I always bristle when I hear someone say, “She’s a strong Black woman.” I know it’s a show of respect and a compliment, but for me, there’s a rub in there. What makes us strong—our ancestors’ enslavement? The daily societal assaults many of us endure, from the subtle to the blatant? And are we allowed to be something other than just strong, like weak?
I loathe the “Strong Black woman” trope. Not long ago, a dear friend, a white man, had read something I had written a while ago and said, “I always knew you were strong.” I appreciated that, and I know he would have said that to any woman of any color. But “a strong Black woman”? He didn’t go there. That’s something different. It begins to strip away my femininity; it takes the lace out of my life. I become something more sturdy than soft. Being considered strong also gives permission to others to treat me or speak to me in ways that are insensitive because, “I’m tough, I can take it.”
I cry, I weep, my feelings get hurt, and my heart is breakable. I also don’t have that high threshold for pain that the medical field has historically assumed. I remember a visit to the acupuncturist; my regular doctor was out that day. An older Chinese woman came into the room and started the treatment. I don’t usually feel the needles. I don’t even wince. This time was different, but I excused the first two and figured maybe they hurt because I was tired. “Stop,” I yelled, when she’d inserted the third. “Stop!”
She apologized and said she would get the smaller needles. I ended the session. I knew what had just gone down. Tropes are world-class travelers.
So, what am I? I’m a woman with many feelings and sensitivities. Leave race out of it. I mean, have you ever heard someone say, “She’s a strong White woman?”
