Do not think that they have not tried to grapple with their inner turmoil, a kind that was collective across the world. Before writing you this letter, I researched images of racist photos of you, and I swore not to look at them the night before I began writing out of fear that I would not sleep. Once I woke up the following morning, I realized that I had made the right decision. There is an image of you dressed in a red gown with your back exposed, your face beautifully made up, your wrists bound and tied together with a thick rope presumably hanging from a tree. The Ku Klux Klan is in the backdrop. Another image is from a Spanish magazine called Fuera de Serie. It’s your face superimposed on an African Guadeloupean slave painted by the French artist Marie-Guillemine Benoist in 1800 and one of her breasts is exposed. This is what they need: to create images of you as an object en route to a cruel, racist death. But hey, at least you look beautiful. At least you have on a red gown or a beautiful headscarf while you’re on your way to being cast out of this world.
You were the only First Lady to have two Ivy League degrees, you tied with Eleanor Roosevelt for tallest, and, of course, you were black. You were not the kind of blackness that could make white people feel at ease. You are not light-skinned with gray or green eyes, and your hair is not curly. Unlike Barack, you cannot claim a white parent and in turn white people cannot claim any stake in your success. You did not get pregnant out of wedlock. There are no images of you smoking weed or any other substance. You do not have a criminal record. It is a shame that you had to be this spotless, that you had to be, in every sense of the word, perfect.
Because no one could find any flaw in you, they made you feel worthless just by being in your body. Photographers shot and dispersed images of you with your mouth open while in the midst of a conversation to “show” that you were animalistic. Cartoonists exaggerated your five-foot-eleven frame by adding extra muscle in your arms and bones in and around your cheekbones to make you appear more masculine and Neanderthal. Snapshots of you with your lips pursed were circulated to make you seem like the typical sassy black woman with an attitude. Fuck the Ivy League degrees, the high-powered attorney position, the many accolades to your name. You were still black. And even worse, you were a black woman, and they would never allow you to forget that.
What did you do to take care of yourself during all this humiliation? Did you pour love into your family, and did they reciprocate? Did you read the works of Toni Morrison, Nikki Giovanni, and Toni Cade Bambara to realize that you were never alone? Did you listen to Nina Simone as you applied a pomade to your skin and hair before going to bed? What did you do to remind yourself that you are brilliant and accomplished despite the efforts they made to belittle and squish you into a narrow prism so that they could live peacefully? What did you do?
On the night of the 2016 Republican National Convention, when Melania Trump plagiarized your speech word for word, were you flattered, disappointed, or fully expecting something like that to happen? A white woman snatching the words from a black woman’s lips and defended by some on top of that. That’s not newsworthy; that’s history, how it’s always been. I was reminded of a time in high school when I wrote a speech from which a white female classmate read because she was a part of student council and I was not. I stood next to her on the podium during graduation, silent as she read. When Melania recited your speech, where were you? After living in the public eye for over eight years, perhaps you have created a mental armor with a thickness that this offense could not penetrate.
Then again, I’m very certain that you have grown even stronger, for during Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign, you spoke with the kind of confidence and vigor that drew tears from the eyes of millions of Americans. Ninety-four percent of black women who voted in the 2016 election voted for Hillary Clinton. Ninety-four percent—many of whom probably had family members who were affected by the 1994 crime bill that triggered massive incarceration rates, particularly among African-Americans. This bill expanded the death penalty, obliterated federal funding for inmate education, and motivated states to lengthen prison sentences. While speaking in support of this bill, Clinton called African-American teenagers “superpredators,” and while she apologized for this statement, she still said it. And yet black women rolled up their sleeves and voted for her while white women—53 percent to be exact—decided that a racist, xenophobic, misogynistic man with neither government nor military experience deserved to be president. Now, ain’t that some shit? Hillary Clinton, the patron saint of white feminism, couldn’t depend on them on Election Day, despite all the celebrity support and pantsuit flash mobs. Of course, the immediate response to the rise of Donald Trump is that everyone was to blame for his victory, but the numbers say differently. When white people attempt to generalize blame, it is a tactic that further enables white supremacy, for the rhetoric obscures those who should really be held accountable: white people themselves.
On Tuesday, November 8, 2016, white people chose white supremacy. They chose to ignore how Trump incited white nationalists and called for surveillance programs directed towards Muslims that were reminiscent of those from Nazi Germany. They chose to ignore the many women who accused Trump of sexual assault. They chose to ignore Trump gloating over doing so. Why? For one, most of his terrifying plans do not affect them. They can turn down their lips and bow their heads in pity, but they will never be targets. They wanted to make America great again by turning the hands on the clock backwards; they wanted everyone to know their place; they rendered the racial and social hierarchies of our country even more calcified. In essence, on Election Day, they chose themselves because historically they always have.
And as for the white women who voted for Trump, I suppose that they left their vaginas at home before they went to the booths. Again, these white women believed that their proximity to white men would allow them to partake in white male privilege. These white women chose their race without taking into account the implications of gender. In fact, there were some white women who showed up to Trump rallies with shirts that stated that they would love for Trump to grab them by the pussy. Somehow, under this man, under his fascism, they felt protected—even honored. This is a true feat of mental calisthenics. But then again, I’ve never had the privilege of believing that my racial identity can smooth over or compensate for the oppression associated with being a woman. That’s the thing about whiteness: it’s blinding.
Immediately after Trump became president-elect, there was a push for you to run in 2020, but I’m not sure that America deserves you. I cannot imagine the number of psychological and political battles you fought while in the White House as First Lady, but you mustn’t forget how much we black women loved you. You were not afraid to dance on live television, shoot hoops with LeBron James, rap, and appear at black-women-centered events to remind us that you were still an active participant in our world no matter how injected you were in theirs.
Michelle, when you said that you live in a house that was built by slaves, something must have crystallized for millions of Americans—the proof is in how many white people tried to discredit your statement. You might have been destined to work in the White House but not to sleep, eat, and host there. The White House was never meant to be your home.
Everything does in fact come around full circle. The great-great-granddaughter of an illiterate South Carolinian slave whose body rests in an unmarked grave near rice fields was the First Lady of the United States of America. You are not Eleanor Roosevelt or Jackie Kennedy. You are Michelle Obama, the embodiment of a new dream that is characterized by both role reversal and intergenerational revenge. We do not need to be subjected to the lie that is the American Dream. You are the beacon that reminds black women that they can be anything they want to be in this country. You are the beacon that reminds white people that 99 percent of them will never reach where you are: their whiteness cannot carry them there; your achievements lie far beyond their grasp. You are the beacon that reminds us that the ascendance of a black woman like yourself is possible, and what a blessing it was to see you shine. You are not an animal or a man. You may be a terror. But their terror is our delight.
For you, Michelle.
6
Black Girl Magic