By: Anonymous Contributor
TRIGGER WARNING: For the sake of self-care, please be aware that this piece contains graphic content specifically related to rape/sexual assault.
“We deserve to be protected as human beings.”
In 2019, I was raped and would later enter into a manipulative relationship with my rapist. I did not report the initial rape, I did not allow myself to think about it, and I found ways to blame myself and absolve the predator of any responsibility. Before coming to school my dad once told me, “Don’t be alone with a man in a room, because if you’re with him you must know what you’re there for.” So, I figured that since I had been with this man alone in his car, since I had allowed him to pay for dinner, and since I had not fought hard enough, I must have deserved what happened to me. More than that, I thought that because of the assault, no one else would want me and that I did not deserve to be in a healthy relationship. Essentially, I blamed myself for being a survivor. In the summer of 2020, I finally admitted that I needed help for what had occurred and began my healing process. It was during that time that people rushed to social media in droves to declare their love for us, for Black women. I felt that there might be a shift in how we talk about Black women, responsibility, and surviving in our community. Yet time and time again, I came across men (and women) whose word’s behind their post of support so often mirrored the words that I would repeat to myself during yet another moment of remembering, “because if you’re with him you must know what you’re there for.”
From the lips of men who I had actively known to “slut-shame” and victim blame came a need to “protect Black women.” From the social media accounts of known abusers came posts about the need to care for Black women. From everywhere all at once, people wanted to scream into the world that they protected Black women, that they respected Black women, and that they loved the Black women in their lives and beyond. Those words were said even if previous actions seemed to defy the newfound interest in us. It was in the midst of dealing with my own traumas, noting the experiences of other Black women, and confronting the reality of the lack of our protection, that I began to actively think about what it would mean to protect Black women beyond performative post.
Protecting Black women is about creating a society where Black women can be honest, tell their stories, and be believed. Protecting Black women is about the words we say to our sisters, our daughters, our friends and providing a space for not only comfort but love. Protecting Black women is not about shame instead, it is about care.
Protecting Black women is about having hard conversations within our community about sex, assault, gender violence, and about surviving in a world that seeks to humble you at every step. Megan Thee Stallion is right, “we deserve to be protected as human beings.” When people don’t take the time to ensure that their words and actions back up their social media front of “protecting Black women,” it makes me question who Black women can feel protected by but themselves and the burden of all that weight on our shoulders.
