I'm blow-drying my hair once again, which is a waste of time and pulled hair. It has been raining almost everyday since I've been here in Florida. When it's not raining there is an incessant heat that influences steam to grace my scalp. As a result, I wear my hair in a boyish-afro form that I've reluctantly gotten used to.

I think back to weeks ago, two of my friends and I embarked on an African-American Heritage tour. I didn't expect it to impact me the way it did. To explain the demographics of our tour group, there were 25 females. Most were brought by the stamp that went towards our college portfolio's, but I get a rise out of history whenever I get a chance.

Once we left the bus I noticed It was only one other girl other than myself that was black, not that it really mattered. I looked at all of these girls around me, I looked at the woman leading us and I knew how this situation would play out. I wanted to save the woman from this situation. Whenever it came to black history, I just suppressed it. It was too much resentment that came with the color of skin and I didn't want to deal with it. I always felt like someone was holding a magnifying glass over me, fascinated by skin that doesn't define me, or ancestors that are no longer here. I imagine the other girls of different colors could relate.

The woman shared with us stories of hardship and emergence that was hard to take under the Florida sun. I was surprised at how St. Petersburg prospered as a cultural hub. Looking around it hadn't changed from what I had imagined it to be. After an hour, the majority of the girls lost interest, yearning for their stamps. In a jungle of buildings draped with murals, A black man was attentively tending to his grill. I preserved him within my camera lens.

It was easy to balance my attention between the city and history that embellished these buildings. The silent moments of her story became echoes in my head. Electric bitterness must have been radiating off of me, along with the heat. My friends were mesmerized by the stories, and because of that, I stared at them like anomalies. One of them, Gianna, has a boyfriend who was black. As far as I was concerned to witness their interest was tantamount to witnessing zoo animals.

For me, history resonates harder when depicted with architecture. Architecture is a medium for me to truly feel the past, most of the time I ran around staring with a dazed expression. It wasn't until we reached the art gallery that I was able to truly understand what I was feeling. It's like something in me had exploded and emotions were escaping harder than I could put them back. The art started reaching the others as well. I believe when everything else failed it would be art that would reach the rest of the world. It was the only way for us unite by experiencing the emotions enticed by art.

Within minutes the majority had settled into boredom, but the rest of us...oh boy it is like a dance only we could understand. In that gallery it was a wavelength only we could hear. My friends and I evaporated into the art around us, only we couldn't get enough. This dance continued on, the other girls were merely spectators, becoming annoyed, but it didn't matter. Mrs.Reese who taught us, who brought us to the gallery was like our mother. Carla, the curator, the one who immersed us was our sister. Robin, the one who awakened us was like our child. She was older than I was but I still felt the need to protect her. Robin spoke about her art, where she specialized in portraits of famous people such as Frida Kahlo. To get to know these people was to see her.

She made these hand sculptures that tapped into your spirituality. The red hand specialized in freeing yourself from your thoughts and others. The yellow one specialized in energy. The black one specialized in inspiration.

She moved on to show us the cosmic children. She said that she believed children were the closest to god, and to be childlike was to be close to god. I understood because maybe we are closest to god when we are learning, or are naive. We are more open to listen and hear him.

She spoke softly like a child and I wanted to protect her from the girls who couldn't understand her, or from her hardships. I asked her how she was willing to give her art away like this(because I never could). She said she would want one of her hands in everyone's room to help them. As she spoke I couldn't help but look around. Inside a glass case is what truly stopped my heart. It was a ceramic plate that was covered in hair- my hair-I looked lower and there was a cup with a bobby pin also covered with hair. I swallowed a sob. I later realized not only was it not my hair, it wasn't hair at all, it was painted there! The piece is called Split Ends, and it depicts hair that could only exist from mistreatment. This hair - the small pieces - are the fruits of someone trying to make themselves into something they are not. I know because I've tried. I've tried to make my hair straighter, longer, softer--into something that it is not and will never be. I wasn't shy about expressing my discovery to my friends, the crowd, and the ladies. The ladies understood. I tried to explain it to my friends but I fell short, it didn't hit me until today why it meant so much. I've been in a new environment not used to how people judge me based off of my appearance - if they do. I just know that I judge myself. When I was home before, my climate allowed me to straighten my hair, something that is nearly impossible to do in Florida. I'm constantly wondering if people would be more friendly if my hair was straighter, or if my skin wasn't so dark from the sun. I'm constantly compensating for my hair in this state. I told the ladies that it is in this state that I truly feel I am glorifying god, so why am I ashamed? It is because of the words I said to them I learned to let it go since I can't control it. My friends are used to seeing me this way, its the only thing they know.

The "mother" was bald and she said she felt closer to herself. As we all talked it seems time couldn't stop us,but it did catch up and we were forced to leave. Everyone was back on the bus and we were due for campus. My friends, the ladies, and I were still in the gallery. It felt as if we were being parted from family, our home, they hugged us goodbye.

When we got back to campus we felt rejuvenated, like we were reborn. When we ate afterward it was like eating for the first time. Amongst our friends, our mouths ceased quickly realizing it was impossible to explain what we went through. Only that everyone else and the world had missed out on something beautiful.

There were moments I wasn't able to snap photos because my hands were paralyzed. We were on the bus and had heard an angry man on a speaker, going on about injustice. The corner had revealed a man in a suit holding a newspaper headlining "injustice" with all of his might. I couldn't take my eyes away and I guess everyone else ignored it. I didn't know if it was a part of the tour or not but it was a coincidence. I was embarrassed because there were other ways to speak up on our problems as a country, wasn't he just merely wasting time.

My friend Gianna( who has the black boyfriend) regularly mentioned her feelings throughout the whole tour, as did I. She felt like she had to apologize for her ancestor's transgressions. I told her I felt the pain of both sides as a millennial, a child of this generation. We were feeling the sorrow and regret for the hate expressed on both sides. I was sorry for what was said behind closed doors, things I've overheard, and I felt her pain. To see these people, my friends, enjoying this tour, absorbing this history was what was truly endearing. It's enamoring to see someone else empathizing with others different from them, because it happens rarely in our world. It's moments like these that pushes us ahead as a society, surging us ahead even as we make missteps.

I brush my hair in a moment of clarity.

My frustrations come out when I'm doing my hair, often they hide behind my objective to get my hair straighter. My friends asked me if I like my hair. Why did I fumble with this question?

I never really consider my hair other than it is what grows out of my scalp. My hair is coarse and difficult. If I had gone my whole life not knowing other types of hair existed, it wouldn't be something I'd complain about. Of course, I wish it was easier to manage or straighter, but then when it is straight I miss it when it is curly. My hair and my skin isn't something that I have to make up for. It doesn't cripple me. I realize it's something makes me dynamic and it's something I feel blessed I have to deal with. It's when I'm pulling my hair out that I realize it's my struggles-- or the struggles of the past--that allows for understanding to exist in the future. Being dynamic is what allows us to function as a society. We should be thankful that we are able to experience these differences and hardships that ultimately builds the foundations of mankind.