It Would Have Been Nice
We'll Get Up in a Minute
If Black people’s—especially Black women’s—moral authority has the power to make a movement for justice and humanity credible, why is it ignored and not trusted as we collectively make choices that put all of us at risk?
We knew that we had to give everything we had to prevent the kinds of harm political playbooks warned us would devastate our communities. We were not simply in it for the representational identity politics of someone who looks like us in the White House, though that would have been nice. We were fighting for healthcare, education, housing, access to nutritious food and clean water, and protection from fraud and data breaches. We knew—we ALL knew—that the systems we have been living within were long overdue for the significant reimagining and revamping they required to properly serve us all. We briefly told ourselves the truth Arundhati Roy called us to in her April 2020 Financial Times article when she declared The Pandemic is a Portal. We knew that very few people were actually prepared for that type of work. We knew that if anyone would do it, we would. It’s how we have been socialized. Black women and girls know no one is coming to save us. We must save ourselves.
We were open because we were desperate. We were willing because we had nothing else to distract us away from what our lives, at home with the choices we made, were telling us about the world we created—or at least had condoned. I sat on virtual calls with educators and psychologists, industry leaders, and community members, imagining and reimagining schools, healthcare, and technology; picking apart our efforts up to that point in the social transformation and our complicity in not fully actualizing diversity, equity, and inclusion. We acknowledged it had become commodified, corporatized, and made digestible to human resources departments—protective of progressives’ feelings so much so they maintained the status quo and were easily wiped away in shifting political winds.
What I felt, and many Black women around me stated, is that our colleagues and society were finally being honest. We knew from our positionality as the token representation of diversity on office DEI committees and leadership teams that whatever we did was not meeting our grandmothers’ definitions of social transformation. The sense that our simply being there should have been good enough. Or that we should even be grateful that we were at least having an opportunity to see ourselves be seated at unwelcome tables. The Obama, but not the Kamala. What more did we want now? Hadn’t we gotten enough?
Now, finally, we were witnessing some of our colleagues finally telling the truth without expecting to be congratulated for being more aware and socially just than their peers. The reality—that though we had pushed toward the limits of their comfort, we had not yet pushed through the threshold of transformative justice. In that time, and especially following the racial reckoning sparked by the public murder of George Floyd, we were of one accord, online, in the streets, and in the media. We agreed that was what was required of us now. An awareness and activation informed by the wisdom of Fannie Lou Hamer:
“Nobody's free until everybody's free.”
We were ready. Or so it seemed. And then, we backed off. It got eerily quiet. Social media virtue signals went black, and we were no longer speaking about the change that needed to happen—as if our protesting and posting had meant that it happened. It hadn’t.
We seemed to be searching for a previously relied-upon indicator that change was afoot. The ephemera of a March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, the election of a “skinny kid with a funny name” who happened to be Black to the presidency of the U.S. No indicator showed itself. The change—the big signifier of it—was nowhere to be found.
But the change back, well, that happened. And it hurt. November 6, 2024, the day after the election, lives in infamy for many people—and especially Black women. It was the day we learned just how much we are despised and disliked. That no matter what we do—including getting nearly 100% of ourselves to vote not only for the first Black woman to be president, but for everyone to have access to healthy food, clean water, first-time home buying assistance, financial help for caregiving to ill and aging family, and the list goes on—it would never be enough. We were mad, we were tired, but more than anything we were hurt. And we deserved to feel our feelings.
In fact, having our feelings is a feature of humanity we do not always get to have. By now, many have become aware of the Strong Black Woman Schema, a cultural ideal and a race-gendered coping strategy that expects Black women to be resilient, self-reliant, and self-sacrificing while suppressing our emotions. Though Black women, myself included at times, take pride in being seen as a source of strength, disproportionately carrying the mantle of strength can negatively impact one’s mental health by promoting emotional repression, self-silencing, and neglecting self-care. When we are expected to be strong, we may not have space made for us to express how we feel, causing our experiences of mental health challenges, like depression, to be underdiagnosed and consequently undertreated. In fact, researchers at the NYU Rory Meyers College of Nursing reported that rather than reporting typical symptoms of depression like “depressed mood,” Black women participants in their study expressed depression as sleep disturbances, self-criticism, and irritability.
While we often hear snazzy expressions of Black women rejecting overwork or engagement with people and contexts that stress us, like: “She’s unbothered”; “Nope, not today”; or my personal favorite T-shirt art, “We Out,” fictitiously signed by Harriet Tubman, the truth is we are bothered, it does happen on any given day, and unfortunately, we are so embedded in systems and structures that cause us harm that it is not as easy as getting up and leaving. Sometimes the pain lands. In fact, in the Spring 2025 Poll of Black Women Voters conducted by The Highland Project and brilliant corners Research and Strategies, 45% Black women reported worsening mental health compared to a year ago with the state of the country and economy as primary concerns, and 67% reported retreat from news coverage to protect their mental health (among a subgroup of moms and younger women, 75% reported disengagement). The pain has landed.
And then arrives the artistic expression of Naví Robins. As a best-selling and award-winning author, illustrator, and graphic designer, Robins was able to capture a deep-seated, complex feeling. In his Sometimes I Told You So Just Ain’t Enough, Robins captures what we are now seeing are some folks’ worst fear. What if Black people—specifically Black women—sit this one out? Trevor Noah, in his closing remarks as he ended his stint on The Daily Show, made very clear that while people are enamored by his brilliance, it is the Black women in his life and those who have graced the stage on the show with him that have been his teachers. In his words, “Black women cannot afford to f_ck around and find out… Black women know what shit is” (December 8, 2022).
With an endorsement like that, the worry and frustration, sheer angst, and wonder about the absence of Black people putting their lives on the line during 2025 protests is curious. If Black people’s—especially Black women’s—moral authority has the power to make a movement for justice and humanity credible, why is it ignored and not trusted as we collectively make choices that put all of us at risk? The same unwillingness to listen to the person (Black women) who, as Noah suggests, knows the best, most equitable way to do a thing (anything!), in a high-stakes moment, like a national election that could irreversibly shape the geopolitical landscape, is the same disregard shown for Black women’s leadership in times of supposed peace and comfort. It is hubris on overdrive. It is wasteful. And it is disrespectful. Because try as we might, we always try to tell you, try to warn you, and you still do not listen.
For here is the thing. For Black women, there is no peace. We are chronically uncomfortable. Most recently, talk show host Whoopi Goldberg attempted to convey this sentiment: that in the U.S., Black people experience perpetual angst about what may happen to us, our children, our neighbors, and friends because we are Black. Not to falsely equivocate, but simply to articulate the tale of at least two realities in this country.
And we are really in danger. We did not just want to see ourselves reflected in the Oval Office, though it would have been nice. We wanted to avoid executive orders and Supreme Court decisions and appeals that would designate some of us a little less human, a little too different to make our own choices about our bodies. Believe it or not, we know a little something about being considered less than 100% a person—try three-fifths. We wanted to prevent and continue to protect against ICE crackdowns, workplace immigration raids, and nursing babies being torn away from their mothers. The disregard of Black mother-child bonds during enslavement is eerily similar to the torturous displays of callous disregard for these families. And we wanted everyone to eat well, have access to shelter, and maybe save a little money—a hope that seems so quaint in the midst of shockingly toxic economic uncertainty.
We really tried to tell you. And we exhausted ourselves attempting to do so. You did not listen, and now that we all are in the “finding out” part of the story, you want us to rush in and “fix it.” You want us to stop what we are doing—our line dancing, brunching, napping, and rewatching the two Michael B. Jordans in Sinners—without reckoning with the fact that you ignored us, that you devalue us, and that you do not respect us. We see it. You see it. We know it. You know it. So, now what?
We know that we will get up and get to it. It is in us. In fact, 55% of us reported in the Spring 2025 Poll of Black Women Voters that we KNOW it is NOT the time to retreat, but rather to protect our rights and build a collective future. That is more than half of us, and yet the utterance by any of us that we might rest and wait until we are ready has inspired some of the most apoplectic responses from “allies”, nonetheless. Why is that?
Despite the outburst, we get to have our feelings. We get to take the time to think about how and in what ways we will engage in the collective good of others—even though they despise us. Don’t like us. Don’t think we belong. Are maybe even kind of glad the whole DEI thing is over so we can all stop pretending and Black women don’t get to be in charge anymore. Well, how’s that working out for you? For us?
We know we have to be the “bigger” people. Because for all the wondering about where we are and what we are doing, and why we are not helping, we have not heard an apology. There has been no accountability. No reckoning.
That is the lever that needs to be pulled.
We need to reconcile the relationship. Because as much as you need us, we need you. For as powerful and mighty, as strong and beautiful as Black women are, democracy and uplifting the common good is a coalition project. We are merely 7% of the U.S. population. And yes, while we will lead, our collective win is contingent upon the willingness of those who need us—who rely on us—to listen, to follow, and be thankful we don’t treat you like you treat us.
A truly reconciled relationship between Black people and America 🤔