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On My last Straw with Tyler Perry films and the Over Exhaustion of Watching Black Women Suffer

  • Writer: Lela Robinson
    Lela Robinson
  • 4 days ago
  • 6 min read

Perry’s films have made him a fortune, but what does it say about the life he’s crafted for himself? The flashy luxury, the money, the notoriety, these are the results of a career built on trauma bonding, a cycle of exploiting Black Women pain for entertainment. And yet, Blue Monday so deeply layered, so heavy with emotion almost serves as a reminder of what’s been left behind in the rush to profit from suffering.

The Blue Monday woman isn’t just tired. She’s been through it. She carries the weight of the story Perry continues to tell, again and again, to feed an audience, to make his guap. But here she is, in the midst of this mansion, barely hanging on, her expression still carrying that quiet defiance.

In a luxury home like this, where the walls gleam and the air smells like fresh money, that painting might feel out of place. But maybe that’s the point. It's there to remind us that trauma has its cost, and sometimes, it’s us the ones living it that end up paying.


Tyler Perry’s Straw wants to echo the righteous desperation of John Q, where Denzel Washington’s character took extreme action to save his son’s life. But Straw, in trying to spark a similar conversation, stumbles into something else entirely, yet another cinematic portrayal of Black pain wrapped in spectacle.

Yes, the film is meant to shine a light on the impossible choices Black women, especially single mothers, face in a system designed to abandon them. But instead of empowering, it retraumatizes. It becomes one more entry in the growing archive of trauma list.


Let’s be real, we’re tired!

Black women are exhausted from watching versions of ourselves on screen that only reflect grief, rage, and helplessness. And while the character in Straw is fictional, the fear she carries is very real.

We all know what it is to live with the fear of being another unnamed statistic


Early 2000s

Mid‑2000s

2010–2014

2015–2019

2020–Present


The #SayHerName campaign was launched in 2014 to combat the erasure of Black women’s experiences with police violence

We know what it is to feel unheard, unprotected, unseen by the healthcare system, by the police, by the country we call home. We know what it means to pray our children survive, not just illness, but a world that sees them as disposable.

And losing a child? That’s not just a plot point. That’s a trauma many of us carry in our bodies, our bones. I know personally, that pain doesn’t go away. It reshapes your entire existence. And yet films like Straw often reduce that agony to a few over-acted scenes and dramatic music, then roll credits without offering real care, real insight, or real solutions.

Meanwhile, in real life, where is the help?

Where’s the mental health support for grieving Black mothers? Where is the financial support for single moms raising chronically ill children often while working multiple jobs and navigating broken healthcare systems? We are expected to survive the unimaginable with no safety net and then applaud ourselves for being “strong.”

It’s not strength it’s survival. And it shouldn’t be this hard.

We need more than representation. We need revolution. Healing. Policy change. Community care. Stories that don’t just revisit the pain but imagine life beyond it.


Since 2015, at least 50 Black women were killed by police; none of the officers were convicted

So here’s the real call:

To Black women our wellness matters. Our rest matters. Our joy matters. To All men stand beside us, not just when the outrage peaks, but in the quiet trenches of our healing. To artists and storytellers stop mining our suffering for applause. Start building visions that help us breathe, versions that help us heal imagine, and rebuild.

Because mental and emotional wellness must be part of our collective liberation. Reflection is only the beginning transformation is the goal.

Let’s stop reliving the same pain on screen and start demanding a new story.



Picture above for reference Annie Lee-Blue Monday


The painting captures the essence of a Black woman, probably weary, definitely strong, maybe even exhausted from the grind. There’s something so powerful in the simplicity: the woman’s face, the tired yet resilient expression, the subtle elegance in her posture. She’s not just going through the motions of her day. No, this is something deeper—something reflective of the invisible burdens that come with the intersections of race, gender, and life itself.

The blue? That’s the real kicker. It’s not just a color; it’s a mood. It’s a layer of emotion—a visual representation of what so many Black women live with every day. The blue feels like melancholy and hope tangled together, a quiet storm of resilience. And yet, it’s in the small details—the positioning of her hand, the tilt of her head—that Annie Lee brings this woman to life, making her universal. She's every woman who's ever had to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders with grace.

What makes Blue Monday stand out is that it doesn't need to scream to be heard. It doesn't need to make a loud political statement to make an impact. It simply is. And in its quiet dignity, it gives space to every Black woman who’s been seen but not truly seen, heard but never truly listened to.

It's art that doesn’t ask for empathy. It demands it. And when you look long enough, you start feeling things you didn't even know you were carrying.

 
 
 

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