Something I’ve failed to understand is the way people perceive me because it always becomes my burden.
I was scrolling through TikTok the other day, as one does, and came across a video of a conversation between the creator and her sister in the midst of conflict resolution. One thing this creator kept stressing was how she’s always perceived as angry and annoyed, and it really resonated with me and thousands of other women who liked her video.
This again presented itself in clips from Love Island USA, when the men were really trying to vilify Serena for having a reaction to Kordell’s actions, saying things like “Is that what you want in a wife?” and cornering her.
Insert a long and deep ancestrally charged sigh.
I had a conversation with a friend not too long ago where I asked whether she was a woman first or Black first, and we both reached the conclusion that for Black women specifically, there’s no separating the two. However, where we differ is that, as a dark-skinned Black woman, it doesn’t need to be said that due to systemic racism and its branches—classism and colorism—she is bound to have a much more difficult time navigating through this world. There will be situations where she is Black first before she is a woman.
It’s an onion, an amalgamation of biases that ultimately fall on our shoulders to carry. Walking into a room, everyone has subconsciously formed an opinion about you. In our corner of the world, where society is predominantly Black, I like to think that our Blackness is an afterthought —for the love of all things good, please don’t hear what I’m not saying— in comparison to the way Americans view Blackness (think of the Tyla debacle and currently, the claims that everything Black comes from them, conveniently erasing the part of their ancestors come from). I’m not saying that racism here doesn’t exist, because it does, and most of us have experienced it. What I am saying is that in our Black community, the monster that haunts us is colorism. I stand to be corrected, of course—I’m always open to new perspectives. That being said, one thing that connects Black women across the board is the destructive archetypes we’re all bound to fall under due to society’s reluctance to let us live.
These archetypes are not just rooted in American media; they have spread across the world, shaping perceptions of Black women in various cultures and societies. Despite the cultural differences, these stereotypes have become universal markers that diminish our complexity and humanity. The pervasive nature of these archetypes demonstrates the global reach of anti-Blackness and how deeply entrenched these biases are in collective consciousness.
We have:
1. The Southern Tragedy – Think overly religious.
2. The Mammy – Think subservient and blissfully ignorant.
3. Racially Ambiguous – Think Coloured passing/Eurocentric features Black girl.
4. The Matriarch – This one’s pretty obvious.
5. The Afrocentric babe– Think natural hair— or bald, woke, Pan African, “freedom fighter.”
6. The Jezebel – Think perceived as promiscuous.
7. The Ride or Die – Think ‘and I’ma stick beside him.’
I mean, we live in a world where having standards, expressing yourself, you know…having thoughts, gets you derogatorily referred to as a freedom fighter.
HUH?
Living in this world is exhausting. We’re on the surface of a spherical rock in a vacuum, surrounded by other spherical rocks and gases. I just can’t help but feel as though it wasn’t supposed to come down to this. Yet here we are, on Beyoncé’s internet, having the same discourse…every year.
I speak for myself when I say I’m tired. What exactly did Black women do besides exist? Besides being the only humans on earth with the Eve gene? Besides being the blueprint?
Not only are we supposed to be okay with being sexualized and simultaneously demonized while other races of women drop serious bands to get big booties, big boobies, and big lips—features natural to Black women. But we’re also supposed to monitor how we dress, how we act, how ambitious we are, how we talk. If you enjoy sex, you’re slut-shamed. If you have a mind of your own, you’re a freedom fighter. If you’re beautiful in a certain way, you have to be mixed with something. If you’re emotional, even in the least bit, you are The Angry Black Woman.
Spare me.
We should be able to hold space for our emotions without the risk of them being weaponized against us to police us. We don’t get to have white women tears. We don’t get to weaponize our feelings because, in truth, we’re not allowed to have feelings. At all times, we must be dignified, we must keep a neutral face—oh wait, no… that’s a resting bitch face. Now you’re unapproachable. There’s no winning.
These struggles are not isolated to one region or culture; they’re a global phenomenon. The rhetoric around Black women, driven by centuries of racist and misogynistic ideology, is pervasive. Whether in the Americas, Europe, the Caribbean, or Africa, Black women face these same archetypes, these same judgments, and the same exhaustion. The world may be vast, but the burden placed on Black women is depressingly consistent.
So where do we go from here?
The answer isn’t clear, but what is clear is that Black women deserve better—globally. We deserve to be seen in our full humanity, not as caricatures. We deserve to feel our emotions and express them without fear. We deserve to live freely, unburdened by the weight of stereotypes that we never asked for.
All the love,
N, woman who is angry whilst being Black.
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