The "Strong" Black Woman Is Dead

May she be dead and buried so we may rise shackle-free, no mythology and live our own true individuality.

Here's the original poem by Laini Mataka

The Strong Black Woman is Dead

On August 15, 1999, at 11:55 p.m., 

while struggling with the reality 

of being a human instead of a myth, 

the strong black woman passed away.

Medical sources say she died of natural causes, 

but those who knew her know she died 

from being silent when she should have been screaming, 

milling when she should have been raging, 

from being sick and not wanting anyone to know 

because her pain might inconvenience them.

She died from an overdose 

of other people clinging to her 

when she didn't even have energy for herself. 

She died from loving men who didn't love themselves 

and could only offer her a crippled reflection. 

She died from raising children alone 

and for not being able to do a complete job.

She died from the lies her grandmother 

told her mother and her mother told her 

about life, men & racism. 

She died from being sexually abused as a child 

and having to take that truth 

everywhere she went every day of her life, 

exchanging the humiliation for guilt and back again.

She died from being battered 

by someone who claimed to love her 

and she allowed the battering to go on 

to show she loved him too. 

She died from asphyxiation, 

coughing up blood from secrets 

she kept trying to burn away 

instead of allowing herself 

the kind of nervous breakdown she was entitled to, 

but only white girls could afford.

She died from being responsible, 

because she was the last rung on the ladder 

and there was no one under her she could dump on. 

The strong black woman is dead.

She died from the multiple births 

of children she never really wanted 

but was forced to have 

by the strangling morality of those around her. 

She died from being a mother at 15 

and a grandmother at 30 and an ancestor at 45.

She died from being dragged down 

and sat upon by UN-evolved women posing as sisters. 

She died from pretending 

the life she was living 

was a Kodak moment instead of a 20th century, 

post-slavery nightmare!

She died from tolerating Mr. Pitiful, 

just to have a man and the house. 

She died from lack of orgasms 

because she never learned 

what made her body happy 

and no one took the time to teach her 

and sometimes, when she found arms 

that were tender, she died 

because they belonged to the same gender.

She died from sacrificing herself 

for everybody and everything 

when what she really wanted to do 

was be a singer, a dancer, or some magnificent other.

She died from lies of omission 

because she didn't want 

to bring the black man down. 

She died from race memories 

of being snatched and raped 

and snatched and sold and snatched 

and bred and snatched and 

whipped and snatched and worked to death.

She died from tributes 

from her counterparts 

who should have been matching 

her efforts instead of 

showering her with 

dead words and empty songs. 

She died from myths 

that would not allow her 

to show weakness without 

being chastised by the lazy and hazy.

She died from hiding her real feelings 

until they became hard 

and bitter enough to invade 

her womb and breasts like angry tumors. 

She died from always lifting something 

from heavy boxes to refrigerators. 

The strong black woman is dead.

She died from the punishments 

received from being honest 

about life, racism & men. 

She died from being called a bitch 

for being verbal, 

a dyke for being assertive 

and a whore for picking her own lovers. 

She died from never being enough 

of what men wanted, 

or being too much for the men she wanted.

She died from being too black 

and died again for not being black enough. 

She died from castration 

every time somebody thought 

of her as only a woman, 

or treated her like less than a man.

She died from being misinformed 

about her mind, her body 

and the extent of her royal capabilities. 

She died from knees pressed too close together 

because respect was never part 

of the foreplay that was being shoved at her.

She died from loneliness in birthing rooms 

and aloneness in abortion centers. 

She died of shock in courtrooms 

where she sat, alone, 

watching her children being legally lynched.

She died in bathrooms 

with her veins busting open 

with self-hatred and neglect. 

She died in her mind, 

fighting life racism, & men, 

while her body was carted away 

and stashed in a human warehouse 

for the spiritually mutilated. 

And sometimes when she refused to die, 

when she just refused to give in 

she was killed by the lethal images 

of blonde hair, blue eyes and flat butts, 

rejected by the O.J.'s, the Quincy's, & the Poitiers.

Sometimes, she was stomped to death 

by racism and sexism, executed 

by hi-tech ignorance 

while she carried the family in her belly, 

the community on her head, 

and the race on her back!

The strong silent, talking black woman is dead!

Or is she still alive and kicking? 

I know I am still here.