The Problem with White Feminism: A Black Woman’s Perspective
And why we should all question their tears in the context of White supremacy
Recently, I found myself in the middle of a heated online discussion after commenting on a post by Oumnia Boualam, a woman I deeply admire, about the Blake Lively/Justin Baldoni controversy. My comment—
“Again, when white women cry, people die. I won’t believe a word she says. I’m not denying it happened, but you won’t catch me defending plantation Barbie and the woman who claimed Woody Allen is empowering women”—sparked a range of reactions.
It garnered 46 likes, 56 replies, and even a response from Oumnia herself. Amid accusations of racism and being called out for “siding with a white man over a white woman,” one thing became abundantly clear to me: the dynamics of white women’s tears in a system steeped in white supremacy must be critically examined.
This issue is a lot like the "men vs. the bear" meme that’s been circulating, where women joke that they would rather be left in the woods with a bear than with a man. What’s been added to this meme is the realization that for many non-white people, the issue isn’t just feeling unsafe around men; it’s also feeling unsafe around white women. Given the choice, many women of color would prefer to be woods with a bear than with a white woman, or in corporate with a white man rather than a white woman , because if harmed, at least they’d be believed.
White women’s tears have long been weaponized to uphold systems of oppression we already talk about it several times and in numerous books.
From the lynching of Emmett Till to modern workplace conflicts, white women’s ability to position themselves as victims has often led to harm or outright destruction of Black lives and other marginalized communities. This isn’t just anecdotal; it’s a pattern ingrained in the fabric of societies with histories of slavery and colonization. The power of these tears lies in their capacity to evoke sympathy and mobilize punitive action against those they target, regardless of the validity of their claims. This phenomenon is well-documented in books like White Tears/Brown Scars by Ruby Hamad, Against White Feminism by Rafia Zakaria or Hood feminism by Mikki Kendall. These works outline how white feminism—rooted in individualism and devoid of intersectionality—often centers the experiences and narratives of white women at the expense of broader, collective liberation.
My skepticism of Blake Lively’s claims in this particular controversy isn’t about denying the possibility of her experiences, but about understanding the societal context in which they’re being aired. Blake Lively is a wealthy, powerful white woman with access to platforms, resources, and networks most survivors could only dream of. The fact that she has been able to publicly voice her allegations is a privilege in itself. Many marginalized survivors, especially Black women and women of color, are silenced, discredited, or outright ignored when they speak out. As I pointed out in the discussion, there’s a hierarchy even within the realm of sexual harassment claims. When a white woman with immense privilege cries foul, the system—still dominated by white supremacy—often rallies around her, regardless of the nuances of the situation. Meanwhile, women from marginalized backgrounds must provide irrefutable evidence to be believed, often at great personal and professional cost.
It is crucial to consider who stands to gain when the focus is placed on the tears of white women. In this scenario, while many have come to Blake's defense, the narrative overlooks the larger power dynamics involved. Justin Baldoni—a man, as noted by Oumnia Boualam, who is closely connected to a network of influential and affluent Zionists—does not fit the underdog mold here. Nonetheless, this does not absolve Blake Lively of her role in perpetuating white supremacy or her history of using her privilege to sustain her status in Hollywood. As I previously remarked:
“Honestly, to some extent, she brought this smear campaign on herself by being a mean girl all her life, so I’m not losing any sleep over it.”
Let’s not forget: Blake Lively had a wedding on a plantation, a symbol of the deeply entrenched racial history in the United States, where Black people were once enslaved. This is not a minor detail—it’s an outright disregard for the painful legacy of colonialism and oppression that still reverberates today.
Additionally, in a 2015 interview with Hamptons Magazine, Blake Lively described working with filmmaker Woody Allen as a “wonderful experience” and went as far as to call him “empowering to women.” Woody Allen has been the subject of serious allegations of sexual abuse, yet she continues to praise him. Why, then, are we defending her now?
Extending support to white women who exploit their tears without facing accountability risks continuing the very harm that we profess to combat. Some critics in the discussion argued that refusing to support Blake Lively in this instance was a betrayal of feminist solidarity. However, as many BIWOC commenters noted, solidarity without accountability is meaningless. Feminism that centers white women at the expense of others is not feminism at all; it’s another tool of white supremacy.
This isn’t to say that white women don’t experience patriarchy or that their claims should be dismissed outright. But their experiences must be contextualized within their position in the racial hierarchy. To ignore this is to erase the intersecting oppressions that define the lives of BIWOC and to allow white supremacy to flourish unchecked.
The Blake Lively/Justin Baldoni controversy is a microcosm of a much larger issue. It’s a reminder that we must approach every narrative critically, especially when it involves individuals from dominant groups. White women’s tears have caused immense harm throughout history, and their unchecked power remains a tool of oppression in societies with slavery and colonial legacies. As I said in one of my replies:
“If you think white women’s tears only affect men of color, read those books again—and when you’re done, read them once more.”
But anyway my worry was whether BIPOC individuals should dedicate emotional investment to cases involving white women, considering the historical tendencies of exclusion and appropriation in feminist movements. I reiterated my position:
“When I hear feminism and white women in the same breath, I tune out. If people think Amber’s case will shape the perception of feminism, they’re clearly fixated on white feminism – and honestly, that’s not a movement I care to invest in.”
What troubles me the most as I write this, is how in 2025, the “damsel in distress” trope continues to persist—still functioning, still in operation. Why, as a platform dedicated to amplifying BIPOC voices, are we still spending time defending white women after centuries of evidence that they are not our allies? Ironically, that’s exactly what I’m doing right now—devoting time to discussing them. This question weighs heavily on me, particularly when so many other voices are continuously silenced or marginalized in the process.
This Instagram thread is emblematic of larger conversations about race, feminism, and activism. It underscores the fatigue BIWOC like me feel in continuously addressing issues that primarily benefit white women while remaining sidelined in their own struggles.