https://blackgirlnerds.com/a-disproportionate-number-of-black-women-are-kinless/

Speaking with a dear friend of mine recently, we both expressed our thoughts about getting older. We’ve known each other since we were kids, so our thoughts ran freely. My friend also talked about her feelings of having no partner or spouse, siblings, or children, and it dawned on her that there were no other family members to care for her once she became much older. She is one of the nearly one million Americans referred to as kinless, as well as part of the 62 percent of Black women unpartnered.  

Nearly seven percent of American adults aged 55 and older have no living spouse or biological children, according to a study published in 2017 in The Journals of Gerontology. Researchers often use the term kinless, because spouses and children are the relatives most likely to serve as caregivers. Unfortunately, this overlooks the support systems single Black women build. It also perpetuates the gloom and doom narrative that single Black women are given. Why does there have to be a cost for being single?

As a Black woman, and many other Black women I know, I was raised to push past stereotypes and the status quo. There was always a focus on obtaining my education and taking care of myself. The nostalgia for a husband was not present for me growing up. I did get married, but it unfortunately ended. However, I have been in a committed relationship for quite some time, and blessed with two bonus children.

Although unmarried, I have a constant companion; someone that is here and will hopefully be here as I grow older. For my friend, rather than a constant companion, there’s a fleeting feeling like having long-term financial security; travelling more; owning a home — an absence that can be acknowledged without threatening day-to-day satisfaction. Unhappy about a life thus far unlived doesn’t displace the joy found in a life that is currently being lived. My life, or my friend’s life, might not look like the one a lot of our white counterparts have been taught from birth to strive for — a husband, a house and two kids — but it is a happy one.

Finding acceptance in singlehood almost feels like you have to give up on yourself, like you’re releasing agency over your love life, or somehow giving power to the unrelenting false narrative that Black women are undesirable. No matter how basically it’s presented, there’s nothing neutral about the statistics. It’s read as a problem Black women must fix, or worse, that Black women are a problem that must be fixed.

The pandemic only exacerbated some Black women’s uncertainty about the supposed connection between marriage and happiness. Yes, the pandemic was lonely for singles. It was hard and lonely for all of us, for that matter. Often, when discussing singleness, there is a focus on what is lacking from a life unpartnered. Rarely do we consider what must be substituted for a life lived with someone else.

I believe that Black women’s singlehood is often considered a threat. My reasoning is that if you’re able to create a full life on your own, then maybe other lives are possible. Maybe, just maybe, your world is opened up to see things you never knew possible. Black women are constantly told that being unpartnered is the worst thing that can happen to you. That narrative discounts the joy and achievement that we can bring to ourselves. That’s not to say that single Black women don’t want children or partnership. But we don’t have to settle in fear of being alone.

Our society assumes that everyone has at least some family, but it’s really not the case. Several demographic factors have fostered increased kinlessness. Baby boomers have lower marriage rates and higher divorce rates than their parents, and more have remained childless. The rise of gray divorce (divorces after age 50) also means fewer married seniors, and extended life spans can make for more years without surviving family.

Black women have always considered relationships and connections beyond biological. Our family extends to the best friend since grade school, or the college roommate that has been with us through thick and thin. However, these supportive networks do not receive legal benefits like the bonds of marriage and biological family. This is where I find myself — being in a relationship but not married. My bonus children are not my biological children. So, on paper, my siblings would need to step in to make decisions on my behalf.

In my state of California, a research and policy project called Master Plan for Aging is a framework for supporting California’s population of Black residents who are 60 years and older. The initiative stems from Governor Gavin Newsome’s executive order to develop a strategy to promote the health and well-being of older Californians. It also centers Black women addressing the unique concerns of what equity in aging needs to look like.

I am not yet 60 years old. But as I get older, I think more intently about what that will look like. I think about my friends who are closer to that age, and the thoughts and worries that are beginning to set in for them as well.

Achieving equity for Black women as they age requires policy changes to redefine standards around relationship status and worth. Everyone deserves the basics of human dignity. A Black woman’s value is not defined by marital or romantic relationship status, and our rights, benefits, and protections should not be linked to those statuses.