There are words that may seem harmless until you hear them through the lens of experience of past pains and oppressions. For some people, “girl” is a word used in casual conversations between friends.
After having a long, rough day at college, and with my mind weary from carrying the weight of maintaining my household and raising my children in a one parent home, I stopped at the 7-Eleven down the street.
I was hungry and I was tired, so I popped in to get something to nourish my mind and body. I was otherwise feeling pretty good, and I was wearing my Nigerian gown and head wrap. While standing in the line, a stranger approached me and said, “Nice outfit.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You wearing that, GIRL!”
Immediately my smile turned into a frown. I looked at this man I had never seen in my life, and maybe will never see again, as his words started echoing in my head.
As an older Black woman, who came from an even older Black woman, this word takes on a brand new meaning entirely. When I hear someone call me “girl”, I know they might not have meant it in a disrespectful way. They might have just been, in their own way, trying to be friendly or even affectionate.
However, what I hear is a history of oppression. I hear a society that has for centuries chosen to not view people of color as an equal. I think of the black women who have fought and protested to have a “seat at the table” deserving of the same dignity and respect routinely extended to those in privilege.
I hear generations of Black Women who raised families, built communities, worked impossible hours, went back to school to further their education, and carried burdens and weight not meant for one human to bear.
I hear the echoes of a time when calling a Black woman “girl” wasn’t a term of endearment. It was a word used to make her weak or lesser than. It was a word used to remind her that she was inferior. Words carry history, even if some of us may have forgotten.
Context matters. If one of my female friends or family members calls me and says, “Girl, guess what happened to me today?” or “Girl, guess who I saw today?” My response is going to be “What?” or “Who?” That hits differently because of the familiarity and levels of knowing and loving each other.
However, when I am out in public or in a strange place and a stranger calls me, a 45 and a half year old black woman “girl,” I don’t hear a sign of respect. When society has consistently referred to Black adults as “girl” or “boy,” you notice the difference.
By the time you reach my age, you have earned your titles. Whether they are before or after your last name, coming from an institution, or from the school of hard knocks, you’ve survived enough. For me, being a mother and a grandmother, I have accomplished too much in life to be reduced to the title of the children I am raising.
At some point, you have to ask: Why is adulthood something that can be negotiable for women but easily accepted for men?
I am not a child that is trying to find herself and her way in life. I am a woman that is overcoming obstacles and has already traveled down half of the long road.
When will we as people begin to realize there is power in words, and that words used without context do hurt? When will we acknowledge the pain and the experiences forced on others by those in positions of power or privilege?
So, just know that when you call me “girl”, I hear more than a word. I hear a choice you made on how you decided to view me, rather than seeing me for who I am.
I am a grown Black Woman, not your “girl”.
Respect isn’t always about grand gestures. Sometimes it’s as simple as calling people what they have earned the right to be called. In this case, “Ma’am” or “Miss” would not have hurt. Think of communication through the lens of those who you may communicate with today.
