Ulan's Journal

April 15, 2003

Hair

I have been thinking a lot about my hair in recent weeks. I have recounted my old story about why I cut my hair a few times to various people. I have washed my hair and wondered if it was too long to get clean. I have walked by dozens of people who stare as though I was a freak. I have even talked with Margaret about some of the issues I have. But I have found no relief and I am confused as to what to do.

Back when I was at Swarthmore in my second year, I guess that was 1984, I decided to not mess with my hair anymore. I had grown tired of thinking about it. I did not see the point of needing to primp for the world that was never going to accept me no matter what I did. There was always going to be some other hurdle I was going to have to jump over. I figured, why should I have to alter my physical body just to be able to walk through the world.

Well, just before I got kicked out of school for the first time, I saw in my bathtub and cried. I was obviously not succeeding at school and a large part of the reason was because my professors, especially those in engineering, saw me as an "other" who was to be discouraged from participating.

Tears ran because I had witnessed a number of racial incidents in and around Philly. One that was particularly poignant for me was a fight at a concert where a number of police on horseback beat this Black child to the ground and unconscious. Another happened while my equally light-skinned friend from Switzerland and I were walking through the "Park of Brotherly Love" late one night in the first summer I was there. We were approached by two police on horseback, one white the other Black. The Black one yelled at us, "You Niggers don't belong here. Get the F*** out now!" He raised his club as if to hit us when we scurried by. I could hear the laughter rolling from his partner.

As I got out of the bath I asked my white girlfriend to please cut off my locks. I sat there in pain and silence as she snipped one after another. I vowed at that time to allow my hair to grow a soon as I had enough power over my life to stop others from hurting me because of the way I looked. I have never grown my hair long since.

Fast forward to Sept 7, 2002. My son is born and the next day we name him after Bob Marley. I was so very happy holding him in my arms that day while dancing to Bob's tunes. "Every little thing, is going to be alright." Something strange came over me and I thought, for the briefest of times, that one thing I could give my son is to accept who I am in this world - no matter the pain or struggle. I wanted to be strong for my son so that he could learn to be strong himself. How hypocritical of me to name him after a strong man while I did not exhibit the strength and resolve of his namesake.

I have not cut my hair since Max was born. I have seen no reason too. I am at a stage where I have built a business that should not be too troubled by a "strange looking" man such as myself. I settled into a mind set where I could just focus on my family and work and walk through the world as a "normal" person. This stage has been short lived indeed.

The more I walk, the more stares I get. The longer my hair grows, the more interest is placed upon me. "Max is so cute! He has his fathers hair." "Your hair is just getting to a point that it looks REALLY cool. No! Don't cut it." Not a day goes by when someone does not stare at me while I walk down the street in blissful ignorance. I was at a P-Funk concert on Thursday and some aging hippy guy comes up to me and says "You, my brother, have done everything possible to use your God-given features. I applaud you dude. You look so cool."

To-date, none of this interest, with one or two exceptions, has been negative in nature. For that I am thankful. It is very different than walking into an engine class and being told in front of the entire class that I would never graduate in engineering because I was too political. At that time wearing dreads, I guess, was a political statement.

All I have ever wanted to do is be me. I do not want to be special. I do not want to make a statement. When a white person dies their hair blue they are actively trying to change how they look. When a white person puts on a suit and makeup they are actively trying to change how they look. All I want to do is wake up in the morning and go about my day. I do not put on airs. I do not change who I am. I just get up and do what is natural for me. Why does that have to be political? Why does me being normal have to have anything to do with anyone else?

If I was white with straight hair like my brother-in-law Sam, I could put my hair in a band and no one would look twice at me. He is not being political when he wakes up and does the same thing I do. Women do not walk up to him in the street and tell him how cool he is because of his hair. No one walks quickly away from the ATM machine when he slowly approaches out of fear and suspicion.

I am as light-skinned as any Black person I know. The ONLY thing about me that identifies me as Black is my hair - and then only when it gets long. I do not wear it long to be identified as Black. I wear it long because I do not see the point in cutting it. I do not comb it because I do not understand why I should. These are internal decisions I make. I do not make them based on how the world will perceive me. I do not make them as a statement to the world. I make these decisions because they make sense to me! Why is that a political act?

So here I sit, reading "The Souls of Black Folk" for the first time... I sit and I wonder. Will I ever be able to look at myself without always wondering how other people look at me? Will I ever be able to simply deal with who I am, not in relation to the world, but just as an individual who has individual issues to deal with? Will I ever be able to know... who... I... am?

And the question that keeps me up this night is... will Max ever know who he is?

Ulan McKnight
04/15/03

Max and his Very Own Dragon and his Very Own Princess

Max is a special child. Max has his very own Dragon. He has a magical dragon that loves him very much. His dragon snorts fire. His dragon does magical things (like change his diaper and help him fly). His dragon takes him around the world and shows him amazing things.

Max has his very own Dragon that loves him with all his heart.

Max has his very own Princess too! His Princess is the smartest most wonderful princess ever and she loves him very much. His princess feeds him. His Princess sings lovely songs (lullabies and tunes that make him dance). His Princess takes him around the world and shows him amazing things.

Max has his very own Princess that loves him with all her heart.

Max is a special child. Max has his very own Dragon and his very own Princess and they love him with all their hearts.

Ulan McKnight
03/12/03

Feb 22, 2003

I figured I would start up a little journal today.

Woke up this AM @ 8 and realized M was up and doing Yoga. I woke because Max was stirring. I laid there for @ 10 minutes while he slowly opened his eyes. He opened them and then closed them again a couple of times before he actually woke up. Once he opened them for real, he turned to me, took a few seconds for his brain to kick in, then gave me a great big smile of recognition. I tell you, there is very little in this world that could make me as happy as that.

Survival of the species. Me and M talk about that a lot. So much of what little Marley fits so well into this discussion. He smiles, squirms and squeals in just the right way to make us love him all the more. When he looks at me I just melt. When he smiles I feel like I have done something good for the world. All I want to do is see him happy.

Is this just me or do all parents feel this way? I have often wondered what it would be like to not like the look of my child. I wonder how I would feel raising a child I thought was ugly or hated the way it acted. Would I love my child any less?

I think that I am the type of person who would learn to find beauty in any child. I would learn to love a child no matter what they looked like or acted like. But I am not sure.

I have often said it does not matter to me if I had my own biological child or not. I think that is more true now than ever. While I love Mr. Maximilian with all my heart, I know if he was from someone else's pregnancy I would love him just the same. If I was tasked to raise a child, through accident or design, I could love no human more or less than I love my son.

I boils down to the joy of raising a newborn. I love the fact that Max has similar expressions as me, acts and looks like me in some ways. But that is not why I love him. I love him because he is a blessed little angel that has come into my life. I love him because he needs me and wants to be with me. I love him because he is my responsibility and for some unknown reason I want to become all I can be so that he benefits as best he can.

Most of all... I love him because I am near him - daily. The worst thing that could happen to me now is for me to be taken away from him. I hate to be far from him even for a few hours. I need to know I can get back to him if the need arose. At this point in his life he could not exist without assistance from an adult. I, along with his mother, am the adult he has chosen to raise him. I believe, firmly in my heart, that it is a natural biological reaction that I am having to him. He needs me and I want to provide for him.

It is as simple and as basic as that.

Every day I wake up and thank God for the chance to raise my son. I love him and my sweet little Margaret with all my heart. I am, truly, the luckiest guy in the world. 

Ulan McKnight
02/22/03