The Strong Black Woman
is Dead
On August 15, 1999 at 11:55 p.m., while struggling
with the reality of being a human instead of a myth,
the strong black woman passed away, without the
slightest bit of hoopla. Medical sources say that she
died of natural causes, but those who knew and used
her know she died from: being silent when she should
have been screaming, milling when she should have been
raging, being sick and not wanting anyone to know
because her pain might inconvenience them. An overdose
of other people clinging on to her when she didn't
even have energy for herself.
She died from loving men who didn't love themselves
and could only offer her a crippled reflection. She
died from raising children alone and for not doing a
complete job. She died from the lies her grandmother
told her mother and her mother told her about life,
men and racism. She died from being sexually abused as
a child and having to take that truth everywhere she
went every day of her life, exchanging the humiliation
for guilt and back again. She died from being battered
by someone who claimed to love her and she allowed the
battering to go on to show she luvvvvvvvvv'd him too.
She died from asphyxiation, coughing up blood from
secrets she kept trying to burn away instead of
allowing herself the kind of nervous break-down she
was entitled to, but only white girls could afford.
She died from being responsible, because she was the
last rung on the ladder and there was no one under her
she could dump on.
The strong black woman is dead. She died from the
multiple births of children she never really wanted
but was forced to have by the strangling morality of
those around her. She died from being a mother at 15
and a grandmother at 30 and an ancestor at 45. She
died from being dragged down and sat upon by
un-evolved women posing as sisters. She died from
pretending the life she was living was a Kodak moment
instead of a 20th century, post-slavery nightmare!!!
She died from tolerating Mr. Pitiful, just to have a
man around the house. She died from lack of orgasms
because she never learned what made her body happy and
no one took the time to teach her and sometimes, when
she found arms that were tender, she died because they
belonged to the same gender.
She died from sacrificing herself for everybody and
everything when what she really wanted to do was be a
singer, a dancer, or some magnificent other. She died
from lies of omission because she didn't want to bring
the black man down. She died from race memories of
being snatched and snatched and raped and snatched and
sold and snatched and bred and snatched and whipped
and snatched and worked to death.
She died from tributes from her counterparts who
should have been matching her efforts instead of
showering her with dead words and empty songs. She
died from myths that would not allow her to show
weakness without being chastised by the lazy and hazy.
She died from hiding her real feelings until they
became monstrously hard and bitter enough to invade
her womb and breasts like angry tumors. She died from
always lifting something from heavy boxes to
refrigerators.
The strong black woman is dead. She died from the
punishments received from being honest about life,
racism and men. She died from being called a bitch for
being verbal, a dyke for being assertive and a whore
for picking her own lovers. She died from never being
enough of what men wanted, or being too much for the
men she wanted. She died from being too black and died
again for not being black enuff. She died from
castration every time somebody thought of her as only
a woman, or treated her like less than a man.
She died from being misinformed about her mind, her
body and the extent of her royal capabilities. She
died from knees pressed too close together because
respect was never part of the foreplay that was being
shoved at her. She died from loneliness in birthing
rooms and aloneness in abortion centers. She died of
shock in court rooms where she sat, alone, watching
her children being legally lynched. She died in
bathrooms with her veins busting open with self-hatred
and neglect.
She died in her mind, fighting life, racism, and men,
while her body was carted away and stashed in a human
warehouse for the spiritually mutilated. And sometimes
when she refused to die, when she just refused to give
in she was killed by the lethal images of blonde hair,
blue eyes and flat butts, rejected to death by the
O.J.'s , the Quincey's, and the Poitier's.
Sometimes, she was stomped to death by racism and
sexism, executed by hi-tech ignorance while she
carried the family in her belly, the community on her
head, and the race on her back!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The
strong silent, s**t-talking black woman is
dead!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Or is she still alive and kicking???????????????????
I know I am still here.
-Author Unknown
This letter was sent to
me and it so moved me I thought it should be included
as one of the pages on
this site. I shed tears everytime I read this.
This
tear will take you back to the index Feel free to mail me at 
