To be honest, everyday I wake up I feel like a poser. I’m not sure if anyone can see through this mask of “the strong black woman” but I’m just as insecure as the 13 year old, four eyed geek who lost hope that anything is possible if you work hard enough. My whole life I have watched “strong black women” work their fingers to the bone in hopes of a better life, so I could have a better life to end up living their lives all over again. It seems as though my siblings have learned the real lesson and have overcome the curse of being of “black woman” in predominantly eurocentric standard way of living.
The truth is being strong has nothing to do with being black. The pigment of my skin is based on the melanin expressed via a series of genome gound embedded in my DNA. It is an expression of a gene visible to the human eye bearing no meaning to the word strong.
So how being a strong black woman become the phrase that is heard over and over again? Easy. Because I don’t get a pass at living my life. My choices are solely my own. The consequences fall on whomever as collateral damage.
Will my daughter fall prey to my mistakes? Maybe.
Can she override the curse of being a “strong black woman”? I hope so. Being black is a blessing not a curse. Strength is gained, not given. I hope she can be strong in times of adversity. I hope she can look fear in the eye and still march forward. I hope she can be strong when the world is falling apart and nothing makes sense. She’s already black. She might as well be strong too.