The Problem With "Black Girl Magic"

“There is no such thing as ‘girl power’!” These words may seem less than surprising coming from the mouth of a seven-year-old boy. Afterall, he still thinks girls are “yucky.” But coming from the mouth of a seven-year-old boy whose mother is an avowed womanist and whose life vision and mission is to liberate women around the glove from anything that degrades their humanity, silences their voice and attempts to deny their power, it was more than a little disheartening.

But my son wasn’t alone in his emphatic declaration. Soon, his eight-year-old buddy chimed in with words affirming my son’s sentiments. “Yeah,” the eight-year-old said “girl power is only in the movies! Boy power is all the time!” After listening to these proud declarations of unknowing misogyny for a few minutes, I realized that they were talking about the powers that female superheroes in the movies. And though their young minds were too innocent to understand the depth of the truth they spoke, I had to admit that they had a point. Girls are seen as weaker than boys - their powers coming from giving of themselves always with the expectation that they will need the help of a boy to protect themselves or fight back. Except in the movies.

“Well, the men superheroes in the movies don’t have real powers like that either,” I said. My son quickly retorted, “But boys rule!”.

It’s frustrating when your very salient point is lost on seven-year-old ears. It’s perhaps even more frustrating you know the kernels of truth in the chauvinistic, yet proud, proclamations of your only child who happens to be male. Toxic masculinity is a thing that stands ready to take hold of our boys and to ravage our girls. But the truth is that toxic masculinity poses as much a threat to our children’s well-being as its insidious counterpart – toxic femininity. No, I’m not talking about Megan Thee Stallion bragging about her bustline to waistline ratio. I am talking about the toxicity of “black girl magic.”

Don’t get me wrong, black women can parent and cook and counsel and serve our households and houses of worship and put out fires and still show up to sorority meetings, board meetings and business meetings looking flawless. We make it look effortless – and that is the problem. We take on so much yet draw the margins for error so narrow that we barely have room to breathe and just be. We make being black and woman look easy; almost like “magic.” Nobody sees the tears we cry when our plate is as full as our hands and we are trying to do it all with no help. Nobody sees the sweat that adorns our brows after a full day of moving kinds from place to place, making sure the house in order, and trying to look put together all the while breaking our necks to make our bosses look good or to earn the respect of our peers and the employees we manage (because some of us have to earn what others of lighter hues with deeper voices are so freely given). Nobody knows about the stress that almost suffocates us as we smile and pretend that someone is going to find out that we have weaknesses just like everybody else. Nobody else has to live the words of the broken narrative that tells us, and the world, that to be black and to be a woman means to be able to bear everything that is heaped upon you without breaking. Strong.Black.Woman.

I told my so that he was wrong. I told him he was confusing power with magic. “We all have power baby; God gave that to us. None of us has magic. Not even your powerful, awesome mama. I’m human just like you.”

My prayer for each of you, my sistas, who read these words today is that you renounce your magic and claim and walk proudly in your power.