In the words of my mother, I am a tired Black Woman. She usually shares that in jest. I am tired of being traumatized. In the United States we have the re-election of a senile, predatory, poorly tanned toupee. A delusional, white supremacist, misogynistic, cut off your nose to spite your face choice to make. In my circle, it is the owners of the pole studio I frequent disrespecting a friend of mine so badly that their history of mistreating Black Women is now public knowledge. Personally, at work there are the corporate wolves in sheep’s clothing. At every turn someone is playing in our faces. I am a tired Black Woman.
I’m exhausted by my existence being antagonized. Every Black Woman, cis, trans, straight, lesbian, bisexual, disabled every one of our identities knows what I’m talking about. Everyone else seems to draw their power from harming us. The absurdity would be comical if the effects didn’t range from stress to death. The world takes every opportunity to let us know that it hates us, but I would not choose any other existence.
I only want to live the human experience as a Black Woman. Despite the constant disrespect, I don’t want to be anything else. The world can try to tell me that we don’t matter, invalidate our accomplishments and gifts, ignore our clear and consistent warnings, plagiarize our speech and style, and threaten our space and peace but I know better. They can’t trick me. I know personally, observe, or get to connect with via social media so many amazing Black Women. The mind games don’t work on me, expending energy on a fruitless effort. We will not hate ourselves.
“I’m the model you bitches is built like
How the fuck you want beef with the blueprint?”
-Megan Thee Stallion, “Right Now”
We are intimately aware of how the world works and I support every one of us who rejects the current model. It’s painful to clearly see society for what it is. The work of our writers, scholars, and observers makes it plain. Perfect? Of course not, we’re human. We have blind spots, but we are more right than wrong. It’s maddening to be aware and exist alongside people who choose delusion. They choose to pretend that everything is fine. My therapist described it as pulling the rug off the elephant in the room and everyone is mad at you for removing the rug. They don’t want to address the root issue, they don’t want to acknowledge or correct any wrongdoing. They don’t want to be better people.
None of this is new to me. The true nature of the United States isn’t a revelation. But I had hope that there were enough people who could make a choice to at bare minimum buy more time. I’m frustrated with myself for that hope. I believe that hope and love are vital to the human experience. I always want to apply them in a realistic fashion. My main struggle is the sober reality that I may have to live through a new version of the United States my grandmothers knew. It’s apparent that I have to tap into another part of myself. The years ahead will require a different type of will.
I can’t let that possibility swallow me whole. Not right when my commitment to rebuilding myself is bearing fruit. I simply refuse to regress like my home country. On any given evening, I may cry when I sit and think about the harm that is coming for so many. My feelings are valid, the release is necessary, but I cannot let it drain my spirit. Spite is useful right now; I won’t give anyone the satisfaction of fading away. Try as you might, you cannot take the love, joy, and hope from my life. I am aware of you, and I intend to be equally terrifying.
Fellow Black Women and I will continue to try, push, wonder, dream, demand accountability, laugh, joke, dress, sing, dance, love and live. I wish the Black Women in my blood didn’t have to fight for their survival so that I could be here today. They deserved lives free from horrors that I can only imagine. I hope their lives in the spirit world are different. Free from horrors that made some of them hard and mean. Instead, they have respect, kindness, and peace.
I continue to build my list of coping mechanisms: gospel music for grounding, stretching to get back into my body. I’ve decided to add learning more about the women in my family. What a fantastic project! Fortify my joy and peace by diving into the stories of the women I come from. They carry me, look out for me, open doors for me, and love me. Preserving family history is always vital and I need to do my part. I have a lot of time with my mom coming up, we have talking to do. I stood at my altar asking what to do with my feelings, what to write about, and this came to me. Doechii’s Alligator Bites Never Heal (2024) played in the background.
In the oppressor’s plan, we, Black Women and Femmes, weren’t supposed to get this far. They wanted us broken and docile. It didn’t work before, and it won’t work now. We’re full of compassion and we’re redirecting it. I won’t abandon the like-minded with similar struggles, solidarity is needed. Our lives may get harder, but I love being a Black Woman. I will love it when the world doesn’t hate us. I will love it when we only thrive and not just survive. When we won’t need to scream for our respect, it’s simply given. When we’re treated as the people that we are, I will love being a Black Woman at peace. My pride is not rooted in struggle, it’s rooted in knowing we will always be here for one another. We always know the way.
