Dear You, Today I observed my hair. My thick, coarse, kinky strands have been made longer by my braids. The way the fall dances as I walk, the way it protects my crown. The braids that have been with me since childhood. The braids my mother called beautiful? Was that a lie? Is my crown not beautiful? Do I not deserve to come as I am? I observe that it's not what you observe. I am saddened to know that what brings me joy brings such dead stares. I want to be who I am. I want to share with you all of me and not have to hide what makes me happy and beautiful. My braids make me feel beautiful, protected, and glorious! I want you to know that in my braids I am free—and they contain years of culture and years of pain. When you look at my braids, you see a lineage of strength and beauty—and this is what makes them so special to me. They are artifacts of the black diaspora that have carried my family across countries, oceans, and generations. They are artifacts that connect me to my ancestors