Let me just start with this: though not everything in America is black and white – everything in America is black and white. Race isn’t just a social construct a part of American society, it’s deeply embedded in its foundation. It shapes interactions, systems, perceptions, and identities even when we try to ignore it.
I was raised by Nigerian parents in a large Nigerian community in Texas. My world was full of family (siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, and family friends). People who shared my skin tone, my culture, and my own sense of self. But it wasn’t until I began navigating society on my own that I began to understand what Blackness meant in this country – not as heritage that I’m proud of, rich in culture and experience, but as a social identity projected onto me with a negative connotation.
Black women are not supposed to push back and when they do, they’re deemed to be domineering. Aggressive. Threatening. Loud.
prof. Trina Jones
It began with small microaggressions in college: being asked if I “spoke African,” or having my hair touched without permission, or people slowing down their speech as if I were somehow foreign to the very country I was born and raised in. None of it overtly hostile, yet all of it deeply telling.
There are these periods where I walk through the world and, though my race isn’t top of mind, I’m reminded of it at every stop. It’s either my skin color or my gender – lately both at every turn. Not because I raise my voice, roll my eyes, or deliver sharp retorts. In fact, I really pride myself on composure: sitting upright, speaking in full sentences, and refusing to bend my posture or tone just to be perceived as “less threatening.” (shoutout to my mom who taught me presentation is everything). And despite all of this, I find myself wondering: Where did I go wrong?
Maybe if I’d giggled mid-sentence. Maybe if I’d smiled more at the beginning of conversations or prefaced my points with gentle disclaimers: “I’m not trying to be rude, I just…” But the cold, honest, blatant truth is: no performance of softness would suffice. Not unless I would be willing to break my own backbone and cower in hopes of being interpreted correctly. All of this to avoid being cast in the role Black women know all too well: aggressive.
Let me explain. This past Sunday at 2 a.m., I was locked out of my apartment due to a faulty key fob (an issue that should have been caught during routine maintenance but of course wasn’t). I was frustrated, yes, but very composed. After all, it’s 2am, and I’m tired as heck. After a 90-minute wait, standoff, and eventual resolution by after-hours maintenance, I was let in to my apartment and before I dropped my bags, I already had an emailed typed out and ready to send to property management detailing the entire ordeal. I even prefaced the email with (verbatim) “Please note while I am explaining myself in this email, my anger and frustration has absolutely nothing to do with you. It’s just a really horrifying experience and I have to be completely honest.” I proceeded to round out the email calmly asking two questions: How did this happen? How can we prevent it from happening again?
After receiving no response within 24 hours, I called the office. Still nothing. So I walked downstairs to speak with the property manager in person. She folded her arms and said, “I didn’t have time to reply. But now that you’re here, sit and tell me what happened.” Rude.. but okay.
So I did. I recounted the same points I had outlined in the email. All calmly, clearly, and verbatim. Midway through, she cut me off. “I feel that you’re being very aggressive right now.. ” she said, pointing to my tone and body language as the issue. So I asked her: What about my body language felt aggressive? She didn’t have an answer. What about my tone? Still, nothing. Not because she had forgotten, but because there was nothing to point to. I didn’t raise my voice, I didn’t make any sharp gestures, I didn’t come in wagging a finger. What she was reacting to wasn’t aggression, it was clarity. I was a woman speaking with incredible precision and certainty, without any apology or softening. And when someone can’t articulate what made them uncomfortable, it’s often because their discomfort isn’t with how you said something, it’s with the fact that you said it at all. In that moment, her label said less about my behavior and more about her unfamiliarity with Black women who do not shrink themselves to be heard.
It was the first time in my life that I’d been called aggressive. I’ve heard rude, passive, even stand-offish—but aggressive carried something heavier. It suggested danger. Threat. A justification for fear or dismissal.
I gently reminded her that I emailed. I called. I came downstairs and asked if she had time to speak. No judgement. Not rushing to conclusions. Really wanting to take the time to speak one-on-one and understand how my home was skipped over during a routine maintenance check. Something so simple that could be a 1 word reply. I recounted that in the two years living within this community, I’ve been nothing but kind, generous (surprising the entire office with donuts, dropping off packs of premium bamboo toiletry products, and leaving a generous review of my experience living within the community). And, it seemed like in me explaining how I actually wasn’t the big bad enemy she painted me out to be, she realized that I wasn’t. She immediately apologized and softened her tone, “I’m sorry. I understand. Maybe I didn’t use the right words. Aggressive isn’t the word I should’ve used. I’m just really protective of the staff here and how hard they work” Deep sigh
There’s almost a paranoia around it. A feeling that you have to go above and beyond to make people feel comfortable around you
Brandi Collins, senior campaign director at the racial justice Organization Color of Change.
I felt anger and pain rise, not because my feelings were hurt, but because the moment was so starkly hopeless. I had done everything “right.” I’d communicated clearly, politely, and professionally. I had checked my appearance, softened my tone, led with respect. Still, it wasn’t enough. My humanity, my effort, my polish couldn’t override the narrative someone had already chosen for me. I had to break myself down and plead my case like I was on trial. Prove to her that by me speaking coherently, investigating the issue, really wanting to get down to the nitty gritty didn’t at all make me a threat. It made me thorough in ensuring this didn’t happen again. It made me an adult with excellent communication skills.
When a Black woman speaks with clarity and confidence, the world often doesn’t see clarity or confidence. It hears defiance. Trouble. Danger. And when that moment comes, someone (usually in power) feels entitled to put her back “in her place.” Or let her know she stepped out of line. There isn’t a single woman in this country, who shares the same skin tone as me, who hasn’t understand what I’ve gone through. My mom (who I absolutely adore), my beautiful sisters, Michelle Obama, Serena Williams, even Beyonce (as she depicted the gaslighting of her knowledge and creativity in Renaissance: A Film by Beyonce) can all recount experiences of people using their blackness to justify labeling them as “difficult/rude/inexperienced/aggressive”.
This isn’t about one incident. It’s about the pattern. The labeling. The exhausting emotional labor it takes for Black women to simply exist in spaces that claim to value diversity, but shrink at the sound of our voices when we actually use them.
Despite the care I take with every word, every email, every in-person interaction, I’ve learned that I can’t out-polish a stereotype.
So I ask: Why is it that when confidence is worn by a Black woman, it’s so often perceived as a threat?
We say we want truth, leadership, and voice in society. From all races and genders. But when it comes wrapped in Blackness, especially Black womanhood, so often people recoil. It isn’t a misunderstanding, it’s a mischaracterization. And that difference is absolutely everything.
