No More Tables: A Black Woman's Farewell to False Allies

For those wondering why Black women are done, let me lay it out for you.

For Black women in their late thirties, we've been working to dismantle white supremacy for the better part of 20 years. Twenty years of diversity trainings. Twenty years of being the only one in the room. Twenty years of watching others climb past us. In the early 2000s, we politely explained that we aren't really a colorblind society. After Obama's election, while others celebrated a 'post-racial America,' we kept doing the work. Every cause, every march, every uncomfortable conversation—because solidarity, right? All while holding down our jobs, raising families, and explaining over and over how deeply systemic racism was woven into the fabric of society.

We faced constant discrimination at work when we called out our boss's racism, and no one believed us. It was always in our minds, they said. We watched others who didn't work as hard, who weren't as smart, capable, or dedicated, climb the ladder while we stayed put. But we kept going because we believed in the American Dream. We created your implicit bias trainings, led your anti-racist workshops, sat on your diversity committees—all unpaid, all unrecognized, all while watching you promote the very people we reported for discrimination. We gave people the benefit of the doubt, swallowed the humiliations, and still showed up. We continued to reach out to the underserved because that has always been our role. No matter how low we have been, we have always sent down a hand to pull the next person up—often someone who didn't look like us, didn't pray like us, didn't sound like us. But this was just what good people were supposed to do, right?

Then 2016 shattered whatever illusions remained. We saw the writing on the wall. We warned everyone that white supremacy would destroy not just Black people, but all of us. But we knew you wouldn't truly understand our warnings—how could you? These people showed one face in diversity trainings, then went to vote for a man who called our communities 'war zones.' They nodded along in meetings about inclusion, then cheered policies that targeted our children. They showed you their polite faces, their public masks. But with us, they let their true colors show, their masks slipping in those moments when they thought no one who mattered was watching.

And then, after George Floyd's murder, there was a flicker of hope in 2020. Maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. We were skeptical, but hope is hard to kill. And within months, it was clear—nothing had changed. Nothing had been addressed. We limped through the Biden presidency, only to face a choice: a sweet but elderly president with little remaining connection to the realities of American society, or a truly deranged individual who, if pushed, will stop at nothing and protect no one.

Despite being let down every single time, we persevere. The statistics tell our story: Black women die in childbirth at three times the rate of white women. Cancer kills us more than any other group. Each day, our bodies bear the weight of these disparities. We earn thousands less each year - money that could have fed our children, fixed our homes, built our futures. We live in neighborhoods that remain segregated, our property values deliberately suppressed, the legacy of redlining still poisoning our communities. This segregation isn't just about housing - it reaches into our bones, shortening our lives, dimming our children's futures before they even begin.

And what have we done in response? We showed up. We didn't make excuses. We didn't blame immigrants. We didn't turn against our neighbors. We didn't look for scapegoats. When the system failed us, we built our own. When doors closed, we made windows. When you excluded us from your tables, we built our own rooms. We didn't surrender to hate. We didn't target those with less power. We didn't abandon our principles—even as you abandoned yours. When we weren't hired, we got more education. When we faced job discrimination, we started our own businesses. We cried, begged, pleaded, and screamed from the rooftops, telling everyone that these people are racist and sexist, that they don't mean well. And what did we get? We were ignored, patted on the head, called dramatic, accused of playing the race card. You sat silently while we were abused, neglected, accused, fired, and scapegoated. When we were assaulted, you looked away. When we reported our attackers, you questioned our truth. The statistics tell our story - our assaults go unprosecuted, our trauma dismissed, our bodies deemed less worthy of protection.

And still, when democracy itself was under threat, guess who answered the call? We did. Tired. Broken. But we showed up—again.

We watched a Black woman—brilliant, accomplished, unshakeable—be called every vile name imaginable by one of the most intellectually unsophisticated men ever to enter public life. He called her hooker, slut, dumb, idiot, while simultaneously obsessing over and sexualizing her. In attacking her, he attacked all of us. In degrading her, he degraded every Black woman who ever dared to achieve. We could see it in our minds: our daughters, armed with their degrees, their dignity, their determination, still being reduced to these same vile slurs.

We gritted our teeth and showed up anyway. Not because we believed in you anymore—that illusion was long gone. We showed up because democracy itself was at stake. Because climate change threatened our children's future. Because unstable countries around the world watched America's example. We understood what you didn't: some things are bigger than our pain.

We made the calls. We knocked on doors. We organized—all while raising children, working jobs, maintaining homes. And all while this stress, this constant dehumanization, was literally killing us. Not metaphorically—literally. It's in our cells, our DNA, our blood vessels. Every slight, every betrayal, every moment of swallowed rage shows up in our bodies as hypertension, heart disease, shortened lives.

The election demographics told us everything. You sold out democracy for tax breaks. You traded our children's safety for an imaginary economy. You chose hatred over healthcare, vengeance over vaccines, regression over rights. You proved that your comfort matters more than our survival.

After all that, after the decades of struggle, we woke up to find that it had all been for nothing. In that moment, we realized how many people lied to our faces, pretended to care about women and their daughters, pretended to be welcoming to immigrants, pretended to be good, fair Americans that believed in the rule of law. But deep down, they all knew that they wouldn't be the ones affected. It would be those Black folks over there.

So yes, we're done. Done explaining. Done educating. Done carrying your guilt. Done being your moral compass. Don't be surprised when we walk by you in the hall without saying hi, when we stop taking your calls, when we ignore your texts and calls for solidarity, when we block you on social media. Don't come to us with discussions about how "wokeness" and "name-calling" drove people into Trump's arms. That excuse died the moment you chose comfort over conscience.

Without a doubt, I trust God, my family, and Black women. The rest of you? You're still on probation.

Next time democracy needs saving, call those rural white voters you're so desperate to understand. Let them do the phone banking, the door knocking, the emotional labor. We'll be too busy surviving your choices.