When he’s little, he’s the prized possession. The girls at school chase after him, demand his commitment. Aunties and uncles wax poetic about the babies he’ll make. Perfect in every way, with that same pretty complexion. They stare into his eyes, molasses with a dash of moss. Run fingers through loose curls and press their kinks against his silk. None of it makes sense to him.

His complex festers in closed quarters. As it grows, he begins to see the differences. They use grease, he uses mousse. They use brown, he uses yellow. They have apostrophes, he has accent marks. He’s not like them. He’s better. He’s perfect. He’s the standard, the rubric his peers grade themselves against. Unattainable.

But the people he meets at Xavier are a different breed. They’re from all over, different states with different mindsets and opinions of beauty. And they don’t hold back.

High Yella plummets.

The truth hits like a hammer, splintering his confidence, his world view. It’s been a lie – all of it. Titi Dina’s praise. The girls who chased him around the jungle gym. His assurance that no matter what, he’d always be the last to be suspected. In the back of his head, a soft whisper. He deserves this. He stood too tall, interjected where he never belonged. Make himself a target to rightfully be brought to his knees. And they did. Thank god they did.

He spreads out his tools and begins to work. When it’s time for him to stand, he’s at the forefront, in the face of danger, daring them to take him out first. And when it’s time to sit, he brings refreshments. He offers hugs, delivers love, and keeps his eyes down. It’s a balancing act, but he’s never felt happier on the tightrope. It brings on a difference type of joy, more powerful than any false praise ever could be.

It’s the sense of belonging to a family gracious enough to take him back. It’s community.