Nearly a century and a half has passed since the abolition of slavery, yet the repercussions of that dark chapter remain palpable within the Black community, particularly for Black women. Issues such as colorism and sexual violence, which were pervasive during slavery, continue to manifest in contemporary society.
The roots of intergenerational trauma trace back to the kidnapping of our African ancestors and their forced arrival in this country. While I, like many African Americans, lack knowledge of the specific violence and sexual abuse endured during the Middle Passage and upon arrival, I am acutely aware that the anguish they faced reverberates through our genes.
We have absorbed the same biases surrounding skin tone that our ancestors encountered on slave plantations. Those with lighter skin often found themselves working in the “Big House,” while those with darker skin toiled in the fields. This early lesson taught Black people that lighter skin was superior.
Every Black woman carries a narrative shaped by these experiences—how lighter-skinned women are often deemed beautiful while darker-skinned counterparts are labeled unattractive. This scrutiny disproportionately targets Black women, who are held to standards of beauty that diverge sharply from our African heritage. Instead of celebrating our full lips, textured hair, and rich skin tones, we face criticism, often being deemed “too black” or “too nappy.”
In my own family, I witnessed colorism firsthand. My paternal grandfather had little affection for me or my siblings because of our darker skin; this meant that out of 14 grandchildren, only three received his love. My mother’s side was no different, with an aunt who was praised for her “good hair” while I was criticized for mine. At 30, I finally asserted myself when she yanked my hair, declaring it unkempt. That was the last time she touched me.
The older generations were not exempt from this bias either. My great-aunt, born in 1903, preferred her lighter-skinned relatives, making it known to her grandchildren that they were less favored due to their complexion. This pattern continued with my male cousins, who married white women and criticized Black women for being “too bossy” or “too angry.”
My own DNA reveals a heritage of 15% Western European ancestry, likely tracing back to biracial women in my lineage, potentially products of historical sexual violence. Black women were frequently subjected to such violations, which have tarnished our reputations even today. We are often perceived through a hypersexualized lens, a misconception rooted in the very violence that enslaved women faced. Many white men have approached me with the presumption that Black women are “easy” or “wild” in bed, treating me as an object of curiosity rather than as a person.
This objectification is mirrored in the behavior of some Black men, who have witnessed the dehumanization of Black women throughout history. From the age of 12, I faced unwelcome attention from Black men, who would comment on my developing body inappropriately. It was terrifying.
These stories are not unique. A friend recounted how her 11-year-old sister was molested by her mother’s boyfriend, only to be dismissed by her mother, who labeled her daughter as “fast.” The trauma continued unaddressed for years.
The legacy of slavery continues to inflict pain on Black women, leaving us undervalued and unprotected in society. This reality necessitates change.
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In conclusion, the scars of slavery persist, particularly for Black women, who continue to bear the weight of a painful history. It’s crucial that we address these issues to foster a more inclusive and supportive society.