Why Being Black Feels So Overwhelming Right Now
A Call To All White Women
For some time now, I have been experiencing writer’s block. I struggled through 3 weeks of a poetry masterclass with a published author with this writer’s block with nothing fit to trigger a reason to get back into storytelling. That was until a few days ago when I watched a girl who couldn’t have been more than 11 years old scream as her face slammed into the dirt by a much older, much larger police officer on top of her. I was traumatized, because that sort of content is traumatic and that’s why I do not share that kind of content on my page, ever.
But as I scroll past, and carry this emotional labor in secret, I wonder if I should have shared for the greater good. So instead, I post helpful articles describing what is happening in a non-threatening and engaging way. But somehow it still feels like a bombardment to my non-black followers and friends. If it feels overwhelming its because we are overwhelmed. It is overwhelming to watch something like that and go to work, and talk about reporting, or host status calls or client presentations. And I wanted to break down what that looks like for you.
Imagine you are on your way to work, and you see the ticket officer physically assault a woman in the train carriage next to you. The train is moving, and you cannot get to them- but she looks like you. You instinctively want to help but the train is moving and there are too many obstacles between you. Or maybe you know you aren’t strong enough to overpower the ticket officer, so you’re not sure there’s any point of going over. Everyone around her doesn’t seem to want or be able to help either. Things eventually subside but the person in the carriage looks traumatized. You lose them in the crowd, and you think to yourself:
“That was disgusting to watch, but I still have to go to work.”
And you’re right. You go about your day in status meetings, in client presentations, in 1 on 1s with your boss, in creative brainstorms, in trainings — thinking about what you witnessed and if that person is okay and if you should or could do more, and you sit with your trauma and your helplessness to make sure you don’t make your colleagues and families and friends uncomfortable.
Now imagine every one of your work colleagues was with you at the time — on the train, maybe they just saw a glimpse of it, or maybe they saw the whole thing — truthfully you cannot tell. All you know is they all seem to be ignoring it or acting like it never happened. So, you do, too. If there was really a problem the police would handle it, plus there are codes of conduct for the ticket officers so surely, he wouldn’t use so much force if it wasn’t necessary or an approved practice for self-defense on the job. So, you let it go.
And then it happens again — the same scene, a new but equally familiar face. Maybe you both have the same shoes on, or a similar hair color. She is a little younger this time, perhaps she reminds you of a niece or your sister. You get a better look and see that someone is recording it, thank goodness. This time, the ticket officer gets handsy to the point where you cannot possibly fathom why that level of intervention would be necessary. All your fellow witnesses agree. She gets carried out kicking and screaming, visibly scared and traumatized. No, you didn’t catch the whole thing, but you saw enough to know the situation did not warrant the reaction.
Imagine this happens every day. Different women, who look like you, are assaulted on the train every morning, and every morning everyone else seems more and more desensitized to it. Truthfully, so are you. And people start to ask if they had a ticket to be in that carriage, or on that train, or what they were wearing, if they had been drinking, whether there were drugs involved, or if they were being violent themselves. But sometimes you wear skirts. Sometimes you have a drink. You’ve done drugs before. What’s the difference? Sometimes you agree the victim was being a little hysterical, but then again — you would too if you were put in that situation, with him touching you like that. And it dawns on you that tomorrow — you could be next, or it could be your mother, or your sister, or your friend. And you carry this through your workweek, your weekend, your holidays, everywhere and now its something you just wake up to.
Imagine, it escalates. It’s not just one girl on the train that looks like you, it’s several on different trains all around the country with varying circumstances and witnesses and environments. Its also on buses or in the streets and in cafes and in their own cars and then it’s in their own houses and gardens and schools and workplaces. In front of their husbands, wives, children, mothers, colleagues, employers, school teachers.
However gruesome it gets, there doesn’t ever seem to be any recourse. And you are still expected to participate, to work hard, to be joyful, to look forward, to do exams or give speeches or host dinner parties or produce positive content for your friends to see whilst remaining entirely silent despite knowing you are in a constant and unending state of danger.
Maybe this is how you feel — a lot of us have suffered horrible experiences: physical and sexual assaults, catcalls, arm grabs, body slams, unsolicited groping, and creepy lingering hugs that make us feel unsafe. As a person with extensive knowledge of being both black and a woman, I can safely tell you I am personally more scared of being black than of being a woman. And it’s fucking scary to be a woman. But the great part about banding together as women is that we get so much done together.
Little children are taught from the moment they can talk that they need to protect themselves, we all know the conversation is different for girls as it is for boys. Maybe when you were growing up your mother warned you about skimpy outfits, or walking home alone, or not drinking from a cup you left unattended at a party. As a teen, you thought it was overkill, but now you see they were trying to minimize the sadly inevitable risk that one day their daughter would be assaulted. I know you understand that.
I want you to take that and imagine also having to memorize a speech and course of non-threatening actions you can recite at any time –
*Hands upturned on the steering wheel or on your head* “My name is Clara, I am 8 years old and am unarmed, and I have nothing on my person that could hurt you”.
We all know the onus shouldn’t be on women to protect their bodies from rapist animalistic men with no self-control and we are actively working to dismantle that narrative together. We all know we should really focus the effort of educating the perpetrators of these crimes and holding them accountable rather than interrogating their victims. We all know the damage of false testimonies that make up a minuscule percentage of the cases out of the 10% that actually get reported at all. And we all know how resistant straight white males can be to the idea that they are culpable in the culture, the language, and the institutions that unite and protect them.
Imagine all that, with a badge — a hunk of metal that says everything I do is above the law because I am the law and there’s nothing you can do about it. Imagine all the fears you have already, and that the people you pay with your tax dollars to protect you are the worst of them all. Does that sound like something we can resolve alone?
White and non-black friends, we love you and we know that you love us. But when I scroll past a murderous video of a black man or woman who looks like me, its incredibly jarring to see your new summer cheeseboard with prosciutto and mango chutney as the following image. I mean, it is beautiful. But if white women were being murdered in the streets in broad daylight — do you think I would be posting about my perfect summer day?
If the assault of a white woman was videotaped distributed across the internet in days, with the perpetrator’s face and uniform and badge and colleagues very clearly in the shot, and we saw the tragic, lifeless body of a white woman lying underneath his knee — dying in front of our eyes, and I can see that there’s this mounting movement, with everyone doing what they can from where they are to raise awareness, and stand with that victim — do you think I would deem it a suitable time to post about my sourdough bread tutorial and nothing else?
Obviously, you can post what you want. You can do whatever you want with your platforms however you want to do it. But we want you to know that your silence at this moment speaks volumes on how much you value our lives as your black friends. It supports the notions our parents taught us that we should not hang out with you too much because you don’t actually accept us and would abandon us in a heartbeat if you got uncomfortable. And we feel foolish thinking we had a genuinely loving friendship or relationship with you, that maybe some of us had to defend to our parents. Because maybe you did just want to feel cool, or maybe we were just a fetish. We are black men, women, and children losing lives in the droves and when we look around for support, we see a whole group of people who know and experience assault and oppression regularly, ignoring our cries as if we are mute. That is worse than watching a young girl’s face smashed into the ground.
For those of you who say you didn’t know, I suppose I would ask you to re-evaluate your friendships, your families, and your effort for humanity. Because if a man told you he didn’t know about the injustices of women, the assault of women, the gender pay gap, the wealth disparity, the domestic violence, the breast cancer, the tampon tax, abortion rights — would that be enough for you to justify his complacency?
It’s not enough to say you don’t ‘engage in politics’. This is not politics; this is life and death. If you have ever been scared to walk home alone, if you have ever been treated too roughly by a partner, an almost partner, or a family member, if you met with violent words and hands and threats that have shaken you to your core, if you have felt at all threatened by a stranger on public transport or in an elevator or anywhere — I know that you know a little of what this feels like.
We are in the middle of a very important moment, and we’d like for you to be a part of it. Its always been overwhelming to be black, recently more so than before. So we’re calling in the cavalry.
This is all we are asking:
Acknowledge the trauma — reach out and connect with your black friends and ask what you can do if you really care about their wellbeing and mental health. Share resources, apps, posts, articles that you come across and think might be helpful but also don’t be afraid to ask if they want to talk about it. Do your research, and understand the weight your friends might be carrying — not out of pity but it might help you figure out what to say and what not to say
Bridge the gap — just how black women bridge the gap between blackness and womanhood, you could bridge the gap between womanhood and whiteness. Tell your brothers, fathers, colleagues. Make them understand how scary it can be to live in the world as an unprotected minority. You might be the only avenue for some people to access this content about white privilege and the realities of racial injustice. Do your research — and take action verbally, digitally or otherwise. Create safe spaces and open yourself up to conversations about race — you don’t need to have all the answers but you can publicize good resources that helped you to your wider family or friends who also struggle to engage with the conversation.
Organize (the way you do for the Environment, Endangered species, and Women’s rights) — Fundraisers, Marathons, book readings, live streams, interviews, allyship challenges. We need you to lend us your voices and your platforms, support the narratives that help explain the state of things to a non-black audience. Don’t shy away because you think it doesn’t concern you. If you love a black person or believe in equality this concerns you.
Post, Share, Retweet — I know this feels hard and awkward, but visual stories are the easiest way to disseminate information. Look at the myriad of content there is around rape culture, and anti-feminist work policies. Imagine if you could be part of popularizing the Black Lives Matter movement in your homes, in your workspaces, and publicly. There is a reason brands favor white influencers. White allyship has been historically and presently instrumental in pushing justice forward. Don’t ignore your privilege, use it.
Be Human. Just treat the situation fairly. Think about the suffragette movement a chaos of opinions and routes to justice, Letter writing, Hunger Strikes, Bra burning, and blowing things up. In isolation, it seems ridiculous, emotional, and unhelpful. But in the context, you understand the anger, and you realize these violent actions at the bottom are merely symptomatic of the violence at the top. You don’t have to condone ‘looting’ or vandalism, but don’t buy into the prevalent narrative that black people are instinctively violent and therefore deserving of the unfair treatment received by law enforcement and every other sector. And moving on from this moment, continue to be vigilant, continue to be conscious, and continue to be proud of your love for us.
Like being a woman, being black is beautiful and challenging and empowering and disappointing all at the same time and we have been coping in silence for a little too long. We are not trying to scare you, but the facts are just objectively scary. So if you are feeling a little numb at this point — that’s normal — but still act. And if you are feeling overwhelmed at this point, you should be. This is overwhelming.
But still, act.
www.blacklivesmatters.carrd.co