“Don’t you wear a suit? Do you even own a suit?”

Shouted by a “reporter” as Mr. Volodymyr Zelensky attended a “meeting” in the White House on February 28, 2025.

And before the meeting even began, 47 set the tone in front of the cameras—mocking the President of Ukraine, a man still fighting for his country.

“You’re all dressed up.” 47 said, shaking his hand with a smirk. Then, turning to the cameras, he added, “Look, he’s all dressed up today.”

Was this an awkward joke? No. It was a calculated insult—a public attempt to demean and establish power dynamics before the meeting even started. A clear message:

You are not one of us. You are less than.

Because in certain spaces, belonging isn’t about your skills, your leadership, or—in this case—the fact that you’re literally defending your nation in war. It’s about whether or not you perform the right version of acceptability.

The Costumes We Wear.

Every day, marginalized people navigate spaces where they’re expected to perform acceptability. The right look, the right tone, the right demeanor.

Because it’s not just about clothes. It’s about power.

The right suit, the right hair, the right skin tone—all signals meant to say:

✅ I am one of you.

✅ You don’t need to fear me.

✅ I don’t think independently.

✅ I am the same as you.

Because if you look different, you might think different—and that’s the real problem, isn’t it?

The “Good Ones” Know How to Disguise Themselves.

This is why diversity is feared in certain spaces. If you don’t look like them, you might not think like them. And that’s dangerous. So, the unspoken expectation is clear:

Blend in. Disguise yourself. Make yourself palatable.

? Straighten your hair. (That nappy hair will never get you into management.)

? Lighten your skin. (Because the darker you are, the more “foreign” you seem, and different is dangerous.)

? Change your name. (That one is too hard to say.)

? Wear a suit. (Because when YOU dress casually, it’s “disrespectful.” But when WE do it? It’s “cool.” “Innovative.” “Tech-bro.”)

Funny how the Special Employee of DOGE strolled into the Oval Office this week in a t-shirt and a baseball cap—and yet, no one yelled about decorum. Strange how that works. ?

Now, the quiet part is being said out loud.

The Unspoken Rules of Power.

This was never about a suit. It was about who gets to belong without question and who has to prove—again and again—that they deserve to be in the room.

It’s about the message being sent loud and clear:

❌ Don’t challenge us.

❌ Don’t think differently.

❌ Don’t be different.

❌ And for the love of power, don’t be compassionate, intelligent, skilled, or bring expertise—because that makes you even more of a threat.

Because in this reality, not wearing a suit doesn’t just make you “unprofessional.” It outs you as an outsider.

And the moment they realize you’re not one of them?

They want you out.

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The post The Costumes We Wear | What the “Suit” Comment Really Meant appeared first on AndHumanity.

And then Beyoncé does what only Beyoncé can do—she redefines the moment. She releases a country album, standing tall in a genre that loves its traditions but forgets its roots. The Grammys take notice. She wins Album of the Year.

And just like that, the country music purists and the gatekeepers of belonging collectively clutch their pearls. How dare she? They say she isn’t country. That it’s an insult. That she doesn’t belong in their space, a space built from the sounds of Black artists whose credit were stolen, erased, or buried.

The discomfort isn’t about the music. It’s about control.

And then Kendrick Lamar steps up.

Five Grammy wins for a diss track.

A diss track? In their space? How dare he?

His performance unfolds like a story. His words hit hard. His symbolism is precise. His delivery? Too much for some. Too Black. Too unapologetic. They mumble in frustration—I can’t even understand what he’s saying. As if understanding has ever been the goal. As if their inability to hear should silence the message.

It’s too raw, too real, too urgent. They call it a disgrace.

And yet, Kendrick isn’t performing for their approval. He’s performing because the truth demands to be heard. And when truth and art collide, there is nothing more powerful.

How dare he exist?

Serena Williams, the greatest to ever hold a racket, wins gold at the Olympics. And to celebrate, she does the Crip Walk. A dance born from the streets, from culture, from identity. A dance that moves with history.

The tennis world is up in arms. The backlash is swift. How dare she bring that into their pristine, white-linen-clad world of tennis? The same world that never wanted her there in the first place.

Fast forward, and the same move shows up at the Super Bowl. This time, it’s “disrespectful.” Because when it comes from us, when it’s ours, when it holds the weight of meaning—they demand we erase it. Water it down. Make it palatable.

And when we don’t? When we refuse?

How dare we exist?

The rules are clear, aren’t they? They always have been.

You can be exceptional, but not too exceptional.
You can succeed, but not that way.
You can break barriers, but don’t break the wrong ones.
You can celebrate, but only on their terms.
You can be Black—but only the kind of Black they are comfortable with.

We see it in everything.

DEI was once a commitment to making space, to breaking down barriers. Now, some use it as a slur. A target. The first thing on the chopping block. The very idea of inclusion is too much.

Being “woke” once meant awareness, consciousness, understanding the world around you. Now, it’s a dirty word. A weaponized insult. A way to dismiss those who demand more. Remove those who refuse to take the ‘blue pill’.

The backlash is loud. The dismantling, strategic. They tell us diversity has gone too far—as if there was ever a moment in history where it was enough.

Black people are forever being told we do not belong.

We don’t follow the rules.
We are a blight.
We are a threat.
We are incompetent.
We are liars when we speak of discrimination.
We are not to be believed when we say, This is what’s happening to us.

HOW DARE YOU EXIST.

Well, we do.

We exist.

And we have earned our place—not that we should have to. But we have, over and over again.

The discomfort—anger, outrage, pearl-clutching—isn’t about fairness, quality, or tradition. It’s a reflection. A mirror. A fear of losing control. A fear of being exposed for what they truly believe:

That they deserve everything. Without challenge. Without competition. Without question.

So what do we do?

We keep going.
We keep winning.
We keep creating.
We keep showing up.
We keep celebrating.
We keep living.

And we do it all without apology.

So, to those who keep asking:

How dare we exist?

Watch us.

We exist.
We thrive.
We lead.
We win.

And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.

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Years later, when I was 19, I found myself in a situation that eerily mirrored my grandmother’s. My fiancé, in a jealous rage, grabbed me and threw me over a table. I landed hard on the ground, and as I lay there, dazed and hurt, he stood over me, blaming me for making him angry. The worst part was that this happened in public. People saw, but no one stepped in to help. No one asked if I was okay. After it was over, I walked home, a two-hour and twenty-minute walk, with so many emotions competing for top spot inside me—anger, sadness, confusion—but mostly, a fierce commitment that I would never let this happen again. 

In that moment, I realized that domestic violence is not just something that happens to “other people.” It can and does happen to many of us, regardless of where we’re from or how strong we think we are. It’s insidious, creeping into our lives in ways that often feel familiar, even normal. And, unfortunately in the West Indian culture, this issue is hidden, not talked about yet generationally accepted. 

The statistics are concerning: 1 in 3 West Indian women will experience domestic violence in their lifetime. It’s an epidemic rooted in the culture of colonial male dominance, where patriarchy and misogyny are passed down and ‘understood’. Too often, women are told that if a man hits you, it’s your fault. That you did something to provoke him. From a young age, we are conditioned to be silent, to bear the burden quietly, to hide our bruises and our pain so as not to become the topic of rumours and shame.

My grandmother’s story wasn’t unique. Her missing teeth were part of a long line of whispered stories, of women who were taught to endure rather than speak out. And for so long, I carried that silence too. But the truth is, domestic violence thrives in that silence. The culture of whispers, the quiet suffering, the unspoken shame—it all feeds into a system that allows abuse to continue unchecked.

We need to break that cycle. To the women reading this, especially my West Indian sisters, I want you to know that you are not alone. Whether you’ve experienced abuse or are watching someone you love go through it, your voice matters. Your story matters. We can’t let shame or fear keep us silent. 

Breaking the stigma of DV is not easy but breaking the wheel of generational trauma is our responsibility. We deserve better and demand better—for ourselves, for our grandmothers, for our daughters, for our nieces and nephews, sons and brothers. Ending domestic violence starts with acknowledging it is not your fault, you are not the problem and you did not deserve any of it. Physical, psychological, and emotional abuse – is ABUSE. Start by trusting yourself. Questioning whether they had a bad day, or you said or did something to deserve it – trust yourself to know when that voice inside of you is screaming ‘MAKE IT STOP!’ Next, consider speaking to a trusted friend, colleague, therapist, counselor, or relative. You may not be as alone as you may think. The burden of secrecy weighs heavy, lighten the burden. Wishing all those who read this and if this resonates with you – you are not alone.

November is Domestic Violence Awareness Month in Canada.

 Find family violence resources and services in your area

Fostering Violence Prevention and Well-Being for Black Women, Families and Communities

Sheryl Johnson  – she her pronouns – Born and continue to reside on the stolen territories of Treaty 13. Racialized dark-skinned settler of West Indian and Eastern European heritage. Proud to be the granddaughter of Gran Gran and Da Da pictured.

The post Unspoken Scars: The Hidden Truths of West Indian Women and Domestic Abuse appeared first on AndHumanity.