It hit me like a freight train. Black American women (especially those that are descendants of slaves) have been blamed for America’s ills and are the most mistreated human beings on Earth.
I came to this conclusion when I was 5yr old. My parents had a violent divorce. It made me hyper aware of how vulnerable Black American women and Black American girls are in this world. It was also the beginning of the cycle that demands that Black American women & girls be stronger than most, take more, if not all of the abuse, be shut out of opportunities, never enjoy their humanity to the fullest, never express anger, let joy always be fleeting and be marginalized by colorism and racism.
I think I had decided by 7yrs old, humanity ain’t shit because it does nothing – absolutely nothing – to protect Black Americans and Black American women/ girls. I also decided that some Black folks ain’t especially shit because they endeavor the most to hurt us.
No one is above reproach because my humanity matters first. If you cannot treat me like a human being, YOU ain’t shit. Period.
So now as a divorced, working, Black American mother I have anxiety wrapped around trying to protect my child from white supremacy, misogyny, racism, sexism, colorism … um basically I’m raising a Black American and trying to protect them from America. Land of the racist, home of perpetual inequality and hate.
There is no game plan but to keep my Heir Apparent in a bubble first and then educate them on the history of America, the history of Black Americans, what to look out for in other ethnicities because we have no allies and then somehow I have to teach them to enjoy their humanity whilst fiercely protecting it from bullshit, pathetic Americans anchored in whiteness, privilege and supremacy. The most disheartening tale I will tell is that those who endeavor to marginalize us the most may have as much or more melanin as us – but they are not Black American and the blood of their ancestors who build this land – makes them far removed from anything like us.
It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted thinking about it and living in it.
On top of all that, you have to find these pockets of joy as a Black American woman that is not managed by the racist expectation for your life. I can barely enjoy a latte and write a blog post without being starred at like I’m a Paragen Falcon. It has you wondering where do you find fellowship in your Blackness and woman-ness in tandem. It has you wondering where is the safe space for your existence. It has you wondering, why can’t you live your life without ignorance encroaching upon it should you make a wrong turn.
Honey, look – I – am – exhausted – as – (bleep).
These are the things I think about on a soggy Saturday afternoon, I could write more. but my latte is getting cold.