Content warning: This article contains mentions of racism, misogynoir, and racially and sexually abusive language.
When a self-proclaimed feminist called me a Black w**** in front of our classmates, not one person said a word. What I learned that night changed everything I thought I knew about solidarity.
Even when a Black woman goes out of her way to be “respectable”, misogynoir often surfaces the moment she challenges expectations about staying in her place. The term “politics of respectability”, coined by historian Evelyn Brooks Higginbotham in Righteous Discontent, describes how Black women historically adopted white behavioural norms, such as temperance, cleanliness and sexual appropriateness, to resist racist stereotypes. Those expectations still shape Black women’s lives today, influencing everything from dating to education.
Many people assume that shared social beliefs make someone safe. Shared ideology, I’ve learned, isn’t always sincere. I learned this the hard way when my classmates, a group of self-proclaimed liberal, open-minded feminists, did nothing as I was berated with racist and sexist insults and placed in a dangerous situation as a result.
I was in Costa Rica at a beachfront restaurant after spending four weeks completing a TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) programme. It should have been the perfect end to graduation day. Instead, Teresa, a Latina-American woman twenty years my senior, drunk and eager to dominate the room, launched into a tirade against Roman, a Latino-American man she had interest in, accusing him of racism over his politics. Within minutes, her anger shifted to me, her real target, because I’d been with Roman. Ironically, while accusing him of racism, she unleashed a racist, sexist tirade, calling me a Black w**** and a Black s**** in front of our classmates, two instructors and programme leadership. I knew Teresa’s choice of language wasn’t a mistake. Even drunk, she knew exactly what she was saying. She was weaponising misogynoir, a term coined by scholar Moya Bailey in 2008 to describe the intersection of racism and misogyny directed at Black women, to put me in my place. The group, drunk and arguing about politics, seemed oblivious. What should have been a celebration quickly became a nightmare.
When I began the programme, two people stood out: Roman and Teresa. Roman, in his mid-forties, and I had hooked up once but quickly agreed we’d moved too fast and decided to remain friendly. Then there was Teresa. She often scoffed at being mistaken for Afro-Latina, insisting she was a non-Black Latina, and expressed anxiety about being the oldest participant in the programme. She got irritated when locals mistook her for my mother. Despite this, she frequently proclaimed how progressive she was and encouraged me to see her as a second mum, often mentioning her half-Black daughter. The irony didn’t escape me: someone so defensive about being associated with Blackness was using her proximity to it as proof of her progressiveness. I had seen this a million times before. People weaponising their proximity to Blackness, through friendships, romantic relationships, even their children, as proof they weren’t anti-Black, even when their words or actions proved otherwise.
Eventually, a misunderstanding arose between Roman and me, and I made the mistake of asking Teresa and another classmate for their perspective. Teresa immediately fixated on the fact that Roman and I had slept together, asking invasive questions and urging me to cut him off. Although she promised to keep the conversation private, she quickly told others, framing it as if I were in love with him and warning that he would never commit. That wasn’t what I wanted anyway. Despite her hostility, I stayed cordial. We spent nine hours a day together in class, and I wanted to keep the peace. Looking back, I can see I had fallen into the trap of respectability politics: the expectation that women, especially Black women, remain polite, agreeable and non-confrontational. Black women are expected to take disrespect so others don’t have to confront their own prejudice.
I already knew I was being held to a different standard. A white instructor had singled me and another Black classmate out for cutting materials during class, even though a white classmate had spent nearly an entire session doing the same thing days earlier without comment. Intentional or not, the message was clear. Had I complained, people would have been quick to reach for the ‘angry Black woman’ label.
When Roman and I resolved things, Teresa spiralled. She began spending time with my elderly landlord behind my back, asking questions about where I was going and who I was seeing. In class, she made passive-aggressive remarks implying she knew my whereabouts outside of it, which confused me. Simultaneously, she invited me on outings and lunches, positioning herself as a maternal figure while continuing to weaponise her proximity to Blackness, and frequently using the n-word as if it were a casual part of her vocabulary. She had a half-Black daughter. Proximity to Blackness, even through motherhood, does not negate racism.
The whole dynamic was strange: she seemed to bend over backwards to befriend me while not actually liking me at all. When I lived abroad in Asia, I noticed a pattern that repeated itself in unfamiliar environments: expats and students often form intense relationships very quickly. In the beginning, everyone sees the experience through rose-coloured glasses. Eventually, things get messy.
As much as I wanted genuine friendships with other women in the programme, I knew I didn’t have them. One white woman admitted early on that she had no real sense of self, which showed in the way she deferred to whoever was loudest in the room. Another fellow Black woman never questioned Teresa’s blatant racism or casual use of the n-word. Feminism, I was reminded, is often conditional. It falls apart quickly when race, jealousy and hierarchy come into play.
As graduation approached, Teresa’s behaviour intensified. She frequently commented on my body, framing her remarks as compliments but lacing them with resentment. At graduation dinner, after the beachfront incident, the group went to a bar. I considered skipping it but didn’t want Teresa to ruin my evening. She continued making passive-aggressive remarks, and no one challenged her. Women who had proudly called themselves feminists, debating politics, racism and social justice in our TEFL course, suddenly had nothing to say as misogyny and racism unfolded in front of them. Condemning racism in a classroom debate is easy. Confronting it in real time is another thing entirely. Their silence made me sick.
I decided to remove myself and left. At the start of the programme, we had established a rule: no one walks home alone. The town had a reputation for street harassment, and less than a year earlier, a young woman had gone missing after leaving a bar and walking home along the beach. As I stood to go, one woman hesitated, asking if someone should walk with me. Teresa scoffed, suggesting I was probably going to see Roman anyway; that was what my landlord had told her I did every evening. Then, as I moved to leave, Teresa leaned in close. “I’m his future,” she said. Her words confirmed what I already knew: she had an unrequited crush on Roman. It was high-school-level drama, and might have been a little funny if it hadn’t placed me in very real danger. I represented everything Teresa once was and longed to be again: freedom, sexual autonomy, youth. My Blackness and my autonomy had become a threat.
Walking alone through the dark streets, I wrapped my arms around myself as men catcalled from passing cars, the story of the missing woman turning over in my mind. I wondered whether she had left a situation where the people around her had failed to protect her. If I had become a victim that night, the best those feminist women would have offered me was a “sorry”. The worst would have been “she left on her own” — victim-blaming dressed up as concern. As I prepared to cross the street, a familiar voice called my name. Roman had been driving home and happened to pass by. I climbed into his car, relieved. We spent the evening listening to music and unpacking everything that had happened. In trying to ruin my night, Teresa had only exposed herself.
The experience made something clear. Respectability politics had failed me. Being polite and agreeable offered no protection from Teresa’s jealousy, from her misogynoir, or from the group’s silence. For Black women, autonomy, especially sexual autonomy, is often monitored and punished when we refuse to conform. In the days after graduation, I removed myself from the group entirely, blocking numbers, leaving group chats, and spending time with new people before leaving Costa Rica.
Harm doesn’t always come from obvious enemies. Sometimes it comes from people who claim progressive values but stay silent when it matters. Respectability politics will never protect Black women. What will is trusting our instincts, and choosing ourselves.
