“Little (brother) with a broom, finna brush you/ Line a (brother) up and fade, cut you”
JID -“Up Up Away”
Monday was the first day of classes. Naturally, we all had some nerves, and a bit of trouble waking up early for an 8:00 AM class. After making the walk to our class building at Univalle, we waited for our first Pre-Semester Intensive Spanish Class to begin. The class was a great refresher on some grammatical Spanish lessons like the imperative tense. After the class ended at 12–yes, as in 12 noon– I felt incredibly drained. I couldn’t tell if it was because of the sleep deprivation or the impromptu fast I was taking, but when your boy was TIIIED(tired in Black). I returned to the apartment with other students, and after a nice lunch of chicken and potatoes, I headed across town to UAO for my second class, “Identidades y Cultura.” The class went well, regular first day things like getting and reviewing the syllabus, defining key terms, and going through introductions.
The other exchange students noted that we were the only Black students in the class, and we discussed our separate experiences in white spaces. We knew UAO would be different, more pampered and privileged than Univalle, but it was still a surprise to us. I knew that I would need a change of environment, and a mood booster after the another long day. So what does every Black man do when he needs to be renewed? He enters the therapeutic, spiritual temple of the Black Barbershop.
I have always loved getting my haircut. The hum of the clippers, the gentle breeze on the scalp, and the incredible feeling your transformation gives you. When done right, a fresh cut leaves you feeling unstoppable. Naturally, I was very excited when my roommate, Mauricio, told me that his uncle “tío” was a “peluquero” or barber, and even more excited to go to his barrio to get cut.
We journeyed from San Joaquin to Bonilla Aragon, and I watched the world move from one shade of privilege to another shade of lack. Mau’s barrio was mostly Black, and it reminded me of urban versions of rural towns. When we arrived at Mau’s home, I met his incredibly sweet “abuela”-grandmother. She pinched my cheeks, asked how I liked Cali, and –in classic abuela fashion– offered me some of what she was cooking. Her kindness and warmth reminded me very much of the love my grandmothers showed me.
Thoughts: It’s interesting to note the consistent pattern of matriarchy throughout the diaspora.
From Mau’s place, we walked down the street past his elementary school, past the field where he played soccer in his golden years, and around a corner to his “tío” shop.
I had no clue the shop would feel so familiar. By familiar, I mean Black– and proudly, so. Despite its size–only around 4 barber chairs– it felt very open. Mau introduced me to his uncle and the rest of the gentlemen in the shop, and I gave daps.
Daps- A salute between Black men, in place of a “traditional” handshake, to symbolize camaraderie, unity, and kinship. Usually ends in an embrace. Don’t be limp with it, that’s disrespectful.
Everything was seamless, just like back home. I told Tío I wanted a “sombra” (shadow–but in this context a “fade”), and to shave my beard after sitting in the chair. As the clippers hummed over my head, I started to note the similarities between this shop and others I would frequent. In nearly all of them, there was a TV with sports playing, a speaker playing classic hip-hop, and the air filled with shop talk. This shop was no different. Above me was a TV highlights from local and international soccer teams, a speaker was playing Snoop Dogg, 50 Cent, and Ludacris, and the shop was definitely talking.
In the chair I reflected what I saw in the barrio. I saw an experience a world away from mine, yet I found many things familiar. I heard warms greetings from neighbors, and children’s bright laughter. I felt the warmth of the setting sun fleet. I heard the music coming pouring out of homes.
As Tío finished lining me up, he passed me the mirror. “Estas pinta!” Mauricio tells me. “Gracias, bro.” I smiled as I stood. As I paid the man, thanked him, and dapped him up, i learned the greatest lesson of the day.
You’re never too far from home.
Donovan's Adventures Abroad 