It’s rare that I find myself without words, but at the same time having too many words and no starting place. When I wrote my last piece before the election, I never imagined that we would be in this place. At the same time, I never quite believed that there would be a blowout for Kamala Harris. I always thought a Trump win was entirely possible, just like I did in 2016. But I thought we would see a close race that might require court intervention or recounts. I was not expecting the shellacking that Harris took. Whether we believe that election was rigged as many are starting to murmur or whether we think it was just misogyny and bigotry and white fear showing up in full force, this moment requires intentionality as we move forward.
This moment is revealing some uncomfortable truths about who we are. We are a deeply divided nation. We live in echo chambers that have been designed for us and we live in a nation where a lack of literacy led to a profound misunderstanding about who these candidates were. People voted for a man who, among other ignorant things, touted tariffs to improve the economy, only for them to begin learning (or soon to learn) that tariffs do not advance their material conditions—quite the opposite.
It is clear that in order to be thoughtful about my post-election thoughts, I will be writing several pieces. Today, though, I am going to start with talking about Black women, because my sisters are hurting.
Whatever goodness and advancement that we have seen in this country has always had Black women involved. It is Black women who were the backbone of the modern civil rights movement, Black women who toiled often anonymously to lay the foundation for rights and freedoms that are enjoyed far beyond the Black community. Black women have been the most loyal foot soldiers of the Democratic Party. Black women’s dedication to change is storied and revered. In recent years, it has become popular to mention that Black women will save us, but who saves Black women?
In many ways, Kamala’s ascent to top candidate was more of the same. It is well known that when institutions and organizations are on the brink of collapse, it is not uncommon to elevate a Black woman to top leadership, where she will almost certainly be set up for failure. This scenario is common enough that it has a name: glass cliff.
Kamala was given 107 days to unify this country and bring in the votes to oust Trump, a monumental task where the odds of success were clearly not as favorable as some had imagined. Because a well-qualified Black woman had hurdles that even Superman would have a hard time clearing.
Do you know who knew that? Black women.
Black women activated within hours after the announcement that Kamala was the nominee and for 107 days worked their asses off, pouring their hearts, souls, and resources into getting Kamala elected. Only to see that like in 2016 and 2020, we are all have we have. The initial data that we are seeing from the election says that Black women and the majority of Black men went for Kamala but white women still broke for Trump, along with a number of Latino groups. The polling data is not just disheartening, it is personal. It is a giant “fuck you” to Black women.
As a result, in the immediate aftermath of this election, Black women are loudly declaring that they are done. No more building, no more trying—instead focusing on self; and, honestly, I am not mad. How many times do you have to try to prove yourself and work for the larger good only to be kicked in the teeth?
Black women are not just the heart and soul of the Black community, they are the heart and soul of modern-day movement spaces. In recent years, it has become popular to refer to all people of color as BIPOC, but BIPOC unity is a myth. Instead, minorities with proximity to whiteness or aspirations to whiteness often divorce themselves from blackness while standing on the backs of Black ancestors.
Too often, personally and professionally, Black women show up and continue to give of themselves even when it hurts. After almost three decades in movement work, I know too many Black women who given to the point of neglecting themselves. It’s what was modeled for too many of us. My own mother sacrificed all her own hopes and dreams, pouring into our family, assuming that once all the kids were grown and settled, she would have time to live her dreams. Instead, she was diagnosed with cancer months after my baby brother graduated from college and was dead less than a year later.
I often tell people that the greatest gift my mother gave me was modeling how not to give like the Giving Tree—to know when to turn inward and frankly be selfish at times. It only took two trips to the emergency room with stroke-level blood pressure for me to realize that centering myself was no longer an option but a priority.
As I see Black women on various social media platforms declaring they are done, I understand it; to some degree I live it, in fact. People expect Black women to do things that frankly are not expected of anyone else. It is a continual stripping of our humanity. For the better part of a decade now, Black women have offered themselves and their knowledge to better the collective good, often to be treated like shit. Too many of us, myself included, reduced to relying on the kindness of people who consume our knowledge and hoping that they see value in our work and will sign up for our Patreons or drop a few bucks in our tip jars.
We are rarely seen in our full humanity and tended to with the love and care that we extend to others; instead, we are used and dismissed. For too long, we have been the mules of society. But no more.
Make no mistake, the Harris campaign and the Democratic Party made huge missteps, but that’s for another day. The fact remains that Black women laid it on the line to protect this raggedy-ass country and once again were shown clearly that we don’t matter. In the aftermath, people are freaking out and white women on social media platforms are discussing ways they can show us they are safe allies. The latest idea being thrown around are blue friendship bracelets which, after the pink pussy hats and safety pins of 2016, is just a new slap in the face. It’s enraging. Safety would have been making sure your people didn’t elect a madman again.
The future is an unknown, but what we can speculate is that it will probably make the first Trump presidency look like child’s play. But in this moment, working toward our collective survival may mean not looking to Black women to lead the way. Some of us do this work as our jobs and will still be in the trenches, but even I can admit that trust across racial lines is at an all-time low for me. Leaving my house now, I must wonder, “Who here voted for that man?” Who here thinks they will be safe and didn’t care enough about the safety of others? Who doesn’t understand that Trump and company only care for a certain segment of the population and many of you are not included? Who decided a man hellbent on retribution and a christo-fascist state was better than an imperfect Black woman tethered to the Democratic machine?
I stand with my sisters who are tired, and if you are one of the folks who do have real love and care for Black women, the best you can do in this moment is give us space to grieve, support our work, and commit to working in your communities—because your survival is going to require breaking down whiteness to see the evil within and hope that you can survive it.
To my sistas: Heal mama; heal. Know that you are mighty but know that we can no longer carry people who can’t carry themselves. It is okay to center ourselves and show up for us. It’s okay to love on ourselves and just be. Lay that cape down. We are no one’s savior or Superwoman. Just be. I love you.
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