“Oh to be a black woman academic, putting on the strong face and bourgeois air in the ivory tower while having real life Love and Hip Hop ghetto drama simultaneously going on. Tryna act like you so classy but really you got a whole cliche life on the side”
… is what the status reads after the most dramatic reality show scripted moment of my young black life. However, to say it’s the first such moment would be a lie. I’ve had my share of my own personal Teacake boy toy emergencies and ghetto drama that’s had me too TIRED to navigate the ivory tower. Unfortunately, there’s no crisis box option to check off that reads “he had me fucked up”. I haven’t quite figured out how to explain to a professor that I’m not prepared for class because my own lived ratchetry kept me preoccupied for an entire week.
It’s really just another reminder of the multiplicity of consciousness we black women possess while navigating academia. The reality is that it’s very possible for our title acquisition not to mean a thing for our personal lives as black women.”Doctor” so and so doesn’t bar us from the possibility of baby mama drama. It doesn’t stop one of your family members from asking you to “hold sum” and it definitely won’t shield from “Aye Yo Ma!” when you go back to your hood. At the end of the day, our identities will always trump our titles, and that’s just my reality.
Am I right or am I right?