It's bullshit. It was yet another form of soft spoken tolerance that offered white tears solace without the outrage and anger and full on accountability we needed long before the term was coined and then disregarded as semantics.
Every stuffed animal lining shelves in hand me down store is drenched in the tears and the pee of a child who either outgrew or out-knew the moments he clung to it vigilantly. Every scratch on a desk, every hard drive wiped clean, every perfectly woven basket collected was somebody’s.
And yet, here you are, with your pale melanin pigment telling women of color you don’t like that they’ve dedicated seven days a year to the journey with their bodies? Here you are bitching and moaning the equivalent of “what about me?” To hell with your fucking audacity.