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| Image by Unknown via Flickr |
I’m here today to pay my respects to the black woman, because she was murdered. I’m not positive who the real culprit is, though I might have an idea: The Mammy said that she was long retired, and Jezebel said it wasn’t worth her time to kill, Mrs. Sapphire was too busy wailing on her man to care, while The Welfare Queen was too busy trying to photocopy food stamps at the nearest Kinko’s.
So who killed the real black woman?
At first I thought that it was The Angry Black Woman—so famed for raising her voice…
But no. It was her cousin.
I’m sure you’ve seen her around, passionately rolling her neck. Last time I saw her, she was striding down the road to viral sensation. Oh yes I’m sure you’ve seen her around—waving her finger in a declarative way, and piercing men with the bulging eyes and twisted mouth that Nina Simone and Billie Holiday so soulfully sang about. Yes she is a strange fruit indeed, blatantly announcing to the world that she doesn’t need you, or you, or anyone.
Her full name is The Strong Independent Black Woman Who Don’t Need No Man, or The Strong Black Woman for short, and in a way her birth was another one of the many social homicides against black women everywhere.
Can you see the blood on her hands?
It was she who slaughtered The Real Black Woman in her sleep.
The Strong Black Woman came onto the scene in a blaze of glory, a show that was propagated by The Media who hallowed her out with his silver spoon of fame, and told her that her twisted, mangled character was beautiful. Then The Media, a black-suited stud, left her to spiral on her own time, and left her a fool to think that he really loved her.
I knew that The Strong Black woman was becoming a problem when I sat down for a good cry one afternoon. As I wept, my white friend took me by the hands, looked me in the eye, and said to me:
“Lauren, you’re a strong, independent black woman who don’t need no man.”
I stared, bewildered by her off color comfort.
I wasn’t even crying over a man.
I thought about what she said that night, and I didn’t know if I should have felt flattered or offended by her use of Ebonics or her assumptions of my problems.
Then I turned the television on to see women like me—brown-skinned, broad-nosed, beautiful women like me.
But instead I saw women who crossed their arms and cursed their lovers. Raged to friends about how awful the world was, exploded into sporadic gesture, and ultimately became public announcements for what the black woman had become.
We were destined to be shells—mistreated, misinterpreted, and apparently most importantly, man-less shells.
“But at least you don’t need no man—because you’re strong, and invincible, and unapproachable, and you can be your own because you don’t need nobody. You’re not human.”
That’s what The Strong Black woman said to the black girls who perused through the internet with tear stained cheeks, and male induced insecurities.
Then I asked myself… Did The Strong Independent Black Woman even understand what a strong woman was? Didn’t she know that a strong woman was supposed to be a symbol of the synergy between strength and sensitivity? Or does she imagine an iron fortress that shuts the world out—a strange and bitter fruit?
Look at The Real Black Woman, who now sleeps lifelessly in her casket. Her cold flesh is heavy with peace. Her hands that worked so diligently and meaningfully are folded across the stomach that proudly announced the arrival of so many beautiful black children.
The real black woman was able to realize her strengths and weaknesses, and stack the odds in her favor as best as she could. She suffered through her tragedies when love was lost, or heart was broken. But she healed, and she rose with open arms that were willing to embrace someone new. She was a firm believer in good sportsmanship and the revival of happiness.
The Real Black Woman was not a fortress of iron; she was a human, capable of the same emotions you and I hold so dearly. She had humanity, she had dimension—she was more than a real black woman, she was a real woman who happened to wear a black skin.
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Lauren Harris is a high school senior at an arts school. She is an advocate for the educational enrichment of African-American children and is also very interested in researching how African-American women are perceived by themselves and by the rest of the world. She enjoys online shopping, curly hair, macaroni and cheese, “The Twilight Zone”, and Friday nights playing The Sims. Please read more of her work at her blog www.afrogirltalks.com.
