I’m black first, a woman second.
Which part of my identity is the most overpowering?
Should I be more loyal to my race or my womanhood? I would frequently ask myself this question as a child. I used to imagine a scenario where a line was drawn on the ground—one side representing blackness, the other womanhood—and I would have to choose a side to stay on forever. I can’t explain why I put so much stress on myself over such hypotheticals at age 8.
I later dismissed this scenario on the grounds of absurdity and because I realized that it is idiotic to think that you must be more loyal to one part of your identity than the other. However, as I grew older and gained a greater sense of self-awareness through a more in depth exploration of the politics of race and gender, it became clear that this question of identity followed me into adulthood; I’m not talking about the question of loyalty per se, but of which part of my identity is more overpowering to those around me. Suddenly that ridiculous scenario I made up as a kid was not so insane; I find myself having to consciously switch between my identities every day, depending on the situation. When I walk into a corporate job interview, I am black. When I go to the weights section at the gym, I am a woman.
Image: technicianonline.com
We’ve all heard the phrase “I don’t see color”—often as a misguided attempt from white people who want to make it clear that they aren’t racist—but how often are cis women colloquially told “I don’t see gender? ”* Rarely. Sure, you don’t see the “color” of my skin, and I’m sure you don’t see my distinctly plump lips and the kinky hair growing wildly from my scalp. If you’re going out of your way to make sure I know you’re erasing my physical appearance, you obviously do notice my blackness, but don’t want to acknowledge it.
As we begin to integrate the idea of intersectionality more comfortably into our everyday rhetoric, it may seem like I am taking a step in the wrong direction. Don’t be mistaken; I am grateful that the people around me are recognizing that the struggle to reconcile my black identity and my womanhood is an issue, and this discourse has created a space for me to more comfortably exist as a black woman today than I would have even a decade ago. However, to an extent, intersectionality is an idealized concept. Oppressions are not isolated, but there are instances where they do stand alone.
The truth is, people often perceive you as what they are not. So when a non-black woman sees me, it is plausible to say that they see a black person first before they recognize a woman. With this logic, a black man would recognize me as a woman first rather than another black individual, right? In my experience, this often isn’t the case. This is why I’m arguing that I am black before I am a woman.
Please note that I am not arguing this for all black women around the world, but for the diaspora living in countries where black people are a minority. My experience in particular is based off of growing up in Western Canada, an especially problematic area for black people.
I’m black before I’m a woman, because the women’s suffrage movement continues to be whitewashed, a phenomenon that has bled into the fourth-wave of feminism we are experiencing today—a wave which, ironically, is supposed to have the empowerment of women of color as one of its main focuses. I see the faces of Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton in popular culture more than those of Mary Church Terrell or Sojourner Truth. Many still aren’t aware of who is behind the #MeToo movement.
I’m black before I’m a woman, because my race provokes more unsolicited public attacks towards my identity than my gender. Have I been in a situation where I was in public—maybe waiting for a bus, waiting for a friend, or just standing idly, but minding my business nonetheless—and had a man randomly approach me and call me a bitch? No. But have I been in an identical situation and had a man call me a black bitch? Several times. Women take up space, but black women seem to take up too much space.
I’m black before I’m a woman, because 53% of white women voted for Trump, despite—on top of his overt sexism—allegations of housing discrimination, demanding the death penalty for the Central Park Five, and his regular refusal to condemn the KKK.
I’m black before I’m a woman, because of the number of times I’ve heard the phrase “I’m not into black women” from men of all races, including black. Whether it was a man I was potentially interested in or a man I just accidentally made eye contact with. This is when I realized that even black men recognize me as black before recognizing me as a woman, but that’s not always a good thing.
I am a black woman, but my blackness screams louder than my womanhood.
Some great books by Black women:
Becoming – Michelle Obama
I Almost Forgot About You – Terry McMillan
More Than Enough – Elaine Welteroth
*I recognize that the “I don’t see gender” statement is more complicated than I have presented it here, but I think that this is an issue that deserves to be analyzed separately within a queer context. I encourage you to read this article by CJ Atkinson.
Artwork in feature photo by Lorna Simpson.
Compulsive Culture
Shana is a writer born in Calgary, Canada, with a special affinity for pop culture. Her posts often critique culture from a social perspective. She consumes a lot of film and music, so you will often find her writing about that. Outside of writing she likes eating and traveling, preferably at the same time/
One Comment
Zaki
This article really put an awesome thought between race and womanhood. I agreed with the whole words, especially where it describes the faces of Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton in popular culture more than those of Mary Church Terrell or Sojourner Truth. For complete information about the achievements of Mary Church Terrell, visit the
Blog