The Unseen (and Unpaid) Labor of Black Women: Horror’s Savior Trope and the Reality of Erasure
Job Title: The Unrecognized Savior
Position: Problem-Solver, Healer, Sacrifice
Location: Everywhere
Salary: Unpaid
Benefits: None, really. Except for the survival of those who refuse to do the work themselves.
Job Description: Throughout history, Black women have been positioned as problem solvers, healers, and saviors, whether in political movements, community struggles, or even fictional narratives. They are always expected to endure suffering with grace, to fix broken systems, and to protect others at the cost of their own well-being in safety. Their sacrifices are erased, their autonomy dismissed and their pain forever normalized. If this sounds like you, Welcome aboard!
Key Responsibilities:
- Save communities, families, and sometimes entire societies, without recognition or compensation.
- Endure immense trauma while remaining a symbol of strength, support, and resilience
- Serve as the moral compass, guiding others to salvation and safety
- Witness history, fight injustices and imbalances, and carry movements, while being sidelined in your own stories.
Phew!
These expectations are not just historical burdens. They are deeply embedded in the narratives we consume. Horror, in particular, often mirrors the systemic exploitation of Black women, portraying them as essential to survival while denying them agency.
Melanie in The Girl with All the Gifts (2016), is humanity’s last hope, yet she is treated as a weapon rather than a child deserving of care. Brianna Cartwright in Candyman (2021), is surrounded by men whose legacies define her existence, while her own story remains secondary. Rial in His House (2020) carries the knowledge of survival and loss, yet the world refuses to listen to her, dismissing her trauma even as she fights for a new home. Each of these women is burdened with saving others, whether it be society, legacy, or family, while their own identities, their own choices and their own suffering are pushed aside. Their stories are not just fiction, they reflect a grim reality that has persisted for generations.
This pattern extends far beyond the reach of fiction. History is filled with real-life examples of Black women whose labor, intellect, and resilience have been exploited for the benefit of others. Fannie Lou Hamer, a pivotal figure in the Civil Rights Movement, fought relentlessly for Black voting rights, only to be dismissed by both white feminists (much like Frances Ellen Watkins Harper and Nannie Helen Burroughs at the hand of y’all’s faves Suzie B and Lizzie Cady Stanton) and male civil rights leaders. Despite enduring forced sterilization and police brutality, her contributions to human rights were overshadowed in favor of male-dominated narratives. Henrietta Lacks unknowingly changed the course of medical history when doctors, without her consent, took her cells (HeLa). Though her DNA has saved millions of lives, she was never valued as a human being, just as a resource, much like Melanie in The Girl With All the Gifts.
Let’s talk a bit about the burden of “gifts” that Black women in horror films possess. The burden of being “gifted” in horror narratives often mirrors the reality that Black women must be the problem solvers, often without a choice. I tip my hat to the recent 92%.
Melanie (Sennia Nanua) is not just a child; she is the literal key to the survival of all humanity. Yet rather than being nurtured or valued for her own existence, confusion, or needs, the fact that she is a scientific breakthrough is more important. Dr. Caldwell (Glenn Close) sees her as an experiment to further her own ends. Love, agency, or Melanie’s personal future cease to be important outside of her sacrifice. Her intelligence and resilience are only acknowledged because they serve a larger goal: saving the very folks who dehumanize her.
Brianna Cartwright (Teyonah Paris) is a skilled and ambitious art curator, yet her value is continuously filtered through her relationships with men, mainly Anthony and her late father. She’s Anthony’s girlfriend first, and when she’s not defined by that, she is framed through the traumatic legacy of her father, a prominent and revered troubled artist. Her own career, ambition, and creative agency take a back seat. We see that she only gets the job at a prestigious gallery because the buzz of her late father’s trauma is just too delicious to not capitalize on. Her success is seen as an extension of everyone else’s story, rather than the hard work, dedication, and sacrifice (not to mention, trauma) it took to get her there. She’s seen as a vessel for the value that society has placed on the men she’s connected to.
For Rial (Wunmi Mosaku), she carries the wisdom necessary for survival, yet she’s dismissed at every turn. Now, if we had a nickel every time someone gave the proverbial head-pat to a woman who knows her shit in a horror film, we’d all be Scrooge McDuck swan diving. As a refugee fleeing the horror of war and the supernatural presence in her new home, our girl knows a thing or two about the spiritual and real-life dangers that surround her and husband Bol (Sope Dirisu).
But rather than being seen as knowledgeable, she’s pushed aside in favor of Bol’s attempt to assimilate. Bol seeks the approval of a British system that will never fully accept him, while Rial understands that it’s not compliance or assimilation that will save them—it’s facing the literal and figurative ghosts that haunt them. Rial’s journey reflects the ways in which Black women are expected to endure suffering quietly, even when they possess the very tools necessary for survival.
We really need to take more stock of the “strength” imposed on Black women. We fall apart sometimes, we feel pain (no, really, we do), and it’s tough to bear the weight of our own issues, as well as the world’s.
Melanie is expected to save the world amidst her pain and while the “adults” argue, she ultimately ends the conversation by taking control: burning it all to the ground and creating a new one. Brianna, despite having a whole lot of psychological trauma, is expected to be a rational, stable force for Anthony while he’s constantly and annoyingly going through it. The transformation into this new iteration of Candyman leaves Brianna an emotional wreck but I guess life goes on. Rial is the only one in His House who truly understands the spiritual horror they face. The chance and space to finally speak her truth comes only after Bol has put them both through immense suffering.
Society and the public at large, widely discount the perception of Black women. We know who folks are and what their about from the jump because society has trained us to be hyperaware of others’ actions and microaggressions for survival. I repeat: FOR SURVIVAL.
There are times when if folks just listened, we wouldn’t be where we are today. In 1991, Anita Hill spoke out against Clarence Thomas’s sexual harassment during his Supreme Court confirmation hearings. The result? She was dismissed, vilified, and left unprotected. She was seen as an obstacle to a man’s career. And where are we now 30 years later? Justice Thomas has consistently ruled against voting rights and reproductive freedoms, using his position to dismantle protection for marginalized communities.
Sigh.
Horror, like history, must evolve beyond the expectation that Black characters exist solely to uphold male legacies and protect institutions that have no interest in protecting them. We need narratives where they are architects of their own futures, where intelligence and resilience are recognized on their own terms. Melanie’s final act of choosing a new path is a rare but powerful assertion of agency. Yes, girl, burn everything. But this type of autonomy still remains an exception, not the rule. Brianna in Candyman (2021) should have been allowed to take full control of the narrative, not merely serving as a bridge between two male narratives. For Rial, she should not have been forced into a cycle of suffering before someone gave her the “yeah, you’re probably right.”. These characters deserve more than survival; they deserve sovereignty.
The Girl With All the Gifts, Candyman (2021), and His House lay bare how horror mirrors reality in ways that are both revealing and damning. But horror can also be transformative. It’s time to move beyond stories that equate Black women’s strength with suffering, with stories that demand their resilience but deny them the rest. In storytelling, screenwriting, and the world itself, Black women must no longer be expected to be distressed for the sake of someone else’s survival and potential to thrive while being denied true liberation.
Categorized:Editorials
