face-bleaching creams outlawed in Nigeria, India, and Trinidad but procured by a well-connected parent.

Back in front of the TV while our dinner cooked, my mom and I got caught right back up in the drama.

“We are on the scene, and we are talking with Andrew Olson, one of the neighbors on the same block as the Anderson family. Mr. Olson, how do you feel about this police shooting happening in your community?”

“I never imagined anything like this happening here. This, I mean . . . Wow . . . Chad was a great kid. He and my son were on the same Little League team. I still can’t believe he’s gone . . .” His voice trailed off and his eyes darted around, holding back tears.

“Why do you think the police were called on him, if he grew up on this block?” asked Houa Vang, a reporter with a silver streak in her hair and bright fuchsia lips, while holding the microphone steady in front of Mr. Olson.

“We are good people here. I mean, Chad, he was a good guy, too. I mean, he could have just . . . if he only wore makeup, or kept his hair long and did the laser thing to be lighter, maybe, uh . . . All we saw was a suspicious Black man circling the block . . . suspiciously. We didn’t think it was Chad, obviously. He is from our community, but you know he looks different now and . . . wouldn’t that make anyone . . . suspicious?’’

Ms. Vang broke character as a reporter and rolled her eyes. My mom clapped at the television.

“So if he used White-alicious or whatever that scary, toxic bleaching cream is or wore makeup, y’all wouldn’t call the cops?” my mom said, rolling her eyes.

“Remember when them rich people were acting like Moremipin was ethical medical freedom? Lobbying for it and all of that. I wonder what these parents think now that they kids are turning Black! And Blackity, Black BLACK! And being TREATED Black at that.”

I didn’t answer right away. I wasn’t expecting her to bring him up. Me and Ryder been tight since we was babies. Our moms were both obsessive academics in the gender and women’s studies department. We spent nights at each other’s house, and when his parents got divorced, he was at our house all of the time and we got real tight. Things changed a little when we went to high school and got different friends, but we always fam. Since he got the ’nitis, though, he really began struggling. A corny white boy struggle but his struggle nonetheless.

“I don’t know how Ryder is doing. We ain’t really been talking.” My mom looked up, and I could tell she was not surprised.

I didn’t want to talk about Ryder. “How is Ms. Amber doing?” I asked her as she locked the top on the pressure cooker. Ms. Amber is one of my mama’s few white friends, and Ryder’s mama. They met while pregnant with us in graduate school and bonded over academics, politics, and being new moms. They were close but things ain’t been the same with them, either, since Ryder melanated. My mom took a sip of wine and paused a second before she responded.

“I . . . I haven’t. I mean, what can I say? She lied about taking Moremipin. Like how disgusting and elitist is that? You wanna be seen as a down white woman, but then also slide your rich privilege on the low?” I moved to sit down at the kitchen table, knowing I’d touched a nerve and should settle in. “We used to talk shit about these rich white women taking this weird drug, and all this time she was ensuring some kind of edge for her son,” she said, and I could see that my mom was really hurt. She grazed her hand along my locs and looked at me.

“Like, how can you say you love me or my child, or any non-rich person, when you are willing to pay top dollar to keep yourselves above us?” she said, looking into my eyes.

It was a supplement taken by expectant mothers, and doses cost $10,000 to $100,000, depending on the strain. Some Moremipin babies were able to read by age one and learn complex math by age three, but these instances were rare and only in cases where fourth and fifth doses were administered. It was marketed as a high-end birth supplement to the rich and famous (and aspirational middle class) but eventually became known as a performance-enhancing drug, and after a few years it was banned. Most of the parents who took Moremipin argued that they wanted to give their children a leg up. Just like a top-tier preschool or expensive tutors, Moremipin was seen by the rich as a necessary precondition for their children’s success.

Some white folks began melanating, or “browning,” due to Melanitis as early as thirteen or as late as twenty-one. Melanitis affects all genders, but cis boys made up 89 percent of cases. Millions and millions have been invested in treatments and cures for the disease since the initial outbreak five years ago. They even established support groups for FANs. Some Melanitis sufferers and their parents felt they were even more oppressed than BBB people and thus should be able to check the “Black” box for college applications. Yup, they tried it.

The TV stayed on until Dad got home, just in time for dinner. At his salon, the news about the death of Cha’Darius was a hot topic of debate among the Black clients and staff. Over dinner he insisted we talk about something other than the FAN murder. I knew the conversation would turn to my hair and the recent talk we’d had about my gender.

“Amari, but I was thinking . . . ain’t locs kinda for everyone? Not a gender thing, really? Me and your mama both have locs.” My dad spooned vegan stew into his bowl and sprinkled some chopped cilantro on top.

“Yeah, I know. It’s not just about me and my gender. I can’t explain it — I’m just ready for this,” I said with my locs under my hoodie and down my back.

“You ready to let it go?” he asked. “You’ve grown them your whole life, though.” He said this like I didn’t know it to be true.

“Yes, Dad. I’m ready, ready. Like, feel-a-breeze-on-my-whole-head ready,” I said, an annoyed look on my face. He looked at me and chuckled and nodded in the way he does when I amuse him. Like I finally said something that broke through his own thick crown of locs.

“I see. You’re becoming new for yourself,” he said. “Like a rite of passage. We should do a ritual for your locs, then.”

“About that. Actually Desi is going to do it. She’s going to help me cut it into a fade . . . and dye it a strawberry ice cream color,” I said, only wondering how he would feel about it as the words came out of my lips. He looked up at me, and from his eyes, I could tell this was a step further then maybe he expected the whole situation to go. He looked disappointed but then caught his face and tried to look open-minded. My mom looked at both of us and filled up the quiet space.

“Strawberry ice cream color?” She looked at me like she was trying to see it, then nodded once the image settled in her mind. My dad was just quiet, but I still felt him. Hair is like his soul’s work. He is a magician with the hair of Black people, all of our textures and kinks. I thought of all of the years that he spent washing, moisturizing, and twisting my hair. I realized even though I was ready for a new vibe, it maybe was a step too far for me, too.

“Actually. I think a ritual would be right. And having you help me cut them off would be dope. You always hook me up.” He looked at me with a little bit of relief and smiled.

“Amari, thank you for letting me do it. I’ll leave you with a little ’fro, and you and your friend can experiment from there.”

After dinner I sat on a stool in the kitchen, and my mom wrapped me in a towel and set a mirror up for me to look at myself. My dad grabbed his scissors and looked at me through the mirror and smiled. I inhaled and then exhaled as he cut a foot of my hair off. I instantly felt like I was floating. I closed my eyes, and with each cut, I felt a little more fluffy and tingly. After it was all cut off, I looked at myself in the mirror. My parents watched me.

“Do you like it, ’Mari?” My mom was looking nervous, waiting for me to say something. I put my hands all around my head and felt my Afro and turned my face around in the mirror. I could see my cheeks and the shape of my head.

“I . . . feel good. Dang. This is everything, Dad . . .” I said and meant it. My mom and dad began picking up my hair. I took a pile of it in my fists and felt the energy humming off of it.

“We are going to take good care of this until you decide what kind of ritual you want to do with it,” my dad said.

Later, I stood under the shower and felt my head, and it felt free. There were parts of me that I was learning about that felt like me and only me, not my mom or my dad. Like they wouldn’t even understand. And I liked it.

I heard some stones thrown at my window, and I knew it was Desi here to help me for the last step. I headed to my window to let her know I’d be right down. When I looked out, my heart sank. Ryder’s brown face was below my window peeking from under his hoodie.

Ryder and I sat outside on my stoop. I didn’t know what to say, and to be honest, I was feeling some kinda way that he popped up on me.

“It’s good to see you. Sorry I dropped by all extra. I couldn’t get a hold of you,” he said.

“My bad. I was busy,” I said while looking up into the big maple leaves above us. It was awkwardly quiet between Ryder and me. It was never that way before. I watched the rustling leaves. “So, Ryder, what’s up?”

“I just wanted to talk. Did you hear about that man who got shot outside his parents’ house? Cha’Darius?” he said, looking into my eyes. I gave him a side-eye.

“You already know. My mama been on it,” I said. Ryder started wringing his hands and just being quiet in a way I wasn’t in the mood for.

“No. It’s not just that, Amari . . . Today something happened to me,” he said.

“I was walking in my dad’s new neighborhood in the suburbs that him and Meghan moved to last month, and I was followed by two white guys. At first I assumed they were just walking. But then they turned on the same block as me and then followed me to the cul-de-sac my dad lives on.”

“They yelled at me that I don’t look like I belong there. I was about to run, but just then, Meghan came out for her evening run and told them I was her stepson and had Melanitis. It was terrifying, Amari. And then I came home and heard about Cha’Darius,” he said, still unsettled, while I felt myself start to get hot on the inside.

What did he want me to say? Poor thing. What a terrifying brush with almost oppression? Good thing you ain’t really BBB?

“Good thing Meghan could vouch for you, that you weren’t a RAN,” I said, not able to hold back my irritation.

“I know . . . I mean, it’s not cool, but they were probably going to beat me up,” he said, sensing my lack of concern but not feeling my hurt. I was tired of him not seeing how oblivious he is to the ways Black folks have dealt with this stuff and worse forever, including me. He never understood my Blackness and I don’t get his Melanitis ass.

“I bet you they got real nice to you after they learned you were a white boy. Imagine if you were a RAN — how that woulda panned out real different,” I said.

“I know, but I was freaked out, okay? This is all new to me. And then that dude Cha’Darius is dead and he wasn’t even doing anything. He was going to see his parents and the police shot him for no reason.” When those words left his lips, I thought of all of the Black people killed for no reason. Sandra Bland. Tamir Rice. Breonna Taylor. Fred Hampton. People that even in his melanation he still didn’t feel for.

I looked at my old best friend. The kid who I used to play dinosaurs and make poop jokes with. And the one who now apparently misses his privileged white body, on some level, even though he would never say that. I been Black since I came out my mama’s you know what. Not because my parents were rich and thirsty enough to take Moremipin. Even if some of these kids feel like they are horribly oppressed in their new black skin — getting the cops called on them for things they used to get away with or being stared at in public — don’t make it the same.

Just then a car pulled up, and I saw the door open and Desi stepped out. She said a “Thanks, girl” behind her back to whoever dropped her off. She walked up and saw Ryder and looked between the two of us. I went and gave her a hug.

“Hey, Desi, this is Ryder.” They both greeted each other politely. “You can just slide inside. My room is the last one on the right. My parents know you coming.” Desi headed inside and then it was just me and Ryder alone again. We looked at each other and I saw someone familiar but also really different.

“Ryder, I know it’s hard seeing people who are like you getting hurt and killed for no reason . . .” I breathed out and let go of something.

“But to be real, I can’t hold this for you right now. I gotta take care of me and this is some white stuff right here and y’all gotta figure it out, bro,” I said, my hands deep in my hoodie’s pockets.

“Sorry, I’ve clearly annoyed you with my problems,” Ryder said, fighting back tears and getting on his bike.

“You’re gonna be aight. Look at Black people. We been Black since forever!”

When I came into my room, Desi was on my bed playing a game on her phone. I told her to close her eyes, that I had a surprise. I unzipped my hoodie and revealed myself all shea buttered up in my pajamas with my Afro glowing with product.

“You can look now.” She removed her hands from her eyes and looked at me. I was wondering what she would think when she saw me and my little ’fro. I looked so different to myself. I’d spent a long time in the mirror massaging the conditioner into my wet, soft hair, getting used to the new sensation.

“Damn, your dad hooked you up,” she said. Her dark brown eyes sparkled, and I felt seen by her, in ways I have never felt seen.

“The shape is perfect. He did a way better job than what I woulda done. You looked fly with your locs, boo, don’t get me wrong. But this cut . . .” She inspected me while circling around my dome, then leaned back and smiled at me.

“It’s easier to see your really sweet face, turns out,” she said, looking in my eyes, lingering. I like when she does that. She changed from her work outfit into some pajamas she borrowed from me and plopped down next to me on my bed.

“I’m still gonna dye it for you, though. I can’t stop thinking of your strawberry ice cream Afro,” she said.

“It’ll look really good on you, I can tell. And we gonna deep condition so your hair stays healthy.”

I put my phone on silent and put it away. I looked over at Desi and she was putting her phone away, too. I saw her roll her eyes before she got eye contact with mine.

“Ol’ Blackfishing ass. This FAN girl from my Spanish 3 class really just texted me asking if I can cornrow her hair for her for this Megan Thee Stallion show. How do you say ‘hell to the naw’ in Español? I don’t know what’s worse, the ones who cake themselves in tacky ass beige foundation or those that seem a little too eager to fade to Blackness like it’s the new Balenciagas.”

“The thing is they will never get it, really. How it really is to be Black like us.”

“It’s true. And how even with all of the hard stuff, I wouldn’t ever, ever give up being Black,” Desi said.

“Nope,” I said, then put my head on her shoulder, feeling tingles and sensation on my scalp with each of her breaths. “I love it.”

She slid her dark hand over mine and I slid my brown fingers into hers. She let my hand linger there and then squeezed it tighter to let me know my hand could stay, that it belonged in hers. We looked at the intertwined browns of her skin and mine. Through our hands, I felt the energy of her body float into mine.