As the roots of my blonde-encroached hair grow and expose their untainted jet black hue, my mother and her mother’s and her mother’s heritage appear before me, their insurmountable resilience and their faith, are embedded within the divinity of a seventy-microns-strand where magnanimity culminates and my wins, loss, successes, fears formulate its atomic structure. I have been the fool who has fallen prey to ideals of futility, as the bleach has diminished and degraded my mother, her mother, and her mother’s tenacity. Nonetheless, I progress. I have been ignorance, scornful as well. But I have been success, an arrogance of sorts, as well. From my mother’s humility, to my father’s pride, I am their heredity. The western tissue has attempted to immolate the jet-black expression of my hair, disguised behind the notion of assimilation, of obstinate, invulnerable conformity. but it will not conquer. Still, the all-severing time seems to subdue my ignorance, for I am not more a burden than I can bear myself.