Who Criminalized the Durag?

I was riding the MTA bus on an autumn evening when a twentysomething-year-old man sat across from me. It wasn’t the three-piece suit and the burgundy tie that wonderstruck me. He was wavy—his hair was a radial thicket of blackness and hair product. This was a righteous brother. A smooth brother. And a cool brother, a required adjective for many of us. In his seminal book Blues People, Amiri Baraka explains that in its original context, “To be cool was … to be calm, even unimpressed, by what horror the world might daily propose. As a term used by Negroes, the horror, etc., might be simply the deadeningly predictable mind of white America.” Blues People mainly examines music, but black artists and two broke black men on a bus are bound by similar blues—trying to flourish in a country that antagonizes melanin. It’s why I value waves, and all who seek them know they’re linked with a $2 piece of headwear; a crown, even. The durag.

Walk through a bodega or hair supply spot in a major American city, and you’ll see them: rectangular packets uniformly covered with an image of a black man donning a durag (or doo-rag or do-rag). He’ll either be stone faced or slyly grinning, eyes glinting with promise. Some wear them to lay down their cornrows. Others, like myself and the young man on the bus, tie them for waves—those linear textures whose suppleness brings the instant satisfaction of a “That’s the Way Love Goes”-era Janet Jackson. The bargain luxury is symbolically significant, too. Seeing the durag as a crown is to take pride in something inextricable from blackness. Wearing it, the practical uses, and the particulars (i.e. if he’s not wearing a durag inside out, he’s in blackface) are connectors amongst young black men. I’ve formed lifelong relationships with potential high school bullies because we realized waves were more important than debts.

White America has remained “deadeningly predictable” in the 50 years since Blues People’s publication. In an act of self-preservation, white Americans elected Donald Trump, a fink who has criminalized black bodies in the past, and whose current “law and order” rhetoric promises the same. With the criminalization of black bodies comes the assailing of black expression, whether that comes in the form of curbing civil protest, music, or fashion.

With hip-hop’s rise as the core of black youth expression, the durag has become a fashion statement and a stand-in for the “black thug.” My mother was aware of that conception, so it’d makes sense that she’d attempt to protect me by demanding I only wear the durag inside our home. But remove the myths and you’ll find that, at the most basic level, it’s a self-maintenance cloth, something we use to keep our hair lain.

The durag’s existence as a utilitarian marker of black cool loosely parallels the head wraps worn by women in slaver-era America. With aesthetic roots in sub-Saharan Africa, head wraps grew to be one of the few means of expressions slaves had in the dehumanizing pre-Civil War America, where the stolen laborers would save what they had to buy headwear fabric. The garments had the practical purpose of absorbing sweat and protecting scalps from scathing daytime sun. Symbolically, the different stylings of the head wrap expressed individuality. “Here was a way for black women to reclaim their own sense of humanity,” says Tanisha C. Ford, associate professor of black American studies and history at the University of Delaware. Black hair care has since evolved into a cultural touchstone even as it’s policed by respectability politics and anti-black policing. You abandon the headwraps and durags in the private space in hopes of succeeding in the white, corporate world.

For brothers like myself, the durag became a symbol of black excellence. Allen Iverson likely wore a durag daily before regularly dropping 40 points on scrubs. Cam’ron had one on tight under a pink bucket hat when he performed one of the greatest freestyles ever in the Rap City basement. Nelly wore a yellow one in the “Over and Over” video with Tim McGraw, a big step toward the multi-culture American cornucopia we dreamed of... before LL Cool J and his Kangol hat bricked it for everyone.

It wasn’t long, however, before both the NFL and NBA banned durags, in 2001 and 2005, respectively. Allen Iverson, always one to represent the culture, noted, “They're targeting my generation–the hip-hop generation." NBA journeyman Sam Perkins was also admonished for wearing a durag in a preseason game because, apparently, “the league considers it ‘a safety hazard.’”

What’s more, the league’s biases were compounded by criticism by African-Americans, some of whom were ignited by cultural elitism and respectability politics. In a 2005 Washington Post column titled “The Case Against Do-Rags,” for example, author Jabari Asim wrote: “Maybe you'd rather discuss the late, great Rosa Parks, the ultimate modern symbol of principled individuality. Photos show that she was arrested and fingerprinted in 1955 while wearing a crisply tailored suit and minimal makeup. Dignity in abundance, but no do-rag in sight.” True, but Malcolm X didn’t give “The Ballot or the Bullet” speech in capris, and James Baldwin never lectured in just a ribbed tank top. (In fact, I wasn’t sure if the argument was actually satire, but Asim hasn’t returned my request for clarification.)

Intra-cultural and white opposition toward the durag don’t run parallel. Ford argues that parents and guardians feel the anxiety my mother felt when she told me not to wear mine outside of the house. “I think when African-Americans of certain generations reject durags, they’re doing it, in part, out of fear—out of the desire to protect black youth,” Ford says. “They’re unsafe from agents of the state or white vigilantes. What we’ve learned—and what we’ve always known—is that your respectability won’t save you. That not wearing a durag will keep you alive.”

One of the few good things about social media is how it’s provided the space to give the durag its due as a black culture artifact without the draining societal context. The prime example is Vann R. Newkirk II’s Durag History Week, an autumn week where Black Twitter pays tribute to the waviest. Then viral stars like Patrick Harris, a 24-year-old Washington, D.C. first-grade teacher who’s a probably a future Durag History Week honoree for teaching his students how tie a durag during lunch break. A viewer commented that doing so is as important as learning how to tie your shoes. In a symbolic sense, he’s right.

“I think what I was trying to say is that they have to navigate all pieces of our culture,” Harris says. “Everybody knows that black hair is critical is a staple for our community. Knowing how to take care of one’s hair and knowing the way in which we take care of our hair is unique to us—that piece of our culture is very fundamental.”

I never found out if the fellow on the bus had the temerity to wear a durag outside of his home. But I often do for two reasons: First, I’m no criminal because I want waves. Secondly, the durag’s stigma isn’t singular; black expression is susceptible to criminalization because it’s attached to a black body. So, greeting the sun and walking to Midtown for work with a durag snugly worn under my beanie is my quotidian existential triumph. One has to be ready to risk it all to be black and wavy.

Up Next: A Goofy Game of Would You Rather with Desus and Mero: