Ode to My Silky
By Muhammad Elbadri
Is it my cape or my kryptonite?
The first time I wore a durag, two years ago, I wore it because it was stylish. I wore it because it made me more Black. I didn’t wear it because I wanted to get waves or a special hairstyle. I appropriated this custom because I played the part, an act that everyone believed wasn’t an act at all. Now, I wear my crimson and blue silky with pride; what was an act is now a part of my identity. My silky is my cape and it makes me feel like a superhero. When I walk out of my building, the brothers give me a nod of respect—admittance to the club, so to speak.
This silky isn’t just a hair accessory or a badge of blackness; it's also the reason why white people look twice when I'm walking behind them on the street. It’s the reason why 90% of the time, no one sits next to me in the subway car. Ever since I began to wear my durag, I’ve noticed the anxious eyes from across the car. I began to wonder who they must think I am. At first, I thought I looked high, but over time, I realized some think I’m a drug dealer or a thief plotting to snatch their purse at the next stop. It’s never one moment that gives it away—in the same way I know when a random girl in the car thinks I am cute, I know when a middle-aged white lady is scared of me. When they step onto the train, they look at me, then left, then right, and then back at me. I squeeze my legs or move my bag from beside me to be respectful and give them the space they need. However, I see it in their eyes—that moment when they decide that sitting beside me is not an option, so they stand in front of me or start speeding to a seat on the other side of the car, excuse-me-ing to anyone that stands in their way.
I never realized the impact my silky has on a person’s perception of me. It made me wonder if I wanted this new identity. Sometimes, I wanted to return to my old self. I used to always say I was Sudanese, not Black or a New Yorker. As a result, I flourished when I went to private school. Due to the small attitudes I picked up at my so-called ghetto middle school, I was quickly transformed into “The Black Student.” To my peers, I was what a toy gun is to a child, it seems—feels—and looks real, but it can’t really hurt you. I accepted the role the white kids gave me and ran with it; they loved the cute, entertaining Black kid with the funny slang. All the students, from the seniors to the sophomores, from Black to white, from quiet to loud, noticed me and created their own judgment of me.
It was only until recently I held the belief that I didn’t feel very Black, unable to clarify and interpret my sentiment. I once said that I wasn’t Black but African, a sentiment held by many Sudanese people, to my best friend, Samori, who replied, “You’re a dumb fuck.” Ashamed, I learned how to jump between my identities. Tomorrow, I can be the most well-spoken in the room or I can be the shadowy figure that scares them so much, they can’t look me in the eyes. I still held the belief that I did not go through the Black experience, but when I got to Baruch, I realized I went through the immigrant experience. In middle school, I interacted with third, fourth, and fifth-generation immigrants who were more American than immigrant. In private school, my friends were rich immigrants who vacationed in Morocco during the winter and in the French countryside during the summer. It was during my English class where I was surrounded by students who lived in middle-class neighborhoods, who spoke a different language with their parents, and who ate weird dishes when they got home that I realized my life is more similar to theirs than to any of my past friends.
When I arrived at this conclusion, it made me realize all these experiences weren’t unique and separate but were made up of small parts brought together from each of these worlds that constructed my own, personal experience. It allowed me to understand that I can wear my silky without guilt, that I can say that I am Black, Sudanese, Arab, a New Yorker—and they are all true. Even if no one will truly understand me or if people of all backgrounds will categorize me based on their own biases, I’ve decided that I will not let others’ expectations of me shape my identity.
When I walk down the street in Sudan, I’m a foreigner. When I walk home late at night, I’m a criminal. When I go to a party, I’m the Black guy with a weird tint. Regardless, I know who I truly am—a Black eighteen-year-old who speaks Arabic and German with two Sudanese parents and three younger sisters; someone who has traveled first class from Vienna, Austria to New York; seen the casinos in Monaco as well as the struggles and horrors of war-torn Sudan.
I wear my silky with pride when the Halal cart owner is amazed I know Arabic. I wear my silky with pride when other students realize I’m neither dumb nor a criminal. My silky is my cape, my kryptonite, and my truth—it is a mask that defies your judgment and the key that unlocks my identity.
FALL 2024
Illustrations were done in collaboration with the New Media Artspace at Baruch College. The New Media Artspace is a teaching exhibition space in the Department of Fine and Performing Arts at Baruch College. Housed in the Newman Library, the New Media Artspace showcases curated experimental media and interdisciplinary artworks by international artists, students, alumni, and faculty. Special thanks to docent Dylan Shalmer for creating artwork for this piece.
Visit the New Media Artspace at http://www.newmediartspace.info/