Black women stand at the heart of this nation’s democracy. In every election, we mobilize, organize, and vote — fueling victories for candidates and policies that promise progress. Despite this, our loyalty is rarely met with policies that reflect our needs or the acknowledgment we deserve.
In the 2024 election, Black women again showcased our decisive role in shaping outcomes, maintaining a trend of high turnout and strong support for Democratic candidates. While 91% of Black women voted for Kamala Harris, according to NBC exit polls, her loss highlighted how, despite our crucial participation, broader political forces resisted the change we demand. This moment underscores the engagement and sacrifice we’ve long given, but also reflects the continued influence of systemic forces that shape the national political landscape.
But this story doesn’t start at the most recent ballot box. It starts with centuries of Black women demanding justice, equity, and representation in a country that repeatedly tries to silence us. It begins with women like Fannie Lou Hamer, who endured beatings to fight for voting rights, Ida B. Wells, who exposed the horrors of lynching while advocating for justice, and Stacey Abrams, who transformed voter engagement strategies in Georgia. Their legacies remind us that progress is possible, but only through relentless advocacy.
Black women aren’t seen as individuals. We’re symbols, projections of whatever narrative the world wants to attach to us. To some, we’re the strong Black woman, carrying everyone else’s burdens without ever cracking. To others, we’re scapegoats, blamed when things go wrong. And to too many, we’re invisible until we’re needed.
Because here’s the reality: Black women aren’t just fighting for themselves. We’re fighting for everyone else too. When we demand fair wages, better healthcare, or justice in the face of violence, it’s not just Black women who benefit. It’s the single mom working two jobs, the family crushed by medical debt, and the community terrorized by police brutality. Black women’s victories are everyone’s victories, and we’re left to fight them alone.
Still, we resist. And in resisting, we redefine what it means to be American.
And yet, for all our work, what do we get in return? Inadequate policies that don’t address our needs, empty platitudes from politicians, and a system that continues to fail us at every turn. Under Trump’s renewed presidency, the stakes are even higher; policies that undermine voting rights, threaten access to reproductive healthcare, and embolden white supremacy disproportionately harm Black women. For example, his administration’s proposed nationwide abortion bans would disproportionately affect Black women, who already face higher maternal mortality rates due to systemic healthcare inequities. Meanwhile, the Democratic Party relies heavily on our votes but offers little tangible support in return. This cycle of expectation without reciprocity reveals just how precarious our position remains.
We’re positioned as a litmus test for candidates and movements, often portrayed as the moral backbone of the nation’s democracy. Political parties, particularly Democrats, rely on our turnout to gauge their chances of success. If Black women don’t show up at the polls, it’s seen as a death knell for progressive politics. But this positioning is a double-edged sword—it reduces us to political pawns while ignoring the breadth of our needs and contributions. For example, while our turnout was critical in flipping key states in 2020, issues such as the student debt crisis — a burden disproportionately borne by Black women — remain largely unaddressed. We’re not just voters; we’re advocates, activists, and community leaders. Yet the recognition of our political power rarely translates into meaningful policy or systemic change that addresses the intersecting oppressions we face, from racial discrimination to gender inequity and economic injustice.
The truth is, Black women are expected to save democracy — just like we’ve always done by voting blue and resisting authoritarianism. We’ve powered change repeatedly throughout history, but the systems we uphold continue to exclude us. And who knows how bad it might get in the years ahead, with Trump’s policies poised to roll back decades of progress.
To fail to meet the needs of Black women is to fail to meet the needs of this country.
Still, we resist. And in resisting, we redefine what it means to be American. We carry forward the torch of justice, lighting a path for those who will come after us. But as we do, we must also demand more — from our government, from our allies, and from ourselves. Because saving democracy can not and should not be our burden alone.
We cannot continue to be the foot soldiers in the fight for democracy without the promise of genuine change. Too often, Black women’s struggles are dismissed as isolated issues, rather than seen as central to the health of the nation. To fail to meet the needs of Black women is to fail to meet the needs of this country. The question we must ask now is: How much longer will we be expected to carry this weight?
Atiya Chiphe ‘26 studies in the College of Arts & Sciences. She can be reached at a.chiphe@wustl.edu.