Six weeks before high school graduation, I went to one of those korean-owned 3 for $10 t-shirt stores to get my nose pierced. It was 1990. That’s how it was done back then. A little asian lady grabbed a few cotton balls, a bottle of peroxide and an awkward gun- like contraption to shoot you in the face. It was a health & safety risk plenty of young black teenage girls were taking. We all wanted to look like Salt -N-Pepa.
I rode home on the public bus, eager to call my homegirls Neesha and Keisha to tell them that I had gotten the piercing. That ride seemed so long because I was in real pain. Thinking back, I’d say that it was the pain that sobered me up and reminded me that I was going home. Home; where my mama was. Oh my god, mama. She is going to kill me.
I was sick with panic walking through the door. I made it to the kitchen where my sisters were. They both gasped and covered their mouths while they stared at me. We experienced one singular thought at the same time, telepathically, “Whatchu think mama gon say?” She came home about an hour later. My mama froze when she saw what I’d done. With a clenched jaw and through tightly gritted teeth my mother breathed a terrifying statement: That better not be a whole in your face, LaDonna! That better not be a hole in your face! Even now, I have no idea how I made it out of the living room unscathed.
What I do know is, a lot of my classmates noticed. From 1st period to 6th period, I was answering questions and accepting compliments. A few of the rebel chicks, who were brazen enough to pierce their own noses with a sewing needle, gave me an honorable head nod of approval. By day 3, my mom wasn’t even upset anymore. I was making a mark as a Senior. Or so I thought, until my 4th period english teacher sent me to the principal’s office.
Our principal, Mr. Baren was a frenchman. He had a noticeable accent and wore tiny rimmed glasses. They made his face and frame look wide underneath all his silver hair that he wore in a feathered style like a former model. He advised me that the piercing was against the dress code. I would have to remove it or face suspension. That was an easy choice. I opted for suspension. I didn’t give a damn about any kind of perfect record. I had a 3.0 GPA, was already accepted into two colleges and was the president of the Black Student Unon. Did he forget that I had led a student walk out and protest march? Go ahead and give me two days off. That willingness to do the time didn’t sit well with him. He raised the stakes.
To keep it real, I don’t remember if I did the two-day suspension or if it was just a weekend. What I do remember is going back to school with my mom. We had a meeting in a conference room with the Principal, VP, my counselor and the school psychiatrist. They were threatening to expel me if I didn’t remove the piercing. I argued that it was a cultural expression of my African heritage. I drew attention to the hypocrisy of at least two goth kids who wore safety pins for nose rings. The administration wouldn’t budge. I was either going to abide by their subjective interpretation of the dress code or forfeit all graduation privileges – I wouldn’t walk, receive a diploma or be a student at El Camino high anymore. That was like a cannon’s blast to my mother’s ears. Not walking in a graduation procession was too great a dishonor. She began to appeal to my sense of accomplishment. We were just a month away from the biggest moment of my life. Don’t let cosmetic jewelry ruin your future. I put my head on the table and covered my face with my arms. Tearfully, I removed the fake gold stud and sat it near my mom. They’d won.
I’ve considered that moment many times in the last 30 years. What if I had zigged instead of zagged that morning? How would the trajectory of my young life had changed if I had defied every adult and taken my case to the District’s superintendent? It very well could have been the impetus to a career in political science. My secret dream of becoming an influential senator may have been nourished in that season by a single win against discriminatory student policies. Imagine me, in my first year of college, as a member of the young democrats instead of the All African’s People Revolutionary Party. All those hours spent hanging out on the quad would have been invested in stumping for the progressive presidential campaigns, like Bill Clinton. I would have still been politicking with classmates about race, class and gender equality. The difference would be intention. I wouldn’t be chatting them up to win a debate, but as a junior lobbyist collecting research to write bills and measures for the legislature. I’ve always made good impressions on my elders. I could have even mentored under Maxine Waters or Ron Dellums.
I can only imagine how different my life would be if I had found the courage to stand against the patriarchy that spring morning in 1990. Who knows? I could have been a U.S Senator, with a chair right next to future President Obama.
Sacred Journeys 