I confess: I hate the “strong Black woman” stereotype.
It tells one part of a story and never acknowledges that no one should always have to be “strong.” I believe that, yes, to face systemic barriers a new set of skills: resilience, determination, perseverance, and, yes, Black women have repeatedly demonstrated those characteristics throughout history.
If we go back to basic history lessons, Black women were at the forefront of the Civil Rights, Queer, and Women’s Movements, which, by the way, furthered equality for all minority groups. Some of my favorite activists are Angela Davis and bell hooks because they pushed the boundary of thought through an intersectional lens.
But maybe it’s time to put the applause down and instead be an active ally and advocate for Black women. Black women are the least protected class in America. The way misogynoir — a specific form of anti-black racism and misogyny – works within a White supremacist patriarchal society makes it so that “opposite” or “different” gets the short end of the stick. Black women face racism and microaggressions in workspaces, in education, and in their daily lives. This impacts their medical health as well. In the United States, Black women are three to four times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than White women. This is not a coincidence. It is the cost of a system that too often overlooks our pain and undervalues our lives.
Black women are expected to protect and uplift everyone around us, yet we are rarely protected, rarely defended, and too often left to advocate for ourselves.
It’s exhausting.
In one of my classes, we were creating a scenario, and football players became a point of conversation. One girl says, “Well, if he’s going to be a running back, he should be Black,” and then bursts out laughing. Before her comment, I was so excited to participate and offer my creativity. After that comment, I felt that mental shift and feeling that this environment was no longer a safe space — perhaps it never was. I became quiet, constrained in what I could say or how to proceed, because I’m the only one in the room. Her friend? She awkwardly laughed and said nothing.
After a night out with friends, sometimes you end up in random people’s apartments. In this instance, the host had specifically made me and my Black friend feel unwelcome, and so the night was already reaching a point of turmoil, but then it delved into flat-out racism. One girl expressed that she doesn’t like immigrants because they’re stealing “American jobs” and it’s their fault her dad lost his position.
A single girl made that comment, but in a room full of people, no one had said anything. Not even my White friend, who is a self-proclaimed liberal and advocate.
Throughout these experiences, I wanted to speak up – honestly.
Yet, knowing that if I did, I’d become “The Angry Black Woman,” so I muffled myself, choosing to protect my internal peace. The funny thing about microaggressions, though, is that ignoring them doesn’t protect you. It chips away at you slowly and slowly until you no longer feel okay.
For someone whose memory is trash, I remember every single racially charged encounter, including the time I was 15, stopping by a shop after school to buy makeup, as teenagers do. Upon entry, the man in the store cursed at me for not putting my backpack in the front or getting out.
I remember feeling uncomfortable walking into any shop, just wanting to look around without buying anything, like everyone else.
I remember the way I felt when I finally spoke up, in tears, to a professor about my experience of exclusion in a predominantly white group, just to be dismissed and told “it’s not about your race.”
Being a Black woman is a lonely experience because you’re hypervisible and invisible at the same time. Stereotypes are at the forefront of the picture, yet your mental struggles are hardly recognized.
Honestly, if I think too hard about the political and economic state of the world (thank you for that metaphor, Jayden Smith), I’d spend my life in despair. So? I take shit on the chin every day and march through the world knowing the best, and sometimes, the only advocate I have is myself and other Black women. That’s why community is so important, because it’s a space where you’re fully seen.
It’s easy to dismiss our struggle in the name of “Well, I’m sure she’ll be okay, she’s strong,” when in reality, we should all be fighting inequality to protect one another. Use your privilege to speak up and don’t be a bystander. Check up on your Black friends and don’t just treat them as the therapist (that’s another stereotype for another day). Black women have historically done their job to fight for equity, and now it’s up to everyone else. Perhaps a fantasy, but one I’ll hold out hope for.