We lift up Black pride as sacred—a celebration of survival, brilliance, resilience, and the sacredness of our people. But pride without protection?
We lift up Black pride as sacred—a celebration of survival, brilliance, resilience, and the sacredness of our people. But pride without protection? Pride that silences the harmed to shield the powerful?
That’s not pride. That’s betrayal.
Here are 11 ways violence against Black women and children continues unchecked, disguised as community pride—and why we must choose better.
1. “We can’t tear down another successful Black man.”
Too often, community members—especially women—are pressured to remain silent when a powerful man is abusive, simply because he’s well-known, wealthy, or seen as a success story. But success at the expense of someone else’s safety is not something to protect. Black women’s pain is not collateral damage for someone else’s legacy.
2. “Handle that behind closed doors.”
This phrase teaches victims to endure harm in silence so the community can avoid embarrassment. It prioritizes image over lives. Many women and children don’t survive that silence. Some never recover. The truth is: what we force behind closed doors often returns through generational trauma.
3. “You’re making us look bad in front of white folks.”
This weaponizes historical trauma to silence today’s victims. Black women are told to suppress their pain to preserve the image of the community. But the real shame isn’t the truth being told—it’s that harm happened in the first place and the community allowed it to thrive.
4. “She’s bitter / jealous / trying to tear him down.”
This is how Black women are discredited when we speak up about abuse. We’re painted as unstable, emotional, or vindictive. It’s an old tactic dressed in new language. The goal is to make others look away—to doubt the victim, not the perpetrator.
5. “This is family business.”
When someone says this, what they often mean is: “Let him get away with it.” Treating harm as a private matter not only isolates the victim—it protects the abuser. Communities can’t heal what they refuse to face. What starts in one household spreads if no one is held accountable.
6. “He stood for Black empowerment though.”
Being a public figure who talks about Black excellence or liberation doesn’t cancel out violence behind closed doors. In fact, it makes the betrayal more devastating. Public work doesn’t excuse private harm. Power without integrity is just performance.
7. “Nobody’s perfect.”
No one is asking for perfection. We’re asking for safety. Accountability. Humanity. When Black women ask for justice or truth, we’re not attacking someone’s character—we’re defending our lives. Imperfection is not the same as repeated abuse.
8. “But she stayed / worked with him / didn’t speak up then.”
Survival is complex. Trauma warps time, perception, and possibility. Many victims stay because they believe they’ll be blamed if they leave—or worse. Being close to someone doesn’t erase the abuse. It highlights how deeply it was hidden or normalized.
9. “Focus on the positive.”
This is emotional bypassing disguised as wisdom. Positive thinking has its place, but healing requires truth-telling. Ignoring harm in favor of “good vibes only” allows abusers to walk free while Survivors carry the burden in silence. That’s not positivity. That’s erasure.
10. “He’s a legend.”
Legends who harm do not get a pass. Greatness in one area does not cancel violence in another. If the path to someone’s fame is paved with the pain of women and children, that’s not legacy—it’s exploitation. We need to stop confusing celebrity with character.
11. “The system already targets Black men—don’t add to it.”
This one cuts deep. Mass incarceration is a devastating injustice. The system is racist and violent. But Black women and children are harmed when we are told to choose between justice for ourselves and protection of those who harm us.
Survivors are pressured to avoid testifying, to choose reconciliation over safety, or to minimize their trauma “for the good of the race.”
For some, alternative paths to justice—like restorative practices—can be healing. But for others, this is not enough.
Real justice means we don’t have to sacrifice one form of liberation for another.
🖤 Black pride must not be used as camouflage for violence.
We are the descendants of people who survived ships, shackles, systems—and still sang, still created, still loved.
We are worthy of a pride that protects, honors, and tells the truth.
Not pride that hides predators.
Not pride that silences Survivors.
Not pride that lets pain fester behind closed doors.
Let’s be greater.
For the children watching.
For the ancestors who endured.
For the future we’re building.
Let our pride be sacred, not performative. Let it be real.
