The Hat

Recently, Devin, a friend of mine, posted a picture of himself wearing an all too familiar hat, which brought back memories of my elementary school days. It was then that I used to wear a rust colored ivy cap everywhere I went, even to school. Hats were not “legal” according to the school dress code, and, therefore, by 9:00 a.m. you could find me sitting at my desk with my thin, blonde hair stuck to my scalp. However, the cap would find its place back on my head during recess. By the afternoon, my teachers gave in and allowed me to wear the hat. This routine became a redundant part of my teachers’ lives; for me, the hat was yet another tool in my attempt to deviate from the norm.

In the fourth grade, I remember film day in the library, and friends braiding one another’s hair. Giovanni Mendez was always the culprit who would pull off my hat and braid my hair. I loathed the idea of looking like the other girls, but differentiated the situation by allowing a boy to style my hair instead of one of the girls. Of course, his work was done in vain because the hat would soon tousle my thin strands of hair, causing tiny hairs to escape from the tucks and twists that Giovanni had so delicately manipulated.

One day, in fifth grade, I found a book in the school library entitled _Go Ask Alice_. This book, I learned later, was on the banned books list, and the librarian huffed in disgust when she found it had not been removed from the school library. I remember handing her the book so she could stamp it, as she simultaneously pointed in the direction of some books on a mechanism that resembled a spinning bookcase. On this contraption, brightly colored books with pictures of children and boxcars begged me to privilege them. And so I pretended to. But not before I slipped the “bad” book off of the front desk and into my hat.

In the sixth grade, I retired my hat. It made me different; it sheltered me from the sun that always seemed to blister my porcelain skin; it served as a holster for words that were denied students because some person, who had apparently read too much Orwell, decided literature should be condemned because it was too real or too smart. I am not sure what became of my hat, but I will never consider it to be lost. Each day, as I braid my hair to keep it out of my face or put sunscreen on to prevent a burn or place another book on my bookcase, I will remember that once upon a time, one single assembled piece of clothing protected me, while at the same time encapsulating my individuality.

Thank you, Devin, for the memory.