Introducing the Lonely Black Gal
Being the Lonely Black Gal is that state of duality: wanting to be alone and being forced into isolation. Knowing that your solitude is both curated and necessary. It’s being so consumed by the little angry Black girl within and not being able or knowing how to switch off that persona when you finally reach your safe space.
“The moment we let our guard down, our problems are waiting for us. We deal with them silently, alone and keep the process to ourselves. We might decide to share our story once we make it out the other end, victorious and only acknowledge our struggle once we have a success story attached to it.”
Stacey Younge LCSW (Source: Hello Beautiful).
Sometimes this complexity is a totally valid means of defense. In white (unfriendly) spaces, we often have to fight for our seat and our right to speak; so often as Black women, women of color, gender expansive folks, we are automatically deemed the representative for anyone who looks like us. The weight of that pressure is only compounded by the responsibility of creating opportunities for others to exist in the same toxic spaces. The microaggressions, racial hazing, petting and ogling, and fetishism all add up, contributing to bitterness, resignation, angst, guilt, anxiety, and a host of other poisonous internalized emotions.
“It happens most when we are unsure of where to find the strength to deal with the tasks the day, the week, the month will demand. It’s a place of conflict, guilt and confusion. Instead of being able to deal with the issues causing the thoughts, we are forced to deal with shame of having these feelings. We feel so alone; however we are not…”
Stacey Younge LCSW (Source: Hello Beautiful).
I don’t share all this to suggest that the lonely Black girl is always suffering. For me at least, quiet, private spaces are productive. Being forced into a mode of observation and reflection has benefits. My solitude is a learned behavior. A product of an only child upbringing; knowing, relying on, and enjoying self was always paramount. I can recall summers in my childhood home where I didn’t play with friends, it was just me and my thoughts left to devise whatever form of entertainment that could be imagined in a city home. As school began, I had to develop a way to manage my introversion with the seemingly important task of creating allies. To this day returning to my solitude is still a friendly retreat.
This post is a sort of manifesto, or an open letter, to Black women, women of color, and gender-expansive people like me. I’m sharing my experiences (in travel, romance, education, employment, spirituality, mental and physical health) as a way to balance my need to find allies and my dependence on the loner lifestyle, to help those on the outside to understand us, and to open up a discourse about what it truly means to be a lonely Black girl.
