it’s so amusing how offended people get when you’re comfortable with yourself. it’s been so great over the past few months watching people love themselves more. i love selfies and nudes and i love when girls call themselves queens and act like they’re the hottest thing on the planet and if anyone calls you self centered or pretentious blow them the biggest kiss and carry on.
My history professor asked who we wanted to have as the next pope and I chimed in Oprah and my prof just stands there laughing for a solid minute before he whispers
IT GOT BETTER
wow it got better
In Star Wars, a boy can grow up to be a knight or a wizard, but if you’re a girl, you have one good role model- one good, sexy role model- but you better be born a princess or good at space hooking, cuz those are your options [x]
I don’t have time to fall apart
i can’t afford to fall apart
black woman’s burden
“I don’t have time to fall apart.”
This is the message that was pounded into my head by my Mother, a Black Woman just like me. This message has been the bane of my existence for 25 years. I am constantly having to assert my humanity, but my own Mama told me that the frailties of humanity don’t belong to me, a Black Girl. And I stepped out her door and found it to be true.
All the while, I can still hear the blood pulsing through my veins. I can still feel all my hurts.
But, I don’t have time to fall apart. Strong Black Woman.
the bolded is my life. “no one cares if you’re crying” is the message I was taught long ago.
oh look it’s a list of reasons why if you subscribe to the “only breaking down, collapsing to the floor, and crying in a corner means you’re triggered” line of thought, you are full of dog shit and a white supremacist
There is no one but me to pick me up. If someone wrongs me I probably won’t get justice. And I don’t have time to grieve because I’m busy working twice as hard to keep up. If I’m empathetic, I’m not being a ‘strong black woman’. If I’m sad, I’m not being her, either. And few people around me have been hurt enough to have the scar tissue that I have, so I’m the strongest, and I literally don’t have the liberty of being anything else.
It sucks growing up seeing Black women force themselves to be strong when they feel weak and not understanding why it’s not okay to cry as a woman, especially growing up around White people where girls and women are expected to cry. And then you find out. And you find yourself getting down because you’re already down. And when you do cry, you cry because you’re crying. Because that’s not okay. It’s embarrassing. So many people have gone through more than you ever will, yet you’ve given up your role as a SBW to be weak, even if it’s only for a moment, you aren’t allowed it. And it hits you one day that not only do you look like your mother, her sisters, your grandmother, and her sisters. You realize that they felt the same humiliation and dog-tiredness you do from being something on the inside you weren’t allowed to show on the outside. I hate feeling like I’m meant to be strong, but I hate it worse for the women I saw suffer through it. And it makes me feel like I don’t have the right to give up on it, no matter how damaging it is to a person. They got through it, so should I.
Very important commentary. N it’s very hard to break that internal cycle of repression. Sometimes I want to cry, and either just can’t bring myself to that level of vulnerability and hold the tears back or the tears just won’t come at all, even when I need that release. And those emotions end up manifesting in uglier ways at inconvenient times….
Embrace your tears. And embrace your feelings. Strength doesn’t mean not falling. It lies in how you bounce back. Not in not falling apart, but in putting yourself back together to make an even better you.
nobody cares if you cry. you don’t get to be weak.
i think we all grow up with this message
The same reason I don’t even cry at funerals.
Funny thing is, I can only cry when I’m angry.
Crying on the inside is tho… that’s another story.
It’s amazing to think that we are taught by our mothers to not show pain when we’re hurt, and that we teach it to our daughters.
Reblogging because this is still true. Especially that last note. I have a fear that although I’m determined to provide the emotional support I was never given, that I actually don’t know *how* and am only able to reproduce the same instincts and habits that I resent…
Who’s job is it to teach us how to love? While we make it our job to care for the world.