Protection Isn’t Always Guaranteed For Black Women

My daddy is a living, breathing Mufasa. He is the epitome of a fierce protector, warrior and provider. Even at 75-years old, my dad will give you this work in spirit (his body isn’t as strong as it used to be). We’ve always had his protection. ALWAYS. We were duped.

I thought all black men were like my daddy and the men in our family. I learned that was a fallacy as an adult. More times than not, black women have not been not given the “luxury of protection” as my mami, sister, nieces, and grandchildren are. With said “luxury”, my parents have built strong, confident kick ass women who aren’t afraid to be ferocious or fearless. We aren’t even afraid to shed blood if necessary especially for our babies (my child as well as nieces and nephews).

I remember my daddy, effortlessly, shutting down my grandmother’s attempts at disrespecting my mother. I recall her negative words about us and my old dude WAS NOT FOR THE GAMES. He shut his OWN MOTHER DOWN. Men didn’t dare to speak to us sideways or even look at us funny unless they wanted a problem with my dad. Which they didn’t because a martial-arts trained boxer, who was also a Vietnam Vet and nice with firearms, would have surely fucked them up.

I, honestly, had no idea that other sisters weren’t being revered in that same way.

Note: *I cleared this with the Mister before I wrote it*

Thank you for allowing me to share this very personal part of our life with my readers, babe. *besos*


I had given every brother the benefit of the doubt that he was like my dad including my husband. I came into our marriage with the expectation that my husband should and would shut bullshit down on sight. Because that’s what my dad would do.

That has not always been the case.

My husband and I have a fairly good marriage in terms of loving one another and being friends. He’s my dude. Even when we fight. It’s pretty fair to say that certain people in his family “don’t care for me” and the feeling is mutual. However, we differ in that I’m content with not being bothered with them in any form so at my husband’s request- I remained silent when they began their shit.

It’s the contrary of who I am as a person but I obliged. I expected him to “go in and let have” and he didn’t. He may have had a conversation but he didn’t give them that fire which I needed him to bring. It has been and is a sore spot for me still. Although now, I’m not so quiet about it.

I, constantly, compare him to my father. It isn’t fair but it’s what I know. I watched my mother sit pretty knowing that her husband had her back. Not to say that Mr. NWT doesn’t have my back but for him- he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place. For my dad, it was wife or nothing. I know that my husband will kill a stranger for me but when it comes to those other people- it gets a little foggy for him.

Fortunately, I can take care of myself. There are black women who aren’t so lucky.

It’s ingrained in us to treat black women and girls, even abroad, like shit. Whether it’s through infidelity, physical, mental or verbal abuse; black women get the shitty end of the stick. We do not get reciprocity. Our voices are useless unless they are tied to black men’s struggles and it’s sickening. Black women are under relentless scrutiny by fuckboys and even other black women. When our struggle results in our death, “we should have chosen better”. We should have backed down. We should have complied. It’s always something and nothing. We are expected to have all the answers while black men fumble and fuck us up under the guise of “finding himself”.

We have to eat your shit because of your shortcomings. We have to “guard our words” because of your fragile ass ego. We have to build you up while you tear us down. So many expectations with little gratification. Oh dear black man, “Kang”, your most prized possession you shit all over and tell us that we are too fake while you chase the Kardashians of the world.

You will watch us be brutalized in the street and not one of you will step your punk asses us to straighten out your brother. If YOU ARE the good guy, why aren’t you policing the many pieces of shit who exist? The ones who speak against us. You stand, idly, by while other black men rape, beat and kill us and it always ends up being “our fault” in some way. How did we get here? How can you stand to look at yourselves when you are the epitome of weakness? We’ve been down for you since ropes were tossed around our necks and our babies were cut from our bellies and used as target practice. More times than not we got the brunt of YOUR PUNISHMENTS for protecting you.

How soon we forget?

Now, you sit in fuckboy drum circles calling us everything but a child of God. Yet somehow, we are supposed to still love you after this? Should we still call you brother after this?

Our protection and existence are contingent upon sisters caring for one another. Black men have dropped the ball and we need to forge ahead leaving all dead weight behind.

Learn how to fight. Don’t be afraid to use a firearm. You don’t have to be a ride or die chick. You will more than likely be on the dying end of that mantra. Protect yourself, sisters.

Our survival is of paramount importance.



Show your support

Clapping shows how much you appreciated Keka Araújo’s story.