At some point during this year, I decided I was too comfortable. Not “comfortable” as in content, but “comfortable” as in stable; “comfortable” as in living a uniform, balanced-to-a-T lifestyle.

I realized I hated being “comfortable.”

At first, this “comfort” was because of my career. I had a remote job and a steady schedule in which I could complete work, watch videos on YouTube and Twitch, hangout with my cat, Po, and occasionally go out with my boyfriend. 

I soon found myself uneasy in the comfort of my routine. I felt stunted and caged in. I began to spiral; I wondered if I relied on overworking to feel productive, romanticizing struggle, and if I would ever feel fulfilled with my life, regardless of success. For months, I stewed over one question: “Is this it”? 

If not, what is “it,” then? 

If so, what do I want from this life?

The latter question is what truly galvanized my thinking. I began to sketch an answer.

Redirecting my life

As per the advice of my mother, I strive to not center my life on work. Yet even with such a master “work-life balance” as mine, I realized I had no idea what to do with the “life” part. Where did I want to go in this life, and who did I want to be when I arrived? I had no answer. I felt lost. 

A few ugly breakdowns and virtual therapy sessions later, I concluded I wanted to be confident and proud of myself. For me, this translated into being a more vocal advocate for black women like me. Yes, I hoped to help right the wrongs inflicted upon me, but I also hoped to testify to those who try to disregard black women’s struggles.

So I decided to make myself “uncomfortable” by outwardly advocating for myself and my truth. This was long overdue, I’ll grant, but later is better than never.

As a result, you’ll likely hear me going into what my partner calls “Ted Talks” about the fraught dynamics black women endure — because my experiences of discrimination are shaped by the intersection of my black and female identities. 

My journey with identity and stereotypes

Often, I feel the pressure to conform to a mold due to the categories I fit into on paper. As a result, whether I align with expectations or not, I am left feeling like a performer on a stage, seen as an embodiment of my identities — an archetype of all black women — as opposed to the actual person I am. 

So here is my truth: I am not an archetype. I am an example of a black woman, one of many.

Yet even still, I can wield this typecasting to the advantage of other black women. I have a phrase that illustrates this tactic saved in the notes app of my phone: “The way you regard me is the way you regard every black woman after me. Through fighting for myself, I fight for others who are like me.” 

I don’t know if it’s a poem, a philosophy, or a promise. Regardless, it remains the primary motivator for my advocacy. 

But my battle with stereotyping has also been with myself. 

“Black is not a monolith.” That’s a phrase I’ve been hearing more over the years — and I need to hear it. While grappling with internalized racism, colorism, fetishization and all the other ills that are often canon in the black experience, I realized that, as I discovered who I was as a black woman, I began to project my newfound identity onto others.

One example can be found in my relationship to hair. I’d gone through the whole perm thing in middle school, and, in high school, it was followed by the “big chop” — inflicted by a white stylist unaware of how to cut black hair. After this racially-charged mishandling of my hair, I became emotionally attached to my natural hair. Today, you’ll catch me rocking styles that embrace my natural hair and never defile it.

Yet as I developed a sense of pride in my hair, I found myself distressed when I rarely noticed family members parading their natural hair. Most preferred their hair straightened.

So I conversed with fellow black women, and with work I broadened my dogmatic viewpoint to this:

I just want black women to be happy. 

To sincerely advocate for the liberation of all black women from stigmas, expectations, limitations and struggles, I must also stand for those who differ from me in their expressions, ideas and paths.

Therefore, I’ve made it a point to learn from others by hearing their stories and truths. Through doing so, I am able to discover who I am through who I am not. By exposing myself to the diversity and vibrance in my community, I open my life up to the beautiful idiosyncrasy of humanity. 

I’ve made it a point to listen, but also to ensure I’m heard. Therefore, I’d like to present you with three topics I now confidently advocate for.

Code-switching

Code-switching is when one adjusts one’s style of speech and expression in different settings in order to be treated with dignity. Code-switching traditionally occurs in spaces where black individuals feel they must alter their behavior to appease, and therefore obtain opportunities from, white individuals in power. However, code-switching can also just represent different forms of self-expression and socializing. 

When I code-switch, I do so because I align with different communities and have developed a comfortable form of communicating with members of these environments. If you do not belong to my community, please do not speak in a particular way to try and mimic how you assume I — and other members of the community — sound.

This includes using “sis”, “girl”, “fam”, or — and I vividly remember an older white lady trumpeting this piece of slang — “bomb diggity”. Recently, in a discussion on Threads, I shared my memories of non-black persons employing phrases such as “Baby Daddy” and “Side Chick” only when referencing black individuals. 

To quote the rapper Megan Thee Stallion, “Don’t call me sis, ‘cause I’m not your sister.”

Please stop. It’s not hip or funny, and it makes me uncomfortable. 

Though, let it be known that I’m attempting to limit my code-switching and instead speak with my authentic dialect. My success and opportunities shouldn’t be limited by my speech patterns. My voice is that of my communities and loved ones, and they and I both deserve to be heard and succeed as our unadulterated selves. 

Period.

Black women, self-protection, and blame

Speaking of Megan Thee Stallion, let’s go back to her shooting, for a moment.

In December of 2022, after she and the rapper Tory Lanez got into an argument while leaving a party together, Lanez shot at Megan’s feet, resulting in her hospitalization and surgery.

I’m still not over the male response to her shooting. 

Megan’s prosecutors asserted that after the shooting, Lanez had launched a “weaponed misinformation” campaign to turn public opinion against Megan. For example, in one of his songs, the rapper Drake implied Megan had lied about being shot. 

But the misogyny did not stop with Drake. Online users harassed Megan with a deluge of sexist, violent comments and threats.

In the wake of the incident, I called out men left and right, putting them in their place when they spoke with blatant illogic. 

It was truly infuriating to hear men try to justify how a woman getting shot was not the shooter’s fault but her own, due to her proximity to the criminal. But it wasn’t surprising. 

In the months following the assault, Megan became a keystone figure in the movement to Protect Black Women. 

This past summer, I was able to see Janelle James perform at a comedy club while visiting my hometown. She did a bit about riding in Ubers as a woman, describing safety-measures such as farting to make oneself seem undesirable. She also jested about how people would likely respond if she fell asleep in the Uber and woke up to being sexually assaulted:

“I know how people are. As soon as you tell your friends, ‘I woke up in the back of the Uber with a dick in my mouth,’ what they gonna say? ‘Why you fall asleep in a Uber? Are you stupid?’” 

She even goes on to joke that she would probably blame herself, for sleeping with her mouth open. 

Funny, right? 

I laughed, as did most of the other women in the room. I cannot speak for them, but I was laughing because she had climbed on stage and said such a truth. 

Women are often told we should know better than to be in a bad situation, and in consequence, we assume responsibility for acts of violence exacted upon us. We are expected to always be on the defense, cautious and expecting of the so-called “obvious” dangers that lurk just around the corner. Admonishing women for their perceived “failure” to protect themselves overshadows placing accountability and consequences on perpetrators of violence.

My take: Stop blaming women for others’ intolerance and transgressions. 

That shit’s embarrassing.

Societal standards, social media, and marketing skin color

Racism is real. Colorism is real. Texturism is real. To debate their existence is to disregard black individuals who have been discriminated against, degraded and humiliated for no reason other than their physical appearance deviating from the “standard” of caucasian features. 

In addition, we can and should legitimately critique black women who cater to such “standards” for profit, not turn a blind eye to or encourage them under the guide of “supporting all black women.” That’s not supporting black women, that’s supporting a black woman. 

All the while, other black women and girls wonder how they look to others — because they don’t look like someone who conforms to racist societal ideals. 

I’ve often noticed identity-wounding ideas and ideals being hyped up on social media platforms, perpetuated under the facade of supporting black women despite the harm they impose upon that precise community. These trends may be examples of performative activism, ignorance or a combination of the two phenomena. 

“Supporting black women” has become a trend and a path to social ranking. I all too often see people advocating for black women simply as a malicious marketing tactic to get people to engage with their content. 

Sometimes, however, this pernicious strategy is not even employed successfully.

In 2022, TikTok content-creator Veronica Shaw, otherwise known as Chef Pii, launched her Pink Sauce, and it went viral. She began to fulfill orders for the sauce. When customers raised concerns over the product’s health safety, Shaw leveraged her blackness to wrangle internet users into purchasing her worryingly opaque and non-FDA approved sauce. Her financial success was quickly marred by controversy.

In other cases, social media creators prospered by adhering to society’s racial criteria. I remember when I first heard about Pinkydoll, a TikTok influencer who gained attention by simulating an NPC, or Non-Player Character, in her livestreams. At first, I didn’t have much of an opinion on her content. The moment I truly tuned in was after realizing she had been using a filter to make her skin lighter. 

With Pinkydoll’s secret publicly exposed, there came a torrent of opinionated netizens. While some concentrated on her being a catfish, others were struck by her profit-oriented appeal to colorism. Some disliked how others were solely focused on her skin tone, while still others accused her of masquerading — or “light-fishing” — as biracial.

My opinion? Instead of abiding by discriminatory social dynamics and the crumbs given to a particular paradigm of a black woman, let’s demolish these racial disparities altogether. 

I’m not going to disparage Pinkydoll simply for obtaining money in a calculated — and ultimately fruitful — approach. I understand doing what you have to in given circumstances. 

All I’m saying is I’d rather the circumstances change so black women don’t have to alter themselves simply to be on equal footing with the rest of society. 

This concludes my “Ted Talk.”

[India Nye Wenner edited this piece.]

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Fair Observer’s editorial policy.