Maybe I Don't Get It

Be ambitious.

But don't outshine anyone.

Speak up.

But only when we're comfortable.

Be a leader.

But don't step out of line.

Take initiative.

But only with our permission.

Be a problem solver.

But solve the problem how I say.

The systemic oppression of Black voices and Black excellence is one that hasn't gone away, it's instead been restructured. We are allowed seats at the "table," but we must remain a posture that those beside us can't maintain.

The constant pressure to be performant, nearly perfect, and remarkable, all while being overlooked, unacknowledged in public forums, and set up to simply fail is a life stories millions know yet billions can't understand while inflicting it… Through this, we should be grateful above all else.

I will never forget being told I needed to fall in line so I didn't seem like I "didn't get it."

That I didn't get office politics; that I didn't get organizational hierarchy. I was asking too many questions and was unsatisfied with so little answers. As if my clarity was not as important as others. As if, I should just accept what is being told because clearly, other knows more and I know nothing.

We are told to be ambitious, work hard for our goals and dreams, be autonomous and don't sit on your hands. Be vocal if you want something, don't expect handouts.

But then we are also told to know our place. To know when a role is "unlikely" for us to be promoted to, to know when an executive is too important to directly speak to, to know when our ideas to improve operational efficiency are unwarranted.

We are told to smile the largest and applaud the loudest when others see success. But we're given pats on the back for our efforts. Or they are diminished with justifications as to how it wasn't an individualized effort but instead, maybe we got lucky.

"The most disrespected person in America, is the black woman. The most unprotected person in America is the black woman. The most neglected person in America, is the black woman."

This was said in 1964.

A 2020 study found that Black women are disproportionately victims of sexual violence but are less likely to be believed or see their perpetrators prosecuted.

Black women are 3 to 4 times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white women in the U.S., regardless of income or education level (e.g., Tori Bowie).

Today, Black women are often praised for being "strong" or "resilient" while simultaneously being labeled "aggressive" for the same assertiveness that earns white colleagues praise as "leadership."

Black women earn just 69 cents for every dollar a white, non-Hispanic man makes — one of the widest racial pay gaps in the U.S, ahead of Hispanic women at 60 cents.

White women earn 80.

Asian women earn 90.

But yet, we are expected to smile through injustice, lead without authority, and thank the system that exploits our excellence.

To further paint this picture, we must look beyond the daily microaggressions and examine the generational machinery that sustains this cycle… what I call the loop of pain.

The oppression of Black people in this country was never just about physical chains, as some try to make it seem, it's about systemic containment. It's about making survival look like opportunity and then blaming us when we're too exhausted to celebrate it.

We talk about lack of generational wealth, but that's not happenstance - it's design. Black families were denied home ownership through redlining, shut out of business loans, and excluded from wealth-building policies like the GI Bill. Each generation starts from scratch (or further behind) while others inherit assets, access, and assurance.

That financial deficit creates vulnerability. Limited resources lead to limited options - in education, housing, healthcare, and stability. For Black women, this often means becoming the primary caregiver and breadwinner, in a world that underpays us, undervalues us, and overworks us.

And in the shadows of that struggle: higher risk of domestic violence, increased likelihood of single parenthood, and the emotional weight of raising children in systems designed to surveil them before they can dream.

Meanwhile, the very institutions that fail to support us are the same ones that scrutinize us when we show up angry, exhausted, or "too loud." They mistake our survival instincts for attitude. Our boundaries for insubordination. Our truth for threats.

And yet, the message remains: Be grateful. Be exceptional. Be quiet.

Let me be clear - I didn't grow up in struggle, not at first. I was raised in a beautiful home that my grandparents built - the first Black family in a country club neighborhood. Our house overlooked the golf course. Two pools, one of them a jacuzzi (I once filled it with dish soap to my grandmother's joy :) ). A sprawling patio that hosted countless gatherings. Fine china, imported furniture, and a chandelier that glittered like opportunity. I went to private school, wore pleated skirts, and went to church every Sunday.

But it didn't last.

My grandmother, born in 1941, came from a dirt road in the country. She grew up on over 100 acres of land - pigs, cows, cotton - and somehow turned that into her dream life. A college-educated Black woman who carved out a legacy with sheer determination.

But when legacy is built by one, without the structural knowledge or access to financial literacy, estate planning, or generational management - it becomes fragile.

A few bad investments. Solely providing for her daughter, my mother, and her children, my siblings. And suddenly, by the time I was ten, everything was gone.

Now, I work a job I love — one I fought tooth and nail to get, and built entirely on my own. No trust fund, no backup plan. No childhood home to return to. No safety net when rent's due or the car breaks down. No one to call when the bills stack up or when I'm exhausted beyond words. No one but me to provide for my children, to protect them, to show them the way. My siblings had college funds they could access; mine had to be sold. No help with my first car.

There was nothing but me. Pure fight. Determination to become something great.

But I live in a world that only makes room for two or three of me at a time. A world that expects me to conform, to smile, to be grateful that I even have a seat at the "table."

The truth is, I'll always view that table from a distance, and I'm okay with that. Because I don't want a seat.

I'd rather build a home: a warm, inviting home that welcomes everyone to find their way in. I'd rather cook and share than accept a plate and eat. I'd rather create than simply be.

So… maybe I don't get it.

Maybe I never will.

Maybe that's the point.