Black Women are in This Alone
By: Sharonda Harris-Marshall
Tags: Feminism, Black Women, Racism, African American, Sexism

Growing up, I was made ashamed of my Black curvy body. So I covered it up. Then I was ashamed for not being fashionable enough and wearing unflattering clothing. Other days I was accused of wearing something tacky. Then I decided to wear what makes me comfortable. Now and then, I overhear someone snicker at my shoes. But guess who has comfy feet all day, bitch? Just be glad I took a shower before leaving the house. Other Black women feel far more constrained than I do when it comes to our outward appearances. I no longer care for pantyhose, slips, and all that other bullshit. And I don’t care if you care. But also, if a Black woman does care about all that stuff, let her be.

It’s not like covering my body up protected me from sexual harassment and assault anyway. I was wearing a baggy t-shirt and wide-leg jeans with holes when a stranger tried to kiss and grope me in a grocery store parking lot when I was in college. I suffered that mental anguish alone and was expected to move on.

As a Black woman, I expect to be gaslit about my experiences, even by those close to me. I am told I expect too much out of others who in turn want me to serve as their therapist, their cheap labor, their sex toy, their entertainment, their sounding board, or their token. I’ve learned to question anyone who approaches me with over flattery as usually, they want something from me. If I’m overly accommodating, I can be exploited financially and emotionally. If I take a cold, calculated “what’s in it for me” approach, I am viewed as unfriendly and opportunistic. I hate living like this, but I have to protect my peace and my time.

On social media, especially in progressive spaces, you will see a plea to “listen to Black women.” And they will listen — until it gets uncomfortable. Even the most Leftist Black man has difficulty “listening to Black women.” Even if Black women are ultimately doing all the leg work, such as with Martin Luther King’s clout. Black men will commit arbitrary shows of respect and affection to certain Black women while dismissing those women they deem unworthy of respect. Instagram and OnlyFans “hoes” are slut shammed for using the male gaze for their financial gain. Trans Black women aren’t real women. Black women overly focused on their careers are too emasculating. Black women who are stay-at-home mothers are lazy, welfare queens. Black women who happen to be single and a mom are “destroying the Black family.” Black lesbians and aces haven’t met the right dick yet.

What about Black women and our hobbies? Have you ever been accused of not being Black enough because you like something that is considered atypical of Black people? I have. I was an art kid and I have mentioned several times before how Black people are systemically pushed out of creative spaces. But often I see Black women into cosplay, gaming, punk culture, cottagecore, biking, or unicorn/mermaid aesthetics accused of trying to be white. We can’t love anything just because we enjoy it. For example, I’ve always been a fan of tennis and gymnastics, but I have definitely been told I only like tennis because of the Williams sisters. No one thinks anything of a Black man loving basketball. Have you ever played tennis? It’s one of the most awesome games ever invented.

But the most sinister thing is how Black women are shamed into not enjoying our hobbies. Why? Because that’s not our job. Our job is to be the sidekick to everyone else and to never outshine them. Often this is in the form of “teasing.” Even my husband does this where he loudly bemoans something I enjoy (often while I’m enjoying it) while he simultaneously accuses me of not liking anything he does. If I respond negatively or neutrally to the accusation, he tells me he’s “only joking.” We are allowed to like different things. The only difference is that you don’t hear me complain about his hobbies. I understand he enjoys them, and I don’t feel like I have to. But not enjoying what he likes is offensive enough for him. That’s because he subconsciously believes that I should support his interests before my own. That’s what society teaches him to think. Of course, if I were to mention this, he would deny it. But he still brings up the time I described us as “married individuals” and every so often he lets someone else weigh in on the fact I didn’t fully take his name. Just as my parents saw me as an extension of them, my husband subconsciously sees me as part of him instead of my own person.

Can we stop this shit?

I have plenty of other receipts that don’t include my husband. I’ve been discouraged from reading — by white educators. I’m really into learning and knowledge but have had loved ones actively distract me from it, doing everything from physically closing books in my hands to attempting to carry non-sequitur conversations while I study. I even won a “jeopardy” award in college that feels like a back-handed compliment in hindsight. Black women who are into makeup and fashion are dismissed as vain and narcissistic. Black women who are too into plant babies are weird or are hiding weed in them. Like to write? You probably have some chip on your shoulder, Alice Walker. Or, like someone told Zora Neale Hurston once, your syntax is too unsophisticated to be taken seriously. Into activism? One of those angry sisters who is probably doing it for the attention. Into church? Well, you probably can’t think for yourself or you secretly are judging everyone around you. Overly social? You’re a nosey gossip. Like being alone? Unfriendly, uppity bitch. Enjoy sex like Samantha on Sex and the City? You a ho and you deserve to be cheated on. Don’t want to have sex for whatever reason? You an ugly bitch and you deserve to be cheated on.

Black women are usually encouraged to cook as it’s an exploitable skill, but “cooking” means making food the average Black man recognizes and not some frenched lamb chops with dijonaisse. You don’t want to be accused of being bougie, fake, or a wannabe white, do you?

Society keeps us unhappy and unfulfilled so we can continue this codependent relationship. Who else is going to do all the hard work around here? For every Black woman that sighs to herself and throws her hands up in disgust, another one will attempt to fix all the world’s problems until she burns out as well. But don’t worry: maybe after a lifetime of being physically and mentally abused and bouts of homelessness before dying a mysterious death, you too can hope your image will be exploited by some corporate hacks hoping to sell shampoo to blue voters in Pittsburgh while continuing to donate money to politicians sponsoring anti-trans bills. Or maybe you will be a favorite of white liberal women who love your stance of suffrage, but not when you were alive. Or maybe a city will erect a monument in honor of your butcher.

If Black women are always unhappy, we will take whatever is given to us and learn not to expect better. Unhappiness is our constant. It doesn’t matter if we are “happy.” To the world, we don’t deserve to be happy. We don’t deserve to be safe. We don’t deserve to be loved. We don’t deserve to exist.

I say fuck all of that.