(In the spirit of Langston Hughes’s “The Negro Speaks of Rivers”)
I’ve worn hats, man
I have sported big Rastaman tams that sheathed my dreadlocks when they were not in use, as antennae to my ancestors and god
I have worn tiny khufes and thought about Africa’s glory, yet to come
I have worn a black beret and was inspired by the Black Panther Party’s breakfast program for children in the liberation and defense of all people
A brown beret in solidarity with brown people, and a blue beret because it goes nice with my sweater
And one star-swept night, I’d love to earn a Crown in that Kingdom
Still, my secular Holy Grail of Hats (right now, Lord) is a cashmere gray beret with a satin lining
Oh, I’ve dug some hats, man
Dipped into church on cool Sunday mornings wearing a tan suit before taking a soft-brown fedora off my head
Strolled along city sidewalks in a black-and-cream-colored Bailey, laughing at something smart and funny the pretty brown woman on my arm just said
Walked in warm April showers donning a worn and rugged Australian Outback, digging the raindrops dripping from its brim
Sported a wide straw hat while playing the powerful djembe drum under a burning noon-day sun
Staggered in the French Quarter, where I drank everything but water, cooler than cool in a stingy-brim fedora
I’ve known some hats, man
Watching my daddy’s hat falling off his dome when he was on the couch taking his naps
But I ain’t cool like Frankie Beverly
I don’t wear no baseball caps
Contact staff writer Thomasi McDonald at tmcdonald@indyweek.com.
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