Dear Black Womxn, 

This is a letter to you and for you. It is an outlet for my frustrations, a call for collective liberation and a love letter to our authentic selves. 

Our reality, as black womxn, is one where ‘who we are’ is, more often than not, already defined for us. Our reality is one where racism and patriarchy have boxed us in, setting the tone and agenda for what it means to transition from black girlhood to black womanhood and what it means to simply exist in those realms. 

We have been entrapped by the adjectives used to describe, define and torment us – strong, loud and angry. 

Strong, loud and angry – three out of 65,780 ways you could possibly sort the 26 letters of the English alphabet into a 5-letter sequence. 

Strong, loud and angry. Three simple words, an average of 5 letters, with no real emotional or intellectual value in and of themselves. There is nothing inherently negative about being strong, loud or angry – they simply describe physical and/or emotional states of being. Yet, as with all social constructs, who society has caricatured us to be, is formed by the meaning we attribute to these words and the reactions we are expected to get from them. 

 We, the black womxn, are strong, loud and angry. 

THE STRONG… 

“The defining quality of black womanhood is strength”

– Tamara Beauboeuf-Lafontant

The strength of a black womxn is a double-edged sword.  Strength is portrayed as being worthy of praise and celebration. At the simplest level, everyone, including your misogynist uncle and your patriarchy princess of an aunt, adorns and recognises their mothers’ strength. Black mothers are the superheroes worth celebrating. They are strong, powerful and majestic. What this shows us is that the acknowledgement and reverence for the strength of a black womxn isn’t always accompanied by a desire to see black womxn live full and unobstructed lives. So here we are, at the other edge of the sword, where our strength has been contorted into a tool for our manipulation and exploitation. 

Our ‘strength’ is the weapon used in our erasure. Our strength is characterised by silence and stoicism in the face of constant adversity, in our homes, at work and in love. It synonymises black womanhood with struggle, leaving little room for joy and rest. 

Our ‘strength’ robs us of innocence. While brothers are allowed to bask in their childhood obliviousness, the black girl perceived as strong and more mature, so she is meant to deal with much more. Our adultification goes beyond the call for “prayers for first-born daughters in African households”. The adultification of the black girl leaves her neglected, unprotected and helpless. Ponder this, in Nigeria, 25% of the women have experienced sexual violence during childhood, that is before the age of 18. 

Our ‘strength’ is self-sacrificing. We cannot simply exist. Instead we must dawn our masks of ‘strength’ and keep up appearances, dragging our feet, whilst carrying the weight of the world on our backs, as we attempt to dodge the land mines patriarchy, capitalism and racism have placed on our paths.  There is no room for error. 

It is strength that requires us to shrink ourselves and our desires to fit the narrowly constructed idea of what an authentic black woman ought to be. We cannot have needs of our own. We are the glue that keep our fractured families together. We are the caretakers of the home. We yield the swords of social justice for our communities.  We are brilliant and we are strong. 

Studies have shown that black women are more likely than white women to suffer from anxiety, depression, panic attacks and obsessive-compulsive disorders and we are also more likely to self-harm. 

The trope of the strong black woman has also fostered the idea that we are invincible. The black woman does not feel pain. As a result, we are five times more likely to die in pregnancy than white women and are more likely to remain undiagnosed even after accounting for socio-economic factors

This is the price of our strength. 

It is carefully wrapped in irony. We are strong yet subordinate and subservient.  We are strong yet denied our own agency. We are strong yet cannot be trusted with control over our own bodies. 

The tale of our ‘strength’ feeds into the cultural acceptance and aloofness surrounding women getting the short end of the stick. The black woman is born to pour out to and for others but is denied the reciprocity of people pouring into her. 

So, we must begin to define what strength means to us.  We need a type of strength that leaves room for us to be our best and our worst selves. A strength encourages expression instead of suppression. A strength defined by self-forgiveness, self-love and self-care. A strength that respects our boundaries and limitations. A strength that does not lead to our crucifixion but guides us towards our transformation. 

I cannot dictate how this should be embodied. Think about it. Create your rules for your own liberation and sustenance. 

THE LOUD… 

As part of our subordination, black women are not expected or allowed to push back and voice our displeasure. Our journey from girlhood to womanhood and from womanhood to the grave, is marked by forced silence.  When we do speak out, we are, among other things, called loud. 

‘Loud black woman’ is the language of the oppressor. 

‘Loud black woman’- a descriptor used to silence us.

‘Loud black woman’ – a false accusation made against us for taking ‘too much’ space. 

Even when we attempt to highlight the intersectionality of our oppression, our own community touts us a loud and divisive. 

Yet, as “loud” as we may be our voices never seem to be heard. We are consistently erased from the narrative and history. At best, our stories – the good, the bad, the confusing and everything and anything in-between – are minimised in the mainstream. 

The strength they ascribed to us is the strength that makes us domineer and loud. It is the same strength we are expected to use to fight for people that refuse to hear us.  The ones that refuse to listen.  

I stand corrected – as “loud” as we may be our voices never seem to be heard.

AND THE ANGRY… 

What has been made clear to me is that ‘the strong, loud and angry’ rhetoric and stereotypes feed into one another and prop each other up – we cannot have one without the other. Our ‘strength’ and our ‘loudness’ makes us hostile, bitter and threatening. 

The angry black woman is a trope, birthed through racism and internalised by generations, has been used to subdue us into silence. By portraying us as angry, society has been able to dismiss us by reacting to us “from a place of perceived fear”.

We find her, the angry black woman, everywhere – in movies, on the news and on social media. 

 The angry black woman rhetoric ignores the fact that we are multidimensional beings. It limits our capabilities to emote. It depicts us as hyperemotional. Restricting our ability and desire to express our valid and complex range of emotions. 

We are continually shamed from speaking our truth. And yes, sometimes that truth might be anger and that is valid. 

A controversial cartoon of tennis star Serena Williams by the Herald Sun newspaper’s Walkley-winning cartoonist Mark Knight

…Dear Black womxn… 

You. Yes you. 

Words have no true meaning until you give it to them.

So, society might simplemindedly box you into the role of the strong, loud and angry black woman but remember this, “Any established meaning stands open to infinite re-signification”. 

We have the power to redefine and undefined.