U.N.I.T.Y.: The Importance of Intersectionality in Our Post-Election Society

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As I tuned into a documentary about the ‘70s on CNN, specifically the episode about feminism, it struck me how predominantly white the feminist movement appeared back then—and even now. I began to dig deeper, and it became clear that this lack of diversity is a persistent issue. Watching iconic figures like Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan left me asking, “What happened to trailblazers like Angela Davis and Audre Lorde?” Where were their voices in this narrative?

As a woman of color, these reflections compelled me to reassess contemporary feminism to determine if women like myself were still being sidelined. I had long hesitated to identify as a feminist, thinking it was merely due to society’s negative perceptions of the label. However, I soon realized that it felt more like a term that didn’t resonate with my experiences. The version of feminism that was constantly presented to me—and many others—was overwhelmingly white, a perspective I could not accept. This glaring absence of intersectionality was never more apparent than during the recent election and its aftermath.

Intersectionality is a term that gained traction during the 2016 elections, particularly when Hillary Clinton accepted the Democratic nomination. Although the concept has existed longer, it was officially defined by Kimberlé Williams Crenshaw, a black civil rights advocate, back in 1989. It examines how overlapping identities—race, gender, sexual orientation, and more—interact with systems of oppression.

In a political climate dominated by a white narrative, women of color, queer women, and those marginalized by the mainstream discourse began to demand their rightful place. When the hashtag #ImWithHer emerged in support of Clinton, women of color responded with #GirlIGuessImWithHer. I embraced this new hashtag because, let’s face it, why should we women of color feel compelled to join a movement that historically excluded us?

Clinton and her allies were part of a feminist tradition that had overlooked black women for far too long. During the election, her attempts to connect with our communities often felt superficial, such as her claim of carrying hot sauce in her purse. On Election Day, when her supporters encouraged people to wear white in homage to the suffragists, it was a painful reminder that those women had fought for their rights while neglecting the rights of women of color. Instead of fostering solidarity, they perpetuated the history of white supremacy.

When the dust settled, it was no shock that white women largely voted for Clinton, prioritizing their interests—much like those revered suffragettes. In contrast, 94% of black women supported Clinton, illustrating that we were not just fighting for ourselves but for a broader equity.

In the wake of the election, a friend added me to the Facebook group Pantsuit Nation. Initially, I was intrigued, but it soon became clear that the group often centered on white narratives, sidelining the stories of marginalized individuals. This “white savior” complex was tiresome. When I learned that the Million Women’s March was being organized by a predominantly white board, I couldn’t help but draw parallels to the exclusive nature of the original Million Man March, which was specifically for black men.

This underlines the essentiality of intersectionality in feminism: one group of women cannot adequately represent the experiences of all women. Historically, white women have appropriated feminism, dismissing alternative perspectives as “divisive.” We’re not being divisive; we’re asserting our right to be heard. A quick Google search of prominent feminists reveals a long list of predominantly white names—where are the black equivalents like Jessica Williams or America Ferrera?

When we mention figures like Lena Dunham or Emma Watson, why aren’t we equally highlighting women of color? The reality is, the table of feminism can be expansive, yet only a select few get to sit at it. When women of color raise their voices, they’re often met with dismissal or labeled as troublemakers. We’re not engaging in an “Oppression Olympics”; we’re simply sharing our truths.

So, here’s a thought: instead of shutting us down when our experiences make you uncomfortable, how about you listen? We don’t seek sympathy; we want acknowledgment and understanding. If you’re a white cisgender, heterosexual woman, and your friend from a marginalized background shares their concerns, your role is to listen, not to respond with apologies but with commitment to support. Recognize your privilege, and understand that we’re not trying to commandeer your way of life. We just want our fair share of the rights we’ve been promised as Americans.

And we’re still waiting.

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