Amy Joyner-Francis, Who Died For Our Sins

You Are Your Sister’s Keeper

Sisterhood is our birth right.

Amy Inita Joyner-Francis was a 16 year old girl who I only know a few things about. I know she died on April 21st. I know she died in a bathroom. I know she died at the hands of her peers.

The media seems to enjoy focusing on the fact that she died “over a boy”. The insensitivity of society always kind of blows me back. I imagine Amy’s parents trying tediously to wrap their minds around the fact that their child is deceased and then also watch as the incident is casually referred to as frivolous.

Another thing I know about Amy is that she was a very pretty girl. Very pretty girls in high school are generally terrorized. Too light, too dark, too thin, too fat? That’s nothing compared to being admirable and attractive. Should you have the audacity to also display confidence you will likely be offered a few ass whoppins before graduation. Why?

Because young Black women don’t know how to stand for each other.

I’m 31 years old and I finally feel as though sisterhood is something I can come to expect from my peers. We have each other’s backs, we are each other’s keepers, we speak up for each other when a sister loses her voice.

But that’s 31.

Amy was 16. This bathroom brawl could have started over a pencil case and she still may have lost her life that day. The problem isn’t boys. The problem is sisterhood.

There will always be a fuckboy. Forever, amen. There’s a 80 year old Fuckboy in a nursing home right now pissing people off. They come in all shapes, sizes and levels of consciousness. They are inescapable. It’s not up to men not to be fuckboys. It’s up to women to be bigger than fuckboys.

Two years ago I told myself I would make a concerted effort not to bad mouth other women. I have a little asterisk next to a few people but for the most part I try to stay positive at best and neutral at worst when it comes to my fellow sisters in combat.

The big girl in the small pants at Wal-Mart.

The girl who lets her kids run around with no discipline.

The girl who cheats on her boyfriend.

The girl the boyfriend cheated with.

The girl who has everything I struggle to achieve.

I resigned myself to one truth — I don’t know her pain. Whether I consider her actions to be beneath me or cause for great envy.

I. Don’t. Know. Her. Pain.

But I do know she has pain.

The world is angry. High school students are angry. Hell, I’m angry. Anyone under the age of 35 is likely wondering what exactly we, as a millennial society, have to look forward to these days? Trump? Less rights as citizens? Zero privacy? The homogenization of all things creative?

Yay.

Are we going to see a wave of girls like Amy losing their life or mobility behind high school drama? Maybe. But what those severely misguided teens did to Amy in the bathroom isn’t so far from what some of us do to each other every day. We tear each other down over some perceived conflict all because we consider another human being to be a threat. Because we’re afraid someone else may be a reflection of what we strive to do but can’t. Or what we hope we’re not, but very well may be.

Women have to face criticism in virtually every area of their existence — from their sexual choices to the way they wear their hair. Most of our harshest critics were our mothers and fathers growing up. We were taught to have a problem with who we are. We were even taught that not having a problem with who we are is a reflection of being “sadity” or stuck up.

Who does she think she is?

Amy Joyner isn’t dead because of a fuckboy. She’s not dead because her school doesn’t have enough security. She’s not dead because she lived in the hood. She’s dead because someone taught black girls that their value is measured against everyone else’s. That as long as we’re better, tougher, prettier, more successful — we can earn our stripes.

I think we could blame the last generation for not raising us better. We can wonder why some of us were beaten or assaulted or neglected or pressured to be the best or not hugged enough or taught fighting in the girl’s bathroom might solve something. Or we can look within and decide to be better for ourselves. For our daughters.

No one can do this on our behalf. But we can do it for each other.

We don’t have to exist in a reality where girls like Amy are beaten to death because a group of girls don’t know their own value. Black women are the back bone of the world.

We’re strong enough to rise and strong enough to pull each other up.