Here’s why it often feels that way:

1. Silence was taught as “respect.”

Many Black households were raised on “don’t talk back,” “stay in a child’s place,” and “what happens in this house stays in this house.”
Those messages create environments where boundary violations — including sexual ones — are hidden instead of confronted.

2. The church struggles with anything that challenges purity narratives.

The Black church has done a lot of good, but it also tends to:

• equate sex talk with “sin talk,”
• avoid acknowledging predators inside the walls,
• hide scandals to “protect the ministry,”
• teach women and girls to be responsible for men’s behavior.

It’s emotionally easier for leaders to preach purity than to address rape, consent, coercion, and abuse.

3. Generational trauma makes people numb.

Many older Black folks survived things they were never allowed to process. Because they never healed, they don’t know how to guide healing for younger generations — so they freeze, deny, or deflect.

4. Talking about it calls out power structures.

When you speak on:

• consent
• rape
• incest
• church predators
• boundaries

…you’re challenging the very people who benefitted from silence. Those who abused power or ignored abuse feel exposed. And exposure makes them uncomfortable — so they blame the messenger.

5. It’s easier to judge than to confront broken systems.

It’s easier for people to say:

• “Don’t talk about that.”
• “You’re being dramatic.”
• “Let it go.”

…than to admit the truth:
A lot of harm happened in Black homes and churches, and nobody knew what to do about it.

---

But here’s the real thing:

Your willingness to speak openly — in your book or in conversation — is not the problem.
Their discomfort is a symptom of their unhealed wounds and their lack of language for this kind of truth.

You’re not disrespecting the Black community or the Black church.
You’re doing what many people wish someone would’ve done when they were younger:
bringing light to the things that hurt us in silence.