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WISDOM OF THE AGES

I’ll say in rhyme,

I’ll say it in time

I’ll say it with great conviction

I’ll say it with great diction

I‘ll say it with truth

I’ll say it for the old, middle aged and the youth

Just as my high school teacher said to me

IT’S ALL UP TO YOU

Whatever you decide,

You can be.

Whatever you chose

Know you cannot lose.

It’s all your choice.

Here me now,

And listen.

Whether you start something new

Or stay with tradition.

You decide…

Everything.

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𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚆𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗, 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚆𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍

𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

Conversations about racism often center white men as the primary oppressors—the lawmakers, the enforcers, the loudest defenders of inequality. But racism’s roots and reach are broader, woven through every social relationship. White women, too, have long held power within racial hierarchies—power that often manifests subtly, through judgment, exclusion, and moral policing of Black women.

The tension between white and Black women is not new. It’s built on generations of stereotypes and cultural myths. The idea that white womanhood represents purity, delicacy, and virtue, while Black womanhood is painted as loud, hypersexual, or dangerous. These lies were not accidents of history; they were tools of control. And in many ways, they persist, disguised as “concern,” “feminism,” or “class.”

𝟷. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚢𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝙿𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝙴𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗

White womanhood has long been idealized as the standard for “femininity.”

In contrast, Black women’s expression—their bodies, voices, and fashion has been treated as something to discipline, mock, or “tone down.”

When a white woman says a Black woman is “doing too much,” “showing too much,” or “being ghetto,” what she’s really saying is: you’re not performing womanhood in a way that makes me comfortable.

The idea that Black women lack “purity” comes from centuries of racist propaganda that justified sexual violence and social exclusion. The same society that protected white women as symbols of innocence labeled Black women as inherently promiscuous, immoral, or “unfeminine.”

Even today, that narrative lingers in how some white women talk about how Black women dress, dance, or speak. The “concern” about modesty or class is rarely about empowerment—it’s about control. It’s about reinforcing a hierarchy that says whiteness equals refinement, while Blackness needs correction.

𝟸. “𝚂𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚆𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝙱𝚊𝚌𝚔”: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚆𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙵𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚖

When Black women assert their individuality, sexuality, or power, white women often respond with moral judgment disguised as feminist critique.

Phrases like “She’s setting women back,” or “That’s not empowering” are frequently aimed at Black women who don’t conform to white feminist ideals of “respectable” womanhood.

But whose definition of empowerment are we using?

When a Black woman celebrates her body, her tone, her success, or her sensuality, she’s not undoing feminism—she’s undoing centuries of shame. Yet some white women view that freedom as a threat, not a victory.

This is white feminism—a version of feminism that centers white women’s comfort and image, while ignoring the specific struggles Black women face.

It’s the feminism that praises confidence in theory but punishes it in practice when it comes with melanin, curves, and unapologetic self-love.

True feminism must dismantle all hierarchies, including those between women. Anything less is not liberation—it’s gatekeeping.

𝟹. 𝙴𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚁𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙸𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢

White women often see themselves as victims of sexism, not participants in racism. Yet racism thrives when people believe they’re too “good” to be part of it.

When called out, many white women retreat into fragility—tears, defensiveness, or denial—shifting focus away from harm done to the emotional discomfort of being corrected. This dynamic silences Black women, who then must navigate being labeled “angry,” “aggressive,” or “intimidating” for speaking truth.

In this way, white women’s perceived vulnerability becomes a tool of control—one that protects whiteness and punishes Black assertiveness. It’s the same logic that, historically, justified violence: the myth that Black women’s strength makes them incapable of being victims, and that white women’s fragility demands protection.

Racism doesn’t need open hatred to survive; it thrives on the quiet protection of white comfort.

𝟺. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙹𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝙰𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎

There’s an unspoken tension when Black women walk unapologetically in their beauty, brilliance, and confidence. In a society that conditions white women to see themselves as the standard of desirability, seeing that standard challenged can stir insecurity.

When a Black woman is chosen—professionally, socially, romantically—over a white woman, the surprise or resentment that sometimes follows exposes a buried bias: the belief that whiteness should always be preferred.

This isn’t just personal; it’s structural. The media, fashion, and film industries have long positioned white women as the default for beauty and grace. When Black women rise into those spaces, it disrupts the fantasy—and some white women respond with envy disguised as critique.

Instead of recognizing that Black women’s confidence comes from resilience and self-affirmation in a world designed to erase them, some white women misread it as arrogance or attitude. That misreading is not random; it’s racist.

𝟻. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚁𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

Many white women who would never say something overtly racist still enable racism by staying silent. They hear the jokes, see the bias, benefit from the stereotypes—and say nothing.

They don’t have to be the aggressor to be complicit; silence itself is participation.

But the solution isn’t shame—it’s reflection.

It’s asking:

Why do I feel uncomfortable when Black women express themselves freely?

Why do I think some forms of femininity are “too much”?

Whose standards am I using when I define beauty, professionalism, or class?

Self-examination is not self-condemnation. It’s the work of dismantling the conditioning that ties white identity to superiority.

𝟼. 𝚁𝚎𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚂𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍: 𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚂𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚂𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢

Real solidarity between white and Black women cannot exist without truth. It can’t be built on hashtags, slogans, or borrowed language from Black movements.

It has to begin with humility. The willingness of white women to recognize that their liberation is incomplete if it rests on the subjugation or exclusion of Black women.

Solidarity means unlearning entitlement. It means stepping back when your voice isn’t needed, amplifying Black women’s leadership, and calling out racism—even among other white women. It means understanding that equality is not about sharing power with white women; it’s about redistributing power across racial lines.

Black women have always been at the forefront of liberation—from Sojourner Truth to Audre Lorde to Tarana Burke. To follow their lead is not to lose power; it’s to join a deeper kind of freedom.

𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗

Prejudice between white and Black women is not an accident—it’s a system designed to keep women divided. White supremacy taught white women to fear and compete with Black women rather than to see them as equals. It told white women that their value lies in purity and proximity to power, while Black women’s worth lies in service and silence.

But that story can be rewritten—through awareness, through truth, through courage.

White women must recognize that dismantling racism is not a favor to Black women; it’s a responsibility to humanity. And Black women deserve to be seen—not as threats, not as stereotypes, but as the complex, brilliant, free individuals they have always been.

𐙚 ˖ ݁𐙚 ˖ ݁𐙚 ˖ ݁𐙚 ˖ ݁𐙚 ˖ ݁𐙚 ˖ ݁𐙚 ˖ ݁𐙚 ˖ ݁𐙚 ˖ ݁𐙚 ˖ ݁𐙚 ˖ ݁𐙚 ˖ ݁

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