Nwanne Eke and Shaunta Palmer
Contributing Writers
As Black women living in America, there is a conception that we must care for all and nurture those around us. However, unlike our white counterparts, we’re not allowed to be soft or fragile. Instead, we are expected to take attacks directed towards us on the chin and keep pushing forward as if nothing happened — lest we face being labeled as “bullies” by our own administration, as referenced in the “Community Letter” from President Anne E. McCall, or chastised: “Your professors, and our academic deans, want to hear from students long before being named on signs, leaflets, or any public communication,” from Provost Lisa Perfetti. Our experiences are secondary to those around us. Our misfortunes are framed as our fault, and voicing concerns about our issues that we can see clearly as wider institutional issues is dismissed as complaining or being potentially violent — as implied by McCall in a faculty meeting a week ago.
Even within our own community, we aren’t taken seriously despite being the backbone of our homes and families — a consequence of systemic racial inequities. For decades, Black women have shown up and shown out — not only for our own community, but for every community facing discrimination and oppression. And what do we get in return?
Nothing.
This most recent election cycle also illustrates the fact that Black women cannot rely on our “allies,” male and female alike, to truly show up and support us. Earlier this month, former President Donald Trump stated, “there’s a group called ‘White Dudes for Harris,’ but I’m not worried about them at all, because their wives and their wives’ lovers are all voting for me.” This sentiment carries a painful truth: too many of our white “allies” have shown themselves to extend their allyship only to the extent that it doesn’t inconvenience or harm their privilege.
For the third straight time, Donald Trump won the majority of white women voters. 52% of white American women showed their true colors and 48% failed to hold their community accountable. Their talks of allyship were just that — words, spoken with no meaningful action behind them. Their “allyship” only goes as far as to cover the issues in which they find saliency. And when questioned, we’re supposed to coddle and educate them because “they don’t know any better,” ignoring the emotional and mental strain on those forced to educate.
Instead, we get judged 10 times harder and scrutinized for what we don’t do and criticized for what we could have done better. In academia, this manifests in being held to higher standards than our peers while also fighting for recognition of our efforts and achievements — achievements that clearly show that we belong in the spaces we’ve worked hard to enter.
Time and time again, Black women on this campus have voiced their concerns just to be ignored by those who scream allyship — except when it comes to turning it into a hashtag they can pin in their bios. We are often used and discarded once those around us find satisfaction in our work, and when it is our turn to look for support, we are left to our own devices with no allyship around. This is seen in many versions of allyship here on the College campus, as we are often left unsupported by our “allies.” For example, many non-Black students in 2021 complained about the amount of paper used for the Black Manifesto but failed to actually read it and recognize the issues being addressed.
To quote Malcolm X, “The most disrespected person in America is the Black woman. The most unprotected person is the Black woman. The most neglected person in America is the Black woman.” Why must Black women suffer in silence? We are tired and refuse to advocate for the very same people who have not shown up for us in tangible ways — even in our most dire situations.
We urge you to look in the mirror and question if your activism is real or if it is just another way for you to show your moral superiority. True activism is about solidarity and consistent action, not just symbolic participation.
