Dear Black Women: What the (Actual) F?
The death of sisterhood & how I came to give up on black women
First, let me state the obvious: I’m a black girl. And long before there was #blackgirlmagic, there was the sisterhood shared amongst brown women. As a child, I was indoctrinated into this sisterhood through a myriad of experiences — which were mostly centered around food, hair, and the church.
I can vividly remember casual, afternoon gatherings of women on my great-grandmother’s front porch while she shelled peas from her garden. Then, there were the hair wash days that I shared with my cousin. Her mom would diligently wash, condition, and style our thick and magnificent curls into intricate hairstyles quintessential to the ritual of black hair care. And then, there was church. Every Sunday after service, I watched women donning elaborate church hats gather to cook meals for the congregation, organize community events, or provide a listening ear or hug to those in need. The message was clear: we look after each other.
But somewhere along the way, the message changed. And I can’t seem to place where or how this change occurred.
“The message was clear: we look after each other.”
CAREER LIFE:
In the beginning of my career, I had two black girlfriends from my professional network. The first moved to Boston earlier on, and we eventually lost touch. But the second one became my frenemy for several years. While the idea of a frenemy isn’t unique to black women, the situation that defined our friendship is.
Our frenemyship blossomed in an environment where we allowed someone to divide us with constant and deliberate comparisons. As the only two brown women in the company at the time, we were used to being mistaken for each other. When people commented on seeing us at one work event or another, we would often say, “No, that’s the other one.” It quickly became our catchphrase. Yet instead of bonding — and finding safety within that bond — we were continually on a mission to one-up each other. On one hand, this often led to a fierce competition between the two of us, which pushed me to new heights in my work performance. But on the other hand, the experience left me ashamed of how easily we allowed ourselves to be manipulated by racially fueled motivations.
LIFE IN AMERICA:
In my personal life, I often struggled to meet black women with whom I shared commonalities. This is less of a reflection on other brown women and more of a reflection of my own particular quirks and interests. I mean, how many black women do you know that can sing Gretchen Wilson’s “Redneck Woman” word for word? But quirks and interests aside, I’ve often made an effort to establish friendships with black women — yearning to experience sisterhood in the familiar ways of my childhood.
Outside of work, I often joined Meetup groups with heavy memberships of black women. In these groups, it seemed that sisterhood was alive and well. I just couldn’t get an invitation. Other times, I would meet black women through mutual friends. But, that often resulted in similar outcomes at best. And at worst, it resulted in me feeling the need to defend myself from inaccurate projections while dodging subtle character assassination attempts. After dodging shots taken at my career, dating life, and even my hair — I finally took my quest elsewhere.
LIFE IN EUROPE:
Thanks to my career, I’ve traveled and lived in several countries around the world. But recently, my personal life — by way of marriage — led me to live in Germany. Seeing it as an opportunity for a fresh start, I continued my pursuit of sisterhood in Europe by trying to connect with the many African women in my area. My first experience was at a Black Lives Matter demonstration. As the demonstration ended, I approached a group of black women to ask how they came together for the demonstration. They were obviously a part of organizing the event. And I wanted to see if I could get involved. But I received vague answers and the familiar feeling of being turned away. The irony of being shunned away by black women at a Black Lives Matter demonstration was not lost on me. But I didn’t lose hope.
A year later, my husband and I moved to Switzerland. And I was once again excited to start building friendships in a new city. Upon arrival, I met a German woman in the airport whom I instantly connected over language learning, and we exchanged numbers. While she and I chatted, I spotted my first black woman in Switzerland and approached her immediately after my chat. To avoid coming across as a complete dork, I complimented her braided hair. Then I asked her for a referral for a local hair salon. I thought it was a great conversation opener. But without so much as a thank you, the braided woman promptly told me she did it herself and stood silently while I awkwardly tried to ease out of the encounter. Embarrassed and feeling rejected for the umpteenth time, I decided then and there that I was done with black women.
LIFE AFTER DEATH:
Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I can be a bit sensitive. I feel deeply. And the feeling I get approaching black women is the cold shoulder of rejection. Consequently, it leaves me questioning my own blackness. With no sisterhood to lean on for support and encouragement, how can I fight for our struggle against racism and injustice? Or better yet, why bother fighting for the struggle? And I find myself wondering, are there other magical black girls like me floating along on an island of one?
With no sisterhood to lean on for support and encouragement, how can I fight for our struggle against racism and injustice?
So now, I simply embrace the marvelous diversity of my existing friends. And I find myself going against traditions I’ve always known. As a person of color, there’s often an acknowledgment shared between black people as we come and go — a quick hello, or a subtle nod and smile. But since accepting my loss of sisterhood, I’ve stopped speaking to black women just because. So as my husband and I walked through the park recently in our new Swiss home, I decided not to speak to the black woman passing by. But then again, she didn’t even glance my way.
