Braiding Tales: We Built a World, Row by Row – A True Story

Posted by Madd_Fictional on
braid

“We gave the Future to the winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present, weaving the dull world around us into dreams.” ― Edgar Allan Poe, The Mystery of Marie Rogêt

The Bronx in the ’70s was a shifting kaleidoscope of color and culture, where streets echoed with the rhythms of migration. Italians moved out, and Black families moved in, followed by waves of Hispanics and West Indians (the descriptors at the time, consult your PC Handbook for updated terminology because I cannot keep up with the ever-shifting cultural identifiers), each adding a new voice to the symphony. It was the kind of place where survival meant learning to coexist, where differences in skin, language, and heritage melted away—or flared up—in the crucible of city life. On my street, we built an entire world from those fragments, a mosaic stitched together by people who, despite everything, tried to make the best of their lot.

I rocked a killer afro back then—black as midnight, proud and defiant, with a metal-pronged pick nestled in the back, its handle a clenched fist of Black power. That pick was more than an accessory; it was my weapon, my shield, my silent protest. My parents hated it, of course. “As long as you’re living under my roof…” they’d begin, and I’d tune them out, thinking, If they cut my hair, they’ll cut out a piece of me too—my Madd-ness. My hair was a rebellion I wasn’t ready to surrender.

But necessity breeds compromise, and when the ultimatum finally came down, I found myself confiding in Cynthia Holloway, a quiet girl from down the block, as we waited outside the bodega. I barely knew her then—just a face I’d seen in passing, someone who kept to herself. But when I offhandedly mentioned my plight, she surprised me by offering to braid my hair.

We met on the stoop of a private house, and with just a comb and hair grease, she went to work. Her fingers moved like a weaver’s, deftly interlocking strands of my wild hair into tight rows that hugged my scalp. The stoop became our sanctuary, an unassuming throne for two kids who sought to escape a world that, despite its vibrant diversity, sometimes felt stifling.

As Cynthia braided, we talked. Not just about the trivialities of school or the latest radio hits, but deeper things—the secrets kids only share when they’re wrapped in the certainty that no adults are listening. She told me about her father, a retired Army Ranger who had left the battlefield to play the saxophone in a jazz band. I told her about my dreams of becoming a comic book artist, the kinds of worlds I would create. But there was always something enigmatic about Cynthia’s stories, an undercurrent of magic in the mundane details, as if the truth of her life flickered like a distant streetlight, casting just enough shadow to obscure reality.

Every month, I returned to that stoop, and we resumed our ritual. As the braids grew tighter, so did our bond, and we began to braid stories too, building a shared world. It started simple—an imagined city somewhere between the Bronx and the stars, where children ruled in place of parents, and no one ever moved away without warning. We became monarchs of this world, shaping its laws and landscapes, populating it with impossible things—magical creatures, talking trees, entire islands that floated on the sea of our imagination.

In our fantasy realm, Cynthia’s father was no mere saxophonist; he was a wandering bard who could enchant dragons with a single note. The streets echoed with jazz that held real power, transforming ordinary lives with its melancholy spell. We added layers to our world with each session, each braid, until it felt more like home than the streets we walked every day.

Then, in the fifth month, Cynthia didn’t show up. I waited for hours, my hair a mess of hopeful tangles. Days later, I heard through the grapevine—a friend of a friend’s sister—that she and her mother had disappeared in the dead of night. No forwarding address, no phone number, just… gone. Like the characters in one of our stories, they had slipped into the shadows of a place that only existed at the edges of our understanding.

I imagined reasons for their sudden departure: debts, danger, a need for freedom. Had Cynthia’s tales been laced with truth in disguise, or had we woven so much magic into our world that it had started to seep into reality, drawing her away?

With no Cynthia to braid my hair, I had no choice but to sit in the barber’s chair. The clippers buzzed, and tufts of my Madd-ness fell to the floor, but in the end, I was still me—though a little more vulnerable, a little more hollow without my braids and without the girl who had spun stories with me.

Months passed, but our shared world lingered like a dream you almost remember. I’d sit on the stoop sometimes, alone, recounting imaginary conversations with an absent Cynthia, trying to keep the magic alive. I’d tell her about my life, and in return, I imagined the stories she might tell me—adventures on the road with her father, mystical places far beyond the Bronx where jazz could still conjure fire and flight.

Over time, our world began to fade, overtaken by real life, real changes. Yet, every now and then, I’d catch a faint echo of Cynthia’s stories in the strains of a saxophone on the radio, or in the pattern of the rain falling on the pavement. And I wondered if, somewhere out there, she was still weaving tales—perhaps even remembering our shared creation.

We built a world together, row by row. Even though I couldn’t see her anymore, even though the stoop was empty, the world we made still breathed, still existed somewhere beyond the boundaries of imagination and memory. And it would always be there, waiting, like an old friend ready to spin stories once more.

PS. Cyn, if through some bizarre happenstance you should come across this, hit me up real quick. There’s a world in some need of serious upkeep.

20 responses to “Braiding Tales: We Built a World, Row by Row – A True Story”

  1. What a wonderful story…I see it, and I think this could be the beginning of a lovely short story series with the imaginary tales you two spun through cornrows.

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    • You know, that’s not a bad idea. I just today finished compiling roughly twenty-some-odd stories, older tales that I don’t think will ever find a home, into a short story collection that I’m publishing through Amazon.

      I aim to empty my box of regret if it’s the last thing I do.

      Besides, my time is short. I can feel dino breath on the back of my neck.

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  4. I have always enjoyed your posts, even though I may not have commented on them, but this one really touched me. You wove the tale perfectly and the fact that it was a true story makes it that much more compelling. I could imagine the two of you sitting there. I am sorry you lost your friend. I could see this being the beginning of a collection of short stories of the stories you spun from the steps. Beautifully written. Perhaps the fates will bring your paths to meet again.

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    • Thank you, that’s very kind, and the feeling is mutual because I enjoy your posts (most recently “The Legend of Captain Jon Blackwell”) and should really comment more than I do.

      You’re the second person that suggested this as a bookend devise for a short story series and it definitely bears looking into.

      Regarding Cynthia, it’s bizarre because I hadn’t given thought to her in years and out of the blue the memory hit, and I posted it on the outside chance she’ll stumble upon it. The internet has made the world a smaller place, so you never know.

      Hope springs eternal.

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      • Thank you to you as well. I will be posting more short stories as time goes on, I hope you will continue to enjoy them. I look forward to more of your stories too.

        You are right, the internet has made the world a much smaller place. It’s amazing the people I have been able to reconnect with. Perhaps Cynthia will stumble across your path again; I would love to hear that story. 🙂

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  5. Pingback: Top Ten 2013 Mundanities I Didn’t Mind Being Mired In | Mired In Mundanity

  6. Gorgeous storytelling, Rhyan. I wish I had someone who’d talk to me and braid my hair. (Heck, I wish I still had hair…) You nailed the magic of youth in this tale, something only the luckiest of us bring into adulthood. Hope you’re doing well, my friend. 😊

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  7. Your story is a powerful blend of nostalgia and magical realism, and it really captures the essence of growing up in a place where cultures collide and personal identity is often shaped by the smallest of interactions. The vivid imagery of the Bronx in the ’70s, the intricate bond between two unlikely friends, and the way you weave both real and imagined worlds together is beautiful.

    I love how the braided hair becomes a symbol for the connection between you and Cynthia, both literally and figuratively tying your stories and lives together. The way you talk about how that ritual of braiding and storytelling helped you find refuge in a world that often felt stifling is relatable and deeply moving. There’s something poetic in how you describe the fading of that shared world, a poignant reminder of how friendships can drift away, leaving us to wonder what could have been.

    The last part where you address Cynthia directly gave me chills. It’s as if you’re speaking into the ether, hoping the magic of the past might still find a way to rekindle itself. That kind of hope, even when it seems distant or impossible, is something many of us hold onto.

    Beautiful work. You really captured the feeling of a friendship that shaped you, even if it was just for a brief moment in time.

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  8. Here’s to hoping your long-lost friend somehow stumbles upon this post, so the two of you can reconnect and keep that world alive. But even if she doesn’t, you’ve given us a glimpse into something truly special, and those of us reading can help carry that world forward in our own imaginations. Thank you for sharing such a heartfelt and magical part of your life.

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  9. Okay, so now this one is my current favorite! It’s somewhat a tie between this story and the little boy and his visit to the barber shop.

    I loved this! It also reminded me of my summers spent in The Bronx.

    What a great story you’ve shared here, Rhyan! And I hope Cynthia really does come across this gem.

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