Early in my university teaching career, Carolivia Herron came to speak to my children’s literature students. She had not too long since published her first children’s picture book, a book which had a bright, strong, African-American girl main character, and which could also teach readers about the African-American storytelling tradition of call-and-response. However, it was not the narrative technique that had brought the book to attention, nor the protagonist’s character. It was a single word—half of the book’s title. Carolivia Herron’s first picture book, illustrated by Joe Cepeda was Nappy Hair (Dragonfly, 1997), and the book raised a heated debate over whether the word “nappy” was an insult or not, and who was allowed to use the word in a picture book, and who was allowed to read the word to children.
Herron, on a website to celebrate the book’s twentieth anniversary, explained the reaction: “why were folks so upset? I’ll tell you two of the real reasons. They were upset because they did not want a white teacher talking about black hair, and since many of them always used the word nappy as a negative word, they couldn’t appreciate a book that used nappy as positive” (http://nappyhair.club/nappier-hair-brendas-own-voice/). Obviously, since the book is celebrating its twentieth anniversary, it has survived, and even been followed up by other books, such as the poet bell hooks’ Happy to be Nappy (Jump at the Sun, 1999) and Nappy (Brand Nu Words, 2006) by Charisse Carney-Nunes, illustrated by Ann Marie Williams. Carney-Nunes, a former classmate of Barack Obama, weaves the idea of African-American history into her picture book by including biographical sketches of famous women with nappy hair, including Ida B. Wells, Harriet Tubman, Josephine Baker, and Sonia Sanchez. The reviews of all of these books have been mixed. Many are positive about the idea of celebrating African-American hair (and particularly female hair; although Stevie Wonder famously used the word to describe his own hair, all of these books focus on African-American girls). Others still worry about the connotations and history of the word nappy, and of its potentially negative use outside the African-American community.
Girls, and African-Americans, are not the only people who have had hair concerns, however. The politics of Black British boys’ hair became an issue in the 1970s with the rise of Rastafarianism and Black Power movements. Paul Gilroy, in There Ain’t No Black in the Union Jack quotes from the 1981 Scarman report. Lord Scarman led the inquiry into the 1981 Brixton riots; Scarman suggested that “young hooligans” (Gilroy 135) had appropriated the symbols of the Rastafarian religion, “the dreadlocks, the headgear and the colours” (135) to excuse their destructive behavior. Scarman was not the only one to believe that dreadlocks were associated with criminality; Sally Tomlinson, in Race and Education, points out that schools debated whether or not to ban dreadlocks (49) in the late 1970s and early 1980s. A young person’s hair was not, as in the case of the “nappy hair” books, simply a reminder of a (possibly negative, possibly positive, depending on your point of view) past history, but a political and particularly anti-authoritarian statement, one that faced censure from official government institutions such as the police and the schools.
British children’s books had an uneasy relationship with dreadlocked or Rastafarian-symbol-wearing child characters. Especially in picture books, if child characters wore dreadlocks or green, gold and red Rasta hats, they tended to appear incidental at first glance. Illustrator Dan Jones’s follow-up to Rosemary Stones and Andrew Mann’s Mother Goose Comes to Cable Street (Kestrel, 1977) was another collection of playground rhymes set in London’s East End, Inky Pinky Ponky (collected by “Mike” Rosen, as he was known then, and Susanna Steele in 1982). Unlike Mother Goose Comes to Cable Street, which shows turbans and burkas and saris and dashikis but not a single red, green and gold Rasta hat, Inky Pinky Ponky has two: both children, one boy and one girl. The girl is watching a policeman’s interaction with an older white gentleman; she doesn’t appear to like what she sees. The boy is pictured on the book’s cover, raising a fist at a white girl who is looking down at the ground. Neither of these illustrations seems in any way directly connected to the playground rhymes that accompany them, so it is difficult to know if there is any significance to the Rasta hats. But given Gilroy’s and Tomlinson’s comments, it is difficult to see these characters as random, especially given that the only two characters associated with Rastafarian symbols are depicted as connected with the police and with aggression.
That the negative meaning of Rastafarian and reggae symbols had filtered down to children is obvious in Lorraine Simeon’s Marcellus, originally published in 1984 by the community-based Peckham Publishing Project. The story is of a four-year-old boy worried about being made fun of in school because of his dreadlocks. But interestingly, the class has been prepped for Marcellus; the teacher tells him, “When I told the children you had locks/ They all wanted to see” (n.p). However, Marcellus’s dreadlocks are not associated with any kind of political or religious statement in the book; they are just a mark of difference, and one that the other children, after their initial curiosity, ignore. My copy is a 1995 edition published by Black Butterfly in the US, and I am unsure if the text was changed along with the pictures (which were originally done by Yinka Sunmonu, and which were done in my edition by Alvin Ferris). Dreadlocks have a potentially negative connotation, but without any kind of reason given. Having solved the “problem” of wearing dreadlocks to school, the sequel, Marcellus’ Birthday Cake, shows the same little boy—but without dreadlocks.
More recently, dreadlocks have become normalized through characters like Rastamouse. But Rastamouse is a case in point for the use of children’s literature to contain the potentially “dangerous” Rastafarian. Rastamouse, unlike the Rastafarian-symbol-wearing “hooligans” of the Scarman report, is a crime-fighting mouse who works for the president of Mouseland. He has been co-opted. His dreadlocks are, in keeping with his character, kept neatly under his hat, and the history of the politics of Black British hair is tucked away with it.