Tag Archives: Racism

BLACK WOMEN: A BATTLEGROUND FOR OUR SOULS

“This brother here, myself and all of us were born with our hair like this, and we just wear it like this because it’s natural. The reason for it, you might say, is like a new awareness among Black people that their own natural physical appearance is beautiful and is pleasing to them. For so many years, we were told that only white people were beautiful–that only straight hair, light eyes, light skin was beautiful so Black women would try everything they could — straighten their hair, lighten their skin— to look as much like white women. This has changed because black people are aware. White people are aware of it too because white people now want natural wigs like this. Dig it. Isn’t it beautiful? Alright.”


Kathleen Cleaver, 1968

When you’re a Black Woman, you never truly feel like your body is yours. Your skin becomes the light of a riot, your body the playing field for political wars. Your ass is sexualized for White bodies, and your identity is a scapegoat for Black men. When you’re a Black woman your body is a secret for uncles to stare at, and aunties to demonize. When your a Black woman your features are for White Women to appropriate, and for society to make a mockery of. When you’re a Black woman, you become a very special type of tired. Your body becomes a temple for any colonizer to invade, so you teach yourself to hide your spirit where the sage flies high. When you’re a Black woman, the only safe place exists with our ancestors and the Orishas on a plane we still have yet to define. When you’re a Black woman, you learn an attitude. You learn a bitch face, a look of dissatisfaction, a mean mug, an aura of aggression. 

“Of course I’m mad, I’m as mad as I am Black. I’m as mad as I am Woman.” 

Saartjie “Sarah” Baartman, died December 29th, 1815, her stuffed body wasn’t buried until August 9th, 2002. Lucy, Anarcha, and Betsey, while alive the world was told that ‘Black women don’t feel pain.’ Their bodies were used without consent, without anesthesia, to birth the “Father of Modern Gynecology.” Serena Williams, unarguably one of the most iconic athletics of our time, and frequently compared to a man or a monkey. Tell me how I’m supposed to love me when everything about me is under continuous critique. How am I not tempted to bleach my skin, and install a weave when nothing about this world is conducive to my external existence? Self-love is something that is difficult for anyone to possess. But ain’t it incompassionate to tell Black women to love ourselves, when since we touched foot on America our bodies became objects of labor, objectification, (sexual) abuse, and exploitation? How am I supposed to love me when it is because of my identity that society seems to hate me?

Regennia Johnson,December 7, 2016

“Her name is Tiarah Poyau. On Tuesday, September 6th, I found out a young Black woman who was my same age was fatally shot in the face for doing what I had just done the night before in Madrid, Spain. I was reminded what it meant to not only be a woman, but to be a woman of color, to be a Black woman who commands ownership of her body. To be vocal, resilient, and push back towards the objectification and entitlement over our bodies. I fought with the reality that as much as I want to go off on men who don’t understand NO or “I’m not interested”, by doing so, whether politely or not, I could be next on the list of women who died due to fragile masculinity. Rape culture, misogyny, racism, respectability politics, and extremely fragile masculinity are issues Black women experience differently than women of other races.”


Regennia Johnson, December 7, 2016

To be Black Woman is to be a constant fighter and advocate of your own humanity. To think for yourself, to transcend toxic tribal mentality. To be a Black Woman is to shatter expectations, and not concern yourself with stereotypes. To be a Black woman is to wear your hair blonde and nappy, or straight and colored like cotton-candy. To be a Black woman is to be your own freedom, your own serenity, your own divine being. To be a Black woman is to define your own strength, through sensitivity, through spirituality, through tears, through throwing heels, and clapping hands between your words. To be a Black woman is to be a multidimensional individual. To be a Black woman means being your own momma sometimes, it means finding that little Black girl inside of you and protecting her.

To me, to be a Black Woman, you must learn to be carefree.  Thank you for being, because of Y’all I am. 

An Ode To Black Kids Who Had To Be Black In UnBlack Spaces

For most of my life, and even now, I’ve lived in very White spaces. My early memories are seeing cartoons that reflected faces of my friends, and I having to explain the purpose of the Proud Family existing and being so Black with only one White girl. I’ve been told not to color in the lines of paintings with black skin, pink, purple, and polka-dotted would have to do. I remember how hard it’s always been to find products for my hair; so I’ve learned to make them. I remember how difficult it was to celebrate my skin; so now I gravitate to other melanin-ated beings like myself.

From childhood to adulthood it hasn’t gotten much easier, it’s the same issues but different language. I’d have to explain my existence on White campuses, arguing that I did go there; No I don’t play any sports (nor am I extremely smart). I’ve learned to hold my tongue, to code switch, to identify fake friends and fake people. I’ve memorized exactly why you ain’t about to say the “n” word if you ain’t lived an “n” word life and a rebuttal for every lame retort back in the book. I’ve found Black joy with Black bodies who were having the same Black experience as me. I’ve found “Moonlight”, “Dear White People”, “Get Out”, and “She’s Gotta Have It.” When White Kids say “Frank Sinatra” I scream “DIANA ROSS BBY!”When White kids take “YASSS,” I’ve already moved to “Okay ____,” and “I see you ____,” with a little “YOU BETTA,” and let us not forget “F*** IT UP!!” Needless to say, I didn’t have double-dutch as a child, but I sure as hell have dominos (someone please teach me spades).

I’ve learned to survive micro-aggression, cultural appropriation, police brutality, racial fetishization, and the gaslighting of my Black feelings. I’ve learned how to swing my Black hips, and let Ebonics and patios flow off my Black lips. Loving myself, all of myself, Blackness included, has been the most difficult thing for me in a world that taught me that I shouldn’t point out race. In a world that tried to be colorblind to my existence, that tried the White out my life.

Loving myself, loving my Blackness, as where it is still a struggle together, has been the most revolutionary act of defiance.

As where people try to understand my struggle, our struggle, the Black struggle, I found solidarity. I found AfroPunk, Poetry Slams, and Black Lives Matter. I’ve found myself in spaces and people who get it (or are a lot more likely to). So with that, I leave a message to my younger self:

“You are out there, you exist, give it time, and you’ll see yourself.”