On August 9th of last year, the earth cried out as it absorbed the blood of the fallen. On November 24th, the black soul swelled with ancestral rage. Just two days before my birthday, I was anxiously awaiting to hear the news of whether or not a grand jury would indict an officer for the execution of an unarmed teenaged boy. My innermost being already knew what the decision would be, but I was waiting nonetheless. Although I had prepared myself for the worst, that did not help to soften the blow to come. What was supposed to be a relaxing break from the woes of college life actually marked a discouraging yet pivotal moment in my existence, and dare I say, the existence of many others.

When I stepped back on campus, for the first time in my life, I experienced a hyperawareness of my blackness. This was not mere acknowledgement of physical differences amongst my peers, but an internalization of second class status that those from without had inscribed upon my skin. Over the course of the semester, the volume of insensitive and ignorant comments heightened in response to black students exercising their voice and disgust over the injustice tolerated by our nation. Day by day, I increasingly found myself questioning what it means to be a triple minority on campus. To be economically disadvantaged, racially “inferior,” and a woman all in one. Many campuses and universities across the country have designated safe spaces for students, but I am left wondering whether there are really any safe spaces for black women and for others who experience intersecting oppressions.

The primary safe spaces on my particular campus happen to be spaces devoted to addressing issues pertaining to women and to the LGBTQ community. Recently, while studying in an area that I perceived to be a safe space, I discovered a pink slip of paper on the wall that read as follows: “'Our lives begin to end the day that we become silent about things that matter.' –Martin Luther King, Jr. #AllLivesMatter”. Infuriated by the sign, I scanned the walls of the room. Skimming poster after poster to find anything paying homage to the #BlackLivesMatter movement, I found nothing. I could not have been more disgusted. Despite my knowledge that the manager of the center is white, and my lack of confidence in her ability to understand issues pertaining to the black community, I was shocked by the lack of care demonstrated by a center that advertises itself as welcoming and safe. Young, black, LGBTQ female leaders across our nation are mobilizing to speak out against the disproportionate amount of unarmed black individuals (male and female alike!) being slain by the state. People who have made no contributions to addressing police brutality either willfully or ignorantly try to undermine and discredit the efforts of hardworking men and women by chanting: “All lives matter!” This tactic is not only a silencing mechanism that seeks to maintain the image of a “colorblind” society, but it is idiotic in its implications that the popularity of the #BlackLivesMatter movement distracts from the fact that all lives are important.

Of late, my encounters have led me to believe that many institutions are only willing to accept pieces of me and other individuals. Unfortunately (for them), human beings are complex and made up of many different identities. Therefore, I will not tolerate being in a space that will accept my womanhood while denying the unique challenges I face as a woman of color and as a working class citizen. When you fail to acknowledge me in my entirety, you have consequently committed to silencing the parts of me that you do not to wish to understand.

I write this in tribute to the black women across the country who have been permanently silenced as a result of state violence: Natasha McKenna (37 yrs), Renisha McBride (19 yrs), Aiyana Jones (7yrs), and to the countless others who remain unnamed because their stories weren’t important enough to make headlines.