Demystifying Internalized Oppression: The Pain of Internalized Oppression

When we choose to go deep in this work, it can be more than uncomfortable—it can be downright painful. As I think about the questions that Leigh Morrison posed in the introduction to this series, I admit that I was not particularly eager to reflect on so many painful memories of how internalized oppression has manifested for me. However, in service of the work and helping others to acknowledge and address the pain, I offer a glimpse into my own life in answer to her questions. 

What parts of your identity have you internalized negative messages about?  

I started to internalize negative messages about my race when I was 5 years old in kindergarten when one of the white boys called the only other black child in the class and me the “n” word. We did not really understand what it meant but knew that it was not nice and that we were being bullied because of the color of our skin. That experience took me from being a carefree, curious little girl who thought she could do anything to one who was cautious and suspicious of white people because they might not like me simply because of my skin color. Consider the capability of a 5-year-old to make sense of this experience and its long-lasting impact. I learned in a very painful way at a very early age that race matters, and my race was considered inferior.   

What experiences do you believe contributed to this internalization?  

After that kindergarten experience, there were a number of other experiences. One that perhaps has a bit of a twist, which shows just how complex and insidious internalized oppression can be, relates to colorism. In middle school, I was called a “high yellow heifer” by other black girls who claimed that I thought I was better because of my lighter skin (lighter than theirs). There was a saying that I would overhear my parents and their friends quote: “If you are white, you are all right. If you are brown, stick around. And if you are black, get back.” Later, I learned it was a song written by Big Bill Broonzy, an African-American Blues singer who started his career in the 1920s. There was also the famous brown paper bag test that separated blacks within the black community by color. If you were lighter than a brown paper bag, you were allowed entrance into establishments and clubs. While I could pass the brown paper bag test, for me it was not a positive. I had this so-called “advantage” on the one hand (not for me because I was not accepted by some of “my” own people) and on the other, I definitely felt inferior to the other white middle school girls who had long, blonde straight hair that did not frizz up when they went swimming.   

While I am sure well meaning, my mother would often scold me to “act my age not my color,” deepening the idea in my childhood-developing mind that black was inferior.  

After being accepted to the University of Rochester my senior year in high school, my guidance counselor called me into her office and shared that she was concerned that I might not be able to succeed at this private four-year University, and I might consider the local community college. What was she saying? I wasn’t good enough? I was an honor roll student with a solid B+ average. She got to me. I doubted myself well into my junior year wondering if she was right that I had no business at this highly regarded university. On the other hand, some part of me was saying, “I will show her.” And show her I did. I have two degrees from the University of Rochester and was elected as their first African-American Trustee in 1987.  

One last memory (so this does not become a book) is from my early experience in corporate America. I was wearing a short afro hair style, and one of my colleagues asked me if my hair would grow. When I answered in the affirmative, he told me that I should let it. Hair has always been a source of conflict for me and a place where internalized oppression has played out. The standard beauty is fair skin (not my light skin), and long, preferably, blonde hair. We see many black women today sporting long straight hair extensions because their natural hair does not look like that. I choose to wear my hair natural; however, I must admit that I am often self-conscious and insecure about it especially when I am presenting in front of largely white audiences. I am feeling different, and I guess unconsciously inferior.  

How has your internalized oppression shaped your thoughts or actions? 

There are two distinct ways that I can identify that my internalized oppression has shaped my thoughts and actions: (1) overly critical of my own race. The message “act your age, not your color,” looms large in my psyche, and I know that I can be less forgiving and have higher standards. I think I do feel that as a black person we represent our entire race. (I know it should not be that way. I am showing real vulnerability here.) (2) I still experience the imposter syndrome. (Again, being really vulnerable here.) Even though I have owned and operated a business for 35 years and am considered by many a thought leader in the DEI field, imposter thoughts float through my mind more often than I would like. Although experts say that 70% of “successful” people experience the imposter syndrome, when you overlay race, it has a confounding effect that intensifies the phenomena. 

How has your reflection on, or awareness about, your internalized oppression shaped your understanding of DEI work, or the world more broadly?  

As I think about our future as a society, I worry about the profoundly negative impact on our children that the current socio-political climate is having and will continue to have for generations to come. Black and brown children are being told in very blatant, direct ways that they are inferior. Prior to the current administration in the U.S., the messages had become more subtle thanks to legislation (e.g. Civil Rights Act of 1964) and shifting mindsets. Brown children are being traumatized by current immigration policies that separate them from their parents and cage them like animals. Black children hear from the highest office of the land that their neighborhoods are infested and not fit for human occupancy. Unless we change the narrative and give our children hope and instill in them their innate worth, internalized oppression will only intensify. Internalized oppression keeps us from reaching our full potential, it undermines our confidence, leads to psychological disorders, and in extreme cases can lead to complete withdrawal and even violence.   

Even as someone who considers herself well-adjusted and leading a happy and fulfilling life, when I go deep into reflection, I can see the ramifications of my own internalized oppression, and it is painful. I do this work, in part, to teach others about its impact and to help those dealing with it to heal. Raising awareness is the first step. 

Editor’s note: The Winters Group created a reflection guide on this Inclusion Solution series. The purpose of this guide is to revisit the perspectives shared and to encourage greater self-reflection and critical thinking about the ways this topic influences your world. Also included in this guide are activities and reflection questions for you to engage in as you begin your journey. Download the guide here.