03/22/2024
The Strong Black Woman is Dead…
20 years ago I received this poem from a beloved Elder and Soror, now ancestor. I wasn’t ready then, but somehow it survived moving from cities and continents, and back again.
I stumbled upon it tonight, and it hit me hard.
Sharing widely for our edification as human beings.
**The Death of the Black Woman**
While struggling with the reality of being a human, instead of a myth,
the strong black woman passed away.
Medical sources say she died of natural causes, but those who knew her know she died from being silent when she should have been screaming, smiling when she should have been raging, from being sick and not wanting anyone to know because her pain might inconvenience them.
She died from an overdose of other people clingy to her when she didn’t even have energy for herself.
She died from loving men who didn’t love themselves, and only offer her a crippled reflection.
She died from raising children alone.
She died from the lies her grandmother told her mother and her mother told her about life, men & racism.
She died from being sexually abused as a child, and having to take that truth everywhere she went every day of her life, exchanging the humiliation for guilt and back again.
She died from asphyxiation, coughing up blood from secrets she kept trying to burn away instead of allowing herself the kind of nervous breakdown she was entitled to, but only white girls could afford
She died from being responsible, because she was the last rung on the ladder, and there was no one under her she could dump on.
The strong black woman is dead.
She died from being a mother at 15 and a grandmother at 30 and an ancestor at 45.
She died from being dragged down and sat upon by un-evolved women posing as sisters and friends.
She died from tolerating Mr. Pitiful, just to have a man around the house.
She died from sacrificing herself for everybody and everything when what she really wanted to do was be a singer, a dancer, or some magnificent other.
She died from lies of omission because she didn’t want to bring the black man down.
She died from tributes from her counterparts, who should have been matching her efforts, instead of showering her with dead words and empty songs.
She died from myths that would not allow her to show weakness without being chastised by the lazy and hazy.
She died from hiding her real feelings, until they became hard and bitter enough to invade her room and breasts, and become angry tumors.
She died from always lifting something from heavy boxes to refrigerators all by herself.
The strong black woman is dead.
She died from never being enough of what men wanted, or being too much for the men she wanted.
She died from being too black, and died again for not being black enough.
She died from being misinformed about her mind, her body & the extent of her royal capabilities.
She died from knees pressed too close together, because respect was never part of the foreplay that was being shoved at her.
She died from loneliness in birthing rooms and aloneness in abortion centers.
She died in bathrooms with her veins busting open with self-hatred and neglect.
And sometimes when she refused to die, when she just refused to give in she was killed by the lethal images of blonde, hair, blue eyes and flat butts, being rejected by the OJ’s, the Quincy‘s, the Cuba’s & the Kobe’s.
Sometimes, she was stomped to death by racism and sexism, executed by hi-tech ignorance while she carried the family in her belly, the community on her head, and the race on her back!
The strong black woman is dead!
Or is she?
I know I’m not!
***Pass this on to all the strong, black women that you love, respect, and admire! And the black men who care.
