No, You may not touch my hair.
No, You may not stare at me across a crowded (or empty) room.
No, Your hair will not look like this if you get one of those white people perms.
No, You may not smell my hair.
No, You may not ask if I wash it.
No, You are not allowed to get offended when I tell you, “no”
No, You may not negotiate. I know what white skin feels like. I prefer not to barter skin fondling for your research on whether my hair feels like cheetos
No, You may not ask me to, “shake my dreads”
No, You may not call my hair “dreads” there is noting “dread-ful” about my hair, just the fact that you keep trying to make a spectacle of me
No, You may not take pictures of my hair
No, I don’t want to hear about how you have two black friends whose hair looks like mine
No, I don’t look like Jill Scott, Queen Latifah, Raven Symone, Lauryn Hill, or Erykah Badu. Just because they are black, does not mean we all have the same set of parents or genetic traits
No, You may not dance in my presence and think I’ll join in
No, I will not sing for you, even if I have some moderate ability
No, I will not take you to “the hood” and be your security guard
No, You may not pretend to know what it is like to be a POC in any realm. You don’t not have a struggle…Occupy Wall Street does not count. Being unemployed is new for your people.
No, You may not debate with me on any of these. I have little care for your response.