Abstract
On a culture that lauds a youthful appearance, the author reveals how racism, sexism, and ageism combine in ways that uniquely harm Black women as they seek professional respect in White spaces.
iStockPhoto.com // kjekol
“Maybe you need to tell your co-workers how old you are,”
I overheard my father say to my mother.
I butted in. “Why would she do that?”
“Well, they all seem to think she is younger than she actually is,” he responded.
“And… that’s a bad thing?” My brows furrowed.
After all, “Black Don’t Crack” is boasted as a point of pride for Black folks who seem to defy the aging process and embody its message, thanks to melanin’s ability to preserve a smooth appearance. Angela Bassett, Gabrielle Union, and Halle Berry are examples of celebrity Black women who are applauded for slowing the visible signs of aging that everyone else is desperately trying to conceal. But outside of Hollywood, looking youthful can be problematic for professional Black women. My mother was not an anomaly when she was questioned by less experienced White colleagues about how she landed her job.
Reflecting on this conversation between my parents, instances of my own misperceived age came into focus. I distinctly remember walking back to my office as a new professor after teaching one day. A woman stopped me in the hallway, vigorously waving a flier.
“The majors fair is today!” the woman cheerfully exclaimed as she crept into my peripheral vision. The smiling woman was probably in her 40s, with bleached blonde hair. We were dressed similarly in dress pants, flats, and business casual blouses. At the time, I’d recently entered my 30s.
“Okay, thanks,” I responded blandly, continuing toward the elevator. I could barely muster a half smile after an exhausting day of teaching.
“Wait! Do you know what you will major in?” the woman inquired with animation.
“Excuse me?” I asked, assuming I misheard.
“Do you know what you want to study?” she asked as she trailed me, that big smile still plastered on her face.
“I majored in sociology, and now I am a sociology professor,” I responded. I smiled in an effort to pre-emptively curb her discomfort, as I too often did reflexively in professional interactions.
“Oh my gosh, I had no idea you were a professor,” she said as she somehow pumped up the volume on her grin. I put my smile away and pressed the up arrow by the elevator door.
Did this woman make an innocent mistake? Maybe. But her not-uncommon presumption that I must be something other than a full-time faculty member with a terminal degree made me feel, once again, as though I did not belong in that space. To my knowledge, few, if any, of my White colleagues navigated such interactions with the same frequency. In the case of my mother—a Black woman in her early-60s with an advanced degree who often found herself as the “only one” in overwhelmingly White workplace environments—her repeated encounters with needing to defend her credentials and experience led her to strategize about how to address the elephant that too often snuck into the conference room: her age.
It is ironic that Black women are praised for achieving a youthful aesthetic that aligns with what the media tells us successful aging should look like when, behind the scenes, the aging process is unequal. The repercussions of the stress that accompanies persistent microaggressions go beyond feeling uncomfortable in the office. Public health scholar Arline Geronimous writes about the process of weathering that Black women disproportionately experience: the accumulation of stress from prejudice and discrimination leaves a biological mark on the body, causing Black women’s bodies to age faster than White women’s at the chromosomal level. A 2010 study by Geronimous and colleagues found that, on average, a Black woman in her 40s is 7.5 years older physiologically than a White woman of similar chronological age. This racialized, fast-tracked aging process contributes to Black women being more susceptible to developing chronic illness and dying prematurely. Youthful-looking Black women with swiftly aging bodies are literally a sick irony—a high price to pay, considering that a youthful appearance is not always as beneficial to Black women as one may assume.
Youthful-looking Black women with swiftly aging bodies are literally a sick irony—a high price to pay, considering that a youthful appearance is not always as beneficial to Black women as one might assume.
Contrary to what the dominant culture tells us we should do—dye our white hairs, keep up with current fashion trends, inject ourselves with Botox, and purchase creams that cultivate an ageless appearance—the 18 Black women in my study made efforts to age themselves. It is unlikely that ageism was the sole nor primary system of oppression that negatively affected their mental load and workplace experiences. Deleterious stereotypes about Black women rooted in racism, sexism, and assumptions of incompetence were likely exacerbated by White colleagues’ beliefs that these women were “too young” for their professional roles. While women across racial groups may experience ageism, my study employs an intersectional approach and centers the experiences of Black women in response to the superficial heralding of Black women’s ability to appear ageless.
When Gray Should Stay
Jaye, a 31-year-old college professor, was intentional about halting assumptions that she was a student on campus: “My mom cuts her grays out of her hair. I let them grow ‘cause I’m like, if they could see just these three little strands, that’ll help me,” Jaye said to me in an interview. Another Black woman working as university faculty, 29-year-old Briana, said that she avoided braided styles even though she likes them because others thought she looked too young at work. Noting how constrained she felt by the internalized obligation to portray herself in a particular light in her small college town, Briana said that “there’s nowhere I can really go where I feel like I can just be 29, young, and free.”
Nadia, a 26-year-old postdoctoral researcher who not only looked significantly younger than her colleagues but was also chronologically the youngest in her department, spoke about her proactive clothing choices, aimed at establishing her professional status on campus: “I try to control my appearance as much as possible. I try to present myself in a way that makes me seem older or like I’m someone who actually works at my college to sort of stave off any potential criticisms, because I can definitely pass for a student if I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt.” Nadia added that the timing in the semester shaped how she dressed as well. At the beginning of the semester, Nadia dressed up “in order to establish that relationship with my students, so it becomes clear that I am not one of them.” Later in the semester, once Nadia perceived that the professional boundary between her and the students was firmly established, she might “wear jeans to class with a blazer or something like that, but I also dress up more on the days that I teach than on the days when I’m just holding office hours.” All these mental gymnastics required of Black professional women—the careful choices about what clothes to wear and when and the nuances of specific hair styles—disproportionately burden them, detract focus from the job at hand, and make seeking promotion more daunting.
The glitches of “Black Don’t Crack” aren’t confined to Black women in higher education. Naima, a 26-year-old content editor at a media company, described how her manager often made comments about her age and “people in her generation” being less equipped for the workplace. Naima became so frustrated by the disrespect that infused every interaction with her manager that she strategized with her therapist about how to be treated better. The casual dress code of her ultra-modern, high-tech workplace meant, as she described to me, that she often wore a “big shirt and leggings and sneakers… I’d look like I had just come off of a college campus or something.” Her therapist recommended that she adjust her wardrobe so that she would be seen as a legitimate employee by her manager: “Even though that [clothing] is comfortable for me, it didn’t really help with how people were perceiving me, so I did over the course of working there start to set money aside to buy a button up shirt, jeans without holes in them, or some nice boots,” Naima said. The burden for Naima was not only mental, but also financial, as she felt forced to purchase more formal attire even as her colleagues continued to dress down.
It makes sense that the Black women in my study made efforts to appear older than they were given some were on the receiving end of problematic nicknames on a regular basis. Alexis, for example, is a 38-year-old who works in an administrative office at a university. She said that her colleagues often called her “little girl” at work because of her youthful appearance. I could relate to this experience, being called “kiddo” at least once per week by a former colleague. Eve, a 26-year-old yoga teacher in my study, said her middle-aged White colleagues often called her “cutie” at work. “I don’t know if it’s because they don’t know my name, or because I look young, but it’s just like, ‘Stop. I don’t fucking know you,’” Eve bluntly stated in an interview. Already the only Black woman in a predominantly White setting, being routinely infantilized at the yoga studio added insult to Eve’s injury. “It’s definitely condescending,” she expressed with frustration.
Pulling the Grandmother Card
My research participants’ efforts to age themselves transcended physical appearance. Lori, for example, a 57-year-old deputy director of a nonprofit organization, spoke about how she went out of her way to share the ages of her children and grandchildren in order to safeguard her age and, relatedly, her legitimacy as an office leader. When she told her colleagues that her children were in their early 30s, she was often met with shock and awe. And when Lori disclosed that she had young grandchildren, her colleagues’ communications with her shifted. “One of the women [I supervised] in my office… she had always thought I was younger than her, and I could tell a difference in the way she interacted with me and treated me once she found out I was older than her,” Lori explained. “It was almost like, ‘Well here’s this woman who comes in and she’s now my boss and she’s younger than me and I don’t really appreciate her… trying to tell me what to do or whatever,’” Lori elaborated, describing how her subordinate initially perceived her. “But then when she discovered, or once she found out [I have grandchildren] and I told her how old I was, then things kind of changed. I think I got a little more respect.”
Some young Black professionals welcome gray hair, as it can help in staving off others’ biased perceptions of youth and inexperience.
iStockPhoto.com // Alessandro Biascioli
Like Lori, Lynn, a 29-year-old college professor, employed strategic mentions of her family in workplace conversation. However, Lynn and Lori differed in how their discussions of family were used to manage impressions about their age. While Lori made a point to emphasize her age by talking about her grandchildren because she was older than she was usually perceived, Lynn made efforts to—as she put it—conceal her age, given that she was younger than most of her professional peers: “There are a lot of things I do to conceal… sometimes I’ll lead with the fact that I have children in order to conceal my age, because I think most people in my field and my peer-colleague group are having children later, so I think that some people can make assumptions about who I am because I have children at this point, or also about my maturity because I have children,” Lynn said. While many of her similarly aged colleagues did not have children, Lynn had her first child in her early 20s. Lynn also mentioned how she talked about her partner, who was in his early 30s and worked at a major tech company, to give the appearance that she was older. “I think people might think I’m older or farther along in my career, if they found out about his work and what he does and where he works,” Lynn added.
Intersectional Oppression and the Melanated Mental Load
Many of the women in my study expended excessive mental energy trying to identify why their colleagues treated them differentially or as though they did not belong. All of the women in my study had at least a bachelor’s degree, and most had an advanced degree. Consequently, my participants were accustomed to engaging in academic critical thinking without prompting. As they reflected, uncovering and trying to unpack repressed anecdotes, I could see their cognitive wheels turning. They knew they looked young, and simultaneously, were very aware that they were Black women in spaces that were predominantly White, and sometimes, chiefly male. While thinking back on an instance of unfair treatment at work, one of the women in my study asked: “Is it my race? My gender? My age? I’m not sure. Probably a combination of the three.” These types of questions, anchored in uncertainty about whether racism, sexism, or ageism was the culprit in their oppression, were common amongst my research participants. Legal scholar Kimberlé Crenshaw encourages us to focus on how these systems of oppression interlock with a perspective she named intersectionality. Sociologists who employ an intersectional framework often describe how racism and sexism intersect, referring to what Adia Wingfield describes in her work on Black professionals as gendered racism. Adding ageism to the equation complicates an already complex superhighway of structural oppression traversed by professional Black women.
“Is it my race? My gender? My age? I’m not sure. Probably a combination of the three.”
An intersectional perspective reveals how ageism affects people differently, depending on their race and gender.
iStockPhoto.com // monkeybusinessimages
Ageism is not an underexplored area of research among social scientists, even if its nuanced intersections with other systems of oppression are less frequently articulated. Popular wisdom and academic research suggest that older adults are disproportionately prone to being stereotyped as unable to adapt to new technologies, perceived as inept, and pigeonholed into more stagnant roles with lower compensation. Younger workers—and those perceived as younger—can be unfairly assumed to be inexperienced, naive, immature, and too “green” for promotion. It is important, however, to use an intersectional perspective to consider how interlocking systems of oppression contribute to ageism affecting people differentially depending on their race or gender. We know, for example, that while older male actors may be labeled “silver foxes” and continue to be cast in prominent, well-compensated roles, older actresses are too often placed into less desirable roles that are unlikely to lead to more opportunities. This phenomenon supports the notion that gender is an important consideration when exploring who ageism affects more harshly. In terms of racism, a 2018 study found that older Black men and women are more vulnerable to losing their jobs and experiencing downward mobility than older White men and women, a fact that suggests that racism is also crucial to consider when understanding how ageism operates in people’s lives at work.
I contend that my study, and the descriptive narratives my participants generously shared, provides even more nuance to an already complicated ageism machine. It paints a grim lose-lose picture for Black women. Black women who look “too young” may be taken less seriously, while Black women who are “too old” may face multilayered discrimination as well. Importantly, we must distinguish between what scholars often focus on, chronological age—how many years you have been alive—and perceived age—how many years others think you have been alive. Gendered racism, in conjunction with this specific wrinkle in the ways the Black women in my study experienced ageism, contributes to workplace marginalization and routine feelings of unease. Many would guess my participants’ ages incorrectly based on their physical appearances, and most likely, scientists would guess their ages inaccurately when examining their weathered chromosomes, too. The stress of managing a youthful appearance on the outside undoubtedly accelerates the toll of aging inside.
Does Age Really Matter?
In Tressie McMillan Cottom’s book, Thick, she writes about how “frictionless living” can happen if you are on “the right side of power.” In this vein, White men may enjoy their day-today interpersonal interactions at work without friction in a way that is likely less common for Black women. Entering into water cooler conversations anticipating there will be unfair assumptions about your age, and/or race, and/or gender is a grind. This mental load—and the burden of overcoming assumptions of incompetence that Cottom writes accompanies being a Black woman—is heightened by looking youthful.
At the end of my interview with Eve, she said something that stuck with me: “[White] people mask their racist and sexist beliefs with ‘compliments’ about age,” she proposed. Eve could be right. The smiling woman who exclaimed to me, “I had no idea you were a professor,” likely had subconscious and problematic ideas about what a professor “should look like”—probably like an older White man. We will never be able to pinpoint the exact thought processes of White professionals when they interact with their Black women colleagues in problematic ways. And ultimately, it may not matter. Cottom describes how when we meet someone, we size them up to ensure they are not a threat to our own social status. Black professional women in positions of power—be it at the head of the classroom, the bench of the courtroom, or in the corner office—may be perceived as a threat to professional Whites who assume that they should always be in charge in these spaces. As Cottom writes, “more often than not the hierarchy of diffuse status characteristics overpowers any status characteristics that we earn.” In other words, no matter how many letters come after a Black woman’s name, no matter what strategies she uses to re-enforce her legitimacy and deservingness of her professional position, nothing—not even extra gray hair or years of experience or workplace achievements—can overcome the onus of being a Black woman in a racist, sexist, and ageist society.
Asked about the burdens of “Black don’t crack,” a study participant told the author, “[White] people mask their racist and sexist beliefs with ‘compliments’ about age.”
iStockPhoto.com // yacobchuk
