The Adultification of Black Girl Children
The Complexities of Growing Up Too Soon
2 min read time
By Gogo Isolezwe (they/ them) | sangoma, gender anarchist, and pawerent queering life.
For all intents and purposes. I grew up a girl, in girl, eating girl. It was a framework to follow and actionables to excel in. It is a badge of honour riddled. Nana, thula sulila sokhulille umncane.
“How do you know these things about me”, she exclaims as I read her for filth, “I’ve watched you refuse to grow, my whole life.”
The unspoken disenfranchised care community is child labour. It's something a wonder when you’ve had to parent yourself and your subsequent siblings (or community) your whole life. What people theorise as the adultification of the black girl child is often too familiar a reality.
My inner child and I, we write history as we walk. Opening the doors of our past and future simultaneously. I guess the signs are always there, but when you’re tending to a field of dandelions from age 7, and sustaining a home, the signs and symbols fade away in responsibilities.
I know we are all tired of seeing the people who breathe life and love, nurture their gardens and water the soil, taking care of the earth each and every day with love and intention succumb to capitalism's desire. The most vulnerable of us, black trans queers fall, be beaten to the ground, physically, spiritually, mentally, and emotionally — systems, perpetrators absolving themselves from the harm caused.
My mother and I. We both struggle with the logistics of finding comfort in shared-space. She too watched people refuse to grow. So sometimes we find rhythm. Asking questions that may lean into a story. I’ve found that in comfort and safety, we lean to storytelling. Which becomes a powerful tool in knowledge sharing and creating belonging in community. A key to enhancing listening is hopefully meeting people where they are; perhaps in the solitude of their thoughts.
“Tell me about your brother elder,” I inject her thoughts.
We begin the ritual of finding our rhythm.
“umTshutshisi…” she kind of drifts off in remembrance “He was a fighter ”
A homie protective of his own, I translate. Sounds about right.
“...no one messed with his kinfolk, otherwise it was a hands-on site”
“He forever doted on his dogs, in fact, I lost track of how many he had” she concluded in laughter
“They were always protective of him”.
Izihlwele zase khaya always look after their own.
Through the Sun's soft light, I see blue in my mother’s eyes. The signs and symbols are always there. Water has always connected us.
Questions to ponder
What question have you asked recently thats unveiled a story?
What was are you showing up for the youth in your community?
How might a child who has experienced adultification show up in the classroom? How might we be able to nurture them?
