Tired Black Woman
Stay Woke
“You have to work twice as hard to get even half of the acknowledgement they get”, were the words of my father when I was 15 and struggling to survive in an advanced honors english class of all white faces. Every sistah I know has echoed this same mantra, remembering that it had been told to them since their conception. Though I was an average High School student at best, I was plucked out of a general ed english class and placed in advance classes early in my high school career. In a sea of white faces, I stuck out like a sore thumb. When asked about anything pertaining to enslavement I’d feel the piercing awkward stares of my peers aimed at me as I sunk deeper into my seat thinking, “Am I the slavery officianado or what”?! My father's words were both a haunting echo of perfectionism and a daily reminder that everyday of my Black life would be a struggle to prove myself.
No Rest For the Weary
Drumming up old memories like ESPN playbacks daily, I have thus come to the conclusion that it is tiring being a Black womxn. While I relish in my womanhood, motherhood and bountiful Black ass excellence, I am exhausted. Waking up daily is a feet within itself, putting one pedicured foot in front of the other and chasing the proverbial “bag”. As Black womxn we don't have much time to sit in our greatness because we are always walking into rooms where we have to fight and scrap and scrape for every inch of what we have rightfully earned on our own merit. From being constantly questioned about my qualifications, to being looked over for promotions, to literally being looked through by white faces with half the qualifications and a fraction of the talent, I am often left to ask myself and my sistahs, “Are we not here? Are we not working our asses off and delivering? When will we be enough?” This idea that we have to do the most to get the least is a weighted blanket that lulls me to sleep at night restricting my airways.
All My Life I Had to fight
Sophia's heartbreaking words in Alice Walker's critically acclaimed book ,The Color Purple reign so true, “All my life I had to fight. I had to fight my daddy. I had to fight my brothers. I had to fight my cousins and my uncles. A girl child ain't safe in a family of men. But I never thought I'd have to fight in my own house. She let out her breath”. This breath is one many of us must take before we go into complete and utter breakdown. These words had always seared my soul as a Black womxn. I have always felt as though I've been put in a boxing ring with one hand tied behind my back, sticking and moving through misogynoir, toxic masculinity and white privilege within my decade long career in education. Being promoted twice in one year, only then I realized that as a teacher on level with my male counterparts everyone loved me. Interestingly enough, as soon as I became their superior a barrage of anonymous complaints about my attitude, questioning around my qualifications, tongue and cheek jokes and even inappropriate insinuations about how I got promoted began. Taking up residence in spaces and places where many felt like I did not belong, I have been convicted to leave the door and windows cracked open for my students to gain access to all rooms. As my beautiful and impressionable Black and Brown students looked up to me as a big sister, I found that the shadow of white saviorhood has continuously barricaded the door to said spaces. I had never sought out to be a martyr or savior, but a sister to those seeking equity. This reality left me in a space where I felt a million feelings and none at all. This figurative aggression began to take over me and could not be left at bay any longer. I had asked my father how he dealt with similar situations in the corporate world and he reiterated, “Never let them see you sweat babe.”
I have towed the line of humanity and robotics because I know all too well that in this world my leadership is a lack of teamwork. My decisiveness is frigid inflexibility and my passion aggressiveness. Both Black and a woman cognitive dissonance is a means of survival. Always to be questioned, distrusted, undermined, over worked and under valued. These harsh realities and skewed views of who we are as womxn in leadership are ones that I am cloaked in daily. Though I never let anyone see me sweat I also wonder when will my sistahs and I ever get rest?