The Damsel in Distress and the Strong Black Woman

I really do not want to make this a race thing but as an African living in the diaspora, it is always about race. You can never escape it. It is sewn into the fabrics of your reality and sometimes in the most random moments, like having a cup of tea under the sun. It is a nice day out and you are just grateful for natural Vitamin D. Yet, someone will still walk up to you asking about the sun and somehow connect that to your life as an immigrant and then to coffee and cocoa and all of a sudden you are talking about slavery and explaining to a gathering of people from the mountain of caucasus why colonization had no single positive benefit. So, I do not want to make it about race but somehow something feels odd about this new observation I just made. For some reason, I wanted to write about an African woman because one, I am African and two, I am a woman. I started to read other poems and prose online and noticed a lot of vocabulary around African or black women was about ‘the strong black woman’ or ‘force’ and ‘bravery’ or ‘defiance’ and somehow connected to ancestral suffering. Not that there is anything wrong about this but I wondered if African or black women couldn’t just be human, ‘creative’, ‘fun’, ‘beautiful’ or even ‘ugly’. Since I get paid for curiosity (I work as a researcher), I decided to search about other races of women. How were they described in poetry and prose pieces? I already had a clue but I really wanted my ideas to be wrong. When I did the search, the words changed, suddenly the women were ‘delicate’ and ‘soft’ and ‘beautiful’ ‘grace’ ‘quiet resilience’. Now, again, I do not want to make it about race. For copyright reasons, I decided to take this to AI. As we know, a lot of chatbots are trained on data scrapped from all over the world, stolen or otherwise and they in little ways, represent how the world thinks of itself using publicly published information. I prompted ChatGPT and Co-Pilot over the course of the 2 years because I am persistent if anything. ‘Write a poem about the white woman’ ‘Write a poem about the black woman’CHATGPT: The White WomanIn the softness of her porcelain skin, a story quietly whispers,A tale of delicate strength, like petals on a breeze.She moves through the world with a quiet elegance,A reflection of grace in every step, every glance. Her eyes, like pools of crystal blue,Reflect the sky's vast expanse, ever true.With a gaze that holds both wisdom and innocence,She navigates life's journey with quiet resilience. Her hair, like strands of spun gold,Glitters in the sunlight, a sight to behold.Each strand is a testament to her gentle power,A reminder of the beauty found in every hour. In her heart, a kindness that knows no bounds,A compassion that echoes in every sound.For she sees the world through eyes of empathy,And strives to spread love with every breath, and every plea. Oh, the white woman, with her spirit bright,A beacon of hope in the darkest night.With her presence, she brings a touch of grace,And fills the world with light in every place. CHATGPT: The Black WomanIn the depth of her melanin, a universe resides,A symphony of stories, whispers, and tides.She stands tall, rooted in ancestral pride,A beacon of strength, undeniably dignified. Her skin, like ebony, reflects the night's embrace,A canvas for resilience, adorned with grace.Each curve, each line, tells a tale untold,Of struggles endured and victories bold. Her hair, a crown of coils, defies gravity's pull,A testament to heritage, a symbol so full.With every twist and turn, it sings a song,Of resilience, of beauty, of where she belongs. In her eyes, the wisdom of generations past,Glimmers with hope, a light that will last.For she carries within her the dreams of her kin,A legacy of strength, against all odds, to win. Oh, the black woman, a force to behold,In her presence, stories of courage unfold.With every step she takes, she paves the way,For a future where all voices have their say. COPILOTThe Black WomanShe enters the roomlike dusk—not a darkness,but a softening of the worldinto something truer. Her skin holds storiesthe earth tried to forget,tones layered like sedimentfrom centuries of becoming.When she breathes,the air shifts,as if rememberingit was once made for her. Her hair is a constellationshe carries without apology,each curl a starthat refused to fall.People reach for itthe way they reach for miracles—too quickly,too carelessly—but she keeps the sky intact. Her voice is a riverthat learned to carve stone.Not loud,not quiet—just inevitable.When she speaks,the truth stands up straighter. She is the womanwho gathers broken thingsand teaches themhow to stand again.Not because she must,but because she knowswhat it meansto be the thingthat was expected to breakand didn’t. Her laughter is a rebellion,her silence a sanctuary,her presence a lessonin how light bendsaround resilience. And when she walks away,the ground remembers—the way soil remembers roots,the way history remembersthe ones who carried itwithout ever being carried. COPILOT The White WomanShe walks like winterarriving before anyone is ready,a hush settling on her shouldersas if snow had learnedthe shape of a body.Her hands are small galaxies,soft with the weightof things she never said.When she touches the world,it brightens —not because she is light,but because she carriesa quiet that refuses to dim.She is the womanwho stands at the edge of a fieldand listens for somethingonly she can hear —the hum of old stories,the ache of unfinished lives,the echo of a nameshe has not yet learned to claim.Her laughter is porcelain,fragile but persistent,a sound that cracksand mends itselfin the same breath.She is not a symbol of purity,nor a canvas for projection —she is a personmade of contradictions:soft-spoken storms,gentle rebellions,a heart that bruises easilybut refuses to break.And when she leaves,the air remembers her —the way frost remembersthe warmth it once touched,the way silence remembersthe voice that taught ithow to listen.The judgement of these differences, I will leave you to decide. I am genuinely curious as to what you think of these ideas. You are welcome to try it yourself and observe the differences and let me know. I fear living abroad might have made me a little too sensitive to racial issues but at the same time, maybe I am not sensitive enough and making light of what might be bigger than I presume.

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