Being a black woman is facing discrimination and not knowing which of the two evils is the cause. On International Woman’s Day, the women at my job talked about their experiences being women in tech. It was a safe space that allowed us to share our experiences and pains being in the industry. At that moment, I realized, I couldn’t figure out if my negative experiences in a cis-white-male sector were because I’m black, a woman, or both. As I sat in my truth, the sad reality of this intersectionality crept up on me. All the memories of my negative experiences replayed in my head like a movie reel, and I desperately tried to sort my experiences, hoping I could find something meaningful to say. In the end, I revealed my truth, and it made me slightly uncomfortable. I’ve always thought of being black and being a woman as two separate issues, but on that day, I realized they are deeply intertwined. As the months passed, more attention grew towards the topic of blackness.
The death of Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and Ahmaud Arbery during this horrific pandemic was the catalyst to the revolution black people have been fighting and dying to see for centuries. The pandemic pushed forth an international timeout, quarantine, which enabled non-black people to finally have the time of day to listen, understand, and care enough about black lives. Black people are fighting against the institutions that taught us whiteness is superior, and whiteness enables justice. However, despite this ongoing battle, there is still something misunderstood and overlooked and that something is the black woman.
The eurocentric beauty standards infect the black community. In some painful way, it feels like it dismembers me, because compared to a lighter-skinned woman with straight hair, or even a mixed-race woman with more “exotic” features, I am “unwanted” by black men. According to characters like 50 Cent, being fresh off the boat is the new trend, but unfortunately, my ancestors were the ones on the boat. Therefore I am not “exotic.” My narrative is the “angry black woman”, as if my anger isn’t justified, and my blackness is the only cause of upset. You never hear of other narratives like the “angry Chinese woman,” the “angry white woman,” or just the “angry woman.” What makes this narrative so powerful is the social awareness that black women are fighting two battles, and the intersectionality prevents us from finding a space that genuinely accepts all of who we are. So, am I angry? Hell yeah. Is my anger justified? Absolutely. However, why is my anger problematic? Why is my anger an inconvenience? If you still don’t understand why the anger, let me provide an example.
After last seen on June 6th, 2020, a 19-year-old black woman, Oluwatoyin Ruth “Toyin” Salau, an activist, was found dead. She was raped and murdered in cold blood. Her passion for living in her blackness and fighting for her blackness propelled her to walk the streets of Florida, protesting for black lives. After an exhausting day fighting one battle against the white man’s oppression, she found herself fighting for her life from a man’s oppression, and ironically, fighting against a black man she is fighting to protect. Her death is revolting, sickening, and infuriating. What part of that isn’t angering? What part of the “angry black woman” narrative isn’t justified, when black women live to fight two wars?
“Black women have always been these vixens, these animalistic erotic women. Why can ‘t we just be the sexy American girl next door?” — Tyra Banks
From as early as the 17th century, black women experienced rape, humiliation, abuse, and harassment. These are the toppings of the system developed to ensure the enslavement and dismemberment of African culture. Historian Darlene Clark Hine wrote in Rape and the Inner Lives of Black Women in the Middle West: Preliminary Thoughts on the Culture of Dissemblance that black women developed a “culture of dissemblance.” The concept of dissemblance means “the behavior and attitudes of Black women that created the appearance of openness and disclosure but actually shielded the truth of their inner lives and selves from their oppressors.” From this concept, Hine concluded, “African-American women developed a code of silence around intimate matters as a response to discursive and literal attacks on black sexuality.”
Black women’s silence is a transgenerational response to attacks on our womanhood and our blackness. We’ve learned a behavior to protect us, which in turn is hurting us. However, when we speak about our hurt, we are demonized and seen as irrational, unnecessarily provocative, and an inconvenience to the people around us. Our silence isn’t healthy, and the response to our voices aren’t received with empathy or compassion, and that’s not normal.
Furthermore, black sexuality is profitable. During the Atlantic Slave Trade, black men and women were bought based on their breeding properties. Black women were bred, and their children sold; this also marked the beginning of a transgenerational curse of the broken black household. Presently, black sexuality, specifically the hypersexuality and objectification of black women, is used in media to sell and promote content. Even the black female celebrities we love have a “bad b*tch” persona, similar to what Hine said as creating an appearance of openness and disclosure. However, there is so much we don’t understand about these black women, until it comes out in the media. Black celebrities shield the truth of their lives because “bad b*tch” sells, whereas the truth does not unless it’s “scandalous.” They’re selling an unhealthy, unrealistic view of black sexuality, but behind the scenes, they are also suffering from the consequences of it. You could technically argue these celebrities are selling “female empowerment,” but once again, the intersectionality of blackness and womanhood makes it very difficult to dissect one from the other. Black women cannot address womanhood without addressing how it’s influenced by blackness.
Tyra Banks commented on being a sex symbol, “Black women have always been these vixens, these animalistic erotic women. Why can’t we just be the sexy American girl next door?” I’d like to add to that question, why can’t we be seen as the cute girl next door? When has a black woman been the icon for purity or innocence? The sexualization of all the most powerful black women is part of supporting the economic growth and entertainment of our society. Although we are “less exotic,” our physical features become trendy, desirable, and profitable when it’s worn on another race of women, in which it becomes “exotic” on them.
So, our hurt and anguish are overflowing, and unfortunately, not all spaces dedicated to women are inclusive of black women. Hence not all spaces are safe for us. Spaces black women create are sacred because it allows us to be vulnerable and support each other in a society that does not help us. It also allows us to talk candidly about the reality of black sexuality, and how to find ways of differentiating between empowerment and subjugation. Having these spaces and discussions is critical to ensure we engage in healthy relationships, whether it be romantic or platonic. This understanding will help contribute to the fix of the broken black household.
“And that got me thinking, ‘What does it mean being black?Maybe Blackness isn’t just about the appearance.’ I felt like your gestures, vibe, or how you talk is more important than your appearance to look like a black person. And so if you’re not like ‘that’ you’re not considered black.” — Tiffany Rachel
There’s also something to be said about black spaces being inclusive of different types of black identities. The black community and surrounding communities have forged an extreme set of behaviors and characteristics to identify “blackness,” most of which are stereotypes or exaggerated claims. Hypersexualization of both men and women in the black community is one of many examples. Tiffany Rachel is a black woman who grew up in Tokyo, Japan, if you’ve never heard her story, then I highly recommend you take a look at the video posted. In an interview with Nobito from Japan, she said, “I was told by black people, ‘You’re black, but not really black.’” The black community and surrounding communities use “the black card” as a piece of identification to mark acceptance within the black community. How can we fight racism when we are revoking identification cards from people who don’t “act black enough” while simultaneously handing out identification cards to people who “act black” but aren’t black?
As a result, these actions provide leverage for outside communities, and the black community, to isolate black people who don’t uphold those unrealistic characteristics. As we drop the ball in this respect, black women are classified either to be sexy or ugly. “You’re pretty for a black girl” is an example of a statement that supports those arrogant classifications. It’s critical for black spaces, for both men and women, to be inclusive of all types of black identities. Unity starts at acceptance.
Speaking of spaces, historically, feminism was a movement befitting for the white, middle-aged, well-educated woman. Black women had to create a movement that recognized their struggles, which led to Afro-Feminism/Black-Feminism. Tarana Burke, a black civil rights activist, founded the #MeToo movement in 2006. It’s a space for all women to speak out against abuse, but it also acts as a space for black women to break our “code of silence.” Yet, it took actress Ashley Judd’s voice in 2017 to propel the movement to what we know of it today. So although safety and security of womanhood were the focus, Ashley Judd is evidence that justice occurs when you are wealthy and white.
The angry black woman isn’t irrational or unnecessarily provocative. She’s not trying to “rain on your parade” or “bring up the past” to her advantage. The angry black woman wants her voice heard, actively heard not passively. She wants people to understand her story, not just read it and toss it aside. Stop comparing her every time someone dates outside the black race. She doesn’t want handouts just because she’s black or a woman, she wants equality and respect. She doesn’t want this narrative to be a reason you condemn her or disown her. Her anger is not a meme. It’s not up for debate, and it’s not yours to judge unless you’ve walked a mile in her shoes.
Reflection
One of the hardest realities I’ve come to face over the past few months is that the glass ceiling I wish to break is a bit higher than I anticipated. I don’t think anyone could’ve prepared me for this reality. It’s like a black woman’s coming-of-age when she realizes her path is unpaved; society is not in her favor no matter which way she turns. I had known this before; my mother recited this truth to me countless times, however, something about this year, and about the reality we sit in, adds weight to her words.
I’ll be honest, I’m afraid. I’m afraid to date both outside and inside my race, the fear of being misunderstood. I’m so scared to embark on the journey of motherhood; it’s terrifying to say I’ll depend on a medical system built from the corpses of my ancestors. I’m afraid of ownership; the fear of having it not succeed, or it ripped from my hands just because of my skin tone. I. AM. AFRAID.
However, there’s something my mom has always told me. She’s always chanting some old Jamaican proverb, but they’re proverbs from my ancestors, so it brings me some ease because they’re tried and true!
She says, “every mickle makes a muckle,” in other words, every little thing you do adds up to something bigger.
My voice might not make headlines, but if it provides insight to at least one person, it matters. For the countless nights I stayed up studying for exams, I can proudly say I’m a black woman that graduated from the University of Toronto with an Honors in Computer Science, and hopefully, that will inspire another. For every negative experience, I can honestly say I learned a little about myself and the world I wish to change. So to my black women, pat yourself on the back, show yourself an overwhelming amount of love, because you’re fighting a difficult battle. Every little thing you do matters, not one act of self-love or an act of kindness to another or an act of resilience is unnoticed, nor is it irrelevant. It’s contributing to a bigger picture, a significant cause.
To everyone else, what little thing have you done today helps black women in their battle? What have you learned about black women? Have you ever judged a black woman before speaking to her, and if so, why? I strongly encourage you to think about the language you use to address others. If the language you use offends another person, instead of defending that language, take time to understand and inquire. Let’s be cognizant of these narratives and help the people affected by them, instead of arbitrarily using these narratives as weapons.
