This Is What Happens When BIPOC Don’t Show Up
I want to go to an Afro dance class — but it’s filled with white women with cornrows or Utes who’ve been to Namibia. First ignoring me entirely, second telling me about how everyone is “so poor but so happy in Africa”.
I want to go to a yoga class — but it's basically white people’s spiritual gym with bendy bodies but even bendier morals. People who preach love and light while ignoring the dark of the world.
I want to take drumming lessons — but it’s overrun by white Günthers in hempshirts and outdoor sandals who ask me where I am coming from or if I’d like to see their African mask collection. Right after telling me I “smell like chocolate”. Or Ulrikes who want to get some private sessions with the African teacher and think “mixed race babies are the sweetest”.
I want to learn an African language — but the classes are full of white women with African boyfriends, centering themselves every second and talking about how excited they are for their first trip to “Africa.”
Let’s be real: we need more spaces for BIPOC.
And I don’t mean “diverse” spaces. I mean ours.
Exclusively BIPOC spaces.
Spaces where we can show up without having to armor up.
Spaces where we don’t have to monitor how we laugh, how we move, how we speak, how much space we take up.
We need places where we can unclench.
Where we don’t need to code-switch or translate.
Where we’re not turned into someone else’s inspiration, education, or exotic moment.
If you live in a white-majority society, of course most spaces are white. That’s not an accusation. That’s just… the landscape. But if that’s the default, then it becomes even more crucial that we carve out spaces that are ours. Where we set the tone, where we are centered without being consumed.
These spaces don’t manifest out of nowhere. They are built by us. By BIPOC teachers, facilitators, healers, artists, organizers. People who are pouring their time, energy, and even money into creating something for us.
But many of those people are burning out. Not because they lacked vision. But because when the time came for folks to show up — they didn’t. People said “we need this,” “this is so valuable,” but then ghosted. They hesitated, didn’t prioritize it, or thought someone else would keep it going.
I’ve spoken to so many Black folks who tried — really tried — to build spaces for BIPOC. They rented studios. Created flyers. Held the vision. Showed up — often alone. And after too many empty rooms and unpaid invoices, they gave up. And then everyone wonders, why aren’t there more spaces like this?
They existed. You just didn’t go.
Supporting BIPOC spaces isn’t just about attending the pool party. It’s about choosing, again and again, to invest in what sustains us. Because that’s what it takes. Every decision — where you show up, what you pay for, who you amplify — it all adds up. Or doesn’t.
So the next time you hear about a BIPOC-only space, don’t just nod along. Don’t just repost. Go. Support. Sustain. Because if we don’t… who will?
And for white folks — if you're feeling that little sting of exclusion, the “why can’t I come too?” feeling, the “but I’m conscious, I’m respectful” thing — please understand: that sting is the edge of your comfort. That discomfort you feel about not being included — multiply that by many lifetimes, and you might begin to understand why BIPOC need space away from the white gaze. Your discomfort is not oppression. It’s the start of your decolonizing process. Let it teach you something.
If this resonated with you, moved you, or made you pause and reflect – consider this your cue. I’ve set up a virtual tip jar via Buy Me a Coffee. No monthly commitments, no strings, no memberships required.
Your sweet kindness helps keep the thoughts flowing, the energy exchange intact, and the glow of my inner goddess alive. It won’t fix capitalism, but it might buy me five minutes of joy (or at least a cortado).
Gracias. Thank you. Jërëjëf. Merci. Obrigada. Danke. Arigatō. Medaase. Grazie. Hvala. Tack. Asante. Shukran. Teşekkürler. Dziękuję.
