Dear White People Who Think Calling Black People “Strong” is a Compliment,”

Summir Wilson’s Story:

Dear White People Who Think Calling Black People “Strong” is a Compliment,

I often find myself in contemplation of phrases such as “strong black woman” and “strong black man.” I wonder if white people use those terms because they want to convince black folk that they are strong, or if it’s because they have trouble believing it themselves. Wouldn’t it make it easier on the white conscience if black bodies were strong, if black bodies wouldn’t cave, if black bodies wouldn’t crumble, if black bodies wouldn’t break? White guilt could almost diminish under the facade that black men and women are strong, that black men and women are okay, that black men and women will overcome. But I ask you, what is it that we are strong for? And why must we be strong? I think the answer to those questions is a force you aren’t willing to look in the mirror.

I urge you to answer these questions on your own. Because not all black men and women are strong. Because not all black men and women should have to be strong. Because not all black men and women want to be strong. Sometimes, we just want to cry. Sometimes, we just want to be able to be not okay without being reminded that we are a strong black women/men who must keep fighting. Sometimes, we want somebody strong to take care of us for once. I wonder if we, my black brothers and sisters, showed weakness, we would be less strong or simply more white? And by white, I mean equal. And by white, I mean multi-faceted emotional beings. And by white, I mean existing outside of our struggle. And by white, I mean mattering.

I wonder if black men cried more, they would be less scary? I wonder if black women rested more, they would be less angry? To you. Because it seems as if our strength helps you sleep at night yet at the same time, it also makes you hate us more.

I’m asking, what is it that we are strong for? And why must we be strong? I’m asking, what is it that we are strong for? And why must we be strong? I’m asking, what is it that we are strong for? And why must we be strong?

I’m asking, if I can cry? And if you’ll jar them? And use them to buy us our humanity back? The same way you’ve sold yours like your saline is more potent than ours to buy yourself the real strength that is your privilege.

Here is a poem for you. Please answer.

Black Tears Deferred

Kenzie said I’m a strong black woman
in the same manner Jason said my father is a strong black man. It almost poured out of thin lips like pasta water
in a colander, pasty and with the potential to burn —
it did. Hands too close to mouth that feeds us;
Kenzie, have you forgotten that you have teeth?

The ones that build walls in front of tongue
that too quickly tastes resilience over oppression
and they say white people don’t know flavor
but I have seen you all season my skin with “strong”
like an over-salted burger on 4th of July —
Jason, have you forgotten that Jim Crow likes his meat well-done?

You applaud us with pats on the back that mean “well done..., boy...black boy...black boy...black body...black thing”
like we scrapped a knee at a soccer tournament and didn't cry

“well done black thing” for something like surviving or something like not dying, or not crying —
you see I can’t tell the difference between a participation trophy and a grand prize because you’ve blurred the lines
between winning and surviving —
Tell me, Kenzie, would you call the losing team strong?

Its almost as if you’re afraid of admitting a weakness you benefit from so everyone’s “strong” just like everyone’s life matters
like everyone faces adversity and everybody dies.
But somehow, you don’t call everybody strong...

just black bodies are strong
black boy strong to strong black man
and black girl strong to strong black woman
Kenzie, are you white girl strong to strong white woman
or do you cry when you want to, because you can,
because white tears are jarred and sold to everybody except black bodies in flint, michigan but those black bodies are especially strong, right?

Tell me, Jason, have you heard of Langston and what happens to black tears deferred?

Does it boil into hot air of an angry black woman or does it fester in the violence of a black man
or does it explode with the shot of an officer’s gun? Pop!

Or are you afraid that our tears may turn black thing into black life
into mattering
or do you simply enjoy watching us gasp for air

so you can say “good game?”