To be seen as a (Black) woman
I have always wondered what that was like.
I was inspired to write this piece a few weeks ago. I found myself walking through a busy hotel lobby, holding several large bags in one arm and rolling a roller bag with the other. I pushed through several groups of men. They appeared to be athletes from the local college. Beads of sweat were cascading down my face and I was practicing deep breaths as I trudged to my car in the parking structure next door. As I neared the parking entrance, a young Black man sat on his phone and I heard him say something to me. Overwhelmed with the weight of everything in my arms and focusing on the “Pull” sign on the door, I didn’t quite hear him. I walked toward the door, used my knee to press the handicap button to open it, and he repeated himself.
“How you doin?” he asked. A question that clearly had no meaning because I was not doing well. A mere glance at me would have revealed that I was struggling to carry my luggage and needed help with the door he was sitting directly in front of. The question felt useless, meaningless, and empty. It actually kind of irritated me.
I smiled anyway. I have learned to smile through pain and trauma. Being a Black woman in public has taught me that. I knew that Black man was doing what he was socialized and taught to do. I knew he was just going through the motions of Black cordiality. The gender dynamics we encountered in that moment be damned.
I dragged my luggage through the parking structure. I sat in my car, cooled my body off, and reflected on all the times I’ve struggled in this body in public. It reminded me that big Black women are rarely treated as women, especially those of us who wear Jordan's, shave our heads, sleep with other women, and don't align with European beauty ideals. Those of us who aren't interested in the male gaze and have no desire for men sexually are often treated like other men. We have to be tough. We have to be strong. We have to show up in ways that betray our bodies and compromise our health because so many men require attraction for care. For them, care is transactional. For them to offer it, they have got to get something in return. And, for women like me, who have nothing to offer them but gratitude, we are often left helpless and unassisted even when we need it most.
Now, to be clear, this is not a conversation about all the times Black men were unhelpful toward me or didn’t treat me like their woman. There is no subtext here. This is actually about a simple question: what does it mean to treat women like women? And, maybe a few other complementary questions: what does it mean to treat Black women as women? Why do women have to earn care from men? Why are different women treated so differently? There are obviously more questions I could ask here. But, I would rather give a few more examples.
I think frequently of a time in graduate school when I was sitting in a room full of my peers. We were all Black and Brown students at varying levels of graduate study. The meeting was supposed to be about solidarity and student activism on campus. However, it quickly devolved into a battle of egos with a few senior-level men in the graduate program. Rather than listening to the women in the room, they became the patronizing, patriarchal overseers dictating to us (grown ass women) about how we should advocate for ourselves.
I made the choice to speak up and hold one of the men accountable to the standards we had set as a group. In a gentle and kind way, I corrected him and offered a loving critique followed by a compliment. He snapped back at me in front of the group. He yelled at me and bit back as if I had called him out violently. I felt the heat rise from my stomach to my chest and then up to my ears. My eyes filled with tears as I swallowed down the hurt feelings and embarrassment. I quieted myself and forced myself not to cry. Another lesson I have learned being a Black girl and growing into a Black woman.
After the meeting, no one checked on me. My “friends” didn’t ask me if I was okay or if my feelings were hurt. Instead, they reached out to another friend of mine, a petite, light-skinned, soft spoken woman who was sitting next to me during the altercation. She wasn’t involved in any way. He never yelled at her. But, they wanted to make sure the conversation didn’t make her “uncomfortable.”
She was confused. She couldn’t understand why they were worried about her when I was the one who was aggressed by a man. I understood though. They saw her as a woman. They saw her as someone who needed care and kindness. I, on the other hand, was a big, darker-skinned, masculine person. Someone who was akin to another man. And, even though all of these Black and Brown people knew me to be a mother, a disabled person, and a deeply sensitive and caring individual, their socialization triggered no such protection for me.
Malcolm X once said, “The most unprotected person in America is the Black woman. The most neglected person in America is the Black woman.” He was right. But, I often think there are caveats to that. Darker-skinned Black women, disabled Black women, fat Black women, big and tall Black women, intellectual Black women, lesbian Black women, and masculine Black women, we have a different relationship to being unprotected and disrespected. Why? Because people seem to think it is completely okay to leave us exposed to violence. There is public acceptance of our pain, discomfort, and isolation.
We are not seen. We are not held. We are not forgiven. We are not cared for. We are not fought for. We are not loved. We are not those women or their women.
If we are not petite, feminine, light-skinned, soft spoken, male-centered, and mild-mannered then we are mean, nasty, aggressive, hateful, and deserving of violence. But, aren’t we women, too? Sojourner Truth asked in 1851. Nearly 200 years later, it seems we still have no answer.