The Violence of Having to Be Strong

The Violence of Having to Be Strong

This is not past—
this is present tense pressure,
a boot on the breath
calling it “measure.”

Right now—
not hidden, not gone, not reformed—
just dressed up different,
repackaged, normed.

A living idea
with historical roots,
still weighing Black bodies,
still pressing on throats.

They don’t write fractions
like they did before—
no ink, no parchment, no courtroom lore.

But watch how worth
gets quietly split—
how value is rationed,
how humanity fits.

Three-fifths never died.
It learned how to live—
in policies crafted
to take and not give.

A mindset breathing
through structure and law,
through what gets protected
and what’s seen as flaw.

This is that notion—
refined, redefined—
a living, breathing
state of mind.

So no—
none of this lands as surprise.

This country been honest—
just listen between its lies.

The American dream—
say it straight, no disguise—
was a dream for some,
for others—designed demise.

A nightmare engineered,
meticulous, clean,
where hope is marketed
but rarely seen.

Where doors get built
just to stay shut tight,
where access is filtered
by power and light.

So what does it mean
to be Black right now?

It means knowing the system
and still asking how.

How survival became
the baseline demand,
how strength became currency
forced into hand.

Because it’s not optional—
this strength they praise.

It’s required
just to move through days.

Required to breathe,
to exist, to belong,
required to carry
what’s been wrong this long.

And that—

that is the violence
no bruise can show,
the kind that lives
where exhaustion grows.

The kind that says:
bend, but don’t break—
while taking more
than any soul should take.

To always be ready,
alert, aware,
to measure each movement,
to calculate air.

To know that being seen
can be threat enough,
that simply existing
is already rough.

So minds get sharpened,
spirits trained tight,
hearts learn discipline
before they learn light.

Not for excellence—
not for art—
but for basic survival
of body and heart.

Because a thinking Black mind—
clear, awake, precise—
is something this system
has never priced nice.

So knowledge becomes
both shield and strain,
a way to endure,
but never escape pain.

And still—

the world will call it resilience,
like it’s something to praise,
like it isn’t a burden
carried through days.

Like it doesn’t wear down
bone, spirit, and skin,
like it isn’t a battle
no one should be in.

Because being “strong”
in a world like this
is not a gift—

it’s coexistence
with constant risk.

And no—

this was never confusion,
never unclear—
this is design
operating here.

So understand this plainly,
without romance or song—

there is violence
in having to be this strong.

By: Tenisha Lane