My aunt Jacqueline has been heavy on my mind during quarantine. Some of my fondest memories from childhood are of me sitting on the floor between her knees as she braided my hair.
We’d talk for hours, laughing at episodes of Golden Girls, as her hands weaved back and forth.I always liked the way I looked in box braids, especially during the summer when I would undoubtedly be spending my days at the pool or in Antigua, where my family is from.
But as is the case for so many young black girls who grew up in a predominantly white neighborhood, I distinctly remember the moment I stopped feeling pretty in them.