“Run a hand through your hair, like the white boys do, even though the only thing that runs easily through your hair is Africa.”

“Don't panic. Say, Hey, no problem. Run a hand through your hair like the whiteboys do even though the only thing that runs easily through your hair is Africa.”

“We're on speaking terms today. I say, Maybe we should hang out with the boys, and you shake your head. I want to spend time with you, you say. If we're still good, next week maybe.That's the most we can hope for. Nothing thrown, nothing said that we might remember for years. You watch me while you put a brush through your hair. Each strand that breaks is as long as my arm. You don't want to let go, but don't want to be hurt, either. It's not a great place to be but what can I tell you?”

“Tell her that you love her hair, that you love her skin, her lips, because, in truth, you love them more than you love your own.”

“But if these years have taught me anything it is this: you can never run away. Not ever. The only way out is in.”

“She was one of those golden mulatas that French-speaking Caribbeans call chabines, that my boys call chicas de oro; she had snarled, apocalyptic hair, copper eyes, and was one whiteskinned relative away from jaba.”

“She smelled like herself, like the wind through a tree.”